Buenos Aliens

By Mel Vil

Get ready for an exhilarating journey into the heart of Buenos Aires' underworld with "Buenos Aliens." This gripping novel follows the story of three friends as they enter a members-only club and descend into the city's chaotic and dangerous demi-monde.

Set in the mid-naughties, a time when Argentina was dealing with the fallout of a political and economic crisis that had engulfed the entire country, this book explores the aftermath of trauma and the rise of the criminal underworld. Amidst the chaos, most Argentinians remained in a state of post-traumatic shock, while others protested in vain. The only ones to profit from the crisis were the minions of the underworld.

Our protagonists are led through the city by a cicerone of dubious quality, who is fighting to save not only his own morality but also his v.i.p. credentials. As they journey through Buenos Aires, they are forced to confront their own indecision and the consequences of their actions, including drugs being consumed and sold, and unexpected relationships that will change their lives forever.

At its core, "Buenos Aliens" is a story of friendship forged in the unlikeliest of crucibles. It's a tale of acts that cannot be explained in terms of their intentions, and of the unexpected relationship between two Englishmen, an American, and an Argentinian.

This book is an immersive experience that will transport you to a foreign place and immerse you in its unique culture and history. "Buenos Aliens" is a must-read for anyone looking for a thrilling and unforgettable adventure that explores the depths of human nature and the consequences of our actions. Don't miss out on this captivating tale of friendship, morality, and survival in one of the world's most vibrant cities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Villemel
• Release date: Nov 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9782746659384

Mel Vil

Meet the captivating Mel Vil - a poet, free-thinker, and novelist with a passion for exploring the depths of the human experience. Born in 1979, Mel's journey has taken them from the rolling hills of the UK to the colorful streets of Latin America, and ultimately to the cultured corners of Western Europe.Despite their varied travels, Mel's belief system is firmly rooted in Eastern ideas, infusing their writing with a powerful spiritual essence that will leave you breathless. With a voice that echoes with raw emotion and an unflinching honesty, Mel's work speaks to the very heart of what it means to be human.Through their latest novel, Mel invites you to join them on a journey of self-discovery, where the only limits are those you set for yourself. With each turn of the page, you'll find yourself drawn deeper into a world of vivid characters, intense emotions, and transformative insights.So come, step into the world of Mel Vil and experience the power of their writing for yourself. Order your copy today and discover why they are quickly becoming one of the most exciting voices in contemporary literature.

Book preview

Buenos Aliens

By Mel Vil

Published by E. M. Crisp 2013

Copyright E. M. Crisp © 2013

Smashwords Edition

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any digital or physical form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

First published in France in 2013 by E. M. Crisp

villemel.com

ISBN: 9782746659384

This novel is a work of fiction. The characters and events exist only in its pages and in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

If wealth were sacrifice, none would be poor.

1.

Buenos Aires crawled from the River Plate basin as if the sandy riverbed had grown thirsty for air. From between its giant concrete corridors, jacaranda and ombu trees sprang and curled like weeds growing between dirty paving slabs. The city was a worn, desolate and unused patio whose edges had cracked, resigned to the trees and grass which cast their green eyes over its broken surfaces.

Early on a Saturday morning, tranquillity reigned over the river basin. In a quiet spot, the sun pierced the watery horizon, embossing Mario Lati’s machiavellian silhouette onto the cream-yellow pillar against which he was leaning.

As ugly as the city, yet as intriguing, Mario Lati had his hands habitually behind his back. He pressed his shoulder blades against one of the columns supporting the entrance to Mint. His posture was solid; standing in a doorway was also one of his customs. There was only one man more like the city than Mario Lati and he was waiting for him.

That other man, Leteo, had just taken his coat from the cloakroom and walked outside, opening his body to Mario Lati. ‘Right, I’m all yours, now what’s this you couldn’t talk to me about inside?’

Mario Lati put his arm around the other man’s shoulder as they stepped away from the building. The tarmac sloped down into the Punta Currasco car park, which was still bathed in the night’s shadow. The man gracefully accepted the arm, sliding his own hands firmly into the tight pockets of his jeans.

