Patricia Ratto: Proceed with Caution: Stories and a Novella

A few days later the results of the tests and analyses arrived in white, typed envelopes, which the people in charge of the plant read and reread without managing to clear up any of it.

Later they brought in a priest, who came bearing crosses, incense, and holy water. But he didn’t get past the entrance; he just made a few movements, right there, beside the diocesan minivan that had brought him, and after a while he returned, fast as could be, to Valparaíso, as white as a sheet of paper, they said. And it was then that some people began to feel afraid. And the fear began circulating among them, like an unstoppable plague.

And they’re right, I say. They’re absolutely right, don’t you agree? That’s why they don’t talk, you know? They won’t tell you a thing. We, on the other hand, the ones from Quintay, those who always, for generations, have lived in Quintay, we’re not afraid: we’re disgusted and sad. And we’ve got all our teeth. Waiting for the nightmare to end one day and for us to be able to pull down the curtains, open the windows and doors, go outside to watch the sea from the black rocks of the cove. And to smile again, of course, without covering our mouths with our hands, like they do.

IT’S DARK NOW: that’s how it is in winter. Before you know it, it’s six o’clock and already nighttime. I hear the noise of an engine and brakes squealing, just as I turn off the light so they won’t see me, and I tiptoe over to the front window. A door slams; luckily I didn’t close the blinds. I just need to pull the curtain aside a little in order to see. There’s a Jeep: it doesn’t belong to any of the locals because around here we all know one another. A girl gets out; you can tell she’s from Buenos Aires by that ankle-length skirt she’s wearing and her long, loose hair, like a hippie. In that outfit, and with the handful of pesos she probably has on her, what could she expect to find but the Fabbianis’ upstairs room, which, since Gina died, is turning into a tenement. The house is empty now because there was a problem with the water pipes, and the downstairs rooms were left a shambles. No doubt they’ll be that way for a long time because Gina’s kids don’t take care of them.

Directly below the mercury lamp, the girl opens the door to the tailgate of the Jeep and takes out a suitcase, which can’t be holding too much because you can tell it’s light. A black bulk stands up at the back of the tailgate: it’s an enormous dog, whose size—my God!—is enough to scare a person, even from far away. The girl motions to him and the beast jumps out and stands next to her. The driver doesn’t bother to get out; as soon as he sees them on the sidewalk he hits the gas and takes off. She looks one way and another, like someone who’s afraid or has something to hide, though who would be afraid with that dog for protection. She goes over to the front door, rests the suitcase on the step, and after rummaging in her woven purse for a while, pulls out a key. So: it seems she has a key. She must’ve stopped by Gina’s kids’ house first; if not, how could she have gotten it. I know that house: old, and lovely in its day, with two stories and the terrace. When Gina used to visit her daughter in Buenos Aires, because poor Gina (may God keep her in His glory) has—or had—two boys here and her girl in Buenos Aires; the daughter went there to study and never came back, as if she had turned her back on the city where she was born… well, the thing is, whenever Gina went to the capital, she’d leave me the key so I could water the plants. She kept the house immaculate, floors shiny, not a speck of dust on the furniture, with those lovely crocheted doilies and those little porcelain figurines. Now everything is dark, a disaster, ever since the business with the pipes, except for the fact that a few days ago Rubén managed to get the lights working on the upstairs level. The girl walks in; she might be one of Gina’s daughter’s friends, I suppose. She walks in with the dog and the suitcase and for a while it’s as if the darkness has swallowed her up. Of course it’ll take her a while to cross the vestibule and the living room, climb the staircase and find the light switch for the upstairs room. She should have brought a flashlight, but, then again, if they don’t tell her, how is she supposed to know. Since it’s cold, while I’m waiting I decide to feel my way into the kitchen to make myself some tea. I don’t want to turn on the light in the living room in case the girl is right there, watching; I wonder if she’ll get the idea to come over and ask for something. Whenever I go over to bring Father Renato something to eat or to arrange the flowers at church, he tells me to be careful, things are happening; I don’t know what things, but just to be on the safe side I listen to him and watch out for myself. I take the big blue cup out of the cupboard, pop in the teabag, two teaspoons of sugar, the water’s boiling, I stir, I leave the spoon on the counter, turn off the kitchen light, and walk through the hallway and the living room, taking care not to trip over anything. I place the cup on the counter beside the statue of the Blessed Virgin, on the piece of furniture next to the window. With the sliver of light coming in from the street I see Her kind, protecting eyes. I open the curtain a little and get a slight shock, because the movement I make coincides exactly with the light that goes on in the room across the street. It’s a bare window, no curtains, blinds, or shutters, so I can see pretty well: the girl is sitting at the foot of a large bed, her suitcase on the floor, the dog beside her. Suddenly she grabs her head and bends over her knees; it looks like she’s crying. The dog rests one paw on her lap. And I take a sip of tea, to shake off this cold that’s gotten into my body and makes me tremble.

You don’t see her much during the day. Sometimes she walks the dog over to Olga’s, around the corner from here, to buy something to eat. Esther told me that Aldo offered her the bones and leftover pieces of meat from the butcher shop. Sure, I say, considering what a slimeball Aldo is, and her a young hippie girl! The other day Aldo showed up and rang my bell; he was carrying a package wrapped in newspaper and he explained to me that he had been there I don’t know how long, banging on the door across the way—because like everyone else, he knows that the bell hasn’t worked since that business with the pipes—but that the girl hadn’t answered. He asked if he could leave the bones for the dog with me, so that I could give them to her when she got home. I told him I never saw her, that he should leave the package at the door and she’d find it. He stood there staring at me without a word; then he turned around, as if to cross the street, looked at me again, and finally made up his mind to cross. I shut the door and opened the peephole to see what he was doing. He took a piece of string from his pocket, wrapped it around the package a few times and left it tied to the doorknob, no doubt to keep some random mutt from coming along and taking the meat, and I say meat because the package looked soft—and he doesn’t fool me by saying it was only bones, no way!

It’s late when I’m awakened by the engine noise I think I recognize; I put on my slippers and walk to the living room. Hidden behind the curtain, I see through the cracks in the shutters the same Jeep as last time; it barely stops. The light in the front room goes on, someone gets out of the vehicle, it looks like a boy with a bundle over his shoulder, but everything happens quickly and the damn shutters don’t let me see too clearly: the Jeep goes away, Gina’s door swings open, the guy walks in, the door closes. By the time I raise my head, they’re already upstairs hugging and ripping their clothes off; the dog watches them, wagging his tail; then both of them fall into bed. I see everything cut off in slices of light and shadow, but in spite of all that, I’m sure he sticks his tongue in her mouth and runs his hands over her tits. Then the black dog, as if he’s heard or seen something, walks over to the window of the room and looks in my direction. I’m frozen, my eyes glued to the animal’s, and I start to feel dizzy, like short of breath. I hold on to the wall and drag myself as best I can over to the little flowered chair to sit down. A band of mercury light filters in through the opening left by the half-drawn curtain, tracing a sharp, vertical white stripe over the statue of the Virgin that stands on top of the furniture. I see a tear roll down Her cheek. I’m sorry, Blessed Mother, I whisper. I’m sorry.