|
The sign read, 'fin bisisenda.' Shannon said, "I think that means
the end."
Jim stood up on the pedals to see farther. "No, there's a big fancy
building up ahead. Some kind of museum. If we run out of bike path we
can get on the road."
He pedaled past the 'fin bisisenda' sign, down a slight incline, and under
some massive brick arches that supported a railroad track. A commuter
train was rumbling overhead. When he emerged from the arches, the bike
path petered out and they were quite suddenly out of the green park and
on a narrow, rutted dirt road which entered a neighborhood of low brick
houses.
Ahead and off to the right he could see modern high rises poking above
the houses. But the road zigzagged and the houses, which stood cheek to
jowl, began to squeeze it hard.
"Wait a minute. What the hell is this?"
Shannon said, "Wow. It's like we're not in Europe anymore."
She was right, Jim realized. Until this moment, Buenos Aires felt like
Will had predicted: a European city, exclusively white, with nary a Black
or an Indian. Here, the people staring at them looked totally different
than anyone they'd seen so far—smaller, darker and exhibiting none of
the lively gestures of the ebullient Portenos, and dressed in rags.
Jim steered around a pile of garbage, dodged a heap of scrap wood studded
with nails, and around a sharp bend found the way partially blocked by
garbage burning. He pedaled around the smoke and wove a path through people
pushing rusted shopping carts.
"Jim, I think we should get out of here."
He took the next turn, to the right, which should bring them back to the
center city. But the street grew narrower still and the houses had turned
to shacks made of corrugated metal and scrap lumber.
The bike was too long to turn around. Another turn brought them to a halt
on a lane of cardboard and flapping plastic. A trench down the middle
of the lane overflowed with sewage. Jim stepped off the bike and walked
it, looking for a turn off.
A little kid in ripped jeans and a dirty tee shirt darted from a slot
between two plastic-covered crates. He shook a torn paper cup in Jim's
face.
"I have change," said Shannon. "They want money—Hey!"
She shouted as another child—tiny as a six year old—tugged at her backpack.
"Let go!"
Jim pushed the kid away. He felt his palm brush bone, the child was so
skinny. In an instant they were surrounded by ragged children who were
reaching for their packs and grabbing at their pockets.
The children was so silent that Jim and Shannon could hear the distant
whine of another train. Jim saw a flash of steel, felt something sting
his thigh. When he looked down he saw that they'd slashed right through
his pocket. A walnut sized fist emerged from the cloth, stuffed with money.
They were pulling the bike, dragging it with Shannon stuck on the seat.
He shoved through the swarm of arms and pulled her off. The bike slid
away and vanished. Jim backed against a wall, gripping Shannon in the
crook of his left arm, and fending off the silent, swarming kids with
his right.
return to top |
