Laying on the couch, sweating my ass off from what feels like – from what I’ve read recently – Dengue fever, the afternoon wind lightly rustling the broad leaves of the twin palms out in the center of the courtyard patio, just cracking open David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest for the first time (very self-indulgent at 1,079 pages) and my lovely but sometimes slightly nutty neighbor Natalia nearly startles me to death as she enters the room through the door that has been left open to help cool this fever, standing there backlit and basking in the evening South American sunshine.“May I store a suitcase in your place for just an hour… till Web gets here? The police may show up at my place any second now,” she adds matter-of-factly, in that lower-class London accent of hers, emphasis on second.
“What’s in the suitcase?” I ask, out of curiosity more than anything.
“Oh… just papers and such from the office, nothing much,” she replies with a devilish school-girl smile.
I chide her about making her whole international lawyer conspiracy drama into much more than it really is and the fact that her apartment won't be searched and she won't be hauled off to jail. She agrees.
Off she waltzs and I go back to the boat-anchor of a book to stave off boredom while sweating off this nasty fever and sore body. I had just finished Graham Greene's The Honorary Consul, set on the scenic shores of Corrientes, Argentina up on the Rió Paraná (1) across from Paraguay - the honorable Dr. Eduardo Plarr and of course the 'honorary' consul himself - Señor Charley Fortnum and his 'shipmasters measures' of whiskey. The first time I tried to read it I had put it down in disgust after 40 or 50 pages, not enjoying the writing style at all. No sense of place - I've been to Corrientes, spent the night there with Sam Slaughter on the way to Paraguay once - but now, the writing seemed too formal, dry... British. But the second time I picked it up I could hardly set it down and thoroughly enjoyed it, my first by Graham Greene.
Mr. Foster Wallace on the other hand, that's my contemporary meta-fiction guy. Two percent of the way into the book and I know I like it, maybe not quite as much if I didn't like tennis but probably still so. Its like a giant never-ending lollie pop as opposed to something not only just long but truly remarkable such as Gravity's Rainbow or even Don Quixote for that matter. I don't know. But I'm gonna make the time.
Natalia comes back in wheeling this enormous, larger than life GIANT roller suitcase, almost as big as herself, and carefully stands it up in the corner, all luggage and ID tags removed.
"So how you feelin' then?" she asks, looking at my pathetic figure sinking deeply into the couch. "Not so hot, eh?" pun probably not intended.
1 - These pictures were taken on a short road trip to Rosário, which is also along the Río Paraná but much closer to Buenos Aires than Corrientes.
7 comments:
The shot of the truck is just fantastic...
Firstly, it is a middle-class, West London accent, boy, you Americans just don't get the class system do you?
Secondly, my chances of getting incarcerated have just shot up ten-fold thanks to the publication of where said wheelie bag is stored!!.
(A discreet aider and abetter you do NOT make, although I am completely innocent of any wrong doing, apart from being too nice and trying to help out friends to a point of stupidity)
My request is simple, I'd like American Spirit ciggies and fresh fruit and veg delivered on a weekly basis once I'm stuck behind bars (that or permanent care of Benjy when I'm smuggled out the country!!!!).
I hope you're feeling better, much love your vecina.
vecina - i hope you don't get incarcerated but in a worst-case scenario i will take care of benjy!! and ditto on the accent. goyo needs to brush up on his british.
Have you been kissing those porteñas sucias again! Have you not learned your lesson yet?!
GR, what are you doing still in Argentina? Why is everyone moving to Argentina? Hope you kick that fever...
Yes... all very good points and you're right, I haven't been very discreet about 'where is the suitcase'. Good thing its more of a made-up concern than anything... but I still certainlly hope that the cops don't come in any case.
I also flubbed on the 'lower class' accent thing and as you have read, it's actually from West London's 'middle class' which is very different in England I suppose than in the US - the class system - where most of us think of ourselves as 'middle class' as well.
Your own father is English! Shame!
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