an immigrant’s home

Back then, for Pedro to put food in his wife and son’s mouths would cost him around 600 pesos and would last up to a month. The mechanic business on the banks of the great Parana had been started with the greatest of intentions but with the fall of the economy, the residents of the river either learned to fix the boats themselves or they adopted a paddle. That nasal pressure pressing his eyeballs into the back of his sockets and clammy hands gripping the little wooden box so tightly that the tips of his fingers turned white and shook, with the creaking of the flexing wooden sides. Pedro then held it so softly as if he was lifting his firstborn for the first time, allowing that pressure in his eyes to release as he cried with his knees dropping to the soft dirt. All I ever worked for will be worthless tomorrow or the day after. What difference does it make? He looked at the hole he dug under the tree his father planted upon arriving at the former land of opportunity, so deeply as if he were searching for his reflection. He dropped the box by the side of the hole and gripped a branch of the lemon tree. Father, what do I chose? You abandoned your roots, your Spain, your mother and father and your first love so that we could live anew in this rotting Argentina. But even with a full belly and healthy children, you looked across the seas with a pain in your heart I could not understand at the time. With those tears, you allowed me to see, I understood that Argentina was a strangers house and that Spain would forever be your home. What do I do? Pedro picks up the poorly constructed box, with nails sticking out of the ends and throws it to the bottom of the pit. As Pedro kicks the dirt into the hole, the words on the box; To my child to from papa, disappear into the ground. That day Pedro learnt a lesson which he hoped one day his child could understand. A lifetime passes as Pedro counts down his final breaths in the hospital of Pilar. Simon was Pedro’s only child and was the first of his lineage to receive any sort of degree from schooling. A young accountant in the busy streets of Buenos Aires. Breathing in chaos and exhaling nostalgia. It was the day of the Libertadores finals and the two teams which shall remain unnamed waited like two ferocious lions in captivity, each with their teeth and claws biting the metal bars which separated them and each with victory and destruction in their eyes. The roars from the crowds were what reminded Simon why he came to Buenos Aires but also why he had to leave. Simon as a young man was driven by the danger of the unknown which the streets would provide unconditionally. The muggins, the poets, the gunshots, the coffee on the corner. The romance was in constant contrast with the violence and one would become a submissive of the city quite quickly. Even if one were to leave the Mistress of Buenos Aires, she would accompany you every step of the way to torture you into your inevitable return. Simon found himself with a heavy heart when Sophia fell pregnant. His affair with his mistress, the city, had come to a crossroads. My love, my brother has been living in Australia for a year now and he’s made more money in a month than the both of us put together could make in a year. Simon tried to listen but all he could think of was his father in the hospital bed, wearing his red and white in anticipation with the rest of the country. Sophi, we have everything here. My father is sick and your parents, your sister. You studied law for almost 7 years and built a reputation for yourself. What’s your degree worth in Australia? Sophia shows Simon a photo from a text she received from her brother. Pastor has been working at a bar 6 hours a night and this is how much he makes. I studied so hard and for so long and I can’t even earn half of what he can serving drinks. What are we supposed to do here Simon? Our rent is consuming us and we have nobody to lean on here. Simon hears the radio in the background and the streets turn silent. The absence of sound on the Buenos Aires streets could only mean one thing. The game had begun. Sophi, think about what you’re saying. We’re not Australians! We would be living the rest of our lives speaking broken English and cleaning tables. I’m an accountant here. I don’t have an office yet but I will someday. Look how far we’ve come! Sophia opens the curtains of their flat and points to the city. I can see the slums from here. I can see kids begging on the streets. I can see where Juan was murdered. This city, this county, is all makebelieve. Look at our parents! Mine can’t even afford to buy food, we have to help with their shopping each month, and your father needs us to buy his medication. We could easily afford all of those things working in Australia. You’re an accountant, you will find work! 

