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“Mi famiglia,” Alma said, gazing warmly around the table. “I am not sure I can express how happy this night makes me. Our Casita is rebuilt.” The tiles clattered merrily in agreement, jostling the family in their chairs. “Our gifts have returned,” she continued, smiling at her nietos — Isabella, ablaze with colour; Camilo, shifting seamlessly into Mariano and back again to tease Dolores; Antonio, sharing his chair with a pair of coatis; Mirabel, half-sitting on Luisa’s lap as they giggled at some private joke. All of them looking happier and closer and brighter than the last time they’d shared this table.
“And our family,” Alma concluded, “finally united.” She looked at her hijo, her Brunito, seated between his hermanas where he belonged. His shoulders rose to his ears at the sudden attention, but he smiled nonetheless.
“But enough from me,” said Alma. “Let us enjoy this wonderful feast!”
The family eagerly dove into the dishes spread across the heaving table. Julieta had been in her element in the newly remade kitchen, cooking up a storm from the moment the townspeople had bid the Madrigals farewell.
Later, much later, when the family recalled the events of this night, they would realise that the grin that had spread across Agustín’s face should have been a warning for what was to come. But at the time, none had intervened as he took a bowl of beans, scooped them onto his plate, and announced, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve bean looking forward to this all day!”
Groans erupted around the table immediately. It was the kind of reaction that can only arise from people who have been subject to repeat offences. Agustín, having received the exact reaction he’d been hoping for, chuckled sheepishly as protests (and a spoon) were thrown his way.
“Pa! No!”
“That was really bad, Tío.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
Agustín held his hands up in surrender before skewering a few beans (he wasn’t fond of beans, but it was worth it) and continuing the meal in silence.
Directly across from him, Bruno looked around the table. “Wait… I don’t understand.” His hermanas turned to him. “What’s the problem?” The rest of the family were looking his way. A dawning look of pained realisation passed across the older Madrigals’ faces. But it was too late. This could not be stopped.
Bruno reached for a cob of corn, holding it aloft like a challenge.
“I am… corn-fused.”
The silence that followed was broken by Camilo’s horrified whisper.
“Dios mio… There are two of them.”
What the young Madrigals did not understand was that there had always been two of them. Bruno and Agustín. Agustín and Bruno. Locked in a battle of wits and improvisation, where puns were the weapons and the winner was no one, because one does not win when it comes to terrible puns.
Agustín sniffed just once, briefly overcome with the emotions of knowing that his friend, his brother and worthy opponent, was truly back.
Their battle would be legendary.
Agustín reached for a helping of salad. “Lettuce begin.”
Bruno swiftly stole a herb from Julieta’s apron. “Are you sure you have the thyme?”
A squeeze of citrus. “Oh, lime certain.”
A serving of arroz. “That was a rice one.”
A spoonful of guacamole. “I avo few more.”
One arepa ripped in half. “In queso emergency?”
Two arepas punctured with a table knife. “In queso you try to outdo me with your sharp wit.”
“My puns are quite spudtacular.”
“I’d say mine are eggsceptional.”
“You’re kind of a big dill.”
“You butter believe it.”
“We're quite the formidable pear.”
“You mean a latte to me.”
Bruno teared up. “...Oh.”
But not to be outdone, he held up a bread roll and murmured “I loaf you, too.”
“ARE YOU DONE?” Pepa finally erupted (though the absence of a cloud gave her away).
“Alright, alright,” Alma said, trying to hide her own amusement. “If the hombrecitos are quite finished…?”
“Sí, mamá,” Bruno said. “We’re done.”
“Gracias a Dios!”
It was impressive that Mirabel, Camilo, Isabella and Felix were able to say that in such perfect harmony.
The meal continued quietly, but a sense of dread remained. Bruno buttered his roll; Agustín refilled his wine glass. Puns hovered menacingly above them but went unspoken as the two men smiled innocently at their family.
After several long moments of uninterrupted silence, peace was restored. Shoulders relaxed. Conversation continued. The apprehension drained away.
Bruno picked up his cutlery, looked Agustín in the eye and whispered, “What the fork is their problem?”
The pursuing eruption of giggles, groans, and thrown arepas could only be described as pundemonium.
“Is this our life now?” Camilo bemoaned.
Dolores, who had spent the past decade enduring not only her Tío Agustín’s dinner table puns, but also Tío Bruno’s whispered rebuttals beyond the dining room wall, wisely chose not to comment.