KARENJ.GREENBERG
Cortados on the Quai
T
he early summer wind climbed up from the Rio Plata and ruffled
its way through Carla's loosely tied hair. Dr. Jorge Ruiz, the
director of the Rosario Sanitarium and Alvaro's son, would be
arriving any moment now. "It's essential." Those had been his words.
Not "important." Not "a matter of life and death." Not even "urgent."
"Essential," as in elemental, organic, and worst of all, unavoidable.
Jorge was, like his generation, like her son Stephano had been, exag–
geratedly serious, a young man with the manners of his elders, his jacket
sleeves hanging well past his hands, forever rubbing his chin with the
gesture of an adult lost in thought. Only Stephano had been more out–
going, a full-blown intellectual at fourteen, an orator. The few times
she'd encountered Jorge this year, each time at the sanitarium, by
Alvaro's side, Carla had found him hiding behind his stethoscope and
his weathered briefcase, keeping safe, unwilling to make eye contact
with her, shy of his father's lover and perhaps of his former friend's
mother. Carla wondered whether Jorge ever thought about Stephano,
whether he recalled the protest rallies they attended together before
jorge's family fled to Sao Paulo.
Sipping at her cortado, Carla feared the worst. Had Jorge arranged
this meeting to tell her that Alvaro would be better off not seeing her for
a while? Was he coming to ask, as he had tried once before, about pri–
vate details of her illicit life with Alvaro? She watched as a white
schooner edged its way out of Puerto Madero, its sails lapping up the
breeze, ready for something foreign, something new. Swallowing the last
of her coffee, Carla had the urge to practice her long-gone husband's
favorite part of the day, the custom of turning over their cups to read
the coffee grounds. But no, she had decided years ago never to try again
to decipher her fortune, never to risk living with the certain knowledge
of impending loss.
Jorge was approaching, trailing behind two lovers dressed in khakis
and loose-fitting shirts. As they passed along the waterfront, their arms
looped around one another's waists, they carried the carefree air of
tourists, with no schedu le to meet, no errands to do. Buenos Aires was
