without asking permission first. The eagle that graces the presidential chair!
What advantages do we have? Our discretion, for starters. There’s no better training for politics than adultery. Little secrets, little secrets. Big surprises, big surprises. Nobody suspects us, nor would they ever think of connecting us in any way. I live here in the land of the pheasant and the deer, and there isn’t a soul who could possibly suspect a thing about our little romantic escapades in Cancún. Good Lord! In that hippie wig, nobody on earth would ever recognize you at the hotel, and please forgive me for saying so, my sweet handsome thing, but the last time we went to the beach a couple of young gringos invited me to go dancing with them at a disco. “Leave your father at home,” they said, “he spends the whole day napping anyway.”
Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, my darling, but I’m telling you this to make you realize that you and I have been discreet, extremely discreet, and on that account we can’t be faulted. You, for your part, have always been a teacher of civil law at the National University, a respected congressman for the now defunct PRI, first a loyal campaigner and then a headhunter for the erstwhile candidate, now for the presidency. Unsullied by chicanery. They could accuse you—and with good reason—of being a horny lech, my darling, although that’s no sin, not even a venial one. But a thief, never. You don’t have to say anything about this, not to me, darling. I know how you live, in that tiny one-bedroom apartment in Colonia Cuauhtémoc. That sickening smell of cooking, garbage, and piss that wafts up the shaft in the stairway. Not even an elevator! And your three Sears suits, your six pairs of shoes, so ancient they’re actually from that ancient old shop El Borceguí, your two Basque berets for protecting your bald pate in January. My God! You’re an ascetic, my tortilla! What they don’t know, of course, is that baldness is a sign—secondary, they say, but a sign nonetheless—of virility, and even if you’re modest in every other aspect, your masculine gifts, my irrepressible man, are still peerless. Why, it’s as if God the Father gave you almost everything in small sizes with one exception, that Tarzan trouser snake, that Popeye prick, that chimpanzee chili that’s very much your own, my bashful one, but it also belongs to me, the woman who so adores you, and asks you to think hard because we’ve only got two more years to achieve our goal.
I adore you, my dear T. Please tell me when I can see you again, and I repeat: Keep your hands clean and your spine straight, but above all watch it, my love, keep your eyes open, and be prepared to be a bit of a bastard. . . .
11
NICOLÁS VALDIVIA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
Thank you for allowing me to address you in the familiar, María del Rosario. It’s a gift, especially because it makes up for the position you’ve put me in. I know it’s the president’s decision. I know that I can thank him through you for the fact that I’m now sitting at a desk in the hallowed halls of the executive branch. But what a price you’ve made me pay! To have to deal with Tácito de la Canal all day! Everything you told me about him pales in comparison to the dismal truth. If I’m able to bear him at all it’s only because I love you and am grateful for all the help you’ve given me. Besides, I respect your reasons. My first post in the Terán administration is quite close to the president, in the office that’s the heart of the country’s highest authority, at the service of the president’s chief of staff, Tácito de la Canal.
I must be disciplined about this and simply accept the daily company of this repugnant man. Obey him. Respect him. If this is not the best and most genuine proof of my love for you, María del Rosario, I don’t know what is, other than romantic suicide in the manner of young Werther. You tell me that I have to start
What advantages do we have? Our discretion, for starters. There’s no better training for politics than adultery. Little secrets, little secrets. Big surprises, big surprises. Nobody suspects us, nor would they ever think of connecting us in any way. I live here in the land of the pheasant and the deer, and there isn’t a soul who could possibly suspect a thing about our little romantic escapades in Cancún. Good Lord! In that hippie wig, nobody on earth would ever recognize you at the hotel, and please forgive me for saying so, my sweet handsome thing, but the last time we went to the beach a couple of young gringos invited me to go dancing with them at a disco. “Leave your father at home,” they said, “he spends the whole day napping anyway.”
Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, my darling, but I’m telling you this to make you realize that you and I have been discreet, extremely discreet, and on that account we can’t be faulted. You, for your part, have always been a teacher of civil law at the National University, a respected congressman for the now defunct PRI, first a loyal campaigner and then a headhunter for the erstwhile candidate, now for the presidency. Unsullied by chicanery. They could accuse you—and with good reason—of being a horny lech, my darling, although that’s no sin, not even a venial one. But a thief, never. You don’t have to say anything about this, not to me, darling. I know how you live, in that tiny one-bedroom apartment in Colonia Cuauhtémoc. That sickening smell of cooking, garbage, and piss that wafts up the shaft in the stairway. Not even an elevator! And your three Sears suits, your six pairs of shoes, so ancient they’re actually from that ancient old shop El Borceguí, your two Basque berets for protecting your bald pate in January. My God! You’re an ascetic, my tortilla! What they don’t know, of course, is that baldness is a sign—secondary, they say, but a sign nonetheless—of virility, and even if you’re modest in every other aspect, your masculine gifts, my irrepressible man, are still peerless. Why, it’s as if God the Father gave you almost everything in small sizes with one exception, that Tarzan trouser snake, that Popeye prick, that chimpanzee chili that’s very much your own, my bashful one, but it also belongs to me, the woman who so adores you, and asks you to think hard because we’ve only got two more years to achieve our goal.
I adore you, my dear T. Please tell me when I can see you again, and I repeat: Keep your hands clean and your spine straight, but above all watch it, my love, keep your eyes open, and be prepared to be a bit of a bastard. . . .
11
NICOLÁS VALDIVIA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
Thank you for allowing me to address you in the familiar, María del Rosario. It’s a gift, especially because it makes up for the position you’ve put me in. I know it’s the president’s decision. I know that I can thank him through you for the fact that I’m now sitting at a desk in the hallowed halls of the executive branch. But what a price you’ve made me pay! To have to deal with Tácito de la Canal all day! Everything you told me about him pales in comparison to the dismal truth. If I’m able to bear him at all it’s only because I love you and am grateful for all the help you’ve given me. Besides, I respect your reasons. My first post in the Terán administration is quite close to the president, in the office that’s the heart of the country’s highest authority, at the service of the president’s chief of staff, Tácito de la Canal.
I must be disciplined about this and simply accept the daily company of this repugnant man. Obey him. Respect him. If this is not the best and most genuine proof of my love for you, María del Rosario, I don’t know what is, other than romantic suicide in the manner of young Werther. You tell me that I have to start
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