Wake of failure (1960) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

La Cucufata told him that his father had died. The old woman wore the Franciscan habit that had long ago scared away her husband's sexual appetite.

The news didn't sadden him; on the contrary, it made his day. He suddenly felt liberated. This could have been his last day at military school. Goodbye, you shitty soldiers. He wandered through the city. He began to enjoy his freedom. He ventured down streets that had been forbidden to him. As night fell, it occurred to him that he hadn't done the first thing they'd taught him at school: fact-checking.

So he ran home.

He found his mother ironing clothes. Her gaze was sad. Everything about her was sad. And silent.

Did something happen?, he said, without greeting her.

Without lifting her weary eyes from the iron, the woman shook her head.

Vladimiro looked for his siblings. Some were playing, others sleeping. It didn't seem like they'd lost a father.

He went back to the small living room.

Where's Francisco?

Without stopping her accompaniment of the iron's steaming path, his mother murmured: On the street.

“The street” could only mean the tavern where his father and the town shoemaker met to drink.

He didn't run, but he quickened his pace.

There he was. He could see him through one of the tavern's two windows. The disappointment hurt more than the beatings from the sadistic lieutenants at school.

Francisco was alive. And very drunk. He leaned on the shoemaker to keep from falling to the ground. He moved his mouth with effort, but with vigor. He was surely recounting some overly repeated story, distorted, exaggerated, and spiced up several times over.

He stayed crouched down. He strained to hear something that might clarify what La Cucufata had told him hours ago: The shoemaker was keeping vigil over him. Your father was laid out on a table. He had pieces of cotton coming out of his mouth and noses.

Noses, you stupid woman, thought Vladimiro, straining to hear the conversation. As if one had several noses.

You lying old woman, you went too far making up something like that, he murmured, already giving up on spying on his father. This idiot is more alive than you and me put together, and he'll keep ruining my life for many more years.

Then he heard a commotion and poked his head back through the window. Francisco, his father, had fallen to the ground.

Now he's really dead, he thought, exultant. He entered the bar.

I was passing by, he told the shoemaker when the man asked what he was doing there. In truth, he would have loved to answer, What the fuck do you care?

Together, the two of them lifted Francisco and dragged him home. It would be a long, heavy walk. He regretted being there. He blamed himself for being so gullible. He should be resting after an infernal week at the military boarding school, not dragging his drunkard of a father through the alleys of Arequipa.

He drank like never before today, said the shoemaker. He was very happy.

Oh, really? Why?, asked Vladimiro. He wanted to leave his father's body propped against some wall. He'd find his way home by morning on his own. Thieves in Arequipa weren't a problem. The city was a safe place for drunks who had nothing to lose.

Because he gave the scare of their lives to those shitty churchy old women who, on their way to mass, always catch us drinking at your place. They stick their noses through the window and then go around saying we're disgusting drunks. Can you believe it, dammit?

There was still a considerable stretch to go. The conversation shortened the path.

How did he scare them?

The shoemaker, tired, suddenly let go of Francisco's arm. Vladimiro didn't see the movement coming, and his father's body felt twice as heavy. So he let go too.

The face hitting the cobblestone pavement made the sound of beef innards slamming against a cutting board.

Careful!, shouted the shoemaker. Damn, your old man's going to be all bruised tomorrow. The man was panting, his hands on his knees.

Vladimiro sat on the edge of the sidewalk and lit a cigarette.

You smoke already, kid? How old are you, anyway? The shoemaker could only conceive of Vladimiro—a tall, lanky young man with a lively, though childish, face—drinking milk and going to bed before seven in the evening.

Don't mess with me, man. I already smoke and fuck, said the student, loudly, without a giggle. That was how you earned respect among the soldiers. Go on, how did they get scared?

Your old man played dead.

Played dead?

He'd been planning it for a while, and we did it this morning. The church sacristan—who, by the way, is a tremendous son of a bitch—and I set up the scene of his wake so that anyone who peeked through your house's window wouldn't have a single doubt that your old man had died. We laid him out on a table. He had his dark suit on, the cotton in his nose and mouth, the candles on each side. Anyone could have sworn that Francisco Montesinos had finally left this world to keep drinking in the next.