Two women clattered behind them on high heels. They pushed sunglasses onto their equine faces, keeping their line of sight parallel and their stilettos perpendicular to the ground.

Mario Lati tried to stop, but the older man encouraged him, taking a hand back out of his jeans and putting it around Mario Lati’s waist.

‘We’ll talk in the taxi. Don’t worry! I’ll always make time for you, Mario. Now, where are you headed anyway? Home?’ He was rewarded with a smile and ordered the two thoroughbreds behind them to a clacking halt. ‘Hey, girls! Why don’t you two take another taxi? I’m going to drop Mario off.’

There was no reply. The two women simply linked arms.

At the bottom of the ramp, a handful of black-and-gold taxis waited patiently. Pushing himself into the rear seat of one, Leteo delved once more into his pockets. This time it was to relieve the pressure caused by his keys, wallet and other paraphernalia, which he dropped between his legs and the stone-washed denim.

‘There used to be a time when style got you somewhere in this place. These days, it seems that if there’s no money involved, then the town doesn’t talk about it. It’s one thing to have the balls to tell someone the price. I know you know that, Mario’ Leteo leaned his head to face Mario Lati who was listening solemnly. ‘But really, the way things are. I don’t know if the fabric is going to hold us all in much longer.’

The taxi driver didn’t say a word, not even to ask for an address. He pulled the cab slowly through the pageant of strolling clubbers, cutting diagonally across the white lines of the empty car park. He glanced intermittently in a broad inner-view mirror, but not until they reached the arch and the exit out onto Obligado did he say anything.

‘Mataderos, Viejobueno.’ Mario Lati didn’t procrastinate in answering.

‘Viejobueno? I don’t know it.’

Mario Lati looked at the driver again in the panoramic mirror, wary of the man next to him. ‘It’s a bis, between Garzon and Remedios, five thousand.’ He turned back to the conversation. ‘No hidden costs, right?’

Leteo hung fire in the window. ‘Exactly!’ He drew the word out and let his focus fall into his lap. He picked amongst the items there, lifting up a key ring to get at a credit-card sized ziploc–a baggie that bulged with blue pills. ‘You’re absolutely right. And, you know what else, they only do it because they can get away with it; it’s not as if we’re not all in the same boat. Excuse me, driver, would you mind putting the radio on?’ He let his keys drop back between his legs.

‘What we need, Mario, is a man to come and mow this meadow. Healthy, young, independent, someone for the future, someone with style! These chorros, they don’t look out for each other. It’s no wonder the onda seems to be disappearing.’

Having onda meant you had a mysterious ability to cut through bullshit, or better, bypass it. It wasn’t just limited to personal relationships. It existed in the legal system—despite its Roman law appearances—where for example, judges used it to justify letting people off on the basis that, ‘this is not a bad person. He was just in a difficult situation. Anyone would have done the same thing.’ It existed in the tango too. There it differentiated the men who forced their lead and those who flowed. Like the wave the word denotes, there are elements of design, symmetry and colour. The tangero who forced his lead onto his dance partner was red. He who flowed was purple. The belief was a man or woman in possession of good onda could permeate any space or time.

‘And then there’s you,’ he continued. ‘Well, us, I should say. We’re getting too generous in our old age. Here, take a pill. Of course, I am a little older than you.’

‘Thanks, but I need to straighten up.’

‘Go on! Take it anyway! You don’t have to take it now. Keep it for tonight! They’re not exactly cheap any more.’

‘Thanks. Here, you want some falopa?’

Leteo turned his head. ‘You have some? Thank god for that!’

Mario Lati delved into his pockets. Both men exchanged a volley of looks with the driver who was absorbed in steering the black-and-gold cab out of the city’s parks and slowing it into Palermo. Leteo shook his head at Mario Lati, as if to say ‘don’t worry!’

‘So, is this kid going to fit the bill? It’s one thing trusting you that there’s a market out there, but you know me, I’m not some negro villero de mierda, baiting the weak and then running them through. I’m a business man and the first question will always be, ‘is he credible?’’

‘Credit-worthy or credulous?’

‘Come on, Mario! We’re not exactly going to give him money he can buy a house with.’

