Patricia Ratto: Proceed with Caution: Stories and a Novella

Then he stands up, the little plate in his hand, and walks toward the sofa. Well, at least that’s something, and now I can see him much closer up, though only from the back; he’s got a nice back. He leaves the little plate of ice cream on the coffee table. Oh, there you are , she says, startled, when she emerges. He gets up, grabs the bottle and picks up his beer mug, places all of it on the coffee table, and sits. She brings over her little plate with the ice cream and her cell phone, turns toward the dining table to get her glass of wine, fills it before picking it up, walks over with a smile, leaving everything on the coffee table. They take a photo of the little table, both of them at once; luckily the flash burst is on the other side. They type, smile, type, touch. Then he leans toward her, gives her a kiss, she allows herself to be kissed, they embrace without letting go of their cell phones, moving like octopi, their tentacles flapping, and then there’s an unintentional click and a bright blaze strikes me right in the eyes, and then another click and another blaze. At that moment I feel like I’ve had enough, like I can’t keep quiet anymore. Potato for Ernesto ! I screech, with all the vocal resources at my disposal, potato for Ernesto !

What’s that? he asks, startled, turning toward the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. Ernesto , she says, resigned, looking at me with irritation and wrinkling her brow. Natural and at home, prettier , I say, trying to drive away her annoyance and make her smile at me. He stands up immediately and comes over, opens the sliding door, and takes a picture of me—with the flash. No! Don’t do that, it makes him really nervous , she shouts. Oh, ha-ha, the little bugger has a personality , he mocks as he types. Asshole, asshole! I scream into his face. Oh, so that’s how it is? the asshole says. And when he threatens to take another photo, I turn my back to him. The night has grown darker; a lightning bolt crosses the sky. The neighbor across the way is sitting next to her guest on an outdoor sofa they keep on the balcony. With glasses in their hands, they converse, look at one another.

Now her voice, very near, takes me by surprise; you can tell she’s pushed that jerk aside because her soft steps are growing closer. Bedtime, Ernesto , she says to me, and she comes closer with the cloth. Natural and at home, prettier , I say. Bedtime , she insists, come on . She smiles. She covers the cage. I fall silent. The footsteps fade, I hear the click of the sliding glass door as it closes. The cloth is opaque, but I can still distinguish the sparks of a new flash of lightning anyway. The noise of glasses in the kitchen. I hope that asshole goes away before it starts pouring, I think, or I’ll get drenched for a lost cause.

Suddenly, once more, the click of the door. A hand lifts the cloth, yanks it off, throws it to the ground; the asshole’s face, which has surrounded the cage, faces me and flash, flash, flash. I close my eyes and screech in his face: Mmmm, Juancu fucks me so niiice! Mmmm, Juancu fucks me so niiice! , my phrase is pure vibrato as I repeat it, blindly, while I shift the weight of my body from one foot to another in a rocking motion that makes my voice flow more powerfully. He stops short, quits taking photos; she hurries over quickly, tells him to go home, that it’s enough, as she pushes him toward the door. They struggle; I worry. Asshole, asshole ! I scream. So Juancu fucks you better? he charges, unhinged. She doesn’t answer, grabs the cell phone, takes his picture. You’re horrible , she shouts at him, touches the screen, types. Ha-ha-ha, look who’s talking, the poor dumped girlfriend , he says with devastating rage. Asshole, asshole! I persist from my position.

At last he leaves, slamming the door behind him. She stands there frozen for a moment, suspended I-don’t-know-where. Then, as if awakening, she starts pacing back and forth, angrily, tearfully, from the table to the kitchen. I hear the clatter of the dishes against the sink, the utensils falling on the floor, drawers opening and closing. The friction of the tablecloth as it rubs together. And soon, nothing.

She emerges from the kitchen, grabs the door frame, leans over, takes off one sandal, looks at me, hurls it at the sofa; then the other, which she throws even farther, hitting the bedroom door. Prettier! I screech. Then she retraces her steps, goes into the kitchen, comes out one minute later, walks toward me with a little plate holding a piece of vegetable cannelloni, opens the cage. Come on , she says to me, as she sticks in her free hand. I jump up on the extended finger, we walk to the living room, she sits on the sofa, puts the little plate on the coffee table, I jump onto the table. Potato for Ernesto , I say; I lean over and eat. Behind us you can hear the first raindrops falling. She grabs the remote control that was behind one of the cushions and turns on the TV. The National Geographic program fills the screen. She lifts the skirt of her red dress to dry her eyes. On the little plates the ice cream bonbons have started to melt.

HE SITS DOWN on the same park bench, but at the other end. He’s so incredibly thin that I can’t help glancing at him quickly, fleetingly: the long, endless legs, which he now bends and crosses, one over the other; his eyes nailed so firmly to his sneakers that I can’t quite see them. His deep black hair, almost blue, covers up most of his face. As if she knows I’m concentrating on something else, Lavender struggles uncomfortably; she wants to get down from my lap. I leave her on the grass, adjusting the barrettes I put in her bangs to lift them into two stylish topknots; I unhook the leash from her collar and let her run. I have issues with the Chinese; they make me feel uneasy, but not all of them—that is, the Chinese who live in China seem all right, but those who live here don’t, what can I say, maybe they make me think of the Chinese supermarkets where people say they turn off the refrigerators at night to save money, and the next day they sell you spoiled dairy and rotten meat. As soon as I set her loose, Lavender starts running around the bench hysterically. No matter how much room she has, she always does the same thing, as if she doesn’t understand she’s not on leash anymore. I also think about the Chinese mafia, their secret workshops, fake credit cards, white slavery. After a couple of revolutions around this tiny planetary system, Lavender slows up and stops right in front of me, to make sure I’m still here, I suppose, because with so much spinning and spinning, the world looks a little different to her and it’s not so easy for her to figure things out. I rub my hand over the little curls on her back, and then I look at the Chinese boy and he looks at me: Behave yourself , I tell her. I know her intentions; she takes a few nervous, tiny steps toward the other end of the bench. Lavender, stop bothering people , I warn her. Chinese Boy understands that he’s the people in question and then he looks at Lavender and at me with eyes so slanted that I wonder how everything must look through such narrowness. No bother, no worry , he says, smiling, while I go on thinking about Chinese people and Chinese restaurants that serve dog meat. Lavender sniffs his sneakers, and then I can’t help seeing him snatch her and run away with her, her piercing, desperate, pathetic barks, the boy’s stride so wide that he seems to move without touching the floor, and me with these platform heels and this purse and the leash hanging from my arm, which I clumsily drag along the ground. And yet Chinese Boy is still sitting there on the other end of the bench; he motions with his hand as if to reassure me that everything’s all right—or could it have been to summon an accomplice? Again I think about the Chinese mafia and also, for some odd reason, about gunpowder and fireworks. I call Lavender; she jumps onto my lap. To welcome the New Year, the mayor organized a fireworks display in this park that ended up setting it ablaze. I hook the leash to Lavender’s collar and stand up. Chinese Boy looks at us, makes a gesture with his head that I interpret as a goodbye; I attempt a slightly forced smile, as if to conceal my discomfort. Once more he nails his gaze to his sneakers.