En las tardes de calor, después de la siesta, el viejo Lombardi se sentaba a la sombra en la esquina del patio y prendía la radio. Al ratito llegaba el Flaco Negri, el pucho colgando del labio: “Pero! Sentilo a Carlitos, che” y movía la cabeza como con incredulidad. Poco a poco iban cayendo. Don Pesutti, farfullando en su cerrado acento siciliano, el gallego Pizarro, con sus historias de espíritus y aparecidos, el doctor Falcone, que cuando hablaba se acomodaba los anteojos de concha y afirmaba sus opiniones golpeando la mesa con la empuñadura de plata de su bastón.
Al otro lado de la verja, los chicos del barrio jugábamos a la rayuela y a las bolitas, cazábamos lagartijas, perseguíamos a los gatos o tirábamos piedras a aquella solitaria farola de Las Heras y Mitre. Hasta que doña Tota se asomaba a la ventana y nos mandaba a casa a tomar la leche.
In the hot evenings, after the siesta, the old Lombardi sat in the shadowed corner of the yard and turned the radio on. “Slim” Negri arrived a bit later, a fag-end hanging from his lip: “Why! Listen to Carlitos, che” and he moved his head like in disbelief. It didn´t take them long to arrive. Don Pesutti, jabbering in his strong Sicilian accent, “Gallego” Pizarro, with his stories of spirits and ghosts, Dr. Falcone, who relocated his carey spectacles when speaking, and endorsed his opinions by hitting the table with the silver handle of his stick.
At the other side of the fence, the kids of the neighborhood played hopscotch and marbles, hunted lizards, went after cats or threw stones to that lonely streetlight in Las Heras and Mitre. Until Doña Tota showed up at her window and sent us home for our milk.