#‘el gato negro’ is just Actually better even if it feels awkward

[qqweebird]

i know that the language you speak natively basically wires your brain to think in a certain way but its always been so hard for me to understand how other languages’ word orders make sense. im taking my second semester of latin and being in this class & the last is the most ive ever had to think about it bc i only took very basic spanish in 4th grade. at least latin is pretty flexible but the typical sentence structure is still weird!

like in my mind a subject-verb-object order is.. it feels temporal. it feels like it describes a sequence of events chronologically, although thats not really true. the most important parts of the sentence come first! i dont have to wait until the end of the sentence to know what is being spoken about & what it did. the verb is almost always at the end of its clause and sometimes the subject is included in it AND the subject is defined by the END of the verb, eg “eam gessit” means “he/she/it carried her” but reads in order something like “her carried(he/she/it).” its not that bad in short sentences, but with a bunch of phrases ? i would hate having to listen to someone speaking it/conversationally bc wtf get all that shit out of the way n get to the POINT what are we TALKING about

[thestraggletag]

La Chacarita, a Rumbelle Revelry Fic

Rating: PG

Word Count: 4,557

Summary: The closer we are to the dead, the closer we are to Death.

Prompt Used: Being Hunted.

A/N: The story is based on an actual urban legend here in Buenos Aires. It is so particular to here and to what really makes Chacarita so... unique that I couldn’t really set it elsewhere. It’s been great getting to write something set in my home city and I tried to give it a Buenos Aires feel without hitting you over the head with references 24/7. Enjoy!

For visuals to help with the story go here.

The weather was the worst of it. Hot and humid to the point that he'd been forced to retire his waistcoats and pull out his less-used suits with more breathable, less weighty fabric but an easy-to-crease finish. He outright refused to wear linen, clinging to cotton instead, but it was unpleasant nevertheless. The heat wasn't a problem as much as the humidity was, an ever-permanent fixture of the city. The people were overly-friendly, knowing little about personal space. Every new person he met, however fleetingly, he was expected to kiss on the cheek, never mind he'd barely touched another human being for years. They drove like mad people, though pedestrians seemed to manage around that fact just fine, and every fucking day there was some sort of street protest that made navigating the city at all an impossible matter. Buenos Aires was, in Gold's opinion, a fucking nightmare. And yet Neal had loved it enough to relocate his entire life there. And to specify he wanted to be buried there, instead of being shipped back to Storybrooke... to him.

They had parted in such bad terms. He'd never forget the look on Neal's face, not of anger but of disappointment. Their relationship had always been strained ever since he'd gone away to college, and gotten the first glimpse of the big, big world. Suddenly Storybrooke wasn't enough, and going back home for the holidays became stifling. The moment he'd graduated he'd gotten work as a photographer in New York and hadn't looked back. He'd been angry at first, resentful of the easiness with which Neal had turned his back on him. Later he'd grown remorseful of having pushed Neal away in his resentment, but by that time their relationship was forever strained. After some years of nothing but tense holiday phone-calls and the occasional text Neal had reached out and Gold thought it was the beginning of something better.

But then Neal had told him of his plan to travel and work his way through the world and he'd grown mad. Livid, even. Neal hadn't gotten angry, as it was usually the case with one of his spats, but he had quietly told him that he couldn't stay put forever. Didn't want to live scared of the world like him.

It was like hearing Milah all those years ago, spitefully calling him a coward. Only it was his son, who used to look up to him so, saying it with quiet disappointment.

After that there had been radio silence for a couple of years. He followed his blog avidly, reading about his travels in Asia and Central America before he seemed to settle down in Montevideo and, later, Buenos Aires. And he made the city look good, with its mixture of French and Italian architecture and its sunny weather. A few months later, when he'd called, he'd been ecstatic. Neal had urged him to fly to Argentina, to take a long-overdue vacation. And though he hadn't said no he'd kept postponing it, never quite booking a flight.

And then Neal had died.

He hadn't known he was sick, hadn't known anything until a friend of his had e-mailed him with the news of his death and burial. After a night of drinking and crying he'd turned his grief into action and tried to get the body back to the US, to bury him at the local cemetery where he'd always be able to take care of the gravestone and the memories. But Neal had left an airtight will and specific, recorded instructions regarding his burial. And for some reason he'd wanted to be laid to rest at the other end of the world... that, Gold thought, was a reflection of how much his son hated him.

