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

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

Here.

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

Who are you?

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

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

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

Are those real?

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

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

My voice almost breaks.

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

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

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

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

They miss you too, I would say.

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

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

I breath deeply and change tack.

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

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

What do I have to do Kabe?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall. I escape down the front steps and hesitate on the sidewalk. Which way should I go? Better to head downtown than towards Avenida Constitucion and Parque Camet. So I cross the eight lanes and turn right on the tiled boardwalk with the parapet and the ocean on my left. A hefty suntanned woman leans on the wall with her shorts almost revealing her ass. I almost miss seeing a skateboarder coming right at me because of the distraction but just avoid getting into a collision. It´s almost hot but for the breeze coming off the water and the sun feels fierce. I stroll easily, not the brisk hunched walk you do along this sidewalk in midwinter.

It was precisely this time of year when I first encountered this city. Twenty eight years now. Early summer 1982. A few short months before the Malvinas - that short little war over The Falklands. I´ve tried to find the hotel I stayed at but I´m unsure if it was on the Peatonal or Luro near the shore. I don´t mention this obsession of mine to Isa anymore. She no longer even finds it funny. I bundle up my nostalgic speculations and instead return to Kabe and the puzzle he presents me. How did I meet him? I can´t exactly remember when ... I think he introduced himself to me. It must have been at Parque Camet. Had I seen him there first? And then we spoke later? He had given me a ride back to our apartment in his VW ... yes ... that must have been it. I assume he recognized me from Parque Camet. I stop suddenly and sit down on the parapet. Something is trying to surface ... some detail. I look down at the tiles ignoring the sea at my shoulders.

He had called me by my last name, Keeley. And I never give out my last name. Not out of any real fear. More a case of the fact that no one really gives a damn. They just want to know where you´re from. I say Canada to keep it simple and rarely speak of my years in Venezuela. Isadora had laughed at my new found laconic prudence. I had tended to blather endlessly at anyone I met till I realized they weren´t curious or interested. So how did Kabe know my last name? I suddenly feel exposed, like when I can´t find my keys and frantically search all my pockets for them. Why hadn´t this detail bothered me before? Had I been so intrigued by this Ethiopian under the eucalyptus trees that when I realized it was him who was adressing me, I forgot to be puzzled by the fact that he used my last name? Maybe I had misheard and had thought he had said ¨kid¨ in an attempt to tease me. Or maybe I was just lonely and delighted he was talking to me. I had been walking along the sidewalk. And he had offered me a ride. So he must have been following me in his car. He knew my name and I have no idea how much more he knows about me. I turn to look at the ocean, hoping it will calm me. It helps a little and I wonder if I´m being paranoid. I certainly have that side, but this feels different. Something vague and out of focus and perhaps dangerous seems to surround Kabe the more I think about it. Who the hell is he?

I stand up and start walking again, trying to clear my head with the movement of my feet. I´m already sweating despite being in shorts ( capris actually ) and a tshirt. Where is all this headed? I turn onto Independencia and keep heading southwest. There´ll be more shade along the left side and perhaps I can sort all this out. The 555 colectivo grinds by and I think I see Greta. That would be a good sign. It means she´s feeling better. I walk on past Libertad towards Luro looking for some logical detail, some reasonable fact to hang my thoughts on. My tshirt is wet under my arms despite the breeze. Where am I going?

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El Bicentenario de La Republica Argentina. May 25 is merely months away now and those two hundred years of history are a battleground still fought over, even more violently in these latest times. Shumway is right. There are competing myths and the country is still divided. The dispute over export taxes between the administration and the agricultural export sector continues, despite the recovering prices of soft commodities. Will real political violence return or will it remain merely nasty rhetoric flung between the parties trying to convince a cynical and worn out electorate? The screen goes dark and I jiggle the mouse. On a warm January morning with me sitting in shorts and sandals and the Atlantic just across the avenue it all seems a little theoretical. All these intimations of political turbulence coming from commentators of all persuasions. But I have to take it seriously. Even though it takes some effort with my belly full and my skin tanned ( and freckled ) by the hot sun. It´s amazing what having money does to you. How it makes you less willing to imagine anything other than shopping.

