He has the habit of bringing his mouth too close to the listener’s ear.
“You’re fuckin lucky, Sparrow,” he whispers, chewing both gum and words, spraying his listener as he speaks. “You been lucky ever since you got here.” Diego pulls his face away slightly, just enough to stem his disgust. The Hobo smells of stagnant water, of rancid sweat, of stale sex. Diego holds his breath, then answers.
“I know, Hobo. I owe you.”
The man spits the gum into the palm of his hand and stares at it. He talks without taking his eyes off the gum; he’s talking to the gum.
“I already told you how it goes in the cell.”
“I know, I heard you.”
“The capanga handles the dough. He’s the boss; you give it all to him, he collects the rent, buys the coke, hands it out.”
“I already gave him everything I had, I gave him every cent.”
Ricardo pinches the gum between his fingers, which are fat like blood sausages, then he squeezes it onto the windowpane with his thumb, pressing it flat like a shapeless coin.
“That’s what you gotta do, Sparrow.”
“Of course, Hobo. Of course.”
“And as you’re new, I’m gonna give you a tip: you’re lucky the capanga is shaftin the Candyman just now. But the Candyman ain’t gonna last forever. And you’re the new kid.” The Hobo looks up at the ceiling, sucks in air, purses his lips, pretends something is stuck between his teeth, removes it with his tongue. Diego capitulates, like he always does.
26“If you could give me a hand… I’d be grateful.”
“You don’t get nothin in here by being grateful, Sparrow. I already told you. Luck don’t come free. You gotta pay for it.”
The man shakes his head repeatedly, his hand moves towards his trouser pocket, he places a cigarette between his lips, holds a light to it, and all the time he is shaking his head.
“You gonna have to pay me, Sparrow.”
“I don’t have any dough. I gave what I had —”
“Don’t be an asshole. I told you nobody give you nothin for free in here.” Diego feels the fear taking hold of the muscles in his face, contorting it into a grimace.
“I don’t… I mean…”
“You ain’t gonna look so big when you got cum all over your face. I don’t want your ass,” he says loudly, spitting in Diego’s ear. “You fuckin faggot. Don’t mess with me. Ain’t nothin to stop me draggin you into an empty cubicle right now.”
The hand that holds the cigarette makes an obscene gesture then returns the cigarette to the mouth. He snorts, his breathing agitated. Diego tries to calm him down.
“Cool it, Hobo.”
“You set me off, asshole.”
“What can I do? Just tell me what to do.”
The Hobo is trembling like a rabid dog about to attack, his eyes glare red as if in a bad photo, seeking out Diego’s own evasive gaze. His tongue is like a caged animal hurling itself against his teeth.
Suddenly he smiles and his face changes, he gently takes Diego by the arm. Hit by a wave of anxiety, Diego’s vision begins to mist over.
“Was that lawyer I gave you any good?”
27Diego struggles to draw air into his lungs. “Yes, yes.”
“Tell me.”
“We’ve already spoken a couple of times and —”
“Antinucci’s the best. You gettin out soon, ain’t you?”
“He told me I’ll be out next week, that —”
“So you ain’t gonna spend no time in here. I’m pleased for you, Sparrow. You got no idea how pleased.”
Hand on shoulder, pat on the back, more smiles. The occasional laugh.
The Hobo has stopped trembling.
This is what scares Diego the most inside prison, not the overcrowding or the promiscuity, not even the blows or the violence or the danger, but this arbitrary nature of affairs. The changing moods, the whims. The fact that nothing stays the same from one minute to the next. A schizophrenia of isolated events. A life at the mercy of men whose actions are driven by unbridled force.
“When you out, you gonna pay me back. By doin a job for me. You get that?”
“What does it involve?”
“You chickenshit. Who cares what it involves? You owe me your life.”
“Okay, Hobo, okay. No problem.”
“That’s how I like it.”
The Hobo pushes Diego without touching him, just with his gaze, and they walk until they reach a door that opens onto a courtyard, an arid freezing space, a concrete steppe where some dreamer or cynic has painted the white lines of a non-existent basketball court. To the right is a grey bench and just above it, protected by wire mesh, is a huge clock which always says half past five. Sitting or standing in a circle are a dozen or so men with rotten-toothed smiles, 28their faces scarred and pockmarked, all wearing extravagant cushioned sneakers. Their caps bear a well-known logo, and they wear them back to front in an act of aesthetic rebellion. They look like the results of a genetic mutation, a horde of soulless zombies about to sack the planet.
“Hey there.”
“Who you got here, Hobo?”
“Sparrow. He’s with the Chief and the Candyman. He’s a friend.”
“Hey, Sparrow. Gimme a phonecard, I’m out of credit.”
“I don’t have one. Sorry.”
“A card, a smoke, whatever you got, my friend.”
“Stop fuckin around, asshole. Didn’t you hear the man? Sparrow ain’t got nothin.”
“Cool it, Hobo. He your boy, this Sparrow?”
The men laugh – their teeth yellowing, blackened, greenish. They laugh with their open, gappy mouths, with their cracked lips and their fetid breath; they laugh with the imprecise, asymmetrical laughter of poverty.
The Hobo pushes him again, a rough hand squeezing his shoulder. “I’m gonna explain, but over there so these kids can’t hear.”
They walk towards the north wall, thirty yards or so from the nearest group.
They halt. Ricardo still has him by the shoulder. He brings his face close to Diego’s, narrows his eyes and thrusts his head forward, like a turtle. Flecks of saliva fly. Diego half-closes his eyes, stops breathing.
“Kid. I still see the mud roads in my village, I still smell the leftover bean and mutton stew. You know why I’m tellin you this, Sparrow?”
“No.”
29“Yeah, how would you know? Because I had enough of bein poor. You get me?”
“Yes.”
“When I get outta here I’m gonna be rich. This is my chance; I want it to go right. There’s somethin big, very big, that the guys upstairs have already planned, and me and the boss need you to lend a hand.”
It’s cold, but who gives a damn. Diego starts to sweat. He observes the tattoos, the pictures