He was quick to set everything up with his lawyers and accountant for an extended leave from the US, getting into contact with a reliable Argentine firm to handle his taking possession of Neal's things. He'd been renting an apartment in a trendy neighbourhood called Palermo, near the Botanical Gardens, which appeared often on his blog. He toyed with the idea of staying in the apartment, which was apparently paid till the end of November, but thought it'd be too much, choosing instead to book a nice suite at the Marriott-Plaza, in the posh Retiro, overlooking the sprawling mass that was Plaza San Martín. He had to admit the city was bursting at the seams with green, the kind he'd seldom seen before. Plant life sprouted from every nook and cranny, the street lined with trees. He'd arrived in time to see an event his son had documented in detail: the flowering of jacaranda trees, which lost all their leaves to make room for what seemed like thousands upon thousands of small, bell-shaped lavender flowers, that ended up forming a purple carpet on the sidewalks and streets. It was beautiful, heat and humidity and all, but it rankled at him. Beauty and cheer seemed out of place for what he'd come to Buenos Aires to do, put his son's affairs in order and ship what remained of him to the States. He'd decided he'd pick some personal belongings, put them in a coffin and bury them and Storybrooke Cemetery so he'd have a place to go to, something to visit.

Stepping into his son's apartment was hard. It was full of him, of his personality and quirks. Deciding what to keep and what to donate occupied most of his time, and it was when he was trying to decide what to do with the potted plants on the balcony that he met Neal's neighbour, Belle French. At first it was the delicious luxury of speaking to someone in fluent English that drawn him in- most Argentinians spoke it, thankfully, but their choppy, Italian-sounding accent grated on his nerves, reminded him of where he was and why he was there. Belle French had a charming Australian lilt, a mixture between posh British and something wild, and had been in Buenos Aires for a few years. She was a bit younger than him, in her early forties probably, with brown hair and startling blue eyes. She had a soft yet pushy way about her, and had introduced herself immediately upon spotting him in the balcony, acting like she'd somehow been expecting him. She'd completely disregarded his social awkwardness, immediately inviting him to her apartment for a cup of tea- tea, good tea, was hard to come by in a city of coffee lovers, but Miss French told him of a gem in Avenida Corrientes called El Gato Negro, whose loose tea, he had to admit, was exquisite- and some medialunas- and God, were medialunas good.

From then on, she'd been a staple of his days, sometimes the only person he held a conversation with all day. He knew of her before, of course. Neal had mentioned her often, in her blog and in conversations, to the point that he'd at first thought that he'd harboured a bit of a crush for her. Later he'd started dating a rather stunning blond and so he'd dismissed his original impression.

But it was clear Belle and Neal had been close, from how she talked about him. And as a different picture began to form itself in his head Gold grew resentful and angry. She'd acted as a sort of a guide for Neal, and later on the implication was that she became a sort of mother-figure, a parent to the still-young Neal. Other than Neal's girlfriend, a close-lipped American who seemed reluctant to tell him anything about his boy's last few months, Belle was the only source of information he had about Neal in Buenos Aires excluding his blog, and she seemed both willing and able to help with the details regarding dealing with Neal's will and his personal belongings. There was an air of loss about her that he found both comforting and insulting, a part of him feeling he ought to be to only one mourning Neal in any meaningful way. He had raised him, had thrown his childhood birthday parties, had walked him to school on his first day, had sat by his bedside whenever he'd been sick...

Only that last part wasn't entirely true. Only Belle French had been the one to sit by his bedside the last time, the most meaningful one. She'd shared with him of his son's last days, of the peace that had seemed to envelop him and he'd hated and loved her for telling him, for knowing he needed to hear it.

She became so indispensable to his efforts, and so vital in the way she could account for Neal's last days and could help him navigate everyday life in Buenos Aires that as much as he wanted to push her away he didn't. Or so he told himself every time he sat down in her living-room- or was it a library? Every room in her home seemed like a library- listening to her tell him about her happenings at her job in the AACI library, funny anecdotes about Neal or sometimes more hard-to-swallow details about his illness. She'd always break out some of the nicer patisserie treats when he enquired about his son's last days, as if she sought to soften the blow with cañoncitos and masas finas. And then, whenever he found himself lowering his defences, whenever he seemed too tired to hold on to the inexplicable, unreasonable animosity he felt towards her, she'd say something about Neal, pointing out a preferred masita, a particular taste or habit he'd acquired in Buenos Aires, and he'd retreat instantly, anger coiling again in his gut.

