I have a cool breeze in my face and the evening sky to my right if little room to manouvre out on the balcony. The stiff breeze ripping up the coast from Patagonia and the south Atlantic had lowered the temperature to a pleasant low 20´s during the day and it was now around 15 Celsius. I feed another log into the woodstove and try not to spill my drink. It´s Christmas and I´m delighted to have an excuse to play with the stove. Parque Camet is busier lately with the tourists rolling in and so I´ve felt safer collecting my branches and I seem to get less stares from people as I ride about on my bicycle. Maybe they´re getting used to me. I had made it home mid afternoon and was glad to find some stale croissants in the microwave to snack on. Dinner is still an hour away at least. I had wanted a turkey or a smorgasboard like mother used to prepare but both meals were out of the question. Isadora had bargained me down to spinach pie and some gnocchis and Mikal was barbequeing meat at the quincho upstairs much to Matt´s displeasure. He promised to bring us down a few portions. Rojas was up there as well with his family and some of the tenants so there was a chance some meat might find it´s way down to us. We managed to find some Patagonian fruit cake and with the sparsely decorated tree and the cooling night, it would do.
I had found a cotton sweater at one of the stalls on Pueyrredon while I had waited for Isadora to finish up at the salon. Then on impulse I had headed up to Luro and bought two used nokias for Isa and Ori. Isa had had hers stolen and Ori had lost hers; or was it the other way around? I had spent almost all the extra cash I had withdrawn from our shared account at the bank but with Isa´s paycheck we should be ok for food next week. Giving them gifts at Christmas was important to me. The ritual was all that was left of my family´s holidays together. Me buying two used cellphones and getting them wrapped at one of the arstesan´s stalls and slipping them into my bag before Isa came striding up Rivadavia to meet me. So there they were under the tree along with the gifts Isa and Oriana have bought and the stove is crackling now and we´re almost onto our second bottle of Saint Lambert, a champagne from Mendoza. I saw the label and had to buy 3 of them, despite Isadora´s protests. Greenfield Park, St Lambert, St Hubert, the Eastern Townships stretching away towards Sherbrooke. Lennoxville just to the south and what was the pub? The golden something ... no ...
Loco, say hi to Diego.
What ... ?
Isa´s out on the balcony and waving the cordless at me. A gust of wind rattles the glass doors and I take the phone. He´s due in a few days at Ezeiza. Apparently there was an inheritance left him by his estranged father. It´s been all Isa and Ori can talk about the last few days. I take the phone and feel my scar tenderly. I feel fairly normal again since the episode but I´m a little nervous over what exactly had happened.
Hola Diego, que tal?
Hola ... Allard ... como ... estas?
Long pauses in his speech. A soft voice but with an edge. We´re both uncomfortable but we plunge ahead and I talk about the weather and my memories of Miami and we loosen up and by the end we seem to be getting along. I hand the phone to Ori who´s gulped down a few glasses already but now just seems content to sip. Kabe has agreed to drive us up to Ezeiza to meet Diego but Isa balked at going. So it´ll be me and Kabe and Ori of course. Isa fills my glass again and glances at me. I miss my family´s tidy little holiday rituals, the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners with our parents and David. It was a renewal, a marking of something half-believed and half-forgotten. Isa is now on the phone with Diego, nodding and laughing. She raises her head when the doorbell sounds. Ori slides quickly to the door and lets in Mikal who´s got a plate of porkchops. I give him a glass which he downs and then he´s back up the stairs to rejoin the party on the terrace. I take the spinach pie out of the oven and Ori ladles out the gnocchis and Isa manages to end the conversation and hang up. She lights some candles and we set the table in the living room and sit down to eat. There were floods in Italy and the Rhine was nearly frozen somewhere in Germany. I´m sure that Matts and Mikal are climate refugees as much as anything else. And more of them are on the way, heading south to Argentina. We open another bottle of Saint Lambert and work our way through what is an unusually large meal for the three of us. When we´re all stuffed, Isa pauses.
Tengo algo para compartir.
We both look at her and wait impatiently. She looks at me first and then at Oriana.
Diego wants us to go to Cruz del Eje with him. He´s inherited one of his father´s properties. And maybe more.
Noooooooooooo!!
Ori´s face is flushed as she shouts. Whether from the champagne or anger is hard to tell. The small town in the northwest of Cordoba is hardly a cultural beacon let´s say. And it´s dry and hot in summer. Isa waits a moment.
Go, not move. To help him sell the properties.
What exactly ... is involved?
It´s easier than me saying ¨how much are they worth?¨. Isa glances sharply at me.
Ni idea ...
Hay mas?
Si. Murieron los otros herederos. En la ruta nueve cuando volco su auto.
We sit silently. With the traffic accident it looks like Diego is the sole reamaining inheritor. Three of them dead in a crash on highway 9. We all look at each other and we all realize that something about this feels wrong. And we all feel scared suddenly. Maybe it was just a traffic accident. And they all just happened to be due an inheritance from Diego´s deceased father. And Diego will be here before New Years Eve.
domingo, 31 de mayo de 2009
viernes, 29 de mayo de 2009
RSClef14
President Obama´s athletic swagger seemed a little more measured than usual as he approached the microphones in the Rose Garden. I´m sitting up in bed and watching CNN. I can raise the blinds now since the headaches have stopped and the light doesn´t bother me as much. It´s all over the papers and he´ll have to comment. Luis Laredo, Obama´s fundraiser and pointman with the Hispanic community in Florida, had resigned as president of Codere; the Spanish firm that recently lost the concession to manage the bingos in Mar del Plata. The former OEA ambassador and advisor to both Clinton and Jeb Bush had failed in his lobbying efforts with the governor of Buenos Aires. The concession had gone to a local group but now both groups were under suspicion over the robbery. Doubts had emerged from several sources about the whole affair. An employee swore she recognized one of the assailants as a former security guard from another bingo. Someone else anonymously denounced an internal caper to launder funds. So the speculation began to mount that the whole thing was staged. When Chicho Pesconi, a retired policeman, admitted to being part of the gang and to have been instructed by accountants and managers of the bingo on how to proceed, the whole thing blew open. Judge Alejandro Tozzi was now in charge of what looked to be a sordid investigation involving tax evasion, a staged robbery and perhaps complicity between Codere and the new owners. So Luis Lauredo was caught in the spotlight with a request for him to return to Argentina to face Judge Tozzi´s inquiry. As Obama´s advisor on Hispanic affairs it was an embarassing blow to the administration. John Boehner was all over television looking tanned and concerned and questioning just what sort of ethics did the president have with advisors like Lauredo. That it also tarred Jeb Bush was mere collateral damage for the House Minority leader seeing he could take another swipe at Clinton as well.
Uhh ... let me make a uhh, statement about Louis Lauredo.
The president looked defiant and humble all at once.
He has, to my knowledge, conducted himself with total integrity and uhh ... let´s remember folks, that he´s not accused of any crime, nor has anything been proven at this juncture. I´m sure when this investigation, uhh ... is investigated fully ... as it should be and will be ... we´ll then not be speculating.
There´s a touch of venom in that last word. He looks geniunely angry and I wonder who´s the target of his anger. Lauredo himself, the advisor who led him to Lauredo or the press. Or Boehner. I turn down the volume and turn onto my side. Outside it´s warm and sunny and Christmas is almost here. I´m feeling clear headed now and I´m certain Obama was referring to Codere, even if I´m not sure he mentioned Lauredo or Lahood. And I´m aware that Boehner is always questioning the administrations ethics. I guess that´s his job. And Chicho Pesconi - that buff little bulldog strutting to his squad car outside the station on Independencia right at San Martin. That had to be him. And Greta and Irma had shrugged cynically when I suggested to them the robbery had possibly been staged. So the pieces were falling together. I reach over and grab the canvas strap and lower the blinds until the room is in shadows with enough of an opening to let in some air. A light knock and the door swings open.
Loco, vas a dormir?
No se ...
Isa sits down at the edge of the bed. She places a cautious hand on my hip, tapping me gently. Whether to comfort me or to warn me of something is unclear. She looks at me and pauses and then says,
I´ve been talking to Irma. The security guard at Bingo del Sol has decided not to press charges against you.
Huh ... ? With the robbery they were thinking of charging me!? Why ... !?
She taps my leg nervously and strokes my shoulder.
Allard, you fainted. There was no robbery ...
But the policemen?
Por dios!! Esos gordos fueron empleados de la cocina. Habia un pequeño incendio en la cocina y demoro el bingo un rato. Y vos ...
A fire in the kitchen at Bingo del Sol? And I fainted ... after a struggle with a security guard? Isa brings in a fan and sets it on rotate. The sound soothes me a little and I put on my eyeshades and turn the other way in bed and try to sleep. The breeze generated by the fan feels like an invisible brush sweeping across me in a broad stroke. A pause. Then another stroke. I bend to the rythym and unclench and slip into a fitful flow of dreams and dozing and half-awake memories.
Uhh ... let me make a uhh, statement about Louis Lauredo.
The president looked defiant and humble all at once.
He has, to my knowledge, conducted himself with total integrity and uhh ... let´s remember folks, that he´s not accused of any crime, nor has anything been proven at this juncture. I´m sure when this investigation, uhh ... is investigated fully ... as it should be and will be ... we´ll then not be speculating.
There´s a touch of venom in that last word. He looks geniunely angry and I wonder who´s the target of his anger. Lauredo himself, the advisor who led him to Lauredo or the press. Or Boehner. I turn down the volume and turn onto my side. Outside it´s warm and sunny and Christmas is almost here. I´m feeling clear headed now and I´m certain Obama was referring to Codere, even if I´m not sure he mentioned Lauredo or Lahood. And I´m aware that Boehner is always questioning the administrations ethics. I guess that´s his job. And Chicho Pesconi - that buff little bulldog strutting to his squad car outside the station on Independencia right at San Martin. That had to be him. And Greta and Irma had shrugged cynically when I suggested to them the robbery had possibly been staged. So the pieces were falling together. I reach over and grab the canvas strap and lower the blinds until the room is in shadows with enough of an opening to let in some air. A light knock and the door swings open.
Loco, vas a dormir?
No se ...
Isa sits down at the edge of the bed. She places a cautious hand on my hip, tapping me gently. Whether to comfort me or to warn me of something is unclear. She looks at me and pauses and then says,
I´ve been talking to Irma. The security guard at Bingo del Sol has decided not to press charges against you.
Huh ... ? With the robbery they were thinking of charging me!? Why ... !?
She taps my leg nervously and strokes my shoulder.
Allard, you fainted. There was no robbery ...
But the policemen?
Por dios!! Esos gordos fueron empleados de la cocina. Habia un pequeño incendio en la cocina y demoro el bingo un rato. Y vos ...
A fire in the kitchen at Bingo del Sol? And I fainted ... after a struggle with a security guard? Isa brings in a fan and sets it on rotate. The sound soothes me a little and I put on my eyeshades and turn the other way in bed and try to sleep. The breeze generated by the fan feels like an invisible brush sweeping across me in a broad stroke. A pause. Then another stroke. I bend to the rythym and unclench and slip into a fitful flow of dreams and dozing and half-awake memories.
jueves, 28 de mayo de 2009
RSClef13
Si. Un desastre.
In that little girl voice with a giggle signifying she sees the humor in an impossible situation. Not sure who´s she´s talkng to on her cellphone. I remember a dull series of pricks in my scalp and perhaps an inhaler. Was the doctor´s name Claudia? Or was that the nurse in the emergency room? Isadora´s eyes open wide. She´s staring at me and realizes that I´m now awake.
Ya. Ya. Esta despierto. Besitos.
She hangs up and moves quickly towards me, then slows down as she reaches my bed. She takes my hand and her eyes moisten but she doesn´t cry. We seem to be a few stories up from the light coming in through the windows which show mostly sky.
Where am I?
La EMHSA. On Juan B. Justo.
When did I get here?
It´s Friday morning.
Christmas?!!
No boludo. That´s next week.
So ...
We come yesterday afternoon.
He´s maybe in his mid thirties and with fairly expensive loafers and a white coat and he breezes into the room and kisses Isadora on the cheek and turns to me and asks,
Como estas?
I tell him I´m feeling a little fuzzy and dazed and then I ask who hit me and he exchanges glances with Isa. Speaking softly and quickly he tells me I have a mild concussion from my contact with the table´s edge or the floor. The paramedic had reported it was the table but the doctor was covering all reasonable possibilities I suppose. I had fainted apparently just as the fat lady had jostled with the policeman and perhaps I had been pushed but from everyone´s evidence I had mostly just fainted. Isadora nods emphatically as the doctor explains this and tells me I have a few sticthes in my scalp and it´s inconclusive if I actually suffered a concussion but he´s playing it safe. I just want to go home. He reviews the medication he´s prescribed with Isadora and then hurries off after tapping my elbow encouragingly.
