A car passes by, a beautiful shining one. "Beautiful," I say. "Stolen," they say. "Everything thats beautiful in Villa Libertador is stolen."
I dont know their names. They call each other by the area where they come from, Jujuy, Salta, Misiones and sometimes from Bolivia or Paraguay. Today I havent heard the name Fidel when they asked Paraguayo something.
He has built up a special reputation in his neighbourhood. He is drunk on Saturdays and he likes women. Teresa comes from time to time with her daughter in her arms, watching, checking. Its a classic image; its the first time I hear her talking in a tough way. "Dont you see that I am playing cards," he snarls at her when she passes by for the third time.
It starts to rain and I decide to go home. I shake hands with Jujuy and Bolivia. "Bring him to the bus stop," Bolivia demands Fidel.
He is walking drunk next to me. It doesnt go that quick.
Fidel says good-bye, there where the pavement starts and Villa Libertador ends.