Unlike the driver, Mario Lati could hold the stare of this august man, but that did nothing to undermine his matter-of-factness.

‘You’re going to be as soft as shit in a few years, Mario Lati. It wasn’t until you saw me kicking my heels that you told me he was English, and now you’re telling me I’m supposed to trust him with money? They’re pirates. You seriously want me to believe you’re going to trust an Englishman.’

The man stopped to take the baggie from Mario Lati’s hand.

‘Look, I’m giving you the chance to say yes or no. Even if I was some negro villero de mierda, we’re not talking about some piece of shit chorro that we can throw in the Riachuelo. Besides, you know how the saying goes: don’t invest in anything that shits or breaks. I know you know what I’m saying. There used to be a time in this city when being an immigrant meant starting at the bottom of the shit pile. And digging upwards was the only way to avoid suffocating, forget getting to the top. Now look at what’s happening. They don’t even pay to get into the clubs any more, you and your p.r. scams and the villeros running and ducking under barriers, and these Europeans lording it all over the place. You know what happened last night? One of these kids of yours gave me a soggy wrap. That kind of thing used to be unheard of. And a man in my position could have put an end to his career. It’s a lack of respect.’

Mario Lati pushed himself back into the seat. ‘Did you say anything?’

Leteo looked at him blankly.

‘That’s my fault anyway,’ Mario Lati said.

‘What? For introducing me to him again? I already met the kid several times. I’ll never forget the first time. He was so twisted he couldn’t even string two words together.’

‘No, no, you’re getting the two confused. That’s Ronni. He’s just wild. He knows how to spend money but wouldn’t have the first clue how to make it.’

‘Well it’s a shame.’

‘Tell me about it, but I have something lined up that might get his interest. Whether I can keep it or not, that’s another matter.’

‘You know, it’s a real shame what happened to you, Mario. I don’t think I have had the chance to tell you straight. But you know that pink palace. You know what they’re like, always harping on about it being a ‘global brand,’ whatever that means. It’s even out of my reach. Perhaps now you’ll listen to my advice or better just do what I do, keep your fucking head down. You won’t see me. People don’t. There’s a paradox in this game and to be honest the gap is dividing. There’s no such thing as fame, remember it’s infamy we’re after. We can’t sell mix albums and magazines like they do. They only let us in because we deal in onda. If it was up to me, I’d have you back in there in a split second. Hell, anyone would. It just won’t be the same without you.’

‘I’ll be back in there.’ It’d been a mantra ever since he’d lost his prized monopoly on the city’s most popular v.i.p. enclosure. But the fervour in his self-talk ebbed steadily.

‘Yeah, but not while that big ape is still running security. He’s got a real hard on for you. I’ve had a disturbing number of people speak to me about this. What’s more disturbing still is the number of them that decided to do it on the telephone, of all places. If you’re right in saying he’s got video of you working in his club, then you can guarantee he’s got a copy safely stored in the same orifice he’d like you to fill. Not sure if it’s quite a substitute, but in any case, you need to keep your head low. And hope people don’t think you’re worth the effort ignoring. Keep your head very low, and for a long time. Wait until the skin closes over.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’

The man frowned and slapped his hand on Mario Lati’s leg. ‘If there’s anything else, Mario, I don’t want to know.’ The man laughed, then stopped. ‘Unless…’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless you actually want to tell me.’

Mario Lati turned his head away. His eyes danced repeatedly left and right as the black-and-gold taxi passed along a line of parked cars.

‘Let’s put it this way:’ His face was sober. ‘It’s not my mother’s house that I am going back to any more.’

The man snorted. ‘What do you want me to say? That they shouldn’t have involved your family? Or that I’m happy, now there’s only Iaia still living with her mother? Those things are your problems, amigo-mio, not mine. Why don’t you tell me what you’re short terms plans are?’

Just as with any reputable drug and prostitute fuelled demimonde, a subtle treasure lay in wait for the brave traveller, the story teller who seeks hustlers and outcasts in the knowledge that only they hold open the doors to the underground, network its essential connections, and constitute, coincidentally or not, the pillars without which it would not endure.