Como pagaste?
But she shushes me with a finger to her lips. We´re in a shared room with several other beds and she doesn´t want anyone else listening in. I´ll have to assume she paid with most of what´s left from the Krugerands.
Amor, voy a bajar a la farmacia al lado.
Her voice is anxious. I nod and as she reviews the prescription I stare out the window. It´s late afternoon isn´t it? No. Early evening. Silly me. With daylight saving the sun sets quite late this time of year. My vision is clearing and I see a dusky turquoise - the color of the sky blue in their flag.
Y la hora?
Casi las 21.
So she heads to the door, returns and kisses my forehead and then leaves in a soft rush. Hopefully she´ll make it in time to the drugstore. Strange, she kissed my forehead like a passionate mother. I can´t remember the echo of her steps in the hallway. The room is quite and all the beds are occupied. Most are napping - if you can call a post operative stupor napping - and one is reading a newspaper. Everyone´s older but he looks fairy vigorous. If he talked to me what would he say? Perhaps he was from Quilmes on the south side of Buenos Aires´s suburbs. A Florencio Ramirez Sokovitch say. Croatian- Italian heritage. Proud former owner of a small chain of butcher shops who is now retired here in Mardel and is about to undergo minor surgery. Kidney stones? He puts down his paper, gives me a sharp look and rolls over on his side with his back towards me, muttering something to himself.
It takes a while for Isa to return with a white paper bag with blue lettering on one side. She gets a pticher of water from the side table and removes the paper covering from the glass beside it. I stare at the gold-flecked pitcher with it´s black plastic top, straight out of the seventies, and feel comforted by this slightly anachronistic, utilitarian vessel. She fills the glass and hands me the pills. I feel protected in this room and old memories of childhood stays at Nuestra Señora del Coromoto in Maracaibo flood back. The medication starts to do battle with an increasingly strong headache. I feel nauseous and listless and Isa wipes my forehead with a damp towel. We talk in whispered tones about the robbery at the Bingo del Sol. My concentration loses focus and my gaze wanders between the darkening sky in the window and Isa´s face. I try to hold onto details of what she´s saying but I slip into and out of sleep. I hear Isa talking but it might be a dream or maybe I´m only dozing. I open my eyes and the room is dark and I don´t see her. I lower my lids and hear her voice again but am unsure where it comes from.
Sunlight. It´s morning. Isa walks through the door her shoulders hunched from fatigue and bags under her eyes. She´s spent two fucking nights here. Her loyaltly is astonishing to me. I would have headed home to get a few hours of sleep. But here she is filling the glass and handing me some more pills and telling me Doctor Esquivel will soon be here to have another look and if all´s ok we can go home. I sit up and swallow a little weakly and hope the medicaton works soon. Like most, I want a shower and my own bed. I gaze at Isa slumped in the chair. So quick to anger if she feels slighted. So ready to protect. So desperate for unconditional love. She, a little more like an angel. I, a little less.
In that little girl voice with a giggle signifying she sees the humor in an impossible situation. Not sure who´s she´s talkng to on her cellphone. I remember a dull series of pricks in my scalp and perhaps an inhaler. Was the doctor´s name Claudia? Or was that the nurse in the emergency room? Isadora´s eyes open wide. She´s staring at me and realizes that I´m now awake.
Ya. Ya. Esta despierto. Besitos.
She hangs up and moves quickly towards me, then slows down as she reaches my bed. She takes my hand and her eyes moisten but she doesn´t cry. We seem to be a few stories up from the light coming in through the windows which show mostly sky.
Where am I?
La EMHSA. On Juan B. Justo.
When did I get here?
It´s Friday morning.
Christmas?!!
No boludo. That´s next week.
So ...
We come yesterday afternoon.
He´s maybe in his mid thirties and with fairly expensive loafers and a white coat and he breezes into the room and kisses Isadora on the cheek and turns to me and asks,
Como estas?
I tell him I´m feeling a little fuzzy and dazed and then I ask who hit me and he exchanges glances with Isa. Speaking softly and quickly he tells me I have a mild concussion from my contact with the table´s edge or the floor. The paramedic had reported it was the table but the doctor was covering all reasonable possibilities I suppose. I had fainted apparently just as the fat lady had jostled with the policeman and perhaps I had been pushed but from everyone´s evidence I had mostly just fainted. Isadora nods emphatically as the doctor explains this and tells me I have a few sticthes in my scalp and it´s inconclusive if I actually suffered a concussion but he´s playing it safe. I just want to go home. He reviews the medication he´s prescribed with Isadora and then hurries off after tapping my elbow encouragingly.
Como pagaste?
But she shushes me with a finger to her lips. We´re in a shared room with several other beds and she doesn´t want anyone else listening in. I´ll have to assume she paid with most of what´s left from the Krugerands.
Amor, voy a bajar a la farmacia al lado.
Her voice is anxious. I nod and as she reviews the prescription I stare out the window. It´s late afternoon isn´t it? No. Early evening. Silly me. With daylight saving the sun sets quite late this time of year. My vision is clearing and I see a dusky turquoise - the color of the sky blue in their flag.
Y la hora?
Casi las 21.
So she heads to the door, returns and kisses my forehead and then leaves in a soft rush. Hopefully she´ll make it in time to the drugstore. Strange, she kissed my forehead like a passionate mother. I can´t remember the echo of her steps in the hallway. The room is quite and all the beds are occupied. Most are napping - if you can call a post operative stupor napping - and one is reading a newspaper. Everyone´s older but he looks fairy vigorous. If he talked to me what would he say? Perhaps he was from Quilmes on the south side of Buenos Aires´s suburbs. A Florencio Ramirez Sokovitch say. Croatian- Italian heritage. Proud former owner of a small chain of butcher shops who is now retired here in Mardel and is about to undergo minor surgery. Kidney stones? He puts down his paper, gives me a sharp look and rolls over on his side with his back towards me, muttering something to himself.
It takes a while for Isa to return with a white paper bag with blue lettering on one side. She gets a pticher of water from the side table and removes the paper covering from the glass beside it. I stare at the gold-flecked pitcher with it´s black plastic top, straight out of the seventies, and feel comforted by this slightly anachronistic, utilitarian vessel. She fills the glass and hands me the pills. I feel protected in this room and old memories of childhood stays at Nuestra Señora del Coromoto in Maracaibo flood back. The medication starts to do battle with an increasingly strong headache. I feel nauseous and listless and Isa wipes my forehead with a damp towel. We talk in whispered tones about the robbery at the Bingo del Sol. My concentration loses focus and my gaze wanders between the darkening sky in the window and Isa´s face. I try to hold onto details of what she´s saying but I slip into and out of sleep. I hear Isa talking but it might be a dream or maybe I´m only dozing. I open my eyes and the room is dark and I don´t see her. I lower my lids and hear her voice again but am unsure where it comes from.
Sunlight. It´s morning. Isa walks through the door her shoulders hunched from fatigue and bags under her eyes. She´s spent two fucking nights here. Her loyaltly is astonishing to me. I would have headed home to get a few hours of sleep. But here she is filling the glass and handing me some more pills and telling me Doctor Esquivel will soon be here to have another look and if all´s ok we can go home. I sit up and swallow a little weakly and hope the medicaton works soon. Like most, I want a shower and my own bed. I gaze at Isa slumped in the chair. So quick to anger if she feels slighted. So ready to protect. So desperate for unconditional love. She, a little more like an angel. I, a little less.
miércoles, 27 de mayo de 2009
RSClef12
Setenta y Siete, Cinco ...
There´s a long pause and I look up from our table near the front entrance of Bingo del Sol. I see the backs of several husky men disappear through the staff entrance besides the counter where the machine sits and where the distracted girl has paused for an unusually long time. An impatient buzz rises up from the tables. Were they electricians or some other trade here to fix something? I feel unsettled and glance at Isa who looks intrigued but optimistic. The blonde behind the counter continues.
Cincuenta y Ocho, Veintinueve ...
Biiin .... go!
The echo from the employees is louder than the original cry: someone in the glassed off smoking section. Isa turns and frowns but she´s called a line during a special and so we´ve played for free. Still, she hates it when others win. The fake gold trophy-like marker is being quickly carried over to the winning table when the staff doors explode open and three heavy set muscular men stride quickly towards the far exit that leads past the slot machines and out onto Catamarca. They almost run over the girl carrying the marker but she manages to step quickly to one side. As they turn towards the exit I notice one of them is carrying a small black duffel bag. A nervous murmur becomes louder as they near the door and then disappear through it. The door is opened for them it seems to me. What the hell is going on? Were they the same ones who I barely glanced when they entered? I reach for Isa´s hand and look nervously at her.
We´ll continue with the next game.
The male voice is attempting to sound reassuring but the buzzing continues with people looking around. Some older women two tables down get up and with purses in hand leave as quickly as their legs will take them while still retaining what they hope is a little dignity. Watching them scuttle out feels like watching a poorly played bedroom farce. They squeeze through the exit door and a moment later two policemen enter through the same exit. I turn and see another come in through the staff door and head behind the counter to direct some hurried words at the male employee manning the microphone. Are those seargent stripes on his uniform? He steps to the mike.
The game is suspended. Please remain seated and please remain calm.
A chorus of indignant mutterings and even a few whistles greet the seargent´s comments. Are customers offended because of the apparent robbery or because of the delay or because of fears the jackpot will be lowered? It´s hard to say. I feel a surge of adrenaline along with relief. Isa looks furious. Her bingo has been disrupted. I feel warm, almost hot, despite the air conditoner. The expensive jean shirt we bought is sticking to my shoulders and I wish we could just leave. I gulp down what´s left of my glass of water. We should have ordered a beer, that would help. At the next table someone´s loud complaints are growing hysterical. She´s a huge platinum blonde and has rings and jangly bracelets and is even more furious than Isa. There´s more police inside the room now and one of them approaches her table. I feel claustrophobic and dizzy and I stand up just as the police moves past me. A thudding blow knocks me sideways and I think I must have slipped as our table rushes towards me. My vision fades at the edges and I taste blood and worry about my teeth. My tongue aches and my mouth feels fuzzy and acidic. I´m unsure if people are touching me as my vision narrows down to nothing and then I no longer hear anything.
There´s a long pause and I look up from our table near the front entrance of Bingo del Sol. I see the backs of several husky men disappear through the staff entrance besides the counter where the machine sits and where the distracted girl has paused for an unusually long time. An impatient buzz rises up from the tables. Were they electricians or some other trade here to fix something? I feel unsettled and glance at Isa who looks intrigued but optimistic. The blonde behind the counter continues.
Cincuenta y Ocho, Veintinueve ...
Biiin .... go!
The echo from the employees is louder than the original cry: someone in the glassed off smoking section. Isa turns and frowns but she´s called a line during a special and so we´ve played for free. Still, she hates it when others win. The fake gold trophy-like marker is being quickly carried over to the winning table when the staff doors explode open and three heavy set muscular men stride quickly towards the far exit that leads past the slot machines and out onto Catamarca. They almost run over the girl carrying the marker but she manages to step quickly to one side. As they turn towards the exit I notice one of them is carrying a small black duffel bag. A nervous murmur becomes louder as they near the door and then disappear through it. The door is opened for them it seems to me. What the hell is going on? Were they the same ones who I barely glanced when they entered? I reach for Isa´s hand and look nervously at her.
We´ll continue with the next game.
The male voice is attempting to sound reassuring but the buzzing continues with people looking around. Some older women two tables down get up and with purses in hand leave as quickly as their legs will take them while still retaining what they hope is a little dignity. Watching them scuttle out feels like watching a poorly played bedroom farce. They squeeze through the exit door and a moment later two policemen enter through the same exit. I turn and see another come in through the staff door and head behind the counter to direct some hurried words at the male employee manning the microphone. Are those seargent stripes on his uniform? He steps to the mike.
The game is suspended. Please remain seated and please remain calm.
