El Loco’s people are arriving as planned. I have everything under control.
You? You have everything under . . .?
León sidesteps him so Leopoldo has to scramble behind like a domestic who should’ve known better, a domestic who’s carrying León’s briefcase, which contains the Cohiba cigars that Fidel still ships to León, a recommendation letter so Alvarito Rosales can be admitted into Babson College, a stockwhip from León’s ranch that León plans to unleash on El Loco’s people, brown shoe polish for his cowboy boots, double chocolate wafer crumbs from La Universal, called Tango for no good reason.
How are the horses, Mister President? Marcial still on a winning streak? How are the Dobermans? The bonsais growing nicely? Shooting at the range this weekend?
It’s never easy to tell when León’s in the mood to chat with reporters. Definitely not today. The reporters and the film crew arrange themselves on the floor, by the one rolltop oak desk.
León preempts questions about the human rights lawsuit against him by lecturing them about antiterrorist practices around the world.
Leopoldo, following the press conference from the side, by the wall with the chomped wallpaper, has heard all about it before. By now everyone else has, too. León had secretly contracted an Israeli antiterrorist expert during his presidency and together they eliminated so many people that, unlike in Colombia and Perú, we have no more of those terrorists here, no more of those antisocials whose dissatisfactions were irrelevant because that’s why we installed a democracy here, carajo, if they wanted change they should’ve run for office, a strong hand had been needed and that was the end of it, and yet if Leopoldo never hears another word from strong armed despots like León (no, León isn’t looking over this way), if he doesn’t read another word about these autocrats or caudillos or patriarchs or whatever you want to call them, he would be the, bah, he doesn’t know if he would be the better for it. He just doesn’t want to hear about them anymore.
León’s strong arm performance, interrupted by his coughing, continues. Leopoldo tries not to think about El Loco’s people waiting outside. What does he care about El Loco’s people anyway? With his handkerchief he wipes his face slowly, careful not to appear desperate, but not too slowly so as to appear like he’s applying face powder. Should he have his initials embroidered on his handkerchief? Light gray would be the best color. Because light gray goes with everything. He could do it himself, too. Unlike Antonio, whose longhand was as uneven as his flare ups, which ranged from sobbing on the soccer field after losing a game to hurling his calculator against the back wall of their classroom after supposedly botching a physics exam — hey, the Snivel’s here, watch your calculators, fellows — Leopoldo excelled in calligraphy. He still has a few of those lined notebooks with the translucent paper. Though of course excellence in calligraphy does not equate to excellence in embroidery. Just as excellence in history does not necessarily equate to being chosen to write León’s biography. Just as extreme intelligence does not necessarily equate to a nomination from León for the upcoming elections, or any elections, even a little one, ever. There’s even a rumor that Cristian Cordero, also known as the Fat Albino, that pretentious agglomerate of flab, one of the laziest students at San Javier, who would only show up at Leopoldo’s doorstep to borrow the answers to their calculus homework, and who also happens to be León’s grandson — don’t think of you groveling after the Fat Albino to obtain a recommendation for the post as León’s domestic, Microphone — might be running for president. At San Javier, Antonio lost two out of three fights against the Fat Albino. Does Antonio remember those fistfights at the Miraflores Park? Does he remember teaching catechism in Mapasingue with Leopoldo? Does he remember their work at the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín? From a wicker basket they would hand bread to the bedstricken inside rooms the size of hangars. The elderly waited for them along the hallway, one of them waiting for Antonio at the farthest end. Rosita Delgado? Once, before Antonio arrived at the hospice, Rosita unwrapped for Leopoldo a photograph Antonio had gifted her: Antonio as a boy in a cardboard penguin costume. Years later that boy in the costume became a Stanford economist who has come back to discuss their role in the upcoming presidential elections. Leopoldo checks his watch. He will be meeting with Antonio in thirty two minutes. They’re just meeting to talk, nothing definite yet, the country’s too unstable for León to find out, not that he’s going to let León find out, that he’s conspiring with Antonio to run in the upcoming presidential elections. Antonio’s probably expecting an audacious plan from him. Which Leopoldo actually has. Sort of. He pockets his handkerchief. Calligraphy and embroidery are probably not related at all.
