tenor, or bass … there are no arias … no ballet … not a single ensemble … and what a little squit that fat-arsed American girl is, dressed as a boy, looking through the window to see what’s going on in the room where, needless to say, the handsome young man and the long-haired blonde are hard at it. And the cuckold in despair downstairs. And that old man with a face like Charles Darwin, who says that if he was God he would be sorry for human heartache. The fact is that although our friend the Academician, and that other chap, D’Annunzio, tell me that this is a masterpiece, I’d rather have
Manon, Traviata
, and
Carmen
. And talking of whores, take me to a brothel.”
And, in no time, the three of them found themselves in an apartment on Forty-second Street where some blondes, with faces made up and hair combed to look like cinema stars, served them with mixed drinks—it was the fashion at this time to mix drinks—after which they amused themselves by comparing what was provided here with the Veracruzan
minyules
of the Hotel Diligencias, pink punches of the Antilles and Cuban
mojos
with their iced mint leaves,
rocios de gallo
(made of gin and angostura) and
zamuritas
of cress orlemon, pineapple or agave juice with salt, from our Torrid Zone. The women were amazed that in spite of his obvious age the Head of State could swallow so many drinks—always with a regal and deliberate gesture—without getting tangled up in stories that never ended, or losing his aristocratic air. It was unusual for his son Ariel to see him drink like this—“It’s a special occasion,” said Peralta—because when the Dictator was moving in palace circles he was—with his famous drinking of healths in mineral water, and his praise of Peregrino, whose bottling establishment he had bought—a model of sobriety. At fiestas and celebrations he never exceeded one or two glasses of champagne, and his tone became emphatic and his brow furrowed when he broached the serious theme of the constant proliferation of bars and taverns, one of the great social problems of the nation, a defect we owed to the vicious nature of the Indians and the Spanish colony’s ancient monopoly of aguardiente. But people didn’t know that inside a case invariably carried by Doctor Peralta—which looked as if it contained papers of transcendental importance—there were in fact ten flasks, very flat and curved to slip easily into a pocket, such as are made in England, which, being covered in pigskin—and bought at the smart Parisian shop Hermès—never clinked when they were thrown together. So it was that in the presidential study, in the dressing room attached to the Council Chamber, in his bedroom—and of course the Mayorala Elmira was in on the secret—in the train, in the pauses of any journey by road, it was enough for the Head of State to put a thumb to his left ear for one of the flasks instantly to appear out of the secretary’s bureaucratic briefcase. In other respects, the always serious, frowning drinker—a “before-breakfast man” for whom the good Elmira prepared lots of tamarind juice quite early to refresh “his livers” (she always used the plural)—took the greatest possible care tohide a long-standing addiction to Santa Inés rum, which—it must be admitted—in no way affected the rhythm of his movements, nor the balance of his judgement when faced with some unexpected predicament, nor the almost natural flow of his perspiration: he always talked to people—his head slightly on one side so that his breath would be diverted—across a table, or keeping a definite distance, thus increasing the respect due to his patriarchal figure. To these precautions he added constant use of toothpaste, peppermint lozenges, cachous, and a suspicion of liquorice, flavouring the halo of eau de Cologne or lavender water that always clung to his under-garments and stiff shirts, all most suitable to the dignity of the Head of the
Manon, Traviata
, and
Carmen
. And talking of whores, take me to a brothel.”
And, in no time, the three of them found themselves in an apartment on Forty-second Street where some blondes, with faces made up and hair combed to look like cinema stars, served them with mixed drinks—it was the fashion at this time to mix drinks—after which they amused themselves by comparing what was provided here with the Veracruzan
minyules
of the Hotel Diligencias, pink punches of the Antilles and Cuban
mojos
with their iced mint leaves,
rocios de gallo
(made of gin and angostura) and
zamuritas
of cress orlemon, pineapple or agave juice with salt, from our Torrid Zone. The women were amazed that in spite of his obvious age the Head of State could swallow so many drinks—always with a regal and deliberate gesture—without getting tangled up in stories that never ended, or losing his aristocratic air. It was unusual for his son Ariel to see him drink like this—“It’s a special occasion,” said Peralta—because when the Dictator was moving in palace circles he was—with his famous drinking of healths in mineral water, and his praise of Peregrino, whose bottling establishment he had bought—a model of sobriety. At fiestas and celebrations he never exceeded one or two glasses of champagne, and his tone became emphatic and his brow furrowed when he broached the serious theme of the constant proliferation of bars and taverns, one of the great social problems of the nation, a defect we owed to the vicious nature of the Indians and the Spanish colony’s ancient monopoly of aguardiente. But people didn’t know that inside a case invariably carried by Doctor Peralta—which looked as if it contained papers of transcendental importance—there were in fact ten flasks, very flat and curved to slip easily into a pocket, such as are made in England, which, being covered in pigskin—and bought at the smart Parisian shop Hermès—never clinked when they were thrown together. So it was that in the presidential study, in the dressing room attached to the Council Chamber, in his bedroom—and of course the Mayorala Elmira was in on the secret—in the train, in the pauses of any journey by road, it was enough for the Head of State to put a thumb to his left ear for one of the flasks instantly to appear out of the secretary’s bureaucratic briefcase. In other respects, the always serious, frowning drinker—a “before-breakfast man” for whom the good Elmira prepared lots of tamarind juice quite early to refresh “his livers” (she always used the plural)—took the greatest possible care tohide a long-standing addiction to Santa Inés rum, which—it must be admitted—in no way affected the rhythm of his movements, nor the balance of his judgement when faced with some unexpected predicament, nor the almost natural flow of his perspiration: he always talked to people—his head slightly on one side so that his breath would be diverted—across a table, or keeping a definite distance, thus increasing the respect due to his patriarchal figure. To these precautions he added constant use of toothpaste, peppermint lozenges, cachous, and a suspicion of liquorice, flavouring the halo of eau de Cologne or lavender water that always clung to his under-garments and stiff shirts, all most suitable to the dignity of the Head of the
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