15 July 2008. Gray all the way, moofy blanket of almost wet, puffs of cleaners smoke, whitish, drifting upwards... Children's voices now--two little ones near the workbench. They've got the yellow highliter going... Mother swoops in, cheerful but insistent, "Get the lid back on, you did a good job...let's go..."
Let's go. Bueno, che... Circle of the unexpected. A small guitar, on the shape of the vigüela, close to the ground, gathered. It's evening. Cebando mate. Brewing mate. A calabazo--golden-yellow gourd--dull silver band around top, filled with aromatic gray-brown leaves. Yerba--Cruz de Malta. Insert bombilla--hollow silver metal tube... Add water, not quite at a boil, from small dented kettle... almost to the top.
Unexpected presence: Alyosha and Nicola. Qué boludo. What the hell are they doing here...? Out on the pampa, far beyond Huanguelen, night approaching...
Only the songs, the stars...
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