Excursion to Open Door. It’s Eloísa’s idea, she wants to go and see what it’s like these days, she hasn’t been back since her house and the shop were demolished. She suggests the two of us go alone, but I add Iris and Simón to the group, which she eventually accepts with a reluctant: If there’s no other way. In fact, inviting Iris is a way to give her the send-off she doesn’t want. It takes a couple of chats to convince her: A day in the country, I tell her, to clear your head. She answers sarcastically but finally agrees.
We arrange to meet at Once station at half ten in the morning. Eloísa arrives forty-five minutes late. Simón and I kill time with a hot dog each for breakfast, Iris watches us in disgust. As we wait, I realise I’m making the assumption that they’ve seen each other before, the time Eloísa came to get me at the zoo. I was never able to tell whether that was the case or not, but anyway, the thought of an encounter between the two intrigues and excites me. But when Eloísa arrives, our hurry not to miss the train allows no time for introductions, everything happens at a run.
We sit on a group of seats facing each other and after Eloísa’s excuses, saying that she sent me about six messages even though I didn’t receive one, and Iris’s monosyllabic complaints, we enter a long tunnel that silences us for a while. We each retreat into our own little world. Eloísa, who has only slept for two hours, covers her hangover with a pair of Carey sunglasses, disproportionately wide for her face; Iris looks out of the darkened window, full of distrust; Simón is too lively, kicking my knees to mark his boredom. I distract myself comparing noses and ears. Pointed, twisted, flattened, piggy, like magpies, like plug sockets, porous and smooth, mousy, funny, ridiculous, endless. Ears with noses.
At Liniers, a white-haired man gets on, blue shirt, polka-dot tie and braces. He’s dragging a little trolley holding a black leather case. He sits in the middle of the carriage, two metres from where we’re sitting. The man unfolds a stool and takes out a shiny, red accordion, which he places on his legs on top of a flannel. Before playing, he regales us with a short brotherly speech. He talks about our mission in the world, our duty to love our neighbours and God equally: He who loves one and not the other is at fault, he says, and searches for the eyes of the other passengers, who in most cases avert their gazes. When he falls silent, the music comes: a chamamé, a tango and a milonga. Eloísa becomes enthusiastic, as does Simón; Iris watches with eyes like an extraterrestrial’s. Before leaving, the man recommends drinking a cup of chamomile tea every night and a glass of lemon juice in the morning so as not to die trying. He says: So’s not to die trying. Then he passes the hat. I have a few coins for which he thanks me too effusively, so that the others can’t fail to hear. Safe journey, bless you.
Change at Moreno. We get on the new train as it’s starting to move. Another hour, which we use to doze. A parade of beggars and hawkers. We arrive in Luján at around two, too hungry to walk round, we make do with a little bar opposite the station. We have escalopes and chips for lunch, today’s special, the only option. Eloísa starts interrogating Iris. About her country, the people, how they dress, what they’re like, who’s the most famous Romanian, what’s her favourite dish. Frigarui, says Iris and Eloísa takes three attempts to say it properly. Iris explains that they’re like long hamburgers that sometimes have vegetables in them and which are eaten with bread and yoghurt. Eloísa puts two fingers in her mouth, as if to vomit. It’s delicious, Iris retorts, almost offended. I eat quickly, and as I listen to them talk I begin to realise that the situation makes me slightly uncomfortable. I cross the small plaza with Simón so that he can climb on a strange wooden structure, I can’t tell whether it’s intended for exercise or for children to play on. This is the very spot where I stood waiting for Jaime one of the first times I came. Almost unchanged, except that on the corner, instead of the ice-cream shop, there’s a veterinary surgery that looks as friendly as a dog baring its teeth.
We take a bus that goes around the plaza. In order to see the whole basilica, Iris has to bend down and twist her neck. Big, she says. Eloísa, who’s in the seat in front, turns round at one stage, pointing out a place I can’t see properly, a chemist, a launderette, and says to me: Remember? We get out at the entrance to the loony bin. Eloísa offers a bit of explanation to Iris, who becomes laconic again. You have no idea what it’s like, she says. Unbelievable. Without discussion, naturally, we take the dirt track bordering the hospital, as if going home. The sun is strong but not quite as hot as before, a truck passes and envelops us in a dust cloud. At the crossroads, more or less equidistant from Jaime’s farm and the site that used to be occupied by Eloísa’s parents’ shop, I trace a parabola in the air with my raised arm. I look at Iris, as if telling her about it. Pretty, she says.
Eloísa insists we go to what used to be her house first. She wants to see what was left after the bulldozers did their thing. Almost nothing, a few traces with which to mentally reconstruct the place: four posts that according to Eloísa mark the limits of the store, the tracks of the driveway and a bunch of corrugated-iron sheets in a pile, which we assume are the remains of the shed. This is mad, Eloísa cries, and just when I’m wondering if it will affect her, what kind of emotions it might rouse in her, a few steps further over, eyes on a copse of eucalyptus, kicking the ground just like Simón, a girl again, she raises her head, looking straight ahead: This was always a shithole, she says, at least it’s worse now. I smile, Iris looks at her askance, uncomprehendingly.
