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who’s old enough to be her father, smokes incessantly and treats her like a lady in waiting. When they pull on to Libertador, she fears he’s taking her to be interrogated at the torture chambers of E.S.M.A, the
Navy Mechanics School, but they drive straight past. Then she thinks they must be going to the dreaded military intelligence unit at Batallón 601 headquarters at the intersection of Viamonte and Callao, but they pull on to Avenida Juan B. Justo. He eventually parks up in La Paternal. In this neighbourhood there is no secret military prison she knows of, but who knows how many there are? Once out on the street, he walks five paces in front of her, she thinks of running, but where to? She stops. He walks straight ahead, not once turning round. Frightened, intrigued and trembling with cold, she follows Perro all the way into his apartment.
    Have a hot shower. It’ll do you some good. Here’s a towel and a dressing gown.
    Lascano looks at the bird in the cage. The animal jumps around nervously, then lets out a tweet of recognition. Lascano shakes his head and goes into the kitchen. He feels dizzy. He puts a pot of water on the stove. He lights the gas and a cigarette with the same match, allows his mind to rest, lulled by the hiss of the flame. As the water comes to the boil, he turns off the gas, the flame burning out in a tiny explosion. He prepares the mate , a methodical ritual.
    He’s sitting on the sofa when she returns from her shower. She looks even more like Marisa than she did before, more everyday. He passes her the mate .
    What’s your name? Eva. Are you hungry?
    She nods her head. Perro gets up from his seat. From the sofa, Eva can see him preparing some food. She can’t understand what’s going on. After a while, Lascano comes back with two steaming plates of spaghetti in a tomato sauce and places them one across from the other on the wobbly coffee table. He goes back into the
kitchen, comes out with a bottle of wine, two glasses and cutlery, and leaves them all in a muddle on the table. He sits down, starts eating and signals for Eva to do the same. She dives in. The basic, simple food tastes delicious. Eva lingers over the flavours, feeling the nourishment bringing her strength back, and her body yearns for more. A sip of wine immediately puts colour in her cheeks. A sense of warmth and well-being awakens in her, until now but a distant memory, hidden between the folds of a desolate present. She wonders, How have I ended up here? Lascano makes the most of her being so distracted to stare at her. He feels like he’s reliving the first time he cooked for Marisa. The only thing missing is for her to say:
    Mmm, the pasta’s perfect, al dente.
    And for him to answer:
    Well, I am a hard-boiled detective.
    Normally, witty replies came to him hours or even days after the event, but not on that occasion, laughter springing forth as if a magic spell had been cast upon both of them. Lascano smiles sadly to himself, a gesture that doesn’t escape Eva’s attention, although she doesn’t understand it, nor feel the need to. There’s something happening here. She doesn’t know what it is, but she likes it, finds it comforting, it makes her feel at home. She doesn’t know why, but this man fills her with a sense of security. Very suddenly, Lascano gets to his feet and goes into the bedroom, then comes back again with a blanket which he throws next to her on the sofa.
    So that you don’t get cold… Sleep for now and we’ll decide what to do with you in the morning.
    He goes back into his room and closes the door. Eva remains still for a few moments. She hears some
movement in the bedroom. Then silence. Empty plates. She stands up. She picks up the dishes, goes into the kitchen, washes them; she has to do something. In the distance, machine guns rattle.
    In his bed, Lascano begins to doze. Marisa smiles at him. He turns over. He slips his hand under his body, slowly, until it reaches his sleeping sex. He