He was a child enjoying his prank. Vladimiro found him a lesser man, ridiculous. That's why his father felt so at ease around him, because he was just like him, another ridiculous man. He never liked to surround himself with prestigious people, with people who could give some lift to his mediocre life.

And what did he gain from all that nonsense?, Vladimiro challenged. He stood up. He smoothed out his military school trousers.

The question threw the shoemaker off balance. What do you mean, what did he gain?, he said in a murmur.

Nothing, you idiot, nothing, Vladimiro answered himself. He flicked away the cigarette butt and started walking. Nothing!, he shouted before turning a corner and disappearing.

Hey, you little shit, where are you going, help me with your father!, shouted the shoemaker, but the barking of some dogs drowned out his complaint.

Velorio del fracaso (1960) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

La Cucufata le dijo que su padre había muerto. La vieja vestía el hábito franciscano que hacía mucho tiempo le había espantado el apetito sexual a su marido.

La noticia no lo apenó; por el contrario, le alegró el día. Se sintió de pronto liberado. Ese podría haber sido su último día en la escuela militar. Adiós, milicos de mierda. Dio vueltas por la ciudad. Empezó a disfrutar de su libertad. Se metió por calles que le tenían prohibidas. Al caer la noche, se le ocurrió que no había hecho lo primero que le enseñaron en la escuela: la comprobación de los hechos.

Entonces, corrió a casa.  

Encontró a su madre planchando ropa. Tenía la mirada triste. Todo en ella era triste. Y callado.

¿Pasó algo?, le dijo, sin saludarla.

Sin despegar los ojos mustios de la plancha, la mujer negó con la cabeza.

Vladimiro buscó a sus hermanos. Algunos jugaban, otros dormían. No parecía que hubiesen perdido un padre.

Volvió a la salita.

¿Dónde está Francisco?

Sin dejar de acompañar el humeante recorrido de la plancha, su madre murmuró: En la calle.

“La calle” únicamente podía significar la bodega donde su padre y el zapatero del pueblo se reunían para beber.   

No corrió, pero apuró el paso.

Ahí estaba él. Lo podía ver por una de las dos ventanas de la bodega. La desilusión dolió más que los varazos de los sádicos tenientes en la escuela.

Francisco estaba vivo. Y muy mareado. Se apoyaba del zapatero para no caer al suelo. Movía la boca con esfuerzo, pero con vigor. Seguramente relataba alguna historia harto repetida y varias veces distorsionada, aumentada y aderezada.

Permaneció agazapado. Se esforzó por oír algo que pudiera esclarecerle lo que la Cucufata le había dicho hacía unas horas: El zapatero lo velaba. Tu padre estaba echado sobre una mesa. Tenía pedazos de algodón saliéndole por la boca y las narices.

Las narices, cojuda, pensó Vladimiro, esforzándose por oír la conversación. Como si uno tuviera varias narices.

Vieja mentirosa, te pasaste para inventar algo así, murmuró, ya desistiendo de seguir espiando a su padre. Este idiota está más vivo que tú y que yo juntos, y seguirá jodiéndome la vida por muchos años más.

Entonces oyó un alboroto y volvió a asomar la cabeza por la ventana. Francisco, su padre, se había caído al suelo.

Ahora sí se murió, pensó, exultante. Entró al bar.

Pasaba por acá, le dijo al zapatero cuando este le preguntó qué hacia allí. En realidad, le hubiera encantado responderle a ti qué chucha.

Entre los dos, levantaron a Francisco y lo arrastraron a casa. Sería una caminata larga, pesada. Se arrepintió de estar allí. Se culpó de haber sido tan crédulo. Debía de estar descansando luego de una semana infernal en el internado militar y no arrastrando al borracho de su padre por las callejuelas arequipeñas.

Hoy ha bebido como nunca, dijo el zapatero. Estaba muy contento.  

Ah, ¿sí? ¿Por qué?, preguntó Vladimiro. Deseaba dejar el cuerpo de su padre recostado contra alguna pared. Él ya sabría encontrar el camino a casa por la mañana. Los ladrones en Arequipa no eran un problema. La ciudad era un lugar seguro para los borrachos que no tenían nada que perder.

