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Leaving is easier. It´s when you want to come back and you fly into Pearson or Dorval or wherever that Immigrations treats you like you´re guilty until you can prove your innocence. But technically, we´re not guilty yet. Suspended thirty thousand odd feet up and arching south following the Colures - those great longitud-like circles that spanned from pole to pole in archaic astronomical terminology. It´s dark outside. Around 1:30 AM, EST. How long would it take us to fall through that distance until crashing to the surface? Newton was just publishing his theory of universal gravity as Milton was writing Paradise Lost. The Titans challenged the Gods of Olympus and fell nine days straight to end in the Underworld. And so the rebellious Angels led by Lucifer fell in his epic. Hardly our fate in life ... no? We´re merely couriers on commision. Our money belts are stuffed with US$100 bills. They push into our abdomens like strange little midriff pillows. 130 bills for each of us. But until we land at Ezeiza, I´m not sure we´re breaking any laws.

The flight has no foreign trade delegations; just backpackers, tango-tourists and business people - along with the usual clutch of Argentine expats on the way back home for a visit. And the two of us. I recognize a flight attendant I haven´t seen for quite a while. He´s Italian-Canadian but lived in Buenos Aires as a child in the sixties and then in Maracaibo in the seventies. I guess he lives in Toronto nowadays. Who knows? He walks by quickly and returns my smile but I doubt it´s one of recognition. Isa is listening to her iPod and buried in her booklet of crossword puzzles. She brought some from Mardel just for the flight. It relieves her anxiety a little she says. We´re four rows from the front of tourist class, on the left side. The evil side in other times. Well ... the superstition persists and no, I´m not a socialist ideologically. Funny, I usually seem to get seats on the right side.

The food trays have been taken away and I´ve had a pee so I´m feeling relaxed. I fumble in my shaving bag and find my beeswax earplugs and work them between my fingertips until they´re soft. Isa rolls her eyes at me as I insert them in my ears. It´s a little forced, her sarcastic look. But I imagine it helps distract her from her fear. I pop a few Melatonin pills and lower my eyeshades and lean against my head pillow - both along with the shaving bag bought at Bentley´s. Insomnia can be a nightmare. It certainly has been for me and Melatonin has helped me in my battle with sleeplessness. But I have to go sparingly. Occasional use is fine; otherwise I get a strange sickening hangover that can last a couple of days. Fucking thyroid. Maybe it´s all a self-imagined endocrine disorder. Isa of course thinks it´s all psychosomatic ( somatico in Spanish; much easier to say and they say it a lot in Argentina ). I think we´re both right actually. I feel a drinks cart rumble by and try to breath slowly and just let the sleep come.

I´d mention Santiago and the Andes but we´re already approaching Ezeiza so why bother? The country looks so ordered flying in you know? The patchwork of farms with small towns that increase in size and frecuency and then become the outer suburbs of that huge spreading metropolis. Avenues, highways, tin roofs and tile roofs. Copses of trees and Hipermercado Coto and then the final highway and we´re over the runway and touching down. And it is ordered. Fiber optics connection in our apartment - beats the hell out of the lousy satellite connection outside Renfrew. It´s just a different order, one that spills into a certain chaos. The Airbus turns off the runway and taxis towards the terminal. Isa looks relieved. Her eyes are even a little damp. I can be cynical about some of the more melodramatic customs but instead I´m moved by Isa´s tears. And it feels more familiar each time. That series of shifts towards a different perspective. I´m too old to be anything other than Canadian for the rest of my life but Argentina changes me in small ways all the time. We move slowly towards the gate and then stop as the engines wind down. Isa is busy pulling her laptop out from underneath the seat in front of her. I wait for people to struggle with their hand bags in the overhead racks. No point in hurrying. We don´t have to take a cab to Retiro or a bus to Mar del Plata. Diego will be waiting for us at arrivals.

I look at Isa again carefully as she cradles her laptop and waits for passengers to start moving down the aisles. I want to hold her and protect her. It´s terrifying as well they say but that will come later I gather. We had flown into Pearson early yesterday and had spent the day in Toronto seeing our flight left at 11 PM last night. Isa would not check her laptop into a locker so we had lugged that along and headed into town. At a store on Queen West near Trinity Bellwoods, a sales assistant had gotten rude. Isadora is a very careful shopper let´s say. She has to know everything and then still can´t decide, paralyzed by a fear of missing out on something better. She was looking at a lovely green winter coat and driving the girl crazy. Finally, the Brunette spat out,

Just because you´re expecting doesn´t mean you´re some queen!!

The store had gone silent. It was uncalled for and the older pale woman in the back came to the front and took over. I wasn´t sure which one was the manager but when the brunette rudely bumped into Isa as she was looking for some other article for another client I started shouting at her and it escalated from there. Needless to say, we didn´t buy the coat. I had hugged Isa long and hard on the sidewalk despite the annoyed glances from fellow pedestrians. I would have done the same I suppose. But no. I didn´t miss Toronto. At least not there and then. We hadn´t said anything even as we hugged. But a silent bargain was made. If she was pregnant, she´d keep the baby. And I noticed her eyes. Out there in the cold. A strange light in her almond eyes.

The immigration guy is casual, cynical, efficient and almost friendly. Customs goes quickly. No one frisks us and we do our best to look tired and impatient - not hard after an overnight flight. Isa has to explain that her laptop is hecho en argentina but then we´re done and we have our duffel bags and my green knapsack and my briefcase and we head through the sliding doors. It´s even stuffier inside Terminal A now than just two weeks ago. Or is that because we´ve been in Canada? And where´s Diego? I look around impatiently. God, I hope to hell we don´t have to go to Retiro and catch a bus to Mar del Plata. But I don´t worry about our cash yet. Isa takes out her cellphone and tries to call Oriana. No answer. Then she tries Diego. Same. We decide to move outstide to the sidewalk. Maybe Diego is late, I hope. I´m already sweating in the humidity and heat. My sweater and coat are stuffed into my backpack but it´s still uncomfortable.

Ahi estan.

I turn to my right and see it´s Cagnazzo Vucovitch. Where the hell is Diego?

Cagnazzo, hola que tal?

Isa greets him nervously. Something´s wrong we both can tell. He´s not the same ceremonial, small town lawyer we me a few weeks ago. He looks harder and rather impatient. And where is Diego?

Y Diego?

I ask as calmly as I can. I see his Honda Pilot over his shoulder, parked by the sidewalk. And that goon talking on the cellphone. Is he with Cagnazzo? Everything is shifting again and I feel like running back to the check in counter and booking a seat on the same plane that just disgorged us. Today. Right now. Cagnazzo takes our bags and walks back to his SUV without another word. We can only follow him quietly, not even looking at each other.

