Proceed With Caution

by Patricia Ratto

  He helps himself to more beer; you’ve got to admit that at least he shows some initiative for that. He leaves the now-empty bottle on the table. She serves herself wine, picks up the large glass and brings it to her lips. He extends his arm with the cell phone, she assumes a seductive pose, smiles, he clicks, and once more the flash. He types away and presses the screen, then it’s her turn, looking at her own cell phone: Oh, thanks, you wrote that I’m very pretty. He nods, unable to speak because his mouth is once again filled with ham and cheese cannelloni, and besides you can tell he’s not much of a talker. She swallows a few times and then takes an extreme close-up shot of the wine bottle, now half-empty. Then she types, touches the screen, smiles. He looks at his cell phone, makes a face, takes a close-up photo of his half-empty beer mug, and does the same. She glances at her screen, Oh, she says, bummer about the wine. They eat and drink in a silence occasionally interrupted by all sorts of message alerts: dings, whistles, froggy croaks. She serves him another cannelloni, crossing the utensils on top of her empty plate. The thing is, melon is more filling than ham, and, besides, she watches her weight; that’s why she has such an amazing figure, which this stupid jerk doesn’t even look at.

  With Juancu there were times when they hadn’t even finished eating and one of them would say something, or else they just looked at each other, and then they’d get up, automatically, embrace, and without peeling apart they would stumble around, lips locked, ripping off their clothes and falling onto the sofa. Someone phones, he gets up, answers, walks from the table to the door, back and forth, talking very loud: football jokes, lots of asshole, lots of everything’s cool. She picks up the plates, goes to the kitchen, returns, collects the casserole dish. He hangs up. It’s Facu, he’s such a drag. He says hi. Ah, she says, carrying the casserole to the kitchen. You can hear the noise of things being piled up on the countertop, others deposited in the sink. He sits down again, wipes his mouth with the napkin. She arrives with two little plates holding ice cream bonbons, with a spoon on each one. She hands one to him, placing hers next to the half-empty glass of wine. He drinks the beer remaining in his glass in a single gulp; she can see that there’s no more left in the bottle. She picks it up and heads back toward the kitchen. You can hear footsteps, the refrigerator door.

  Then he stands up, the little plate in his hand, and walks toward the sofa. Well, at least that’s something, and now I can see him much closer up, though only from the back; he’s got a nice back. He leaves the little plate of ice cream on the coffee table. Oh, there you are, she says, startled, when she emerges. He gets up, grabs the bottle and picks up his beer mug, places all of it on the coffee table, and sits. She brings over her little plate with the ice cream and her cell phone, turns toward the dining table to get her glass of wine, fills it before picking it up, walks over with a smile, leaving everything on the coffee table. They take a photo of the little table, both of them at once; luckily the flash burst is on the other side. They type, smile, type, touch. Then he leans toward her, gives her a kiss, she allows herself to be kissed, they embrace without letting go of their cell phones, moving like octopi, their tentacles flapping, and then there’s an unintentional click and a bright blaze strikes me right in the eyes, and then another click and another blaze. At that moment I feel like I’ve had enough, like I can’t keep quiet anymore. Potato for Ernesto! I screech, with all the vocal resources at my disposal, potato for Ernesto!

  What’s that? he asks, startled, turning toward the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. Ernesto, she says, resigned, looking at me with irritation and wrinkling her brow. Natural and at home, prettier, I say, trying to drive away her annoyance and make her smile at me. He stands up immediately and comes over, opens the sliding door, and takes a picture of me—with the flash. No! Don’t do that, it makes him really nervous, she shouts. Oh, ha-ha, the little bugger has a personality, he mocks as he types. Asshole, asshole! I scream into his face. Oh, so that’s how it is? the asshole says. And when he threatens to take another photo, I turn my back to him. The night has grown darker; a lightning bolt crosses the sky. The neighbor across the way is sitting next to her guest on an outdoor sofa they keep on the balcony. With glasses in their hands, they converse, look at one another.

