a turd, is the one my brother and El Negroid had stuck in their mouths, said Vega. I particularly detest that when I met that negroid Juancho he called me cerote with familiarity, I especially detested that a negroid hardware-store owner I had just met was repeatedly calling me cerote, he called me cerote as if I were a piece of human excrement expelled all at once. It’s horrible, Moya, only in this country could something like this happen, only here do people think of themselves as pieces of human excrement expelled all at once, which then makes it seem perfectly acceptable for my brother and his negroid hardware-store owner friend to repeatedly, affectionately and familiarly, call me cerote after they were buzzed by the diarrhea-inducing beer they compulsively drink, driving us to a brothel to complete the third stage of what they called “partying,” said Vega. The brothel was called “The Office,” Moya, a favorite dive of my brother and evidence that the guy needs to feel like he’s in a workplace to exercise his vulgar diversions, as though the fact of feeling as if he’s in an office removes him from his sleaziness. You don’t know the nausea I suffered, Moya, when we entered this brothel called The Office, never have I felt nausea to such magnitude; only a brothel like The Office could cause such a forceful contraction, the most abominable nausea I have suffered in my life. I hadn’t entered a brothel for twenty-two years, Moya, since we were in the last year of high school, do you remember? It was frightening. The fact of entering a brothel again after so many years dredged up the rudest memories of an experience I thought I had buried, a vile denigrating experience which, with difficulty and after much time, I have managed to get over. Sexual commerce is the most revolting thing that exists, Moya, there is nothing as repugnant as carnal commerce; something like sex that is in itself vicious and prone to misunderstandings reaches abominable depths when mixed with commerce, a practice that consumes the spiritual faculties in the most extreme way. But for my brother and El Negroid it’s precisely this spiritual void that makes it so joyful and fun, said Vega. I assure you that just by crossing the threshold of The Office I had to walk with extreme care, Moya, careful not to slip on the hardened semen on the tiles. I’m not lying, Moya, this den reeked of semen, in this den there was semen everywhere: it was stuck to the walls, smeared on the furniture, hardened on the tiles. I felt the most devastating nausea of my life, the most tremendous and horrible nausea I have ever felt I felt there in The Office, that den contaminated by greasy women who moved their purulent bodies down hallways and around sitting rooms, purulent tired women whose stuffed bodies spilled over sofas and chairs with so many various, sweaty odors, Vega said. And there I was, Moya, feeling nauseous vertigo, seated on the edge of a chair, my face contracted in revulsion, trying not to let the semen on the sofas and walls get on me, trying not to slip on the hardened semen on the tiles; meanwhile my brother and El Negroid intimated in the most disgraceful way with a couple of greasy women, who at this point were already saturated in semen and sweat to the point of exhaustion. It was incredible, Moya, my brother and his negroid hardware-store owner friend continued feasting on beer and they were happy to smear themselves in the excretions of these women, bargaining from the bottom in order to obtain the best price for a trip to a putrid bed where they would shake obscenely over these sweaty, greasy women, said Vega. Horrendous, Moya. I had never seen more lamentable women, for whom sordidness was their natural way, greasy, fat women stuffed like pigs with the semen of guys transforming the most intimate and desirable pleasure into revolting commercial filth. It was the saddest brothel you can imagine, Moya, with no sensation prevailing other than sordidness, where neither guffaws nor cooing whispers escaped that sordidness permeating everything, imposed on everything, said Vega. There was a moment, Moya, in which I could no longer contain my nausea, above all when one of these greasy women came over to chat me up, wanting to convince me to buy a piece of her sordid, sweaty meat. I immediately stood, Moya, and went in search of the bathroom, walking with extreme care so as not to slip and fall on the hardened semen on the tiles. And then came the worst, Moya: these were the filthiest bathrooms I’ve seen in my life, I swear to you, I had never seen filthiness like this concentrated in such a small space, said Vega. I reached to take out my handkerchief to cover my nose, but it was already much too late, Moya, I was concentrating on avoiding falling on a pool of semen and urine, defenselessly, I penetrated this chamber of putrid gases, and when I reached to take out my handkerchief it was already too late. I vomited, Moya, the filthiest vomit of my life, the most sordid and revolting vomiting you can imagine, because I was vomiting over vomit, this brothel was an enormous pile of vomit dotted with semen and urine. It is truly indescribable, Moya, my stomach still stirs from the memory. I left the bathroom, trembling, with the firm decision to immediately abandon this revolting den, not caring what argument my brother and his negroid companion presented, I had made the strict decision to get a taxi and direct it to my brother’s house, said Vega. And then came the last straw, the improbable, the event that made me enter a delirious spiral, overcome with the most extreme anxiety you can