Mister President, are you reconsidering your party’s position of not nominating a presidential candidate for the upcoming elections? Mister President, are you ever going to run for president again? Mister President, are you ever going to buy furniture for this building?
I won’t buy anything for this building, Leopoldo hears León say, indignant as ever, narrowing his eyes, or at least one of them, and like a priest denouncing the stench of sin he points at the vacant corners of the room, as if the corners had anything to do with it, as if once upon a time León flunked geometry just like his grandson flunked everything but flute lessons, although of course Leopoldo knows that León never flunked anything and that this pointing is just León’s theatrical way of enumerating the missing clerk desks, reception desks, oak chairs, tin chairs, white paper, brown paper, air fresheners, copy machines, washing machines, phone lines, phone cords, everything that was carried away by the friends and family of El Loco. Except the rolltop. That’d been too heavy to haul. Everyone had seen the looted palace on television. And yet to most people the images of the sacked rooms had not seemed surreal or incredibly despairing but funny. Everyone’s saying that they found nothing but a pig chomping on the wallpaper, Don Leopoldo. That the pig’s tiny ears made her nose look unnecessarily big. And on top of that she smelled like garbage. Oh but Elsa the Pig did not care. She munched on the municipal wallpaper and did not care. That’s how the idea of summoning El Loco’s people occurred to Leopoldo. People weren’t outraged, he’d told León. Everyone thinks it’s funny. Extra, niño Leo, read it here first: León’s Right Hand Man Pockets Pensions and Roars to Miami. Check it out, Microphone Head, Fraud Forces Francisco Swett to Jet to Florida. Extra, Don Leopoldo, Jeffrey the Hutt Escapes Prison Order and Flees to Miami. Jeffrey Torbay did look like Jabba the Hutt, which made his embezzlement during León’s presidency even more sinister. Everyone’s saying that Jeffrey the Hutt opened a nightclub in Miami Beach, Don Leopoldo. That they’re calling it Ecuador Bar & Beer. Although more likely it was called The Palace or The Cathedral or The Mansion and its doors were probably flanked with pit guards spurnful of dark Mexicans and blacks. The other thing Leopoldo didn’t tell León is that everyone still remembers El Loco lashing a stockwhip out the window of the municipal palace, promising to flog oligarchs like León during El Loco’s tenure as police chief.
I won’t buy anything for this building until the people realize the extent of that man’s corruption, Leopoldo hears León say. That swindler shouldn’t be allowed to return. Accomplished and honest professionals are what our country needs.
Is León showcasing Leopoldo as an example of an accomplished and honest professional? The reporters seem to be wondering the same thing because they’re turning to appraise Leopoldo. Do they remember what Leopoldo has accomplished for the city? Do they remember that El Loco and his cohorts had also emptied the city’s coffers and that that’s the other reason León can’t buy anything for this building? Or that León had shut down the empty palace and jumpstarted a tax collection campaign to replenish the coffers but what he collected he had to immediately disburse to avert an epidemic because the sewers had clogged somewhere and black water was inundating the streets and the rainy season hadn’t even started and on the way to work people were seeing rats splashing for life? Leopoldo approaches the window
on the other side of the room to check on El Loco’s people. To keep it manageable Leopoldo had only summoned two hundred out of the two thousand four hundred and ninety pipones, and yet outside more than two hundred are already crowding the courtyard, spilling onto the streets and gardens, he should’ve anticipated that more than two hundred would show up, although perhaps his arithmetic is off? One by the oyster stand, two by the juice vendor (hey, is that Facundo Cedeño?), three by the, well, don’t worry too much, Leo, no one’s going to notice in any case. Across the room Leopoldo signals León. Let us begin.
—
Facundo Cedeño, sporting cream polyester pants and a brown SPAM tee shirt, which barely covers his ventripotence, or as his classmates at San Javier used to call it, his bus driver beer bulge, I’ll show you a bulge!, he would retort to them, adopting a leader of the hencoop posture, a poultry falsetto, a mock priapic strut along with grabfuls of his storied maid killer under his school jeans, the same cotton butt jeans that used to be an indefatigable source of school hall badinage, the latter word, incidentally, being the kind of word that Facundo would often call out for clarification during Who’s Most Pedantic: ba the bleet of sheep, di the circus interlude, nage the Vader belch: baah, dee, NAAAAAGE, transmogrifying their recondite words as payback for their mocking of his shabby, ill fitting jeans that would drop on him just as his cream polyester pants, two sizes too big, are dropping on him as he stands on the steps of the municipal palace.
