SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue Two - Journal - Page 116
SINE QUA NON
on a broken ledge of a sink.
“Ah, that’s the mystery to it,” he answered. “No one really knows if the box contains the
white shells in question or…?” And he laughed with a sardonic laugh that was unsettling.
We parted singing a popular song in disquietingly loud voices, I remember, and I also
remember that night, alone in the room, I had dreams of horrible whitish snails—the wide
grey slug part of them.
I must have been lost in thought for a second, and the keen eyes of Antonia Rizzo
brought me back, together with her clearing her throat. I took out my notebook and started
the interview. The coffee was a bit cold already, and all through my questions I could feel
the presence of the brown box, laying like an ark of some kind on the silent piano. I avoided
looking at it, and asked:
“How was it to lead an expedition made up mostly of men back in 1965, Doctor Rizzo?”
I asked, knowing this question must have been asked to her a thousand times by then. Instead,
I’d preferred to ask her if she wore that lipstick in the jungle.
“Well, darling, you know what? I didn’t have much time then to question myself about
who’d be who, or why. I just grabbed the funds obtained by a generous streak of the museum
and a very helpful doctorate mentor, Dr. Cigliano.
I wanted to ask her if he had fallen in love with her, but that was too distant from my
expected POV. Instead, I said:
“That must have been quite a thing, going there with almost no roads at the time, and
with only your tents…”
“Mmm, don’t include it in your notes, but we slept inside the cave a couple of very rainy
nights. We weren’t supposed to, but then again, who’d tell? There wasn’t a soul around during
those months, except for the occasional friendly settler who’d ride by and share with us some
produce and a round of mates. They were curious about our work, but most of them insisted
we’d find nothing, as that man, Felleto if I remember his name correctly, had previously
thrown everything into the river.”
“Did it cross your mind to drain the river course or send divers there?” I asked, as I
thought of the people who had drowned.
“No, darling, our line of work at the time was quite limited and had to follow the exact
rites of the trade: tidy segments of two per two. We dug 2.80 m deep in some places and 1.80
m in others, depending on the depth of the floor in each area.”
Eyeing her nails, her statement somewhat surprised me.
“And what exactly did you unearth? Why was it never displayed at the La Plata Museum?”
I asked, perceiving how the mass of her body stiffened at bit at the question.
“Everything has been kept. We didn’t dig with a shovel, we dug with a trowel, a brush,
and a small broom. We also sifted through everything, noting down each item that appeared.
In other words, if you currently had all the material from the Indian Grotto and wanted to
virtually reconstruct the cave, we could place what appeared in each grid for you. Exactly.”
“And where are all these finds at this moment, as we’re speaking?”
“They’re carefully guarded by experts at the museum.”
“All of them?” I asked, and as the words came out of my mouth, both of us looked at
the package on the piano.
She stared at me for a few seconds, sighed, and said:
“You want to see them, don’t you? Is that why you’re really here?”
I blinked at the thought, as it had not occurred to me before she said it, but answered:
“Yes.”
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