Those men kept their feet firmly on the ground, never wanting to stand out from the crowd. They remained humble in a city that was bigger than it was dirty. But the same lives lay hidden behind every face, just like behind theirs. They lived the same lie, equal in magnitude. It pulsated, growing like a cancer with every footstep on the tarmac corridors. And of all bounties was the port town, where they are the happiest. So long as the planes and boats kept coming and going, replacing the shrivelled-up suckers with plump fresh punters, they were kept in business, lining their pockets and extending their licenses to party.

‘Well I’m working in a bar, Clockwork. You know the place.’

‘What do you mean by ‘working’?’

‘It’s one of Gabriel’s old places. The darling who bought it from him can’t keep the old crowd, and she came sobbing. You know what porteñas are like. Anyway, it’s not even proper p.r. promotion, it’s just meet and greet.’

‘You’re going to sell?’ The man raised an eyebrow.

‘I never go anywhere without it, but that’s not why I am there. It’s an early gig. Once they’ve mopped the place at the end of the night, I can go out.’

The man winced. ‘It’s not your scene.’

‘I need to build up some cash. Once I have enough to get me into a place where I can turn over the kinds of amounts I am used to, everything will be ok.’

‘Like where for example?!’

‘I’m thinking about Opera Bay and even heard a rumour they are going to reopen New York City.’ Each anglo-american name was contorted by his latin-american tongue. ‘But I am going to do it differently, no more armani and air jordans for me this time. I’m going to invest in these…’

‘There you go again with that word. It’s beginning to make me pucker. You’re determined to turn every one of these tourists into something aren’t you? I’ve told you already that I don’t like this other kid, Ronaldo or whatever his name is.’

‘He’ll be way clear of you, don’t worry, but you know it’s that same two-facedness that’ll make him the best cafishio.’

The man smiled again. He nudged Mario Lati with his elbow, but looking for the driver’s attention.

‘What do you think? Señor?’

‘What’s that?’

‘An English cafishio.’

‘He’s good looking the kid?’

‘You bet.’ Mario Lati’s smiled, baring his teeth. ‘I’d fuck him myself.’

The driver had a double-take. ‘You’re not that way inclined though.’

‘No, but it feels like it when you’re around the kid sometimes.’ Mario Lati’s smile was genuine, and he waited, watching the mirror, until the driver could free his eyes from the road. Then he took the plastic baggie that still hung limply in Leteo’s hand.

‘You ever take one of these, Señor?’ Mario Lati pushed his finger into the bag.

‘No, what is it?’

‘Ecstasy.’

‘No, I can’t say that I have. What does it do anyway?’

‘Are you a married man?’

‘Yes, sir, thirty-four years.’

‘Thirty-four years?’ Mario Lati flowed naturally on. ‘That’s the kind of commitment it takes. So look! Here’s your opportunity! Take one of these home with you and take half each, you and your wife! You’ll have to wait about fifteen minutes, but after that? You’ll have the best sex you’ve had in the last thirty-three years. If not ever!’

The driver looked in the mirror, but not at an astute moment. The car swerved and bounced on its worn suspension. The driver returned immediately to the mirror, only to find his passengers sharing a complicit smile.

‘It’s the same every time, or does it get better or worse?’ The driver clutched at straws.

Mario Lati laughed; his white teeth still the brightest thing in the cab. ‘You have to try it the first time before thinking about doing it again. Here, go on! Take one! Don’t worry! They’re not addictive.’

‘That’s what they said about Viagra.’

‘You can forget Viagra.’ Mario scowled. ‘I took this old nag home last week. On this stuff, I don’t know what I was thinking, must have been a bout of depression or something, but it was still an experience worth remembering. I don’t know how many different positions I managed to get her into. This way, that way, upside down, hanging from the ceiling. At one point I even had her spinning around, but I still didn’t want to come, you know how long we were fucking? Mind you, I suppose I had been doing a lot of falopa too, but then, anyway, nine hours.’

‘Nine hours!’ the diver interjected, prompting a second act of graphic detail. He soon made up his mind and declined the offer, despite the continuing anecdotes and encouragement.