Buying a belt is a passing thought amid the Saharan heat. No sand here though. No Arabian ghost masks either. A limerick about camels and parasols is a passing thought as he spots a juice vendor on the other side of the courtyard. A pint of papaya juice would be swell. Not as swell as my belly here, eh? Eh? Ha ha. This round fellow here, his grandfather used to say as he petted his whale of a belly, is worth thousands. Everyone always laughed at that joke. And yet when Facundo tried it on his audience at La Ratonera no one did. Pretend you’re old and still living in a mud hut and they’ll roar over, Facundito, Grandpa Paul had explained. Facundo straightens his hands like a visor, eyeing the courtyard like an explorer overseeing the Americas. A limerick about Cortez is a passing thought as he spots an oyster stand, a tricycle of sorts, which also looks promising as relief from the heat. A catfish look alike is placing his oysters by his ear before slurping them, as if expecting to hear their last words. Don’t eat me, catfish! Kiss me, catfish! Mrkrgnao. Too many people are thronging the courtyard. Too many people are beached on the stairs. Some of them are grousing about the long wait, others about the jump in the price of lentils, others about weevils in the rice imported from Thailand by a minister who fled the day before his prison order was issued, about the probabilistic that El Loco might return to squash those corrupt oligarchs conchadesumadres in the upcoming presidential elections. Shush it, Fabio, León might hear you and pop your eye. You think weevils are crunchy, compadre? To traverse the crowded courtyard for some juice of dubious sapidity, not to mention its dubious coldness, for even if the juice vendor had the strength to carry the weight of the buckets plus juice plus ice blocks, he probably loaded the ice early in the morning so it must be all melted by now, yuck, well, hold on, why do I have to traverse anything? Hey juice man. Psst. Over here. At a miraculous speed the skeletal juice man approaches him.
How much for your punch?
Twenty five, patroncito.
Getting sly on me?
Fifteen and fresh from the fruit, patroncito.
Say again?
Ten and to the brim, patroncito.
Facundo pulls a photocopy of an official looking letter with the municipal seal, waving it like an eviction notice in front of the lanky juice man, whose roasted body reeks of shrimp, and whose veiny arms are overtensed by the buckets’ weight.
I’m with the municipality. This juice’s probably a health hazard. Let me see your permit.
The defeated look of the juice man seems like an obvious exaggeration, no? As if he’s not used to it? Right. What an actor. The juice man squats to set the buckets down but right before they touch the cement he changes his mind and lets them drop. Flatly they land on the step. The skinned bean jars clink against each other. Splashes of red juice land on his rubber sandals. He submerges his hand into the water bucket, the one where he rinses the jars, retrieves one, and then inserts it inside the other bucket, the one with the juice and the ice.
Free for you, patron.
Ah. Much better. Nice and cold.
A limerick about gluttony is a passing thought as he swills the juice. The juice man is eyeing the smoke clouds nearby. Hoping for what? The smog of retribution? The avenging thunderbolt? Facundo tries to appease the juice man, sticking his teeth out, bunnylike, diligently wiping his curd from the rim of the jar. Nothing. No funnybone on this one. Facundo hands him back the empty jar. At a miraculous speed the juice man vanishes inside the crowd.
