Death Going Down

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The car pulled up in front of an apartment building on one of the first blocks of Calle Santa Fe, where the street opens out to a view across the wide Plaza San Martín. At two in the morning on that cold, misty August night, only the occasional vehicle was gliding over the damp shiny asphalt.

The few people walking the streets were silhouetted against a desolate background. They hurried along, harassed by the temperature and the late hour, but moved with the uncertain gait of sleepwalkers. They were spurred on by the desire to get home, wherever that was, because when night and winter reign in the streets and there is a sense of others sleeping behind closed windows, whether peacefully or fitfully, even a room that is lonely or filled with painful memories counts as home.

Pancho Soler let his body fall against the car door to open it. Framed by the windscreen, the double row of buildings seemed to go on without end. A wave of nausea forced him to close his eyes and steady himself. When he opened them again a yellow streetlamp swam into focus, looking like a badly painted moon.

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