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 thatâs why we installed a democracy here, carajo, if they wanted change they shouldâve 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 isnât looking over this way), if he doesnât read another word about these autocrats or caudillos or patriarchs or whatever you want to call them, he would be the, bah, he doesnât know if he would be the better for it. He just doesnât want to hear about them anymore.
Leónâs strong arm performance, interrupted by his coughing, continues. Leopoldo tries not to think about El Locoâs people waiting outside. What does he care about El Locoâs people anyway? With his handkerchief he wipes his face slowly, careful not to appear desperate, but not too slowly so as to appear like heâs 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 asuneven 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 â hey, the Snivelâs here, watch your calculators, fellows â 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 Leónâs 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. Thereâs 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 Leopoldoâs doorstep to borrow the answers to their calculus homework, and who also happens to be Leónâs grandson â donât think of you groveling after the Fat Albino to obtain a recommendation for the post as Leónâs domestic, Microphone â 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 DañÃn? 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. Theyâre just meeting to talk, nothing definite yet, the countryâs too unstable for León to find out, not that heâs going to let León find out, that heâs conspiring with Antonio to run in the upcoming presidential elections. Antonioâs probably
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 thatâs why we installed a democracy here, carajo, if they wanted change they shouldâve 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 isnât looking over this way), if he doesnât read another word about these autocrats or caudillos or patriarchs or whatever you want to call them, he would be the, bah, he doesnât know if he would be the better for it. He just doesnât want to hear about them anymore.
Leónâs strong arm performance, interrupted by his coughing, continues. Leopoldo tries not to think about El Locoâs people waiting outside. What does he care about El Locoâs people anyway? With his handkerchief he wipes his face slowly, careful not to appear desperate, but not too slowly so as to appear like heâs 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 asuneven 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 â hey, the Snivelâs here, watch your calculators, fellows â 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 Leónâs 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. Thereâs 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 Leopoldoâs doorstep to borrow the answers to their calculus homework, and who also happens to be Leónâs grandson â donât think of you groveling after the Fat Albino to obtain a recommendation for the post as Leónâs domestic, Microphone â 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 DañÃn? 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. Theyâre just meeting to talk, nothing definite yet, the countryâs too unstable for León to find out, not that heâs going to let León find out, that heâs conspiring with Antonio to run in the upcoming presidential elections. Antonioâs probably
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