I pop the remainder of the croissant into my mouth and give silent thanks to Diego´s inheritance and Toby´s Krugerands. Gemstones fallen from Aaron´s breastplate. One for each tribe of Israel. The lost tribe ... I keep thinking of Kabe lately. I haven´t seen him for a while now and I suppose it´s partly the fact I don´t need his help as much with Diego here. The sea is calm and gently rolling and the boardwalk already fairly busy. What do I know about Kabe? Those gold coins left on our kitchen table. Did they come from his hand rather than Toby´s? Not-so-gentle reader, you may suspect that I am not a reliable narrator, but I can only tell you what I see and feel, and think. Something is pulling my thoughts towards Kabe. I sense him behind those coins. He´s hard to read. He could be anything quite frankly and his degrees on the wall of his PH - a Plano Horizontal as they call it here or small bungalow - off Estrada might be forgeries. Why forgeries? Why do I think that? He has lived in Israel. Somehow I know this. And I´m sure of his wife and son. The photographs feel right - they look the way they should. Kabede. Heavy and strong. Like Kaved. Power. But what kind of power? Kabe is tall and slender. Reserved and with an easy arrogance about him. Who is Kabe?

The lock turns and Diego slides in, back already from a trip to the Torre Cefira in Playa Grande - Ocampo and Tocagini´s wind turbine had impressed him and he had managed to set up a meeting with Perez Maravigila, one of the architects who designed the structure. I wonder if he´s planning to build something here on top of our building. It´s hard to tell what is daydreaming and what will suddenly become a real project with Diego. We share a mate and discuss his idea. He´s a little vague on the details but it seems he wants to do it all himself. I leave it at that. I hear the bathroom door slide shut and we both glance down the hall. Isa is up. We sip and wait for her to emerge. And she does in short order, in her violet bathrobe with her hair toussled and unruly. I love it when it´s like that but she insists it´s a disaster and is always trying to straighten it. She takes the mate from me and strokes my hair but doesn´t bother kissing me. Having Diego back is a strain for her, and for me as well. He sleeps in a hammock out on the balcony but that will have to change. How much money does he have and when the hell is he going to buy a house?

Isa sits down between us and the two of them sort out Oriana´s adventures from last night. He tells her she came home after dawn and Isa scolds him ( despite the fact Ori has been staying out all night for some time now ).

Dios pero que la dijiste??
Y vos la dejaste salir ...
Y VOS ibas asegurar que llegaba antes de las 2!!

A tense silence. It wears us all down and Isa decides to break it by saying that at least she´s back and will spend most of the day sleeping it off. We take turns sipping the mate. A warm breeze slides through the open window. It gusts and then dies down, as if the wind was trying to enter our complicated little conversation. I grin to myself about this but Isa just looks at me as if I´m laughing at her and Diego. I have to clear things up.

Parece que el viento esta aburrido.
Ah ... y bueno ... con este verano.

Diego looks quietly at both of us, as if sizing up our relationship. I feel suffocated and stand up to go out to the balcony hoping I´ll find something to do out there. I take an apple from the fridge and go investigate the woodstove, knowing full well it´s cold and empty seeing the gas seems to be flowing again and we don´t have to worry about meeting rent anymore. I then announce I´m going for a walk. Isadora comes over and kisses me now and I relax a little but still need to take that walk. So I throw on a tshirt and head out the door, asking them as I leave if they need anything from the store. Fortunately they say no. Good. I need to walk and think. Kabe is calling me.