Porque les dio el susto de sus vidas a las cucufatas de mierda esas que, camino a misa, siempre nos aguaitan chupando en tu casa. Meten sus narices por la ventana y luego van diciendo que somos unos borrachos de porquería. Habráse visto, carajo.

Todavía faltaba un trecho considerable. La conversación acortaba el sendero.

¿Cómo las asustó?

El zapatero, cansado, soltó súbitamente el brazo de Francisco. Vladimiro no vio venir el movimiento y el cuerpo de su padre le resultó el doble de pesado. Por eso, también lo soltó.

La cara contra el suelo de adoquines produjo el sonido de unas vísceras de vacuno estrellándose contra una tabla de picar.

¡Cuidado!, gritó el zapatero. Caramba, tu viejo va a estar todo morado mañana. El hombre resollaba, las manos apoyadas en las rodillas.

Vladimiro se sentó al borde de la vereda y encendió un cigarrillo.

¿Ya fumas, muchachito? ¿Cuántos años tienes, pues? El zapatero solo podía concebir a Vladimiro, un jovencito alargado, de rostro vivaz, aunque infantil, tomando leche y acostándose antes de las siete de la noche.

No joda, hombre. Yo ya fumo y cacho, dijo el estudiante, fuerte, sin risitas. Así era como uno se hacía respetar entre los milicos. Cuenta, cómo se asustaron las viejas.  

Tu viejo se hizo el muerto.

¿El muerto?

Ya lo tenía planeado desde hacía un tiempo, y hoy en la mañana lo hicimos. Entre el sacristán de la iglesia, que, dicho sea de paso, es tremendo hijo de puta, y yo, armamos la escena de su velorio para que a cualquiera que husmeara por la ventana de tu casa no le quedase ninguna duda de que tu viejo se había muerto. Lo echamos sobre una mesa. Tenía su traje oscuro, los algodones en la nariz y la boca, los cirios a cada lado. Uno podía jurar que Francisco Montesinos por fin se había retirado de este mundo a seguir chupando en el otro.  

Era un niño disfrutando de su travesura. A Vladimiro le resultó un tipo menor, ridículo. Por eso, su padre se sentía tan a gusto a su lado, porque era como él, otro ridículo. Nunca le gustó rodearse de gente de prestigio, de personas que pudieran darle algún vuelo a su mediocre vida.

¿Y qué ganó con toda esa tontería?, interpeló Vladimiro. Se paró. Se alisó el pantalón del colegio militar.

La pregunta descolocó al zapatero. ¿Cómo que qué ganó?, dijo en un murmullo.

Nada, pues, idiota, nada, se contestó Vladimiro. Tiró la colilla y echó a andar. ¡Nada!, gritó antes de doblar una esquina y desaparecer.

Oye, mocoso de mierda, adónde vas, ayúdame con tu padre, gritó el zapatero, pero los ladridos de unos perros ahogaron su queja.

The peeping hero (1958) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Vladimiro couldn't believe that watching Damián—his bully—and Germán—the harasser of his nine-year-old sister—commit that monstrous aberration in that ruined corner of the school would excite him so much.

Damián and Germán gave themselves over to the heat of their bodies. They knew they were safe from any prying eyes, and that made the whole affair even more delicious. But Vladimiro, the scrawny, weakling teenager they harassed daily at school, had followed them stealthily and taken cover behind amorphous concrete blocks.

Warmed by what he saw, well hidden among the rubble, Vladimiro began to masturbate. The image of Germán spreading his accomplice's buttocks was powerful, overwhelming.

Feverish, Vladimiro kept working his dick. A moment later, he came.

His urges relieved, he coldly assessed the situation. What he had just witnessed meant the total destruction of Germán and Damián. If everyone found out, they wouldn't just have to change schools; they'd have to leave the planet.

Now, he had to find a way to prove to the world what those two did in secret. He was sure this wasn't their first encounter. It must have been one of many, part of a habit he would have to study patiently and stealthily to catch them in the act.

