The brother who vanished into smoke - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" - A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Francisco!, detonated Alfonso, my uncle, a young and successful lawyer graduated from the University of San Agustin, which had been founded by his great-grandfather, Andres Martinez de Orihuela, prestigious Minister of Finance in the tumultuous times of President Gamarra. At his early twenty-two years of age, and barely twenty-four months after having concluded his university studies with honors, Alfonso was already a professor at his alma mater, where he taught Roman Law in classrooms full of students eager to see him and listen to him lecture.

The one being called out like that, at the top of the lungs, was Francisco Montesinos, the good-for-nothing who in a few years would become my father; a guy who, within the mediocrity of his life, managed to do something —of course, involuntarily— that the rest of the Montesinos did not: to beget me, the future redeemer president of Peru.

The coward Francisco intuited instantly the reason for the harsh fraternal summons and, for that reason, he headed for the street door. He lacked the spirit to suffer once more the reproaches for his university desertion and for having married a well-known fornicator; a woman who had cohabited with a man outside of any ecclesiastical sacrament.

It hadn't been such a good idea to visit his mother's house in search of the delicious food that the Negra Dolores —Lola, to the family— prepared. The stews she made on Tuesdays, like that day, were not to be missed. Elena, on the other hand, was incapable of making even a simple rice with egg and, when she tried, it was preferable to fast.

Don't make me call you twice, Francisco. It will be worse. Alfonso's voice was thunderous. When he set his mind to it, he inspired fear. Not in vain was he considered a forceful and versatile orator, possessor and cultivator of the necessary registers to move, frighten, raise awareness, and stir up multitudes; tools that over time would make the seats of the national parliament vibrate.

My father, dragging his feet as was his bad habit, made his way toward the majestic wooden staircase that described a curve at the back of the living room. His footsteps echoed in that hollow space where long ago my grandfather Guillermo had offered his tertulias and recitals. When he reached the second floor, Francisco headed, always dragging his reluctance, toward the room that served as the office of the young lawyer and prodigy of the family.

His soul jumped when, in addition to Alfonso, he saw in the office his mother, my grandmother Maria Montesinos Martinez. Things looked bad. It would not be one of the usual admonitions that Alfonso, as the older brother and pater familias, used to dish out to him.

Maria maintained a severe, almost impenetrable expression, standing, beside and one step behind my uncle.

Close the door, ordered Alfonso.

With evident reluctance, Francisco obeyed.

Enough! You have gone too far. Do you want to kill our mother with your antics?, thundered Alfonso once the door was closed.

My father looked at them with a calmness almost insolent. He saw coming the same reproach from his brother, only now reinforced by the melodramatic tears of his mother. He suppressed a smile and maintained a neutral posture, although he found it hard to hide a certain enjoyment seeing Alfonso, the unbeatable, the exemplary, the pure intellect, the natural heir of the deceased Guillermo, red with rage and frustration. In the end, you couldn't have a perfect life, because either you messed it up yourself or someone in your family messed it up for you. Francisco was the cancer of Alfonso's happiness.

Answer!, demanded Alfonso from his desk. He hadn't bothered to stand up or greet his brother. Neither had Francisco. My grandmother Maria used to say that the newcomer should initiate the obligatory greetings, but what was happening there was far from any example of good protocol. My father had entered a boiling pot without having any idea of its temperature.

What happened?, said Francisco, dismissively. The same thing again? Are you going to talk to me about Elena? I've told you until I'm exhausted that I married her for love, out of conviction. You can say mass, but I'm going to stay with her.

Yes, sure, replied Alfonso. And did you think we wouldn't find out that you've gotten her pregnant?

My father turned pale instantly. How had they found out? Elena hardly went out, and they had planned to leave Arequipa before her belly betrayed them. Francisco wasn't very happy with the idea of becoming a father, but he harbored the illusion that, with the baby, changes would come that would push him out of the mediocrity in which he moved. He had been dragging the stigma of having abandoned the university, an unforgivable affront to his father's widow and to the more high-ranking Montesinos, obsessive guardians of the family's intellectual prestige.

I don't know who else might be aware of this unhappy news, declared Alfonso, but I assure you that I will do everything possible to prevent you from continuing to tarnish the prestige and decency of our surname.

