Marcelo walked into the cemetery a little after it had opened. He walked back and forth amongst the graves and stopped in front of one as if to give the impression that this was the person he had come to visit. In fact, though, he had difficulty in reading the name on the tombstone, not because the name had worn away but because he was quite incapable of mental concentration. 

The last twenty-four hours had passed like a whirlwind. He could not even say what clothes he had on or when he had last eaten. Diana was dead. He could not believe it at first. They came to tell him at the university. “There’s been a car accident.” “How is she?” “She’s dead.” Hospital, paperwork, relatives, cups of coffee, friends, strangers. They told him to sit, to stand, to eat something. It was all unreal. Diana was twenty-three, Marcelo twenty-four. They had known each other for five years, from university.  

So many plans, to finish their studies (medicine and biology), write exams, go to live abroad, have children, go back on visits. 

Marcelo could see nothing clearly. Or almost nothing. A feeling of urgency grew inside of him. When Daniel got back from AMIA, from organizing the details of the burial, Marcelo asked to see the papers. Daniel thought that Marcelo wanted to touch something real, something of Diana that still remained. Marcelo struggled to clear his mind and memorized the lot number, the row, the plot. 

One Thursday six years later, he did not go to work. He did not even call in sick. He went to Haedo. He had to get there before nine, before the work crew. 

He sat there in the car. At nine twenty they arrived in the truck. They lowered the two machines, passing a bottle of Coke between them and they started setting up the ground. Marcelo could hardly keep still. All the nerves of his body were on edge. 

As he stood there in front of the unknown grave, he saw the workers arriving. Mechanically they approached the empty plot and began to dig. They chatted, laughed, talked about football. Marcelo could not hear them anymore. He was watching the soil emerge and pile up; he smelt the dampness. When two of the workers were already well down inside the grave, he approached. On seeing his face they fell silent, perhaps out of respect. They dug away mechanically but in silence now. 

Marcelo was trembling. He felt like crying, screaming, stopping them, throwing earth at them, throwing himself in the hole. The pain tore him apart. When he recovered consciousness, he was sitting in a chair in the cemetery office and he heard what to him was a metallic-sounding voice telling him that they were coming to fetch him. Marcelo had no strength left. If he had, he would have felt betrayed. 

The work crew was in a good mood. They were laughing, horsing around, throwing plants they uprooted and stones they unearthed at each other. 

Marcelo felt like crying. But he was happy. 

Another car drew up at the gate, unexpected by Marcelo. It was the architect. When he saw him, he came up. “So you can’t wait to see it finished, eh?” Marcelo smiled. “Don’t worry, man, these people are reliable and they know what they’re doing. In six months you’ll have a wonder house.” Marcelo mumbled some kind of reply as if in assent, and walked away. 

He parked the car ten blocks away and walked to the bar on the corner of the empty lot. When the architect left. Marcelo went to look at the builders working. The foreman said something to him but Marcelo did not even hear him. He was standing on the sidewalk, his legs apart, staring straight ahead of him. 

The foreman went off and in an unnecessarily authoritarian tone ordered the work crew to start digging. He wondered for a moment what was the matter with the guy, but right away he remembered the old woman, the kids waiting for him today, little Marta’s party on Saturday and he went on working. 

Copyright David Mibashan.