Haute Couture

1

We’ve just come home from burying Mama. I’m going to take a bath, says Ruti, who pretends to be such a clean freak but isn’t capable of rinsing out the teacup she’s just used. The sky is scummy, as filthy as this apartment, which has been on the market for as long as I can remember. Even if it is on Avenida Corrientes, you have to understand that you can find Marion Singer, Haute Couture, only by passing through a gallery of discount storefronts, eight stories, and an elevator in back. We’re alone now. I pour myself some tea in the cup she used.

2

Through the kitchen window I see the city, all mist and drizzle. Antennas, cables, towers, closed windows, a solitary pigeon seeking shelter outside our window. There comes a moment in life when we’re like that pigeon. Mama, poor thing, was that pigeon, all the time. And me, a feygele. Ruti, on the other hand, was different. She didn’t need anyone. In fact, we were more than she needed. I was more than she needed. That cold blood of hers froze everything around her; you could detect it in her expression. It seemed impossible that the two of us had come from the same womb, just seconds apart. First her, then me. But in the alignment of the stars, those seconds must have made the difference. I faced the river; Ruti, the back. Since I was born good, I won’t dredge up all the times Ruti tried to get rid of me. Please love Debi,...