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Dia de las Malvinas. April 2. A cooler breeze off a dark green sea and the usual sombre ceremonies at various locations around the city. The building´s front door, tucked to the right of the pharmacy, is ajar. Likely the men working on the apartments on the fourth and fifth floors. Yes. Dust in the hallway. It must be them. I shut the door behind me and wonder how long I´ve been out walking for. From the sun I´d say it´s near six in the evening. It´s also Good Friday and Easter falls on the same date for the Orthodox Church as well this year. I recall a simple passion play in primary school - Southern Baptist Oil Workers in Venezuela - but have I attended an Easter Mass? At my then-anglican boarding school? I can´t even recall. It´s Good Friday. It´s Dia de Las Malvinas. It´s El Bicentenario ( in May ), and they´re painting and plastering. Like anywhere. Like any other day.

I climb the steps quickly. My right knee hasn´t been creaking lately the way it normally does. The key slips into the latch and the door opens and the smell of incense hits me. I close the door behind me and see the kitchen light is off. Only the entrance hall light is on. It´s early dusk. Moving through the kitchen I see candle light in the living/dining room. Isa is seated at the table with her back towards me. I remain silent. I take a few steps forward and see three rows of Tarot cards snaking across the table´s surface away from Isa. Each row has three cards face up. She´s doing a reading, her body hunched over the table, her hair in a loose ponytail. She´s wearing that cotton nightshirt I brought from Canada, just for her. I take a few more steps so that I´m nearly level with her. The middle card of the middle row is facing upside down. I take one more step forward and bend my upper body to get a better view. Wings. A strange golden headgear with horns. Blue tights. Genitals bulging. Breasts adorn a naked chest. Two smaller demon-like figures with leashes around their necks gaze at the central figure. Le Diable. Upside down.

It´s not that I shift suddenly from one location to another like the lost souls in Ghost Whisperer; it´s more that time bends and I lose consciousness of my movements for a short while. My head spins. Now I´m sitting next to Isa, still silent and watching her concentrate on the reading. Her fingers tap the dark wood for a moment and she nods her head as if affirming something to herself.

Allard ... ( she rarely calls me Allard ) vos te has hecho esclavo.
Esclavo?? Yo?

I shift in my chair angrily.

Allard ... ( again ) you have denied your shadow. I keep tell you.
Telling you Isa. The present participle. Tell - ing.
Until you recognize? ( I nod ) this, your shadow ...
I´ll be a slave to the devil?

I try to laugh but it doesn´t work. I feel nauseous. Isa´s eyes are nearly black, rather than the sweet almond color they normally display. But they´re shining, sparkling with a dark intensity. My skin prickles and now I´m standing nearer. My voice is lower and hoarse.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

I´ve never spoken to Isadora like that before. My arms shake and I ´m sweating despite the cool breeze washing in through the open window. Isa looks right at me, her eyes shining with a strange light. A wave of nausea makes me lose my balance for a moment and I grab the corner of the table to steady myself. Over twenty years ago in a borrowed apartment I discovered I was angrier or sicker, or both, than I had realized. We´ll keep the details vague but the next few years nearly sank me. I imploded but kept moving forward and didn´t drown. Then therapy. Then the retreat from Toronto and a long slow healing. My shadow. Still here and now speaking up it seems.

I´m sweating a little less now, but my breathing is still slightly forced. Isa ignores my agression and continues gazing at the Tarot cards. The top card on the final right hand row shows a jester-like figure. Le Mat. The Fool. The Void, movement. It´s facing upright, unlike the Devil. But which way am I moving? This moral vertigo that nauseates me keeps me spinning in circles, repeating patterns. If indeed I am travelling back through the Inferno then I suppose I´m at Canto XXVIII where the sowers of discord are hacked open by devils. They circle round as their wounds heal and then are hacked open again. Does Dante have a place for those who sow discord within themsleves? Has that snapping wind merely exposed the wounds well within me? Isa´s eyes change a little I notice. What is she seeing in me? She´s called me a wounded animal more than once - the way I sometimes push away her embraces in bed in the middle of the night. And I´ve taken her blows, verbal and literal, because I know she´s right. She decides it´s time to speak.

Ayer por la tarde pase por Hominis. Vi la ginecologa.

She was at the clinic and ...

Estoy embarazada. Y una cosa mas.

I straighten up in my chair.

No agotas mi clemencia. Te queda poco.

My vertigo eases. As does my sweating. I feel the cool breeze on my skin. The hum of the refrigerator is in my ears. I slowly move my hand towards her belly, still trim. I accept her gaze and she lets me place my palm against her skin. I leave it there for a long moment.