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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.