***

Did they bother you again? said Vladimiro. He handed a handkerchief to his sister. The girl was crying softly in a corner of the tiny living room. The family occupied what, in the opulent days of Grandfather Guillermo, had been the servants' shed. It was the only inheritance that had fallen to Pancho, their father.

The girl remained silent. Her sorrows choked her words.

Calm down, okay? Tell me, did Germán bother you again?

A whimpering tremor was her response.

Then, barely audible, she added: Germán and Damián. Both of them.

Vladimiro stifled a cry of rage.

Come on, let's go to the room. He held out the handkerchief. Here, dry your face. It's better if Francisco doesn't see you like this. When he comes home drunk, he'll take it out on you.

They took refuge in the room they shared with their three other siblings, in cramped bunks.

It's time to wipe them off the map, he told himself before sleeping. It's time to remove them from our lives.

***

He had them figured out. Every Thursday at noon, they'd vanish. No one missed them. They'd head to the vacant lot, to the same spot. They'd pull down their pants and start their filthy business.

This particular Thursday, Vladimiro came equipped with a tiny camera. An invention of his grandfather Guillermo's. The clarity of the reproduced images wasn't the best, but it was enough to recognize the faces of the depraved ones.

He overcame the urge to touch himself and focused on recording every position the camera's film allowed.

Enjoy your last days, he thought with every click of the machine. You have no idea what's coming.

***

Did you hear? she announced with a smile. She hadn't been this happy in a long time.

Hear what? he played dumb. Tell me, what did you hear? he smiled.

***

Separate envelopes arrived at the homes of Germán and Damián. Their parents opened them—men who were ruthlessly Catholic.

Upon discovering the contents of the packages, they beat their sons' backsides without an ounce of mercy.

A note accompanied the photos. It recommended withdrawing the boys from the school, or the photographs would be made public knowledge.

***

Were they expelled?

Yes, she said, happier than ever.

Why?

I don't know. I don't care either. She looked at the wall. She began to speculate. Surely, they finally found out they were evil. She locked eyes with her brother. The only thing that matters to me is that they won't bother us anymore. School will be a nice place. Today was a perfect day, for example. But how thoughtless of me, little brother, is your cough any better?

Yes, said Vladimiro, I'm fine now. But with the news you've given me, I'm much better. I wasn't able to give those scoundrels what they deserved, but God did it for us, little sister. He's on our side.

El héroe fisgón (1958) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Vladimiro no podía creer que el ver a Damián -su abusador- y a Germán -el acosador de su hermana de nueve años- cometiendo esa monstruosa aberración, en aquella zona ruinosa del colegio, lo excitara de ese modo.

Damián y Germán se entregaban al calor de sus cuerpos. Se sabían a salvo de cualquier mirada y, por eso, el asunto les resultaba aún más delicioso. Pero Vladimiro, el esmirriado y debilucho adolescente a quien ellos hostigaban a diario en el colegio, los había seguido con sigilo y se había parapetado detrás de amorfos bloques de concreto.

Calentado por lo que veía, muy bien oculto entre los escombros, Vladimiro empezó a masturbarse. La imagen de Germán abriéndole las nalgas a su compinche era poderosa, arrolladora.

Enfebrecido, Vladimiro continuó agitándose la pinga. Un momento después, eyaculó.  

Aliviados sus ímpetus, aquilató con frialdad la situación. Lo que acababa de ver significaría la destrucción total de Germán y Damián. Si todo el mundo se enteraba, no solo tendrían que cambiarse de colegio; tendrían que irse del planeta.  

Ahora, debía buscar el modo de probarle al mundo lo que esos dos hacían a escondidas. Estaba seguro de que ese encuentro no era el primero. Debía de ser uno de tantos que obedecían a una costumbre que tendría que estudiar con paciencia y sigilo para sorprenderlos en pleno acto.

***

¿Otra vez te molestaron?, dijo Vladimiro. Le acercó un pañuelo a su hermana. La niña lloraba quedamente en una esquina de la diminuta sala de la casa. La familia ocupaba lo que, en los opulentos tiempos del abuelo Guillermo, fue el galpón de los sirvientes. Era lo único que le había tocado en herencia a Pancho, el padre.

La niña seguía en silencio. Las penas le sofocaban las palabras.

