“Clara, I did not tell you about the woman who Miguel loved before you.”
“Go ahead Angelo, I can’t wait to hear.”
My eyes pierced into his; in the streets an orange sunset was fighting for its life like a deer caught in the jaws of an enormous anaconda; tired bodies were floating in the middle of the fight; ships on an angry sea.
“Clara, Miguel was in love with a girl born in Buenos Aires. Her name was Helen.
Can you imagine that? Buenos Aires!
The city of Rosas, red ribbons hanging on military uniforms, people screaming death to utilitarianism on every street corner, telluric pampas striving to conquer the city, biting from it…
Ah, I can’t remember the name of the building from which Perón used to speak every year!”
I looked at him in disbelief.
“Angelo, what does Helen have to do with all this? Everything happened long time ago.”
“Oh, but she had a lot to do with…”
The sunset lost the battle; the night was breathing satisfied; stretches of a full anaconda digesting its prey.
“Clara, you are not listening anymore!”
“No, I’m not. And if Miguel is not here in five minutes I’ll start singing Don’t cry for me Argentina and strangle you in the middle of the street, Angelo!”
“Ah, you wouldn’t do this, Clara!”
“No? Watch me!”
There was no Helen.
Miguel never was in a relationship with a woman named Helen.
What was Angelo trying to tell me?
And where was Miguel?