By Veronica Pamoukaghlian
The man approaches you. You don’t know what he wants. You see his lips moving. You are listening to a novel. The man talks, and you hear, “You buy a shitty place in a bad part of town and pay someone off the books to fix it up….”
The man is pointing to his unkempt hair. This startles you because you were thinking just now about getting a haircut.
You still hear only your headphones: “You can put dirty money into the renovation, keep the labor costs low, and then sell the place for a higher price.”
The man insists. He gently touches your shoulder. He wants your attention.
“For example: You purchase a run-down house for six million through a shell company.”
People with signs with the face of the candidate pass you by. The crowd gets bigger and more chaotic. You want to lose the man and get out of the crowd. It’s a sunny day, but you walk in the shadow of shimmering Puerto Madero towers, remnants of the mirage of the 90s The economic miracle revealed itself to be a sham, but the towers still stand.
“You spend two million renovating it, and then sell it for ten million. That way, two million appears as clean profit, and the original six million has also been washed through the transaction.”
You put your hand in your pocket and feel the two one-thousand peso bills. That was a month’s wages some years ago. Today, it will buy you a couple of subway tickets.
You have started carrying a bit of cash to give to people on the streets who ask for it. Every year there are more of them. But you don’t feel like giving any to this annoying man.
The man is still behind you. Your headphones announce that their battery is depleted and power off.
The sounds of the crowd and their drums grow louder. The leader smiles with his pearly white teeth from the placards around you. His fancy suit, made by Italian artisans, contrasts his supporters’ clothes, sown by Asian slaves. The musical instruments are meant to make noise, not music. You realize you preferred your novel and noise canceling to the sound of discontented masses.
The man is saying something you can’t put together. He looks at you accusingly. You see a tunnel. You feel like if you enter the tunnel, you will leave the man behind. So you do.
It’s dark inside. You walk fast. You want to lose the annoying man. You think about scheduling your hair appointment. It will cost too much, but you must preserve some dignity, cover the grayness that looms, trim the unruly undergrowth that threatens to reveal the true state of your psyche.
It’s dark and silent inside. You walk ahead not knowing where you are headed.
When you emerge from the tunnel, you find yourself behind a woman who is unlocking a glass door. You are confused; this was supposed to be a public passage of some sort. The woman looks at you as if you weren’t supposed to be there.
Outside, the man is waiting for you.
“I was in jail, but I didn’t do it. They have to pay for their mistake. Do you know Johnny López’s show? He helped me.”
You keep walking.
The man takes out a cell phone with a cracked screen and plays a Youtube video.
From the corner of your eye, you see the man in a TV studio telling his story.
He keeps talking over the video.
“I was innocent. I lost everything. My house, my job, my wife, my child. I am selling these now.”
He opens a backpack and takes out something white.
You don’t look.
He takes out more white things.
You walk faster.
Now you have lost the political rally people. The sounds of their cheers and the voice of their leader addressing them are muffled in the distance.
Expensive cars fly by as you wait for a green light to cross Moreau de Justo avenue.
Now the man is joined by a harsh-looking woman. Slightly less unkempt than him.
You get scared.
What do they want from you?
“Why don’t you help him?” The woman says. “It’s nothing to you.”
She says this, looking you over. You are wearing the expensive shoes from another life, before the economy collapsed, before the neighborhood gentrified and you had to start renting rooms to tourists.
You are almost home.
The fancy building betrays your financial situation. You don’t want them to see it.
You see a policeman on the corner.
You could tell him something.
But you don’t want to get the people in trouble.
The man has jail tattoos in his hands. Maybe snakes, or lizards.
You look at the man’s face for the first time.
He must have been good-looking once. Have you seen him somewhere before? If you have, you don’t remember.
He is short. Insignificant.
The woman leaves through a side street, cursing loudly.
You give the man the money.
He pushes the white stuff onto you. Socks? Shirts?
You say no. You give it back.
He wants to tell you more of his story.
He smiles with crooked teeth. .
You didn’t expect such a warm smile.
Finally he lets you go.
You are free.
Your doorman greets you. You haven’t paid building fees, including your share of his salary, since your company hired ‘compute’ to substitute you. The doorman doesn’t hold it against you, or doesn’t care. Or maybe he’s going through his own hardship.
The silence on your floor is beautiful. Many of these apartments are empty now: investments.
As you approach your door, the eviction notice is still there. A part of you is always waiting for it to magically disappear.
You go in.
You take off your dead headphones, set down your phone on the counter, and press play on your novel.
“People think money buys freedom. It doesn’t. It buys distance. Distance from consequences, from shame, from the police, from anyone who still believes rules are real. When you have enough millions, nothing disappears—it just gets handled by someone else.”
You are home now. You are safe.
You make a cup of African coffee and sit down on your Louis XV couch. You see your reflection in the gold-framed mirror. Your hair is not too bad. You can get it trimmed next month.
The novel has ended. You’ll need to find another one. A story to silence your own thoughts as you navigate the treacherous city streets.
The coffee’s good. Your body relaxes.
You look out the window.
The man is still there. Looking at you.
Veronica Pamoukaghlian has written and produced over 10 award-winning films and translated and edited over 30 books in English and Spanish, including Cambridge University Press and NYTimes bestseller titles. Her multi-language writing has appeared in print in 15+ countries. She is currently shooting a film in France about Solveig Dommartin, the star of Wim Wenders´ Wings of desire. She is a Centre Pompadour and NYFA alumna, recipient of scholarships from Sundance, Ibermedia, and the Inter American Development Bank. She has been a mentor for young writers at IALA (International Armenian Literary Alliance). She has been an editor at Sutton Hart Press (Vancouver, WA) since 2015.
Her poetry and nonfiction have been published by The Acentos Review, Burning House Press, Archer Magazine (Australia), Naked Punch, Seal Press, the International Museum of Women, Poetry Magazine, the Southern Pacific Review, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, and Prism, among many other prestigious international publications. She has lived in Seattle and Valencia, Spain. She currently resides in her hometown, Montevideo, Uruguay.