A chorus of indignant mutterings and even a few whistles greet the seargent´s comments. Are customers offended because of the apparent robbery or because of the delay or because of fears the jackpot will be lowered? It´s hard to say. I feel a surge of adrenaline along with relief. Isa looks furious. Her bingo has been disrupted. I feel warm, almost hot, despite the air conditoner. The expensive jean shirt we bought is sticking to my shoulders and I wish we could just leave. I gulp down what´s left of my glass of water. We should have ordered a beer, that would help. At the next table someone´s loud complaints are growing hysterical. She´s a huge platinum blonde and has rings and jangly bracelets and is even more furious than Isa. There´s more police inside the room now and one of them approaches her table. I feel claustrophobic and dizzy and I stand up just as the police moves past me. A thudding blow knocks me sideways and I think I must have slipped as our table rushes towards me. My vision fades at the edges and I taste blood and worry about my teeth. My tongue aches and my mouth feels fuzzy and acidic. I´m unsure if people are touching me as my vision narrows down to nothing and then I no longer hear anything.
martes, 26 de mayo de 2009
RSClef11
Out of thy head I sprung. But these coins are still here. A trinity of gold Krugerands weighing three ounces. Worth several thousand dollars, US dollars. And delivered by a ghostly anarchist. The Snakie Serpent opened the Gates of Hell for Satan, and Anarchy helped show him the way upwards when the dark turbulence had flung him down into the abyss. That should be a capital A I suppose, but I´m no Milton. I think he fell in love with his protagonist, his fallen angel. How else such impassioned - not to mention sheer volume of - verse? I shift my weight impatiently. Jones Tur is crowded and the line up is slow. The quotes for gold Krugerands are good but I´m not sure if we do the transaction at the same counter where most people buy or sell currencies or if it´s through that glass door to the left. So I´m waitng in line with Isa. She had stared at them after Ori had commented in a hushed voice that had woken her mother and had pulled her into the kitchen in her purple robe. They both had looked at me and wondered silently where I had gotten them from. I couldn´t say Toby, so I had just implied that I had brought them down from Canada with me. We all turned them between our fingers and admired them and Ori had jokingly pocketed one of them but she and Isa had then carefully handed them back to me.
Mil docientos.
He means each Krugerand. So that´s US $3,600. We nod at them and look at each other and sign some papers and I show my passport and they copy the number and we´re through the glass door and through the main door and out onto Luro again. An arbolito waits under the tree ( pun unavoidable; it´s the slang for a moneychanger who deals in US$ and changes your money at a good rate and without having to sign forms or wait in line ). I walk over and change six hundred for slightly more than 2,000 Pesos. I give Isa 1,000 Pesos right there on the sidewalk much to her annoyance. She hates displaying any significant amount of cash but everyone knows he´s an arbolito so to hell with it. And there´s police nearby and security guards as well. She slips them quickly into her black studded handbag and we walk hurriedly down Luro towards the plaza. We´ll decide how to spend the money in a little while. Right now we just want to keep walking before somebody blows a whistle and tells us - no you can´t have that money.
The sun is strong but a nervous breeze gusts around us, rustling through the leaves and stirring up some dust along the walkways. The patches of dark bare earth are still damp from recent rains but there is dust collected in the grooves of the yellow paving tiles so typical of Argentine urban architecture. You can find a passionate debate at the latinscrapers site on the merits of concrete sidewalks versus the classic ¨baldosa¨ that still covers this plaza. It would be a shame to lose them. But I´m unable to truly enjoy pondering ... I feel rushed and impatient and I know Isadora senses it in me as well. I look at her and she squeezes my hand but looks straight ahead. I know she´s planning what stores to guide me to to help upgrade my worn out wardrobe. And then we´ll head and look for a few things for herself. It´s just after 4 and the shops should all be open again. My purchases will be fast and easy. Isa´s will take an age and I silently build up resources in me to try and weather it with affability if not grace. But I feel a ticking, a buzz, and I´m sweating slightly despite two showers today. And it´s barely warm with this breeze.
Allard, estas bien?
Huh? Yes, I´m ok. I´m fine I mean ...
Ok ... Ah! Look at those jeans!
She pulls me back and we gaze through the glass and I nod at her and so we walk through the shop´s doors and start to spend our money.
Mil docientos.
He means each Krugerand. So that´s US $3,600. We nod at them and look at each other and sign some papers and I show my passport and they copy the number and we´re through the glass door and through the main door and out onto Luro again. An arbolito waits under the tree ( pun unavoidable; it´s the slang for a moneychanger who deals in US$ and changes your money at a good rate and without having to sign forms or wait in line ). I walk over and change six hundred for slightly more than 2,000 Pesos. I give Isa 1,000 Pesos right there on the sidewalk much to her annoyance. She hates displaying any significant amount of cash but everyone knows he´s an arbolito so to hell with it. And there´s police nearby and security guards as well. She slips them quickly into her black studded handbag and we walk hurriedly down Luro towards the plaza. We´ll decide how to spend the money in a little while. Right now we just want to keep walking before somebody blows a whistle and tells us - no you can´t have that money.
The sun is strong but a nervous breeze gusts around us, rustling through the leaves and stirring up some dust along the walkways. The patches of dark bare earth are still damp from recent rains but there is dust collected in the grooves of the yellow paving tiles so typical of Argentine urban architecture. You can find a passionate debate at the latinscrapers site on the merits of concrete sidewalks versus the classic ¨baldosa¨ that still covers this plaza. It would be a shame to lose them. But I´m unable to truly enjoy pondering ... I feel rushed and impatient and I know Isadora senses it in me as well. I look at her and she squeezes my hand but looks straight ahead. I know she´s planning what stores to guide me to to help upgrade my worn out wardrobe. And then we´ll head and look for a few things for herself. It´s just after 4 and the shops should all be open again. My purchases will be fast and easy. Isa´s will take an age and I silently build up resources in me to try and weather it with affability if not grace. But I feel a ticking, a buzz, and I´m sweating slightly despite two showers today. And it´s barely warm with this breeze.
Allard, estas bien?
Huh? Yes, I´m ok. I´m fine I mean ...
Ok ... Ah! Look at those jeans!
She pulls me back and we gaze through the glass and I nod at her and so we walk through the shop´s doors and start to spend our money.
lunes, 25 de mayo de 2009
RSClef10
I hear sounds from the kitchen or is it the living room? I turn in bed and lift my eyeshades. But no, Isadora is sleeping with most of the covers wrapped around her body. The blue fabric hangs off her heart shaped-shaped bottom and I turn back towards my side of the bed and wonder. I slide out of bed and slip on sandals and creep over to the hook near the door and slip the black robe into my hands and work my arms into it. A few more light knocks and bumps come from the kitchen. I open the bedroom door, closing it behind me as quietly as I can; then turn and head down the hall. It´s Oriana and she´s emptying the ashtrays. She hates smokers and I see the stub of last night´s joint disappear into the trash can as she looks up at me and then looks down at the next ash tray she´s going to clean. Her look is not overly sullen and I decide to greet her,
Ey loca, que haces?
Fucking cleaning up after you stoners is what I´m doing.
I´d like to defend myself but I had smoked some, so there was no point quibbling. I switch subjects,
Just get in?
A while back
She shrugs and washes her hands in the kitchen sink. I wait till she´s finished and then fill the kettle and head out to the balcony and the woodstove. Good, there´s still coals so I can add some branches and leave it at that. I return to the kitchen. Of course I can´t find Rosamonte. We´ve only got Cruz de Malta.
Ori plucks a stale croissant from the microwave and stuffs it into her petulant mouth. She turns and looks at me surprised when there´s a soft knock on the door. Who the hell could it be this early? I head over and ask as softly as I can,
Quien es?
Me.
Damn, it´s Toby. Ori´s face lights up with pleasure and excitement but she quickly covers it up as I open the door and let him slide in. We all sit at the kitchen table and I sip my mate. Toby refuses and Ori has already had her chocolate milk special. He pulls out a brown paper bag and lets some coins spill out onto the surface of the table. Are they gold ... ? Yes! And that´s an antelope? No, it´s a springbok. They´re Krugerands. And worth a lot with gold prices today. I saw the quotes at Jones Tur on Luro. How many are there? Ori looks uncomfortable and stands and leaves us two and heads to her bedroom.
How much in total?
But Toby just smiles and winks at me. Why is he showing this to me? Does he lack ID and do we have to cash them in for him? His passport ... does he have one? He must, I´m certain of it. How did he get into the country otherwise? This is tricky. I´d like to wake Isa, but it´s early and she doesn´t like me getting involved with Toby. What the hell am I going to do? We shake hands and he leaves and the kitchen is empty again. Ori returns and stares at me for a long time. She asks me,
Were you talking to yourself??
Ey loca, que haces?
Fucking cleaning up after you stoners is what I´m doing.
I´d like to defend myself but I had smoked some, so there was no point quibbling. I switch subjects,
Just get in?
A while back
She shrugs and washes her hands in the kitchen sink. I wait till she´s finished and then fill the kettle and head out to the balcony and the woodstove. Good, there´s still coals so I can add some branches and leave it at that. I return to the kitchen. Of course I can´t find Rosamonte. We´ve only got Cruz de Malta.
Ori plucks a stale croissant from the microwave and stuffs it into her petulant mouth. She turns and looks at me surprised when there´s a soft knock on the door. Who the hell could it be this early? I head over and ask as softly as I can,
Quien es?
Me.
Damn, it´s Toby. Ori´s face lights up with pleasure and excitement but she quickly covers it up as I open the door and let him slide in. We all sit at the kitchen table and I sip my mate. Toby refuses and Ori has already had her chocolate milk special. He pulls out a brown paper bag and lets some coins spill out onto the surface of the table. Are they gold ... ? Yes! And that´s an antelope? No, it´s a springbok. They´re Krugerands. And worth a lot with gold prices today. I saw the quotes at Jones Tur on Luro. How many are there? Ori looks uncomfortable and stands and leaves us two and heads to her bedroom.
How much in total?
But Toby just smiles and winks at me. Why is he showing this to me? Does he lack ID and do we have to cash them in for him? His passport ... does he have one? He must, I´m certain of it. How did he get into the country otherwise? This is tricky. I´d like to wake Isa, but it´s early and she doesn´t like me getting involved with Toby. What the hell am I going to do? We shake hands and he leaves and the kitchen is empty again. Ori returns and stares at me for a long time. She asks me,
Were you talking to yourself??
domingo, 24 de mayo de 2009
RSClef9
Ariel moves towards me with that loping strut of his, Rasta locks bundled up in a woolen cap that just covers his fake diamond earrings. Or are they real? I´m a little unsettled because I swear I just witnessed him talking to a motorcycle cop who has just turned onto Luro, speeding off towards the shore. The fountain is crowded with kids, floggers over closer to the grassy areas of Plaza San Martin, goths and darks nearer to the cathedral. Was Ariel just now talking to that cop? I hate coming to buy weed at the best of times; an aging Canadian in Mar del Plata is hardly inconspicuous, but Ariel always laughs off my paranoia. And Isadora thinks it´s arrogant egotism on my part - Mardel is as ethnically diverse as most places. Who knows or cares where I happen to be from? Anyway, this shopping expedition is my gesture towards Isa and Greta´s needs; especially Greta who could I suppose claim medical ones. Possesion, even for relatively small amounts, is still a crime although judges tend to prescribe treatment rather than jail. So my anxiety is understandable every time Isa can´t make the trip herself and asks me to go in her place.
The brotherly hand grip. The kiss on the cheek. His beard scratches my face. Questions about his band, our partners, his child. We chat a moment or two and then head away from San Luis and towards the park, passing some street musicians - mostly drummers with assorted congos and percussive instruments. Ariel is all reggae but he exchanges nods and smiles with them. Maybe they´re clients. Oops, sorry. No one is a dealer here apparently. Everyone´s a user who shares with others - at cost presumably. I try to relax. God I hate doing this. I barely smoked at all in the seventies and even less in the eighties. Ariel asks what I need and I suggest 50 pesos worth. His head sways back and forth like an eagle´s riding a breeze. He´s calculating amounts and I realize that indeed prices have come down since the confiscation from El Arcangelo.
Te doy la mitad ahora y te alcanzo lo que resta
I smile but insist that I´ll pay only for what he has on him and when he has more we´ll meet again. We settle on 30 pesos worth and I slip the plastic bag into my windbreaker as we pass by an enormous aging pine. I hand him a twenty and a ten. We reach the fountain and cut through some floggers snapping pictures of each other. An insult wafts towards them from some goths on the other side of the fountain. But I doubt trouble will break out between them here in the plaza. It´s when they´re stumbling out of clubs at 5 in the morning that someone´s head seems to get kicked in. Ariel sends his greetings to Isa and we shake hands, kiss and I´m on my way up San Martin. I´ll catch a cab on Independencia and soon I´ll be rid of this cargo. Isa will be pleased as hell.
She floats happily around the apartment lighting incense and creeping down the hallway just to make sure one more time that Oriana is out. Of course she´s out. She´ll be hanging with her pack till nearly dawn as usual. Unfortunately once Isadora has smoked, her constant worrying about her daughter will turn even more obsessive and she´ll start text messaging her every few minutes. That´ll infuriate Ori and she´ll come home even later than usual or sleep over at Inita´s home. And Isa will spend a sleepless night making it even harder for me to sleep. But right now she´s happily lighting her carefully rolled spliff and I´ll soon be reluctantly accepting a toke and enduring her admonishments for not inhaling deeply enough. Like a drunk holding her giddyness in check, she carefully plans how to allocate this mana, this incense and myrrh granted us. Greta will get her due share and nothing more. I´ve heard it all often enough, but she´s infectiously happy and I know schemes will begin to pour out of her as the THC works it´s way through her system. And of course they´ll be new schemes replacing those from the last time she smoked.
