You came to the shore,
Searching for neither the rich nor the wise.
Desiring only that I follow You.
Lord, You have looked into my eyes,
Smiling, and speaking my name.
I have left my boat on the shore,
And together with You, I will seek another sea.
* * *
The priest walks slowly back to the altar, his bald and pinkish head bowed down. Her heart is beating too fast again, as if it were about to burst and kill her in the middle of the service, which she hopes doesn’t happen. She doesn’t want to die in front of these old women. She closes her eyes. The Mass seems like it’s about to be over, and she’ll be able to talk with the priest—Just one word from you is enough to heal me—like that prayer she used to recite as a child, but no, it’s not over yet, the priest says that he forgot to do the collection, and he laughs. “With age one tends to forget,” he says, and then he points to two women on the end of an aisle who take up a black velvet bag and walk along the pews collecting donations. The priest raises his arms and explains what they’ll use the money for: our needy brothers from the north, the program to help kids addicted to drugs. The old women lean toward the velvet bag and release bills from their claw-like hands. A man in a suit, little boys. Another man. When the ladies with the collection bag approach the promoter, she puts her head down and a drop of sweat falls to the marble floor.
* * *
But what if they kill her after she does her part of the job? She was walking toward Medrano, the two black men directly behind her. They were only a couple of blocks away. She couldn’t trust a drug dealer. She thought about escaping, turning onto Perón, but the men were following too closely. It would be too dangerous. And maybe they were telling the truth—a kilo of coke, a white brick, and the entrance to the metro closer with every step.
When she got down the stairs one of the men grabbed her by the arm and stopped her. “See that guy there?” he said. “See him? That’s the one you’re going to push onto the tracks.”
The guy had his back turned to them, he was standing under the second air vent, close to the edge of the tracks. Another man next to him seemed to have brought him there.
“I’m not going to push anybody,” the promoter heard herself say, her voice barely escaping her body.
“Wait until the train comes and then just shove him,” the man instructed.
Again, she refused. No. No way. And yet she couldn’t brush away the image of a brick of cocaine, and her hands took the metro card that the other man handed her; they walked her to the turnstile and somehow, unable to resist them, she stayed on her feet and passed through to the platform. The two men stayed on the other side of the gates, watching her and talking. She didn’t have any options. She couldn’t escape. They were about to give her enough coke to last a year. The promoter slowly approached the man. The guy she was supposed to push was standing there, close to the rails, his back turned. The man next to him glanced toward the promoter, nervous, seemingly ready to take off running. The promoter started shaking when the lights of the next train appeared, like a mirage at the end of the tunnel. It was so easy. She couldn’t fail. But if she did, would that bad boy kill her? Even if she did what they asked, they could still kill her. These kinds of people, she thought to herself, are capable of anything. She was thinking too much—another mistake—and then the train broke out of the tunnel so fast she didn’t have time to react; it pulled into the station, braking, coming to a stop, and opened its doors. The guy entered and was lost in the crowd of the subway car.
* * *
The last rays of the sunset were falling when the promoter recognized the church’s cupola above the other buildings. The oldest church in Almagro, the same stained glass she’d looked up to as a child, the smell of incense, the old women dressed in furs. She was able to get away from the two men because they weren’t expecting her to run as fast as she ran, dashing through the emergency exit, scrambling up the stairs two at a time. It also helped that it was starting to get dark outside and there were more people in the street, people going to the movies, or the theater, or some other place where she wouldn’t be able to go. She couldn’t even return to her apartment. She needed to find somewhere safe, someone to help her, the priest, to drag her out of this hell.
The parting blessing: “Go in peace,” the priest says. The blond girl starts the last song and the man behind her, the kids, the old men and women, start streaming out of the church, slowly, too slowly, the minutes seeming like an eternity. Nobody looks at her, though it seems like everybody is staring, the humid air of the streets sweeping in, not much time left; she turns to look outside: it’s night already, and she can’t see anybody hiding behind the palms. She tries to breathe in some of the outside air as the priest closes the door, there’s nobody but the two of them now, she just needs a minute to clear her head, gather strength, stop the buzzing in her ears, walk the Stations of the Cross up to the sacristy. She manages to stand, pulling herself up with the back of the pew. She walks as well as she can. She knocks on the sacristy door with her white knuckles. The priest opens without asking who it is, and tells her that if she wants to confess she’ll have to wait a bit. The promoter doesn’t know how to begin. She is at a loss for words.
“It’s pretty bad, huh? Whatever mess sent you my way,” the priest says. He has his glasses on, the top button of his collar still tight. She doesn’t respond, she can’t, can’t even try. It’s as if what she wanted to explain isn’t real. Not as real as the bills of ten, twenty, fifty pesos sticking out of the velvet bag behind the priest. Or as real as the iron cross, the bottom end sharpened like a stake, hanging from the wall. Her last effort: a quick motion that takes the priest by surprise. With all that money she could pay her dealer. She would even have enough money to buy more. How much more? she wonders. A bag, maybe two, a couple days more of sniffing coke. And then, later, she’ll figure out what’s next.
