A dozen or so kids attacked my friend Geraldo and his girlfriend one night at the beginning of December. They were walking by Belascoaín street when the mob, which was getting out of a concert in a nearby park, intercepted them. My friend’s backpack was the main temptation and the purse in Elena’s shoulder seemed like a good bounty. They dragged her several meters to “convince her” to drop her purse, while Geraldo attempted to get help amongst the indifferent passersby and people waiting for the bus. Nobody helped them, nor called the police. Turned faces were the only things they found while they ran, followed by their aggressors.
Finally, they found refuge, thanks to the kindness of a guar, in the masonic temple of Carlos III. When the police arrived, Elena was a nervous wreck, and her purse was missing. They didn’t find any of the perpetrators but they spent long hours in the police station recounting, again and again, their story. The authorities explained to them that going out at night to that area, central and not well lit, was madness. Meanwhile, their bruises started to swell.
The whole story reminded me of a song from Carlos Varela that says: “and even if they find no money/ they’ll leave you lying in the street/ and regardless of the screams, of the blood, and of God/ the police won’t come, no, no/ The city is not the same anymore… no … no.”