A Bright-Red Caquelon

Günther turns to the wall, away from the window; sun rays filter through wooden blinds, casting bright shapes over the elephant silhouettes in the khaki sheets. He buries his head under the pillow.

Discarding the blankets, he stays in bed for a few more minutes. It’s going to be a hot Sunday. He feels a pang of pain in his forehead.

Eventually he sits down, sticking his feet in his brown slippers. He lets out a yawn as he reaches out to grab his thick rimmed spectacles from his bedside table and puts them on. With his index, he rubs the tip of his nose upwards twice and wiggles his toes a few times before standing up.

He walks to the large tank in the hall. Two goldfish swim excitedly towards him, rubbing against the glass, knowing they’ll soon get their much needed pinch of daily sustenance. He rubs his fingers over the water and for a minute or two watches them open and close their mouths in the surface. He scratches his butt.

In the kitchen he sets some water to boil; coffee ought to attenuate his headache. Last night saw a colony of dirty glasses take the sink for a nest; he’ll deal with them later. He brings two empty bottles of red wine to the recycling pile by the bathroom.

In the bathroom, he sits on the toilet briefly. Afterwards, he eyes himself on the mirror as he washes his hands. He is thirty-seven now. His hair is a mess. He fishes out a black speck from his upper right canine and lets the water rinse it away. The cold water feels refreshing in the dry skin of his white hands. Cupping his fingers, he drinks a mouthful and a bit of water lands on the neck of his pajama. He takes off his glasses, sets them on the counter, and rubs his eyes.

The boards creak as he walks back to the kitchen. The water hasn’t boiled. He throws some coffee into the press, takes the remains of a Black Forest cake out of the fridge and, after setting a slice on a plate, goes to sit at the dining room. He must see to a lot of things today.

The rays of the afternoon sun shine brightly through the windows in the living room; a large plant leans its many branches imperceptibly towards them.

There, in the middle of the dining table, he sees it: the bright-red fondue pot Joe and Allison brought him last night. He feels another pang of pain in his head as he sits down.

He remembers how the previous night eight or nine pairs of eyes had fixated on him, dissecting his every reaction. He had faked a smile, faked curiosity, naturally, as Allison, shortly after she arrived with Joe, took it out of a bag and handed it to him. It had come in a box that had been carefully wrapped in yellow paper, paper which had silhouettes of giraffes on it. Or was it zebras? The paper must still be somewhere in the living room, under the coffee table or by the sofa, next to the large plant. Zebras, giraffes, what did it matter?

What was it Joe had said? “You have to guess what it is,” something to that effect. Allison had laughed excitedly. Well, Günther had known immediately, before unwrapping it, what it was: it was something he didn’t want, it was something he didn't need.

He had torn the paper with the silhouettes away and looked at the box. The box had a photograph of the fondue pot inside. Was this some sort of joke? A caquelon in the middle of summer? They had to know he already owned one; didn’t he invite Joe to eat fondue once, two or three years ago? He had wondered if the box held something else inside, but had quickly come to the conclusion that it didn’t: Joe wasn’t one to play childish games like those.

“Happy birthday, Günther,” had said Joe solemnly as he shook his hand.

“Thanks, Joe! And thank you too, Allison,” Günther had said, doing what he could to prolong his insincere smile. “It’s nice of you,” he had managed to add.

“Of course!” she had said. “Happy birthday!” She had given him a quick hug.

“You shouldn’t have,” he had heard himself saying with a sad hint of irony.

“You’re a very good friend,” Joe had said. “We just wanted to give you something. Though it really is nothing.”

Günther had felt a restrained jolt of joy shake his bones. Joe was a good friend. Günther was very grateful to have met Joe, the old fox; though they didn't see eye to eye on many things—such as the merits of giving presents—, Joe's conversation certainly enriched his life.

But the jolt quickly vanished. Alas, this wasn’t nothing: it was a big fondue pot, and bright red too, and it included six long-stemmed forks. They had taken the whole thing out of the box and installed it in his dining table, a boat invading a sea of oak, for everyone to admire.

The kettle starts hissing. The boards creak again as Günther goes to the kitchen. After killing the fire, he pours water into the carafe and brings the press, along with a mug, to the dining room, where he sets a timer for two minutes and forty-five seconds.

In his chair, he wiggles his toes inside his slippers and examines the wretched thing. He doesn’t have enough room in his kitchen for two fondue pots and he’s not going to get rid of his old faithful caquelon: no doubt the sober gray of its metal suits his taste much better than this flashy red ceramic.

After all these years of friendship, has Joe really not learned how much Günther despises presents? Didn’t they talk about it the other day? Günther remembers asking Joe whether he has ever finished a book given to him as a present but he no longer remembers his answer. He probably said yes, always the contrarian. Still, this must be Allison’s doing, the bloody hippy.

Leaning back on his chair, he eats a bit of cake. It’s cold. The timer gives a little metallic buzz. As he presses down the plunger, steam comes out the press, the scent of fresh coffee. He sighs and pours his coffee wondering whether or not he'll celebrate his next birthday.

He fancies that the pot looks back at him menacingly, ready to pounce on him with its six long legs with tiny toes and knock down his glasses, sting him with its tail, devour his face, gnaw at his bones. In his mind, he sees himself pushing it aside violently with his arm; the pot falls down to the floor and breaks into four large pieces and that’s the end of it. He lets out a chuckle followed by another sigh as he feels another pang of pain in his temples.

He will have to get rid of it; they’ll probably take it at the second hand shop that’s on the way to the train station. But what will Joe say? He’ll probably be upset. Oh, well. Besides, Allison’s birthday is coming up; surely they’re not expecting him to get her a present too? A pair of gloves would have to do.

A Swollen Woman

Phil’s phone goes off. He rubs his fingers against the napkin on his lap before fishing it out of his pocket.

“Feel free to take it,” says his friend.

“Ugh. Sorry,” says Phil. “I should.”

His gaze switches from his friend to the horizon, seeing without seeing, as he answers. “Hey,” he says. “Having dinner. Let’s talk in a bit?”

“Sure,” she says. “I really need to talk with you.”

“Alright.” He registers the tone of urgency in her voice. “I’ll call you,” he says.

“Sorry,” he says to his friend, returning the phone to his jacket. “Catalina.” He grabs a slice of pizza and bites it.

“Still in touch?” His friend raises an eyebrow.

Phil shrugs.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to break it off?”

“Yeah.” Phil nods and drinks beer. “We talk less frequently now, maybe once per week,” he explains. “I think she’s beginning to get the picture.”

“Just flat-out tell her you’re not interested, no?”

“I guess.” Phil shrugs again.

☙

“Cata?” says Phil into his phone as he crosses the street.

“Hey, baby.”

“How are you?” asks Phil, as a couple walks past him, hand in hand.

