Hangxiety

[Ruggahissy]

((Leslie Romero continued from V8))

Leslie Romero was alive, breathing, sitting in a hospital bed, and looking down at a tray of food.

Food.

It was weird to see something as mundane as a pudding cup again. He didn't think he would ever see the miraculous, otherworldly sight of box mashed potatoes again a few days ago. When he laid down, he was painfully aware of his hip bones poking out more than he was used to. The contours of his body were different than he'd known them to be.

He'd spoken to his family on the phone and they'd be arriving soon. They had always been telling him to lose weight. He wondered if they would react positively to his new look, to try and sew a silver lining into this funeral shroud.

Leslie pushed the tray away -- the lumpy pile of reconstituted potatoes had a softness in the way the white mounds sat, and it reminded him of the snow.

He became lost in thought about his great aunt who lived to be past 90. One day she began sewing her own funeral shroud in preparation for her own death. It was beautiful and she worked steadily but slowly. She was so sure that she was going to die the moment she was finished with it that as she neared the end of her sewing she started collecting letters from people, saying she could take them with her to the other side. Her whole life she had made mistakes and always considered it too late by to do anything to fix them, so she would just sit in her solitude -- until the end when she decided maybe she could do some good by acting as the mail courier between those living and those passed. Incredibly, she did die the second the shroud was finished, and she was buried with the letters for the dead, so she could deliver them as promised.

Leslie was trying to recall her name when there came a knock at the door.

Without waiting for him to respond the door opened, as if the knock was only to let him know the door would open in a moment rather than to ask for permission.

"Hello, Mr. Romero."

It was the woman with Interpol. She had introduced herself, as had the man, earlier. Behind her the blond man walked away, seemingly assured she would deal with Leslie. She watched him leave and fussed with her hair. Leslie didn't respond.

"Rosario," she said, putting a hand flat against her chest.

He stared and didn't offer his name because she clearly already knew it.

"Yeah," was all he said.

She jerked her head up and back in a signal for him to get up.

"Rise and shine," she said cheerfully. "Interview time, Mr. Romero."

Leslie scratched the back of his head with his middle finger.

"I don't feel like it. Come back later."

He wanted to be alone, he didn't want to talk to this lady, and it was as simple as that. Rosario leaned against the door frame casually and crossed her arms.

"You're one of the first up. You don't have to go in for surgery and you're awake. I want to get this done as quickly as I can -- which I'm sure you all do too. So since you're one of the ones in best shape, best to interview you while others are indisposed. So get up," she said, with the last sentence more light-hearted than the others, as if she remembered she was supposed to be friendly just at the end.

It was true that Leslie was in relatively good shape. Sores, aches, and bruises aside, he was doing just fine.

"Esto es una mierda," he sighed and looked around the barren room for any ally in the empty walls.

<<This is bullshit.>>

"Tal vez. Pero es mi trabajo. Vos puedés hablar con migo."

<<Perhaps. But it's my job. You can talk to me.>>

There was a relaxed and slightly sing-song quality to her Spanish and a softness to some words that produced more sh- sounds than he was used to. Leslie narrowed his eyes. She was Argentine. And more importantly, that information cast the rest of her in a somewhat unfavorable light, though one that made sense. They had a reputation among the other Spanish-speaking countries for being arrogant and having a superiority complex -- the most pervasive stereotypes aside from Nazi harboring.

"That so?"

The woman nodded slowly and the smile she wore melted from her eyes, though it stayed plastered to her lips.

"Será más fácil si vas ahora que los demás están recibiendo atención médica. Además, para tu noviacita."

<< It'll be easier if you come now while the others are getting treated. For you and for your little girlfriend.>>

Leslie scowled.

"¿El rubio estaría feliz de oírte hablar así?"

<<You think that CIA guy would be happy if he heard you?>>

Her smile flickered for a moment.

" 'Queremos paz, queremos construir una vida mejor para nuestro pueblo.' You know who said that?"

"No."

"My countryman and yours," she said, a sharp note of mockery in her voice. "I don't care what you did, just what you know. Everyone does what they have to. Ahora, ven."

<< Now, come.>>

He felt like she spoke from experience when she said that people did what they had to. Leslie considered hitting the nurse call button just to annoy the woman, but ultimately decided it would be easier to do as she asked. He gingerly swung his legs out of bed and lowered himself onto a nearby wheelchair. After a week of walking, someone could push him if they needed him some place so badly.

"Queremos paz. Queremos construir una vida mejor para nuestro pueblo," he repeated in a murmur.

Rosario pushed the wheelchair out of the room.

"Don't we all," she said.

((Leslie Romero continued elsewhere))