Free Needle in a Haystack by Ernesto Mallo Page A

supposed to be: Was flight 505 on time? Eva hangs up. There’s no one left to turn to. The cell has been disbanded. Right now, those who’ve been captured and illegally detained will be trying to get through the first twenty-four hours of torture without speaking. That was deemed sufficient time for comrades to spread the word and disappear, before someone else makes them disappear for good. The military knows this and the race against the clock makes them ever more savage.
    Night draws in and promises rain. The streets are deserted. Eva has to turn back quickly as she reaches the main road, burying herself in the dark shadows of the plantain trees on the side street. At the corner, two Falcons pass by, full of gorillas, the barrels of their Ithacas poking out the windows. They’re on her trail, and anybody else’s. It’s hunting hour and she’s among the prey. Unarmed, she feels naked. She trips on a loose paving stone and splashes dirty water up her legs. It seems like a sign. She walks for blocks and blocks, in tears, the cold of the night biting at her wet cheeks, her body begging for respite. She has nowhere to go, but pride stops her from returning to Lascano’s. Though hardly ideal, it is her only possible refuge. When she accepts this, she starts to make her way back. When she gets to his building, she hesitates, desperately going over her options one more time, but there are none.
    The light in the entrance hall suddenly comes on and a teenage boy steps out of the lift. Eva pretends to be looking for her keys as he comes out of the door and
he holds it open for her. Inside, the cold immediately relaxes its grip and there’s a delicious smell floating down the stairs of home-cooked beef escalopes with garlic and parsley. Her tummy rumbles. Outside Lascano’s door, she hesitates again, but only briefly, because there are people coming and going. Ignoring the bell, she taps lightly on the wood three times. Part of her wants Lascano not to hear, but he’s been leaning against the door since she left, smoking one cigarette after another, thinking about her, and so his body feels the knocking before his ears hear it. He opens the door as if he’s been expecting her all along. The sky provides the special effects, thunder, lightning and the sort of torrential downpour more typical of a hot summer’s day.
    Fancy seeing you here? Forgive me, I’m just a silly little girl. Let’s not kid ourselves. We both know the streets are mean. Can I stay here until I get my papers and some money together? Those who go without being asked to leave can return without invitation. So I can stay then? Under one condition. I thought there would be. Tonight, you cook. You sure like living dangerously. Is your cooking really that bad? To be honest, I can’t even fry an egg. OK then, I’ll make you an offer: I’ll teach you. Really? I’m starving, so let’s get started right away. I’m raring to go. Today’s class, my speciality, pasta with tomato sauce. Again? Again. The first lesson is this: to cook well you have to cook with pleasure, otherwise the food turns out bad. My grandma used to say you had to cook with love. Well, it’s the same thing, and cooking and loving have several things in common, not least their unpleasant side. Meaning? Tears. And so, chopping the onion is your job. Ah, so I get the worst job. The apprentice always gets the worst job. Yes, sir, superintendent, sir! Stop playing the fool and get chopping. And very finely… Whatever you say. Now this bit’s very important: so that the sauce doesn’t
go all acidic, you have to add some sugar to the tomatoes. Like this? Perfect. Do you like garlic? I love it. Excellent. I don’t trust people who don’t like garlic. You don’t say. You’re a little odd, hey? Very odd. Now cut this clove of garlic into tiny little pieces… You see that little green root inside? That? Yes. Take it out. Sometimes it can be very bitter…
    In the confined space of the