La Cuenta*

*Cuenta: a narrative or report; also a bill or the cost.

“Cuentame (Tell me),” he said, and she did.

She sat across from him. I sat to the side. She was 19 years old with long black frizzy hair, a sharp pointed nose, and thin painted lips. Her face betrayed the boney ridges and the labyrinth of cartilage that lay beneath. With the suppleness of youth, her floating skin was still smooth and her smile was wide and wild. She was tall for a Mapuche and her young breasts defined a proud Figure beneath her one-size-too-small V-neck sweater.

“Nineteen days,” he said, “How did that number arrive? When was your last bleeding?”

“In January … January 29th”.

He sat across the desk and stared at her. He had vivid blue eyes. There, in that South American countryside of short dark native people, his blue eyes were remarkable—they reflected the German blood of my Maestro. He sat, staring, and she clarified.

“The next time should have been February 28th and that makes 19 days,” she said slowly, poised.

“Your last time of bleeding was …