Needle in a Haystack by Ernesto Mallo

so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er…
    …and she knows there’s no turning back, she can’t become unpregnant, nor does she want to, and she’s afraid. It seems clear to her that there are two kinds of coward: those who beat a retreat and those who make a break for it. The moment has come for her to plan her escape, because she’s become surrounded. She can almost hear the barking of the dictatorship’s dogs with their slobbering tongues, sniffing out the streets in search of her. They can smell her sweat, her pregnant female scent. She chases such thoughts away, determined not to let them take hold inside her. She would like to go back to being a little girl, feel herself protected, free of these worries, and she dreams of a different country, dreams of the sea and starts to organize her thoughts of exile:
    On balance: I’m alive. This refuge is perfect for the moment. I’m in the house of a cop who doesn’t ask questions and who
intrigues me, what does he want from me? He says he wants to help me. The three things I need start with “D”: dough, documents, disguise. Let’s see where we stand. There are the two wads of dollar bills that Tony Ventura left hidden in the brothel, which must still be there and that Lascano didn’t see. I have to find a way of getting them. I can’t just rock up at the house and tell the concierge I’ve come to collect something I left behind. In any case, I don’t even dare leave the house on my own at the moment. I’ll have to find a way to get Lascano to take me there. Documents. He can help me with those too, as the police produce more false documents than anyone, but how can I ask him without giving myself away? The disguise is the easy part. If I wear the beige fitted suit that’s in the closet, even if it is really for summer, and put my hair in a bun, I could easily pass for a well-to-do lady from Barrio Norte. So I’ll have to get to work on Lascano, study his movements. He behaves towards me with such a strange mixture of admiration and terror. What’s up with the guy? When he found me, it was as if he’d seen a ghost. What’s going on? I need to find out more.
    Eva stands up, goes into the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea. Cup in hand, she takes tiny sips of the still bubbling hot liquid, enjoying tormenting her tongue as she used to do as a little girl, and walks around the house. She goes into the bedroom and opens drawers, making sure everything is put back in its precise place. Underpants, socks, shirts, handkerchiefs, ties. The drawer on the bedside table is lined with oilskin. It’s full of of empty packets of cigarettes, papers, used pens, a jumble of old bills which she flicks through half-heartedly, gas, electricity, phone, empty matchboxes, kipple. When she puts them all back, she notices something under the cloth on the bottom and so lifts it up to investigate. She thinks she’s looking into a mirror, but no, it’s a
photograph. There she is, herself, in Ital Park, hugging Lascano, both of them smiling at the camera. She falls back on the bed; now she’s the one who’s seen a ghost. She goes into the bathroom and looks back and forth between her reflection in the mirror and the photo. Now she understands why this man protects her, helps her. She realizes that the woman must have left him or died, almost certainly the latter because Lascano has the burnt-out look of a widower before his time, and she can appreciate why he doesn’t know what to do with her. Everything becomes clear, and she goes back to his bed to study the photo at greater length. They look happy and in love, while behind them a roller coaster descends at full speed, a blur of fuchsia, green and yellow lights, the people’s faces terrified and out of focus. Lascano has a lovely smile she has never seen before. His skin shines in contrast to the mate -coloured complexion he has these days and she understands his pain of happiness lost. A