Catalina takes a long deep breath. “Where are you now?”

“Waiting for my tram. What’s up?”

“I really need to talk with you.”

She sounds serious.

“What is it?” asks Phil.

She sighs.

“Hello?” asks Phil.

“What time is it over there?”

Phil checks his watch. “10 p.m.. 4 p.m. there, right?”

Phil starts walking slowly.

“Yeah,” she answers eventually.

“Are you okay?”

She sighs. “Where do I begin...”

A motorcycle drives by with its engine reverberating loudly. Phil sees a brown cat jump away, disappearing behind some bushes.

“Hello?” asks Phil. “Cata, my phone might die anytime soon.” Fucking batteries, always running out.

“I’m sorry, it’s just... I don’t know how to tell you this.”

Phil ponders. Maybe she’ll finally grant him a gracious way out of their precarious relationship? “Start from the beginning?”

“Okay.” She takes a big breath. “This morning, on the way to work, I had a pretty bad accident.”

“What?” Phil frowns slightly; this is not what he envisioned. “Car accident?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?” He stops near the garden that swallowed the cat and leans down to look for her. He finds no trace so he resumes his stroll.

“The car is totaled; I had to call a crane.”

“Whoah, that sucks! Are you okay?”

“Well, nothing happened to me,” she says. “Luckily; it could have been much worse.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad. That’s what really matters.” Having reached the end of the tram stop, Phil turns around and begins retracing his steps. “How did it happen?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” she says.

Phil hesitates. “I’m sorry,” he says finally and he takes his phone away from his ear quickly to check the dreaded battery indicator. The phone will die soon.

“A car jumped the separator, came the wrong way, and fast. We crashed practically head-on. This guy... he must have fallen asleep at the wheel.”

“Ugh, seriously?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Where was it?” asks Phil, though he’s not very familiar with her city.

“It doesn’t matter. Listen, I...” She trails off again.

“What about the people in the other car? Are they okay?” The tram ought to arrive anytime now.

“I don’t know, Phil. I think the guy broke some ribs.”

Phil sits down in a bench. “Fuck, suppo-.”

“Listen,” she interrupts him, “I got this bruise so I decided to see my uncle Roberto. He’s a doctor, remember?”

“Right.” Phil vaguely remembers having met him when he came to visit Catalina; he met so many people it’s all a bit fussy. “How bad is your bruise?”

“It’s just a purple spot from the seat belt. But better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right.” He sees the tram coming down the streets three blocks away. “Good. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Well, there’s mo-”

“Look, my stupid phone is really dying now, I can call you in half an hour, once I’m home.”

Another long pause. “Sure,” she says.

Phil presses the button on the tram door. He hops in and finds an empty seat behind a sleek guy with a large afro. “We could continue talking, but we...”

“I’ll wait for your call,” she says and hangs up.

He looks at his phone and shoves it in his pocket. He really ought to buy a new one.

During his ride, Phil imagines Catalina’s green car crashing against a blue car. Bang! There’s a flash of shattered glass and Catalina storms out furious, to find the other driver waking up to the pain of a broken rib.

☙

Phil met Catalina in a beach resort where both were taking a break from their studies. He was travelling with friends; she with her mother and an aunt.

After two days exchanging casual glances, Phil abandoned his friends and swam to her in the ocean.

“Hey, you,” he said.

She turned to face him. The water reached her shoulders; her long brown hair was soaked. She had to cover the sun with her fingers to see him.

“Oh, hi!” She smiled.

“I’m Phil.”

“I’m Catalina.”

He raised his hand over the surface and offered it to her awkwardly.

She laughed and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Phil.”

They hit it off. He got along with her family so well that she invited him to visit her in her hometown and, when three weeks later—before the end of the summer break—he came for ten days, she introduced him to everyone in her life.

☙

Having brewed some tea, Phil takes off his shoes and sits down on the olive sofa in his living room. He unbuckles his brown belt. He clears his throat as the phone, now plugged to the wall, rings.

“Hi, Phil.”

“Hey. I’m sorry,” he says.

“Home now?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Phil observes the steam rising slowly from his yellow mug, swerving and disappearing in the air.

“So... what happened to your car?”

“I don’t give a fuck about the car!” she says.

“Geez, okay!”

“Listen, I went to see the doctor, my uncle, right? He checked me and said there’s nothing wrong with my bruise, with the accident but... well, he... he said, uh... he said he’d want to run more tests because...”

She laughs emptily. He imagines her shaking her head in disbelief. “He actually congratulated me.”

“Congratulated you?”

“He said I’m pregnant.”

“What?” The wooden skeleton of the sofa creaks softly as Phil straightens his back and his weight shifts. Ugh, having a kid with Catalina—who was, effectively, a stranger, living far away—would be... tough, to say the least. He’s not prepared to have children, he’s only twenty-three, he must finish university first! A rush of adrenaline begins to cloud his thinking. “Er, you’re...”

“Relax,” she says. “I’m not.”

“Hmm.” What was it Catalina had said about abortion? Phil thinks back, trying to recall a conversation they once had, as she drove him through some lush mountains around her city. Had she said she supported abortion? Phil no longer remembers.

An image forms in his mind where he’s holding a baby, holding his baby. The baby is wrapped in a blue blanket and cries with both eyes closed. He scratches the top of his head and then his armpit. This isn’t the life Phil wants, this isn’t a life he can afford to have. Fuck.

“He said I have to be pregnant. At least three months.”

Phil does the math; that would be roughly the time they met. Fuck! He considers briefly the headaches of paternity tests. How do you demand one from your partner?

“I told him it’s impossible,” says Catalina. “I’ve been getting my periods.”

“I see,” says Phil, his distress receding as her reassurances finally take root. “So you’re definitely not pregnant?”

“Right.”

Phil nods and sighs with relief. “Okay...”

“He said if I’m not pregnant, there’s something else. We decided to run some tests.”

Phil feels the dryness in his mouth and reaches forward for his tea, from which steam no longer rises. He sets it back on the coffee table after a small sip.

☙

“I don’t know how to...” she says.

Phil says nothing.

“Well, it turns out... I’m sick, Phil.”

“Sick?”

“I might have cancer.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I have a giant tumor,” she goes on. “It basically ate my whole left ovary.”

“Seriously?” He spots a dark spider crawling on the wall.

She begins crying. “It’s huge, Phil. Roberto could tell something was up just by looking at me!”

Phil scratches his head between clumps of hair. “I’m... I’m sorry!”

“They ran some exams. Big machines, deafening, nauseating. The oncologist said my ovary—or rather, this evil thing growing inside me, invading me, this... this alien tissue, this fucking abomination, this... tumor—is bigger than my lungs.”

“Ugh,” said Phil. “You hadn’t noticed it?”

“No. It’s very obvious now, though. I do feel very swollen on the left. Is it possible that it got inflamed with the crash? I don't know...”