But instead she suddenly straddles me and kisses me hard with a frantic tongue that makes my neck sore. Not too difficult to intuit that tonight she doesn´t want to go slowly. She´s been suggesting what forms of carefully crafted depravity she wants me to visit upon her. Sometimes it´s so sincere and sweet the way she says it that it makes me laugh and I end up annoying her. She´s grinding hard with her hips against my crotch and my underwear is all tangled so I guide her ass with my hands and wait for the opportunity to assume a more comfortable position without looking like I´m losing my passion - at which point she may break away and stomp into the bedroom slamming the door behind her. I hear the wind rattling the shutters and I´m top of her quickly, surprising myself with the ferociousness of my agility. Her joyful little squeal trails off into a worried silence but I stay on top and we disrobe in short bursts like frantic athletes on the sidelines getting ready to enter the pitch. And she says No but I ejaculate inside her and collapse against her chest. I´m sweatier than normal and dizzy. Did I just wake up? Did I faint? Her eyes are wide open and looking curiously at me.
My body is buzzing and disjointed - I feel like something´s happened beyond the sex but I´m confused. She pushes my face away from her and holds it between her hands surveying me carefully. I don´t bother showering and instead collapse in bed. Isa stays on her side but when I awake in the middle of the night she´s curled up beside me and sound asleep.
The brotherly hand grip. The kiss on the cheek. His beard scratches my face. Questions about his band, our partners, his child. We chat a moment or two and then head away from San Luis and towards the park, passing some street musicians - mostly drummers with assorted congos and percussive instruments. Ariel is all reggae but he exchanges nods and smiles with them. Maybe they´re clients. Oops, sorry. No one is a dealer here apparently. Everyone´s a user who shares with others - at cost presumably. I try to relax. God I hate doing this. I barely smoked at all in the seventies and even less in the eighties. Ariel asks what I need and I suggest 50 pesos worth. His head sways back and forth like an eagle´s riding a breeze. He´s calculating amounts and I realize that indeed prices have come down since the confiscation from El Arcangelo.
Te doy la mitad ahora y te alcanzo lo que resta
I smile but insist that I´ll pay only for what he has on him and when he has more we´ll meet again. We settle on 30 pesos worth and I slip the plastic bag into my windbreaker as we pass by an enormous aging pine. I hand him a twenty and a ten. We reach the fountain and cut through some floggers snapping pictures of each other. An insult wafts towards them from some goths on the other side of the fountain. But I doubt trouble will break out between them here in the plaza. It´s when they´re stumbling out of clubs at 5 in the morning that someone´s head seems to get kicked in. Ariel sends his greetings to Isa and we shake hands, kiss and I´m on my way up San Martin. I´ll catch a cab on Independencia and soon I´ll be rid of this cargo. Isa will be pleased as hell.
She floats happily around the apartment lighting incense and creeping down the hallway just to make sure one more time that Oriana is out. Of course she´s out. She´ll be hanging with her pack till nearly dawn as usual. Unfortunately once Isadora has smoked, her constant worrying about her daughter will turn even more obsessive and she´ll start text messaging her every few minutes. That´ll infuriate Ori and she´ll come home even later than usual or sleep over at Inita´s home. And Isa will spend a sleepless night making it even harder for me to sleep. But right now she´s happily lighting her carefully rolled spliff and I´ll soon be reluctantly accepting a toke and enduring her admonishments for not inhaling deeply enough. Like a drunk holding her giddyness in check, she carefully plans how to allocate this mana, this incense and myrrh granted us. Greta will get her due share and nothing more. I´ve heard it all often enough, but she´s infectiously happy and I know schemes will begin to pour out of her as the THC works it´s way through her system. And of course they´ll be new schemes replacing those from the last time she smoked.
But instead she suddenly straddles me and kisses me hard with a frantic tongue that makes my neck sore. Not too difficult to intuit that tonight she doesn´t want to go slowly. She´s been suggesting what forms of carefully crafted depravity she wants me to visit upon her. Sometimes it´s so sincere and sweet the way she says it that it makes me laugh and I end up annoying her. She´s grinding hard with her hips against my crotch and my underwear is all tangled so I guide her ass with my hands and wait for the opportunity to assume a more comfortable position without looking like I´m losing my passion - at which point she may break away and stomp into the bedroom slamming the door behind her. I hear the wind rattling the shutters and I´m top of her quickly, surprising myself with the ferociousness of my agility. Her joyful little squeal trails off into a worried silence but I stay on top and we disrobe in short bursts like frantic athletes on the sidelines getting ready to enter the pitch. And she says No but I ejaculate inside her and collapse against her chest. I´m sweatier than normal and dizzy. Did I just wake up? Did I faint? Her eyes are wide open and looking curiously at me.
My body is buzzing and disjointed - I feel like something´s happened beyond the sex but I´m confused. She pushes my face away from her and holds it between her hands surveying me carefully. I don´t bother showering and instead collapse in bed. Isa stays on her side but when I awake in the middle of the night she´s curled up beside me and sound asleep.
sábado, 23 de mayo de 2009
RSClef8
I was right after all. There had been something more. Satanovski, the Polish captain and Zognatieff, his Russian first officer, were being held at the naval base. While fighting the fire, sailors from the Sarandi had discovered bales of marijuana hidden amongst the soya beans. Satanovski and Zognatieff looked set to face charges but the rest of the crew had been released and were now in Buenos Aires waiting for their flight back to Tel Aviv and looking confused and uncomfortable as camera crews swarmed their hotel in Ezeiza. Zim´s spokesperson, Claudia Mizrahi, had been doing her exhausted best to explain to the reporters that Zim was in no way involved with narcotics and a lawsuit was expected to try and recover the impounded ship. The Presidenta´s spokesperson hinted that the soya beans might be unloaded and sent to local community centers to feed ¨el pueblo ¨.
Why hasn´t the local connection been arrested I wonder as I sip my morning tea - red tea with mint and cedron, as usual. A judge Etchegarray is in charge of the investigation but so far no one aside from the Arcangelo´s officers have been detained. It´s easy to be cynical but who knows the whole story? I fill my cup one more time and down the dark red liquid. It tastes flat and a little lukewarm. The tree is up in the living room! Christmas is just about here and with the weather warmer now I´ve had to move the woodstove onto the balcony. So the tree sits in the corner once occupied by the stove, anchored in a small metal trash can I found on the sidewalk on Strobel. I filled it with some broken bricks that I salvaged from a dumpster at the Asilo Unzue next door. The large seaside refuge founded by father Unzue has been under renovation for a couple of years now and those shards of brick came in handy. Isadora would often poke at articles left on the sidewalk, looking for something. However, I´m no longer embarrassed by the idea or the act of rummaging. On the other hand, my clothes are gettng threadbare and that hurts but I do have some savings left so I suppose my priorities are otherwise. Still, it´s tough in this town if you don´t have some sharp threads, especially once people recognize that you´re not a backpacker who´s just passing through. I rinse the cup in the sink and head over to the tree just to stare at it for a moment. A Welsh woman who lives out in Bosque Peralta Ramos gave some Christmas baubles to me after I got to know her in the lineup for a transit pass on Independencia right at Luro. She´s a retired civil servant who took her ample portion of pounds, some of them from the sale of her house in Cardiff, and bought a two story sunny chalet amongst the pines. Was her name Gail? I should remember, but it slips from my memory. She´s single and I wondered to Isa if we should give her Greta´s and Irma´s phone but she just shook her head and we left it at that. Why doen´t Gail, or whatever her name is, buy a car? I stare some more at the tree and the unlit lights. Maybe she has a car ... I hear footsteps in the hall - not a full stomp but not the stealthy creeping she´s capable of either. I turn away from the tree and try not to think of Christmas past.
Queres un mate amor?
She purses her lips and nods vigourously. She´s in a good mood. I fill the kettle at the sink and place it on the woodstove on the balcony and then add a branch to the fire.
The tree is nice, is true.
It IS true amor. The contraction is it´ssss.
So she follows up with a complaint over how jealously we English speakers guard our language and I snort that that´s ridiculous, that we share our language with most of the world whether they want our generosity or not. And the truly jealous guardians of a language are the Porteños themselves who consider themselves the true keepers of Castellano. Try Madrid if you want Castillian I like to say at that point. The water is just about boiling - the way she likes it - so I fill the metal cup, insert the straw and pour the liquid over the leaves. The moistened lump of cuttings swells into a plump little ball with some bubbles poking through and some of the leaves still dry. Perfect. I hand the mate to Isa. We´re out of coffee so I couldn´t add some grinds to the mix. But I do have sugar mixed in. I prefer mine bitter but she sips and sighs happily. She sits down at the pc and starts checking her mails; she´s looking for an email from Diego clearly. I turn on the radio and listen to the news. High of 28, tomorrow muggy and warmer, maybe a thunderstorm on Tuesday. Gimnasia La Plata won the Apertura last week and Peñarol is about to sign a kid from the Tarheels. Or a kid who tried out for the Tarheels? Not sure. They prefer Cubans and Venezuelans but we´ll see how he does. The singer from Bersuit Vergarabat sold his house in Punta del Este - speculation about whether he´s bankrupt. I doubt it. They tour constantly and have a loyal following around Latin America and in Spain as well. I lower the volume and decide to go the bakery.
Queres facturas? is the way I say it in castellano. The literal translation would be:
Carest thou for pastries?
But I think it´s easier just to write,
You want croissants honey?
She nods and says Diego hasn´t sent any mails but he has started phoning again so likely he´ll call today. With his inheritance nearing a resolution his calls are becoming more and more frequent. I turn and approach her from behind and kiss the top of her head.
Tutti!
It´s a happy wet little exclamation. The mate must be just the way she likes it. Having left our relationship in good working order I head out into the hallway, unheated in winter and often colder even than outside, and walk down the two flights of steps to the ground floor. Outside the sun is strong and I´m glad I didn´t throw on a shirt over my brown Tshirt I purchased from Soho several years ago now. It has the outline of a tree on it that looks suspiciously like a weed plant. It´s quite faded now. I need new threads, definitely. As I head down the steps in front of the pharmacy I remember that I had noticed Isa was reading an article at La Capital´s website on the Arcangelo and the drug bust. Of course ... she´s wondering where all that pot may end up. I know where her next paycheck is going. I´ll have to cover the groceries myself. I turn up Strobel and head towards the bakery.
Why hasn´t the local connection been arrested I wonder as I sip my morning tea - red tea with mint and cedron, as usual. A judge Etchegarray is in charge of the investigation but so far no one aside from the Arcangelo´s officers have been detained. It´s easy to be cynical but who knows the whole story? I fill my cup one more time and down the dark red liquid. It tastes flat and a little lukewarm. The tree is up in the living room! Christmas is just about here and with the weather warmer now I´ve had to move the woodstove onto the balcony. So the tree sits in the corner once occupied by the stove, anchored in a small metal trash can I found on the sidewalk on Strobel. I filled it with some broken bricks that I salvaged from a dumpster at the Asilo Unzue next door. The large seaside refuge founded by father Unzue has been under renovation for a couple of years now and those shards of brick came in handy. Isadora would often poke at articles left on the sidewalk, looking for something. However, I´m no longer embarrassed by the idea or the act of rummaging. On the other hand, my clothes are gettng threadbare and that hurts but I do have some savings left so I suppose my priorities are otherwise. Still, it´s tough in this town if you don´t have some sharp threads, especially once people recognize that you´re not a backpacker who´s just passing through. I rinse the cup in the sink and head over to the tree just to stare at it for a moment. A Welsh woman who lives out in Bosque Peralta Ramos gave some Christmas baubles to me after I got to know her in the lineup for a transit pass on Independencia right at Luro. She´s a retired civil servant who took her ample portion of pounds, some of them from the sale of her house in Cardiff, and bought a two story sunny chalet amongst the pines. Was her name Gail? I should remember, but it slips from my memory. She´s single and I wondered to Isa if we should give her Greta´s and Irma´s phone but she just shook her head and we left it at that. Why doen´t Gail, or whatever her name is, buy a car? I stare some more at the tree and the unlit lights. Maybe she has a car ... I hear footsteps in the hall - not a full stomp but not the stealthy creeping she´s capable of either. I turn away from the tree and try not to think of Christmas past.
Queres un mate amor?
She purses her lips and nods vigourously. She´s in a good mood. I fill the kettle at the sink and place it on the woodstove on the balcony and then add a branch to the fire.
The tree is nice, is true.
It IS true amor. The contraction is it´ssss.