Outside in the white and concrete city, narrow corridors unrolled, shooting up and out of the shrub-like trees and rock-like cars heading straight for the foaming sky. The only absolute points of reference were the street corners, garnished with black poles—topped with black street signs sponsored by hotel chains and mobile telephone networks—and PFA officers—encased in black flack jackets and sponsored by the mafia and other clandestine networks.

From doorsteps, old men looked to the street as the world passed, each holding his head at a different angle, but all holding dearly to their expressions, as if the only lesson they’d retained was not to move too quickly. Behind them, lime and brown corridors arced in and out of locus. Next to them brass plaques sheltered row-upon-row of door buzzer. They caught the distorted and lurid reflections of the black-and-gold cab as it flourished in and out of their loci.

Around the buttons on those brass plaques—next to where these ancient observers stood in their beige and cotton suits—was a caked layer of yellow chemical residue, left behind as caretakers loped to their next task, blinded by many years of lazy improvidence. There were fifty or more of these plaques on every one of the city’s four thousand blocks. They cross-referenced the population, thrusting them into anonymity. All ties cut with the past, their referents were not people, just locations, allusions, organisms neatly filed away and given an alphanumeric reference: 6°B, 1°A, 9°E. A place for visitors to wait and doubt their ability to record dates, times and numbers; reassess their lives or reorganise their handbags.

At a red light, the black-and-gold waited. A stream of beaten up vintage trucks grunted out from the left hand side, adding to the air’s already thick texture.

‘I bet she was as ugly as sin. Foaming at the mouth probably!’ The man next to Mario Lati laughed with the driver, who had taken the chance to get a good look at his passengers.

‘That’s true.’ Mario Lati wagged a finger. ‘She was nothing like these two behind, but look at me! I’ve got pelo de concha.’ He pulled at the tightly curled locks of short hair. ‘But you should have seen the state of her house, talk about a lack of self-respect, and you know what she said to me about it? I’d been to the toilet at some point or another and seeing that really set me off. I came back telling myself I wouldn’t say anything but it just came out, I just couldn’t keep it inside any longer. I just had to tell her what I thought. I couldn’t not have. And you know what she says to me, with this tone of innocence, ‘with the state the country’s in? How can I justify cleaning my bathroom?’

‘Those two are with you gentlemen, are they?’ The driver lifted his eyebrows and pointed through the rear windscreen with his dry, stubby thumb. ‘I thought they were following quite closely. Well, you are obviously doing very well for yourselves.’

‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ the man said. ‘When we drop this young man off, we’ll invite them into this cab. I can’t guarantee they’ll be quite as talkative, no wait, they’ll be talkative, just not as entertaining as this guy. Can you believe all that shit about ‘why should I clean my bathroom?’’ He grabbed Mario Lati by the nape of the neck and shook him. ‘Forget this bar, Mario. You don’t need to be working. You’re an inside guy. You’re a dance floor v.i.p.’

There was no response from the dejected man.

‘Come on! You’ll end up as bitter as this girl if you carry on like this. Don’t get dragged down by what’s going on around you! By all means drag a few things, but watch yourself. There’s no safety net, Mario.

He stopped and looked at Mario Lati with pity. ‘But that’s also why things will be real easy for you in just a few years. Look, go ahead with this Hector character! Do what you want to do! It does sound like a winner. Just keep me up to date! Is he planning to stay for a long time?’

‘He’s got a lot of style, this kid.’ Mario Lati picked up where he had left off five minutes earlier. ‘He can walk in and out of any hostel in the city, pretty much unnoticed. Once his phone number is circulating, then he won’t even need to go near the places. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘He’s been rolled on yet?’

‘Yeah, that knotty-haired friend of yours was with him when it happened, hostile but cooperative. He’s putty.’

‘Alright, I want him at Sixtynine on Thursdays, but that doesn’t mean he should be dealing in clubs. If he needs anything in between times, it’ll have to go through you. You understand the distance I want?’

‘Leteo, it’s not as if we’re not going to give him the keys to your building, is it?’

‘That’s not what I mean. In fact, forget Sixtynine. I want you to wear the kid like a thumb ring for a few weeks at least. I don’t care if that means a hundred and sixty hours of your time. We can’t have him going straight out of business.’

Mario Lati’s face was a picture of mental indigestion.

