On a Night of a Thousand Stars by Andrea Yaryura Clark

Author:Andrea Yaryura Clark
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2022-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

August 1998

A dirty red-and-blue bus, with Olivos-Boca and 152 painted in flamboyant italics, spewed black fumes as it screeched to a stop. Franco and I got on. The burly driver in the white short-sleeved shirt bellowed out that everyone had to pay the exact fare as he would not, under any circumstances, make change. Franco dug the right coins out of his pocket and deposited them in the slot. It was the middle of the day, but the bus was full and we had to stand. Earlier that morning, I had decided to return to the campo, yet here I was a few hours later, still in Buenos Aires, hanging on to an overhead strap as the bus traveled farther away from the city center. A few seats emptied out, and Franco and I sat, shoulder to shoulder, both aware of each other’s nearness. We reached our destination, and, as if he’d been waiting for a reason, Franco grabbed my hand to get off the bus.

He asked for directions at a kiosk, and we soon arrived at the gate of a low-rise building with a shabby-looking exterior. Franco rang various buttons on the intercom. No one answered. He pushed hard several times against the gate. The old bolt finally unlatched, and we entered an enclosed patio.

Domestic life could be heard from behind closed doors: a man singing in Italian, a whistling kettle, a child being chastised, a soccer game on the radio, audience laughter from a TV show. We walked up a flight of stairs and along a balcony. Franco stopped in front of apartment number 15. The moment he knocked, the door was flung open.

A woman in tight black leather pants and a faded black tank top eyed Franco. When she looked my way, she squinted as if confused by the sight of me. “I wasn’t expecting two of you.”

She turned back inside and Franco was right behind her. I hesitated before following him into the sparsely furnished room. Two chairs, a desk, a futon, and a tall bureau combined to give the room an impersonal and temporary feel.

“You’re early. El Chino’s guys are never early.” The woman opened the top drawer of the bureau and took out a few crumpled pesos. When she saw our empty hands, her eyes flashed with impatient disappointment. “Where is it?”

“I think you’ve mistaken us for someone else,” Franco said.

“You mean El Chino didn’t send you?”

“No.”

“So why the hell are you in my house?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Can we get you something from the store? What is it you need?”

“That will be the day, when we can buy it at the corner kiosk,” she replied with a dry laugh.

“I might be able to tide you over until El Chino arrives.” Franco produced a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. She took it and he lit it for her. Scars ran up and down her skinny arms.

“Now go,” the woman said, exhaling smoke in Franco’s face.

He didn’t flinch. Irked, she motioned her hands toward us and the door as if we were a pair of pesky fruit flies.

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