Too Many Cooks

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 5

Previously

Chapter 5

“Poultry and Rabbit Inspector?! This is how you plan on getting me access to the main government building? What did you call it – The Garden?” Fernando waved the forged papers towards the large building in the distance which could just be seen through the apartment window.

“Yes,” she replied patiently. “That position is held in the highest regard and will grant you unrestricted access. Once you are inside a colleague of mine will escort you to the room you need.” She was convinced he was The Chosen One and that once he got to the room with The Device he would know what to do.

If he had understood her correctly, this device somehow allowed one to see everywhere and everywhen simultaneously. It was rumoured that it also enabled travel to wherever or whenever. Fernando had no choice but to go along with her seemingly crazy plan. He wanted to get home and he had no other options.

Until he was inside The Garden - a towering, grey, lifeless edifice which housed the city’s Technocrats, bureaucrats and suchlike - he was convinced that he would end up in prison. Or worse.

He approached the main gate nervously while doing his best to appear calm and confident. The guards eyed him with suspicion but as soon as he showed them his papers they immediately began to treat him with deference. They escorted him to The Garden’s foyer where he was met by a small, nondescript man who indicated that Fernando should follow him.

He was lead through a maze of hallways, stairs and elevators until they reached a long corridor with a single door at the end. Nondescript nodded in the direction of the door and left. Fernando made his way down the corridor until he stood facing the door. It was a plain wooden door upon which a large white number “1” had been fixed. As he reached for the brass handle a familiar voice came from behind him.

“Hello Fernando. You took your time getting here.”

***

This web of time - the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries - embrace every possibility. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

***

Younger Quizzical still couldn’t quite believe that his trip had been approved and was grateful for the advice that Taller Wider had given him. He whistled happily to himself, enjoying the warmth of the mid-morning sun as he made his way to The Ministry for Temporal Relocation. He was completely lost in thought, which is why he didn’t notice the lamppost.

As he rubbed his forehead it occurred to him that there were no lampposts on this street. At least there weren’t a few moments ago. He looked around and found himself in a much narrower street, lined with old-fashioned buildings. It had suddenly become dark and foggy.

Other than the street lamps the only light he could see came from a building a little further down the road. He made his way towards it, passing a beautifully preserved, vintage Cadillac. On the wall by the Cadillac someone had spray-painted an ornate alphabet. The last four letters were obscured by a poster of a winged insect. Any words on the poster had long since faded.

Voices drew his attention away from the poster towards two men who sounded as though they were arguing. Younger Quizzical approached them, noticing that they were both bald. They appeared to be fighting over a comb.

Hearing his footsteps, one of the men glanced at him. The other used this distraction to claim the comb and ran off laughing. The glance turned in to a glare and for a brief moment Younger Quizzical thought the man’s blue eyes flashed amber before he set off after the other bald man, muttering incomprehensibly.

“Well, I guess we’re not in Kansas any more,” said Younger Quizzical to the cold, night air.

As he neared the building spilling its soft light into the street he saw a sign above the door: The Labyrinth. He entered the smoke-filled room and made his way to a small table, having to step round an old man on the floor who was hanging on to the bar. A few moments later a waitress placed a glass of caña in front of him. “Compliments of the lady over there,” she said, indicating a redhead on the far side of the room.

Younger Quizzical lifted the glass in her direction. She tilted her head and smiled. He lost sight of her as a man rose from a nearby table and stumbled past him to the front door. The companion of the stumbling man caught his eye. He drew deeply on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an overflowing ashtray.

“Won’t you join me?” he asked Younger Quizzical. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said as he tugged on his goatee.

***

Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 4

Previously…

Younger Quizzical set the saucer of milk on the open windowsill as he always did after work. He stripped down to his shorts and opened the icebox, but lost interest thanks to fatigue and instead sat at the table and lit a cigarette.

He was certain his partner’s advice was good. Taller Wider had experience and while he had no particular career aspirations, he knew the unspoken rules and politics of the job better than anyone. Wider’s uncanny ability to size up a situation with little concrete information could be unnerving. Quizzical often felt his partner had some kind of invisible antennae. He worked harder at keeping his thoughts impenetrable than he did at spotting infractions committed by locals. He would rather Wider think he wanted to meet a girl than have him know the truth.