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The crumbling part of the facade is what interests me. The north wing of the Asilo Unzué has already been renovated, but the main building remains to be refurbished, it´s pockmarked plaster and faded wooden shutters sadly awaiting the scaffolding that slowly creeps around the buildng, months at a time. Despite the optimistic billboard with Presidenta Fernandez´s name writ large, it appears funds are scarce and the work is proceeding at a bare trickle. I shift my weight and cross my legs. This parapet is low and behind me it´s easily a twenty foot drop down to the concrete apron that borders the sand. But I´m tucked beside a lampost with the sea to my back and this aging refuge and chapel in front of me. What interests me is imagining what the front will look like once renovated. It´s an exercise in stubborness seeing I barely have to shift my glance towards the renovated wing to realize what the main building will look like. There was a pensioner gazing at it rapturously a few days ago, seated just where I am now and I decided to see if I could discover some of his ecstasy for myself. But all I see is architecture; moldings, lintels, tiles and railings and shutters. It´s early evening and the sun is still up but this part of the boardwalk is not too crowded at this hour. Everyone´s getting ready for their New Year´s Eve celebrations. Mostly at home with family, unlike Canada. I bought the champagne yesterday and Diego took his brand new Ford Flex and bought a ridiculous amount of meat at Carnes Angus way out on Avenida T Edison. The stuff has to be cooked tonight - no room for it in the fridge, never mind its tiny freezer. Matts and Mikal are adding potatoes and vegetables ... whether roasted or not I´m unsure. Mikal is now a meat eater again and I´m not sure how long they´ll last togethere. We´ll see. Strange. They live in the penthouse. That is, the small apartment next to the terrace. The tents are for camping trips around the coast and for hot summer evenings. I swear I thought they lived in the tents, but when Diego emerged from the penthouse with Matts I realized I had been mistaken. The sun slips below the Unzué although it still has a ways to go before hiding behind the houses and then slipping below the horizon - the pampa that starts some 10 kilometers from this shoreline. A small devoted crowd still attends mass on weekends but I can´t see what inspires them. Only decay and dogged attempts at renewal.

Eyyyyyyy!!

Who´s yelling? The wind makes it hard to tell ...

Eyyyyyyy!! Loco ... !!

The upper part of the terrace. An arm waving. It´s Isadora. Is something wrong? No ... I doubt it. They just want me to join them up on the terrace. I stand up and gaze at the sea for a long moment. The beach is scattered with tourists and locals straggling along the sand and enjoying the summer evening. Some surfers are still at it, divided into several pods of 3 to 5 each. All this food and booze after a miserable winter of cutting corners just to keep 3 meals on the table. Isadora argued with Diego today about him letting Oriana drive the pickup truck. We argued about the charcoal and the food and the champagne. A squabbling family, like anywhere. I´d like to swim out to sea but the currents are strong and the water cool even this time of year. And the waves are a problem. So I stroll along the boardwalk and cross at the light at Falkner, moving steadily towards what is surely a noisy patio four floors up.

The popping sounds make us all pause, but we remain smiling and hopeful that it´s just what it sounds like - firecrackers.

Ah, mira ahi.

Oriana is pointing towards San Juan and yes we see some fireworks ascend from someone´s backyard so we all relax and gulp or sip at our Reginato. I was unable to get any Saint Lambert this time around. Hopefully the seven bottles should be enough. Isadora was furious, but I finally convinced her that with the four of us plus Matts and Mikal plus Greta and Irma, it was barely enough. Oriana and Diego had had to come pick us up at the Vinoteca to help me get the bubbly back home. Amazing how indispensable a vehicle becomes in merely a matter of days. But I had declined the ride back home and instead had walked, nearly tripping over a broken tile on Marmol just past Rio Negro. A jolt of adrenaline had straightened me in time but was it a worrying sign? Oriana wasn´t drinking much; probably saving up for some other party with her friends.

The food´s finally ready and Matts brings me some roasted potatoes and his accent reminds me suddenly of my mother. I creak and cringe inside and the dam breaks and I have to fight not to weep. I scurry up the steps to the upper terrace not looking at anyone. The tears don´t come however, and I stare at the sea ignoring Freddy the kid from apartment six who´s sucking face and grinding with his girlfriend over in the other corner. I hadn´t even noticed them at first. Finally. The sea is so lovely and the night so perfect and I feel my past crumbling off me in a sudden aching release. The Onas of Tierra del Fuego apparently describe depression through the metaphor of a crab who´s awaiting a new shell, according to Chatwin. Mine is melting off me right now and the tears flow and I gasp and heave. Nothing is static. Nothing at all. Maybe absolute zero. But nothing else. Space is full of dust they say. Nothingness is something, something increasingly observed and measured. But nothingness itself won´t stay still either just because we want to measure it I´ll bet. I look down at the sidewalk and feel a curious connection with the perspective. As if I was up on our rooftop in Venezuela looking out at the playground across the street. Maybe it´s just me opening up my eyes again and letting my mind cool down for a moment.