Simon and Sophia argued until their emotions turned their throats dry and Simon left to go for a ride. The hospital of Pilar was a few hours drive from the city but on the day of the final, not even the winds pushed along the rubbish of the streets. The old motorcycle started like on any other day after a few kicks with some pouring of burnt oil from the exhaust. The city already started to guilt Simon. The hidden corners where he would share a beer with his friends or the clandestine cafe where he would drink coffee in the dark, stood out as if they were the only buildings on the street. The laundry joint which used to be a bar. Simon and Juan would try and pick up the girls from the hostel across the road. They would show them the Argentine passion through their affection and anger. Simon sees the on-ramp and his nose begins to fill with pressure and his hands become tight, without realising it, he had arrived at the toll both a sobbing mess and the attendant just opened the gate without charging him the 150 peso fee. The 150 cubic centimetres were at full noise and his right hand was arched as far back as possible. He began to rock himself left and right, cutting through the non-existent traffic as if it were another day in peak-hour. He couldn’t imagine going this rout ever again. The hospital of Pilar was almost empty and the only nurses available were hidden in a room with the radio playing, listening in to the game, the many patients were moaning loudly and unattended. Simon signed in and showed himself to the room. Pedro, a sorry sight, suddenly rises with life as he sees a familiar pain in his son’s eyes. What’s wrong my boy? What happened? Is Sophia okay? Pedro turns down the radio and tries to sit up but the other sick men whom he shared a room with yelled at him with all sorts of colourful language. They turn the radio up even louder. No pa, I had a serious argument with Sophia. She wants to leave and go to Australia. I don’t know what to do. Obviously, we will be better off financially but my life is here, my roots are here. I drink Yerba-Mate and read Cortazar. I hug and kiss my friends when I see them. I cry when my team loses and I cry even louder when they win. I can’t imagine a world without our passion. I’ve spent my life studying so that I can build something here so that my children can love Buenos Aires as we do. Pedro rises to a seated position as his roommates cheered and booed simultaneously. My boy, we don’t really love this country, we love its potential. We love the nostalgia. I was never strong enough to leave Argentina and I knew long ago that this day would come. I want you to do something for me, Simon. Yes pa anything, what is it? Go to your grandpa’s property on the Parana river. Pay one of the boys there to get you across, they won’t recognise you but tell them your last name. We did a few jobs for them a lifetime ago and they’ll recognise our name. They won’t do it for free but they won’t rob you either. Take a shovel. Find the lemon tree and dig where the bird feeder sits. About a meter and a half deep. I buried something down there long ago when I faced the same dilemma you faced. My entire life and all of my anguish and love are in a small wooden box. You say you’re not Australians but we’re not Argentines either. 

Simon rode his motorcycle through the dirt roads and shrubs, which had been in this state for as long as their last name resided on the river banks. The local boys who slept by the ghostly train station fortified despite their hunger. Simon asked the guys at the boat ramp to take him across. The man told him that he could take him across for 300 pesos on his make-shift boat with a modified brush cutter as its propellor. Don’t you think it’s a bit much? 300 pesos? The man looked up at Simon from his crouched position and showed him his pockets. I haven’t made any money today from the trips because of the game. With 300 pesos, I can barely buy enough to make a few sandwiches from my kids. Simon agreed and with seasoned hands, the man began to steer through the marshy low tide into the great Parana. The abandoned house by the River would bring tears to his grandfather's eyes. Once a prosperous beginning, now the remnants of an empty dream. Traversing the tall grass until he found the tree and by its side, a marking on the ground of where a bird feeder might have once been. He had no shovel and dug like a dog in search of its bone. Until his nails bled. Until he broke his fingers on the lid of the wooden box whose words were rubbed off. He searches the property for some tool to pry it open but after a while without a visit, anything of value will disappear in those parts. 

There was a rusted flathead screwdriver stabbed into the dirt by the stack of rubble from a small Asado. With broken fingers and the utmost caution, he opens the box, now with his anxiety slowly dropping and draining him off all energy, he lifts an envelope with a few things inside. The first he pulls out is a note. To my child. Your grandfather left his beloved Spain behind so that I could eat and I should have done the same once I saw the blue and white lose its colours. But I am what’s wrong with this country because I love it unconditionally, more than myself and more than you. I could never leave. I will one day remember breaking my back, my hands and usually on an empty stomach so that I could save up enough money for when the boats came in from the ports with the produce, all these memories I’m sure will be of anguish. 600 Pesos it costs in these times. I work all hours under the same sun so that I can earn these 600 pesos. I save and I save but each year it becomes less and less. Simon reaches into the envelope and pulls out 600 pesos and continues reading. What’s it worth today my boy? A month’s groceries? A week? A meal? Don’t make the same mistakes. Let go. Do it for the both of us. Simon looked south, across the river towards his Buenos Aires and felt a stone heart as he allowed himself to fall apart crying. He then turns his head east and peers across an ocean, towards Australia and thinks of a future for his child and cries even louder.