We retrace our steps towards the farm. I avert my eyes to delay the first impression. In the distance I can make out an army of strimmers diagonally sweeping the field, closer to us are two coils of steel cable and in between, the fig tree, parched but still standing. Two seconds later, reading my mind, Eloísa comes back with another Remember? Simón leads the way, running, he recognises his territory. About thirty metres from the gate, the same as ever but painted white, a security booth has been installed, minimal and plastic. A strangely uniformed man comes out: black shirt buttoned to the neck, like a priest, baggy gaucho trousers and military boots. Quite an ensemble. He doesn’t smile, he reveals what teeth he has left, only the couple at the front of the upper gum, rotted by nicotine. He eyes us suspiciously, more timid than mean. He must have come from the loony bin. Eloísa looks at me, trying to contain herself, she’s thinking the same as me. Some things never change. The loonies, the barriers.
There’s no need for the man to open his mouth, we can’t go through. I could tell him that I lived there until a short while ago, that I spent the last four years in that house and that this boy I’m carrying in my arms was raised there. But why? What do I want to see? What is it that I need to prove? There’s no sense to it. Iris’s eyes, which suddenly look a lot like Simón’s, end up dissuading me. Rising high, blotting out the landscape of my recent past, an immense billboard promises duplexes, chalets, plots, golf, spa and country club. The house, the stable, even the furrows left by Jaime’s pickup are still there, intact despite being closed off. I wonder how long it will take for the billboard to become reality. A year? Two? Perhaps less. I don’t think I’ll come back to see it. Eloísa suggests going to the stream, to the mulberry tree. It’s a long way, I say that we’d be better heading back. She pretends not to hear me. Downhill, between the wire fence and the shadow of the stands on the polo field, my head is inevitably filled with images from before, happy, tremendous.
All that remains of the stream is a scrawny thread of water, everything around it has been filled with light, sandy earth; the tree is there but without leaves or mulberries. Dead or dying. We set up camp on the bank, to rest. Iris sits cross-legged, Eloísa and I lie on our backs, Simón wanders about. Eyes fixed on the blue void interspersed with an infinite network of branches, I lose myself in a journey through time. I think without meaning to about all the lives that came before which were necessary for me to be born. I come up with three or four names, nothing more. I try to think ahead, this thing I am, this link, how and where it will reverberate. Simón, and then what? Think about the jewels, Eloísa says to me quietly, rather witch-like, breathing close to my ear, which brings me down like a lead balloon. The jewels, she murmurs again. I bite a smile. Iris, watching us upside down, adopts a paranoid expression, she must think we’re making fun of her.
Climbing the slope, I make out between the weeds half a dead dog covered in a cloud of flies. I act as if I’ve seen nothing, to prevent Simón or Iris or Eloísa noticing. I can guess the three different reactions and I prefer to avoid them all. Iris’s shriek, Eloísa’s excitement, Simón, naturally curious, wanting to touch it. We pass the entrance to the farm again, the man in the booth doesn’t come out this time, I say goodbye with a fleeting glance, the sun is beating down, Eloísa pushes ahead. She says: Come on. She doesn’t consult us, she just marks out our route, she bends down and slips under the wire fence. And? she hurries us on, palms up, balancing invisible balls. A cutting gesture from Iris, her shoulder raised, is enough for me to understand that she’s not planning to follow, that I should do as I please. I don’t feel like convincing her and allow myself to be guided by her prudence. Eloísa acts offended, walks under the stand and crosses the polo field diagonally, gradually growing smaller. Iris reprimands her silently, showing her gums. Simón won’t walk any further, I’m going to have to carry him for what’s left of the day. A cluster of dragonflies attacks us head-on. When we reach the crossroads, Eloísa is already a tiny speck, we still have a twenty-minute walk ahead of us and I regret not having followed her.
At a service station, recently opened on what always used to be wasteland, Eloísa is waiting for us with a can of Coca-Cola, chatting to a guy in a vest and mirrored glasses. Iris looks at her angrily, the same anger I feel towards her for being so stubborn. It’s getting on for five in the afternoon, Simón wants an ice cream, Iris to go back, Eloísa for us to accompany her to a pool bar to see if anyone she knows is there. Going for none of these options, we walk the few blocks to the shopping centre and stop at a kiosk. We sit down with a giant bag of crisps on some brick steps in front of a hairdresser’s: Styles. For Eloísa, we cease to exist for a while. She devotes herself to sending messages, one after another. She is electrified by the responses, which the mobile announces with the gasping of a hysterical girl. Finally she addresses us: There’s something on around eight, you coming? She says she’s going to meet her school friends and some other guys she hasn’t seen for ages. And she adds: What will it be like to see everyone again?
I wake at dawn with a start: the iguana is walking across my cheek.