Amor, que haces?

It´s Isa coming towards me. Freddy and his girl have left. We´re alone up here. I hug her and cry some more. I whisper,

I was thinking of the holidays back in Cabimas.
Ya se.

She kisses my wet cheeks and hugs me again and then we head back down to join the party.

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That metallic ringing sound. It drifts into my consciousness and I realize I´m awake. I turn my head towards the window. Through the half closed blinds and the opening in the window comes a fresh breeze. I associate that sound with the ships drifting in and out of the port. You see them a few miles out to sea, some of them mid-sized container ships, some of them perhaps fishing vessels. Is it their horns? I´m not sure. Yes, melatonin. I took two pills last night to help me sleep. It´s still fairly dark, barely dawn. I lift the covers and slide out of bed. With my bathrobe half on I shuffle into the hallway and bump straight into Diego. We both stare at each other, surprised to see the other and uncertain of what to say. Last night was interesting, even intimate at times, but uncomfortable as well. He´s wearing loose sweat pants and nothing else; his rangy wiry body displaying long hairy arms and a trim torso.

Perdon I say pointing to the bathroom.
Claro.

He tries to find something else to say. We both have to pee I guess. And Isadora did warn me that he was a morning person. I enter and close the sliding door behind me but it takes a moment for the urine to flow. The hallway is empty when I come out and I go check the woodstove. Diego is in the kitchen. I look over, after seeing that he´s filled the stove with some fresh pieces of wood and decide to talk, despite being groggy and wanting to go back to sleep.

So everything´s ok? Cagnazzo took care ... ?
Y ... yeah ... it was worked out ok.

He grins but it´s not an apologetic grin. His accent is a curious mix of south Florida drawl and latino. Last night it was mostly talk of Miami and the house and the cat and the dog and worries about their cuban neighbour who had taken in the pets. I had deliberately kept quiet and had only asked simple, dumb questions. He continues slowly, proudly, chewing his phrases.

Siii ... Cagnazzo me va ayudar armar unos proyectos ...
Por ejemplo?
Y ... algo ... una empresa eolica.

A firm specializing in wind power? Is he serious? How much fucking money did he inherit? I try to smile and look positive. He resumes after a brief pause.

Siii ... con los vientos aca en la costa ... seria ... interesante.

Is he finished? Isa had warned me about Diego´s languid, flowing style of conversation with those long pauses that may or may not signal an end. So he wants to set up a wind power venture here. The raw material is here, that´s as hell for sure. And Isa keeps telling me how inventive he is. But setting up a business that sells wind turbines? Or manufactures them? Or services them? Or what? There already is a firm here in Mardel and I wonder how much demand there really is.

Queres un mate?

Diego holds out the metal cup. I just want to go back to sleep but for some reason I say yes and he fills the cup and hands it to me and then disappears down the hall. What bladder control. The light is deep gray with light blue in the upper parts of the sky but over the water there´s a clear strip of blue-pink sky just above the horizon. We actually face east/southeast rather than south so the morning sun hits the kitchen first as it comes up over the Atlantic from just south of where Punta del Este should lie. Diego is back and to get to the cabinet he brushes past me placing a large warm hand on my shoulder. He pulls out some crackers and grabs some dulce de leche from the fridge. He offers me one of his crackers and I tiredly accept. We´re like two kids on a camping trip trying to make friends but unsure of how well it´s going to go. A gust of wind makes the sliding doors moan in that creepy anthropomorphic way they do. We both look at them as if the sound they made was worthy of a considered answer. Neither of us states something stupid and obvious like ... what a wind! Instead I say,

Rojas calls this building a cruiser.

