09:13 <Quaker> The rest of the cell gets a text message on Huntr. 09:14 <Quaker> AB: Hello all. I will be out of town the next four days. If a matter of extreme urgency comes up (not including informational meetings) you can contact me at 0161 477 8591. For all other business, please forward messages to the front desk of the Hotel Portmeirion in Portmeirion, Gwynedd. Best, A.B. 09:15 <Quaker> She buys a black denim jacket lined with fleece, and a few amber-colored wool turtlenecks to go underneath. The saleswoman shows her the best winter boots they have, and she gets those, too, and a pair for Amjad. And a cheap phone, just for this trip. 09:16 <Quaker> There's a disused culvert a few blocks from her apartment, leading into a tunnel that's bricked off fifty meters in. She wraps her rifle in plastic and places it in a hole in the masonry near the top of the wall. 09:18 <Quaker> Then she goes to a hair salon. "Oh, you've got such beautiful curls, love. Let's see...have you ever thought of a curly lob? It would frame your face so wonderfully." She hadn't thought of it, but she gets it. 09:19 <Quaker> The van is packed for travel and she puts her luggage in the back: a week's clothes, her guitar case, a mini-amp, her leather satchel, and a small backpack for her journals. Amjad's just got the clothes, and an empty suitcase for souvenirs. 09:20 <Quaker> By the time they've passed the great ring road around Manchester, she's breathing easier. Her thoughts clear. 09:22 <Quaker> Around them as the road goes on, suburbs and red-brick flats give way to hedged fields and low stone walls and the occasional retail outlet. A few miles north of Chester they start to see the flat moors, brown and tufted under a slate sky. The no-man's land of the freeway. 09:23 <Quaker> Then there's a sign: Welcome to Wales; a red dragon on white wood. The land starts to change, until the bumpy brown plains give way to higher and deeper ridges and gullies, and then canyons and cliffs. All around them is a curtain of shocking yellow and orange, deep and bright red and gold. The drooping boughs are like gilded curtains. 09:24 <Quaker> She lowers the window as Amjad takes them on the narrow roads through the valleys, feeling the light drizzle on her face. 09:25 <Quaker> Why aren't they working here? 09:26 <Quaker> In the passenger's seat, Agostina fiddles with Amjad's .MP3 player, until she finds what she wants: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iP6XpLQM2Cs 09:27 <Quaker> She gets Amjad to sing along, eventually (pedicure on our toes, toes/ tryin' on all our clothes, clothes/boys blowin' up our phones, phones). 09:29 <Quaker> They pass through little villages with stone-built high streets, and the road signs announce increasingly complex names: Tal-y-cofn, Llanbedr-y-cennin, Dolgarrog, Llanrwst. 09:30 <Quaker> She thinks about an uncle telling her about the all-Welsh towns in Chubut, far south of the Rio Negro. Supposedly her mother had passed through there, holding her infant. Why would they leave all these valleys for the flat lands of Patagonia? 09:32 <Quaker> Betws-y-coed is a tiny village perched on a small stream, carpeted with smooth black river stones and mossy ferns. They stop for lunch, and a tour of the railway museum. She buys them two tickets to ride the miniature locomotive, and for the first time in a while she sees Amjad laugh without reserve. 09:34 <Quaker> They walk to the old Pont-y-Pair bridge, and look down into the water. The bridge spans a ravine, with stone cottages on either side seeming to float on top of a green canopy of elms and willows. "Originally built in 1500," Amjad reads off a plaque. Manchester seems very far away at the moment. 09:40 <Quaker> The road sign leading west through the mountains reads Snowdonia. As the van climbs up the road, they outrun the clouds, and the world lightens in front of them. 09:42 <Quaker> Ahead of them to the west, as far as they can see, are the sweeping sides of golden mountains, tumbled piles of rock and light snow on the crests and pools of dark blue water in the gorges. 09:44 <Quaker> The pair pulls over as many times as they feel like. The lockdown must have thinned the stream of tourists; only occasionally do they see another car pass on the highway. 09:46 <Quaker> Portmeirion is an odd, pretty place. Miniature Italianate villas are crowded together around faux-ancient stone facades and geometrically precise gardens. 09:50 <Quaker> The whole place emerges from the very edge of the thick Welsh forest, overlooking a broad muddy estuary. 09:51 <Quaker> They stop at the Hotel Portmeirion, which sits on the estuary banks. The only sound is the distant murmuring of pensioners passing by the little rows of shops. 09:52 <Quaker> “As far as post-modern architecture goes…it’s not bad,” says Amjad. 09:53 <Quaker> “Like a whole town made out of quotations. How unique.” 