n/a: english it's not my first language.

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NO LOVER DIES
chapter i. scrupulous prognosis.

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 The marshes around Sirácida¹ prevented many of the guests from leaving the Casona de los Trujillo early, a consequence that was already known to all its citizens. Every night, around eleven o'clock, the ground began to fill with the same usual mud that could be found on the edges of the Catton² wetland.

Given the heat, few would have made the journey to the outskirts of the city, but celebrating New Year's was a special occasion that few could afford or afford to ignore, and if anyone had been in the city for a while, they would be able to say that there was no party that gave more room for luxury and waste than the one organized by Mrs. Maite Trujillo.

The Trujillos were an influential family within the city limits, and perhaps beyond these imaginary lines, where money could buy anything they wanted. The family was one of seven founders of the city; they took this responsibility very seriously, with new and dazzling proposals, such as the construction of larger schools in the countryside and a university campus on their territory. The vast expanse of land in the province was not an impediment for them to bring out their most ingenious clemencies in favor of those most in need. No one would think that a wetland could yield so much wealth.

 William Logan had been stuck there for about two years now. That was a good way of describing it. You could get buried in the marshes of Sirach if you had the foolish idea of ​​going out for air at night. It was quicksand, in short, and getting stuck in it was not a task that required much effort or time. It was suicide, so he tried to evade any thoughts of escape that crossed his restless mind.

 The house full of people managed to saturate him and in his desperation, he went out for fresh air. Logan always felt as if someone was strangling him. Two years and his body still hadn't gotten used to the regional climate. It was a complete nightmare because he woke up very early in the summers without being able to sleep, extremely tired from the heat and with perspiration covering every part of his body.

It was as if living in Sirácida and the rest of that province, located in one of the circles of hell, aroused an irritability unusual in his good behavior, something that countered with his meek and good-natured attitude, the same attitude that he tried to take advantage of at every pertinent occasion, because in his current situation, being rude was not a possibility. Logan, although he had not studied in a great school or come from a family with high economic fortune, carried under his wings the advantage of the foreigner, that magnetic curiosity by which everyone crowded around him trying to make conversation, even if that meant dragging along his children, who knew the language better than their own parents. And for being a town in a poor area of ​​Argentina, reality could be surprising.

Instead of feeling like a theatrical display worthy of Shakespeare, Logan, to the displeasure of the company, felt caged, like a circus attraction, because it was all he could give in that state of uneasiness that enslaved him day after day. It was as if, in his place, there was not a man, but a chimpanzee with average intelligence for a primate, watching as other apes swarmed around him wanting to show him things. The subtle question was always there for him: Did the conquistadors feel like this when they brought the mirror and the edge of the sword to the natives?

 Or was it Logan who was the Indian this time?

Margoth, his wife, seemed to be coping better than he was.

 "Be nice."

 Logan looked at her from under his drink. New Year's Eve had forced them to dress as best as they could, and his wife, once young and dazzling, was now nothing more than a pale reflection of the slender figure he had married behind her parents' backs. Boredom was eating away at him.

 "I'm trying" he replied reluctantly, letting one of the other guests refill his glass with red wine.  "You know the heat is unbearable."

 He could feel the shirt sticking to his back, and the discomfort in his crotch from the friction between his legs and the fabric of his pants, those that were a second-hand gift to them, when they found out in the village that they were refugees from the Empire. More than ingratiating, Logan found it extremely insulting, but there he was, wearing that suit that perhaps no one had ever worn before, forgotten in a corner or at the back of a closet, with no greater intention than to serve as a substitute, before they decided to turn it into charity.

Perhaps it was his Scottish heritage, or an attitude still misunderstood by human beings, but Logan was extremely allergic to charity when he and his family were the recipients of that bonanza.

 The white shirt he was wearing was a mess at that moment and as soon as he faced the cool of the outside patio, he was able to get rid of both his jacket and tie. He got into the distant pool with much more decorum than expected, submerging his face and body. As expected, the water was warm, but little by little with the night breeze, he found a cool place that took him out of the abrasive state that was consuming him from within.

 He stood there, impassive, floating on the surface, despite the proximity of the dark clouds and the thunder that foreshadowed a storm.

 Oh, blessed storms. They were no relief at all, as they raised more humidity in the morning and the sun continued to burn them, only the air was heavier and each dawn felt like a guillotined corpse for Logan. It was unbelievable to think that a storm would not bring relief to such an ordeal.

 The noise of the crowd in the mansion was heard when the streetlights went out and the music stopped.

 Logan pushed his wet hair back, standing in place to look more closely at the commotion that emerged from the Manor in search of some cool air now that the fans weren't working, but all his attention was diverted to the noise beside him, as a person slipped through the water.

 He began to search in his coat pockets and light a cigarette. A flash of lightning partially illuminated the sky and the landscape. He was unable, however, to see who his new companion was. He could only perceive the ripples of the water and the breathing and gasps of air. It must have been a woman.

The kids, not his own, jumped in too, looking to cool off, and being watched by some clueless parents, who just wanted a place to smoke, away from the women. They approached where Logan sat down, on one of the edges of the pool, while the ashes of his cigarette fell onto the red brick.

 The conversation, which became increasingly heated, led Logan to leave his cigarette butt behind and dive headlong into the body of water, escaping from his peers and any furtive glances at his impolite attitude.

 The glow of the streetlights later that night, accompanied by the soft rhythm of music, let him know that the power was back on. He was more interested in smoking in a strange corner, where the water only reached his chest as he sat, than in making contact with anyone present. Soon, the children were called inside by their parents, to be put to bed in some room or wherever their parents were sleeping. It was quite late in the morning, the alcohol was still lingering, and now more than ever, with no children around, you could see the real skin of these people.

