The Revolutionaries Try Again by Mauro Javier Cardenas Page B

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.
    â€”
    Facundo Cedeño, sporting cream polyester pants and a brown SPAM tee shirt, which barely covers his ventripotence, or as his classmatesat 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 arecrunchy, 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