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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