  Now her voice, very near, takes me by surprise; you can tell she’s pushed that jerk aside because her soft steps are growing closer. Bedtime, Ernesto, she says to me, and she comes closer with the cloth. Natural and at home, prettier, I say. Bedtime, she insists, come on. She smiles. She covers the cage. I fall silent. The footsteps fade, I hear the click of the sliding glass door as it closes. The cloth is opaque, but I can still distinguish the sparks of a new flash of lightning anyway. The noise of glasses in the kitchen. I hope that asshole goes away before it starts pouring, I think, or I’ll get drenched for a lost cause.

  Suddenly, once more, the click of the door. A hand lifts the cloth, yanks it off, throws it to the ground; the asshole’s face, which has surrounded the cage, faces me and flash, flash, flash. I close my eyes and screech in his face: Mmmm, Juancu fucks me so niiice! Mmmm, Juancu fucks me so niiice!, my phrase is pure vibrato as I repeat it, blindly, while I shift the weight of my body from one foot to another in a rocking motion that makes my voice flow more powerfully. He stops short, quits taking photos; she hurries over quickly, tells him to go home, that it’s enough, as she pushes him toward the door. They struggle; I worry. Asshole, asshole! I scream. So Juancu fucks you better? he charges, unhinged. She doesn’t answer, grabs the cell phone, takes his picture. You’re horrible, she shouts at him, touches the screen, types. Ha-ha-ha, look who’s talking, the poor dumped girlfriend, he says with devastating rage. Asshole, asshole! I persist from my position.

  At last he leaves, slamming the door behind him. She stands there frozen for a moment, suspended I-don’t-know-where. Then, as if awakening, she starts pacing back and forth, angrily, tearfully, from the table to the kitchen. I hear the clatter of the dishes against the sink, the utensils falling on the floor, drawers opening and closing. The friction of the tablecloth as it rubs together. And soon, nothing.

  She emerges from the kitchen, grabs the door frame, leans over, takes off one sandal, looks at me, hurls it at the sofa; then the other, which she throws even farther, hitting the bedroom door. Prettier! I screech. Then she retraces her steps, goes into the kitchen, comes out one minute later, walks toward me with a little plate holding a piece of vegetable cannelloni, opens the cage. Come on, she says to me, as she sticks in her free hand. I jump up on the extended finger, we walk to the living room, she sits on the sofa, puts the little plate on the coffee table, I jump onto the table. Potato for Ernesto, I say; I lean over and eat. Behind us you can hear the first raindrops falling. She grabs the remote control that was behind one of the cushions and turns on the TV. The National Geographic program fills the screen. She lifts the skirt of her red dress to dry her eyes. On the little plates the ice cream bonbons have started to melt.