La guita carajo!!

Cagnazzo is yelling and the goon is driving. We hand over our money belts shaking with indignation and fear. He snatches out the bills and counts them quickly. He then slips them into the glove compartment and nods at the goon. I can´t stay quiet. I´m surprised I´m so angry given our vulnerability.

Y Kabe? I ask, Cagnazzo turns swiftly with a predatorial look in his eyes,

El negro se fue a la mierda gringuito.

Donde nos llevan?

I´m shouting. Cagnazzo looks at the goon. Jesus. They haven´t thought that far ahead. So it´s just a sting; a con job against another con man who´s been encouraged to leave or worse. Cagnazzo then turns and looks at us, sizing up what the hell to do with us. We slow down and pass through the first toll booth. The goon has trouble finding enough small bills and Cagnazzo has to pay. We accelerate out of the booth and down the airport parkway. Cagnazzo stares ahead, trying to land on some exit strategy. I sense an opening.

Che mirá. Nos dejan en Retiro y listo. Se acabo.

Como ...? his tone ridicules me but he stays quiet for a moment. I keep trying.

Volvemos a Mardel y listo.

No answer. He´s staring throught the windshield. Has he done this before? Somehow I don´t think so. And that´s tricky. He could do anything. He´s not sure himself what he´s capable of yet. I have to be proactive.

Cagnazzo, no importa Kabe. No importa. Pero viste? Somos socios ...

Socios? Pensas? he´s acidic but calmer now.

Este trabajo fue un exito. Traemos la guita tranquilos. No?

He turns and looks hard at me. Am I turning him? Isa is pale but I feel she has the strength to cope with this stress. I have to be an optimist. And quick on my feet. Or we´re screwed.

Hay bastante gente que llegan al sur. Turistas que piensan vivir un tiempo aca no? Y ahi en Canada, por ejemplo, habia un frio de terror. El invierno era espantoso. I look at Isa for support. She chimes in,

Era impresionante.

Y? Cagnazzo demands but it´s another opening.

Mira, vamos a tomar un cafe tranquilos y te propongo unas ideas que voy armando. Te parece?

He´s too desperate to be a first rate predator. And he is a lawyer, so while he evaluates my promise of some further scam his face seems to crumble a little. A slight relaxing of the facial muscles. I look hurt and honest and turn my palms up and raise my eyebrows in a ¨I fucking mean it¨ look. And I do. We pass through another toll booth. The goon pays, accelerates and turns to Cagnazzo.

Dale Pato. A ver que dicen.

We´ve been given a chance.

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The saplings they had planted in front of the main building were trees now. It had been over thirty years since I had last seen them. The homecomings in my first year at U of Toronto and then next year as well. I almost made it back in 81, but I hadn´t been able to rent a car without a credit card. So I had spent the night at the Airport Hilton in Dorval and then taken the train back to Cornwall and spent Thanksgiving at home. And some five or six weeks later I had flown down to Buenos Aires for my temporary posting. I get out of the car and walk a few paces through the snow to stand between the trees that line Moulton Hill Road at this end of the senior football field. The paths from Williams and Smith house are visible, tramped in the snow, and the sky is clear. It´s almost 3 PM. I see two students walk out the front doors and head towards the infirmary. It´s Monday. A good day for a cold. Isa remains in the car. She´s worried about us getting back to Ottawa in time for our fight back on Tuesday. This side trip was unexpected.

Hello! Can I help you?

I start a little and turn. Some master dressed warmly with gloves and a silly toque. Or do they even call them masters now? I breath in and say,

Afternoon. Just having a quick look. An unplanned side tour.
Why don´t you come up and have a look around? What year were you?
Ah ... 1976

He nods. I feel out of place, lost, unaccomplished.

You don´t look it! Ha! Ha! he grins. Has he spied Isadora in the car?
We´re really rushed I say uncomfortably.
Well maybe you can park in front of Williams House. It´s a little tricky here you see ...
Yes. That´s true. I´ll turn around ... yes.

I feel a mild nausea suffocating me. I shake his hand and stamp quickly through the snow back to the rented car. I turn the keys, wait for a Hummer to pass, ( who the hell is that I wonder ), and turn the car around. Instead of parking in front of Williams I keep heading straight past Smith House and over the bridge. I turn right onto what is now apparently Rue College and and drive into Lennoxville where I turn right on Queen Street. Isadora has said nothing. She understands perfectly and doesn´t fuss about how I´ve wasted a trip out to the Eastern Townships. For her, just seeing me stare briefly at my old school is enough.

Y tutti ... cuando llegamos a Montreal?
Mas bien las 18. Sera un caos.

I answer grimly. I´ve never liked driving. But it´s beautiful country, the Townships, even in winter I think as we drive past Orford. The sky is holding clear for which I´m grateful.

Ahi aprendi a esquiar I say pointing.
No era Owles?

It´s true. My first ski trip with the school was at Owl´s Head and not Orford.

Owl´s head I correct her.
Si amor.

She remembers everything about me. And me about her. Dangerous, awkward and lovely I suppose. Are we still in love? I think we are. The autoroute is clear and I´m able to do 120 km an hour easily. So we should make it to the Champlain Bridge by 6 PM, even with rush hour. I´m not sure what made me do this drive, but it was somehow necessary. Just that short awkward meeting with the master and a quick look at the school were proof that I had long ago left behind that careful path. Boarding School, Economics degree, job with a bank. I had felt lost when I first quit the job in early 82. A panic really that had lasted over a month. But after a few wonderful summer months at the cottage near L´Esterel I had returned to Kingston and soon after was writing songs with ... oh well the names don´t matter. And I still can´t let go of music. Over 25 years of trying to get something, anything, to happen, and I´m still writing songs. A handful of CD´s sold at iTunes. No idea who bought them. How I didn´t end up jumping off a building or in the Mental Health Centre on Queen West I have no idea. You never know how close in fact you are to suicide if you never actually attempt it. I just had to believe that things would get better without any proof that they would. It had been an act of faith really. The counselling with the psychiatrist came a couple of years after the worst was over. Then the retreat from Toronto, from Queen Street West back to my parent´s home. I turn on the car´s radio and look for the CBC. Isadora should hear CBC Radio at least once before we return. Something by Hawksley Workman is playing. She turns up the volume and we drive west past the exit to Granby. Still no clouds or snow.