‘Well, what exactly is going keep you so busy, Mario? Other than poncing in some bar a few nights a week, where you can take him anyway?’

‘It’s the dogs.’

‘The dogs! What dogs?’

Mario Lati’s face straightened. ‘They kind of make the daytime difficult. And I am having kennels put in this month, and then there’s…’

‘Alright, look, don’t start on about the hookers again!’ Leteo called in the driver once more. ‘Get this, an English pimp?! His ticket into the lobbies of the city’s five star hotels? Selling tour packages! Can you believe it?’

The driver brooded on it for a few seconds before revealing his moderate approval in the mirror. ‘Sounds like a winner to me.’

Leteo threw his hands in the air in surrender. He was clearly outnumbered.

By all appearances, when Mario Lati was at Clockwork—the bar handed down to him by his younger brother—, it was clear that he had never learnt to walk before running a one-man public relations show. He did well with women and friends. But they were special. They were all the kind of people who could pull the rug from under a cool man’s feet at ten paces. They were generally already well known, and even better liked, just like he was.

But with the cold leads, he fell down. And they constituted the profit side of the balance sheet in a city where word travels fast and rumour faster. He would stand close to them, whisper away, the same as when he sold drugs, and he’d be well on the home straight, but then a moment before closing the deal, it’d all go wrong. He’d be distracted from across the room, see an unwelcome face, perform an unwelcoming gesture, and ruin everything. Perhaps it was a result of adversity, perhaps because he thought his competency in human relationships was as competent as his drugs’ addictiveness.

Then there were the gatas, working girls. Interestingly enough this was the one area in which Mario Lati had something to learn from Hector P.—the young man whose future was under discussion. Independently of each other, both men had disenfranchised themselves from women. They could sweet-talk the run-of-the-mill customers in cold blood, and their lone female friends were as loyal as they came. But the professional female contingent of Buenos Aires night life would have received a warmer welcome coming at someone with a knife.

The occasional gata missed this and, like a moth whose wings catch fire having come too close to a candle, caused the room to fill with acridity within the space of a few pleasantries. It was nevertheless causal with Hector P. She would walk away, happy that it was over. With Mario Lati, however, she would walk away with her face covered in spit.

Whilst this approach was admired and promoted by both Mario Lati and his associates amongst themselves, he didn’t teach or encourage it in Hector P. as if to say, ‘you don’t really need it in your line of work.’ What he didn’t know, however, was that it was already there.

Hector P. had freedom and indifference, but that was the result of a process. He’d fall in and out of love with each and every one of them in the time it takes for systole to become diastole. Once that was over, he could do whatever he liked. Being associated with Mario Lati had given him new élan, although that just added to an underlying motive, ripping the face of an underground kingpin—as he planned to do somewhere in the back of his mind—in the full knowledge he could just pack his bags and leave the very next day, never to return to the viscous city of fluid goods and chattel.

This guise allowed Hector P. to grow wise. Meanwhile Mario Lati—who leant over his shoulder at every opportunity, to both protect and advise—grew atherosclerotic with harboured envy. Had he been a samurai, he would surely have disembowelled himself for his feelings towards his miscreant student. But then if he had been, he would have long since taken his own life under the shame of his dependency on anabolic steroids. And even then he would have found the edge of the blade quickly turning dull against the sinews of his Argentine abdomen: also known as family and religion. Recreational drugs had distended his organs and converted what was left to tough leather, but whilst he needed one drug to counteract the effects of the other, his Argentine personality was holding strong.

The cab carrying Leteo and Mario Lati eased its way out of the city’s corridors and into a single-storey residential neighbourhood on the federal limits. Beyond the city’s federal autonomy, raged the inner turmoil of the province of Buenos Aires. There the density of the agglomeration dissipated exponentially, a reflection of the price of land in the country.

It was the start of the Argentine pampa, where porteños go to die. At least at that time. In earlier times they had gone there to kill, to find solitude, or both. There was a belief amongst the aristocratic generals—who hunted there—that if a man concentrates on the words of instruction already heard twenty times, original and profound thought would come forth. They believed that in many instances a path leading backwards was just another of the bifurcating paths leading forwards: extinguish the possibility of reprisals at the source. Perhaps the reason they had wiped out the Pampa’s autochthones.