So she follows up with a complaint over how jealously we English speakers guard our language and I snort that that´s ridiculous, that we share our language with most of the world whether they want our generosity or not. And the truly jealous guardians of a language are the Porteños themselves who consider themselves the true keepers of Castellano. Try Madrid if you want Castillian I like to say at that point. The water is just about boiling - the way she likes it - so I fill the metal cup, insert the straw and pour the liquid over the leaves. The moistened lump of cuttings swells into a plump little ball with some bubbles poking through and some of the leaves still dry. Perfect. I hand the mate to Isa. We´re out of coffee so I couldn´t add some grinds to the mix. But I do have sugar mixed in. I prefer mine bitter but she sips and sighs happily. She sits down at the pc and starts checking her mails; she´s looking for an email from Diego clearly. I turn on the radio and listen to the news. High of 28, tomorrow muggy and warmer, maybe a thunderstorm on Tuesday. Gimnasia La Plata won the Apertura last week and Peñarol is about to sign a kid from the Tarheels. Or a kid who tried out for the Tarheels? Not sure. They prefer Cubans and Venezuelans but we´ll see how he does. The singer from Bersuit Vergarabat sold his house in Punta del Este - speculation about whether he´s bankrupt. I doubt it. They tour constantly and have a loyal following around Latin America and in Spain as well. I lower the volume and decide to go the bakery.
Queres facturas? is the way I say it in castellano. The literal translation would be:
Carest thou for pastries?
But I think it´s easier just to write,
You want croissants honey?
She nods and says Diego hasn´t sent any mails but he has started phoning again so likely he´ll call today. With his inheritance nearing a resolution his calls are becoming more and more frequent. I turn and approach her from behind and kiss the top of her head.
Tutti!
It´s a happy wet little exclamation. The mate must be just the way she likes it. Having left our relationship in good working order I head out into the hallway, unheated in winter and often colder even than outside, and walk down the two flights of steps to the ground floor. Outside the sun is strong and I´m glad I didn´t throw on a shirt over my brown Tshirt I purchased from Soho several years ago now. It has the outline of a tree on it that looks suspiciously like a weed plant. It´s quite faded now. I need new threads, definitely. As I head down the steps in front of the pharmacy I remember that I had noticed Isa was reading an article at La Capital´s website on the Arcangelo and the drug bust. Of course ... she´s wondering where all that pot may end up. I know where her next paycheck is going. I´ll have to cover the groceries myself. I turn up Strobel and head towards the bakery.
viernes, 22 de mayo de 2009
RSClef7
Look, I think the Russian sailors are defecting. The Moskva was in the South Ossetian military operation a year or two back. The cruiser, like a battleship you know.
I stuff a third sticky croissant into my mouth and stare hopefully at Isa. She holds my gaze but her eyes aren´t angry. They´re worried.
Tutti, there is no Russian ship. It´s the crew, some of them. On the Arcangelo.
But the navy vessel! I saw the ...
It´s the Sarandi ... it´s Argentino.
But the flag!
Allard honey, El Arcangelo´s had the problems with engining.
Problems with The engine ...
Yes ...
She blows the smoke out the kitchen window and towards the sea. I feel dizzy again and have trouble convincing myself she´s right. I swear I saw a Russian flag ... She never bothers noticing the ships that frequent Mardel´s port. I´m always having to point out some detail to her and she nods quickly if she´s uninterested or asks some pointed question she knows I likely don´t have the answer to if she just wants me to shut up. So by rights I should understand this situation better than her. Of course, now I´m not sure anymore. I know the newscasts insist that it was a fire in the engine room that forced the Arcangelo into Mar del Plata´s harbor accompanied by the Sarandi. And that the officers on the merchant ship were mostly Russian. But I think there´s more to it than that. Are they former naval officers who are defecting? Are they recent Israeli citizens or do they still have their Russian passports? Let´s see if an official from the Russian embassy in Buenos Aires shows up in town. A wave of fatigue washes over me and I feel drained suddenly. The croissants sit heavily in my stomach and I look away from the window and over again at Isa.
Ok. But there´s something going on I think.
She doesn´t bother to answer. Her face slips slightly towards a look of despair but she takes one last puff, grinds the cigarette in the tiny, box shaped ashtray and stands up decisively. She tries to smile at me as she collects her handbag and her set of keys.
I´ll be back late tonight, Adriano thinks we´ll be busy.
Why´s that?
He says there are reservations. At least four.
Probably TV reporters from Todo Noticias ...
Ha ... ha. I have to go.
She pauses at the open door and says quietly ,
Maybe you can sleep some this afternoon. Oriana´s away at Greta´s.
Yes ... maybe after I go to Parque Camet.
Allard ... Tutti ... please ... just stay at home ok??
She closes the door and turns the key in the latch from the outside, making me feel like a prisoner - a masochistic exaggeration of course. We each have our own set of keys. I can go as I please. But maybe she´s right. I need a nap. I wander into the bedroom and lower the shutters until the light is barely dappled. Then I close the curtains three quarters of the way. I lay down and pull on my eyeshades from Bentley´s. The wind picks up, gusting in extended bursts that rattle the shutters lightly. I listen to the sound and imagine a large invisible hand reaching over the side of the building and shaking them. Later, I´m in a stolen car and we´re heading towards an abandoned mansion, or is it invaded by tramps? I don´t belong and I don´t trust anyone there and I have to pee. I wake up to the sound of the shutters again. My conscience shakes itself off and decides I have been sleeping. And the wind continues, prodding and pulling at the corners of our apartment.
I stuff a third sticky croissant into my mouth and stare hopefully at Isa. She holds my gaze but her eyes aren´t angry. They´re worried.
Tutti, there is no Russian ship. It´s the crew, some of them. On the Arcangelo.
But the navy vessel! I saw the ...
It´s the Sarandi ... it´s Argentino.
But the flag!
Allard honey, El Arcangelo´s had the problems with engining.
Problems with The engine ...
Yes ...
She blows the smoke out the kitchen window and towards the sea. I feel dizzy again and have trouble convincing myself she´s right. I swear I saw a Russian flag ... She never bothers noticing the ships that frequent Mardel´s port. I´m always having to point out some detail to her and she nods quickly if she´s uninterested or asks some pointed question she knows I likely don´t have the answer to if she just wants me to shut up. So by rights I should understand this situation better than her. Of course, now I´m not sure anymore. I know the newscasts insist that it was a fire in the engine room that forced the Arcangelo into Mar del Plata´s harbor accompanied by the Sarandi. And that the officers on the merchant ship were mostly Russian. But I think there´s more to it than that. Are they former naval officers who are defecting? Are they recent Israeli citizens or do they still have their Russian passports? Let´s see if an official from the Russian embassy in Buenos Aires shows up in town. A wave of fatigue washes over me and I feel drained suddenly. The croissants sit heavily in my stomach and I look away from the window and over again at Isa.
Ok. But there´s something going on I think.
She doesn´t bother to answer. Her face slips slightly towards a look of despair but she takes one last puff, grinds the cigarette in the tiny, box shaped ashtray and stands up decisively. She tries to smile at me as she collects her handbag and her set of keys.
I´ll be back late tonight, Adriano thinks we´ll be busy.
Why´s that?
He says there are reservations. At least four.
Probably TV reporters from Todo Noticias ...
Ha ... ha. I have to go.
She pauses at the open door and says quietly ,
Maybe you can sleep some this afternoon. Oriana´s away at Greta´s.
Yes ... maybe after I go to Parque Camet.
Allard ... Tutti ... please ... just stay at home ok??
She closes the door and turns the key in the latch from the outside, making me feel like a prisoner - a masochistic exaggeration of course. We each have our own set of keys. I can go as I please. But maybe she´s right. I need a nap. I wander into the bedroom and lower the shutters until the light is barely dappled. Then I close the curtains three quarters of the way. I lay down and pull on my eyeshades from Bentley´s. The wind picks up, gusting in extended bursts that rattle the shutters lightly. I listen to the sound and imagine a large invisible hand reaching over the side of the building and shaking them. Later, I´m in a stolen car and we´re heading towards an abandoned mansion, or is it invaded by tramps? I don´t belong and I don´t trust anyone there and I have to pee. I wake up to the sound of the shutters again. My conscience shakes itself off and decides I have been sleeping. And the wind continues, prodding and pulling at the corners of our apartment.
RSClef6
Because the traffic quickly piled up behind us, we never thought of looking back towards the port and instead Kabe squeezed the Beetle through the traffic and onto Viamonte. As we headed away from the coast I looked back and saw people get out of their cars and stare out towards what looked like the sea. I lost sight of them as we turned down Rawson and drove the wrong way a short distance down Sarmiento to reach Castelli. Fortunately, a Garbarino delivery van ran cover for us so we just tucked in behind it. The radio interrupted the music to report on El Arcangelo - Los Rusos was repeated as well over and over again. I wasn´t sure what exactly was being said given the rapid fire delivery by some on the spot reporter. Where exactly was she reporting from?
I need coffee,
Kabe announced as we pulled into an empty space on Diagonal Pueyrredon. I sprang out of the car almost planting my forehead against one of the plane trees that line the sidewalk - they´re not quite as grand as the ones on Luro, but they add a nice intimacy. I avoid the tree and making a fool of myself just in time. The radio had been disgorging more information. Apparently El Arcangelo was a cargo ship owned by Zim, an Israeli shipping company. They had been scheduled to dock at Necochea but now were offshore waiting permision to unload in Mar del Plata´s port apparently. But what about Los Rusos? My mind was racing trying to digest the information so I absentmindedly followed Kabede into Dickens without even bothering to consider taking a seat at one of the sidewalk tables under the awning. I might have been able to keep an eye on the tree that way as well. Kabe seems to prefer to sit inside, however, even in warm weather. He looked back at me as I glanced anxiously at the pine tree on the roof rack and laughed easily. He´s right. I´m being paranoid. Besides, what the hell is gong on with that ship and are there russians involved? As there´s no tv in Dickens we gulp down our cortados and move next door where TodoNoticas is on the tube. I text Isadora and tell her where we are - should have done it earlier, damn. Isa replies almost inmediately; she was about to enter Bingo del Sol but has decided to come join us. Work was slow today but at least she had a couple of clients. She´s only a few blocks away up on Independencia so she´ll be here in a sec. I stare at the screen. I´m starting to piece together more of the story. El Arcangelo has somehow been forced into the harbour from it´s route out to sea. And los rusos are in fact ... oh my god. The shot is now just beside the Casino and the camera swings out to sea. Rather than the handful of cargo ships waiting to dock what is out there is a large naval vessel ... is it a cruiser? Not sure. My perception of everything around me shifts and memories of the images of the Malvinas, the Falklands war, come flooding back. I keep staring at the screen, astonished. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Isa slips into the chair next to me and waves the waiter over and orders a Quilmes ... no make that two says Kabe ... all the while keeping her eyes on the screen. She nods at Kabe and glances quickly at me with a look that´s both fierce and worried. All three of us turn back towards the television. Is it a coup d´etat? Impossible, nothing has happened lately to suggest anything of the sort. So who are they. Russians? And why are they here in Mar del Plata? The beers arrive and I hurriedly fill mine and Isa´s glasses and gulp down half my glass right off the top. I feel dizzy so we order a tostado - again Kabe makes it two tostados; damn, should have asked him if he wanted one as well. Never mind. Isa listens carefully to the ongoing reporting. The camera zooms towards the navy vessel and I think a can spot the Russian flag flying above the bridge.
