LUCCA

 

Part I

 

Lucca, my cat, is sitting on my shoulder. We're on the way to buy medialunas, which are the important pastry here in Argentina. Medialunas are crescent shaped and come in two flavors: vegetable oil and butter, and taste pretty much the same. Lucca is much more popular than I am, the pastry ladies are crazy in love with her.

                 The newspaper guys, who look like Mafia enforcers, have treats especially for Lucca; she's a star.

                 Back into the apartment, Lucca jumps down, bounces off my chest and runs to the balcony where she waits for me to open the glass door. This, as it turns out, is no small request. You need a screwdriver to pry the door open. 

                 La Princessa, the other cat, is outside, lounging in the sun. We call her La Princessa but her real name, the one she calls herself, is Mistress of the Universe, Destroyer of Plants, Eater of Insects. Somehow she is the only one of us four who can open the door without a screwdriver.

                 Pablo is in charge of the plants, for which, I have to admit, he has a talent for, and I am the true Mother and Father to the cats. Since La Princessa loves to destroy plants, Pablo and I have, inadvertently, fallen on opposing sides.

                 Pablo is also good with broken things, which comes in very handy because on a macro level we live in Argentina and on a micro level we live in this apartment, which is owned by an ancient woman, almost a hundred, who lives upstairs. She can't see or hear or walk. She sits in a chair and smiles. Her son, already old himself, is waiting for her to die so that he can kick us out and sell the apartment.

                 So the doors are knob-less. The windows are un-openable and once opened un-closeable. Anything you touch too long will stay in your hand.

                 It's August, winter here, cold but sunny, which is good, because there's no heat, either, just a small space heater which doubles as a clothes dryer. That's a fire hazard, probably. The apartment looks warm though. Pablo painted the walls deep orange and deep yellow so that they resemble adobe.

                 The sun fills the living room. I put the medialunas and the newspapers on the coffee table and the kitchen to make an espresso.

                 Lucca stalks, attacks and successfully kills a pastry. La Princessa lounges belly up and Pablo sleeps belly down. I drink my coffee and read that JFK Jr had died in an accident.

                 Lucca's mouth must be dry; she's stalking my yogurt. On the balcony La Princessa is salivating over a pigeon. Her tail bumps against the astro-turf. She's low to the ground, drooling. It's odd that you can live together and be so different: La Princessa and Lucca, Pablo and me.

                 Pablo wakes up and ask asks, "Do you still love me?"

                 "Si, mi amor."But I'm not at all sure that I do. But that's the trick to a second language; the words have value but little weight.

                 "Que bien, yo tambien, mucho" He pauses for reflection, "Are you telling me the truth? You don't really love me. Not really, not as much as I love you."

                 "Yes, of course I do." I used to. I might still. I want to finish my coffee first.

                 "Mi vida. You're seeing someone else. You should tell me.

                 "Did you hear about the accident?" I ask.

                 "What accident?" he says.

                 "John Kennedy's plane went down,” I say. “Didn't you hear about that last night?"

                 "No."

                 "That's strange, “I say,” you working in a television station and all."

                 "Well, I didn't. Is he dead?"

                 "Looks that way."

                 "That family. Pablo says, with their luck, they could be Portenos." He sounds as if he has real empathy and then it vanishes. "What do you do when I am working all night?"

                 What does he do when he's at work? "You want some mate?" I ask.

                 He says, "Yes, thank you mi amor, mi vida.

                 Mate is the national drink. To prepare mate you put tea leaves into a wooden cup. Then, you pour hot—but not boiling—water and sip through a metal straw, then you pass it around to your friends. It stains your lower teeth brown, has huge amounts of magnesium and caffeine and, to Portenos represents love. I prefer coffee.

                 I go on to the balcony until I hear the water boil. I bring the mate and a medialuna to Pablo who is still in bed.

                 "Gracias, mi amor." Then he takes a sip and spits it out. He gets up, offended. Things go flying. "It's all wrong. How many times do I have to tell you! Not so much tea and the water can't be too hot. Mierda. I have to do everything myself."

                 "There are medialunas." I say as I take my things and sit on the plastic chair on the balcony. Lucca shadows me, and then sits in the shade underneath me where he rests his head on his arm, rousing only to eat the crumbs that fall in front of her.

                 Pablo comes out on the terrace holding a plate in one hand and a mate cup in the other. He takes the straw, the bombilla; out of his mouth long enough to tell La Princessa to get out of his chair using the filthiest expression imaginable. She  hisses at him before moving.

                 It's clear and sunny. Lucca is purring and the caffeine is hitting my bloodstream. Pablo sighs, and then says, " Now, tell me about your new lover."

                 I break off a piece of medialuna and feed it to Lucca, who purrs loudly. JFK Jr. didn't die in a plane accident, he died of hubris, he thought he could go anywhere, at any speed, and always come back safely, but he was wrong, sometimes you make mistakes, you go too far; I understand.

Observations, After

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.

PART II