Is the profundity of the thoughts of genocidal creoles provoked on long horse journeys back from the killing fields more than of those provoked during epic taxi rides back from the dance floors? Most probably. But the blood of the innocent washed less clean the soul than the sensations of euphoria resulting from m.d.m.a. ingestion and marathon dance sessions. Although, with their brains whipped into states of acute sensory fatigue, reflections on life could only be processed using the kind of sparse idle capacity much better suited for concocting fateful business plans.

‘Alright, but think this through, Mario! Let’s see what happens once his pockets start filling with guita and let’s go from there! And don’t let get him involved with any gatas! I’m worried he’ll be moonlighting with these hookers when your first pudgy white German tourist has a heart attack on your watch. You’ve been around them long enough to know that both falopa and hookers make tongues run wild, and people are already talking about you too much, Mario.’

Leteo tapped his knuckles on the window. ‘It looks like you’re trying to get out and go clean. I can’t blame you if you are, but look at me! I’ll be fifty-four before the end of this year, and look at me! Knee-deep doesn’t even begin to describe my situation. This fucking city, it does nothing to attract me, but can I get away from it? Do I even really want to?’

The black-and-gold pulled up into a tiny street. Mario Lati directed the driver towards a large blue gate, said his goodbye to the driver, to Leteo and then quickly disappeared from the street.

2.

We consume to live, either directly or indirectly. But there comes a time in a man’s life when he confuses physiological and psychological needs. For example, he realises for the first time he is consuming marijuana and expecting the effect of cocaine and vice versa.

It had been a while since Hector P. had previously experienced this, and so he soon excused himself to the toilets. He left talking to a Brazilian he had met there. The Brazilian was a shark—meaning that he lived at other peoples’ expense. Since the beginning of the economic crisis, the city’s clubs had become packed with people like this, foreign or otherwise.

Once at the bar, Hector P. looked the man from Brazil up and down then peered back over his own shoulder. Behind him lay the euphoria of a sparkling and expensively-dressed dance floor. Beyond that was an expansive glass wall vibrating to the bass and barely holding everything in. Only through the well-guarded door could the calid air escape to the riverside terrace where Hector P’s friends waited for him, laughing and joking.

Before turning fully back around, he acknowledged the girl behind the bar and her immaculately groomed eyebrow. It was raised on his behalf. She had poured, mixed and served three drinks and now waited for him to do his part. Hector P. controlled his eyes with precision—seeking the truth in her—at the expense of noticing the pristine fingernails drumming the bar surface next to the glass columns of condensation.

He faced the man. Between them, there was physically nothing; the other dimensions overflowed. Unlike his friend, Ronni Teel, Hector P. hadn’t been born with the silver spoon in his nose. He snarled at the man in front of him and leaned forward until their faces were almost touching. ‘You what, mate?’ Posh or otherwise, his words had the low tone and authority associated with brawlers, bouncers and boxers but didn’t seem to affect the other man, bouncing off his smile.

He leant back, resting against the bar, and reassessed his flight or fight options. Moving quickly from the situational context to that of his entire life. If he hadn’t been riddling his brains with drugs in the New World, he’d have been ordering his compatriots to early graves in lands formally known as Mesopotamia and Persia. It all flushed back to him, he was learning how to sell drugs, to join the club within the club and how to leave in the morning with a pocket full of profit.

None of the sharks close by were rushing to his aid. There were plenty of them. Dealers perched on stools. Hustlers circulated, weaving in and out of the fibres of the fabric. And glitzy people simply stood chatting. They didn’t dance—people in v.i.p. sections rarely do, except models, but they dance on the table tops, looking straight ahead, not letting on whether they are part of the club or part of the fabric. As a general rule, when in Pacha, they erred towards being part of the fabric.

Other clubs had different shark ratios. And the patrons would adapt appropriately. They might prefer to be mistaken for furniture or a fitting than for the part of the living web of interconnected animal matter that made up the city’s underground. It was principally a matter of door policy. Pacha reigned the hierarchy of entry code, attracting a more refined shark: with wallets jammed full of freepasses and on good terms with the bar staff, just another way to drink for free. But nothing in life is ever that simple, and just like the dress code had nothing to do with money, the ratio had nothing to do with the club’s security.

