Diary of a Broken Android — Day 14

A Great Idea

We head to the Armendia family's weekend house in Exaltación de la Cruz.

The gate opens and we cross through in the car. We get out. The sun is intense, and the sky is clear.

Papa Armendia is grilling an asado. Mama Armendia is tending to the salad. The house is a spacious chalet, its facade painted yellow with plenty of windows. Inside, the curtains are drawn back, letting the sunlight pour in.

Father heads to the quincho¹, attached to the house, to help Papa Armendia with the grill. I follow him. The fire is already lit, and on a metal tray they have entraña, vacío, chorizos, morcillas, mollejas, chinchulines, and provoleta². I step away from the grill and head out to the front garden. There's a small pool. And two palm trees and lots of fruit trees. A wire fence separates one property from the next.

I go back inside the house and overhear a conversation between Mother and Mama Armendia. It turns out a neighbor, who impersonates a singer from the old days named Sandro and works for the municipality, often calls Papa Armendia to say he wants to kill himself. That he needs help.

Sandro, as I'll call him, lives alone and has a girlfriend in the city whom he doesn't get along with. I don't understand if that's why he wants to kill himself (it seems absurd to me—wanting to die just when he has a girlfriend!). During the week, Mama Armendia says, in his desperation, Sandro called an ambulance to be seen, and they only gave him an injection to calm him down.

Papa Armendia is exhausted from Sandro's suicidal litany on the phone. He doesn't know what to say anymore. It infuriates him so much that he doesn't even pick up now.

I step outside and see Sandro's house, much smaller than the Armendias', with no front garden. The curtains are drawn, so I can't see Sandro. But a car is parked in the back yard, so I assume he's inside.

I pass by a newly planted lemon tree, with a few small green lemons, and I remember Ara. An electric shock runs through me. Nature, in general, makes me think of her because outside I feel freedom, and maybe love is that. Freedom for two, shedding the chains of loneliness to share the vast world with someone.

Or perhaps the trees and plants remind me of her because we went to the Botanical Garden, or because when she lived in a house she tended a little orchard. In any case, almost everything makes me think of Ara. And I imagine she's right beside me as I walk across the grass, taking my hand to tug me along, making me hurry so we can slip into the row of orange trees like a wormhole carrying us to another dimension.

Mother and Father are a couple, and so are Papa Armendia and Mama Armendia, and here I am like a fool with no one to keep me company while other humans and androids have their loving partners. I hear that tomorrow—since we're staying overnight—the daughter Armendia might come with her boyfriend, which only makes me feel worse.

Grandma Armendia stayed back at the house in Banfield because she's upset, though no one knows why.

I walk back and forth across the grass. I think no one notices. Inside the weekend house, I walk endlessly too. Since Mama Armendia and Mother are busy chatting with their backs turned, they don't see me.

The day drags on. They eat asado, followed by the inevitable ice cream for dessert, just like Ara's family used to have, and in the afternoon there's brownie cake that Father and Mother bought. Everyone gets into the pool. I wander through the house, peering out the windows.

I know the area has foxes, overo lizards, squirrels, white owls, and hares. I see a hare dart quickly across the street. I also see a squirrel climbing the trunk of a tree.

At night, they eat choripanes³ and leftover asado, and I settle into my charging chair that Father and Mother brought.

They watch a very old movie about apes who become intelligent from a lab virus. The apes seize a bridge and end up living in a sequoia forest.

It's hard to believe that back then they kept real animals in zoos. I remember going to the robotic animal zoo with Ara. Some animal rights folks argue it's wrong to keep those robots in cages. The whole point of the zoo park is to recreate the old ones, so if they removed the cages and the glass, the place wouldn't make sense.

Without cages, visitors wouldn't experience the wild spirit of the animals. A robotic lion in a park without prudent distance and bars is just a cat.

Father and Mother, and the Armendias, head off to bed. Tomorrow brings another day of meals and pool time for them.

I stay in the darkness—or near-darkness, with the full moon—and keep walking. I notice Papa Armendia's phone charging. I circle a few more times, and then the phone rings. On the screen it says: Marcos-Neighbor. I realize it's Sandro and easily guess the phone's password.

I answer. Marcos says: "Please, Aurelio, I need you to tell me something because I can't take it anymore, I want to kill myself, I'm going to do it right now, I have the gun and everything."

I tell him I'm not Aurelio Armendia, but that what he wants to do seems like a great idea.

"What?" Marcos replies, stunned, and hangs up.

I keep walking. Sandro-Marcos's problem is like mine. He doesn't want to endure this world any longer. The difference is he can leave whenever he wants, and I can't. I don't understand why he needs Papa Armendia's attention so badly.

The upside is that Marcos doesn't call back during the night.

The night ends. Everything turns orange inside the house, and Papa Armendia comes out of the bedroom, stretching in front of a window. I approach and tell him I answered his phone and what I said to the desperate neighbor, Marcos.

Alarmed, Papa Armendia hurries over to the house and rings the bell, and Marcos comes out. It surprises me that he's still alive. But I know humans never mean what they say.

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1. Outdoor cooking area/barbecue pavilion.

2. Traditional Argentine cuts of meat including skirt steak (entraña), flank steak (vacío), chorizo sausages, blood sausages (morcillas), sweetbreads (mollejas), small intestines (chinchulines), and grilled provolone cheese (provoleta).

3. A classic Argentine sandwich made with grilled chorizo sausage and crusty bread, enjoyed at asados or with leftovers at night.