“I see.” Phil takes another sip of tea, wondering what to say.

“They’re running more exams tomorrow. The oncologist said we should remove it as soon as possible. I might even have surgery tomorrow or Thursday.”

“Ugh, man. I’m so so so so sorry, Catalina!” He lets his head fall back against the sofa and looks at the rooftop. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Depending on the type of tumor they may remove both ovaries.”

“Fuck,” says Phil. “But that would me-”

“Yeah. I would no longer be able to conceive,” she says coldly, distancing herself from the possibility.

“Let’s not get ahead, I’m sure it won’t come to that,” says Phil.

“How can you say that? How can you know?”

Phil frowns. He can’t.

He thinks back to a long conversation they had in some cozy bar when he went to visit her. She said this world is so messed up she would never bring new creatures to it; if she was to have children, she’d adopt. Of this Phil is certain.

“Can you imagine if I lost the potential to become a mother?”

“Ugh.”

The black spider disappears behind the corner.

“What kind of woman would I become? I would feel so incomplete, damaged... like I’ve forever lost something sacred.” She starts crying again.

This changes everything. He makes up his mind. “We have to be strong, Kitty. We’ll be alright,” he says, trying to sound confident and clutching the phone tightly. The phone feels hot against his cheek and his head is beginning to hurt. He starts considering the implications of missing the next few days at work.

“I’m glad to have you to get through this, Pip,” she says. “I don’t know if I could deal with this alone.”

Two Apes and One Anthill

Saturday, 10:09 am

A small plane approached the run-down runway of a little airport. Two brothers looked out of one of its small windows, taking in the blue of the Caribbean Sea.

“Man, I’ve really been looking forwards to this,” said Raúl, the oldest. “How long has it been?”

“Yeah. Too long,” said Fabio, the youngest, and nodded, his forehead almost rubbing against the Plexiglas.

“Four years, right? Just after your Ph. D.?”

“Yeah. Almost five now.”

“Right,” said Raúl. “I can’t believe I hadn’t seen you since then!”

“I know. That’s crazy.”

Fabio sat back. Leaning closer towards him, Raúl gazed out the window.

“Well, now we have all the more reason to celebrate,” said Raúl. “You’re the only Colombian to win this award, right?”

Fabio smiled and nodded. “Right.” He was actually the only Latin American to ever have won it, but he didn't mention it. “Thanks!”

“We’re very proud of you.” This award Fabio had received might be the most prestigious award in his field.

“It’s a pity Juan couldn’t join us.”

Raúl shrugged and nodded. “Yeah.” He turned away from the window and straightened his back, preparing for landing.

“I’m just so eager to take a break,” said Fabio. He had worked very hard on a book, many long nights, and now, after a lot of frustration, he was finally done. He really needed the break and the idea Raúl had proposed—a week in this beach, which they had visited countless times, ever since he could barely walk—had sounded perfect.

The award he had received—mainly because of some papers he had published a few years back—was certainly very impressive. However, it was his second book he was most proud of. Seven years had passed since the publication of his first book, which roughly a million students had used to learn basic logic; he hoped his second book would do the same for algebra.

“You’ve really earned it,” said Raúl. He was happy to see his brother, after so many years. He also intended to do a lot of reading this week.

The small airplane touched the ground, bounced for a split second and finally landed. It braked hard and taxied briefly to the only gate.

☙

Sunday, 4:52 pm

“Raúl?”

Raúl was reclining by the swimming pool, reading. “Oh, hey.” He looked over his book and saw his brother carrying a bundle of things. “What are you up to?”

“I’m, uh… playing with some ants.”

“Sorry?”

“I discovered some anthill and… well, the ants are pretty cool, they seem fairly smart.”

“Yeah?” Raúl set down his book and reached out to grab his cocktail from the table. He took a sip.

“Yeah. I’ve been doing a bunch of simple games with them since yesterday and they’re doing pretty well.”

“Interesting,” said Raúl. He looked more closely at the items his brother was carrying. There was a bag with plastic figures from a board game, a big loaf of bread, and a small bag of sugar. “What type of games?”

“Well, I’m just giving them some challenges. I was relaxing yesterday and started playing with them. I thought their behavior seemed interesting and started just trying things. I didn’t expect much at first, but… these bugs seem to adapt fast, almost as if they were learning. I mean, it’s relatively simple things, but still… it’s fun.”

“That’s great,” said Raúl and took another sip of his daiquiri. Ants? Really?

“I have to contact Joseph, one of my colleagues in California. He works with insects. We’ve talked a lot about animal behaviors. I used to help him with some experiments he was running with flies and I wonder what he’ll say when he hears of this.”

Raúl nodded and set down the empty glass in the table. His book fell off to the ground. He picked it up and smacked dust out of its cover.

“I can show you the kind of challenges they have solved. I’ve taken some notes.” He took his backpack off and started pulling a zipper.

“Uh, maybe later?” said Raúl. “This book I’m reading is really interesting; I can’t wait to see what happens.”

“Uh, sure,” said Fabio. What was with his brother? A book? Seriously? “Tell you what, I’ll catch you later.”

“Yeah! Good luck with your ants!”

“Thanks! Enjoy your book,” said Fabio, making off.

☙

Tuesday, 10:48 am

“Raúl?”

Raúl floated on his back in the swimming pool, under the shade of some palm trees. He would stand from time to time to listen to the waves breaking in the ocean nearby and to the voices of macaws, parakeets, barred ant-shrikes, and some other local birds.

Three women, slightly younger than him, talked merrily in one side of the pool. One of them ate mango from a bowl.

Raúl raised his head and saw Fabio standing over the blue tiles. “Oh, there you are.”

Raúl turned around and swam to his brother. “Still torturing ants?”

Fabio laughed. “Torturing? It’s not like that!”

Standing up in the pool, Raúl smiled. The water reached just below his shoulders. “What are you up to? I hadn’t seen you since yesterday, I was a bit worried.”

“Well, just now I was in our suite, sleeping. But, well… yeah, I’m still… interacting with the ants. Actually, it’s really remarkable what I’ve seen them do.”

“Really?” Raúl brushed wet clumps of hair backwards on his head. Fabio looked quite excited.

“Yeah! They’re pretty smart,” he said. “At first I was just giving them simple puzzles that individual ants were solving.”

“Like what?”

“I’d put them against some challenges before they could get some tasty rewards. They’d have to dodge obstacles, figure out how to bridge a chasm, stuff like that. I could show you, but it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, not only they have learned how to solve these challenges but, what’s far more remarkable, it looks like they are able to convey these lessons to the other ants in their colony! Cool, right?”

Raúl nodded, smiling. He could see Fabio was really into it.

“But when I tried to make the puzzles slightly more complex… they just failed.”

“Oh.” A small flock of macaws flew nearby.

