House of Borges

He remembered the surly look on the custodian’s face and his eyes, pale blue with flecks of gammare. He could see the gray cloudless sky and the crows sniping at passersby. He could hear the custodian laughing when he walked on the balls of his feet, his shoes worn through at the heels, the cobs of his toes chafed crumbly. Rosario Santa Fe they called her, never once using her given or Christian name. Rosario lived in the room above him with the other consumptives and dope fiends, the ward known for its indecorousness fecal odor and broken door handles. Santa Fe, as she was wont to call herself, wore the same blue and white jumper, the cuffs frayed, the waistband twisted round her hips. Rosario Santa claimed she’d been a courtesan to the House of Borges in Ola Buenos Aires. Around her neck she wore a lion’s tooth broach, a gift from a man with a black face and white white teeth. Fe slept with her feet facing southward, interrupting the microwaves that flew like tailless kites around her head. Fe Santa wore a toque lined with tin foil, the chinstrap tied in bows and double-knots lest it jimmy loose exposing her to violent thoughts and spasms of the brain.