Diego giggles a little. Good. The wind gusts again and the shutters rattle. I feel like we´re on a ship, drifting south. Arthur Pym ... how does it go? The Narrative of Arthur Pym ... ? Yes, that must be it. How delicious that chapter where Theroux reads it to Borges. It´s the best part of the book and somehow justifies his voyage south, unlike Poe´s story. Why does Argentina feel forgotten and lost? And so proud at the same time. Do you hear Aussies and Kiwis complaining that they live down under?? I don´t think Argentinos really feel that way anymore. It´s an immigrant´s echo from generations ago when the pampa really was empty space and Patagonia barely settled. Argentina isn´t adrift, it´s firmly anchored next to the rest of South America and seething with life and chaos. And the main problem is simple. No one, especially the rich, can agree on how to share the tax burden. So the solutions become improvised and corporations neatly become the target of almost everyone´s anger. Populists, anarchists, cynics, conmen, bankers ...
Diego is staring at me. I look away from the kitchen window that frames a portion of the coastline with the avenida and the apartment buildings and occasionally a cargo ship out at sea.

Es lindo el mar no?

He´s trying to connect.

La Historia ... te interesa?

He´s about to answer me when I feel Isadora´s hand on my shoulder. I try not to show that I´m startled but Diego grins a little sarcastically. Isa and her quiet little steps. Damn. She strokes my hair and then sits on my lap almost defiantly. I decide not to make a joke about weight ( she´s as thin as ever ) and clumsily put an arm around her waist. Diego looks hurt for just a sec but busies himself in the kitchen getting her a fresh mate.

De que demonio estan hablando a esta hora de la mañana? She asks.

I wonder if she´ll try to go back to sleep. I doubt it. So we three meet the morning slowly in the kitchen with the overhead light on and a shared mate between us. Is the wind warmer now? Might we have a real summer yet?

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It was barely warm as we got out of Kabe´s VW and crossed the parking lot towards Terminal A, seeing that Diego had booked a flight on American rather than Aerolineas. With the deaths of Diego´s siblings, ( half-siblings presumably but no one is too specific about the details with me ), in what had been a pile up caused by a speeding van flipping over on Ruta 9 near Marcos Juarez, the whole inheritance had been left to Diego. We were watching footage of riots in Seoul on TN24 when the phone had rung. It had been Diego´s lawyer in Cordoba, the provincial capital. Isadora´s answers let me know that the inheritance had been settled and there was no need for us to go to Cruz del Eje. As Diego´s legal representative he had accepted the judge´s settlement and would be meeting us in Buenos Aires. She repeated an address, somewhere downtown and after a few rhetorical flourishes ( No please, to thou I give my greetings ... No, please, Thank you ... No ... the pleasure is mine .... etc ) she had hung up the cordless phone. I had been very curious to say the least.

What´s his name again?
Cagnazzo Vukovich.
So ... it´s settled ... ?
It´s Diego´s money Allard.
I know that! ... I just wanted to know!
No me gritas loco.

We had argued some more, using each other as sounding boards to try and suss out if this lawyer from Cordoba is pulling a fast one with Diego´s inheritance. Surely the accident had occurred after the will had been paid out. I had checked La Voz del Interior´s web site but had found nothing. I finally turned up a brief item in La Mañana de Cordoba´s site and the details meshed with what we had been told. The accident had happened about a week ago so had there been enough time to renegotiate the will in front of a judge? It seemed fishy and it left me and Isa unsettled and uncertain of what had been arranged and how much Diego knew about all this.

We stop to let a taxi and then the shuttle bus to the Sheraton pass by and we then cross over to the sidewalk in front of the terminal. My own feeling was that Diego should accept whatever offer Cagnazzo made him if it was at all reasonable. It might be tricky even dangerous to contest the will. I think Isadora feels the same way but I´m trying not to dig too deep. She´s feeling a lot of crosscurrents - Diego wants to buy a house in Mardel and we´re all supposed to live there, for example. Me, Isa, Diego her ex, and Oriana, their daughter. I push through the revolving doors and try not to obsess on how things will change the minute Diego walks through the arrivals door. Oriana hangs back to take a call, then struts through the doors and we all head to arrivals. Kabe goes to buy some juice, telling us he´ll join us in a minute.