Now she’s going to commit her last mistake. Now she’s going to kill a man.
Three Rooms and a Patio
by Elsa Osorio
Núñez
Translated by John Washington
Núñez, three large rooms with a patio/garden. And within her parents’ budget, slightly higher, but they can counteroffer. Núñez is far, her boyfriend told her. An hour by bus from downtown.
“It’s not that far. Don’t exaggerate.”
Her parents wouldn’t be going downtown every day anyway, as they’d be retired by the time they moved into the apartment. And as for Norma, who would live there for the year, she wouldn’t mind the commute.
Plus, she likes the idea of living in a more peaceful setting, with trees and even a patio! What a luxury. And she doesn’t even know where she’ll be assigned to teach anyway; today she is heading to Caballito, but tomorrow she could be sent somewhere else, she goes wherever she’s needed. So she decides to check out this apartment, as well as some others, since the specific neighborhood isn’t the most important thing to her. It is just one of many things to keep in mind, including light and street noise.
For Norma, Núñez is a warm place smelling of jasmine. And Silvio, her old chemistry teacher—papers strewn on the floor of his office, his hands on her body, the kisses, how lovely you are, newborn desires, one and then another afternoon. Today you will teach me physics; of course, my girl, just for a few minutes, because that afternoon, before Silvio’s mother returned, she let, for the first time, her desires grow, the moistness between her legs, opening everything for him, not even knowing what was happening because she should have run and the next day at three they were in bed again, savoring each other, laughing, playing games, sniffing out desire . . .
Silvio taught her chemistry and physics, and Norma passed her final exams, the last hurdle to her bachelor’s degree. Afterward, she moved to Rosario, where her parents had been for the last three years. She and Silvio parted ways with plans to write, to see each other again,
but then time passed, further studies, new people, a different city.
When they ran into each other years later in Buenos Aires, Silvio laughed when Norma told him that she was in her third year studying physics and chemistry, and he made a slightly off-color joke, eluding to their previous meetings, but she thought it was funny. So much so that they slept together again that day, though Norma was already dating Luis. Silvio, so different, so apart from the seductive engineering student who had been her teacher, and not because he was working as an engineer, not because his mother had died and he now supported himself, but because his way of looking at the world had matured; he explained what was happening in society with the same enthusiasm he’d had when teaching physics, yet with more passion. Norma listened to him with the same affection and admiration she had for him before, but she didn’t really listen; even though he was right, she preferred not to get involved in politics. Norma wasn’t going to solve the world’s problems; nor was Silvio.
They saw each other three or four more times, when she was in Buenos Aires for a seminar, or simply to spend a day there, and she found him increasingly serious, with less free time. At one of their rendezvous, they discussed the fact that Silvio didn’t like how Norma still acted like a child.
“Wake up, Norma,” he said. “Wake up and do something with your life.” And then, bothered, he told her that they couldn’t go back to his house, that he needed to work. He told her to go and window-shop, that he was busy with what was going on in the world. Norma was worried about leaving him like that, after a fight, although her life really had nothing to do with his anymore, and who knew when she’d be back in Buenos Aires. They finally said goodbye with a hug, and then a kiss, and just as she was about to hail a cab, she said: “God, I still want you.” And the day opened up, hours extended by skin, hands, bodies, sweat, with joy, with desperation, as if they knew this would be the last time.
The next morning he told her that he couldn’t accompany her to the bus station—he had an appointment—and that was when she happened to see his gun, and asked him, “Are you crazy, Silvio?”
“No, I know what I’m doing.”
“Be careful, please.”
“You too,” and he gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then said again, “Wake up, Norma,” followed by another kiss, this time on her lips.
She could never find him again; he never answered his phone or the letters she sent him. She thought that maybe he’d left the country after the military took over, but he could have at least written to say goodbye! The only friend they had in common was Natalia, and she hadn’t heard anything from Silvio either.
“It’s odd,” Norma said to her, “I haven’t seen him in a year now; he’s not at home and he doesn’t answer my letters.”
His older sister, whose number Natalia found in a telephone book, answered drily when they called, saying that he went on a trip and she didn’t know where.
“Another exile,” Norma conjectured—she had lots of friends who’d left the country in those years, since ’75; and others, even worse, those who were . . . taken, no one knowing anything more.
* * *
Norma hops out of the 8 bus and walks down Jaramillo Street; Silvio’s smiling face comes back to her, that intense stare of his, that last time they saw each other: Wake up, Norma; do something with your life.
The property is on the corner of Zapiola and Jaramillo, just a few blocks from Silvio’s old house. The young woman showing the place, Ana, is nice, and also pretty. When they are about to leave the real estate office a man walks in, tough looking, and he begins speaking to Ana. He glances at Norma for a moment, seemingly annoyed at her presence, his steely eyes boring into her.
“I’ll wait for you out front,” Norma tells Ana. “Don’t be too long.”
Once they are both back out on the street, Ana reiterates how peaceful the neighborhood is, and Norma agrees, saying she knows the area.
“Ah, so you’re from around here?”
“No, I’m from Rosario, but I lived in Buenos Aires, and I had some friends who lived in this neighborhood, though I don’t remember where exactly.”