I need coffee,
Kabe announced as we pulled into an empty space on Diagonal Pueyrredon. I sprang out of the car almost planting my forehead against one of the plane trees that line the sidewalk - they´re not quite as grand as the ones on Luro, but they add a nice intimacy. I avoid the tree and making a fool of myself just in time. The radio had been disgorging more information. Apparently El Arcangelo was a cargo ship owned by Zim, an Israeli shipping company. They had been scheduled to dock at Necochea but now were offshore waiting permision to unload in Mar del Plata´s port apparently. But what about Los Rusos? My mind was racing trying to digest the information so I absentmindedly followed Kabede into Dickens without even bothering to consider taking a seat at one of the sidewalk tables under the awning. I might have been able to keep an eye on the tree that way as well. Kabe seems to prefer to sit inside, however, even in warm weather. He looked back at me as I glanced anxiously at the pine tree on the roof rack and laughed easily. He´s right. I´m being paranoid. Besides, what the hell is gong on with that ship and are there russians involved? As there´s no tv in Dickens we gulp down our cortados and move next door where TodoNoticas is on the tube. I text Isadora and tell her where we are - should have done it earlier, damn. Isa replies almost inmediately; she was about to enter Bingo del Sol but has decided to come join us. Work was slow today but at least she had a couple of clients. She´s only a few blocks away up on Independencia so she´ll be here in a sec. I stare at the screen. I´m starting to piece together more of the story. El Arcangelo has somehow been forced into the harbour from it´s route out to sea. And los rusos are in fact ... oh my god. The shot is now just beside the Casino and the camera swings out to sea. Rather than the handful of cargo ships waiting to dock what is out there is a large naval vessel ... is it a cruiser? Not sure. My perception of everything around me shifts and memories of the images of the Malvinas, the Falklands war, come flooding back. I keep staring at the screen, astonished. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Isa slips into the chair next to me and waves the waiter over and orders a Quilmes ... no make that two says Kabe ... all the while keeping her eyes on the screen. She nods at Kabe and glances quickly at me with a look that´s both fierce and worried. All three of us turn back towards the television. Is it a coup d´etat? Impossible, nothing has happened lately to suggest anything of the sort. So who are they. Russians? And why are they here in Mar del Plata? The beers arrive and I hurriedly fill mine and Isa´s glasses and gulp down half my glass right off the top. I feel dizzy so we order a tostado - again Kabe makes it two tostados; damn, should have asked him if he wanted one as well. Never mind. Isa listens carefully to the ongoing reporting. The camera zooms towards the navy vessel and I think a can spot the Russian flag flying above the bridge.
martes, 19 de mayo de 2009
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Maybe it was better inside,
Kabede wonders as we pass a police checkpoint on our way back from Chapadmalal, or more accurately, some woods near the seaside village with its large union hotels. But the police ignore us. They´re busy with some truckers and we drive past in Kabe´s Beetle with our plundered little pine tree lashed to the roof rack. They couldn´t care less more likely. Christmas is a week away and I´ve decided we will have our Tree, come what may. Isa recoils at the tradition but as far as I´m concerned she´s never had a proper Christmas, that´s all. The sun is bright and I squint at the glare but the breeze off the sea refreshes. Is this what the coast looks like in Australia or New Zealand I ask myself. But the brightness makes me dizzy and the thought dissipates in a splash of vertigo. I focus on the tree to settle myself. To justify my self interest I´ve decided to wrap up my need for the ritual as a gift for Isadora. Our little tree. A metre tall at best. Kabe laughed at the size when I emerged from behind some willows with my prey in hand. He thinks a real tree should look like the one in Home Alone. I feel a wave of light nausea and lean halfway out the window. Kabe glances at me with a dry smile. It´s hard to tell when he´s laughing at me. But the breeze soothes me and I keep my head stuck out for a moment longer.
I´m back in a sec,
Kabe says leaving me in the car while he heads into the hotel. The exterior structure is mostly finished and they´ve even started laying the concrete foundation for the new sidwalk outside - a sure sign that work is progressing. I stare at the rough concrete base and wonder absently what sort of tiles will be used to finish if off. Its too late to get a degree in architecture but I´m always fascinated by construction sites. I´ve seen Kabe´s diplomas on the wall; David Azrieli School of Architecture, Tel Aviv University, and the Robert H. Smith Faculty of Agriculture Food and Environment at Hebrew University of Jerusalem ... but I couldn´t tell if the second one made him a winemaker. He was on the phone and I was snooping and didn´t have much time. Impressive nonetheless. So here I sit with a stolen pine on the car´s roof, although it didn´t seem to be anyone´s property so was it really stolen? Had I commited an ecological crime, contravening some little known municipal bylaw? My apologetic, guilty side drives Isa crazy but then again she has her own very particular code of ethics - never slam a cab door as it damages the cabbie´s property for example - so I´m never sure if I´ve transgressed somehow. Radio Rock y Pop Beach is playing something by Mana, the ubiquitous Mexican pop rock trio. At least they could play some Calamaro for christ´s sake. I feel claustrophobic and am about to open the door and get out when I see Kabe pop through the opening in the chain link fence and stroll back to the car, looking neither worried nor relieved. Has he collected his pay? What the hell does he do there??
So Kabe ... how´s the work going?
Good. We open New Years I think.
You´re kidding. I´ll bet you the new sidewalk isn´t ready till mid January.
You´ll see.
Once again I´m unable to get any real information out of him. Who knows? Maybe the hotel will be ready by year´s end. There´s no pont probing any further; he´s doing me a favor as it is. Might as well change the topic.
Tell me somthing ... did you pick up your Spanish from Argentinos in Israel?
Obvio.
That strange grin. And with his stubble head look there´s a monkish arrogance about him. He has his home on Storni in Caisamar and seeing he never complains about rent I suspect he owns it. He has his wine-colored Beetle that I covet so and he knows Addis Abba, Jerusalem and Buenos Aires and a lot of Europe too from what I can gather. I admire and envy him in equal measure even as I realize full well the envy is a little miserable and very useless. I keep trying to share my impressions of starting over in Argentina but I get precious little in return for my elaborate confessions and musings. He is my confessor in a way, forgiving my past transgressions by continuing our friendship, by meeting me the next time for a drink or under the eucalyptus trees in Parque Camet. I can´t tell if his stoicism is pride or discretion or if he tolerates my company but derives less pleasure from it than I do. Toby was hurrying away towards Parilla La Entrerriana and I had pointed him out to Kabe but had added that I wasn´t quite sure if it indeed was Toby as I had heard a few fluent phrases of Spanish. That was nearly a month ago and Kabe´s eyes had burned through me. I find even a direct glance a little intimidating and respond with an aggressive look but a deep penetrating look leaves me a little lost. The anger usually comes later but I forgave Kabe´s look, he hadn´t laughed or thought me strange and I feel now that it was a shared moment we had. He somehow understood me even if the reverse was not at all true.
We pass El Farol and the suburbs thicken and the sun is warm making Mar del Plata feel like the holiday resort it has been for over a century. I think about a small bucket for the tree and how to improvise something - Isadora will not have me spending our meagre cash on decorations or tree stands. Dire Straits is now playing on the radio. The casino and the provincial hotel are up the coast a little. We drive by endless apartment buildings on the bluffs that rise and fall on top of small promontories and must provide a wonderful view to the shuffling retired and absent porteños who mostly own them. The port is behind us and we´ll be downtown in a few minutes now. Maybe I´ll call Isadora at the salon and with some luck convince her to eat out this evening. We slow down. The traffic has backed up and is at a dead stop. What is going on?
Kabede wonders as we pass a police checkpoint on our way back from Chapadmalal, or more accurately, some woods near the seaside village with its large union hotels. But the police ignore us. They´re busy with some truckers and we drive past in Kabe´s Beetle with our plundered little pine tree lashed to the roof rack. They couldn´t care less more likely. Christmas is a week away and I´ve decided we will have our Tree, come what may. Isa recoils at the tradition but as far as I´m concerned she´s never had a proper Christmas, that´s all. The sun is bright and I squint at the glare but the breeze off the sea refreshes. Is this what the coast looks like in Australia or New Zealand I ask myself. But the brightness makes me dizzy and the thought dissipates in a splash of vertigo. I focus on the tree to settle myself. To justify my self interest I´ve decided to wrap up my need for the ritual as a gift for Isadora. Our little tree. A metre tall at best. Kabe laughed at the size when I emerged from behind some willows with my prey in hand. He thinks a real tree should look like the one in Home Alone. I feel a wave of light nausea and lean halfway out the window. Kabe glances at me with a dry smile. It´s hard to tell when he´s laughing at me. But the breeze soothes me and I keep my head stuck out for a moment longer.
I´m back in a sec,
Kabe says leaving me in the car while he heads into the hotel. The exterior structure is mostly finished and they´ve even started laying the concrete foundation for the new sidwalk outside - a sure sign that work is progressing. I stare at the rough concrete base and wonder absently what sort of tiles will be used to finish if off. Its too late to get a degree in architecture but I´m always fascinated by construction sites. I´ve seen Kabe´s diplomas on the wall; David Azrieli School of Architecture, Tel Aviv University, and the Robert H. Smith Faculty of Agriculture Food and Environment at Hebrew University of Jerusalem ... but I couldn´t tell if the second one made him a winemaker. He was on the phone and I was snooping and didn´t have much time. Impressive nonetheless. So here I sit with a stolen pine on the car´s roof, although it didn´t seem to be anyone´s property so was it really stolen? Had I commited an ecological crime, contravening some little known municipal bylaw? My apologetic, guilty side drives Isa crazy but then again she has her own very particular code of ethics - never slam a cab door as it damages the cabbie´s property for example - so I´m never sure if I´ve transgressed somehow. Radio Rock y Pop Beach is playing something by Mana, the ubiquitous Mexican pop rock trio. At least they could play some Calamaro for christ´s sake. I feel claustrophobic and am about to open the door and get out when I see Kabe pop through the opening in the chain link fence and stroll back to the car, looking neither worried nor relieved. Has he collected his pay? What the hell does he do there??
So Kabe ... how´s the work going?
Good. We open New Years I think.
You´re kidding. I´ll bet you the new sidewalk isn´t ready till mid January.
You´ll see.
Once again I´m unable to get any real information out of him. Who knows? Maybe the hotel will be ready by year´s end. There´s no pont probing any further; he´s doing me a favor as it is. Might as well change the topic.
Tell me somthing ... did you pick up your Spanish from Argentinos in Israel?
Obvio.
That strange grin. And with his stubble head look there´s a monkish arrogance about him. He has his home on Storni in Caisamar and seeing he never complains about rent I suspect he owns it. He has his wine-colored Beetle that I covet so and he knows Addis Abba, Jerusalem and Buenos Aires and a lot of Europe too from what I can gather. I admire and envy him in equal measure even as I realize full well the envy is a little miserable and very useless. I keep trying to share my impressions of starting over in Argentina but I get precious little in return for my elaborate confessions and musings. He is my confessor in a way, forgiving my past transgressions by continuing our friendship, by meeting me the next time for a drink or under the eucalyptus trees in Parque Camet. I can´t tell if his stoicism is pride or discretion or if he tolerates my company but derives less pleasure from it than I do. Toby was hurrying away towards Parilla La Entrerriana and I had pointed him out to Kabe but had added that I wasn´t quite sure if it indeed was Toby as I had heard a few fluent phrases of Spanish. That was nearly a month ago and Kabe´s eyes had burned through me. I find even a direct glance a little intimidating and respond with an aggressive look but a deep penetrating look leaves me a little lost. The anger usually comes later but I forgave Kabe´s look, he hadn´t laughed or thought me strange and I feel now that it was a shared moment we had. He somehow understood me even if the reverse was not at all true.
We pass El Farol and the suburbs thicken and the sun is warm making Mar del Plata feel like the holiday resort it has been for over a century. I think about a small bucket for the tree and how to improvise something - Isadora will not have me spending our meagre cash on decorations or tree stands. Dire Straits is now playing on the radio. The casino and the provincial hotel are up the coast a little. We drive by endless apartment buildings on the bluffs that rise and fall on top of small promontories and must provide a wonderful view to the shuffling retired and absent porteños who mostly own them. The port is behind us and we´ll be downtown in a few minutes now. Maybe I´ll call Isadora at the salon and with some luck convince her to eat out this evening. We slow down. The traffic has backed up and is at a dead stop. What is going on?
lunes, 18 de mayo de 2009
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I remember the hawk and the afternoon sun; a gorgeous bird of prey pausing on a branch. Was it one of the eucalyptus trees that surround Pueyrredon´s rugby pitch in Parque Camet? I chain my bicycle to a post near the quaint wooden shack where a group of women sell lace and hand crafted bric a brac. Do I exaggerate and worry needlessly? It is rumoured to be unsafe - I insist. A milky haze softens the sun and the breeze off the sea (the shore is at the other end of the park, just past the coastal avenue) is insistent but modest. I walk past the wooden cottage and look for Toby. He had grown tired of the internal squabbles in the guerilla gardening movement in London and found his way to Argentina. For him it was food that mattered and ¨fight the filth with flowers¨, the hue and cry of many of his colleagues, irritated him. He had left behind the street battles with the police but no way he was going to be caught planting perennials in public parks in greater London. How he came by his chacra I´m not sure - and the word means a small garden plot rather than a wormhole to nirvana. But it was tucked away behind the rugby club where he shared a plot with Matts and Mikal and grew potatoes and peas and carrots and a few other things. They actually lease the land from Club Pueyrredon and it is hidden behind a thick copse of trees so that waves of militantes populares, if you will, won´t claim all of the club´s land and raise corrugated metal shacks and have violent tear gas drenched stand offs with the police. Did I mention I exaggerate? He sells his wares at a stand just past the cottage in front of the fence marking the club´s land. There he is. I wave twice and the second time he looks up and grins at me. We chat about anarchism often, keeping it short and jovial - he smelled my more conservative instincts inmediately. But we do chat and compare Chile´s more disciplined brand of communism with Argentina´s deep anarchist roots. We greet and I ask him how West Ham is doing and I buy some potatoes and zapallitos, a succulent little squash you eat with the skin still on. He fills my bag and I´m off back to my bicycle sighing with relief when I spot it intact against the post. I turn and wave at him one last time and then stash the bag in the rack and peddle my bike down Drummond and turn east on Beltrán. Then south on Tejedor where the traffic is busier and I have to stay close to the sidewalks.
