At the door to what I assume is his apartment, he stops. I duck under an awning maybe six doors down. The street is otherwise empty. It's so quiet that I can hear the jangle of his keys and the grating sound of one sliding into the lock.
Before he moves inside, his voice comes singing through the silence. "You want to come in, or will you wait there until the shops open tomorrow morning?"
Taking my shoes off inside Mauricio's front door, I don't give an excuse, just act like he's invited me over — and here I am. The place is immaculate, smelling vaguely of omelettes. He doesn't say anything, just hangs his coat and pushes his way through saloon-style doors into the kitchen, whatever he's just bought in his hand.
"Do you want mate?" he asks. "It is like tea. I am making some."
"Sure," I say, and go sit down on the folded futon in the living room — which, I realize, is also his bedroom. The futon is his bed.
While Mauricio clanks around in the kitchen, I look around. Everywhere are musical instruments: guitars, a banjo, little hand-held drums, a keyboard propped in the corner. The only decoration on the walls is a watercolour painting tacked above the futon. Two M-shaped birds flap over a zigzag mountain range snowcapped in white; the perfect red half-circle of a setting sun washes the page in stripes: fuchsia, gold, crimson. It's a terrible painting, something the mother of a proud but untalented child might display only out of parental obligation.
After a while Mauricio emerges from the kitchen carrying a silver tray. On it is a clay teapot and a single, ornately designed, egg-shaped cup with a silver wand sticking out of it. Mauricio sits down cross-legged on the floor and places the tray on the coffee table between us. Without saying anything, he pours hot water slowly into the cup.
"Aren't you having any?" I ask him.
"Yes," he says, and then sits back. "We must let it brew."
A minute passes, maybe two. I watch the steam rise from the cup. Then he takes it in his hands. "At home we would have loose mate," he says. "Here are only teabags."
I watch as he takes a sip from the wand — it's apparently a straw. He sips, then sips again. I wonder if he's going to leave me any. I guess he sees my face, because he laughs. "You have never taken mate before," he says.
"No, I guess not."
"It is like a ceremony. I take the first cup to make sure it is okay for the guest. Maybe it is strange. But, you know, you are away from home and these things become important."
He fills the cup again with hot water and passes it to me. "Do you want sugar?"
I shake my head and put my lips on the straw. The taste is bitter and smoky — somewhere between green tea and eating a cigarette — but not unpleasant. I sip again. There's not much in the little egg-shaped cup, and soon I'm done. "Thanks," I say, placing the cup back on the tray. "This is the life, eh? Couple of dudes, sharing a pot of tea."
Mauricio's looking at me in a funny way. I avoid his eyes. He sighs, so long and heavy that it feels as though he's doing it for both of us, then fills the cup a second time and passes it to me, saying, "You did not come in to see her today." From his tone — not reproachful or accusatory, more restrained — it's obvious that he saw me at the hospital.
"Yeah, I was at work. I've got the day off tomorrow so I'll go by then."
"She thought you were coming. Everyone did." Mauricio pauses for a moment, and when he speaks the words are slow and direct. "But Lee is so strong, isn't she? You of all people must know that."
I don't have an answer for him, so I twist to have a look at the painting above the futon, all Ms and Vs. When I turn back his eyes are trained on me like a pair of high beams. "How did it go?" I ask. "Today, I mean. With the surgery."
"Good. She is doing fine." He gestures at the painting. "This was by my sister. She died in a car accident. I take it everywhere I go."
"Oh," I say. I take a sip from the metal straw. The taste is mellower now, more potable. "That's sad about your sister."
,of course, she was very small; it is very sad. It has been four years, but still I think of her every day. It is nice to have something of her with me, you know? Some memory. And I like to have a painting because I can think of her making it, putting herself into it. Art is the opposite of death because it is always alive. No?"
Jesus, is he really saying this? But, whatever, I nod. "Yeah, it sure is."
"And what about you?" he asks. "What will you do, after?"
"After what? After Lee's… gone?"
"Yes."
I think.
"I will go back to Argentina," he says.
"You will?"
"Yes," he says, and nods. "Unless you need me here."
"Mauricio, just go home."
I catch myself and look over. Kneeling there on the other side of the coffee table, his mouth hangs half open as though he's about to say something. But then he closes it.
"I mean," I add, "you've already done so much. We're really grateful. But you must have your own life to get back to."
Mauricio just lies down, right there on the floor. He doesn't say anything.
I finish what's left in the cup, slurping up the last few drops a little too loudly. Then the room descends back into silence. Mauricio seems to be meditating, or sleeping, his eyes closed, body supine. Meanwhile — and maybe it's the mate — I'm feeling anxious and buzzy. I find myself having to consciously stop my feet from tapping.
After a while, I say, "Well, it's pretty late," and Mauricio jerks to his feet as though he's forgotten I'm there. He walks me to the door, holds it open as I make my way outside. With me standing in the street and him in his apartment, we shake hands, right over the doorstep. It becomes one of those extended shakes — held there, unmoving — that feel like they're going to end with the other guy pulling you in for a hug. Mauricio's face is tired and drawn. I wonder if I look the same way.
"See you at the hospital," I say.
"Hopefully," he says and lets go of my hand to close the door.
OUTSIDE IT'S STARTED raining. Just a light drizzle. I pull my hood up as I make my way back down Mauricio's alleyway, over a few blocks to the subway station to take a train home. Before I head underground, I check for messages on my phone. None.
Using the touchpad, I skip idly through the names, watching Giselle's materialize at the bottom of the screen and slide up, line by line, and then disappear. I stop on the one that says Lee (hospital). I call.
She answers quickly, her voice hoarse.
"Hey," I say. "It's me."
"Hey."
"How you feeling?"
"Tired. I was sort of sleeping." She coughs. "It's late."
"Sorry," I say. "I just wanted to know how the Gamma Knife went."
"Tests back tomorrow."
"I'll call in sick and come in."
"It'll be early. Too early for you. Just go to work and come later." She coughs again.
"No, I want to come in the morning. What time do you get test results?"
"Fuck, Pasha, I don't know. Just come whenever you want."
"I'll come in the morning, okay? First thing."
"Sure, whenever you want."
"Okay." I pause. "Love you."
"Yeah," she says, and hangs up.