Maybe she lies because they are just turning onto Vidal, and Norma is hoping that Ana doesn’t notice how odd she’s feeling when, step by step, they approach the very building Silvio lived in. Her heart races as Ana stops in front of the door and pulls out a giant key ring, racing even faster as they enter and turn to the left, yes, right there, Silvio’s place, where Norma, for the first time . . .
The door opens and Ana starts talking: “It’s a little messy, but just imagine it furnished, with plants and the patio scrubbed clean.” The patio that no longer smells of jasmine, and any plant life is withered and dry: maybe they didn’t even bother to pull up the dead vine creeping up the railing, or plant any new flowers. The main room is empty, save for a small broken coffee table, a few ragged rugs on the floor, a shattered jar, and two ripped pillows obscenely exposing their fluffy insides. The owner is a young man who’s almost never around, Ana tells her.
“Is he out of the country?” Norma asks, and there’s a gleam of alert in Ana’s eyes.
“No, why?”
“Oh, just because you said the owner wasn’t around, so I thought that he might be out of the country. Is there nothing here but this little table? I guess you sell these places unfurnished? I don’t have much experience with this.” Norma forces a laugh. “I’ve never bought an apartment before.”
“Some come furnished, and we can also sell you furniture if you need it.”
They move on to the bedroom. “This room does have a large bed and two nightstands,” says Ana.
That bed! A sudden sharp feeling overtakes Norma. How beautiful you are, she remembers Silvio whispering to her. And you, tough boy, she responded.
Silvio, she thinks, where are you?
“Something wrong?” Ana asks, interrupting her reverie.
“No, I was just wondering if my parents would like the bed or not.”
“Of course they will. It’s not modern or anything, and it has that big headboard. It’s classic, noble even, like they used to make them. They’ll probably like it more than you. If you want it, I’ll find out what the owner’s asking for it.”
They move into the next room, and Norma knows she must stop staring at the bed or Ana will realize something is up. The other room: papers and books strewn about, a whole mess in the middle of the floor.
The kitchen, like the bathroom, is a bit of a wreck as well. The sight of the dry plants sends shivers up Norma’s spine.
“The owner never waters his plants?” she finds herself asking.
Ana, smiling, responds: “I know, he’s not into plants, right? Do you want to see another apartment or go back to the office?”
“I’ve seen enough.”
She walks with Ana to the office, tells her she’s interested in that last apartment, though the price is high. Maybe it could be an investment.
She thinks about buying it right away, just as it is, but where is Silvio? You must know, she thinks, you witch, but then instead, aloud, asks Ana, “Are the papers all in order? I ask because if the owner is so absentminded . . .”
“No, everything is all set. If you’re interested, I’d make an offer, because there are a few other potential buyers.”
“Well, since we’re both here right now, let’s make sure the paperwork is all ready—the deed and all that. I don’t want to make my parents come out here for nothing.”
The coworker in the office, the same steely-eyed man she saw earlier, stares at her impatiently as she asks, “What is the square footage again? And do you have the layout? Are you positive the utilities are not included?”
The man calls out to Ana before she can reply to Norma. They speak to each other quietly, and then Ana turns back toward Norma, a big smile on her face.
“Sorry, what did you want to know?”
“What’s the square footage? It hasn’t been foreclosed on or anythi
ng, right?”
“What about getting into these details after you make an offer?”
“Well, like I said, this is for my parents, and they’re going to want these details. They’re not going to make an offer without knowing the specs, and I don’t want to get their hopes up if the paperwork’s not squared away.”
“It’s squared away, miss,” the man cuts in. “All of our properties are verified before they go on the market.”
Norma extends her hand to the man and says, “Nice to meet you, but it seems strange to me that you don’t want to give me this information when I’m an interested buyer. You’re either too busy or you don’t actually want to sell.”
She wishes she could ask them who the real owner is, but she can’t bring herself to get the question out under the man’s furious gaze. Get out of here, she tells herself. Just go.
The man spits back at her: “It’s not like that at all, miss. It’s just that we’re in the middle of a big closing right now and, well . . . Okay, Ana, give the young lady all the info she wants.”
She wants to ask questions until the man explodes, but is afraid of annoying him even more. How does this guy control Silvio’s apartment? she asks herself. And what happened to Silvio?
Ana gets up and speaks quietly to the repugnant man. He slams his fist down on the desk.
“You want to know if you can get the deed right now? What, do you have all that money in your wallet?”
Ana intervenes, smiling: “Think it over. Make an offer, and if it’s accepted, I’m sure we can arrange a quick transfer with the owner.” She widens her eyes, signaling to Norma to stop bothering her boss. As if to say, It’s time to go, before the jerk behind the desk causes more problems.
As Norma walks out the door, she shoots back one last nervous question: “Does the apartment have a phone?”
“Yeah.”
A phone that hasn’t been answered in months. If Silvio actually left the country, he would have left behind some paperwork for the apartment to be sold. His sister must be part owner; Norma tries to recall something Silvio once said to her, a vague memory, yes, that he didn’t get along with his sister.
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