King Edward Avenue. Greenfield Park. The South Shore. Father´s childhood home is somewhere over there to the right. Between the wars he would wander the fields and streams near his home. Green fields indeed. The suburbs have been spreading south and east for decades now and those fields have long been subdivisions - I´d see them out the window of the Voyageur bus on my way to and from school. ´The traffic is heavy as we head up onto the bridge. I focus on the driving, my arms tense. Isadora is looking out the window. She´s not smoking I realize. I brake as a Toyota Highlander cuts me off. She hasn´t smoked in more than a week ... I have to concentrate on the driving damnit. It´s fairly dark already. A deepening dusk and I´m not used to night driving. We head off the bridge and onto the island. We should reach Ottawa by a little after 8 PM.

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Good afternoon! How´s everyone?

Marty asks enthusiastically. I have decided on strength in numbers after making the appointement yesterday. Father is still tired but Mother is here, even though neither has to sign anything. I hope. She takes a chair over in the corner and Isadora sits next to her. I offer to stand and let David sit. It´s crowded in the tiny, cubicle-like office at the rear of the bank. Marty´s gaze flits back and forth between us all, smiling broadly but looking a little worn out. Last night David mentioned that several dozen accounts at the online brokerage had been hacked. How many were his clients? And was it Kabe? He decides to get the party going and looks right at me.

So. Welcome back ... Allard.
Thanks Marty. David has been filling me in.

Isadora listens carefully trying to smile. I haven´t told her much and she can´t ask too much without seeming intrusive and perhaps arousing suspicions.

Yes, it´s been a little chaotic but we sorted things out fairly quickly.

Marty is in damage control mode. I answer him slowly and thougtfully letting my honest disappointment seep through.

Yes ... good. It was a little ... shocking when David told me exactly what had happened.

Marty sighs crisply, showing empathy and collegiality all at once. I decide to push things forward but not too fast.

So the passwords were changed. That´s good. How much was lost?
We got some of it back and the rest, of course Allard, we´ve repaid.

Marty sounds a little defensive. But I´m actually just surprised. They paid back the money. Damnit! It´s just like David. Not too concerned with the details. Still, he´s been quite sick. Marty notices my stare at David but I decide to keep moving things forward.

Well ... here´s what I think. If possible, David should also have online access to their accounts seeing he´s got power of attorney along with me. Can we do that?

Marty looks quickly at David and Mother and then at me.

Sure. That will be possible. It´s not a bad idea.
And will Ernest need to sign?
We can do that later. We´ll take care of the rest right now. I can witness it myself.

Boy is he under pressure. He just wants this signed and done. How many more meetings does he have? I look over at Isadora. Her face is neutral and alert.

Yes. Let´s do that Marty.

The forms get printed out and soon it´s signed and done. Save for Father´s signature. We´ll do that in a day or two. Now comes step two. The trickier part. I hope my shock and guilt over the security breach have convinced Marty. And so everyone will be a little less surprised by this next bit. And I am shocked. A little ... I linger for a moment.

Yes ... I think the emails might have come, the hackers I mean ... from Israel.

Marty looks a little tense.

They could come from anywhere. It´s a little hard to trace he says quickly.
True ... but it leaves you feeling ... cheated.

I let the word hang. Isa touches my arm briefly. Her middle finger digs in with the nail for just an instant. I move on.

Now there´s the withdrawl from my account. I´ve had some funds transferred in from Argentina.

Isa is still. Marty looks at me curiously. So do David and Mother.

It´s a little tricky ... I drawl actually enjoying the moment. Who would have thought?
Marty shifts in his chair. Mother looks worried. I laugh, an honest laugh.

No, goodness no ... nothing illegal. Not here at least ... I was paid a comission. The owner of our building, Rojas, is converting to condo´s from rental units and I´ve helped him find some buyers for several units. And the comission ... we deposited up here.

Isa´s eyes are shining, somewhere between hate and admiration over my little story.

The tax authorities in Argentina ... the AFIP. They take most everything and you can make a claim but you never get your fair share back. Does Isa relax slightly?

Allard, you aren´t in trouble are you? Mother asks plaintively.
No, not at all. I still haven´t got my DNI. When I do I´ll be liable for that money.

Marty justs wants us all out of his office. He gathers up his papers and gently pushes our copies towards me and says a little curtly,

Allard, I think a tax lawyer would be good in this case.
Oh, yes I´m sure. I´m sorry you´re very busy. Just wanted to be sure we sorted it all out here. I was thinking of opening my own investment account but also we´ll be taking back a good portion of it since we sure could use it. In cash I mean ...

I try to look hurt and sincere. Marty smiles a little tightly.

Oh sure. Listen come in tomorrow with your Dad and we´ll set it all up ok?

We all stand. Everyone shakes hands and we shuffle out of the office and Marty bustles off to his next meeting. Mission accomplished. It will not be a silent withdrawl with no one informed of anything. Everyone now knows of our stash in my account and of the fact that we´ll be taking it back with us. Best in broad daylight. Isa slips her hand into my arm as we walk through the bank. I stop.

Just let me mention to Mehgan Fellows. She´s the one that transfers money to Banco Frances.
Dale amor.

I have her seal of approval. Good. Mehgan is a different matter. She smells something off right away but there´s little she can do. I leave her desk feeling she´ll file the details away, just in case. I might have to phone Kabe or Diego, but it´s arranged. We´ll take the cash out tomorrow or the day after, in US bills and they´ll make sure they have enough on hand. I decide to do one last thing - I withdraw 200 Canadian from the ATM and notice my balance is higher than I thought. I join everyone outside on the sidewalk. Isa is hunched, hugging herself in the cold wind.

Mother ...
Oh! Yes! ... I forgot. There was a little more of Aunt Ethyl´s inheritance. We didn´t know what to do with it so we left it ... in your ...
Ah ... ok. Good. That´s fine.

We round the corner onto Renfrew street and tuck into the parking lot behind the bank and bundle ourselves into the Corolla. David drives and we take the Opeongo road back home rather than go by the Cathedral. If it was just a little milder I´d take Isadora to Calabogie and teach her to ski. But with this weather ... I turn around and smile at her. She looks cold but fairly happy. I´ve stayed in character. That is, the innocent Allard. The guilty, self-righteous Allard. The worried Allard. The Allard who always needs money because he hasn´t had a regular job in years. The Allard they all know and even love, sometimes. We turn onto 132 and head home. We´ll have a late lunch of roast turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce along with red cabbage. It´s really a Christmas meal held for our benefit. The car skids a touch near Gourley´s and I look a little nervously at David. He slows down and we head on. The heater barely warms the car. Why couldn´t we have done this in August?

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All this wood. Worn cedar siding on the outer walls. Wood shingles stapled and glued to particle board in the entrance hall in the basement. Firewood piled up inside and outside. In the side porch. Against the living/dining room wall. Under the bathroom and main bedroom windows. And logs for next winter piled up at the end of the driveway. And finally, 49 acres of Upper Valley woodlot in a long wedge-like shape extending behind the house and to either side. Isadora is already hunched and pale having negotiated the 40 odd feet between the unheated green wooden garage and the front door. There´s a smell of woodsmoke and I gather father has been gamely keeping the fire going in honour of our arrival. I call out.