“However,” Fabio said with a smirk, “the anthill, as a whole, is really really really smart! I was about to give up but I came up with one game that would require various ants to cooperate and in this they were much better than I thought. I wonder how they communicate; I've heard they use pheromones and their sense of smell a lot, but I really have no idea.”

“Interesting.” Raúl turned back and looked in the direction of the women on the other side of the pool and caught one of them gazing at him. He decided he would go and talk with her.

“Isn’t it?” asked Fabio. “I think it is! And you know what? I think it’s just this particular type of ants! They are these fairly small black ants, mostly harmless. I tried some of the same experiments with two other types of ants and… they didn’t achieve anything. Fuckers just kept biting me.”

“I see.”

“Actually, I’ve only been able to find one colony of this kind of ants, of the smarter ones; I’m trying to find another to see how they respond.”

Raúl came out of the swimming pool, water falling from his skin to the blue tiles. “Would you like to have a beer?” He grabbed his towel.

“Eh, sure,” said Fabio. “Well, I’ll take a smoothie; I don’t drink beer.”

“What? You don’t drink beer?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Since when?”

Fabio shrugged. “I just don’t like it.”

“Alright. Get a cocktail or something.”

“No, I just don’t like alcohol.”

Raúl looked at Fabio. This was new, wasn’t it? Fabio used to drink alcohol, didn’t he? You can’t trust people that don’t drink alcohol. Oh, well, let him have whatever he wants.

“So tell me more about your ants,” Raúl said, as they waited by the outdoors bar.

“Right. So I started thinking hard about how to scale up these games, in terms of the number of ants involved. And this is when things got really interesting! It was very hard at first, but… I found that the more ants I involved, the more challenging I could make these tasks, with the complexity growing super linearly.”

“How many ants are we talking about?”

“Well, at first it was just a few, say three or five. But I managed to scale it up, gradually. It wasn’t easy but I came up with an idea and ran a really large experiment. I managed to get up to three hundred and fifty ants, for about three hours!”

“Wow, seriously? That many? That’s pretty impressive.”

“I had to use a shit-ton of straws, sticks, tape, and thread.” Fabio laughed. “Just setting it up took me about four hours.”

Raúl nodded.

“The results were remarkable! They actually managed to solve some fairly complex problems! I wonder how many ants make up the whole colony. I suppose at least a ten thousand, but I really have no idea.”

A hotel employee came by from the kitchen. “Gentlemen, how can I help you?”

“I’ll have a beer,” said Raúl.

“Sure. You, sir?”

“I’ll take a sour-sop smoothie.”

“You bet.”

“So, anyway, when they managed to solve this challenge… that was eye opening. This was actually a pretty remarkable display of intelligence. We’re talking basic Boolean logic problems. They had to solve 3 simple tasks correctly in a row: if they didn’t, I would reset it, shake them off, have them start again.”

“Aha.”

“At first they struggled but, after a long string of failures, all of a sudden they started just sailing through it!”

“How many ants did you kill?”

Fabio laughed. “None. Well, actually… I think a few did get crushed, unfortunately. That was in an earlier experiment, though.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, this got me wondering how far I can take them. I decided to concentrate on building a language that I can use to communicate with the colony.”

“A language?”

“Yeah. And it worked! Well, it’s very primitive and it’s painfully slow. But I can propose simple bargains to the ants, in terms of rewards for solving some basic problems. I think they actually understand them, more or less. I didn’t think we’d be able to pull it off… I really had no idea ants could be this clever.”

The man from the hotel brought them their drinks.

“Cheers!” said Raúl, bringing his glass to his lips. “To your ants!”

Fabio smiled and grabbed his smoothie.

“What did your colleague in California say?”

“He hasn’t replied. I think he’s on vacation.”

“Well, in any case, this sounds really cool, Fabio. I’m glad to hear you’re having so much fun torturing your ants.”

“Well, thanks!” said Fabio and frowned slightly. He wasn’t torturing them! He drank half of his smoothie in one go. “Well, it’s getting a bit late. I’ll catch you later; I want to try something else before it gets dark.”

“Sure. Have fun!”

“Thanks!”

As Fabio left, Raúl smiled at the group of women. They didn’t respond.

☙

Thursday, 8:37 am

Fabio entered the suite and closed the door quietly. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water.

Raúl came out of his room on his pajama pants. “Fabio?”

“Oh, good morning.”

“Uh, did you just arrive?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Where were you? I was beginning to fear your ants had finally eaten you!”

Fabio laughed. “No. These ants are really something, though. You know what?” His eyes could not contain his excitement. “I taught them the concept of prime numbers!”

Raúl laughed. “What? No way!”

“Incredible, isn't it? We started with basic math concepts. We now have a system based on grains of rice and little bowls. I told you we were developing some basic language for communication, right? It was difficult at first, really slow. I wasn’t sure if they were really following, but… you know how it is, exponential growth; I think the real challenge was in bootstrapping it, once we got a few concepts established, making progress just kept becoming easier and easier.” He drank a bit of water. “So I started giving them more sophisticated math tasks. As always, they would get it wrong at first, but, eventually, they’d start succeeding and… well, I must say, they are really amazing! So I got them as far as to compute three prime numbers!”

Raúl nodded. “Seriously? That sounds amazing.”

“Yeah! I got them to compute 31, 37 and 41!”

“No way! Really?”

“Yeah! And every hour they make progress faster. I mean, it was incredibly slow at first. They managed to really understand addition just about three hours ago”, he said looking at his clock. “Now they’re able to compute prime numbers!”

“Wow, that’s really remarkable, Fabio!” Raúl said. He wondered if lack of sleep was getting to his brother. He suffered from insomnia, and that is no light affliction. Had it affected his mind? Maybe he had been under just too much pressure at his university.

“I know! But, yeah, now I’m exhausted, so I’ll go to try and sleep. I’ll continue in a few hours. I’m not entirely sure if she understood the concept of time, but I tried to tell her to wait for me.”

Raúl raised his eyebrow. “She?”

“I mean, the anthill.” Fabio finished his water and set the glass in the sink.

“Why is it a she?”

“I don’t know. I guess there’s a queen.”

“Well, this sounds really cool, but yeah, go to sleep! I’ll probably be at the beach, I intend to spend all day there, reading. Find me there and show me, okay?”

☙

Friday, 3:15 am

Nearly two days went by. Fabio, again, entered the suite and locked the door after him.

Taking a glass of water, Fabio knocked on the door to Raúl’s room. “Raúl?”

“Oh, hey.” Raúl sat up in his bed.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” said Raúl. What did he think? Of course he woke him up. He set his feet on the floor and started looking for his pants. “How’s it going? What’s with your new friends? Learned to differentiate yet?”

“Well, we decided to… eh, to expand our language in a different direction.”

Fabio turned on the lights and noticed that there was someone else in the bed.