He heard soft lapping and turned to see his skinny feline friend on the sill. “Hello, Puss.” Quizzical often spoke to the cat, who seemed to listen to him even while refusing to come in or be touched. This was their daily routine. He smoked and spoke softly while the cat drank free milk and listened to him. It was the most satisfying relationship he had ever experienced.

***

To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.

Jorge Luis Borges

***

Taller Wider smirked knowingly. “I hear your leave was approved. Good for you.”

“Yes. Your advice was sound as always. I have to fill out a few short reports on the locals, but it is a small price to pay for some time away.” Quizzical stared off into the distance for a moment before he caught himself. He had no doubt that if pressed for information Wider would use any momentary lapse to save himself. That was the reality of the times.

Wider and Quizzical sauntered down the street, continuously scanning doorways and alleys for curfew violators. It was rare for them to find anyone out at this hour. The consequences were severe, and the locals knew it. The job had become more of a quiet, leisurely saunter than the old type of enforcement work. Neither of them minded. They were the type of men who spent more time in their own thoughts than out, and the hours of walking gave them ample time for their mental diversions. Patience was the most important quality in an officer these days.

“Odd case with that man the other night, wasn’t it?” Quizzical turned toward Wider. “Everything seemed in order, yet…”

“Yes.” Wider searched his face. “It was strange, but not the first time I’ve seen something like that. If I have not seen them before, I take them at their word. I’d rather let someone with documents go than deal with the alternative.”

Quizzical shuddered. “Indeed.” he said. “Better than the alternative for them and for us.” He looked ahead again but saw a flash out of the corner of his eye. He looked at the storefront only to see the reflection of finned, chrome detailed Cadillac go by. He eyes widened when he said the beautiful red hair of the woman behind the wheel. As he spun to look at the street, he found it empty.

His partner was eyeing him closely. “Did you see something?” he asked. “No, nothing. I thought I saw a reflection, but I guess I am just a little overtired.” Wider met his gaze. He was not convinced.

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 3

Previously

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

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 2

Previously…

Sofia.

Fernando breathed deeply of the cold, foggy air, hoping to clear his mind. His first urge was to panic and run the streets, calling for Sofia. She was his anchor. She would make sense of this crazy night.

He flipped open his cell phone, but there was no reception. That was not unusual, as service here was often affected by the weather. No need for hysterical responses…yet.

Fernando peered out into the darkness. Yes, the cars were most definitely strange, and the street could no longer be called a street. The bar was still missing.

“Perhaps I’ve had a walking blackout. Too much smoke, too much gin, too many wild ideas.” Fernando began to walk toward home. At least he thought that’s where he was headed. He would find someone and ask for directions.

He walked with purpose, even though he didn’t recognize anything in his surroundings. Suddenly, he heard voices in heated conversation, so he picked up his pace, anxious to speak to someone, anyone, who might be able to help him.

The men were closer than he thought, and he was upon them before he realized it. Their conversation stopped immediately, and both looked at him as if he were a rare, two-headed creature.

“I’m so glad to have found you,” Fernando said. “I hope you can help me.”

“It is more likely that you will help us,” answered the taller, wider of the two men. Fernando noticed that they wore uniforms, but they were unlike any he had seen in town before.

“We need to see your papers.” Again, Mr. Taller Wider spoke.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. We need to see your papers. You are violating curfew, and if you don’t have your papers, we will have to take you in.”

Fernando cleared his throat, a nervous habit of his that usually gave him a few seconds to think. This time, it didn’t help at all. If anything, it seemed to make his companions suspicious. They changed their positions ever so slightly, as if to prepare for a chase, should he break and run.

“Your papers, sir?” Mr. Taller Wider was becoming agitated.

“I’m on my way home and seem to have lost my direction. If you could just set me back on the right street, I will be happy to leave this area.” Fernando backed a few steps away, but the two men stayed right with him.

“I will ask you one more time and then we will have no choice but to take you into custody.”

Suddenly, the three men heard the sound of someone running toward them through the fog. A young woman, wearing a bulky sweater, overalls, and heavy boots joined them.

“Carlos! I’ve been looking all over for you!” She grabbed Fernando by the arm and shook it. She was grinning at him, but her eyes were filled with fright.

