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In a dense fog we drift inside this taxi. Of strange new pain I now must make, if not my verse, then this diary, this blog. It´s a problematic canto, self-conscious and audacious, even by Dante´s measure. Canto XX of The Inferno deals with false prophets, seers, pronosticators. With Jesuit like severity Dante has Virgil change his own words and show seers in the worst possible light as they presumably dared to enter God´s terrain of knowing what is to come. But with burlesque delight he has their tears run down their backs and into their butts seeing their heads are twisted round. The strange pain in our case, however, refers to Isa´s frustrations. Third in her first semi pro game at the Casino. Less than two thousand Pesos and Piceno won. That´s driving her crazy even if she played fiercely with some poor hands. I´m so proud of her but right now I think it´s best just to hold her hand and listen to the driver - a Bon Jovi fanatic with big hair - tell amusing stories about his life as a taxi driver. Did he say his name was Pinamonte or am I conveniently imagining that? We´re driving past Plaza España and the fog slides past the lamposts, the light struggling to move through the diffuse murkiness. It´s another ridiculously cinematic moment and you expect a fog horn to sound at any minute. But ship´s horns are a strange metallic whine nowadays. We turn at Strobel and Pina or Pino brings the taxi to a halt. I pay him with a ten Peso note, letting him keep the change. We walk slowly upstairs and Isa collapses on top of the bed.

Quiero galletas.

So I get some cookies and we watch TV and eat cookies and she insists on máte despite the hour. Cronica TV with their sensationalist trash journalism is on and I secretly hope that Kabe shows up somehow in a news report, even if it has to be Cronica. Where is he? I know he scared me once, but now he haunts me. The journey back to Canada. The descent into Cagnazzo´s claws. The desperate search for some small con to earn our next couple of thousand bucks. Kabe changed our lives. And the thought grows that maybe he´s still collecting a percentage. Or perhaps he sold us to Cagnazzo ... ? Could that be? How much did he get I wonder ... in Pesos no doubt. So he´s perhaps still in Argentina. But then again he may have changed those Pesos and bought a plane ticket back to Israel. He would have known it was time to move on.

Nene por dios! En que carajo estas??

Isa is staring at me. I breath out long and slow and shake my head slowly.

Y ... en Kabe.
Dejalo ya. Mas bien pensa en como juntamos mas guita.

Her voice is calm and crisp. She seems to be adapting to our life of miserable swindles. But I never know how much it is actually eating her up. I lay my hand on her belly but she turns fussily to one side and stares at the television. I gently stroke the back of her head.

A ver si Cagnazzo nos llama amor.
Que se caga ese estafador!
Isa ... !

But what´s the point of arguing? She´s sick of my subservience to Cagnazzo and she´s worn out from the poker - altough I suspect she´s actually reasonably pleased at some level with her performance tonight. So I stay quiet and shift tensely in bed. Then I stand up and open up the closet and grab my hooded coat. I also take my deerskin gloves out of the second drawer of our dresser. I have no choice. I have to go out now in this god awful night and find something. Isa observes me quietly and finally when I have my wallet and keys she says,

No salis con demasiado guita amor. Por si acaso.

The fog seems even thicker now and I have the hood up as I walk down the sidewalk that runs along the retaining wall by the shore. Below I can hear the waves but can barely see the sand and only occasionally catch glimpses of waves breaking. Perhaps you might feel a little aprehensive should you be walking towards me - seeing you would be a tourist and likely alone. But I barely notice you. I have to reach the Casino as soon as possible. It takes me just over twenty minutes; round the bluff and past the Fisherman´s wharf if you will with it´s flashing blue Quilmes sign. And there it is. There were a few tourists hanging around the poker game and wandering off to the slot machines. They seemed European but I couldn´t catch their accents. I wonder if they´re still there. I slow down as I approach the brass entrance doors and turn and look quickly through the glass. I think I see a couple of them coming down the steps. I stop and wait till they come through the doors. I have to approach a few steps until one of them recognizes me despite the hood.

Hey!! How´s the wife?? She played excellent!!

Drunk. And even better, friendly. I grin wearily and nod my head.

You out for walk?? It´s ok??

The other one is even more drunk. They´re both about my age. Divorced? Wives at home? They sound like they might be from the Czech Republic or Hungary ... I smile what I hope is bravely showing my heroic love for Isa.

Yes ... she´s resting. It was a little tough on her. All the stress and attention ...
Yessss!!! Poor girl!!! You want a drrrink???

I pause what I hope is just a brief moment as I assess them and then shrug and grin. The taller, and drunker, one slaps my back and says,

You show us some good bars ok!??
Ok ...