What an ill-fated hour you got involved with that woman, Francisco, lamented Doña Maria, clutching a rosary of thick beads, intertwined in her fingers as if she wanted to strangle the disgrace. She has all the possible defects that can be attributed to a woman.

What defects? I've always seen her as very fine, replied Francisco, with a hint of sarcasm that was a sign he was recovering from the first blow they had dealt him. And even more so in intimacy.

Fool! Pig!, burst out Doña Maria. You know perfectly well what I'm referring to, insolent brat. That woman is an adulteress, a corrupter of minors, and on top of that, poor; she doesn't have a penny to her name, she finished with fury. The corrupter of minors thing was not a lie: Francisco was seventeen years old when he married Elena Bouroncle, a woman abandoned by the man she never ended up marrying, thus sustaining sexual relations without the consent of a priest. Peruvian law then, as now, considered Francisco a minor. But the society of that time, unlike today, judged terribly the women who fornicated without the acquiescence of the Divine.

She's a Bouroncle, mother, defended Francisco his wife.

That surname was never of high lineage, and the little fortune they had went to hell when Leguia fell. The Bouroncles are as ruined as…, Doña Maria searched for the exact word that could inflict the deepest humiliation on her son.

As we are, completed Francisco. Since our father died, we have nothing left. Look at them: all your grandchildren begging for a roof, and soon they will flood this mansion, because it can easily fit the dozens of families of the dozens of your children.

I'm not going to allow you to speak to our mother like that. Better shut up, ordered Alfonso.

Now you want me to shut up?, mocked Francisco. Where do we stand? Do I talk or not?

Tomorrow Bishop Holguin is going to divorce you, sentenced Doña Maria. Her words fell like a machete blow on Francisco's back, his mocking expression withering.

Alfonso opened a drawer of his desk and took out a stack of papers that he planted with haughtiness in front of him. And here are the copies of the file that has already been entered into the ecclesiastical court. Everything is within the law and the divorce is almost a done deal. As our mother said, our friend, Bishop Holguin, will stamp his seal on the petition tomorrow.

You can't do that, protested Francisco.

Of course not, admitted Alfonso, without hiding the sarcasm. That's why the bishop of Arequipa himself will do it, who is a friend of the house and who, as you well know, was president of this troubled country. Feel fortunate that such a high figure divorces you, not like the piddly little priest who married you behind our backs.

Bishop Mariano Holguin had been, barely four years earlier, one of the four fleeting presidents that Peru had in the dizzying span of eleven days that followed the resignation of Sanchez Cerro from the military junta that he himself had established after overthrowing President Leguia. The bishop governed for a few hours before handing over command to the president of the Supreme Court, one Ricardo Elias.

And I also have ready this other file, continued Alfonso, extracting from the right drawer of his desk another voluminous bundle of papers. With this we were going to hit your nefarious wife with a good lawsuit for having married a minor. Fortunately, she knew how to choose well.

Alfonso's verbal calculation took effect. The anguished uncertainty on his brother's face was a painting.

What did she choose?, dared to murmur Francisco. Why do you say you 'were going to' hit her with the lawsuit? Aren't you going to do it anymore?

Our selfless mother, continued Alfonso, has had to sell one of the last properties of our deceased father to give all the money from that sale to your little woman in exchange for her getting out of our lives. It was that or agree to spend the rest of her days in prison. Honoring her reputation, she took the money without thinking twice.

Francisco's eyes tried to find meaning in what his ears were hearing by scrutinizing the complex design printed on the thick carpet of that room.

In the future you will appreciate all this that we are doing for you, Francisco, said Alfonso. Now perhaps you don't realize it, but we are fixing your life. In about five years, when you are a prestigious lawyer and form a real family, you will thank us. For the moment, I don't care about your long face. The thing is, you don't leave this house until you become a great magistrate, and you forget about that woman.

And my son?, Francisco raised his gaze.

You don't have a son, settled my grandmother, erasing, just like that, my father's firstborn from the history of the Montesinos.

What do you mean I don't have a son?, said Francisco, thinking of Elena, his wife, who was waiting for him at home, awaiting the delicacies of Negra Dolores.