 There was no light in the backyard. It barely reached the small covered room a few meters from the door, next to the barbecue pit. There, in the stillness of a pool of increasingly cold water, it began to rain and the thunder could be heard like the roar of the heavens, furious with the children of God.

 Logan felt someone else moving in the water again and couldn't help but follow that tingle of curiosity.

"Shouldn't you be inside?"

 The figure barely raised her head from the water to answer: "Shouldn't you be inside?" This was followed by laughter in the water.

His voice boomed louder to rise above the thunder."It was too hot, I needed to cool down."

 With every clap of thunder and the thick drops hitting the asphalt, Logan thought himself crazy. Was there really someone there with him? He could be talking to nothingness itself, caught in some fever caused by the vapors around him.

"I would have liked to go back home," he continued explaining, standing up and swimming to the deepest area, unable to find that elusive naiad. "But the marshes rose like every night.

 Another dive and a sardonic chuckle made him turn around, still unable to see her face.

"Marshes," she mocked. "Who are you? Susan Hill?"

 Logan, unable to do anything, just smiled. Not only was he speaking very fluently in English with someone, but he seemed to know English books and literature. Susan Hill's The Woman in Black was an extremely absorbing book and worthy of any recommendation. One of the best contemporary gothic works. Not only did Logan say so, everyone knew it... Well, everyone with any sense in their head."Have you read Hill?"

 "Not particularly. But do me a favor⁴"she joked, making Logan laugh "and recommend one to me."

 "I have a feeling, miss, that you know Hill well enough yourself."

 A flash of lightning crossed the sky, illuminating everything in its path, drawing Logan's attention, who looked at the branches of the surrounding trees and the animals that clung to life with all their might. When he lowered his gaze, the naiad found herself in front of him. Now, without lightning, Logan was blind again. Without glasses, even if she stood in front of him, she was impossible to describe, swallowed by the absolute darkness of the night.

 Her voice was soft and her body smaller, he noticed as he felt her swimming around him, like a shark waiting for its prey to lose its flight instincts. She was alluring, in a way.

He was intrigued.

"You're the gringo⁵."

"Green-go?"

"American⁶."

 The naiad stopped in front of him, her head tilted to the side. Logan reached out helplessly, entwining his fingers in the silky mass of hair that was even more like a robust liquid when wet. She followed suit, touching his hair that was already in need of a trim, falling wet over his eyes. Her spindly fingers sent shivers down his spine, or it was the wind. He didn't care.

"What's your name? I think I heard it mentioned. The whole town talks about you, all the time. You're all my family talks about, at least."

 Logan chuckled. Not very surprised by that. He already felt watched in that hot and humid city. Nothing happened there, so his presence was the only thing that entertained the inhabitants.

He still had to decide if this was beneficial or not for him. With the woman in front of him, the balance tipped towards good omens.

 "My name is Logan. Well, it's William, but my last name is Logan. Everyone calls me that."

 "Loughan," she repeated. She was making fun of his last name, and although on another occasion he would have hit the person, it didn't displease him. Instead, she offered him her own, whispering in his ear. "Pippa Catton-Wood."

 Another thunderclap, with all the appearance of breaking the sky, and Pippa, the name tickled the back of her neck, sank into the water when Margoth, with an umbrella, approached the pool in search of him. It was dangerous for him to stay outside, as hail could fall in no time.

 Logan stepped out of the pool, grabbing his jacket and tie. His wife, once in the dim light by the back entrance, frowned at him in soaked shoes.

 "It's your only good pair of shoes."

 "It was," Logan replied, looking back into the thick darkness above the pool. Nothing, not a single movement.

 The hail finally began to fall, followed by another flash of lightning that illuminated the landscape with arrogance.

Pippa Catton-Wood.

 Did she even exist? She should. Logan could never create anything as exquisite as that woman.

NOW YES, REFERENCES, BECAUSE I AM VERY INTELLIGENT AND YOU ARE NOT:

1) Sirácida, a fictional town where the plot takes place. Located somewhere in the south of the province of Santiago del Estero and the province of Córdoba. Near national route 9 or 34. Near Lake Salinas, or failing that, near the Laguna de Mar Chiquita. It is basically fertile land located in a wetland, a.k.a swamp. The marshes are floods of this soil due to the rise of the current at night (an effect of the moon) and causes everything around it to flood.

2) The wetland is named after Pippa's family.

3) While developing the new genre I tried to explain the humid heat that occurs in the north of the country, and I came across a swamp, because it seemed convenient for certain things, and every time I think of a swamp, I imagine a certain part of Louisiana full of African population and blond French landowners who seek to take over the land, leaving the rest of the slaves and free people in poverty, because that is what Southern Gothic is about more than anything, politics, racism and horror. So, one way of paying homage to a classic Gothic novel was the marshes, which are an important element in Susan Hill's book The Woman in Black, a Gothic classic, which was published in 1983, three years before the time in which this chapter takes place.

4) Do Me a Favor is the title of one of Susan Hill's works as well, which is a way of saying that Pippa is falsely humble by pretending not to read Susan.

5) Gringo, the most common way we have here to call Americans. Supposedly it comes from Green Go Home, say, source? From wishes, and from a video game. In the North of Argentina, anyone who is blond is also called Gringo, especially if they stand out a lot.

6) American, should I have said Americano? Never, I refuse. American and that's it. If this is ever translated, I'm going to use the demonym "Useño" that was created on Tiktok.

I think that would be all. If you see something and you don't understand, don't hesitate to ask! Help me, maybe I need to explain it more. XOXO, TOR.