The sun burns away some of the haze but the day is still fresh. If I cycle slowly the sweat doesn´t accumulate under my arms. I try not to mention Toby to Isdadora; just to avoid uneccessary complications. She´ll accuse me once again; for example she insists that the Lithuanian was not lynched but rather suffered bruises in what had been a drunken brawl with fellow campers. And she just stares at me when I mention the threatened trade retaliations. But she can´t deny Kabede. She´s met him sitting under the gum trees in Parque Camet. He likes to unwind and relax there and I love listening to his dissertations on Ethiopia´s religious communites and how they are the true keepers of both Christianity and even Judaism. He left Addis Abba in 1986 and after 16 years in Tel Aviv, he came to Argentina in the depths of the last crisis when De La Rúa had recently surrendered power to the Peronistas. He claims degrees in both architecture (more sermons on urban planning and Haile Selassie) and viticulture. He says he´s a contractor at a new hotel they´re building near Balneario Marbella. I wonder if he works as an architect or merely a subcontractor, despite his degrees. I feel envious of him naturally; he´s made some progress while I´m just stuck in survival mode. I´ve met him several times during the week so work must be slow. That gives me a little perverse pleasure I do admit. I turn down Strobel and head towards the shore and our apartment. I hope Isa had paying clients today. That would be so fucking wonderful! Let´s hope.
The sun burns away some of the haze but the day is still fresh. If I cycle slowly the sweat doesn´t accumulate under my arms. I try not to mention Toby to Isdadora; just to avoid uneccessary complications. She´ll accuse me once again; for example she insists that the Lithuanian was not lynched but rather suffered bruises in what had been a drunken brawl with fellow campers. And she just stares at me when I mention the threatened trade retaliations. But she can´t deny Kabede. She´s met him sitting under the gum trees in Parque Camet. He likes to unwind and relax there and I love listening to his dissertations on Ethiopia´s religious communites and how they are the true keepers of both Christianity and even Judaism. He left Addis Abba in 1986 and after 16 years in Tel Aviv, he came to Argentina in the depths of the last crisis when De La Rúa had recently surrendered power to the Peronistas. He claims degrees in both architecture (more sermons on urban planning and Haile Selassie) and viticulture. He says he´s a contractor at a new hotel they´re building near Balneario Marbella. I wonder if he works as an architect or merely a subcontractor, despite his degrees. I feel envious of him naturally; he´s made some progress while I´m just stuck in survival mode. I´ve met him several times during the week so work must be slow. That gives me a little perverse pleasure I do admit. I turn down Strobel and head towards the shore and our apartment. I hope Isa had paying clients today. That would be so fucking wonderful! Let´s hope.
domingo, 17 de mayo de 2009
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We finally pass through the front door; the brown-uniformed security guard lets out an elderly couple and then lets us squeeze through the partially opened glass and metal frame door. Outside on the sidewalk a blue-uniformed policeman surveys the lineup with disinterest, occasionally nudging a customer back into line with a quiet gesture. It´s usually not this bad - I wonder if it´s payday today. The traffic on Luro is busy and I´m relieved to be inside but impatient to get to the ATM´s. Isadora looks sharp and pretty ánd tensely surveys the lineup inside the bank´s foyer. We usually whisper silly jokes in each other´s ears to ease our claustrophobia while waiting in line but today we´re both tired and remain quiet. I look again and notice frustrated head shakes on the part of customers at the machines and hear some angry mutters wafting back towards us. The line moves quickly as people retreat huffily from the machines and head back outside or upstairs to where the tellers are. Some guy with the body of a prop ( does he play for Pueyrredon I wonder to myself ) takes an age at the machine the furthest to the right. Isadora stares angrily at his back. Theoretically it should be a straightforward matter to withdraw funds from my Canadian bank account but I always make sure Isadora nods before I press any key on the screen. The line keeps moving. People shuffle out. Are the machines short of cash? I stare quickly at a well dressed man to see if he slips bills into his wallet. He does. Good. We´re next.
A pause. Isadora tries to mold her anger into a presentable and constructive mask. The ATM´s do indeed have cash but no dollars and the rate we´re getting on the loonie is abismal. 300 $CAN comes to ... let´s see ... 785 Pesos. Rather than interrupt Isa´s growls I stare directly at her and wait for a moment. She relents with a stubborn little
nod and I press the screen. I take the cash and slip the reciept into my pocket. Then I hand Isa 285 Pesos and slip the rest quickly into my wallet. The security guard waits a beat before opening up for us and then we´re outside again. A fresh breeze wafts down Luro and I open up my windbreaker and give an affectionate glance back at the Plane trees that line this part of the sidewalk. Isa turns towards the Cathedral and I lightly grab her elbow and steer her in the right direction. Her sense of direction is intuitive let´s say.
Look ...
For god´s sake honey, close your mouth!!
So I chew some more with mouth closed of course and then gulp down some mashed potatoes. We´ve ordered one steak platter and two tostados between us and the more I eat the more my appetite returns. I continue and try to explain that with the peso up against the dollar and the loonie down against the dollar, the rate we got isn´t too bad. What kills us is the fact they don´t give us a direct loonie to peso rate. Isadora nods distractedly and sips her coke. I gnaw at the bone ( she gave me the bonier half ) and gulp down some coke. She´s right though. What good does a higher peso do us when it means any money I get from the trickling sales of my CD will be worth less? And she sells her cosmetics in pesos even if we source them in dollars through my Paypal account. Our cyber kiosk ( as I like to call it ) would be cute if we could just earn a little more. I finish off the last of the mashed potatoes. Rain starts to fall, lightly spitting on the two jugglers and then growng in windswept waves to a heavy drizzle. So we finish our food and stare at the rain knowing that we´ll have an argument later over which bills to pay and what to do with the little that´s left over. A colectivo turning off Independencia nearly sideswipes a taxi and the jugglers give up and move under the awnings. It feels cooler and I gaze at the rain and wonder what would happen if it turned to wet snow.
A pause. Isadora tries to mold her anger into a presentable and constructive mask. The ATM´s do indeed have cash but no dollars and the rate we´re getting on the loonie is abismal. 300 $CAN comes to ... let´s see ... 785 Pesos. Rather than interrupt Isa´s growls I stare directly at her and wait for a moment. She relents with a stubborn little
nod and I press the screen. I take the cash and slip the reciept into my pocket. Then I hand Isa 285 Pesos and slip the rest quickly into my wallet. The security guard waits a beat before opening up for us and then we´re outside again. A fresh breeze wafts down Luro and I open up my windbreaker and give an affectionate glance back at the Plane trees that line this part of the sidewalk. Isa turns towards the Cathedral and I lightly grab her elbow and steer her in the right direction. Her sense of direction is intuitive let´s say.
Look ...
For god´s sake honey, close your mouth!!
So I chew some more with mouth closed of course and then gulp down some mashed potatoes. We´ve ordered one steak platter and two tostados between us and the more I eat the more my appetite returns. I continue and try to explain that with the peso up against the dollar and the loonie down against the dollar, the rate we got isn´t too bad. What kills us is the fact they don´t give us a direct loonie to peso rate. Isadora nods distractedly and sips her coke. I gnaw at the bone ( she gave me the bonier half ) and gulp down some coke. She´s right though. What good does a higher peso do us when it means any money I get from the trickling sales of my CD will be worth less? And she sells her cosmetics in pesos even if we source them in dollars through my Paypal account. Our cyber kiosk ( as I like to call it ) would be cute if we could just earn a little more. I finish off the last of the mashed potatoes. Rain starts to fall, lightly spitting on the two jugglers and then growng in windswept waves to a heavy drizzle. So we finish our food and stare at the rain knowing that we´ll have an argument later over which bills to pay and what to do with the little that´s left over. A colectivo turning off Independencia nearly sideswipes a taxi and the jugglers give up and move under the awnings. It feels cooler and I gaze at the rain and wonder what would happen if it turned to wet snow.
sábado, 16 de mayo de 2009
RSClef2
I stare at the crumbling paint, then straight ahead at the bathroom mirror. I can´t see myself, being in a sitting position, but my eyes wander anyway looking for something to focus on. We haven´t had problems with the water supply since the flooding of the control room under Plaza Mitre many months ago. Even then, Parque Luro was spared any real inconvenience. When I can get online, the OSSE website is always up and running - blue and white and orange with rather strange fonts announcing changes to the pubic waterworks program in detailed administrative language. I have begun to obsess about water, where munincipalities source their drinking water, how it´s distributed, whether electricity is needed for the system to work properly. Reading about the power cuts in South Africa made me worry, but so far the water runs fine in Mar del Plata and tastes a hell of a lot better than the metallic stew you get in Buenos Aires. But heating it is another thing. I daydream about rigging up small wind turbines on the roof and hooking up electric water heaters and wall units. Unfortunately Garbarino is charging a fortune for electric heaters. And the paint on the bathroom ceiling keeps crumbling. They say grief hits you when you least expect it and it hits me right now. A memory of father´s grizzled jaw ( he´d shave twice a week maximum ) and I´m weeping out of control. His crooked silly grin. The bright optimistic ache in Mother´s voice. I shouldn´t hurt like this; they lived long full lives and I shared a lot of it with them. A wretching gasp, another messy flood of tears. I guess it´s real now. It´s pathetic but I don´t give a fuck. It´s also a relief if I´m honest about it.
I shift over to the bidet - a simple uitilitarian convenience and nothing to do with the luxury products in North America - and clean up. At the sink washing my face I hear Isadora. Had she been at the bathroom door earlier?
Loco ... are you ok?
The ridiculous queston we all recognize as ridiculous even as we ask it. We know they´re not ok, but we want in to their world; to be there with them even if we can´t much help. Or maybe she´s worried I´ll puke all over the bathroom floor and she´ll have to clean up after me. She slowly slides open the bathroom door as I pull up my underwear, the elastic stretched from repeated washings, and then pull up my LL Bean´s jeans. She hesitates then tries to hug me just as I bend down to light some incense - a courtesy Isadora has accustomed me to. So her elbow catches my forehead and I curse and then start crying again and stumble into the hallway where I squat with my back to the wall.
Amor ... I´m sorry!!
She´s beside me now and successfully hugging me, although she has to kneel and her right knee is pressing against my ankle. She lets go and lights the cigarette she was holding in her left hand. She slides down to sit beside me and I realize that she never made it to Anses and her CUIT application will be further delayed. Anger bursts through the constant weight of financial worries that burden us and I spit out,
When the fuck are you going to get your CUIT?? You know it would make everything easier!
Isadora smokes calmly. Her eyes don´t go dark and dangerous ... yet. Sometimes she really does want to be scolded. And sometimes she explodes and throws twice as much back in my face. Not literally. We don´t throw objects at each other. Just hurriedly improvised psychological dissections, or comments on family members or past sins. You know. Like any loving couple. But it wears me down. When to cede and when to fight. She takes another drag and tries to direct the smoke away from me but the breeze from Oriana´s room blows it right back in my face. Mar del Plata is very wndy, especially when you live right on the coast. She looks at me to see if I´m finished.
Greta was feeling down.
I thought Irma was the one going through a rough patch.
Yes ... anyway, we decided ...
Of course. Did you win anything?
Almost, I was one short of a bingo twice!
Aha ... and the girls? Any luck?
Irma had a winning line!
Ok, in Spanish it´s literally, Irma sang a line. But that doesn´t quite work in English does it? I can´t get mad. It´s her money she´s spending even if it´s ours at the same time. And the occasional bingo game with her mother and Irma does her good. At least that´s how I justify her gambling our grocery money away. And every now and then she sings a line so to speak. When she doesn´t buy clothes or shoes, we buy groceries. We both sit in silence and listen to the wind rattle the shutters gently. I hope the candle in the bathroom stays lit.
The hall light clicks on. The refrigerator starts humming and our computer clicks on and starts rebooting. We both sit and blink at the added light and then Isadora is first to her feet and moves quickly towards the stained blue office chair. She waits for the rebooting to finish so she can open my Paypal account. I shuffle into the kitchen and fill the kettle and place it on the woodstove. If the gas supply issue isn´t worked out with Bolivia I´ll have to keep using it even when the weather gets warm. I sometimes wonder if Rojas is deliberately keeping the supply down to a trickle seeing our rent includes natural gas. Gaton has had trouble stocking Rosamonte for some reason and we´ve had to settle for Cruz de Malta with it´s neutral woody flavor. I fill the small metal cup a little more than halfway ( Isa scolds me continuously for overfilling the mate ) and insert the metal straw into the dry crumbled leaves. Fortunately the woodstove is still hot and the kettle should boil soon. Do we have any sticky croissants left? Isadora lets out a sharp little shout of glee.