Father?
David looks at me.
He´s sleeping less. Very tired. He mutters looking tired himself now.
I thought you said they didn´t get the virus ..
Dr. Langlois said probably not. But she´s not absolutely sure.
Not sure if he got the Hantavirus??
His lungs are hardening ...
Is he at the hospital?? Here? Ottawa ... ?
David shakes his head as we head up the steps to the main floor.
No, he´s back again. He was in Renfrew two weeks ... I think.

I turn to look for Isadora. Here we are at last in Renfrew and I´ve been ignoring her. But she´s right behind us, listening intently. She asks,

Was that when you were in the hospital David?
At the end ... yes.

He gives his head a little shake like a silent mutter. And he looks at me. His eyes are direct. Then at Isa. As if looking for support. She reaches out and pats his arm maternally. He lowers his head a moment but then recovers. It must have been bad. We had spent most of the drive back home talking about how someone had hacked into my parents accounts. Fortunately, they only managed to get the spare cash which was fairly low since they were nearly fully invested. Mother had noticed the cash was missing at the branch and they had changed the password and the account numbers within an hour or so. But then again, it hadn´t been Kabe´s intention to empty the accounts. I don´t think. Although the cash came in handy he was actually looking for a safe resting place to enable him to launder his funds. And I´ll bet he regretted swiping a few thousand since it had closed off his access to those accounts. I had tried to remain concerned and suitably offended without giving anything away. Hopefully I had succeeded. As I fill the kettle while Isa gazes around the living/dining room and kitchen, I hear the toilet flush down the hall. That must be Mother bumping around in the bathroom. David has disappeared down the hall to see about Father, who´s likely napping. But then again, it´s not even noon. Too early for him to be napping. I fill the teapot and try to smile at Isa despite my fears.

The bathroom door opens and Mother appears in the hallway, walking in that increasingly wandering gait that makes me nervous. Is she still leading her aerobics class in Renfrew? I step towards her and gather her fit, bony frame in my arms. She hugs me hard.

Welcome back sweetheart.

Isadora is moved, but hovers a few feet away, uncertain. Mother turns to her and neither shaking her hand nor offering her a hug says,

Bienvenida Isadora

In her German sounding accent. Her Spanish has grown very rusty since we moved back to Canada. Back to Canada. When we were born there and Mother in Sweden. But that´s how we thought of our move to Canada. Back home. So we were gringos through and through. I nod at Isa and she reaches forward and embraces Mother saying,

Gracias Barbro.

Pronouncing the word almost perfectly. A shred of paranoia sticks inside me. Did she know her name before she met me? Impossible. Mother returns the embrace after a brief awkward pause. David returns down the hall. I notice it´s fairly cool inside the house. Did Mother try to add wood to the furnace. Is she having to deal with the furnace nowadays? I ask her.

Yes. I added some just now. I´m not sure if I did it right ...
That´s ok. I answer quickly. I like playing with the furnace.
Is Father awake?
As if in reply I hear his voice float down the hallway.
Hello? Is that you Allard?

We look at each other and then I lead her by the hand towards their bedroom. I notice she throws a quick glance towards my bedroom. We enter. Father is awake but not sitting up in bed quite as much as he used to. He looks pale and thinner amongst the pillows. Quite thin. I feel anger and guilt and a need to protect. He looks at me and says,

Mother was worried about you.

I try not to cry. I lean down and hug him, his grizzly stubble scratching my cheek but the strength in his arms is surprising. He was always a fighter. We disentangle and he turns to Isadora.

Bienvenido señorita he says with a touch of comedy but also sounding old fashioned and seignoral. She loves it.

Gracias señor Keeley! She leans down and kisses his cheek and Father smiles. His eyes are a clear blue, not the greenish gray shade of usual. That worries me as it reminds me of when his heart accelerated ( not a heart attack insisted the orthopedic surgeon at the Ottawa General ) due to an anticlotting agent. His eyes had been the same shade of blue. He was now nearing 90 and any change could be a dangerous indication. But he was tough, tougher than me. Isa hates that in me. She says I´m healthier and tougher than I allow and I should get over my neurotic physcosomatic reluctance to drink coffee and more than a glass of wine. I tell her to quit smoking when she complains like that. I hear the kettle whistling and then it stops. Mother must be filling the teapot. And the sounds of cutlery as well.

Father, we´re going to eat lunch I think.
Oh! The meatloaf is lovely!

He grins enthusiastically and I have to wipe my eyes again. I kiss his forehead and Isa tenderly kisses his cheek. David is sitting in Father´s easy chair reading the Citizen and we sit at the table rather than the counter. It´s been very cold this winter and the snow came early, staying on the ground from the first week of November. I didn´t notice any more of it than usual on the ground when we came in. Just the dry cold pushing in everywhere. It will take some getting used to for Isa. And immigration will be tricky but we are married after all. Stop it. We won´t be staying. In two weeks we´ll be back on a plane heading to Ezeiza and Diego will be waiting for us with his Ford Flex. Mother is trying her Spanish with Isa. They´re discussing berenjenas. Eggplants. She seems to be eating enthusiastically, but I wonder if she really finds the food a little heavy. Tomorrow we´ll go to the bank. We´ll have to manouvre carefully. I hope my story holds up. Maybe I should go alone. Isa looks at me as I chew thoughtfully. She knows exactly what I´m thinking. Is that good?

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What does a new country look like? A new country as seen through someone´s eyes. A country we haven´t seen before. And might know little or something or perhaps a good deal about. My first glimpse of Argentina had been as a young bank employee staring out the window of a Pan Am 747 as we approached Ezeiza. It had been late November 1981 and I had been excited and scared. People talk about how shocking the relevations of President Alfonsin´s commision´s results had been. The kidnappings, tortures and murders. Please. Two fellow employees back in Toronto had made morbid jokes one day about the desaparecidos. It had been a few months earlier and Eduardo had listened as Ray had joked how the Chilean military were dumb to have buried their victims rather than throw them from airplanes into the River Plate as they had in Argentina. It was hair raising and I´m not sure how much was dark humour and how much was cynicism. Eduardo was Jewish Argentine and Ray was Chilean and both were exiles from their countries. But whether economic or political I couldn´t say. I suspect the former. So I was nervous flying into Ezeiza back then. And I looked down at the fertile ground quickly approaching and wondered what awaited me. Por favor. I was an employee of a large bank. My only fear should have been the traffic perhaps and not arbitrary detention, torture and murder. I was protected whether I liked it or not - like the businessmen wandering the streets of Santiago de Chile ( Athens in fact ) in Costa Grava´s Missing. So perspective matters.