Buenos Aires did have one place with a higher ratio, so far underground that it played demon to Pacha’s angel. But at this point in time, as Hector P. leant against the bar, many hours still had to be wasted before its doors would open to fulfil the promise of uncensored and gratifying hedonism.

Whether he was going to learn anything before then was anyone’s guess. And in any case, the final lesson was still a long way off, an insurmountable hurdle often ultimately misunderstood by those lucky or skilled enough to reach it.

Night clubs aren’t the best environments for learning. With the deafening noise, the continuous jostle of people, it does not come naturally. Just standing outside a club, you might see it as a china ornament victim to the dark beat. But whilst the human concentration is sensitive to the low thud as it passes above and below the forty hertz threshold, when you step inside, you hear the higher frequencies, the synchrony and harmony penetrating, reflecting and amplifying. Then things begin to make sense.

The combination of these three sounds reflects in the crowd. Here we are talking about chorros, putas and tourists, three distinct characters as separate as the three components of the music that united them, divided cleanly between those who only partied on Sunday morning, those who worked Saturday nights and those who would go non-stop from Friday or even Thursday night.

Music is dynamic. The low, long rolling b-croak of the bass flitted, trapped by the octagonal configuration of speakers, like a fool in a padded cell. The melody infested the faces and voice boxes of every paying guest, drawing their features into ecstatic angles. And the march, the unsatiating, near-frustrating, head-in-front-of-the-crowd march that drove the syncopated dancing.

Most Latin-American parties share much in common: dancing until all hours. An exciting, damp vibrating buzz; a mass of dancers emitting b.t.u. after b.t.u. adjacent torsos and an absence of personal space. Drinks held aloft. Gestalt flow and non-stop flux stir entropy, keeping the social emulsion liquid and its fabric flowing. Only Fiction was, and would prove once more to be, different, provided that is that Hector P. could avoid those obstacles that lay between him and eight a.m.

He turned back to the bargirl. ‘Tell me…’ He moved one of the glasses to turn the straight line into a triangle. ‘This guy here! Does he scam people often or is it just because he doesn’t like me?’

The girl dropped her eyebrow, faltering. Hector P. objected. Next to drop were her shoulders, then the red cherries on her shirt sagged and perished.

Hector P. walked away, leaving the man from Brazil and the girl from Pacha with the outstanding drinks. At the end of the bar, he assessed two routes towards the terrace door, in front of the line of booths and dancing models or the longer way via the main dance floor and patio. In the end, he plumped for the marginally less cluttered route through the v.i.p. dance floor.

Just outside the double door, a group of foreigners were waiting impatiently for him. Only one of them didn’t appear to be bothered. He was a loud brash south Londoner, and he was holding two girls, one literally. She wavered limply but was well and truly trapped between the man’s fat chest and his ham of an upper arm. Her head rolled loosely on its golden neck every time the Londoner turned to aim his machine-gun commentary at another member of the group.

‘I think this girl needs a technician.’ He shook her like a rag doll. ‘Here, love!’ He looked back. ‘I think she’s gone a bit overboard on the pills. Can’t you stand on your own two feet? Here, love, come on! Honestly, I’ve known some girls to take the piss before but seriously. Can’t you go and fix your make-up or something?’

The girl let out a long, deep and sexual groan. The air was balmy but only in the vicinity of the door.

The Londoner trapped a good-looking bald man he called Buffalo in a complicit conversation. They kicked around ideas of what they could do to a girl in such a defenceless state.

‘Spit roast?’ The Londoner lifted his brow. ‘That what you call it on the other side of the big pond?’

‘Yeah, what do you guy’s call it?’

The big man stumbled. ‘Good question, pollo a la brasa?’

‘What? Rotisserie chicken?’

‘Nah, I’m just kidding.’

‘Alright, but it’s not a bad idea, you know?’ Buffalo strung the drunken words together with cocky looks at the limp girl. ‘Play some cards and do falopa off