Oriana squeals and rushes to hug him. His hair is shorter than in recent photographs but still quite long. He crushes my hand and tenderly kisses my cheek. Kabe, who´s a touch taller even than Diego, shakes his hand casually and smiles. And finally Isa ... yes Isa made the trip at the last minute. She laughs nervously sharing a little joke with him I can´t quite understand and then lamely tries to resist his bear hug but ends up smothered in his long rangy arms. I retreat a step or two without even thinking about it and find myself standing next to Kabe. He had opened up a little more on the nearly five hour drive up the Autopista del Sol. Married in Tel Aviv with a ten year old son. She was an immigrant as well from Novgorod and Moscow, who had then moved with her family to Israel. I hadn´t been able to resist; it was too delicious. I had mentioned Pushkin and had expected a frosty look from Kabe but he had raised his eyebrows approvingly and had said,

Yes it´s true. His great grandfather was Ethiopian, a prince.

Isadora had looked at both of us half-puzzled and then shifted the conversation with a question about his son. Kabe was looking forward to seeing him again but it seemed a little odd. Why was he here rather than in Tel Aviv where it would be easier for him to work as an architect? Rather than a plumber or whatever the hell he did at the site. Isadora doubted that he could get work as a professional. Not in Argentina. So we all smiled at each other, everyone behaving differently towards each other now that Diego was here. Some smiles more awkward than others. Kabe lifts one of Diego´s bags helpfully when a short mustached man in a suit approaches quickly.

Diego Barolo?
Y ... si.

They shake hands and hug. How the hell did Cagnazzo Vukovich find us here? I don´t recall giving him the flight number. Did Isa? It must have been Diego. Cagnazzo greets the rest of us with measured optimism and efficient little flourishes. He´s a small town lawyer, even if he´s from Cordoba capital. And I think he wants to get Diego alone in his car; perhaps to settle some details. Was Diego expecting all this? I look at Isadora who´s aware of my quick stare but doesn´t return it. She´s chatting with Cagnazzo and trying to feel him out. Oriana´s beginning to look bored. We walk towards the doors with each of us holding one of Diego´s bags, except Oriana who´s got a small backpack of his. Cagnazzo managed to pry one of the bags from my hands. He chats quickly and softly with Diego as we cross the parking lot. Diego and Oriana head to his Honda Pilot and Kabe, Isa and me return to the Beetle.

It´s a small office on Suipacha, two flights up. An older building renovated in the eighties I´d say but with a few more recent touches. Cagnazzo is guiding Diego through the paperwork indicating where he has to sign. Two airconditioners leave the office rather cold and I pull my windbreaker back on despite an irritated glance from Isa. Kabe has taken Oriana to Recoleta and we´ve agreed to meet at La Biela. Isadora couldn´t think of anywhere else off the top of her head. It´s been a while since we´ve been able to come to Buenos Aires. She had put away some of the gold money just for this trip. The inheritance should change things but it´s for Diego and Oriana and perhpas some for Isa. There I go again. I shouldn´t bother imagining what we might get but when you´ve been desperate for cash and suddenly all this happens ... you day dream a little. Diego signs one last piece of paper and then Cagnazzo takes the pen and hands him an envelope smiling eagerly. It seems to be done and I shift in my chair and wait for someone else to do something. I´m even less in charge now.

Villa. Country. Villa. Country. We´re around Quilmes, heading back to Mar del Plata on highway 2 and passing through that mixed suburban scenery of shantytowns punctuated by gated communities with clay tennis courts and custom built homes. And lush greenery everywhere. I´m exhausted and buzzing from the various coffees we´ve drunk. The check was cashed at HSBC´s branch on Alem and an account was set up for Diego ... I think. I didn´t even bother asking. It seemed to be a large sum. We shopped and ate and Diego insisted on paying for everything, although Isa managed to pay for the coffee at La Biela. Oriana had a laptop. Isadora some clothes and a camera and Diego had insisted I buy a guitar. I resisted as politely as I could but we agreed to look for something back in Mardel. Isadora had insisted on sitting in the front seat so I was squeezed next to Diego with Oriana on the other side. Around Chascomus Oriana had bundled herself up against Diego and had fallen asleep. I leaned against the window and tried to nap. The car was now quiet. Kabe had turned down the radio and was chatting with Isa with Diego interjecting comments occasionally. We drove past the lakes that surround Chascomus and as we moved south through dark fields lined by sprawling copses of eucaplyptus and willow trees we felt like a family, coming home from a long day of shopping in the big city. An illusion at best but this was my world now. The people in this little car, that would fold like a tin can in any sort of accident, was what I had. And I barely knew two of them.