So what does Isadora see? What does Toronto from a thousand feet up at 6:25 AM on a winter weekday morning look like to her? She knows Miami but hasn´t even been to Uruguay. Snow on the rooftops, a dark gray winter sky with red patches of light barely appearing on the horizon. Car lights on crowded avenues and highways. Low office buildings. Warehouses. A wide avenue. The runway and the touchdown. But I see all that too. What does she see? A cold, ordered city? How much have I influenced her point of view? Less than I think likely. She´s had to be independant and raise herself without much family support. Her parents never married and were forced apart before she was even born. Grandparents raised her. A cruel aunt. A house in Almagro. Back with her mother and her partner for a short wonderful while. Then on her own again and then by 17 married and with a baby daughter. Oriana and Diego were her family. And now I was part of that too. We taxi towards our gate. Pearson´s terminals spread out far more than Ezeiza, glowing with a greenish light. Does it look like Russia to her or Sweden? What does she see? The cabin attendant is speaking in Mandarin or Cantonese after having done so in English, French and Spanish. There´s a Chinese trade delegation aboard the flight. They´ve just finished meetings in Brazil and Argentina where it has been rumoured they´re mediating with disgruntled bond holders. But these seem low level folks. The big guns from Beijng and Shanghai surely have their own chartered planes. The Airbus comes to halt and despite the admonishments of the flight attendants, some people stand up before the seat belt signs are turned off.

I decide not to hug her and just squeeze Isa´s hand instead. The immigration official had been rather testy with her despite the visa and the new passport. Anyway, she´s through now and we grimly walk on towards the luggage claim area.

Que enorme ...

Isadora isn´t impressed by the empty space and the high ceilings. She´s tired and annoyed and we wait besides the various clusters of exhausted passengers waiting for their luggage to arrive. Canada is already quite a change for her.

For some reason our luggage is one of the first to appear on the carousel. How did that happen? We were one of the earlier passengers in the line up. Has it been examined or was it merely forgotten and thrown on the last cart in Ezeiza? Strange. I try not to feel paranoid. It must just be coincidence. We load the luggage on a cart and head through customs. They ask a few questons and then let us through quickly. Good. Anyway, what have we done? Nothing. After checking the luggage in for Ottawa we wander upstairs and down the concourse towards our gate. We both are tired but I did manage to sleep some on the Santiago-Pearson leg. Strange dream. An island with a volcanic atol like the Pacific but cold with a lovely harbour that looked like what Newfoundland must look like. Will I ever make it to the Maritimes? Isa leans on me and begs me to go back to the snack bar and get her an orange juice. We´ve just had breakfast on the flight but I get up and go look for juice. By the time I´ve negotiated the line up and returned with the bottle, the flight to Ottawa is ready to board. The sun is higher now and the sky mostly clear with clouds scudding away to the East. We wait till the line up is moving and then join it. It´s 7:40 AM.

Ahi esta Kingston.
Es mas bien pueblo.

She eyes the city critically and yes it´s more a large town seen from the window of our Embraer.

Y ahi el Rideau canal. Entre Ottawa y el Lago Ontario.

Somethow this detail pleases her. She´s impressed by all the water even if it´s frozen pond scum in some cases. We´re descending fairly quickly towards Ottawa. The Embraer model is feisty and agile. You can feel it cutting through it´s flight path, not lumbering along like a 737. She whispers if we´re close, already struck by how quiet Canadians seem to be - especially on the Pearson-Ottawa shuttle I might have added. Eastern Cedars, suburbs, swampy land, rail tracks and we´re down. With like saftey guided down return me to my Native element. It´s an easy landing and we bustle towards the terminal. I feel a rush of anxiety and tenderness and I worry about my parents. I had called a dozen times before David finally answered the phone. The Hanta virus had struck parts of the valley and he had been visiting and had gotten infected and had had to take a leave of absence. From what he had told me, it had been fairly serious. I had felt sick. My parents must have been frantic with worry. And they thought I had gone missing in Argentina. Another rush of anger surges in me. I want to take Kabe´s money and stay here or move somewhere else. But how? And Oriana and Diego remain back in Mardel. The plane comes to a halt at the gate. I hold her hand. We kiss, supporting each other. The plane empties bit by bit and finally we´re inside the terminal. We pass the gurgling fountain with the stones and the canoe and Trudeau´s elegant words made stone - a sublimely severe reminder of how weak my French really is. We head down the escalator to the luggage claim area. David is waiting for us. He´s thinner but he moves easily and looks reasonably healthy.

Hummm , welcome back. He has on his glasses and he shakes Isa´s hand.
Hello she answers in her heart breakingly cute accent. She tries to smile widely.
The drive. Was it ok? I ask anxiously - I hate winter driving.
Yeah, it´s fine. I have the Corolla. Mine´s in the shop.

The bags come and we head outside and towards the parking garage. Isadora gasps at the cold. She´s got on a lined jacket she bought last winter in Mar del Plata but this is different. I grab her bag and hurry us all along to the car. I´ll let David drive and we can sort things out on the way home. One last stop to go.

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Terminal A is stuffier than when we came to meet Diego a couple of weeks back. But stuffy is a lot better than sweltering which is what it is outside. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The Air Canada line up is slow, as usual. They don´t add a secound or third attendant till closer to departure time. So us early birds face a slow, meandering line to the check in counter. I look up at the floating curves of the metal frames - an airplane´s wings or a flying girder - of the glass and steel roof. Standard airport architecture with a slightly tacky whiff with all the hanging adds, rigid tapestries, for perfumes and jewlery. The sound is a diffuse buzzing, echoing in the open space. Isadora looks nervous, impatient and excited all at once. She leans her head on my shoulder. Diego is standing quietly a few feet away but since my little apocalypse and our noisy bedroom session, she no longer feels as inhibited by his presence. It´s hard to tell how Diego himself feels.

Tenes el pasaporte listo?

A ridiculous question to ask her, especially to an Argentina. She´ll take it out a moment before it´s necessary. Anything else would be clumsy.

No, lo deje en Mardel. Pero tengo mi carnet de conducir nene.

It´s true, despite the sarcastic tone. She does indeed have her driver´s license now thanks to Cagnazzo´s help. Dr. Vukovich ( any PHD or lawyer is allowed the archaic form of addressing him or her ) is apparently a Peronista - a minority in Cordoba which usually votes Radical. What connections he has with bureaucrats in Provincia - that´s La Provincia de Buenos Aires; but all one needs to say is Provincia here in Argentina - I´m unsure of but he sure has the ability to get you any document you happen to need. I ignore Isa´s sarcastic repost and sigh softly, knowing how much sighing annoys her.