More arrivals stream to the front, by the stairs, mostly because there’s no line but eventually there’ll be a line and then they’ll be first, not knowing there’s probably a long wait ahead, not caring about crowding the courtyard further, hey, stop pushing, quit shoving. A green balloon escapes from someone’s grip but doesn’t drift up. Facundo swats the limp balloon, which tries to float, like an eyeball above them, toward a magician who’s selling lottery tickets and stuffed pets. The magician releases the balloon as if it were a dove on a mission, find the fig little one, fly. The balloon lollops by the magician’s feet, landing by three businessmen in blue suits. One of them scoops the balloon from the floor, careful not to scratch his cufflinks, holding it from its knot and fretting it against his fist. The other two businessmen are comparing his municipal letter with theirs. The businessmen inspect their surroundings, confirming their suspicions that everyone but the street vendors, those cholos and lowlifes, are also carrying a municipal letter, some of them carrying the original document, others probably carrying a counterfeit of the original document, which states that all municipal employees hired by El Loco will be reinstated to the payroll, your one time appearance is required at the municipal palace. Something’s fishy, one of the businessmen says. I don’t think El Loco loaded this many riffraffs into payroll. I couldn’t get ahold of El Loco today either. The other two businessmen agree. Something is fishy. Shield your wallets, gentlemen, and let’s get the hell out of here. The magician tells someone who tells someone who tells someone what they overheard those businesspeople say, and as the something’s fishy rumor spreads some are saying I don’t care if El Loco’s Loco or Sapo, at least he cared enough to write us a check, which I desperately need to buy textbooks, someone says, to buy powdered milk, someone else says, to pay the water truck, someone else says, to rent a washing machine, someone else says, and I’ve traveled far, someone says, I’ve traveled far. No one flees. Everyone remains in place. The oyster man turns the dial of his portable radio, skipping from song snippet to static to the interim president has just announced a new package of tightening measures, to Wilfrido Vargas and his papi no seas así / no te pongas guapo / ese baile les gusta a todos los muchachos. The balloon wanders back to Facundo. This time he picks it up. As he reaches the oyster stand, he digs his nails on the balloon and . . .
An explosion. A shot? A gunshot? No one’s down. Everyone hunts for the origin of the explosion. Where? Where?
Now folks please direct your attention over here, Facundo says, displaying his balloon shreds like a flight attendant. Just the balloon popping here, folks. Nothing to worry about. No one laughs. Everyone’s so frazzled here, Facundo thinks. Well. He’ll find a way to make them laugh. He towels his hands with his tee shirt, as if purging himself of his streak of lame jokes, and then he says to the oyster man oiga ñañón, turn that tune up. The oyster man shrugs and turns up the dial. Wilfrido Vargas is singing El Baile del Perrito. Everybody knows this merengue. Ladies and, okay, gentlemen too, my impression of our current mayor, our lion and grand patriarch, the one and only León, Martín, Corrrrrrdero. The d
oors to the palace are still shut so the crowd’s free to gather around the fat man, who’s dropping on all fours and is imitating the fast barks of the merengue, shaking his rear as if he’s the mayor eagerly wagging his tail for El Loco, who must have ordered León to reinstate all of them to the payroll, someone says, and although León has never been known for following anyone’s orders, especially those of El Loco, the crowd claps and hoots and sings if something I owe you / with this I repay you / if something I owe you / with this I repay you. Hey fatty, someone says, do you think El Loco ordered León to throw us a party? Hey SPAM man, someone else says, do you think he hired Los Iracundos to sing for us? Do you think El Loco ordered that oligarch to raise our salaries? Do you think?
The doors to the municipal palace finally open. About time, someone says. León, trailed by a film crew, dashes out. The television cameras are aiming at the courtyard, scanning them from side to side like security cameras. The reporters are mouthing into their microphones as if chronicling a flood or a raffle. Someone at the bottom of the stairs waves his arms at the cameras. Someone by the oyster stand waves her letter. Others next to her wave theirs, too. Hundreds wave their letters like handkerchiefs at a ship. But what’s wrong with León? He’s just standing there. Covering his mouth with his fist as if about to inflate himself? To knock someone out? He looks pissed. Hey fatty, someone says, why don’t you go talk to León and see what’s going on? Yeah fatty, someone else says, go. What? Me? Ha ha. But apparently they’re not kidding. The crowd parts for him, forming a passageway through the courtyard, up the stairs, to León Martín Cordero. An old woman who’s pressing a rag to her nose reminds Facundo of the smell of burnt tires. Someone pushes him forward. Okay, fine, I’m going. Facundo tries to underplay his assignment by highfiving the crowd. Not everyone plays along. The ones that do smile at him too effusively, like parents congratulating their son for coming in eleventh place. On the stairs the party’s over. Behind him the crowd goes silent. Facundo extends his hand to León but León refuses it. Hey there’s Leopoldo! Leopoldo’s approaching him but he’s shaking his head discreetly at Facundo as if saying no, Facundo, you can’t know me here.
The Revolutionaries Try Again Page 5
