Now folks please direct your attention over here, Facundo says, displaying his balloon shreds like a flight attendant. Just the balloon popping here, folks. Nothing to worry about. No one laughs. Everyone’s so frazzled here, Facundo thinks. Well. He’ll find a way to make them laugh. He towels his hands with his tee shirt, as if purging himself of his streak of lame jokes, and then he says to the oyster man oiga ñañón, turn that tune up. The oyster man shrugs and turns up the dial. Wilfrido Vargas is singing El Baile del Perrito. Everybody knows this merengue. Ladies and, okay, gentlemen too, my impression of our current mayor, our lion and grand patriarch, the one and only León, Martín, Corrrrrrdero. The doors to the palace are still shut so the crowd’s free to gather around the fat man, who’s dropping on all fours and is imitating the fast barks of the merengue, shaking his rear as if he’s the mayor eagerly wagging his tail for El Loco, who must have ordered León to reinstate all of them to the payroll, someone says, and although León has never been known for following anyone’s orders, especially those of El Loco, the crowd claps and hoots and sings if something I owe you / with this I repay you / if something I owe you / with this I repay you. Hey fatty, someone says, do you think El Loco ordered León to throw us a party? Hey SPAM man, someone else says, do you think he hired Los Iracundos to sing for us? Do you think El Loco ordered that oligarch to raise our salaries? Do you think?
The doors to the municipal palace finally open. About time, someone says. León, trailed by a film crew, dashes out. The television cameras are aiming at the courtyard, scanning them from side to side like security cameras. The reporters are mouthing into their microphones as if chronicling a flood or a raffle. Someone at the bottom of the stairs waves his arms at the cameras. Someone by the oyster stand waves her letter. Others next to her wave theirs, too. Hundreds wave their letters like handkerchiefs at a ship. But what’s wrong with León? He’s just standing there. Covering his mouth with his fist as if about to inflate himself? To knock someone out? He looks pissed. Hey fatty, someone says, why don’t you go talk to León and see what’s going on? Yeah fatty, someone else says, go. What? Me? Ha ha. But apparently they’re not kidding. The crowd parts for him, forming a passageway through the courtyard, up the stairs, to León Martín Cordero. An old woman who’s pressing a rag to her nose reminds Facundo of the smell of burnt tires. Someone pushes him forward. Okay, fine, I’m going. Facundo tries to underplay his assignment by highfiving the crowd. Not everyone plays along. The ones that do smile at him too effusively, like parents congratulating their son for coming in eleventh place. On the stairs the party’s over. Behind him the crowd goes silent. Facundo extends his hand to León but León refuses it. Hey there’s Leopoldo! Leopoldo’s approaching him but he’s shaking his head discreetly at Facundo as if saying no, Facundo, you can’t know me here.
How many of you are there?
Uh, not enough?
On the courtyard everyone sees León gesticulating and shouting but what’s León saying? someone asks, what’s he so angry about? someone else asks, and then they see León brush the fat man aside so the fat man stumbles, sideways and backwards, tripping down the stairs, where some of them are already shouldering their way out, which is unworkable because most of the people by the stairs are staying put, wondering if perhaps the fat man offended León somehow, if perhaps the fat man’s drunk, if perhaps the agape briefcase that León’s assistant is presenting to León contains their paychecks, and yet what León removes from his briefcase isn’t a wad of paychecks or a scroll with a welcoming speech but a whip that he’s uncoiling as he points at them as if they’re the scum of the earth, snapping the whip as he charges down the stairs, where most of them recoil but do not move, as if they still can’t believe the slashes and imprecations are meant for them, but then the whip cuts them and they’re fleeing now, pushing each other as León calls them leeches, cockroaches, bloodsuckers. On the far end of the courtyard the crowd seems to have caught wind of what’s happening because they’re running in all directions now, and because those cramped in the middle of the courtyard cannot run yet they’re jostling each other even more. Later they will see their stampede on television and hear that on top of trying to swindle the city El Loco’s rabble trampled seven women and three men in front of the municipal palace.
The courtyard has been cleared.
The overturned tricycle, the spilled juice, the cracked jars, the scattered oyster shells, the stained lottery tickets must seem unfortunate to León. Ill omens of some kind. Not the time, however, to be indulging in superstitions. It probably isn’t clear to the senator from Guayaquil, to the governor from Guayas, as he tries to breathe, what the time is for, or whether he
—
Leopoldo should’ve had a firmer grip on León’s briefcase. After León charges down the stairs and inadvertently pushes Leopoldo, the briefcase lands facing down, away from Leopoldo, as if resentful he’d let it drop. The business of collecting its contents, of crouching after shoe polish amid a commotion he’d rather not see, of squatting and toiling after a recommendation letter so Alvarito Rosales can be admitted into Babson College, so that Alvarito can pretend to study business administration at an institution that won’t flunk him, so that Alvarito can then return to run his father’s prawn business or run for office with promises of bread, roof, and employment — Alvarito Rosales, the candidate of the poor — has to be done. But when does it end? Leopoldo’s father like Antonio’s father like Stephan’s father like Nelson’s father like Carlos’s father like Eduardo’s father had embezzled and fled the country because they knew that was their one shot at getting ahead. Leopoldo and Antonio had refused to accept that. And then one day the newly appointed minister of finance fired Leopoldo from his hard earned post as a senior economist at the Central Bank so that the minister could hire his wife’s nephew instead. And then for months Leopoldo couldn’t find another job. The end. Go back to sleep, Negrito. Leopoldo crumples Alvarito’s letter and tosses it but then picks it up because what if someone finds it and tells on him? León has emptied the courtyard. His hands are shaking. The damp back of his guayabera has unaccountable streaks of soot. Leopoldo cannot see León’s vacant face but he can easily imagine it. He hurries down the stairs to steer León away from the cameras before León turns back toward them. On his way down Leopoldo slips on a compact mirror but he’s all right, yes, he didn’t fall. One of the cameramen, who has already broached the subject of a special favor with Leopoldo, isn’t filming León. He seems to be giving Leopoldo the chance to take León away. Does that moronic cameraman think Leopoldo doesn’t see the other cameras? Some of the reporters, as if they know Leopoldo’s about to obstruct them, are urging their cameramen down the stairs. By one of the garbage cans Leopoldo takes his time disposing of Alvarito’s letter. Ándate a la verga viejo hijueputa. Let El Loco’s people see León’s in no condition to block El Loco from returning. León turns and faces the cameras without looking at the cameras, as if lost in someone’s kitchen. Leopoldo checks his watch. Antonio’s waiting. It’s time.
IV / ANTONIO EDITS HIS BABY CHRIST MEMOIR
For first, there is not to be found, in all history, any miracle attested by a sufficient number of men, of such unquestioned good sense, education, and learning, as to secure us against all delusion in themselves.