Diego waits quietly. How hurt is he by my relationship with Isa? He´s sharp and intuitive despite his laconic, carefree posture and I don´t dare misjudge him. I have to consider him potentially dangerous because he seems to be involved in everything. The line moves ahead a few paces and I push our cart forward. Two medium, black duffel bags. My briefcase. Isa´s laptop - she dare not leave it in Mardel where Oriana might download god knows what. And my green canvas knapsack purchased at the surplus store at Queen West and Bathurst. Is it still there? Possibly not. Toronto has changed more than I realize I´m sure. We´ve crammed enough essentials into it to enable us to get by in case our bags are lost. But I haven´t lost a thing between Ezeiza and Ottawa and I´ve been back and forth a few times now. We have our tickets and some cash - some of it ours but most of it supplied by Kabe himself. He hadn´t come to see us off letting Diego drive us in instead. It was almost fresh when we left town this morning but by the time we passed Dolores the heat began to be felt and when I argued with Diego, convincing him to take the shortcut onto ruta 215, ruta 6 and ruta 58, which takes you to the airport parkway, it was really hot. Isa was convinced we were lost but Diego, after a short bout of stubborness, did follow my instructions and we avoided going through the city and arrived early. The line starts to move a little faster. I look over at the counters and see another attendant checking passengers in.

Bueno. Nos vemos entonces ... Diego sounds a little nostalgic.
Vos venis? Isa asks.
Si. Kabe se queda en Mardel. Y voy a Cordoba unos dias antes.

Is it all a show? Is all this already arranged behind my back? We both kiss Diego and head through the security check. So he´ll head up to Cordoba in a week or so and meet us when we return. We head through and I look back one last time. Diego waves and waits. We walk ahead. It´s not a trek down enormous corridors like at Pearson. Ezeiza is a surprisingly small airport for a city the size of Buenos Aires. Of course, there´s the Aeroparque as well downtown. We pass through immigration and a final check. In the departure area I buy two coffees at a snack bar but barely touch mine. She tries to call Oriana but her card doesn´t work here in Ezeiza. We head over to our gate and slouch down in a row of dark blue chairs. It´s even stuffier in this part of the terminal and the faint odour of jet fuel from the tarmac tinges the air.

Isadora must be even more terrified than she´s letting show. We´re taxiing along and about to turn onto the runway. A copse of huge eucalyptus trees floats past my window. The grass looks greener than the parched shade they had been when I arrived in April of last year. December was wet. So was November. Nothing like Eritrea I imagine. We turn onto the runway and the engines rev up. I take Isa´s hand. Bisma Mining Corporation ( not to be confused with Bisha Mining Corporation also involved in Eritrea ) owns a property there that it is developing, near Bisha´s property who are also developing a mine. How Kabe passed himself off as a mining consultant with an engineering degree from Israel, I have no idea. It makes me wonder again about those diplomas on the wall. Regardless, he was paid US$50,000 to do a feasibility study and environmental assesment. Does he have connections with the Eritrean government? Is he in fact Eritrean? I didn´t bother asking. Regardless, the final 30,000 was recently paid out to him, or more likely a front company he´s set up, and somehow that money has snaked it´s way through the global fnancial system to end up in my chequing account in Renfrew. With the heat on tax havens I guess he did it that way rather than use the Caymans. Or maybe the sum isn´t large enough to justify wasting the time of some offshore lawyers and bankers. We can spend a few thousand on ourselves but we have to each have US13,000 for him in cash when Diego meets us back here in a couple of weeks. That´s 3,000 over the allowed limit but Kabe says we´ll be fine. No one will bother us if we look like a typical gringo/argentina couple, tired and frazzled after a trip back to Ottawa, St. Louis or wherever. The Airbus lifts off the blackened concrete and thrusts itslelf up into the sky. The fields and homes fall away quickly and I continue to hold Isa´s hand firmly.

The cloud cover lifts somewhere over the foothills and we have a glorious late afternoon view of the Andes. As we turn north to head up the central valley and into Santiago de Chile´s airport, Aconcagua appears far away to the right of our plane. It is an enormous triangle of rock and snow, looming above the diffuse layer of clouds back to the west towards Mendoza. I point it out to Isa who nods and grins nervously. We head down through the smog and land in Chile as the last of the sunshine bathes the dry red hills near the airport in an orange-golden glow. One step closer.

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It´s the same day and I´m moving slowly so as not to hurt her. Our shades are down as well. With the long evenings it´s necessary even after 6 PM. Bent over on her haunches, squatting and breathing sharply. I actually pulled her into the bedroom and I can´t remember if she resisted and I didn´t look at Diego who surely looked at me dragging her down the hall. But now here, in this slatted darkness, I´m uncapable of sustaining the violent anger. I soften a little, literally, and start to withdraw. Isa looks back at me, curious. We hadn´t fallen into bed, she banging her fists on my chest etc ... Rather, it had been a hissing argument behind the closed door with her fierce denials over how involved she was eventually giving way to this:

Yo merezco! Yo merezco algo mejor!!
We all think we fucking deserve more goddamnit!! You stole!! From my parents!!

I had started crying again.

No robe nada! Eso fueron los otros ... y dale con el Ingles.
I´m Canadian. I fucking speak fucking English!
Claro. Salvo si sos de Montreal.

I hit her then. But I blocked the swing halfway through and it wasn´t a very convincing slap. She had then grabbed my balls and I had tried to pull away and slipped on the ceramic tile floor. The fall looked way worse than it was - I barely felt a thing given the adrenaline. But Isa bent down quickly looking honestly concerned.

Te juro. No arme esto. Te lo juro ...
When did you meet Kabede?

I asked using the unshortened version of his name.

In the trivia room at Universochat ...
Christ ... just like the way we met.
I had no idea he knew you. That was later ... by then he was in Buenos Aires.
Was he still in Tel Aviv when you first met?
Yes I think so ...

She answered uncertainly. So we had begun negotiating with each other. We would either fall apart right there and then with me lashing out and storming off. Or we would negotiate, seeing that me running out on this set up could be dangerous. It wasn´t part of Kabe´s plan and it could leave me vulnerable to some sort of reprisal. Diego´s presence right out there in the living room was unavoidable after all. I still wasn´t sure of his role in all this. But I suspected Kabe had lured him as well, bit by bit.

So that´s why it´s been so hard since Diego´s return ... You knew this moment was coming. That either I´d figure things out or Kabe would force the situation a little to make sure ...
A little? Amor, yo estoy esperando varios meses ya.

