Monday, January 16, 2006

Prison 2

Buenos Aires was beautiful in the summer heat. Scantily clad girls would roam the streets of the micro centro, their beautiful long tanned legs eating up the distances with disinterested boredom. The stifling humid heat would envelop the passing crowds, embracing them with its languid caress, making them skittish and lazy at the same time.
Every day, come lunchtime, I would escape from my air-conditioned office and brave the multitudes in the hopes of finding a little table or, at least a quite corner, where to eat.
That Monday I had taken with me my assistant, Bernardo, who was trying to convince me, once again, that it wasn’t simply too hot to eat pizza.

“How about pizza?” he starts. “Dale, we haven’t been in ages” he insists

I do not answer but instead give him a look which aims to portray exasperation. Bernardo would eat pizza every single day if it wasn’t for me. Even simply mentioning the stuff makes him start to glow with an unnatural radiance, his voice slightly cracking with emotion.

“Fair enough, what would you like to eat then?” he continues slightly abashed

Once again I do not answer but instead, haven taken pity on his puppy dog look, head for Pizza Express, fine establishment on the corner with Calle Peron.
We order some food and sit down at a rickety plastic table where Bernardo starts wolfing down his double Faena with ham. I use my plastic fork to chase my slice of pizza around the plate and, disenchanted, try some. The pizza isn’t actually that bad, rubbery and a touch thick for my Italian palate, but definitely not the worst in town. However today my heart isn’t in it and I quickly push my plate aside and light a cigarette.
I watch Bernardo eating for a while. His big dark eyes, swimming with concentration, he eats his food methodically as though afraid a little crumble might escape him. He chews slowly every morsel and swallows with evident pleasure.

I ask him about his weekend

“Mmm, yeah, it wasn’t bad. Took out Laila for dinner on Friday, you know that place on Honduras, and on Saturday went out with the chicos to Mint. You?”

I tell him that I went out with a girl called Lara.

“Haha, the daughter of that rich industrialist? You said she was quite pretty no?”

I smile at him. Lara is blonde, bright green eyes sparkle above pretty red lips and her accent is tender and reminds me of home. Lara is also Italian.

“Che, and the other?”

Soraya, the “other one” Bernnie is talking about is not Italian. She is from Entrerios, a province north of Buenos Aires. I tell him I did not see the other one.

“Pity, stunning girl she is”

I wait until he has finished his pizza and then we get up and walk outside. We push and dodge and finally make it to the entrance of our building. I take a deep breath and step out of the burning heat and in to the cooler shadows of the marble lobby

2 Comments:

Blogger tombrad said...

"La prision" hahaha! great title, very descriptive :-D

9:40 pm  
Blogger Wonko the Sad Clown said...

Es una nueva novelae que empezé. Aun no es muy buena asi que cualquier ayuda es bienvenida

12:35 pm  

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