A new year and a new blank post card

Karina steadily placed that kettle with the wonky handle atop the burner and the high blue flames wiggled. She was one of the few Argentines who couldn’t stomach drinking yerba mate but since she was trying to keep her anxious fingers from rolling cigarettes in anticipation of the new year, she prepared and poured many watered-down mates. Antonio was just waking up — remember to visit Manuel, Antonio! — ...yeah, I haven’t… — he rubbed his eyes and yawned and before his vision overcame those first morning moments, like the melting dew on grass, he scrunched his nose and peered from a few inches away at his calendar. The days were being crossed out in different colours and with the occasional scratch and tear from a dried-out pen — four to go, yesterday was five, tomorrow… —. Antonio first gave Karina a curiously raised eyebrow when received with a freshly poured mate — since when? —  he said rhetorically. He burnt his lips on the bombilla — you boiled the water — you know I never… — as he drank the next one with intermittent sips, he turned the pages of the paper, expecting to find nothing of interest. Karina, as per habit, scratched the edges of the Boca Juniors ashtray. It sounded a soothing dry, bumpy rustle. Her index fingernail was frail and soft, so she switched to her thumb’s, which was stronger. — I’m not sure if I can go and see Manuel today, ma — Karina chipped her nail on the ash tray’s corner — ouch — I need to leave everything ready for Javier, he’s taking over the shop in… — Karina pressed her lips and turned away to fidget with a few things over the sink with the kettle. The kettle was full, Antonio inwardly thought. — Javi is the only one who won’t be watching the classico, he hates both teams and… — gracias — said Karina and left the kettle on the table, walking out to the patio.

Antonio put on his boots and checked his calendar once more before heading out. The summer was thick in Buenos Aires, thick and humid, but occasionally there are mornings where the sun is late to find its way over the city buildings, there was a forgiving breeze in the shade, and a reasonable calm. The wind carried the fallen leaves just as it did the rubbish and cigarette ends. Antonio marched on in his usual hurry when the breeze made him think of Manuel — once the sun’s overhead, Manuel will cook —. Javier was already there, — whose stupid idea was it to have a classico so close to… — listen, Javier, Karina is busting my balls to go and see Manu, and — of course! Forget it, I can sit here all day. During the classico, nobody will come, I can assure you. I can be here and do nothing all day, there were a couple of Julito’s pages I wanted to revisit — I wanted to visit him before New Year, at least — has it been that long since you saw him? — doesn’t matter, I’ll see him when I see him, right now the truck’s coming and last time we weren’t both here to unload, the old bastard just pushed the pallet out and we… — you didn’t have to deal with him when he couldn’t reverse out that one time — I can imagine —.

Across town, all the talk had been over the classico. A final battle to define greatness and a lifetime of bragging rights to wield over the lesser team. The city shops already knew the drill. Act as if it were the end of the world because it might be. The windows were unethically covered with a mismatch of ply and other panels. Some shops closed out of fear, others because they would be out of town or at home to watch, the real ones would be at the game, ready to suffer from the stands and to hurl abuse at the other side. The danger was the hooliganisms that circumfixes the game.

Manuel was not as lucky as to feel the breeze but was happy that the cold showers would be refreshing for once, instead of petrifying. — They coming to visit you, Manu? — the classico... probably not, after I'd imagine… —. Manuel’s wall was similar to his brother’s. But the calendar was carved into the wall with some stones. The only decoration was a postcard with no writing. A memory from a former life. A lovely picture of Brazilian sand with no sender’s address. A matter of counting days for the sake of counting days was all it could have been. The New Year was simply a renewal of jail cell and, with some luck, a new angle of the corridor to look at. It wasn’t much but a good angle could have a prisoner see the yard and even some natural light. The air was usually dense and tasted recycled and burnt but after some time in the same concrete box, any change of air is welcome. 

Antonio and Javier waited for the truck but Javier heard the front-counter bell and hopped inside — the fucking timing — Daniel muttered. His phone buzzed and Antonio opened up to a message from the driver, he was a little delayed it seemed. The driver had a shipment meant for the big markets and it was damaged. Being their biggest customer, the happy little driver had to forcefully grind a smile into his face, exposing nasty gums and smoke breath, and would have to come to a happy little conclusion for his number one customer — Some cocksucker dropped the pallet with the forklift just as he was pulling out from the back of the truck, guess whose fucking responsibility it is to give them more produce out of pure goodness and partnership? Me! that’s who, this miserable cunt. Give me an hour, at most — read the text message — A whole hour? — that’s what he said, Javi — can you hold the fort til then, I need to run home, I’ll be back in a bit — Javier pressed his lips and pulled out his smokes. 

