13 June 2008. Milky sun, yellow light from the east. Javed's face over 7-eleven counter, worn and alert. Night shift, twice on the Haj. "We haven't seen you," the words somehow makeshift, provisional. "No paper, no banana..."
Before dawn--appearing on small screen, in the quiet downstairs dark. As if out of nowhere, Los Chalchaleros. Arked across a stage, each figure on a black disk, elevating their presence. Golden guitars, elaborate allusions to native dress. Theatrical and self-satisfied, but their voices engaging. "Paisaje de Catamarca." Overly smooth rendition of something from far in the past.
Meanwhile, Nicola, with a penchant, beats her own small paws against the living room door, stretching up, not in time, white and black and gold. Insistent. Oblivious to all but her own pursuits. That's how it is: we love, we go our own way...
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