Loco! You sold 42 CD´s! We can download 300 dollars to your bank account!!
I shift over to the bidet - a simple uitilitarian convenience and nothing to do with the luxury products in North America - and clean up. At the sink washing my face I hear Isadora. Had she been at the bathroom door earlier?
Loco ... are you ok?
The ridiculous queston we all recognize as ridiculous even as we ask it. We know they´re not ok, but we want in to their world; to be there with them even if we can´t much help. Or maybe she´s worried I´ll puke all over the bathroom floor and she´ll have to clean up after me. She slowly slides open the bathroom door as I pull up my underwear, the elastic stretched from repeated washings, and then pull up my LL Bean´s jeans. She hesitates then tries to hug me just as I bend down to light some incense - a courtesy Isadora has accustomed me to. So her elbow catches my forehead and I curse and then start crying again and stumble into the hallway where I squat with my back to the wall.
Amor ... I´m sorry!!
She´s beside me now and successfully hugging me, although she has to kneel and her right knee is pressing against my ankle. She lets go and lights the cigarette she was holding in her left hand. She slides down to sit beside me and I realize that she never made it to Anses and her CUIT application will be further delayed. Anger bursts through the constant weight of financial worries that burden us and I spit out,
When the fuck are you going to get your CUIT?? You know it would make everything easier!
Isadora smokes calmly. Her eyes don´t go dark and dangerous ... yet. Sometimes she really does want to be scolded. And sometimes she explodes and throws twice as much back in my face. Not literally. We don´t throw objects at each other. Just hurriedly improvised psychological dissections, or comments on family members or past sins. You know. Like any loving couple. But it wears me down. When to cede and when to fight. She takes another drag and tries to direct the smoke away from me but the breeze from Oriana´s room blows it right back in my face. Mar del Plata is very wndy, especially when you live right on the coast. She looks at me to see if I´m finished.
Greta was feeling down.
I thought Irma was the one going through a rough patch.
Yes ... anyway, we decided ...
Of course. Did you win anything?
Almost, I was one short of a bingo twice!
Aha ... and the girls? Any luck?
Irma had a winning line!
Ok, in Spanish it´s literally, Irma sang a line. But that doesn´t quite work in English does it? I can´t get mad. It´s her money she´s spending even if it´s ours at the same time. And the occasional bingo game with her mother and Irma does her good. At least that´s how I justify her gambling our grocery money away. And every now and then she sings a line so to speak. When she doesn´t buy clothes or shoes, we buy groceries. We both sit in silence and listen to the wind rattle the shutters gently. I hope the candle in the bathroom stays lit.
The hall light clicks on. The refrigerator starts humming and our computer clicks on and starts rebooting. We both sit and blink at the added light and then Isadora is first to her feet and moves quickly towards the stained blue office chair. She waits for the rebooting to finish so she can open my Paypal account. I shuffle into the kitchen and fill the kettle and place it on the woodstove. If the gas supply issue isn´t worked out with Bolivia I´ll have to keep using it even when the weather gets warm. I sometimes wonder if Rojas is deliberately keeping the supply down to a trickle seeing our rent includes natural gas. Gaton has had trouble stocking Rosamonte for some reason and we´ve had to settle for Cruz de Malta with it´s neutral woody flavor. I fill the small metal cup a little more than halfway ( Isa scolds me continuously for overfilling the mate ) and insert the metal straw into the dry crumbled leaves. Fortunately the woodstove is still hot and the kettle should boil soon. Do we have any sticky croissants left? Isadora lets out a sharp little shout of glee.
Loco! You sold 42 CD´s! We can download 300 dollars to your bank account!!
jueves, 14 de mayo de 2009
RSClef1
The traders from Nigeria and Senegal left more than a year ago. I imagine they returned to Buenos Aires where the winters are mild and the possibilities for someone manning a stall and selling clothing or any merchandise are more ample, even if the risks are greater. I thought of how I hadn´t seen Dabo or Clemence in a long while when the snow fell in August and actually stayed on the ground rather than melt away in the wet cold air. Dabo always made me feel silly and managed to get me to spend the little money I had. I liked Clemence better: like his name somewhat suggests, he was a kinder soul. The snow had covered the ground for only a few days but that had been enough to change the mood of the city. Curious rambles on the snow-covered sand punctuated with snowball fights became bitter crouching walks on slushy sidewalks. The sounds of sliding screeching tires were followed occasionally by a loud thud on the first day or so. Then the roads cleared and people continued to drive more cautiously, just in case.
As Argentina and Morales fought over gas supplies and pricing we had had to run the gas heaters less and less. I managed to find a small woodstove for sale in Caisamar and we placed it in the living room with the pipe bent out through the
glass doors that lead onto the balcony. I collect branches and clippings from the furious prunings that are applied to any sidewalk tree that ventures much beyond a bush in stature. In Renfrew, my parents had a wood/electric furnace and a 49 acre woodlot and I would spend hours in the bush with a bucksaw collecting over ten face chords to get us through the next winter. Those hours were spread over months of course rather than a week or two with a chainsaw. Somehow pulling these branches from a pile on the sidewalk helped me remember that piece of land. I didn´t care about the hostile stares from the abuelitas as I placed my stash of wood into my backpack. I was too busy trying not to break down thinking of how my parents had died. David´s last email was confusing and I still don´t know if it was the Hanta Virus or a new outbreak of Swine Flu that did them in. I can´t google either disease yet - it´s too masochistic and with the recent power cuts, I´d rather quickly check my inbox than wander from site to site to see how exactly they spent their last moments of life. David mentoned cremation ( it had always been their wish ) and sometimes in the early morning I think of the ashes and where he might be keeping them. But I still can´t grieve.
The cold isn´t bad right now, thank god. But for early December, it is still cool, at times almost cold. The trees around town are fully flowering by now and it makes me feel a little guilty when I scavenge amongst the pruned stubs of what had recently been a rather promising shade tree. Parque Camet is rumoured to be unsafe so I´ve had to curtail my visits to that hunting ground. La Canchita de Los Bomberos was the scene of a lynching a few days ago - a Lithuanian who had pitched his tent in the dense copse of trees. He was doing Argentina on the cheap and all the hostels were full so he had had to settle for the illegal campground a few short blocks from our building. Supposedly he had fought back when they tried to rob him. The neighbours had complained repeatedly about the campground and now a Judge Curette was conducting a full investigation. The Lithuanian embassy had threatened trade retaliations and then quickly backed down after a new ambassador was rushed down to Buenos Aires. Store owners are worried about another holiday wave of crime this coming summer when the thieves or chorros follow the vacationing crowds down to the coast. A few will only serve those they know and trust. But most remain open as much as they dare. Isadora has managed to keep food on the table with her shifts at the salon as I am reluctant to spend too much of what´s left of the money David sent. I don´t know what wears us down more, our furious arguments or the fear of hunger. We eat well enough if not often enough. And the strain of not hearing from Diego in Miami is eating at her more than she´ll admit. Oriana thinks her father is doing fine and that he´ll soon get back in touch with us, but Isadora is more prone to dramatic scenes where she sobs that he´s lost to her forever. I try to comfort her even if it has been less than two months since he last called ...
So the afternoon is almost over and the light in the sky would be lovely if I were happy or stuffed with food or calm, but I have enough of my self left to know that it is lovely even if I can´t feel it that way. Matts and Mikal have promised us a feast of barbequed potatoes up on the terrace where the quincho squats and where they pitched their tents some months ago. Isadora has been worried that building inspectors will find out about them and fine Rojas who will raise our rents to cover the costs. I doubt it. I wonder how much rent he charges them? I also wonder how the hell they keep their beards so trim - elegant stubbles really . And I wonder why no one has robbed us yet. All the crime stories everywhere - always darkened by the comments that the ¨real¨ rate is much much higher because many go unreported. And nothing happens to us. We shop when she´s paid and we argue how to spend the money. And I relent and spend too little of mine. And Isadora still smokes. And no one robs us; despite pandemics and floods and dwindling suppies of natural gas. No one robs us in this pleasant maritime resort town where surfers and skateboarders and retirees and the rest of us coexist. Not that we have much to steal anyway ...
As Argentina and Morales fought over gas supplies and pricing we had had to run the gas heaters less and less. I managed to find a small woodstove for sale in Caisamar and we placed it in the living room with the pipe bent out through the
glass doors that lead onto the balcony. I collect branches and clippings from the furious prunings that are applied to any sidewalk tree that ventures much beyond a bush in stature. In Renfrew, my parents had a wood/electric furnace and a 49 acre woodlot and I would spend hours in the bush with a bucksaw collecting over ten face chords to get us through the next winter. Those hours were spread over months of course rather than a week or two with a chainsaw. Somehow pulling these branches from a pile on the sidewalk helped me remember that piece of land. I didn´t care about the hostile stares from the abuelitas as I placed my stash of wood into my backpack. I was too busy trying not to break down thinking of how my parents had died. David´s last email was confusing and I still don´t know if it was the Hanta Virus or a new outbreak of Swine Flu that did them in. I can´t google either disease yet - it´s too masochistic and with the recent power cuts, I´d rather quickly check my inbox than wander from site to site to see how exactly they spent their last moments of life. David mentoned cremation ( it had always been their wish ) and sometimes in the early morning I think of the ashes and where he might be keeping them. But I still can´t grieve.
The cold isn´t bad right now, thank god. But for early December, it is still cool, at times almost cold. The trees around town are fully flowering by now and it makes me feel a little guilty when I scavenge amongst the pruned stubs of what had recently been a rather promising shade tree. Parque Camet is rumoured to be unsafe so I´ve had to curtail my visits to that hunting ground. La Canchita de Los Bomberos was the scene of a lynching a few days ago - a Lithuanian who had pitched his tent in the dense copse of trees. He was doing Argentina on the cheap and all the hostels were full so he had had to settle for the illegal campground a few short blocks from our building. Supposedly he had fought back when they tried to rob him. The neighbours had complained repeatedly about the campground and now a Judge Curette was conducting a full investigation. The Lithuanian embassy had threatened trade retaliations and then quickly backed down after a new ambassador was rushed down to Buenos Aires. Store owners are worried about another holiday wave of crime this coming summer when the thieves or chorros follow the vacationing crowds down to the coast. A few will only serve those they know and trust. But most remain open as much as they dare. Isadora has managed to keep food on the table with her shifts at the salon as I am reluctant to spend too much of what´s left of the money David sent. I don´t know what wears us down more, our furious arguments or the fear of hunger. We eat well enough if not often enough. And the strain of not hearing from Diego in Miami is eating at her more than she´ll admit. Oriana thinks her father is doing fine and that he´ll soon get back in touch with us, but Isadora is more prone to dramatic scenes where she sobs that he´s lost to her forever. I try to comfort her even if it has been less than two months since he last called ...
So the afternoon is almost over and the light in the sky would be lovely if I were happy or stuffed with food or calm, but I have enough of my self left to know that it is lovely even if I can´t feel it that way. Matts and Mikal have promised us a feast of barbequed potatoes up on the terrace where the quincho squats and where they pitched their tents some months ago. Isadora has been worried that building inspectors will find out about them and fine Rojas who will raise our rents to cover the costs. I doubt it. I wonder how much rent he charges them? I also wonder how the hell they keep their beards so trim - elegant stubbles really . And I wonder why no one has robbed us yet. All the crime stories everywhere - always darkened by the comments that the ¨real¨ rate is much much higher because many go unreported. And nothing happens to us. We shop when she´s paid and we argue how to spend the money. And I relent and spend too little of mine. And Isadora still smokes. And no one robs us; despite pandemics and floods and dwindling suppies of natural gas. No one robs us in this pleasant maritime resort town where surfers and skateboarders and retirees and the rest of us coexist. Not that we have much to steal anyway ...
sábado, 9 de mayo de 2009
Prologue
My name is German according to a deceased aunt of mine. She told me years ago that Velog is related to Herzog - an improbable connection if you ask me. Is Velog really a German name? I have my doubts but it is my name and I suppose it may be German. Blovelish, my surname, is of course English. Its unfortunate resemblance to a post modern art form is beyond my control and nothing more than a coincidence. I further confess that I have been told that Velog is a shortened version of Novelog but I am sure that I was being mercilessly teased by that person. My surname has often provided ample opportunity for schoolyard taunts; Blowfish being the main one. But that was decades ago and I have a novel to present to you. The protagonist shares with his creator an unusual name - Allard Keeley - but it is if unsusual nonetheless plausible. Given the fact that he is Canadian I point out here that the name is French and the surname is Irish of course. Consider the ubiquitous Pierre McGuire, well known to all fans of ice hockey. I happen to prefer soccer but regardless, Allard Keeley is possible if improbable as a name. So here on these pages, expect shortly the adventures of one Allard Keeley, a Canadian surviving in Mar del Plata.
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