His attraction to her, rather than lessen the dark turn of his thoughts, seemed to enhance it. The way he sometimes caught himself staring at her hair, the way it softened her rather sharp features and contrasted with her eyes, the way he got a little thrill every time she smiled or chuckled at one of his rather dark jokes, it all seemed to only make him angrier at her, more resentful. Neal was his ghost to mourn, his child to grieve, and yet Belle spoke of him as if he was her own too, as if she'd gotten to know what being a parent was like in the measly time she'd shared with Neal as an adult. It didn't work that way, it didn't. For better or worse Gold was Neal's parent, irreplaceable and definite.

He hadn't planned on telling her so, had remained resolute to keep it to himself. And it was strange how he found himself breaking that resolution not in a moment of anger but in a moment of strange tenderness. Belle had offered to show him some pictures Neal had sent to her via WhatsApp, pictures he'd never seen before, and had left for a moment to use the bathroom. Gold, guiltily, had scrolled down the conversation, eager for one more glimpse of Neal's personality, his easy-going nature. And there he'd noticed that Neal called Belle "Mama". And though he knew, he knew, it was likely some sort of inside joke, some horrible, petty part of him roared awake.

What had followed after that felt like a bad dream. He'd cut right into Belle, into what his manipulating, scheming nature had noticed. He'd torn into every weakness, had used every bit of his abilities to forcefully push her away, rip her from whatever place she'd attached herself to, somehow.

"He was my family, mine. Yours is long dead but this is my pain to suffer, my loss. I'm sorry you're alone in the world, dearie, but you had no right to take advantage of my son's nature and weasel your way into a family."

The moment he said it he knew that he'd gone too far, that he'd crossed a horrible line out of fear. Belle's face had gone completely blank in a way that was unnatural in someone so expressive. She had then calmly taken her phone from him, told him she'd see him to the cemetery when he was ready and walked out. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of her since then and tried to tell himself it was for the best, in the end. He'd stayed too long in Buenos Aires, had lingered too long where the memory of his boy's last days was. He needed to say goodbye, a proper goodbye, and be gone.

La Chacarita could not be avoided any longer.

The neo-classical entrance was a pale pink, washed out by the sun and turned into an almost peachy colour. He was almost sure that, like all other old buildings, it had originally been painted with a mixture of blood and lime, but it seemed more than a bit tacky to have done so to a cemetery entrance. The cemetery itself had apparently been created in a rush to house the remains of victims of the 1871 yellow fever epidemic. Unlike its posh counterpart, La Recoleta Cemetery, La Chacarita was... rawer, far less polished. There was an air of pathetic decay about it even if it was well-kept by the city. Some pantheons were veritable works of art and others were old, dilapidated mausoleums crammed together into diminutive, spectral cities of tombs. But by far the most garish sight was that of the "nichos", veritable walls of tombs, small squares with nothing but a plaque to identify the remains. Some looked clean, with small flower arrangements attached, while others looked abandoned and some of them were smashed open, the corpses, hopefully, long removed.

When Belle turned towards one of the sunnier, neater parts of the cemetery he sighed in relief, knowing that seeing his son's name in one of those ghastly niches would have broken him. He'd bought a rather large flower arrangement, a bright collection of chrysanthemums, and he made a big deal of arranging them in the vase he'd brought with them, after Belle managed to find a tap to fill it up. The quiet of the moment unnerved him. Belle was naturally prone to chatter, or to in some way communicate, whether with her body language or otherwise, but she remained closed off from him, either smarting from their fight or giving him what she thought he wanted. What he'd thought he wanted.

It made it real, seeing Neal's grave. It was nice and modest and his name was spelt correctly. It was also heavily decorated with polaroid stills, drawings and posts its with final messages, all the marks of someone who'd been well-loved. And that reminder of how social and outgoing Neal had been, how different from him, warmed him a bit.

After a while Belle left his side, though he knew she was hanging around. It gave him the opportunity to whisper all his regrets into the still-fresh soil of his son's grave, tell him of all his mistakes and how sorry he was. He talked until he was hoarse, until he could not think of anything left to say. After years of pauses and silences he'd finally been allowed to say his peace.

But Neal would never get to say his.

It felt like a job half-done, like he'd almost had that one last conversation with his son, but not at the same time.

