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Da questa parte cadde giú dal cielo. It was on this side that he fell from heaven. Dante imagines Satan crashing to Earth in the southern hemisphere and all the land submerging itself under the seas and fleeing to the northern hemisphere leaving behind only the mount of purgatory. If you google-earth over the southern half of South America it does feel like the South Atlantic is swallowing up the continent: the bulk of Brazil gives way to an ever thinning cone with Tierra del Fuego a jagged, distant punctuation point. Center yourself on Buenos Aires and zoom in, keeping the shore of the Rio de La Plata in view. There I am, right downtown, emerging from the subte. Instead of going right to the end of line B, I get off at Florida. It´s very warm underground and I walk quicky up the steps to reach the sidewalk. The evening is muggy and overcast but a slight breeze provides just an edge of relief. Why did I get out here instead of at Alem where I could have grabbed a taxi and been at Retiro in five minutes? There´s something about this corner of downtown Buenos Aires - warehouses with rusted roofs and older mid century architecture crowded by mature shade trees and all facing the ever rising Puerto Madero just across the water. With that aching winter sky outside our apartment window in Mar del Plata I had read Sabato´s masterpiece On Heroes and Tombs. The middle section, A Report on the Blind, places an important pursuit right here down San Martin moving away from Plaza de Mayo and then turning down what is now Presidente Peron but what was then Cangallo. It´s an obssesive descent into a world of fantasy, paranoia and madness - a geniune argentine divine comedy although the final underworld city/universe the protagonist ( Fernando Vidal Olmos ) encounters seems more Miltonian in it´s gothic terror to me. It´s also a film apparently.

But I´m facing the other way and I´m on Florida. I walk down Corrientes one block to San Martin and then turn right towards Plaza de Mayo. A couple of kids with backpacks and sandals pass by but no they´re not tourists and the backpacks likely contain textbooks. UBA´s faculty of engineering is nearby. Two short blocks and I´m at General Peron and I turn left towards the water, chasing Fernando Vidal Olmo´s ghost. They do tours of Buenos Aires based on Sabato´s book but I´m alone in my pursuit on this late February evening. The city rumbles, swaggers and slouches by ignoring me completely. I should just jump in a taxi and get the hell to the bus station. I have over two grand on me and although it´s unlikely that I´ll get mugged here on this busy sidewalk I should be more cautious or even nervous than I feel right now. He´s thirty maybe dressed sharply and he gives me that acidic sneer as he approaches me. I´m suddenly in his face. How did I move so quickly? The yelling seems to come from someone else - or is it both of us? And his eyes turn frightened ... is he yelling and I´m quiet? He turn and walks away and I follow him and he speeds up and turns the corner.

I stop, buzzing with energy and confused. I just challenged a stranger I think. I´m now at Alem and I have to decide which way to go. I plunge across the avenue, then across Madero, then across Justo and arrive at the waterfront. To my right La Puente de La Mujer arcs and shines, slender and elegant. I head towards it walking steadily and trying not to look rushed. I stare at the water as I walk to steady my dizziness. Impatiently I reach it and cross the pedestrian bridge, surely looking a little ragged compared to the over dressed Chilean couple strolling towards me. I bump past them without even a ¨disculpeme¨. At least I´m not wearing sandals. And my shoes look expensive: another gift/suggestion courtesy of Isadora. I reach the Puerto Madero side and turn left towards some sidewalk cafes. The evening is a touch milder here and I hope I´m not sweating too much. Froilan. Heladeria-Cafe. Perfect. And there she is. Chestnut hair and maybe early or mid thirties. Sitting alone at a table and no cellphone and clearly a tourist. English? Not sure ... My pulse quickens but I walk up slowly and choose a table next to her. It´s covered with the debris from the last customers. I make a face and turn to look at her noticing as I do that she´s been looking at me.

Do you mind? ( pleasant but casual ) This is a bit much.

She smiles gratefully and nods and says, pointing at my table,

What a disaster! ( yes, she´s English; just talk and order something )
What´s the ice cream like?

It works and we talk and she´s joining a friend in Salta tomorrow and is alone in Buenos Aires. A teacher on holiday ... works in Birmingham and what did she say? She´s from somewhere in Sussex? A boyfriend from Rotterdam but that´s on the rocks and her brother worked for RBS and is now looking for another job. I don´t have to talk much but I do mention that I live in Argentina and that I´m married. Better to be direct. She nods and asks me what it´s like to be married and living in Argentina. I wait a beat. Then sigh. Then explain fulsomely how much I care for Isa. Then I try to look worn down as I sip my cafe con leche ( the waiter didn´t even blink over the fact it wasn´t a cortado ... Buenos Aires is a relief sometimes I must admit ). She relaxes some more and soon we´re hailing a taxi. I jump with joy internally when she mentions a flat in Palermo that she´s renting till tomorrow when she´s leaving to join her friend. She won´t be staying around and hopefully less chances of me getting caught.

The sex turned violent quickly and Liz enjoyed it way more than me. Our geography teacher from Birmingham slapped hard and often and I replicated more out of survival instincts - but it would be a lie to say I didn´t enjoy it as well. I had decided that sex was the only way to get at her cash. She was travelling soon so she´d have cash on hand. It had to be an amount that she couldn´t be sure she hadn´t lost or spent. And I couldn´t tell her too much about my life. It makes sense for a cheating husband to be vague and hopefully I hadn´t mentioned Mar del Plata. So I had forestalled any invitation to a shared shower by jumping in to the shower by myself and locking the bathroom door behind me. She had made tea and then while she showered I had found the euros under the microwave. Ten hundred euro bills. I took 3 of them. Then we went to Sula Bar and I paid for the drinks with my dollars, risking that the bartenders would notice my wad of bills. So perhaps she wouldn´t suspect me for a while at least. We sat at the bar and sipped Blue Hawaii´s. Then I hung my head and said I had to go. Liz put her hand on my arm and squeezed,

Thanks for the drinks. And the fuck wasn´t bad either darling.

On the sidewalk I kissed her cheek ( hopefully my face wasn´t bruised from her slaps: I hadn´t noticed anything in the bathroom mirror back at her place ) and masked my impatience to finish this job with what I hoped looked like cheating husband anxiety. As the taxi sped towards Retiro, I felt a pang of remorse. I wish I had taken more. Like Fernando Vidal Olmos, I have found my obsession. And I am not emerging from Hell to see the stars like Dante and Virgil at the end of Canto XXXIV, but rather moving in the opposite direction. And if I actually didn´t have sex with her but instead grabbed the euros as she took a piss and headed downstairs quickly to hail a cab, please forgive my imagination. Let me think of myself as a seducer rather than a desperate thief as this taxi whisks me to the bus station.