She says the word naturally, convincingly. Amor. I can´t help it. I should hate. But I don´t. And there in the now quiet bedroom it becomes aparent that our destiny is together, even if I´m the fool in some complex sting. No femme fatale who lures. loves, decives and leaves me ... nope. We two will likely be stuck together for some time to come. I might seem delusional but it´s real what we have and I need to find some way of digesting and accepting that I´m part of all this and that I have been for some time.

I was worried when you left. If you went to Kabe .... what would happen?

Isa´s voice is low and sweet. If it´s an act I don´t care and soon yes we are on the bed and now entangled and now I´m trying to slowly withdraw - the painful part usually. She asks softly,

Estas ok?

Is that a fishing expedition? Is she wondering whether I´m up to whatever Kabe has planned for us two? Or maybe she wants to know just that ... if I´m ok.

I slip out and then lay on my back for a moment. Then I try masturbating with her lying on my chest. It works for a while as she kisses the tight little folds around my armpit but then I lose the thread and stop. She slides over to the side and I notice how lovely her legs are. All of her. Her tousled hair, that she tries so hard to straighten. Her mediterranean nose as I like to say. Her thin strong arms and wide shoulders that excite me so. Her heart shaped ass that pouts wonderfully from atop her thighs. But no, it´s something else. Yes, she is beautiful. But it´s our complicity and my long and wandering road towards acceptance of that complicity. That´s the marrow of it all between me and Isadora. An apt and cheerful conversation it certainly is not. Or very rarely. But we talk like no other for me. And this is now a complicity several shades more dangerous than the isolated refuge we had built for ourselves away from ex husbands and families and memories of my failures in Canada.

This is now our grand return. Two mules sent to do some thieves work. Can we make it work? I feel a rush of energy and turn and kiss her belly and then move lower. She guides me pulling my hair this way and that, but gently. And I gently, gently kiss and pull my lips over her vaginal lips. Not even sucking just a lazy sweet slide that I repeat over and over again. She comes, her pelvis rotating quickly, her vagina opening and closing like a mouth. She doesn´t even try to suffocate her little yells. Then she pushes my head away. It´s too sensitive right now, and I climb on top, hard again thank god, and slip inside her. We kiss a lot, yes. And then I´m coming inside her, not pulling out this time. She tries to push me out for a moment but then just grabs me and lets me ejaculate inside of her.

Let´s see. I´ve never understood all this death and collapse just because a little semen has spilled from one´s penis. Way too many words spent ( unavoidable pun ) trying to describe the moment. I don´t lose myself, my self is very much present trying to guide my body towards something shared and intimate. Rather than worry what will happen to us. To Allard. To Isa. To Diego. To all of us. It´s a good orgasm and I lay breathing deeply. I have no idea if I´m a quiet fuck as I´ve been told some time ago. Were we nosiy? Who cares. Isa curls up against me and pushes her forehead into my chest like an animal burrowing.

Has the sun fallen much? It´s hard to tell with the watery light filtering through the shades ( persianas they say here ). It´s one of the details I love about our bedroom. How the lines of light drift slowly across the walls and the closet´s red wooden doors. What time is it? I think we´ve been sleeping and I turn my head to see Isa´s face turned towards me with her eyes shut. I usually find her facing the other way when I wake up. Maybe beccause I´m hard to cuddle with when I´m asleep. Like a wounded animal she says. Is she asleep? I stroke her hair, unadorned tresses wore dishelved, if not golden. She twitches and mutters. It could be a sleeping person´s movements but I know her enough to recognize her half-awake dozing state. A state in which she must not be disturbed. So I move my hand away and ease over to my side of the bed. The air sliding through the windows and shades is a little fresher. It must be close to sunset. I pull the sheets up a little over Isa and slip on my shorts. They´re still a little damp from the day´s exertions. Just in time. Diego knocks and opens the door without waiting for me to answer. He´s got a mate in his hand but his face is all business. He waves me over to him and walks back out into the hallway. I follow him out wondering what order of business we have to attend to now. The lights are off in the living room save for the lamp next to the pc. It´s early dusk. He sits down at the table next to the wall and I sit down on the chair at the desk.

You have to bring money back from Canada.
What money?
Kabe´s money. He´s keeping it in your account.
What the hell?? In my account ... he deposited money into my bank account??
Yes. It´s safer there but now he needs it.

I want to giggle histerically but the sex has left me drained.

I don´t believe this ...
Che, te lo explico ...

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She called the apartment just earlier.
When? I was there less than two hours ago.
Isadora couldn´t believe it. It was, I think, maybe 30 minutes?

The living/dining room is in shadows with the plastic shutters down and Kabe has only turned on the lamp on his desk. It might be because he slipped into the kitchen to get me some grapefruit-flavored soda and didn´t have time to turn on any other lights. And I suppose he would keep the shades down with the afternoon heat. But then again, it also means we´re not visible from the street or anywhere else. Although the neighbours must have seen us entering his home. Didn´t they?

Here.

He pulls up a chair for me and goes and sits behind his desk. I slowly sit down. Had he ensured the street was empty when he drove up and parked his car? I stare at the plastic handle that you whirl around clockwise to raise the shutters. We have one as well and sometimes walking down Balcarce for example, they sound like bats screeching as shades are rolled up or lowered. I sip at the soda. Normally I´d gulp it down. It´s cool and tangy-sweet.

Who are you?

I ask trying to keep my voice steady. I realize it´s a line from Apartment Zero, the wonderful Martin Donovan film. Colin Firth´s character asks the question of Hart Bochner´s character. But Kabede doesn´t give a verbal answer. His face changes to a blank neutral and he quickly slides open the top right hand drawer of his desk. It´s a sudden movement that freezes me for a moment. I can´t see what´s in the drawer and I look back at Kabe. It´s a strange look on his face. It must mean that he´s ready to do what it takes. A direct simple threat so I have to assume there´s a gun in there. His right hand rests comfortably on the edge of the drawer and he continues to observe me. I can´t say he doesn´t blink. I´m not sure. But it feels like an unblinking stare. I must be sweating a lot again.

How did you find me?
You have to be careful Allard. And you have to be logical.

Kabe´s answer throws me. I´m not sure what the rules are. Obviously he´s a charlatan, and he might be very dangerous. Or the drawer might be empty and he´s just another con man about to pull up and leave town.

Are those real?

I point at the diplomas. A fact hanging on the wall? Or just a fraud?

Yes.
Are you married?
Does it matter?
Right now, everything about you matters Kabe.
Yes, I am.
Are they alive?

My voice almost breaks.

All three are alive. David was sick for a while I think.

Kabe´s voice is matter of fact. I feel tears of relief flow down my sweaty face. He looks at me silently and then closes the drawer with a soft efficient push of his hand. He takes a sip from his cup of soda and pauses.