09:56 <Quaker> “‘The famous television drama The Prisoner. starring Patrick McGoohan was filmed here in 1967 and 1968,’” Agostina reads off a plaque. “Writers and actors have visited our village for inspiration, including Hollywood stars like Gregory Peck, philosophers like George Bernard Shaw, and visionaries like H.G. Wells.’” 09:58 <Quaker> “Patrick McGoohan? Great Columbo guest star,” says Amjad. 10:00 <Quaker> They spend the next two days in the village, taking slow walks through the gardens and shops, and short drives to the surrounding towns. She doesn’t think of Manchester at all. 10:04 <Quaker> At sunset, they watch the estuary slowly fill with the rest of the river. Even in the fall cold, she wears her bathing suit to the hotel’s expansive sunning patio to read on the chaise lounges. 10:25 <Quaker> The hotel’s parlor is full of overstuffed armchairs and thick wooden tables. Past 10 PM, all the other guests have retired for the night, and Amjad goes quietly to his own room. The kitchen is closed, but the night staff is unusually friendly, and she gets fed a steady stream of hot cocoa, espresso, and fancy biscuits. They even light the hearth for her. 10:25 <Quaker> Let’s see. 10:25 <Quaker> Agostina leans back in the armchair. 10:25 <Quaker> She can think about two things. 10:27 <Quaker> What’s waiting for her back home? 10:27 <Quaker> ‘Back home?’ 10:28 <Quaker> She can picture Aaron Aster’s unhappy little fish lips formed into a scowl. Something something ‘erratic’. 10:28 <Quaker> She makes a mental note that if she hears the word erratic thrown her way she will seriously consider leaving. 10:29 <Quaker> Let’s not think about that. 10:31 <Quaker> There’s the other thing (Things? People?) in her bag. She could re-read them. It’s been a while. 10:32 <Quaker> She’s not unhappy. And reading it doesn’t make her feel…more unhappy, exactly. 10:33 <Quaker> They do make her own problems seem less immediate. And that would be nice. She likes Wales. Much more than she thought she would. Wales has made her happy. Enough to float this. 10:35 <Quaker> Well, why not. She goes through her satchel and finds a blue three-ring binder. The sharpie on the tape affixed to the front reads “C.W.I. 1948-1981”. 10:40 <Quaker> The binder is stuffed full of folded papers and printouts, plastic protective sheets covering photographs, and smaller leatherbound journals. 10:42 <Quaker> She didn’t re-order them last time she was looking through it, so she has to go through the materials before she finds the journal with the ‘1’ written on a little green sticker on front. The journal itself is a beautiful little thing, done in red leather with brass clasps and small gilt edgepieces. Even after sixty years, the paper feels smooth and soft to the touch. 10:48 <Quaker> The lettering is in neat cursive. Cursive and classics, she thinks. Isn’t that the boarding school way? 10:50 <Quaker> She knows the fountain pen her father used to write this, too. She remembers losing it in one of the moves. Her mother didn’t talk to her for two weeks. Was it worse than getting things thrown at her head? Who knows. 11:04 <Quaker> ‘Let this journal be the evidence of my life given to the great cause of the Argentine Republic and steadfastness against all its enemies. I, Celestino Weldmann Izurieta, have sworn myself to fight for the cause of national sovereignty, against the plans and designs of international banditry. Today I have taken a great step: swearing my oaths to my comrades and brothers in the Guardia Restauradora Nacionalista to join the fight against the Great 11:04 <Quaker> Internationals, against Communist and Capitalist Imperialism, against Marxist, Trotskyist, Castroist, Atheist, Communist and Masonic infiltration and subversion, to obey orders of my superiors with my life, to honor Jesus Christ and the spirit of patriotism.’ 11:05 <Quaker> She checks the date. July 11th, 1965. 11:05 <Quaker> Hola, papa. 11:06 <Quaker> Her fingertips run up and down her temple. 11:07 <Quaker> She marks her place in the little red book (haha), and checks the index she’s made. 11:08 <Quaker> The last document, number 25. Dated March 7th, 1981. One of the folded-up pieces of paper. She unfolds it. 11:09 <Quaker> It’s cheap typewriter paper, perforated up and down both sides by little holes. 11:11 <Quaker> The title reads, 12 interrogations of the subversive Celestino Izurieta in typed letters across the top. 11:13 <Quaker> Interrogating authors: Cpt. E. Costa, Sgt. S. Linares. 11:15 <Quaker> Integrity assured by R. Bonnard attached to I Corps. 11:17 <Quaker> Sessions lasting from Jan. 3rd to Mar. 7, 1981. 11:18 <Quaker> Agostina thinks for a while, and then folds the paper back up. 11:19 <Quaker> She sighs and puts the journal away too, and then the binder. Let’s not do this now. 11:19 <Quaker> Let’s not make myself miserable for no reason. 