young man." They expelled him the next day. Phiber Outkast didn't need to console him; Kandinsky was elated.
Phiber and Kandinsky's first mission was to access private computers and steal the owners' passwords. They did this from an Internet café where a friend of Phiber's worked. The friend was paid a few pesos to let them work in peace on a computer in the farthest corner of the room. At first Phiber gave the instructions: he knew a bit about programming. Kandinsky would follow and improve on them, playing with them, twisting them, taking them to their breaking point, as if the equations on the screen were made of pliable metal.
With his first stolen password, Kandinsky went through the records of some unknown individual like a thief in another man's house, roaming through the rooms in search of objects to steal. Emotion overcame him; on the surface, he had to remain calm.
He would never go back to stealing from cars and houses, putting himself in physical danger. He much preferred to key in the correct characters that pulse on the screen, to steal from a distance, to obtain access through a rented computer and appropriate the numbers that make up a life: credit cards, bank accounts, insurance. Numbers, numbers everywhere, violated with impunity.
Phiber Outkast slapped him on the back and told him that before he knew it, he would be one of the best hackers around. Kandinsky liked the sound of that mysterious word,
hacker.
It lent him an air of danger, intelligence, transgression. Hackers abuse technology, find uses in artifacts for which they were not intended. Hackers enter territory that is forbidden by law and, once there, laugh at power. It was, perhaps, a metaphor for his life.
One afternoon he arrived home to find his dad at the door, brandishing a letter from the high school. Too many absences had led to his being expelled. His dad was furious. Hadn't he been the best student? And now he wasn't even going to graduate from high school? What had he been doing?
Kandinsky was at a loss for the words that would excuse him.
His mom was in the kitchen chopping onions, and he avoided her gaze. He couldn't bear the look of disappointment welling up in her eyes.
He entered the room he shared with his brother. Esteban was reading a book that he had borrowed from the municipal library: a biography of the man who was the leader of the Workers' Union for forty years. He was a bright kid and liked to read. Would he one day have the chance to go back to school? Unlikely. Would he have to continue helping his parents? Most probably.
Why continue with the charade? Kandinsky's parents had seen him as their only hope for a dignified retirement. Perhaps the best thing would be to run away...
Kandinsky fled the house in silence, accompanied by his father's shouts and his mother's sobs. He crossed the park, stirring up the pigeons, passing a boisterous group of San Ignacio students seated on a bench in front of the school. Soon the house, the school, the park, were behind him.
Chapter 7
L IKE SO MANY OTHER NIGHTS at the end of a long day, you cross Bacon Street in your gold Corolla and immediately think of William David Friedman, the American cryptanalyst who was convinced that Shakespeare's work contained secret phrases and anagrams that referred to the true author, Francis Bacon. Friedman was the man who had deciphered Purple, the complicated Japanese code from World War II.
It's no coincidence that Bacon Street is on my way,
you think, and without noticing you nearly run a red light at an intersection four blocks from the El Dorado.
The streets converge in utter darkness. Every now and then a window lights up in a building like a flickering eye or a taxi with a blinking sign crosses a street with a fearsome rattle. A shortage of electricity has plagued Rio Fugitivo for some time now. The city has grown in a disorderly fashion; no one thought to plan a power plant that could keep up with demand. GlobaLux had arrived to fix
Phiber and Kandinsky's first mission was to access private computers and steal the owners' passwords. They did this from an Internet café where a friend of Phiber's worked. The friend was paid a few pesos to let them work in peace on a computer in the farthest corner of the room. At first Phiber gave the instructions: he knew a bit about programming. Kandinsky would follow and improve on them, playing with them, twisting them, taking them to their breaking point, as if the equations on the screen were made of pliable metal.
With his first stolen password, Kandinsky went through the records of some unknown individual like a thief in another man's house, roaming through the rooms in search of objects to steal. Emotion overcame him; on the surface, he had to remain calm.
He would never go back to stealing from cars and houses, putting himself in physical danger. He much preferred to key in the correct characters that pulse on the screen, to steal from a distance, to obtain access through a rented computer and appropriate the numbers that make up a life: credit cards, bank accounts, insurance. Numbers, numbers everywhere, violated with impunity.
Phiber Outkast slapped him on the back and told him that before he knew it, he would be one of the best hackers around. Kandinsky liked the sound of that mysterious word,
hacker.
It lent him an air of danger, intelligence, transgression. Hackers abuse technology, find uses in artifacts for which they were not intended. Hackers enter territory that is forbidden by law and, once there, laugh at power. It was, perhaps, a metaphor for his life.
One afternoon he arrived home to find his dad at the door, brandishing a letter from the high school. Too many absences had led to his being expelled. His dad was furious. Hadn't he been the best student? And now he wasn't even going to graduate from high school? What had he been doing?
Kandinsky was at a loss for the words that would excuse him.
His mom was in the kitchen chopping onions, and he avoided her gaze. He couldn't bear the look of disappointment welling up in her eyes.
He entered the room he shared with his brother. Esteban was reading a book that he had borrowed from the municipal library: a biography of the man who was the leader of the Workers' Union for forty years. He was a bright kid and liked to read. Would he one day have the chance to go back to school? Unlikely. Would he have to continue helping his parents? Most probably.
Why continue with the charade? Kandinsky's parents had seen him as their only hope for a dignified retirement. Perhaps the best thing would be to run away...
Kandinsky fled the house in silence, accompanied by his father's shouts and his mother's sobs. He crossed the park, stirring up the pigeons, passing a boisterous group of San Ignacio students seated on a bench in front of the school. Soon the house, the school, the park, were behind him.
Chapter 7
L IKE SO MANY OTHER NIGHTS at the end of a long day, you cross Bacon Street in your gold Corolla and immediately think of William David Friedman, the American cryptanalyst who was convinced that Shakespeare's work contained secret phrases and anagrams that referred to the true author, Francis Bacon. Friedman was the man who had deciphered Purple, the complicated Japanese code from World War II.
It's no coincidence that Bacon Street is on my way,
you think, and without noticing you nearly run a red light at an intersection four blocks from the El Dorado.
The streets converge in utter darkness. Every now and then a window lights up in a building like a flickering eye or a taxi with a blinking sign crosses a street with a fearsome rattle. A shortage of electricity has plagued Rio Fugitivo for some time now. The city has grown in a disorderly fashion; no one thought to plan a power plant that could keep up with demand. GlobaLux had arrived to fix
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