Tranquila, ¿ya? Dime, ¿otra vez te molestó Germán?

Un temblorcillo gemebundo fue la respuesta.

Después, apenas dejándose oír, agregó: Germán y Damián. Los dos.

Vladimiro contuvo un grito de rabia.

Ven, vamos al cuarto. Le extendió un pañuelo. Ten, sécate. Es mejor que Francisco no te vea así. Cuando llegue borracho, se la agarrará contigo.

Se refugiaron en la habitación que compartían con sus otros tres hermanos en camarotes apretujados.

Ya es tiempo de borrarlos del mapa, se dijo antes de dormir. Ya es tiempo de sacarlos de nuestras vidas.

***

Los tenía estudiados. Todos los jueves al mediodía, se hacían humo. Nadie los echaba de menos. Iban a parar al descampado, en el mismo sitio. Se bajaban los pantalones y empezaban sus cochinadas.  

Este jueves en particular, Vladimiro iba premunido de una diminuta cámara fotográfica. Un invento de su abuelo Guillermo. La nitidez de las imágenes reproducidas no era la mejor, pero sí la suficiente para reconocer los rostros de los depravados.

Venció el impulso de tocarse y se enfocó en registrar todas las posturas que la cinta de la cámara le permitió.

Aprovechen sus últimos días, pensó con cada clic de la máquina. No se imaginan lo que se les viene.

***

¿Te enteraste?, le anunció con una sonrisa. Hacía tiempo no estaba tan contenta.

¿De qué?, se hizo el loco. Dime, ¿de qué te has enterado?, sonrió.

***

Sendos sobres llegaron a las casas de Germán y Damián. Los abrieron sus padres, unos hombres católicamente despiadados.

Tras descubrir el contenido de los envíos, les partieron las nalgas a sus hijos sin ningún tipo de misericordia.

Una nota acompañaba a las fotos. Recomendaba retirar a los muchachos del colegio o las fotografías serían del conocimiento general.

***

¿Los expulsaron?

Sí, dijo ella, alegre como nunca.  

¿Por qué?

No lo sé. Tampoco me interesa. Miró a la pared. Echó a andar conjeturas. Seguro por fin descubrieron que eran unos malvados. Clavó los ojos en los de su hermano. Lo único que me importa es que ya no volverán a molestarnos. El colegio será un lindo lugar. Hoy fue un día perfecto, por ejemplo. Pero qué desconsiderada que soy, hermanito, ¿ya estás mejor de tu tos?

Sí, dijo Vladimiro, ya estoy bien. Pero con la noticia que me has dado, estoy mucho mejor. No fui capaz de darles su merecido a esos bribones, pero Dios lo hizo por nosotros, hermanita. Él está de nuestro lado.

Nitrous oxide addict - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Book of Short Stories by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - 12

 

The nang’s first conquest was my arms. I discovered it the moment I tried to grab a piece of toilet paper. Not only was I unable to perform such a simple and routine movement, but a horrendous pain also assaulted my muscles.

I wanted to scream, but I held back. I wasn’t the only person in the bathroom; through the cubicle door, I could hear the presence of at least a couple of other office workers.

***

They call them nangs and they contain laughing gas, which is actually nitrous oxide. If you inhale it, you’ll feel the barriers that limit your mind crumble. You’ll be able to express yourself freely and laugh at the world’s seriousness.

And if you get hooked on that feeling, so free of prejudice and so sensorially light, your body will end up trapped right in the same barriers you thought you had torn down. Your muscles will become soft, whiny nuisances, and your brain will wander among swirling dizzy spells that push it towards an extreme lightness until it settles into an absolute numbness.

This last part, however, I’m not going to tell you because I don’t know it. I’m just a salesman. My display window overflows with products and I don’t have the time—nor the intention—to get to know them all in detail. My job isn’t to warn; it’s to sell. So you won’t hear that last part from my mouth. I just offer you the product.

Nangs are available in some Australian shops like this one. And for a modest price, I can sell you the nangs along with some cigarettes and mints to make your trip more pleasant. Are you game?

***

The nang’s second conquest was my legs. When I tried to get up from the toilet bowl, I felt a burning tingling in them.