“Oh, you must be Fabio,” said a woman. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it to her neck.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Who was this woman?

“I’m Rosa,” she said, as if she had read his mind.

“Nice to meet you. Er, I’m sorry I woke you up,” he said. “Raúl, let’s talk tomorrow.” Fabio turned off the light and closed the door.

Half a minute later Raúl came out of his room wearing just his white linen pants. He closed the door behind him to let Rosa sleep. Fabio was in the restroom brushing his teeth.

“Hey, anteater. Where have you been? Are you okay?”

“Of course! I was with the ants.” Fabio spat toothpaste into the sink. Why wouldn’t he be okay? “And who is that woman?” He rinsed his brush in the water.

“Rosa? Just someone from Medellin.”

“Oh, okay. She seems nice.” He set the brush in the counter and they walked to the small living room.

“Yeah,” said Raúl. “Thanks.” He was now a bit concerned about his brother. “So how’s it going with your ants? You were saying something about expanding your language?”

The two men sat down in a sofa.

“Well, my goal is to be able to explain to her basic human concepts.”

“Like what?”

“Like family.”

Raúl laughed but Fabio remained serious. “How did it go?”

“Pretty good, for what can be expected. In the be-”

“Let me guess: in the beginning she didn’t understand these notions, but eventually you managed to convey them to them?”

“Exactly.” Fabio smiled. “Well, except I didn’t really manage to fully convey them, only very vaguely, I think. We have a rudimentary language where we can talk about numbers and various concepts from math. We have now 69 nouns for things like sand, water, leaves, sugar, rice, ants, humans and the like. Also for some parts of the body: eyes, mouth and legs. We can talk about time and we have 14 verbs. Er, 17. It’s pretty cool that from math, mostly from basic logic, we got a fairly expressive language. The vast majority of what our language deals with is very meta: it’s about the language itself. And, well, it has evolved a lot.”

“That’s pretty neat,” said Raúl. “What time is it?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty late. I need to get some sleep. But this is so exciting!”

Raúl nodded. “Well, yeah, it does sound awesome,” he said. “It sounds crazy good.”

“I told her I would introduce you to her tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Well, I think she was trying to convey to me that she wants to interact with other people than just me. She’s aware of your existence and she’d like to meet you tomorrow.”

“Uh, okay.” Raúl scratched his knee. “Actually, yeah, that sounds great. I would love to meet this anthill of yours.” He tried to conceal his skepticism. It was time he faced the fact that his brother was losing his sanity, perhaps some obsession with seeing patterns where there were none. Communicating the concept of ‘family’ with an anthill? Yeah, right.

“Hey,” said Raúl suddenly, “what’s that in your hands!”

Fabio raised his hands, palms up. He had a small rash all over his palms and fingers. “It’s nothing.”

“What?” Raúl grabbed Fabio’s left arm by the wrist and looked at his hand closely. “Man, what the heck happened to you?”

“As I said, it’s nothing.” Fabio sighed.

Raúl looked up into his eyes and back at his palms. “Is this beca-”

“It was an initial development,” Fabio interrupted his brother. “It was, uh… it was part of our communication system. Ants would bite me in different parts of my hands. It was a bit painful at first, but… I don’t know, I guess I got used pretty quickly. Now they crawl all over my body but they don’t harm me, we don’t need that anymore.”

“Seriously?” Raúl looked at the tiny red dots incredulously. “Did you fucking bleed?”

Fabio ignored the question. “Well, it was necessary. We wouldn’t have gotten so far without that phase, I don’t think.”

“Jesuschrist,” said Raúl. “I’m not letting any of your ants bite me!”

“Don’t worry, that’s not necessary,” said Fabio coldly. “Our language has evolved far away from that.”

Raúl frowned. “This is crazy, Fabio!”

Fabio didn’t say anything.

“Does it hurt?” Raúl pressed his thumb against Fabio’s palm.

“No. It was already a few days ago.” Fabio pulled his hand away and Raúl let go reluctantly.

“Okay, uh, I’m glad. Hmm, maybe we should get you some antidote.”

Fabio said nothing.

“Where is the anthill?”

“About an hour walk by the beach. Heading towards the river.”

“How did you find it?”

“Just by chance, actually. I had gone for a short hike and was resting there. Do you remember this little cottage with a few tables that Dad loved so much?”

“Yeah. The place with the amazing mojarras?”

“Right. I was there just relaxing, reading some articles, and I started playing with two ants that were crawling on my table. Something in their behavior seemed strange and… well, you know the rest. I started teasing them and I was surprised by how smart they seemed. So I followed them to the anthill. I didn’t think much of it, it was just a game, you know? But… yeah.”

“I see,” said Raúl. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Go get some sleep and we’re going to go together and check it out tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. Yeah.” They stood up. Raúl opened the door to his room. Rosa had turned the light in the bedside table and was awake. She smiled at him. Her hair was a mess but Raúl thought she was beautiful.

“Raúl?” called Fabio.

“Hmm?” With one hand in the knob, Raúl turned to face Fabio.

“How hard do you think it’ll be to change my return flight? I’m going to stay here with her at least for another week.”

The Old Willow Tree

After a night out with your friends, as you get off the last tram home, you’ll be surprised to realize that you haven’t thought about her in a while. That's when it’ll really hurt.

On your way home, after so many beers, you’ll walk past the animal shelter where you used to bring her cat. The “cat resort,” you used to call it, trying to reassure her that the cat would have a terrific time. You’ll ponder if the cat’s still alive and, if he is, whether he’s still as playful and stubborn as he was, that capricious creature that used to wake you up at 5 in the morning, demanding your full attention. Hard as you both tried, you never managed to really cure him of his habit.

The old willow tree in the little park will remind you of a joke she once made, maybe a face she gave you, on a summer night. You’ll remember how she gazed at the willow tree every single time you walked past it together. You’ll remember how much she used to laugh at your jokes, of those times when she just couldn’t hold it and laughed uncontrollably at your witticisms. You’ll remember all the joy her laughter brought you.

You’ll think of all the trips you took, all the far corners of the world to which you followed her or she followed you. You’ll remember her conversation with a French boy in a camp site in Iceland as you readied to see the whales. You’ll remember her frustration as an old woman disappeared with her money in Hanoi. In all those trips the cat was stuck behind in the shelter. You’ll remember swimming in a creek somewhere in Africa, the look of fright and concentration with which she shook a giant spider off your shoulder with her bare hand in your canoe in the Amazons, and how excited she was when you went fishing in Australia and she caught her first. You’ll remember making love in an empty train leaving Florence on a sunny afternoon. You’ll remember her enthusiasm every time she took you skiing, how much she hated New York, and her uncontrollable giggling after eating some brownies with your friends in a beach in California. You’ll see the moon appear between buildings. You will sigh.

