Gypsy Life

Take two. I was remembering the gypsy Angel. Angel lived in an occupada, a squat, more like a crumbling hut without doors that closed, with his woman and kids that cried-and-no-one-cared-that-they-did. I was looking for a place to a stay and Angel had been hustling on the sidewalk so I hit him up, and, as it was, he had a free room. Twenty pesos. Fine. My Mama needs an operation - forty. Oh! Of course. Forty. So I move into my room without a door that closes and I feel confident. The gypsy is not going to mess with me while I sleep, we had cleared that up. But on day six I put my camera in my laundry bag, took a walk and no more camera. Beach-street-hard Angel and I had a talk. Footnote: We'd had talks before, like when eating, and Angel would tell his woman my shoes cost a hundred dollars: sums they could not fathom. Two hundred fifty I would say. Where are you from, he would ask. Canada, I would say. No. You are are Russian, he'd interject. What are you doing here he'd inquire, dismissive of my bar work functions. They once set five guys on me, he said looking at me. More than a month had elapsed and I was in Bahia. Carnaval was over. Good times. In Canada I had hustled, and I had done good for myself. I could buy a bike, go to Colombia. Michael Patrick Kelly had ridden across the States, through Panama and into Ecuador, or something. But I could not. Footnote: Some time ago I tried to express this story in a way that made it right. It went like this: To Angel you son of a gun you gypsy deep down, i'm sure you weren't a piece of shit. and i'm going to stop fighting like when i tried to kill you angel, that was wrong i'm hoping it will make my sex life, like it was meant to be and the pain it will go away too i'm hoping for one of the two pain i can live with. Expressed that way did not get it right. So, when I crossed back into Argentina I used my Slovak passport. Canadian R stayed in Brazil. Retiro bus station in Buenos Aires is one big quilombo, as they say. Easy to rent a locker for your belongings. From there one is only five hours away from Mardel. In Mardel I checked into a small room close to the station under a Swedish name, and in my room I made sure I had packed clean clothes and shoes in a plastic bag. On my way out the lobby lady said, you come from a beautiful country, but my mind had stopped racing and it took some time before I heard her. Your country, she repeated. Yes. Sweden is beautiful, I said. Taxis were a bad idea. Collectivo to the projects it was. Mardel was deserted. When I stood before his door that did not close I heard nothing. He was not there. It was as I'd remembered it. In his bedroom his bed was made. He had a little dog I remembered. Little dogs can complicate things, so I went back out the front door, around back, and there, two teenagers saw me. Come, I told the braver one and he approached, cautiously. Angel esta? Yeah, he'll be back in ten minutes. Do you remember me? From a grassy knoll fifty meters away I watched Angel run in through the back door, come out and watch me. I remember the wind sweeping my hair. Across dirt roads I made my way to Fede's house. Federico and I had worked together: he'd bounced and I'd bartended. When we'd first met he'd wanted to know why I wanted to see Victor and I'd told him it was none of his business because he was not Victor. Fede and I had become friends. He lived with his wife and son and daughter; they had nothing. They gave me food and we talked and we said goodbye again.