As life—though never aptly described by that inadequate adjective, “normal”—begins its uneasy adjustment into a new reality, we here at Asymptote are wrapping up In This Together. Though the world has by no means seen the end of the COVID-19 pandemic, we are proud to have collected a selection of literature that bears witness to its beginning, and we continue to look forward to the texts that will surely continue to bring enlightenment and poetry to our circumstances. For our final edition, we present a text by Argentinian author and journalist, Cristina Macjus. Sarah Moses, translator, writer, and Asymptote’s co-Editor-at-Large for Argentina, introduces the piece:

In confinement in Buenos Aires, Cristina Macjus travels far from her apartment in the city via long-distance conversations with a high school friend. They imagine a return to their hometown in the northeast of the country, to the scents and sights that remain intact in their memory, though the town has long since changed. An acclaimed author of numerous books for children and young adults, Macjus began keeping a diary on March 20, when Argentina entered into quarantine in the early stages of the pandemic. “Walking with Agustín” brings together excerpts she wrote in lockdown, which continues to this day in the country.

Walking with Agustín

By Cristina Macjus

When the president said “quarantine,” I went blank. I’d been feeling all manner of things since social distancing measures had been put into place, but on March 20, when mandatory isolation was announced, I could feel nothing more.

I was in a haze for the first few weeks. I spent long periods of time seated in front of the mirror looking at my birthmarks as one would a galaxy. My WhatsApp messages accumulated; I’d answer, but my voice was faint, as though my head were inside a pillow.

In this state, I began to go for walks with Agustín.

Agustín and I had gone to high school together in the town we grew up in, close to the Iguazú Falls. Later, he moved to Bariloche, and I to Buenos Aires, and we lost touch. We remain thousands of kilometres away from each other, but the pandemic reconnected us during those first moments of turmoil on social media when everyone was asking about those they knew. Right away, we began to talk about our hometown. It’s not that we’d been particularly good friends, it’s that we took to walking.

“Do you remember how if you turned left, you’d get to Julito’s house?”

“Oh yeah, the one with that evil dog!”

“That’s the one. And if you kept going along that street you’d reach the park.”

This went on for hours over WhatsApp. We know, because others have told us so, that the town has changed, but since neither of us has returned, our memories remain intact. We walked each of our favourite routes. For example, the dirt road I’d bike along to get to English class. It was a good dusty run downhill followed immediately by a curve to the left where the pine forest began, the temperature changed, the air turned damp and smelled of resin, and you had to be careful so your bike wouldn’t slip on the red earth, which along that stretch of the road seemed a piece of recently polished ceramic. I can remember each of the turns in the road perfectly with my body; I could mould the topography in plasticine. Agustín remembers it as well. Together, the two of us possess a town that’s real, we confirm it to one another, and yet it no longer exists. His favourite spot is the country club, so we leave the town and walk the five kilometres it takes to get there, the final stretch along Highway 12 is one of the most dangerous in the province because of the trucks that drive by transporting logs. READ MORE…