This story is based on a true story my Anthropology professor, Regina Knapp, told to me, but many facts were changed by me to a point that makes it impossible to tell anymore if it is fiction or a true story.
I’m a bad person and Mr. Bondad is such a good person. I hope he forgives me. Mr. Bondad opens the door and I freeze. I stare at his dark birthmark. He smiles at me and says come on in.
I think creative writing can’t be taught, and so does Clare, probably. And probably so does every well-established writer in Buenos Aires.
I translated this extract of my mother’s memoirs because of its sentimental meaning for me. I hope that, if the translation is decent, it delineates the moral silhouette of a heroic figure. I would like to share it as a tribute to her courage. E.M.S. I called my brother Roberto and told him
We were in a supermarket comparing prices of pizza sauce when the idea struck me. I suddenly stopped in the middle of the alley and told Eugenio that we should quit our jobs, our flats and our studies and start travelling to the north. He laughed. But soon his laugh turned nervous when he realized