Manuel wasn’t entirely alone for the holidays. The pavilion usually found a few extra bottles and some weed lying around, and debts were off the table for the jolly season. The others would always extend a half-cut plastic bottle of wine his way but he knew if he wasn’t amongst the first to get a mouthful in, the flavour would get a bit funny. It wouldn’t always bother him, but he didn’t want to greet his brother, or whoever came to visit, with bad breath. — Ferreira! — what the fuck do you want, Renata? — visitor! — a visitor? —

Manuel was escorted to the tables where there were a few, almost-happy, couples with some kids, all at arm’s length of each other as to not break the contact rules, under the watchful eye of the cyclops Ramirez. As he came around the sharp bend, he saw his stepmother, who seemed to have charmed Ramirez, with her arms crossed and carrying a look of resigned anguish and lingering disappointment. But she had a calm about her as Ramirez lit a smoke from his own deck and handed it to her. — You’re smoking again? — How are you, Manni? —  you know how it is, counting days, keeping my nose clean and my ass hole tight — I don’t need to know that, Manni, you know Antonio… — you don’t have to say anything, he’ll get here when he gets here — I’m afraid to say anything to him anymore. The other day I heard a strange clunk from his room and then a louder thud like a metal object hit the floor. When he went to work the next day, he had moved the rug. He dropped something and marked the floor, the hardwood floor! When I looked through his things, I couldn’t find anything, but I know, I smelled gunpowder! — ma, keep your voice down, please. Look, he’s not stupid like me… — you’re smart, Manni, he’s the stupid one. You could have gotten less time if you’d… and anyway, he’s reckless, I’m afraid he’s going to end up here — if he does, I’ll look after him. Look, tell him to visit me whenever he can. Anyway, how are you? Why are you smoking again? — I promised that next year... — ma, what I can tell you, in here the days are all alike. If I wanna do something there’s no point waiting for a 1st or a Monday and a new fucking moon — you know Antonio would have wanted you to go with him to the game. He doesn’t understand football as much as he likes spending time with you. It would have been all the same if the two of you watched it at the stadium or at the bar —

When the truck driver finally arrived, the hooligans were marching in anticipation for the game and to add to the old man’s heart problems, his truck was now stuck in the depot, due to the commotion, with Javier. — These fucking clowns! —. Javier sighed and agreed with a what-can-you-do. Since they had plenty of time, Javier brought out a couple of drinks and one of the kids unloaded the truck with his younger brother for a few pesos. — here you go — I’m too old for that shit, kid, go make me a coffee — you’re too old for a lot of things, viejito — Javier brought some of that morning's coffee — Just retire, viejo, once and for all. Are you telling me that you’re gonna spend the rest of your days lugging around this fucking truck, with a strike or a bullshit protest every other week? — you know I’ve been thinking about it and we might be able to manage, with Carla of course, a kiosk in the north — Javier’s face exploded with delight — you retire tomorrow and get yourself to Salta, I can guarantee that you’ll forget what any of us looked like in under a week. I remember the north, it was like getting coloured tv for the first time and seeing… — it's a whole other world of calm, the north is where I want to die. Bury me by a cactus under some beautiful dirt and don’t mark the grave — I wouldn’t visit you anyway — Javier paid the boys who had just finished unloading and he opened the gate. He peeked out at the streets — this is fucking chaos, viejito —. From the other side of the gate, the River hooligans approached. Javier had his hand on the chain and pulled the sliding gate shut when it jammed suddenly. 

A hand gripped him from the other side. That feeling of "it’s going to be me (on the news)" overtook Javier and no martial arts training in the world could teach him how to dodge a bullet to the stomach. A man with a shiny River Plate jersey pulled Javier close — it’s me, idiot— Anto, what the fuck, ass hole! you nearly gave me… — Javier locked the gate behind him with the warmth gradually returning to his blue face. Antonio had on some shades and a cap angled downwards. — Viejito! How are you? — did you lose a bet, kid? — Antonio, what the fuck are you doing, you look like a hooligan, and you can’t even do that properly. If your father saw you in a River jersey, he would roll over… — viejito, Javi, this doesn’t need to make sense, but it will. I was thinking you need to retire, viejito — we were just talking about that — the old man replied. Javier had a look of having briefly tried to figure out what Antonio had planned but quickly resigned to asking him, with certain delicacy — Anto, are you up to something? —. Antonio lit a smoke and pulled a pistol out of his pants. The old man gave a chuckle but Javier stopped his words at the tip of his tongue. He raised the pistol at the old man — is the truck insured? — sure is — how long would it take you to sell this hunk of garbage — uff, too long — what can you get out of it? — it’s 20 odd years old, kid, worth close to nothing. There are a few redeemable parts but… — then leave it here, put in the claim tomorrow. You know how to go about it. What time was your delivery meant to be today, at Manu’s? — I won't make it today… but you could probably go tomorrow — leave it here and tomorrow, a River hooligan robbed you at gunpoint, we doggy-up the tapes, and you pack for retirement — I was thinking Juyuy or Salta — Antonio held the gun firm at his head — uff, Salta and Juyuy are really something else —

Some days later, with the quiet of the New Year in Buenos Aires, Karina, on her way to buy a deck of smokes, dropped a postcard off at the shop for Javier. The postcard smelled like diesel and gun powder and had no writing on it, just a laminated image of a rusted table on some golden-brown sand, with two beers on it, a couple of coffees, and some cacti scattered along a mountain-line of a golden sunset, or sunrise. Javier closed his book — some mate, Karina? — no, thanks, I’m trying to stop drinking mate this year —.