“She was such a wonderful person,” you’ll think, and you’ll wonder, for the millionth time, what went wrong. "Were we just too different? Should I have tried harder?" The only answer you’ll hear will be the click of your shoes on the cobblestones, echoing against white walls, and the wind rustling the leaves of the willow tree behind you. You’ll remember when she told you in Stockholm, while watching fireworks, that weeping willows were her favorite trees.

As you walk past the familiar pizzeria, closed at these hours, you won’t be able to avoid thinking briefly about the fights you had. So much quarreling about such trivialities! You’ll remember that time she snapped because you forgot, once again, to close the closet doors in the morning, as you rushed to catch the train; the one time she exploded because she felt you weren’t paying attention; all the times she went to sleep on the sofa.

"Yes, we had no alternative," you’ll tell yourself, reaching the same conclusion you always have, ever since the breakup. And, even if there was, you know you wouldn’t take it; you couldn’t take it; not after so much has passed. You will, however, set aside, in your mind, the bad; you will, once again, forgive it all.

Once you reach your building, you’ll find in your mailbox a bill and an ad for sunglasses.

As you come up the stairs you’ll remember how her cat used to rush up, one flight at a time, yowling. Such a ruckus! He would stop in the spaces in between and turn to look at you impatiently until you caught up.

You’ll close the door behind you and turn the key in the lock. You’ll turn the lights on, take your shoes off, open the window and sit on the sofa. You’ll notice on the TV stand the orchid she once bought. Incredibly, it still lives; it has big dark green leaves. It hasn’t flowered in years. You’ll hear the bells of the nearby church announce how late it really is.

Some minutes will go by and in the silence of your apartment you’ll remember how, when you were a little boy, your dad, in a sunny day in a summer house by a river bank, told you, as if you were ready to understand, that sometimes the best decisions in life are also the hardest.

The Same Kind of Hats

Resting his forehead against the window, Tyrone watches the rain wash down on buildings and trees as they appear in the distance, grow larger, and fade out of view. The glass is cold but he doesn’t mind.

As the bus reaches a stop, he leans back, closing his eyes. Doors open, old faces get out, new faces get in, doors close with a huff, the usual routine.

“I can’t understand it, she always does that,” says a blonde woman behind him into a phone, “and she just believes her and lets her get away with it.” She’s a secretary and she’s late for work. Tyrone wishes she would hush it. He’d rather sleep. He’s tired and still has many stops to go.

The bus brakes abruptly. Tyrone opens his eyes. Traffic. He looks at his watch and sighs.

At the next stop an old man gets in and takes the seat across him, facing him.

Tyrone smiles. This old guy looks a lot like his grandfather, or at least like the vague image Tyrone has, from his fading memories and old photos. It has already been ten years.

“Morning,” says the old guy, his thick lips curving into a smile. His greeting carries that familiar smell of old things, things that have been drenched and dried, broken and repaired, many times.

“Good morning,” replies Tyrone.

The bus starts running again and the old man’s wedding ring clanks as he grabs the nearest rail.

Tyrone sees the old man set his hat on his knee, the same kind of hats his grandfather wore.

“How’s your day going, boy?” He shoves his hair backwards with his wrinkled fingers.

Tyrone smiles. “I’m fine, thanks,” he replies and he feels something snap inside.

Tyrone closes his eyes and wonders what ever happened with the hats his grandfather wore.

The old man fishes an olive green handkerchief out of his pocket and starts coughing into it. “’Scuse me,” he says in the middle of his fit.

The bus brakes hard. As it speeds again and swerves on a curve, the hat lands over Tyrone’s right shoe. Tyrone picks it up and holds it briefly since the old man continues to cough loudly.

“Thank you, son,” says the old man finally, smiling as he examines Tyrone through his thick glasses. Tyrone nods and tries to smile.

The Stop Requested sign on the roof of the bus lights up with a pleasant tune as Tyrone presses the button several stops early. He can’t take this, it’s too much.

“Have a nice day,” says Tyrone as he stands up with teary eyes, trying to set aside old memories.

They Shot Galán

A los hombres se les puede eliminar,
pero a las ideas no.

— Luis Carlos Galán

A woman closes the door to her children’s bedroom—her children sleep peacefully—and sits down in a white sofa. After a long day of work, she finally has some time to relax, a little moment of quiet to start enjoying the weekend.

A red robot that her youngest kid had been playing with wobbles but stays put as she grabs it from the floor and stands it by her cup in the coffee table. As she leans closer to her tea, to drop on a tray a few cookie crumbs she found in the sofa, the soothing scent of jasmine reaches her.

She grabs the remote and presses a button. The TV comes on brightly, the evening news.

“Ay,” she cries. Her mouth opens wide and she brings her palm to her lips. “¡Dios mio!”

It takes her some time to find the strength to spit any words. “¡Roberto! ¡Roberto!” she finally manages.

He’s in the kitchen, downstairs. He lowers the volume of the music. “Yeah? Are you calling me?”

“¡Dios mio!”

The urgency of her tone sinks in. “What happened?”

At that very moment their three phones start ringing loudly through their apartment. Who could be calling at this hour? It must be important! He walks right by one but ignores it and rushes to his wife.

“¡Mierda, mierda, mierda!” she says.

“Are you okay?” He starts walking the flight of stairs up to her, carrying a rag he was using to dry dishes.

“Roberto! They shot Galán!” She shakes back and forth a few times and tears rush up to her eyes.

The man stumbles as he reaches the end of the stairs, as if there had been one more step. “What? What are you saying?”

He regains his composure as he takes in her distress. Her hands are now covering her face; she’s looking in horror at the screen between her fingers and through her tears.

He turns to face the screen, where they show, once again, footage of Galán’s final moments: walking to a stage, waving at crowds; finally on the stage, about to give a speech to thousands of people; bullets raining on him, bodies crumbling on the floor.

The phones ring relentlessly.

A door opens and a boy in his pajamas comes out from his bedroom dragging a teddy bear. The commotion woke him up.

“Mommy, what’s going on?” He has never seen his mother cry before. He will never again see her so flustered. “Are you okay?”

The TV babbles tirelessly, against the loud clanging of the phones, as he was giving a speech in Soacha. We have uncorroborated reports that he...

“Ay, baby, it’s nothing, come here,” she says, dragging him to her and holding him tight, pressing him against her bosom, fighting her tears. The teddy bear falls down, bounces from the sofa and ends up under the coffee table. Why is his mother crying?

The phones finally stop ringing.

... in a hospital, we’re trying to learn more about his current state and we’ll let the...

“¡Jueputa!” erupts his father finally, eyes glued to the screen. “Just what we needed.” The rag begins to tear in his hands. “Between the mafiosos and the guerrilleros, this hijueputa country is really going to hell.”

The phones ring again. Fixated on the screen, the father takes a few steps, grabs the receiver, and pushes it to his ear. “Alo?”