At some point Belle came back to his side, and he could tell without much looking at her that she'd soften towards him. He must have looked downright pitiful, the way he'd been bawling his eyes out and kneeling all day, making his limps heavier than ever before. He didn't begrudge her support when she leant it, though he resented her better nature. It was darker than he'd imagined it'd be, and the outside of the cemetery was deserted but for a newspaper stand in which an old couple drank mate. It took the longest time to see any signs of a taxi, even though the crossroads of Avenida Corrientes and Federico Lacroze was one of the popular exists to the cemetery, and they'd almost given up when one appeared as if of nowhere. Usually taxis in the city were new-but-not-much Renault models, with some Peugeots scattered about, but this one was an old Ford Falcon, kept in rather pristine condition. Though it sported a taxi medallion it did not have one of the tell-tale signs that indicated it belonged to a radio-taxi company and he'd been advised to avoid such for fear of robbery. But it was late and the taxi driver looked old, thin and tame and stared fixatedly at him when he pulled up instead of shying away from possible future recognition.

"No, señor, no, no ese taxi. José, José, paralos, por Dios!"

The lady in the newspaper stand seemed to be pitching a fit as they pulled out of the street, calling for her now-absent male companion as if there was some sort of emergency. Everyone shouted in Buenos Aires, for the stupidest sort of reasons. It was a loud city full of crass, loud people. And now that he'd visited his boy he could finally make plans to leave. He hadn't gotten around doing a lot of the things he'd read about on Bae's blog, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He felt... empty. Casting a furtive look to Belle on the other side of the backseat he saw she'd closed her eyes and was apparently trying to sleep. He'd run himself ragged the past few weeks seeing to Neal's things but so had she, every day for weeks after work. And he'd thanked her by reminding her that she had no family to call her own. By taking Neal away from her.

An uncomfortable wave of guilt washed over him, making him squirm. To busy himself he buttoned his suit jacket up, feeling cold creeping into his very bones. For an old Ford Falcon the AC system was state of the line, silent enough that he couldn't pick up on it and dreadfully good at lowering the inner temperature of the cab. He stared out the window at what looked like an almost deserted street, few cars passing them by, getting the strangest urge to fall asleep.

A glance at the sideview mirror on his side, though, caught his attention and woke him up: amid the sleek, usually grey- Argentinian's cars were all diverse shades... of grey- cars there was a smaller, older model, speeding down the street at an amazing, chaotic sort of speed, its lights flashing. A feeling of dread came over him, especially as the cab began to take turns only for the car to follow along, reckless as ever. At some point it began to honk, and fully-fledged fear took over Mr Gold. His harsh childhood and difficult adolescence had geared in him a survival instinct, the ability to sense danger on a deep, primal level. And it had never flared before quite like it was then.

"Belle, I'm sorry, but could you tell the driver... Belle?"

He first noticed one streak of grey hair, then another, until he counted at least five. The change to her fully-brown hair was so stark he didn't notice at first how pale she looked, and how gaunt. When he raised a trembling hand to touch her the skin beneath the pads of his fingers felt icy-cold. He tried shaking her but she didn't wake up or even stir. In a panicky half-English-half-Spanish he told the driver to get to the nearest hospital and though he got no reply the taxi began to go faster and seemed to change course. A quick glance back at the window, though, let him know the other car was still following them, having almost caught up to the backseat window. It was a beaten-up yellow Bug, the kind that he hadn't seen in years. Its colour was faded and looking directly at it made it seem blurry. The driver was a young man with shaggy hair and...

"Papa! Papa! Get out!"

It was Neal.

He wanted to talk, to shout and bang the window and tell the taxi driver to stop but it felt as if someone had drained the vitality out of him. Glancing at his reflecting in the window made him aware he, like Belle, was deathly pale, and gaunt.

"Papa, get Belle and get out of the cab! Jump out!"

Hearing his son panicking jolted Gold into action. A quick look at the rear-view mirror showed him what, for some reason, he'd not noticed till then: the cab driver was almost skeletal in appearance, eyes wide and black and skin tight against his bones. Whatever it was it didn't seem like it planned on slowing down, so he gathered his courage, unlocked the door on his side and held on to Belle, throwing himself and her out of the moving vehicle with as much care as possible. Even so the impact stole the air from his lungs, and all the strength he had left, leaving him with only enough to roll them both towards the safety of the sidewalk. A sharp glance around showed no sign of the taxi or the Yellow Bug, and it was only then that Gold allowed exhaustion to overtake him.