imagine: my passport, Moya, I’d misplaced my Canadian passport! It wasn’t in any of my pockets. This was the worst thing that could have happened to me in my life, misplacing my Canadian passport in a filthy brothel in San Salvador. Terror overwhelmed me, Moya, terror pure and shocking: I saw myself trapped in this city forever, unable to return to Montreal; I saw myself converted again into a Salvadoran with no other option than to vegetate in this pit, said Vega. I had kept my Canadian passport in the pocket of my shirt, I was completely sure, but now it wasn’t there. I had pulled it out, Moya, my Canadian passport had fallen out with some brusque movement, I hadn’t noticed the moment it had fallen out. It was horrible, Moya, a sinister nightmare; I ran back to the bathroom where I had recently vomited, not caring that I could fall headlong onto the hardened semen on the tiles, not caring about the puddles of urine and vomit or the tremendous stench. But my Canadian passport wasn’t there, Moya, and it couldn’t possibly have fallen into the toilet without my noticing. I looked carefully between the wads of paper smeared with excrement, between the puddles of urine and vomit, but my Canadian passport was nowhere to be found. I left the bathroom absolutely deranged, Moya, I went to share my disgrace with my brother and El Negroid. I urged them to help me find my Canadian passport. It was essential for us to return that instant to the discotheque and the bar. That passport is my most valuable possession, Moya, there’s nothing else I more obsessively care for than my Canadian passport, truthfully my life rests on the fact that I am a Canadian citizen, said Vega. But then the negroid hardware-store owner came out and said that I shouldn’t worry so much, my passport was probably in my room in my brother’s house, I should relax. I responded to his shouts, Moya, that I wasn’t an imbecile, that I wasn’t talking to him, I was demanding that my brother forget his fat, greasy, sordid whore and help me recover my Canadian passport. I was out of control, Moya, you should have seen me, my desperation was such that I was about to start grabbing and smacking this pair of imbeciles who undervalued the fact that I had misplaced my passport, said Vega. Finally my brother reacted, Moya, and asked if it hadn’t fallen out of my pocket in the bathroom. I responded that I had already carefully looked through the toilet paper smeared with shit and the puddles of vomit, urine, and semen, but my Canadian passport wasn’t there. Which is when my brother said we should look inside the car before we headed for the discotheque and the bar. I felt the whole world falling down on me, Moya, Canada doesn’t have an ambassador or a consulate in El Salvador. I would have to travel to Guatemala and endure lengthy procedures, and my stay here would become interminable. Cold sweat ran down my spine just thinking about it, Moya. We leapt toward the car to look inside, to beat the carpets and look beneath the seats. I was already in a delirious state, Moya, imagining the worst: my Canadian passport had been lost in the bar or the discotheque and I would have enormous problems obtaining a new document, said Vega. I was sweating, my hands trembling, my hysteria was about to make me burst. I shouted at my brother that my Canadian passport wasn’t in the car, we needed to leave immediately for the two other foul dens we’d been to earlier, and my brother told me to leave the searching to him, that I needed to calm down, that I shouldn’t worry, we’d soon find it. Such a fool, Moya, asking me to calm down. But I stepped aside and let him search the front of the car, said Vega. I was about to crumble, my nerves couldn’t handle any more, I was about to start screaming and kicking because I’d misplaced my Canadian passport thanks to these two dirty imbeciles, my brother and El Negroid, thanks to accepting my brother’s invitation to “go party.” I was about to shatter into infinite pieces when my brother emerged from the car and released a shout of joy. “I found it!” And there it was, Moya, my brother’s hand holding my Canadian passport, my brother’s stupid smile beside the hand holding my Canadian passport that had fallen from my pocket, I hadn’t noticed when I entered the car to flee the asphyxiating discotheque and the negroid hardware guy making me dizzy with verbosity about his extraordinary sexual adventures, said Vega. I snatched my Canadian passport without saying a word, without so much as turning to look at them, I ran toward a taxi stationed a few meters ahead. I left that place like I was pursued by the devil, Moya. And there was no way to calm myself down until I entered the guest room in my brother’s house and got into bed absolutely assured that my Canadian passport was securely tucked under my pillow, said Vega. It was the worst scare of my life, Moya. During the ride in the taxi, I clasped my Canadian passport, leafing through it, confirming that I was the one in the photo: Thomas Bernhard, Canadian citizen born thirty-eight years ago in a filthy town called San Salvador. Because this I haven’t told you, Moya, I didn’t just change my nationality, I changed my name, said Vega. I’m not called Edgardo Vega there, Moya, an otherwise horrible name that only evokes for me the execrable neighborhood La Vega, where they assaulted me when I was an adolescent, an old neighborhood that might not even still exist. My name is Thomas Bernhard, Moya, said Vega, it’s a name I took from an Austrian writer I admire and who surely neither you nor the other simulators in this infamous place would recognize.