Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 3
The worn springs gave out a pained groan as Fernando rolled over and reached out to touch Sofia’s hair as he did each morning. Bright late morning sunlight streamed in through a window next to the bed causing him to blink repeatedly as he continued to grasp for his familiar morning ritual. But there was no cascade of raven locks to untangle with his fingers, only an unused pillow wrapped, as he was, in crisp white cotton bedding.
Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.
—Jorge Luis Borges, “The Threatened One”
So it wasn’t a drunken haze as he hoped. He wasn’t home with his beloved. He was with … he struggled to recall if she had said her name while rescuing him from the officers last night. Fernando’s cranium seemed to have a magnet inside refusing to let his head leave the bed and causing his internal compass to spin. Or perhaps that was just the rolling waves of nausea as his body tried to reorient itself after a night of literal and chemically-induced fog.
The smell of strong coffee reached the doorway before his rescuer. “Good morning. I thought this might help,” she said, approaching him without making full eye contact. Despite the struggle to navigate his labyrinthine thoughts, he could register clearly that she was a lovely young woman, the type Raiquen would have … Raiquen? What had become of him? Fernando gratefully drew down the cafe con leche, making note of the sweetness and how the warmth felt going down his throat. He let the steam dance over his face, leaving moist droplets as proof of its and his physical existence.
Unlike people who read novels, he never saw himself as a character in a work of art.
—Jorge Luis Borges, “The Waiting”
“So what did you mean when you said you knew I was coming because I am The Chosen One?” Fernando finally managed. “And who is Carlos?”
“You are The Chose One,” she smiled nervously. She still could not fully believe he was here. In the city. But, more specifically, in her house. She had never had a man sleep in her house before. “Your arrival is the subject of many stories. It is all written in the pages of Borges.”
***
Reality is not always probable, or likely.
—Jorge Luis Borges
***
It was that time of day when the buildings go from letting the outside light illuminate the interiors to artificial interior lighting releasing its glow to the streets. Taller Wider and his partner Younger Quizzical made final preparations for another shift on border patrol. Perfectly pressed uniforms cinched with leather belts and harnesses bearing the usual accouterments completed a carefully constructed image intended to be easily recognizable by all, and feared by some. Other than an occasional disturbance, the border had remained quiet since The Division. It was more a paperwork issue than an event when locals from one side or the other claimed that a building had disappeared. More paperwork if someone had ended up on the wrong side and needed to get back. The calculations for dimensional realignment had been greatly improved and normally transitions went relatively unnoticed.
Younger Quizzical sometimes wondered if the technocrats intentionally let the miscalculations happen to provide just enough activity to keep the patrols on their toes. It was more likely, he conceeded, that the universe just isn’t perfectly predictable. The Division had maintained a seemingly perfect peace for more than two generations but he had an uneasy feeling that that might soon change. The frequency of border dust ups and level of anxiety among the locals had been on the rise in recent times—since rumors of The Chosen One started.
I foresee that man will resign himself each day to new abominations, and soon that only bandits and soldiers will be left.
—Jorge Luis Borges
“So, are they still going to let you take your time off?” Taller Wider inquired.
“I’m not sure yet. Even if they do, I don’t expect I’ll get the Visitor’s Pass I requested,” the other responded dejectedly.
Taller Wider had been in uniform for nearly a decade when he was teamed up with this partner and the youngster sometimes made him smile and sometimes made him want to shake some experience into him. He knew better than to try to talk his young friend out of it and opted for a suggestion that would likely get approval from both his partner and headquarters. “How about you amend the request you put in? If you tell them you want the pass so you can scope out the locals and report back, HQ will likely let you go.” While Taller Wider did not share his partner’s aspirations for career advancement, preferring his established routine, he wouldn’t stand in the kid’s way. Besides, the real reason Younger Quizzical was so hellbent on getting that pass probably involved a girl. Or at least Taller Wider hoped.
Any life is made up of a single moment, the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is.
—Jorge Luis Borges
