Israel Centeno

Rubén Tenorio had been thinking a lot about a fleeting love from his youth. It was like a drizzle, brief and somewhat stormy. Perhaps insignificant, but now recurrent, especially when he thought about his country. He had been making progress in the case of a Carmelita nun and had a direct interview with her in just two days. The Maracucho brothers had granted him the space after Rubén reminded them of some buried files in the archives of the old judicial police, files that were still kept and even transferred to international police agencies. He didn’t need to twist their arms any further; they softened immediately. They showed generosity and good disposition, even asking for Rubén’s opinion on the events in Venezuela.

“What do you think about the elections, Rubén? This time it seems like yes, this time it seem like no. Should we keep hope alive? That story I already know. Patatin, patán, Aquiles Nazoa, whether he eats cheese or bread.”

The brothers were funny, but Rubén dismissed them with a wave of his hand and began to entertain the possibility that he might return to his country someday. Then he dismissed that thought too, and that was when she appeared. A fleeting love, a woman who had stayed with him, imprinted on his skin. The memory of the skin is long, as long as the organ itself. She was like a piece of Bach, stereotypical, straight out of central casting, reading Nietzsche. She was always drawn to just causes, as long as they leaned left, and she loved the central coasts, Cuyagua and Cata. She liked the drums, and even more than the drums, the sticks that made them beat. Her interactions were like international fantasies, and one afternoon she came to him, first drizzling, then showering, and later storming.

He thought, yes, she stayed with me, because she shamelessly asked me to take her from behind, and she was so accustomed to pleasure that as soon as I touched her, she, Adri B, would start saying coarse words and feeding my fantasies. What a delight, he thought, this is like a pornographic film. But it all happened very quickly; she left for an Arab man. She said he had an admirable trunk, though Rubén never knew if she meant his family, his heritage, or something more profane.

Rubén thought, she left me with this sensation on my skin, which returns now, when Venezuela is once again walking on the edge of a razor. Oh, dear God, why do these dilemmas bring up such trivial matters for me now? Nothing will happen, and I will die in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, solving this case of the Carmelita nun.