Strawberries. Leaning over the balcony railing, the silky turquoise of the pool filled her eyes, made her crave strawberries, heart shaped, with those perfect tiny seeds. They were in season, although more expensive than just a couple weeks ago, so they’d be everywhere. Unlike the asparagus she'd searched for the other day until her boyfriend reminded her that here, in this country, they eat according to the season.
--Where's the sunscreen, he yawned.
She was shoving their freshly laundered pool towels and a recent inflight magazine into a light yellow canvas tote bag.
Damn. Today was not the day to go out of the house, she knew that, unless you were protesting. That meant the building's pool would fill up faster than usual. The parking guy had been shouting about dictatorship since 8 am, at least she assumed it was him, that tall ageless man with bony legs in frayed shorts who waved a rag at passing cars to show them a precious parking spot on the normally packed street.
--What's he doing? she'd asked when she moved in.
--You give him a tip when you park and he keeps an eye on your car.
--And if you don't?
--Why wouldn't you?
She slowly undid her neat ponytail, glanced at the full length mirror by the door, grabbed her small black leather purse, a gift from her boyfriend's parents.
--It's okay, I'll go, you don't know which bottle to get. And I need strawberries.
She leaned over, placed a soft kiss on his clean shaven face.
--Be careful, just go nearby, to the corner place.
In the airless elevator, her jade green sunglasses were already slipping down the light film of sweat on her freckled nose. Pausing at the gate, she offered a quick wave and tight smile to the security guard, just as she had been instructed. He nodded back and buzzed open the gate for her to slip out.
She'd been right, the parking guy paced up and down the traffic-free cobblestone street, shouting, cars parked tighter today under the shade of thick-bodied rubber trees, people staying home.
--How much does a kilo of meat cost? 50,000! We are in a dictatorship!
Adjusting the red bikini strap under her freshly ironed sundress, she walked faster as his voice grew louder, her eyes directed straight ahead down the unusually empty sidewalk that led right to the store, three blocks away.
The heat of a body right beside her, she froze. He shouted into her ear.
--How much does a kilo of meat cost? 50,000!! We are in a dictatorship!
Warm spit bubbling on her cheek, the lenses of her sunglasses. Her eardrum throbbing in pain. She inhaled quickly, sweat, dust, impatience, but no alcohol.
--How much does a kilo of meat cost? How much!
Her head tilted carefully away from the questions, her feet floating but her body no longer moving.
--I don't know, she mumbled, 50,000, 50,000.
Her hand slowly moved into her purse, reappeared with a wad of folded bills. Without turning her face, her arm rose up, offering. His laughter pounded her ear, his sticky palm slapped down her forearm, her purse dropped, spilling out onto the dirty sidewalk. The gun, she'd forgotten. He leaped away from the girl, silent, both watching the gun.
She started rambling in half Spanish, half English, eyes on the gun lying beside her leather wallet, glass jar of lip gloss that now appeared to have a small crack, coins that were almost worthless, a new tube of her favorite jasmine-scented hand lotion, antibacterial hand spray, a mini packet of cookies, a crumpled tissue and several receipts from yesterday.
--He told me, his parents too, they gave it to me, they said it, they said it's not safe here anymore. Why did I come here, why did I come, they keep asking me. You should have stayed there. He wanted me to come. I never had one, I don't even know how to...he told me, carry it, get used to it, it's so heavy...so small and heavy.
A woman appeared at the corner of the block, the glint of the metal pulling her in. She took a phone from the back pocket of her tight jean shorts, jabbed three times. The girl and parking guy watched, did not move, a train shuffled by, its slow whirring coating the air. As its last car disappeared, the voices arrived, a rising ribbon of long-held emotion unfurling toward them.
From the corner of her eye, blue lights. The parking guy cleared his throat.
--I know where you live. Where are you from?
--No you don't.
They huddled over the gun, as if it would slither away. The woman sidled up to them, watching the two watching, statues. She raised her phone, clicked at them, at the gun, she stepped back and clicked at the girl's foreign face, whose sunglasses were sitting neatly atop her red-blonde hair. The girl brought her sunglasses back over her eyes.
A car door slammed behind them, then another. The cops were young, one more muscular, they were chatting and laughing quietly. The woman pointed at the girl, the sidewalk, her words falling over each other. The floating mass of voices was buzzing, closer, a circling insect still invisible.
--Is this your gun? One cop asked, the other started writing in a notepad. The girl nodded.
--Where do you live? Show me your passport. Remove your sunglasses.
She complied, the sunglasses dangled from two fingers. The notepad cop leaned down and picked up the gun, weighed the small body in his palm, opened it. Not loaded. Everyone looked at the girl, she was scanning the tiny silver letters on the purse that spelled out the designer's name.
--She lives over there, the parking guy pointed to the building where her boyfriend had already gone down to the pool, was waiting on a white plastic lounger for the sunscreen to arrive, waiting under the shade of the palm trees. Strawberries were a nice idea, he realized, he was thirsty. They could smash some up in a glass, add some soda water and ice, mint.
The questioning cop grabbed the girl's arm and began to walk her back toward the building, the others following along. His grip was firm, practiced, not painful, she wondered if screaming or struggling would help or make things worse. In this city, she wasn't sure. But the mass of voices drew nearer, voices shouting but willing to listen, willing to stop for the right reasons.
--Do you know this girl?
The cop was knocking on the tinted window of the security guard booth, his other hand tightening around her upper arm.
The cabin door swung open, a head of short, gelled hair poked out, a wave of cold air and stale cigarettes. His red eyes landed on the girl.
--No sir.
--He's lying, shouted the parking guy.
--This girl doesn't live in the building? Don't lie to me. I will arrest you.
--No sir. You have a cigarette?
He was asking the parking guy, who grunted and spit.
--Where do you live, the cop asks the girl slowly in English, he has a faint British accent.
--I want to call my boyfriend, she says barely moving her lips.
The security guard sighs, steps back into his air-conditioned booth but does not close the door.
--Where do you live?
His words are bunched together.
The sound is clear now, the shout of marching protesters. There are tight chants, practiced drumming, a tsunami of noise pouring over the sleepy barrio filled with the scent of jasmine flowers that crawled atop the front doors of every petite, gated home.
A couple bodies separate from the procession, girl-in-dress-grabbed-by-cop has gained the attention of some of the protesters.
--What are you doing, let her go, what did she do!
Their chanting is soothing, up and down and up, the parking guy starts to fill his mouth with their words, turns to the cops and grins, shouts at them, a soloist and his chorus. He nods at the newcomers, they chant together and run back, he disappears into the stream of bodies.
Inside the pointed storm of noise, the girl's arm is suddenly freed, the cops are barking into their phones, their necks strained, batons at their hips, not her gun. Where is it?
A new chant begins, how much is a kilo of carne? 50,000! We are in a dictatorship!
A long black van arrives, cops with helmets and shields burst out of the back doors. The two cops move toward the van, hands on batons. The girl turns to the darkness in the window of the security booth, sees her reflection. She leans slightly on the gate, it opens to let her in.