Cloudburst: An Anthology of Hispanic Canadian Short Stories

The Meeting

Diego Creimer 43 The Meeting I received the invitation by mail, one morning in March, while I was drinking yerba maté in the backyard and leafing through the Crónica. The three brats from the family in the back were trying to catch a frog in the sewer. They wanted to use it as a dart-throwing target in the other yard, the one way in the back, the dumping ground, that no-man’s-land where they escape everyone’s eyes but mine. I left the white envelope on the chair. I approached slowly, picked up the grate from the flowerbed, and stamped on it to shut the sewer hole. The kids stared up at me, in disbelief at first, and then in fear when I stamped on the grate a second time, a lot harder than the first. They shrugged and walked away. The frog went “croak” under the grate. I can’t stand gratuitous cruelty. I sat back down and examined the envelope. The sender was a certain Tomás Eliadez, domiciled in a place in Tucumán called Cinco Santos. I quickly realized it was a coded message: the writer was none other than Gringo Witt. It had been two years since I’d last heard from him, and just as well, because in this profession it’s always in one’s best interest to stay away from colleagues and avoid seeing them except in case of need. Need, I say, and not emergency. In emergencies there are no colleagues. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper with these simple lines: Dear Doctor, I am organizing a gathering of ex­students, and I would like you to attend and share your memories and news with us. Five of us honour graduates will be there; there will be cake and sweet maté. We might exchange old toys. Bambi was the first ecologist. Raise crows and they’ll peck your eyes out. The Japanese Garden is so beautiful on opening day. Buy yourself some skates. Cordially, Tomás Eliadez Cloudburst 44 I hadn’t read coded messages for quite some time, but my fondness for Conan Doyle stories and Scrabble had kept me in top form. I read the letter again and got down to work. Within fifteen minutes I had transformed the text. I was somewhat vexed by Witt’s laziness. He was never any good at plays on words and was even worse at codes. The former students were, of course, Peretti, Sosa, Kolef, Witt and me. The part about the “honour graduates” referred to the five of us who had never set foot in prison or court, although in the letter it served merely as gratuitous bragging. We considered ourselves untouchables and looked down upon those colleagues of ours who were rotting behind bars, but we didn’t say it out loud or put it in writing. The phrase “there will be cake and sweet maté” was there only to make the invitation more tempting. Everyone knew that “cake” meant women and “sweet maté,” alcohol. The part about “old toys” was more serious, since it meant that we would swap important information. The next paragraph had a little more style. It contained the place and date for the meeting: “Bambi was the first ecologist. Raise crows and they’ll peck your eyes out.” As usual, the meeting would take place in Venado Tuerto, where there was a famous brothel and a cheap, but discreet hotel right on the side of the road. We were to arrive on January 21st, “on the opening day of the Japanese Garden,” famous for its aquarium: that is, on the day the astrological sign of Aquarius begins. We were also to be prudent and inconspicuous, hence the instruction to “wear your skates,” or go without making noise. I reread the invitation and made the necessary substitutions : I’m organizing a meeting of hitmen, and I’d like you to attend and tell us what you’ve been up to. The five untouchables will be there, along with women and booze. We might exchange useful information. We’ll meet at Venado Tuerto on January 21st. Be discreet. Cordially, Gringo Witt. In those days I was out of work, so I had no good reason to miss the meeting. I decided to travel to San Pedro by bus Diego Creimer 45 on January 20th, spend the night, and...