  CHINESE BOY

  HE SITS DOWN on the same park bench, but at the other end. He’s so incredibly thin that I can’t help glancing at him quickly, fleetingly: the long, endless legs, which he now bends and crosses, one over the other; his eyes nailed so firmly to his sneakers that I can’t quite see them. His deep black hair, almost blue, covers up most of his face. As if she knows I’m concentrating on something else, Lavender struggles uncomfortably; she wants to get down from my lap. I leave her on the grass, adjusting the barrettes I put in her bangs to lift them into two stylish topknots; I unhook the leash from her collar and let her run. I have issues with the Chinese; they make me feel uneasy, but not all of them—that is, the Chinese who live in China seem all right, but those who live here don’t, what can I say, maybe they make me think of the Chinese supermarkets where people say they turn off the refrigerators at night to save money, and the next day they sell you spoiled dairy and rotten meat. As soon as I set her loose, Lavender starts running around the bench hysterically. No matter how
much room she has, she always does the same thing, as if she doesn’t understand she’s not on leash anymore. I also think about the Chinese mafia, their secret workshops, fake credit cards, white slavery. After a couple of revolutions around this tiny planetary system, Lavender slows up and stops right in front of me, to make sure I’m still here, I suppose, because with so much spinning and spinning, the world looks a little different to her and it’s not so easy for her to figure things out. I rub my hand over the little curls on her back, and then I look at the Chinese boy and he looks at me: Behave yourself, I tell her. I know her intentions; she takes a few nervous, tiny steps toward the other end of the bench. Lavender, stop bothering people, I warn her. Chinese Boy understands that he’s the people in question and then he looks at Lavender and at me with eyes so slanted that I wonder how everything must look through such narrowness. No bother, no worry, he says, smiling, while I go on thinking about Chinese people and Chinese restaurants that serve dog meat. Lavender sniffs his sneakers, and then I can’t help seeing him snatch her and run away with her, her piercing, desperate, pathetic barks, the boy’s stride so wide that he seems to move without touching the floor, and me with these platform heels and this purse and the leash hanging from my arm, which I clumsily drag along the ground. And yet Chinese Boy is still sitting there on the other end of the bench; he motions with his hand as if to reassure me that everything’s all right—or could it have been to summon an accomplice? Again I think about the Chinese mafia and also, for some odd reason, about gunpowder and fireworks. I call Lavender; she jumps onto my lap. To welcome the New Year, the mayor organized a fireworks display in this park that ended up setting it ablaze. I hook the leash to Lavender’s collar and stand up. Chinese Boy looks at us, makes a gesture with his head that I interpret as a goodbye; I attempt a slightly forced smile, as if to conceal my discomfort. Once more he nails his gaze to his sneakers.

  I’m drying my hair because I don’t like to go out with a wet head. On the dryer I read: Remington, Made in China. I’d never paid attention to these details, but now, suddenly, I wonder how many Chinese things there might be in my life. With determination and suspicion, I pick up the bowl that holds the toothpaste and my toothbrush and read: Origin China. I look at the bath mat, also Chinese, the little tweezer, the nail file, the hairbrush. My day becomes a yellow quest, a seemingly endless series of turning over this and that. The desk phone, the electric teakettle, the Teflon frying pan, the cup for my breakfast coffee, the netbook cover, my pen drive, the pencil case, the calculator, the case for my glasses, Lavender’s barrettes and feeding dish, the pink teddy bear I keep on my bed, the bulb from my bed lamp. And the Italian silk shirt, too?

  From a distance, Chinese Boy breaks into my field of vision; I can tell it’s him because his height, skinniness, and long, blue-black hair form an unmistakable silhouette; he treads lightly, eyes down, and carries a leash attached to a pet I can’t quite make out. Better stop looking, I tell myself, or he’ll think I’m waiting for him, and besides, maybe he’s not coming this way, what with all the benches there are in the park. Lavender is uneasy; I think she’s recognized him and wants to jump down, but I don’t let her; what if Chinese Boy’s Chinese dog tries to bite her or something worse … and with all the care I give her! I pull out my cell phone and start checking messages, so as to focus on something else. I don’t see him, but I sense him approaching; he veers a little toward my right and at last sits down at the other end of the bench. Lavender is tense, probably because of the nearness of another dog, and since I feel it’s rude, even suspicious, to avoid him, I look his way. His legs are crossed, the right ankle resting on his left calf, and then he jerks the leash upward, making the other end pop up behind him, revealing … a cabbage! Lavender lets out a sharp, brief bark; I can’t conceal the surprise stamped on my face like a slap: a pet cabbage! I smile nervously; I had considered the possibility of a Chinese mafioso, a supermarket crook, and even a dog kidnapper, but not a Chinese maniac. I’m starting to get up when I hear him say: In China work vegetable to meet people. I stand there frozen, not knowing what to do or say, till I manage to stammer Work vegetable? accompanying the question with a hand gesture intended to imitate digging. I remain there looking at him; he laughs, points to the leash attached to the cabbage, stands and walks, the cabbage trailing behind like a dog. Lavender follows his movements closely; Chinese Boy makes a tight turn, walking in circles. Work? he asks; I think I understand him and venture: Walk? He nods. Walk, he confirms, in China walk vegetable to meet people, he repeats while sitting back down at the other end of the bench. I respond with an idiotic, dutiful smile, because despite the correction I still don’t understand.