11:21 <Quaker> She remembers when Vincenzo handed that paper to her. Carefully explaining the meaning of all the odd little symbols drawn in pen across her father’s typed words. How excited she was, then. Here was the secret truth of the world. Here was the reason for everything. 11:23 <Quaker> Revelation leading to relief. Cresting some final peak of personal knowledge. That was the plan. Credits roll. 11:24 <Quaker> How long ago was that? Twenty years? 11:28 <Quaker> She puts the satchel away and leaves it on the armchair before she goes out on the hotel’s patio. In the moonlight, the river looks like a great silver snake. 11:28 <Quaker> She feels vaguely uncinematic with her hands in her pockets. In the movies they always smoke while they stare out into the night. 11:32 <Quaker> Did she need to scream at Goreman? Let’s see. After the triple insult of asking after her dentures, whether she was a Muslim, and cracking jokes, it sure felt fucking good. 11:33 <Quaker> Why did it bother her, though? 11:34 <Quaker> She’s too close to these people, is one answer. It’s just a job. 11:36 <Quaker> The moon looks so beautiful reflected in the river. She wishes she was like that. One whole. She wishes there were one thread she could follow in her head, traced down to the Self, fix it or splice it or right it or whatever. 11:37 <Quaker> In the real world, she thinks, people are diffuse. People are a drop of ink in the ocean. You are spread across in all directions. 11:39 <Quaker> She’s tired of thinking why she does things. Positive actions have positive consequences. Negative actions have negative consequences. Good deeds and hobbies and family make you happy. 11:39 <Quaker> It’s not a lack of introspection. She has introspected enough for one lifetime. 11:40 <Quaker> But there is no answer there. No floor to touch with your feet. 11:41 <Quaker> Does Wales make you happy? Then go to Wales. 11:41 <Quaker> Does your husband make you happy? Then wait for your husband. 11:42 <Quaker> Does Amjad make you happy? Then spend time with your friend. 11:42 <Quaker> Does the job make you happy? Then do your job. 11:42 <Quaker> Do your coworkers make you unhappy? Spend less time with them. 11:45 <Quaker> Stupid, man. 11:45 <Quaker> She laughs to herself in the dark. 11:46 <Quaker> There’s no answer. You just live. 11:47 <Quaker> Go climb a mountain and watch the clouds. 11:49 <Quaker> Maybe she’ll learn Welsh. 11:50 <Quaker> The next day they load the van and leave for Snowdonia. She spends an hour in the hotel cafe while Amjad gets gas, browsing on her laptop. 11:52 <Quaker> Etsy has this thing where you can get an excerpt from a poem engraved on a small granite tablet. Like…wall art or desk art. Hm. Maybe she should get it engraved on a locket or something. That would be nice for Christmas gifts for the rest of the cell. 11:54 <Quaker> Then they go to the mountains. The mist lays in banks across the wide slopes. deep and low enough that by the time they walk up the 2,000 foot marker the short peak looks like an island in a sea of cream. 11:56 <Quaker> The peak is called Glyder Fawr. While she waits for Amjad to catch up, Agostina sits on an overturned granite pillar. All around her are patches of grey snow on jumbled shelves of grey rock. A very few snowflakes are falling from the sky. 11:58 <Quaker> She turns to look behind her. A half dozen stone fingers (knives?) jut upward from the mountaintop, making a little grove of menhirs. The wind has frozen ice on one side of them. She’s glad that it’s just barely warm enough for her coat. 11:59 <Quaker> Agostina takes the little amp from her backpack and puts it on the ground and takes her guitar out to tune it and plug it in. By the time Amjad reaches the peak, she’s warming up with some improvisations. 12:06 <Quaker> Her guitar is an old Fender Stratocaster with a dark orange finish and a cream plate. There’s a little painting of a ceibo flower on the bottom. 12:07 <Quaker> Amjad reaches the peak and stamps up and down. “Alright. I’m freezing my unmentionables off. Hurry up, thank you very much.” 12:07 <Quaker> Agostina laughs. “Yeah. My fingers are fucking freezing already.” 12:12 <Quaker> The amp is small but mighty. She can hear the notes echo off the side of the mountain across the valley. 12:13 <Quaker> She does what makes her happy. She thinks she still remembers what that is. 12:13 <Quaker> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JOKn33-q4Ao 12:14 <Quaker> As they’re walking down the mountain, Amjad says something lost in the wind. 12:14 <Quaker> “What?” 12:17 <Quaker> “I said Hwyl, edrych mlaen i ddod yn ol. It means, ‘goodbye, I’m looking forward to coming back.’” 12:18 <Quaker> “To who?” 12:18 <Quaker> Amjad shrugs. “The mountain.” 12:18 <Quaker> “Wales?” 12:18 <Quaker> “Wales is Cymru.” 12:19 <Quaker> Agostina waves at the valley. “Hwyl, Cymru. Edrych mlaen i ddod yn ol.” 12:20 <Quaker> They get back to the van before dark and drive through the woods as the sun comes through the leaves, red and gold mixing together in the light.