(o «¿por qué será que esta ciudad nos convierte en unos hijos de puta?»)
Esperando en la entrada del Sambil al hermano de O., se me acerca un tipo con pinta de no haberse bañado en un par de días. Con pinta, pues, de que quiere martillarme.
–Do you speak english?
–Yup.
–Oh, thank God! –al tipo se le ilumina la cara y me extiende la mano. Yo meto mis manos en los bolsillos.
–Why you people in this city do that?!
–Well, you are in the most dangerous city in the americas. That’s why.
–But but. Well, anyway. I’m from New York. I’ve been trying to speak to several people this morning. You see, last night I was at aeroexpreso ejecutivo and was ready to take a bus to Puerto Cabello when I was attacked and ripped off and…
–Sorry, can’t help you.
–Yes you can! That’s a lie.
–Well, maybe that’s a lie. But I can’t help you.
–Why? –No puedo creer que el tipo me vaya a porfiar.
–Well, in this city the «bus to Puerto Cabello» is the oldest trick in the book. It’s always a bus to La Guaria, or Puerto Cabello, or Puerto La Cruz or some other port. Don’t know why.
–Yeah, but…
–So, what you need to say it’s that you need some money to get to the american embassy.
–Oh ¿So are you going to help me?
–I just did.