When he next opened his eyes, Belle was staring down at him, one of her hands gently combing his hair back. She looked pale still, but awake and smiling at him, relieved. With a bit of effort, having left his cane on the taxi, they got themselves on their feet, realising that, for some reason, the taxi had lead them back to the cemetery. It only took them a few steps to encounter the old couple in the newsstand again and the woman rushed to their side as soon as she saw them, shouting in Spanish and herding them towards where the older man was. He looked relieved and friendly enough, vacating his chair for Gold just as the old woman gently sat Belle down in hers. They said much, though most was lost on him. Belle listened, though, and slowly began to give him an idea of what the couple was saying.

"They tried to warn us about the taxi, apparently. It's... it's notorious here in Chacarita. Takes people from the cemetery, drives them around, and the next morning they're dead on the grave of whoever they were visiting. The cab... it senses... grief? It's attracted to it, somehow. They're surprised we're alive."

The couple shoved small glasses of a brown liquid smelling strongly of herbs in their hands. A sip told him it was Fernet, and though he hated it with as much passion as the Argies seemed to love it he had to admit it did a wonderful job of warming him up and soothing him. Belle sipped gently at hers, still intent on whatever the couple was saying.

"They want to know how we escaped... How did we? How did you know, how did you not fall asleep?"

Slowly, brokenly, he told her about what he'd seen. Told her of the yellow Bug, and Neal shouting for them to get out of the cab. When Belle went to hold his hand, he grabbed tight to hers, surprised when he noticed telling her about seeing Neal hadn't left him as raw and exposed as he'd feared. It was different with her, different for reasons he'd been trying hard to rage against. With his permission, she told the old couple, who seemed to nod wisely, as if unsurprised by the notion.

"Los de La Chacarita cuidan de los suyos. Su hijo debió haberlo querido mucho para poder manifestarse como lo hizo."

Belle's eyes went soft as she translated.

"She said the people from the Chacarita Cemetery... they look after their own. She said that your son must have loved you very much, to be able to manifest like he did. And he did. He told me so over and over, I want you to know that."

He managed a tremulous whisper of a smile at that.

"He was such a loving boy, always. I'm sorry for wanting to jealously keep it all to myself. I'm glad he knew you, I'm glad he loved you. And how could he not?"

Whether it was the near-death experience or the ghostly apparition of his son come to save him, something felt like it had changed on a fundamental level. He felt... freer than he had in a while, daring and open. The old couple fussed over them good-naturedly, showing the classical Argentine dislike for space that this time he found comforting. When they felt healthy enough they called a radio-taxi, checking twice to see that the cab driver looked normal and the taxi itself did as well. Gold gave the old man directions and for a while there was comfortable silence in the backseat, only interrupted once when Gold inhale deeply at having Belle's hand sneak into his and hold tight. He wondered again about all the times Neal had mentioned Belle, how he'd talked about her quirky humour, her love of books and antiques and her good looks and a new, funny idea occurred to him: Neal was playing matchmaker. And though of course it seemed to him utter foolishness to think someone like Belle would ever look his way he couldn't deny the way she looked at him sometimes, as if she wanted to explore him all over. With a sign such as that it felt almost easy to be brave for a change.

"There's a lovely ice-cream shop near my hotel, Rapanui. It's open until ungodly hours, and I think we could both use some sugar in our systems. Would you... I mean, would you let me treat you?"

Belle's smile was radiant, though it turned a bit shy as she tucked a few locks of hair behind her ear.

"I'd be happy to, if you don't mind being seen with an old lady. I will have to start researching hair dyes, though it certainly beats the alternative."

In for a penny, in for a pound, Gold traced some of the silver streaks, pleased when she seemed to lean into the touch.

"I rather like them, myself. They suit you."

He'd tell her so again over ice-cream, and in the days to follow. And she would finally believe him one night while out on the balcony of his hotel suite, him wearing a bathrobe and her the bedsheets, looking a bit like some untouchable Greek goddess. And below them the city would be noisy and bright and strangely beautiful, and they'd talk about buying seasonal tickets for El Colón and doing Gallery Nights on Friday, and Gold would tuck away the secret of having looked into the paperwork involved in staying in Argentina. Retiro had a sprawling, thriving antiques business, the food was heavenly and he'd begun to take Spanish lessons. The World Cup was fast approaching and as a true Scotsman he'd grown up rooting for whoever England hated the most, which usually meant Argentina. It was a horrible place, but it was also wonderful and he had lots of things from Neal's list still pending.

He still had a lot of life to live. Death would have to drive around the city and wait.