RSClef20

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?

RSClef19

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.

RSClef18

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.

RSClef17

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?

RSClef16

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.

RSClef15

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.

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.