In his confusion, the little boy starts crying too. What’s going on? Why is his father talking like that? He tries to look at his father but his mother won’t let go of him.

“Yes, Felipe,” says the father despondent into the phone. He clears his throat. “Thank you. Yeah, we just saw.” He sighs and listens, splitting his attention between the TV and his brother on the phone. “Yes. ¡Hijueputas!”

... here you can see his escorts trying to rescue him and bring him into...

“Mommy, are you okay? What happened?” She’s holding him so hard it’s beginning to hurt. He’s getting very worried.

“I’m okay, mijito. I’m okay.” The woman wipes the tears from her face with her white woolen sleeve and straightens her back. “Nothing’s the matter, just...” She breathes deeply. How is she to explain their anguish to her son?

Beyond the Waves

Assombro ou paz? Em vão... Tudo esvaído

Num baixo mar enganador d'espuma;

E o grande sonho despertado em bruma,

O grande sonho—ó dor!—quase vivido...

― Mário de Sá-Carneiro

“Be a good girl, Mar, finish your salad.”

Marina closed her eyes, bit her lips hard, and shook her head. “Hrmph.”

“Look! Elvi already finished.”

Marina peeked. Elvira smiled by her empty plate.

“I know you don’t like it but beetroot is important. It gives you iron, for your blood.”

Marina forced some into her mouth. She chewed reluctantly and swallowed hard. She hated these salads. The fork clanked against the plate as she put it down, refusing to have any more. She couldn’t care less about the iron levels in the blood. She wanted to cry.

“Don’t you want to grow up like your sister?”

Marina looked at Elvira, who still smiled, one of her front teeth missing. No, she thought, I don’t want to be like her, not if it means having to eat these salads.

“Granny can I go play with ducky and bobo?”

“Yes, Elvi.”

Marina watched Elvira the Moose scuttle off the dining room humming a tune with her doll. Marina also wanted to play, but she already knew her grandmother wouldn’t have it.

“Why are you so difficult, Mar? Always the same story.” Inés sighed. “Finish your salad, come on, it’s good for you. You can go and play with Elvi and ducky afterwards.”

Some kids grow to like salads. Not Marina; all she managed was mild tolerance when social conventions dictated it.

The sand sank softly under the girls’ soles as they walked.

A wave reached Marina’s feet and she jumped back with a little screech.

Elvira stood her ground. “What do you think?”

“It’s cold!” Marina stood just beyond the waves.

“It’s nice.”

“I don’t know if I really want to go in.”

“Come on, silly rabbit, let’s do this.” Elvira started wading in. The sea looked golden under the sun. “It feels warmer once you’re inside.”

Marina observed her, alert. She turned and saw Inés under the shadow of the tent. Inés smiled and waved her hand. Marina waved back.

“How is it?” asked Marina as a wave went by Elvira. “Elvi!”

Elvira turned to look at Marina. “What!”

“How is it?” demanded Marina.

The water reached just above Elvira’s knees. “It’s nice, come on!”

Elvira kept walking until the water reached her waist.

Hesitantly, Marina started walking in. It took a lot of self-control. The water was cold!

When the surface reached Marina’s knees, Elvira came floating on the waves. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Elvi, I’m a bit scared. Here comes a wave!”

“It’s okay.” Elvira stood up with a sigh. “Here.” She took Marina’s hand.

Together they walked further. When the water reached Marina’s belly button, she let go of Elvira’s hand and just stayed there, sinking gradually, letting the floats in her arms support her. The water soaked her blond hair. Elvira swam close.

“See? Isn’t it nice?”

“It’s nice,” Marina agreed. “It’s warmer when you’re inside.”

“There’s a fish!” said Elvira, pointing with her hand.

Marina looked intently. “I didn’t see it. What kind of fish was it?”

“I don’t know, but it was very pretty.”

Rafa took Marina’s hand as they returned from the dance floor to their table. The band played a salsa song and many of their guests danced.

“I really liked your sister’s speech,” said Rafa.

Marina nodded. “Elvi is great.”

“What did she say? That all the things you told her could not have prepared her for how warm I am?”

Marina smiled. “And that you have a knack for making people feel at ease.”

“Ah, yes,” said Rafa. “That’s when Inés couldn’t stop laughing.”

Marina laughed.

They looked at Inés, who sat at the other end of the table, wondering if she had fallen asleep. It was way past her bedtime.

“What she said about my girls, our girls,” he corrected himself, “was very touching.”

“And it is true: Lucy and Mile are the most lovely girls in the world.”

Rafa helped Marina to her seat and sat down besides her.

Marina smiled. “As she said, how you take care of them shows what a great person you are.”

“Thank you,” said Rafa. “She got Lucy’s age wrong, though, she will be three next month.”

“I know, baby,” said Marina, resting her hand on his lap. “No idea where she got that.”

“It was a great speech.” Rafa said and nodded, looking into Marina’s brown eyes. “I feel so happy that I’m now part of your family.”

“Thanks, baby. As do we,” she said and smiled. “How did you like the duet?” Elvira had brought two old plastic recorders and music sheets and had made Marina and one of her school friends blow music out of them.

Rafa smiled. “It was very nice! It’s amazing you could still play after... how many years?”

One of their guests, a friend of Rafa, joined them, glass in hand. “Man, I’m so so so happy right now!” He smiled profusely. “And you look very beautiful, Marina! I wish you a lot of joy together!” He raised the glass.

“Thank you, Felipe!” said Marina. “We’re glad you made it.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you big boys alone and check on Inés.”

One afternoon Lucía, Milena and two other girls played with Laika on a large field close to the suburban house where they grew up. The field had a small creek and a few large eucalyptus trees. Dry leaves covered the grass. They played there often.

Laika had been barely a month old when she arrived one Christmas. Rafa and Marina had not conceived a child of their own. Now Laika was nearly two years old, an imposing bitch.

For the best part of the afternoon, the girls ran around the trunks, tirelessly chasing Laika, who always just eluded them. It was a lot of fun.

Marina came to the field and smoked a cigarette, watching them play from afar. Lucía slipped and fell against a tree, but stood up and continued the chase. It was getting cold.

“Mile!” called Marina. The kids stopped running. Laika barked twice at Lucía, taunting her. “Time to go home. Bring Laika.”

The kids looked at each other. How were they supposed to catch her now?

To their surprise, Laika just walked to Milena, wagging her tail, and let her put the leash on.

“Good girl,” said Milena and patted her head.

“What do you think we’ll have today?” Lucía asked Milena, as they walked towards Marina. “Cookies? Brownies?”

A few years later Marina and Rafa laid in bed, watching TV. She turned her lamp off and tried to ignore the jabber of advertisements and newscasts.

“It’s too loud, would you make it a bit quieter?” asked Marina.

“Sure,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He grappled for the remote, buried somewhere between the blankets.

