Patricia Ratto: Proceed with Caution: Stories and a Novella

I’m inserting the key in the lock of the front door, back home after bringing Father Renato the washed and ironed altar cloths, when I hear voices coming from behind me. I sneak a glance over my shoulder and see Aldo approaching along the sidewalk in front, after greeting Don Mario, who passed by on his bike. Now Aldo stops and bangs on the hippie’s door, with a new package, it seems. He turns and greets me, what a nuisance. Oh, Aldo, I haven’t seen her, I tell him, pretending to look for something in my purse. Suddenly the door opens and the girl peers out. You can tell she’s taken the package because she stretches out her hand and grabs it, I hear her thank him, and Aldo doesn’t let go of it, and she pulls it a little towards herself, and he crawls his hand over the package like a spider so he can touch her hand, which she withdraws suddenly. Aldo is so startled that he lets go, too. Then, plop! the package falls noisily to the sidewalk, the paper rips open, and the bones and steaks scatter. He bends to pick them up and tries to touch her leg, but she pulls back and slams the door. I quickly turn toward my door, twist the key and open up, as I hear, first: Dirty whore! And then Aldo’s angry footsteps retreating.

I light a candle to the statue of Jesus on the dresser in my room and I refill the little vase that always stands beside it with some chrysanthemums from Esther’s garden. We’re having mate today because she’s a big mate fan, even though afterward it gives me heartburn, but all right, mate loosens the tongue, stimulates conversation, and so I’ve got to put up with it if I want to find out anything. The thing is, whenever I mention it, Esther doesn’t seem to know that there’s a guy living at the hippie’s place. So I tell her what went on when he arrived. The part about them naked in bed I don’t tell her, but I do say that he has a beard, long hair, and that he showed up with nothing but a little bag. And Esther says to me that if a guy had been there she would’ve seen him. I saw, I reply, or isn’t that enough for you? Are you sure? the damn fool goes, as if I made it up, as if I didn’t know what I saw with my own eyes. Of course it was nighttime, of course he might have left a few hours earlier and not been there anymore, but I’m sure the guy’s still there, though when the light is on I don’t see him; he must be hiding. Are you saying they’re…? Esther interrupts. I shrug and can’t come up with an answer. Because if that’s the case, she hints, stretching out her arm with another overflowing mate , which I don’t know how she’s going to be able to swallow, we’ll have to tell someone. Father Renato? I ask. Or the chief of police, she whispers, as though she was afraid we’d be overheard. I stand there in front of the statue of Jesus, with my hands still wrapped around the chrysanthemums I’ve just arranged, and suddenly it occurs to me that He has the same burning eyes as the dog.

I’ve been watching for a few nights now but I don’t see the guy. He must be staying downstairs, in the empty part of the house. Since the hippie never opens the front windows, you can’t see anything. At night I imagine he goes upstairs to the room when she turns out the light. They must eat in the kitchen, with a candle. That kitchen has to be filthy by now because without water… and besides, I don’t think the hippie is crazy about cleaning. I don’t even want to think about what condition everything must be in. If Gina saw the house, the poor thing would die all over again. Today, while I’m busy watching, I’ve brought along my late mother’s rosary, the one that was blessed by Pope Paul VI; I’ve got it rolled up in my hands so it will protect me from that dog.

It seems I fell asleep and got a cramp in my leg. I rub it a little with my hand, and then I lift my head: the lights are on in the room across the way. That filthy pig—naked again—is touching herself down there; the dog stares at her with his tongue hanging out. She bends her legs and keeps on touching herself. The dog has placed his two front paws on the bed and watches her from closer up. The guy sees it all; I know because his profile is projected in shadows above the hippie’s body; no doubt they’re going to roll around in the bed. But now, suddenly, she stands, as if something startled her, and covers herself with the sheet. I quickly duck my head and hide behind the curtain. Oops, I forgot to snuff the candle that I lit to the Virgin earlier today. I crawl along the floor, stand up next to the furniture, wet my fingers with saliva, put out the flame, and return to my post by the window. The hippie is on all fours, like a bitch, and the black dog goes over to her and runs his tongue along her ass crack. She arches her back, stretches, doubles over; you can tell they like it—both her and the guy who’s watching. And the dog, too, though suddenly he pounces on the windowsill and barks furiously. The shock knocks me against the frozen wall, until I slip down onto the floor and there I stay, looking at the crystal beads of Mama’s rosary digging into the flesh of my hands.

The hippie comes back, from Olga’s place most likely, because she’s carrying a basket with some leeks, celery, and green onions sticking out. You can see the surprise on her face when she finds the package hanging from the doorknob. She looks one way, then the other, and just as she begins to untie it, the black beast, who had been peeing against the neighbor’s tree, hurls himself at the package, which ends up falling, in a flash rips open the newspaper wrapping with his paws, gulps down a dense lump of chopped meat in two bites and runs off toward the corner with some marrow in his maw. Angrily she yells something at him, but then she gestures with her head, smiles, opens the door, and goes inside. At that very moment a wind comes up, sweeping away the shreds of paper now scattered along the sidewalk. And I decide to head for the patio to collect the clothes I have hanging on the line, so that they won’t get all covered with dirt.

I’m startled awake by banging on my door. I glance at the clock: it’s nearly 3 AM. The desperate banging resumes, now accompanied by repeated shouts: Please! Please, open up! I slip on a robe and run to the front door. Through the peephole I see the hippie, half-dressed and with her hair all disheveled. I open the little window above the door. There’s something wrong with my dog; he’s very sick, she says, nervously, sniffling. He’s acting like he’s been poisoned or something. Where can I take him? Is there a veterinarian in the neighborhood? Jiménez, I reply, and sticking my hand through the window a little, I point to the right. Two blocks away, I add, but at this time of night… She doesn’t say a thing, but turns rapidly and runs across the street. I close the little window, but not all the way, and stand there watching through a crack. She opens the door, goes inside and comes back out right away. She’s put on a coat and a woolen cap. She struggles along with the dog in her arms; it’s obvious that the animal is as heavy as a corpse. No sign of the guy. I remain there watching till she disappears. I go to the kitchen for a glass of water and realize that I’ve left that huge mess I made earlier and never cleaned up. What was I thinking! I grumble, as I put away the hammer, shake out the old rag and very carefully begin to clean. On the countertop there’s still lots of fine dust, the mouth of the bottle, and some shards of rosary crystal. I remove the little chain from the remains of the broken beads and hang it around my neck; the cross hasn’t been damaged and is still beautiful. I wrap the debris in newspaper, moisten it with the holy water I brought home from church in a jar, and leave them in a corner. Tomorrow I’ll give it all a proper burial.