“Officers, this is my cousin, Carlos. He arrived this afternoon and in my joy at seeing him after so many years apart, I forgot to tell him about the curfew. I also forgot to make sure he had his papers with him when he went out for dinner. When he didn’t return, I knew he had to be lost, and I’ve been searching for him for hours!” Her words tumbled over each other.

Officer Taller Wider cocked his head to one side, held out a hand and merely said, “Papers, please.”

Fumbling in her pockets, the young woman pulled forth two sets of papers. Fernando couldn’t read what was on them, but he did see the words “Visitor’s Pass” on the outside of one.

The officers passed the papers back and forth. After several minutes, they returned them to Fernando’s rescuer, who still had his arm in her firm grip. Officer Taller Wider admonished the young woman to keep an eye on “Carlos,” as he had almost been arrested. “And you know what that means,” he said to her.

“Yes, Officer. Thank you so very much! I will make sure this doesn’t happen again.” With no further word, she turned Fernando around and they set off at a swift pace.

Fernando started to speak, but the young woman shook her head, so they walked in silence. At last, they came to a darkened apartment building and the young woman pulled a key from her pocket, unlocked the door, and ushered Fernando inside.

“You don’t realize how dangerous your situation is,” she said to him. “Your arrival has been anticipated for months now, so security is heightened. You are lucky I found you before they arrested you.”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not Carlos,” Fernando replied. “In fact, I have a lot of questions and hope you can answer them.”

“I am here to help you in any way I can. It is an honor to be able to assist The Chosen One.”

“Whatever are you talking about? What Chosen One?” The long evening had taken a toll, and Fernando’s brain wanted to shut down and rest.

“You! You are the One who will save us!”

Fernando’s brain said, “Okay, that’s it for tonight. Overload,” and Fernando passed out.

We are the time. We are the famous
metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.

We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.

We are the river and we are that greek
that looks himself into the river. His reflection
changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.

We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to the sea.

The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.
Memory does not stamp his own coin.

However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoans.

—Jorge Luis Borges “We are the time. We are the famous”

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 1

“Lost like ruins?”

The question hung between them while Raiquen finished his cigarette, squinting through the thick, yellow smoke. Fernando knew better than to rush his friend when he was in a professorial mood lest it drag even longer; he sat patiently.

Raiquen tugged his goatee, another of his practiced mannerisms, and stubbed out his cigarette.

“Not like ruins. Not lost in space but in time. And in perception.” He smiled and raised his bourbon.

Fernando remembered long, hash-fueled nights in grad school, he and Raiquen debating philosophy and physics, neuroscience and hangover cures. There were often girls, only the ripest and most innocent freshman from Raiquen’s section, who attended his every utterance like Moses at Sinai. Fernando had kept up his side of the debates, but it was hard not to sit as rapt as the girls. Even now, even as he could see through the tricks and pretense Raiquen used to gain his audience’s trust and love, Fernando found himself drawn in.

“Ask yourself, old friend, where is the Argentina of your grandfathers? The grand boulevards and ladies in their finery? And what of the Argentina of my grandfathers?” Raiquen asked as he leaned back and lit another cigarette.

“It’s right out that door, of course. Their Argentina gave way to ours. It’s the natural course of things.”

Raiquen’s face shimmered behind the smoke, a small smile barely creasing the corners of his eyes.

* * *

Three hours later, Fernando stumbled out of the bar, his head buzzing from too much gin and nicotine. Since he’d given up his pipe for Sofia, his tolerance was not what it used to be. An evening spent with Raiquen as he chain-smoked through two packs now made him feel he’d smoked a pack of his own.

The warm February evening had given way to an unseasonably cold and foggy night. Fernando clapped his hands to warm them as he started scanning the street for a cab.

He saw the exaggerated fins of an old beauty and walked over to admire her. He smiled at the long, graceful curves and remembered the ancient Cadillac his father had labored over every weekend when he was a boy. Then he noticed the large plastic bubble enclosing the cabin. And saw the other impossibly long, impossibly shiny cars lining the street. A street now 30 meters across.

He turned back to the bar; it was gone.

* * *

Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
of Whom anything that could be said must be denied,
the dead one, alien everywhere,
is but the ruin and absence of the world.
We rob him of everything,
we leave him not so much as a color or syllable:
here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see,
there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait.
Even what we are thinking,
he could be thinking;

we have divvied up like thieves
the booty of nights and days.

—Jorge Luis Borges “Remorse For Any Death”