After giving up on the attempt due to the intense pain, I sank into the bowl. My backside ended up partially submerged in the dirty water. I couldn’t do anything to get out of the jam. Any muscular movement, no matter how small, triggered a criminal pain.

At that moment, stuck in the toilet bowl, feeling the edges of the hole compress my legs and back, I sank slowly and inexorably. I had my entire backside sunk in the cesspool. I didn’t know what or who had left me in such a state of muscular helplessness. An alienating dizziness was the cherry on top.

The cause of this condition is the nang you’ve been inhaling non-stop, the doctor who attended to me and provided first aid at the hospital informed me, after they got me out of the mess.

Who got me out? The office workers from the bathroom and the onlookers who gathered after I, with my last strength, called for help and wished, at the same time, that my whole life would go down the drain of that bowl, disappearing forever.

***

The nang’s final conquest was my will to live.

Vicioso del óxido nitroso - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Libro de Cuentos de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - 12

 

La primera conquista del nang fueron mis brazos. Lo descubrí en el momento en que intenté coger un pedazo de papel higiénico. No solo no pude efectuar tan simple y rutinario movimiento, sino que me asaltó un dolor horrendo en los músculos. 

Quise gritar, pero me contuve. No era la única persona en el baño; podía escuchar, a través de la puerta del cubículo, la presencia de por lo menos un par de oficinistas más.

***

Los llaman nang y contienen gas de la risa, que, en realidad, es óxido nitroso. Si lo inhalas, sentirás que las barreras que limitan tu mente se derrumban. Serás capaz de expresarte libremente y de reírte de la seriedad del mundo.

Y si te enganchas a esa sensación, tan libre de prejuicios y tan sensorialmente liviana, tu cuerpo acabará atrapado justo en las mismas barreras que creíste haber derribado. Los músculos se volverán estorbos blandengues y quejumbrosos, y el cerebro vagará entre mareos arremolinados que lo empujarán hacia una liviandad extrema hasta fijarse en un adormecimiento absoluto.

Esto último, sin embargo, no te lo voy a decir porque no lo sé. Yo solo soy un vendedor. Mi vitrina rebosa de productos y no tengo el tiempo -ni la intención- de conocerlos a todos en detalle. Mi tarea no es advertir; es vender. Así que eso último no lo oirás de mi boca. Yo solo te ofrezco el producto.

Los nangs se consiguen en algunas tiendas australianas como esta. Y, por un módico precio, puedo venderte los nangs con unos cigarrillos y unas mentas para que tu viaje sea más placentero. ¿Te animas?

***

La segunda conquista del nang fueron mis piernas. Cuando intenté levantarme de la taza, sentí un hormigueo calcinante en ellas.

Tras desistir del intento por el intenso dolor, me hundí en la taza. El trasero me quedó parcialmente sumergido en el agua sucia. No pude hacer nada para salir del atoro. Cualquier movimiento muscular, por mínimo que fuese, desencadenaba un dolor criminal.

En ese momento, atorado en la taza del water, sintiendo los bordes del agujero comprimir mis piernas y espalda, me hundía lenta e inexorablemente. Tuve todo el trasero hundido en el estercolero. Desconocía qué o quién me había dejado en tal estado de indefensión muscular. Un mareo enajenante fue la cereza del pastel.

El causante de este cuadro es el nang que has estado inhalando sin parar, me informó el doctor que me atendió y procuró los primeros auxilios en el hospital, luego de que me sacaron del atolladero.

¿Quiénes me sacaron? Los oficinistas del baño y los curiosos que se acercaron luego de que, con mis últimas fuerzas, pedí auxilio y deseé, al mismo tiempo, que toda mi vida se fuese por el drenaje de esa taza, desapareciendo para siempre.

***

La última conquista del nang fueron mis ganas de vivir.

A Star is Born (1945) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" Novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

From today onward, little one, I will be your intellectual father, your guide. I will shield you from the foolishness of my brother, who, unfortunately, is your real father, said Alfonso, holding his nephew in his arms in one of the wards at the Goyeneche Hospital in Arequipa. It was Sunday, May 20, 1945. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, and the cold was stealthily setting in.