You must miss them very much right now ... seeing that they are doing well.
Fuck you. I half burble through my tears but then quick anger fills me.

You can´t. You fucking won´t ... But I can´t finish and it suddenly feels foolish to rage. His eyes shine.

They miss you too, I would say.

More realizations. What do they think has happened to me I wonder? Ok. Time to get as much cleared up as possible. I have to be careful. And logical. Just as he says.

How did you hack the emails?
We got David to give us your webmail page and then blocked your access and forced you to change your password. He thought we were systems administrators at Xplornet.

I breath deeply and change tack.

So if you´re telling me this I guess you´re not going to shoot me? I try to joke.
Allard be logical. What should you do?
I´m lost. How much did you take? You did take didn´t you?
Allard, listen. I can offer you a way out.

Very efficent. He goes right to the point when he senses an opening. Was he ever a policeman? Couldn´t be ... not if those diplomas are real like he says. I´m tired suddenly but I´m also aware of how fluid things are right now. I have to be precise when dealing with this very precise con man who still might use violence.

What do I have to do Kabe?

Kabe´s body seems to relax a little and he leans forward.

Go back home for a visit. He waits a beat.
No. Don´t worry about your parents or David. You make sure they are fine. Then you will have some more work to do. He pauses again, then adds,
And I think Isadora should go with you.

Isa. I feel a swirl of notions shaking inside me, crystallizing quickly. Who else is involved in this scam? Diego? Cagnazzo? Is the supposed inheritance really funds stolen from my parents? I don´t dare think it ... but I can´t avoid the final name. My love. My partner. Isa too? Kabe´s mask slips a little and shows some cruel disdain. Like Ulpiano Suarez´s disdain for Otálora in Borges´ El Muerto. But at least I´m not the walking dead like the kid from Balvanera whose short-sighted vile ambition leads him to a humiliating death at the hands of Bandeira´s henchman. I´m more like the older brother in Nueve Reinas. No, not even that. I´m just the victim of a fraud whose depth I still don´t know. I want to throw this plastic cup at the wall but instead I greedily gulp down what´s left of the juice. My choice is clear. I could have fought. But now Kabe is in control. And has been for some time. I try to rescue a shred of optimism, a cleaner view of the world from somewhere inside me. But I can´t. I lower the cup and wait for Kabe to speak.

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Impatience has drained away from me. Is that what fear is? When one doesn´t want to know what may be? When one´s destiny is something one wishes to avoid? I fear to know. An old fear ... know to know no more. I´m standing at the corner of Falkner and Tejedor. An 18th century Jesuit priest from Manchester, missionary to the River Plate and splendid amateur ethnologist. And a former governor of the province and minister of external affairs under president Sarmiento. Something to hang my thoughts on. If I turn right and head along Tejedor in nine blocks I´ll be at Avenida Constitucion. If I walk a further nine blocks, heading in the same direction, I can then turn right on Alfonsina Storni - poet of Swiss parentage and infamous suicide. But some believe her wading into the cool waters of the sea right here in Mar del Plata was in fact a posthumous burial by her followers and friends. The watery suicide remains the official story however.

But I have no official story, and I´m terrified to move forward. Or more accurately, my story is not what I had thought. I stand still for a moment more, and finally a dull momentum drives me forward along Tejedor towards Storni some 19 blocks away. Tejedor is lined with shops; more bars on the windows than ever before and a few security guards standng anxiously on the sidewalk. I barely glance at the storefronts and ignore the guards who might feed my paranoia. My mind is being pushed forward. It can no longer ignore the questions. I try to walk at a steady pace, but I suppose I´m hurrying along like a madman. I no longer worry about the sweat. It´s hot and I´m dripping and that´s all there is to it. I have to wait a long time at Constitucion but the lights finally change and I walk past the gas station to my right. I always feel naked and incomplete walking past this particular service station. Not having a car doesn´t matter downtown but here with the traffic and SUV´s pulling up to the pumps I feel my poverty exposed. I feel weak and marginal even with the pesos sitting in our account and with Diego´s promises of grand schemes. There´s more shade a few blocks past Constitucion and I keep walking on the right side to make the turn onto Storni easier. A large German Sheperd surveys me critically from across the avenue sniffing the air with some disdain. I walk on. I must smell of fear and I´m sure the dog can sense it right through all the traffic. Acevedo, Miguel, Mugaburu ... who the hell was Pascuala Mugaburu?? No time. Here´s Storni. I stop and then decide that if Kabe is home or nearby there´s no point deliberating. He´ll see me coming and I might as well try to be decisive from here on in. I turn onto Storni and walk towards the coast and Kabe´s PH - Plano Habitacion or Plano Horizontal; what they call a small one or two bedroom bungalow here.

No one is waiting. No one says ¨I´ve been waiting for you¨. There´s no answer to the doorbell and I turn and move back to the sidewalk. Is Kabe inside? His car is not here and he uses it for most everything. I think he worries about getting it stolen out here in Caisamar. The sun is high, the day is hot and I´m at a dead end for the moment. Is all this paranoid fantasy? The fact I wish it to be so, wish to evade what is growing more obvious in my mind, indicates to me that it is real. There´s something here and I have to find out from Kabe how he knew who I was before we even met. Should I wait here a while? I hear a car come down the street but it´s not Kabe´s Beetle. My mind turns and then settles on David for some reason. What were those last emails from David about again? What did he say ... ? Allard, I´m very sick and Mother´s short of funds ... I think that was it ... no. There was more. Could you tell me what her stock account was again? Again ... the sounds around me don´t increase in volume like those revelatory scenes in a movie. They´re there, but I´m just not listening. I sit down on the sidewalk, something less common here if you´re not a kid. Again. I never told David what her stock account was in the first place because he never asked. He honestly didn´t give a damn. That was my job and he only wanted to know that I was taking care of that end of things. He had his job and his own accounts to worry about. He might have asked at some point but that email wasn´t right. I need her stock accounts. Something like that. And anyway ... of course ... I had made sure he also had Power of Attorney, especially when I decided to move here. My god, my grief from the news that they had succumbed to the virus had blinded me. I don´t know what to think. A motorcycle guns past. I don´t even bother looking up. Who the fuck sent me those emails? It wasn´t David, not to me it wasn´t. Nothing is holding up under any scrutiny. I´m either crazy or someone has targeted me and my family back home. Suspicion sleeps at wisdom´s gate and I feel like a fool.

That sound. It´s the Beetle. Here´s Kabe. He pulls into his weedy driveway and gets out quickly, tender concern etched on his face.

Come inside Allard he says with urgent solicitousness.
Your mother just phoned from Canada.

He´s already opening the front door to his home and I can ony follow him inside, doubt and fear and anger swirling inside me. Mother ... is she alive??