“I have to wake up early tomorrow.” She sighed.

“I know, I know!” said Rafa. “I just don’t know where the goddamn... ah, here.” He raised the remote to the TV and pressed his thumb hard against the rubber. The volume went down slowly.

Changing his mind, he pressed a different button and the screen went black. “Might as well just go to sleep.” He set his glasses on the bedside table.

“Listen, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I think you are a good father.”

“Thanks,” he said flatly.

“I just don’t think we should let Mile get away with it.” She sighed. “What she did is really bad. I think a harsher punishment would be better for her, long term. She needs to learn that her actions have consequences.”

“Uh, okay.” Rafa shrugged.

“Seriously.” She sat down in the bed. “It sucks that it seems I don’t have equal say on how we raise them.” She may not have given birth to them but she was their mother. Such was their agreement and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Mar, let's just go to sleep now, okay? Of course you have equal say. We see things differently, but we’ll figure it out. As you said, you must wake up early. We’re upset now; it’ll be easier to discuss this tomorrow.”

Marina laid down sideways, her back to him. “Sure. Good night.”

“Good night, Mar.” He pulled down the string from his lamp, click. “We will talk about it tomorrow.”

On a sunny Friday, Marina, now forty-eight, walked into a shop and waited by the counter. Rafa was away in Medellin, allegedly on a business trip, coming back Saturday.

A tired man wearing steel rimmed glasses came to her. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

“Hello. I need a pen.”

The man nodded. “What kind of pen?”

“A fountain pen.”

He showed her some.

“I like the third one,” she said, pointing at a black one with silver Art Deco lines. “Can I try it?”

“Eh, sorry, only once you’ve bought it.”

“Oh, okay.”

The man clicked his eyeglasses. “It’s from a limited edition.”

They looked at it through the glass.

“The nib is rhodium-plated 18K gold.”

“Yeah, I’ll take it,” she said. “It’ll do.”

The man unlocked the cabinet and held the pen up, admiring it against the light that shone through the shop’s windows. “I think you’ve made a great choice,” he said, though he couldn’t understand why anyone would spend all that money on a pen.

“I have some letters to write,” she confided.

“Most people don’t write letters, not in paper.” He set the pen inside a black box. “They say they don’t have the time.” He smiled sadly. “I’m glad to see you have the time.”

“These letters are really important.” What compelled her to tell him? Her heart beat imperceptibly faster. What would she say if he asked about them?

The man nodded. “In that case, may I offer you in some nice ink?”

“Yes, good idea.”

Leaving the shop with the pen and the ink, she knew there was no turning back.

From the shop, Marina drove back to her building.

“Good afternoon,” said a neighbor in the elevator.

Marina pressed the button for the top floor. “Yes, hello,” she said to the woman.

They looked at the metallic doors until they opened again.

“Have a nice day,” the woman said, getting off.

“Thanks, you too.”

The lock clanked as Marina turned the key to her apartment. Once inside, she took her shoes off. With her eyes closed, she focused on the familiar feeling of her soles sinking into the thick white tapestry as she crossed the living room.

She sat down on the white sofa and lit a cigarette. As she smoked it, she wondered what would happen if she set the sofa on fire.

In the restroom, she opened the ink carefully. The label read “Beautyberry.” She filled the pen’s cartridge.

She set the pen and ink on her desk, by a large window, and looked out. The sun was beginning to set, one of those beautiful orange pink afternoons in Bogota.

The faucet squeaked as she turned the knob and water splashed into the bathtub. Some salts Elvira had brought from France dissolved with a fizz. She left her clothes in a pile and, after a few steps over cold green tiles, felt the soothing warmth of the water around her.

She hugged her legs and imagined that the bathtub was a womb. She relaxed, thinking that she was one with the water.

At some point the phone in her apartment rang loudly, jarring her. Submerging didn’t drown the metallic buzz, just distorted it. After six rings, silence returned.

The third time the water started getting cold, she walked to the door, turned the lights on and came back into the bathtub to shave her legs. When she finally came out, the tiles were a wet mess.

The water chirped loudly as it went down the drain as she dried off with a pink towel. She donned black underwear and polished her nails. After drying her hair, she donned a black dress she really liked that she had picked with Rafa in New York and a pearl necklace with matching earrings that she wore very rarely.

In the mirror, she examined the wrinkles under her brown eyes. She traced her eyebrows with her fingers. She was beautiful. She powdered her cheeks and put on red lipstick.

She opened the window slightly and lit a cigarette. Her stereo started playing Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb on repeat.

She sat down. The pen felt heavy on her hand. The writing was sharp, the purple ink majestic. She practiced her signature three times. Satisfied, she crumpled the paper into a little ball and put it in the ashtray.

She finished her cigarette looking out the window. The moon shone brightly; she felt imprisoned by her glow.

She watched the lights on the buildings come on one by one and the white and red blur of traffic rushing down the avenues and through the bridge by her building, all the strangers anonymously traversing an ugly monster-city that should not exist.

There was work to do. She pressed a button in her lamp. It illuminated her desk.

She wrote four letters: to Lucía, Milena, Elvira, and Rafa. In all letters she told them how much she loved them and asked them not to judge her too harshly nor to blame Rafa, who had done nothing wrong.

She expected Rafa’s letter, the last she wrote, would be the hardest—she didn’t want to think of the past—but it came out easily. He would remember her by it, so she set aside her anger and frustration and wrote from the heart. She wrote that beside him she had been the happiest woman; that she was doing this out of love. She wished him well.

After writing the names in the envelopes, she arranged them, and the pen and ink, neatly on the wooden desk.

These were her letters. Maybe they didn’t amount to much, but they said all she had to say.

Marina drove to an exclusive restaurant. She had eaten there twice, on special occasions with Rafa. She parked and walked through the gate.

“Good evening, madam. Welcome! How many will be joining you?”

“I’m by myself.”

The host saw her to her table.

A waiter pushed her chair from behind as she sat down.

“Can I see the wine menu?”

“Certainly.” A waiter produced the leather-bound menu. As she read it, another waiter brought bread and butter.

“I’ll go with this one.” She pointed at a French wine that she thought Rafa had once praised highly.

“Terribly sorry, madam, I’m afraid I have to inform you that we don’t serve this wine by the glass. If you’ll allow me, the wines by the glass are list—”

“It’s okay,” she said curtly. “I’ll have a bottle.” The pomp of these common waiters annoyed her.

The waiters looked at each other briefly. “Certainly.” They started withdrawing with a bow.

“Oh, and a bottle of sparkling water.”

They brought the water and the wine. The wine tasted good. They poured her a glass.

She ignored the furtive glances from a curious couple sitting nearby.

“Is madam ready to order, or would you perhaps need a few more minutes to consi—”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” she said, handing over the menu. “I just want to try the house salad.”