  Take away negative thought, he explains, as he makes hand gestures for shooing flies or ghosts. Bad all gone, bad all gone, he insists, in a voice I now find very pleasant. Ah, is all that my state of surprise allows me to express at the moment, vacillating between images of a Chinese mystic or madman, or possibly both. In a moment of carelessness, Lavender jumps down from my lap and, with a combination of curiosity and vigilance, approaches the cabbage that still lies on the ground, tied to the end of the leash beside the boy’s feet. Vegetable not bark or fight with other vegetable, he laughs. I shrug, smile. Yes, I say, of course, and suddenly click, I think I’m beginning to understand and think that when a person walks a pet, someone always comes along and asks a question or makes some remark, and having an animal can be useful for meeting people, but—a cabbage? Are there many people in China who go out walking cabbages? I ask him. He gestures for me to wait a moment, sticks his hand in his pocket, I stiffen, already on alert, he takes out his cell phone, slides a little closer, toward the middle of the bench, he seems harmless, he shows me a photo, it’s a bunch of young people leading cabbages and escarole with leashes and collars, like a meeting of Chihuahua lovers, though considering the Chinese-ness of this tangle, it might be more appropriate to think in terms of Pekingese, Chow Chows, Shar Peis, or something like that. Now he shows me another photo; it looks like him, a couple of years younger, with another Chinese boy; each one leading a cabbage by its leash. Ah, I repeat as I seize the opportunity to look at him, the Chinese skin absolutely smooth, perfect; he smiles, I smile. Let go, he says to me, pointing to Lavender and the cabbage. I don’t know why I agree, but I do: I release Lavender and he lets go of the cabbage, giving it a little push; it rolls, imperfectly, charmingly; Lavender scampers around the cabbage, pushing it with her nose. I look at the Chinese boy to see if it bothers him, he laughs, gestures with his hand as if to say everything’s all right. Lavender runs, pushes the cabbage, rolls around in the grass, then rubs against the cabbage, she’s going to look like shit, I scold myself, as I imagine the Chinese boy naked, all that Chinese skin against a black silk sheet, and as I can’t understand why I’m thinking this, I simply peek at my wristwatch, feign an unexpected emergency, and all at once it’s a pretend Oh-I’m-going-to-be-late, a sudden rising from the bench, calling Lavender, attaching her leash and saying goodbye. Lavender? the Chinese Boy asks, standing up to look for his cabbage a few steps away. What means Lavender? he completes his question, looking at me from over there. An aromatic plant, I reply; it has little, lilac-colored flowers and a beautiful fragrance, I explain as I pick up my dog, who now smells of cabbage. Well, I’m off, I say to the Chinese Boy, leaping into action. Come back, I hear him say, come back tomorrow, but I don’t dare turn around, let alone respond.

  A strange new fad has erupted in China: taking vegetables for walks in the street. The leaders of this new fashion are teenagers, who drag vegetables, preferably cabbages, along the sidewalks, pretending they’re pets. “They don’t bark, fight, or make messes,” the kids argue jokingly, but one of their real objectives is to overcome the depression and loneliness that grow along with socioeconomic demands made by the system. I read this on the Internet as I sniff Lavender, who stinks disgustingly, and I curse the Chinese Boy and call the groomer, requesting an urgent appointment. In the pr
ocess I find out how much it would cost me to tint her curly ears and her frilly topknot lavender or lilac, like I once saw in a poodle magazine. My cell phone beeps, a message from Gastón. I don’t answer. I stare at the device: it’s made in China, too.