Your father couldn't have done more to ruin your life. Standing by a window, the baby staring fixedly at him as if understanding every word, Alfonso established a connection far above the prosaic uncle-nephew bond. Even though I set him straight in time, your father still managed to get another poor woman pregnant—this time, a destitute girl from a village. Just imagine: a Montesinos tied to someone who grew up in a shack.

The child’s mother was recovering in another room. She was asleep. Unaware that her newborn was receiving a brief but damning summary of his life story from the very mouth of his influential uncle.

Will you ever amount to anything in this life, having that good-for-nothing father of yours as your role model? I doubt it. That idiot couldn’t even become a lawyer, even though we gave him all our support. With just one year left to finish his degree, he had the brilliant idea that there was no point in going to classes anymore. He said he earned enough doing the odd jobs I got him at notary offices. And that’s what he became—a shoddy notary. The first Montesinos scribbler. A fraud, nothing more and nothing less. Will you turn out like him? If you follow my advice, I’ll spare you that fate.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings.

The lady just woke up and wants to see her baby, announced the nurse, her gaunt figure appearing as he opened the door.

I’ll take my nephew to her, said Alfonso, swallowing a protest at the discourteous treatment he had received. These cholas don’t even say hello anymore, he told the baby after closing the door. Give them some insignificant little position, and suddenly they think they’re above everyone. And it’s these ignorant cholos and serranos who now feel entitled to get involved in politics. And do you know which movement welcomes them? The only one their brains can grasp: communism. Take from the rich and give to you, the poor. Easy. Simple to understand, but capable of making the losers who follow that way of thinking even poorer. Get this straight: in communism, the only ones who achieve equality in wealth are the leaders who herd those sheep; and those sheep are the only ones who achieve equality in poverty.

The newborn’s body pressed against the cigar in the lawyer’s chest pocket, annoying him. He took it out and lit it. After exhaling a calm puff of smoke, he continued the conversation. The baby, eyes wide open, followed the oscillating movements of the cigar in his uncle’s mouth.

I will make sure you loathe that ideology, that you know money is earned through hard work, not by taking it from those who have more. Those are childish nonsense, you hear?

As he spoke, Alfonso didn’t bother keeping some of the smoke escaping his mouth from drifting into the baby’s face.

You must already know that your foolish father is going to name you Vladimiro—a clear and ridiculous tribute to that communist Lenin, a madman who had the audacity to put Marx’s ravings into practice, managing to murder a large part of Russia with hunger and tyranny.

The door sounded again, this time louder. Alfonso fell silent and whispered to the baby: Even if you’re named after that nefarious man, you will be a democratic, capitalist leader, the owner and driver of markets. Trust me.

The knocks continued, insistent. Alfonso managed to recognize the voice of the person calling. Still whispering, he continued speaking to his nephew: The one knocking gave you that name just to spite me, even though I’ve been his main benefactor and guide.

Have you been smoking?, said Francisco after Alfonso finally opened the door.

Yes, said Alfonso, without the slightest remorse. Just as Francisco intended to screw the family by naming his offspring the hideous name Vladimiro, why couldn’t he screw the future communist’s lungs a little? I’ve been smoking and I’ve been talking with my nephew. I’ve been telling him a bit about life—the good, the bad—and looking at his brother with some contempt—and the nefarious.

Leave, Alfonso. I’m going to take Vladimiro to see his mother. I want to be with my family—the family I truly care about.

As you wish, Francisco. You’ve chosen your path, and that’s fine, but I want to make sure Vladimiro doesn’t follow in your footsteps.

 

That will depend on me and on him, Francisco concluded. Above all, on him. So I’m asking you not to meddle too much in his life or ours.

Fine, Alfonso feigned resignation. Then his eyes turned marble-serious: Remember, you have work at the office tomorrow. I need you to stamp the paperwork for the four pending cases. Don’t think that just because you’re my brother and just had a child, I’m going to give you days off. Family is one thing, work is another.

Francisco, holding the baby in his arms, stood staring resentfully at the doorframe through which his brother—whom he bitterly nicknamed "Black Soul"—had just left.