19 February 2008. Rainy approach over misty gray-green bay, colors lost in whispy clouds, dark and wet, all rooftops and ponds. A navy ship--squared off jaw--transport matériel--now small below...with ducks afloat on rippled tones of brown... Private jet pulled to side of glistening runway, figure emerges in trousers and shirt--business class--pausing on tarmac at end of stairs, his arms raised, stretching...
Fleeting sound of Spanish voice, young woman on bench, and a red-head, also young, with plastic bag from Berkeley Bowl, nibbling, healthy, red-tipped pen for notes in the margins of some elaborate stapled text--already filled with her small dark hand...
Jorge Cafrune, on the horse, retracing the steps of la Patria--two figures in a truck--a camioneta--19 years old, hired by Videla, or someone close. Their fervor, no doubt--and their aim. "Qué mueran los salvages unitarios..." Cries unending...
But also the songs...
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