IT IS NOON and the aura of lunch trails through the neighborhood. The scent is a mix of instant soup, eggs, beans, and tortillas, many tortillas, freshly made. At this hour, the community is staunchly divided between the haves and have-nots. What determines who resides in which group is ultimately arbitrary. If you earned something that morning you eat lunch. If not, better wait for dinner—that is, if the afternoon is more productive. If by nightfall there’s still nothing to add to the pot of boiling water, well, maybe tomorrow will be a better day.
The first group, the haves, takes refuge in their homes to cook what they have procured, supplementing with water if it’s not enough. The second group, the have-nots, is comprised of the drunks and the vagrants, some kids who sniff around from their windows, and those whose morning has left them with nothing but hopes for a better afternoon. On the patio of the youth center, Destino has left his plate half-eaten and speaks with the two mysterious men who were here yesterday. It seems they have come to hand over what Destino haggled for so insistently. The one who looks like a Mexican cowboy is nervous, he stomps his boots and wiggles his cigarette between his fingers.
“Destino, they should post up. Have the dawgs posted up, yeah?” he says, signaling toward the mountaintop and toward the street leading down the hill.
“Of course!” answers Destino, as if offended by the remark.
At present, Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha are spread thin. They have been patrolling the community and the hills that surround it since morning. They go in groups. At a distance, I can make out El Maniaco. He is posted at the entrance to the community with a hand tucked underneath his shirt. At his side is Bernardo, an aspiring gangster. He has tried to join the clica for a few months, but up until now he’s only managed to get insignificant jobs. He is tall and thin, must be fifteen or so, and with a face covered in acne he’s the spitting image of adolescence.
El Noche,15 the gangster who sent a drunkard down the hill to get me cigarettes, walks along a small patrol of young men. He sports a polo down to his elbows, leaving his tattoo-covered forearms in full view. He walks by me and flashes the Salvatrucha claw16 in greeting. The last in his squad is Moxy, another wannabe gangster. He splits off from the group to touch my motorcycle.
“Damn! This bike is crazy. Man, I can drive these and even bigger ones. Just ask Little Down, I’ve taken him way out.”
El Noche shoots him a stony look and Moxy resumes his place in the troop that’s soon out of sight.
Little Down doesn’t patrol. He assists Destino in his bargaining with the cowboy. Soon enough, the two men take a black bag from a trunk and pass it along. Inside is something round and heavy, like a mango. When it’s Little Down’s turn to scope out the purchase, he grins. He looks like a kid with a new toy.
“Hey dawgs, come take the goods!” yells Destino, and a pack of gangsters grab the bag before disappearing into the streets.
It is almost 3 p.m., and the neighborhood slowly comes to life. The sun gleams off the tin roofs and distorts the shadows. The sound of reggaeton rebounds through the streets and mingles with a chorus of shouts from the old man on the corner, who, they say, was driven mad by a witch.
At the youth center, Destino, the visitors, and some gangsters are seated on the steps and amusedly watch a small spectacle. Hugo, who’s been gone all afternoon, is badgering Moxy with jocular punches. He is intent on keeping the spotlight, and each time Destino explodes into laughter. Moxy smiles nervously but grimaces when the child delivers a new blow to his ribs. He looks at the rest as if to say, “Okay, that’s enough.” But the Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha crew are entertained, and Hugo shows no signs of stopping.
Destino’s clica is getting ready for something. New members are being admitted, and they are getting the necessary supplies to begin their adventure. A few days ago, in downtown San Salvador, an M67 industrial grenade blew four members of Barrio 18 to pieces, and others still have detonated throughout the country. The residents on the mountain know how to read these signs, and get ready for war. Shops close early, people walk more hurriedly, avoiding eye contact, and homes shut down like small bunkers at night. There is an air of death throughout the hilldside.
15 In English, The Night.
16 The gang’s token hand symbol is a claw.