Your Elena took the money that was offered to her and right now, according to the agreement, she must have already left the pigsty where you lived, carrying in her womb that son who, I could bet, surely isn't even yours. Do you think she suddenly craved Lola's stew? I gave her the idea to put that story into your head so she could leave without any trouble.

Alfonso left the necessary space so that his words could forcefully strike his brother's morale. Then, he added, coldly: That's how she loved you. That's how people without dignity are: they always end up choosing the comfortable philosophy of money, instead of defending their honor.

You are lying to me. I don't believe you, you pair of liars, shouted Francisco.

Listen to me, burst out Alfonso, standing up with the same vehemence with which years later he would defend his political positions in the Senate, already militating in the Party of Democratic National Youth, the one that in 1956 would mutate into Popular Action, a party that was born hurling bravado against Odria and ended up becoming the refuge of little Lima gentlemen experts in promising sandcastles, always entangled in pacts with everyone except the people, whom they never managed to get close to. You will not speak to our mother like that, do you understand?

Francisco remained silent. He had nothing more to add. Since the death of his father, and even more so since Alfonso graduated as a lawyer, the latter had established himself as the master and lord of the family universe. Each of his words carried the blessing of Doña Maria. He, on the other hand, had left the university, had given himself over to drink, and had ended up sending his life to hell by marrying an adulteress, being a minor and, on top of that, getting her pregnant.

But the great Alfonso Montesinos y Montesinos (he had added the "y" to give himself an air of supplementary nobility) or Almanegra, as he was nicknamed, together with the all-powerful Doña Maria Montesinos, had just fixed his life for him. There would be neither dead nor wounded, because when you know presidents, bishops, and military men, or military presidents and bishop presidents, everything could be resolved, avoiding scandal or reducing it to a minimum.

My future father, Francisco, locked himself in the house's bar, always stocked with the best liquors thanks to Alfonso's money, and uncorked a bottle of wine which he drank in less than an hour. He fell asleep, deeply drunk: a habit that, over time, would only worsen.

El hermano que se hizo humo - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

¡Francisco!, detonó Alfonso, mi tío, joven y exitoso abogado egresado de la universidad San Agustín, que había sido fundada por su bisabuelo, Andrés Martínez de Orihuela, prestigioso ministro de Hacienda en los revoltosos tiempos del presidente Gamarra. A sus aurorales veintidós años, y a poco menos de veinticuatro meses de haber concluido con honores sus estudios universitarios, Alfonso era ya catedrático en su alma mater, donde dictaba, con los salones repletos de alumnos deseosos de verlo y escucharlo disertar, Derecho Romano.

Quien era llamado así, a los gritos, era Francisco Montesinos, el bueno para nada que en unos años se convertiría en mi padre; un tipo quien, dentro de la mediocridad de su vida, logró hacer algo -por supuesto, involuntariamente- que el resto de los Montesinos no; engendrarme a mí, al futuro presidente redentor del Perú.

El cobarde de Francisco intuyó al instante el motivo de la dura convocatoria fraternal y, por eso, buscó la puerta de la calle. Carecía de ánimos para sufrir una vez más los reproches por su deserción universitaria y por haberse casado con una fornicadora de todos conocida; una mujer que había yacido arrejuntada con un hombre al margen de todo sacramento eclesiástico.

No había sido tan buena idea visitar la casa de su mamá en busca de la deliciosa comida que la negra Dolores -Lola, para la familia- preparaba. Los guisos que hacía los martes, como ese día, eran imperdibles. Elena, en cambio, era incapaz de hacer siquiera un arroz con huevo y, cuando lo intentaba, era preferible ayunar. 

No hagas que te llame dos veces, Francisco. Va a ser peor. La voz de Alfonso era atronadora. Cuando se lo proponía, infundía temor. No en vano era considerado un contundente y versátil orador, poseedor y cultivador de los registros necesarios para conmover, atemorizar, concientizar y alborotar a las multitudes; herramientas que con el tiempo harían vibrar los escaños del parlamento nacional.

Mi padre, arrastrando los pies como era su mala costumbre, se encaminó hacia la majestuosa escalera de madera que describía una curva al fondo de la sala. Sus pisadas resonaban en aquel espacio hueco en donde antaño mi abuelo Guillermo ofreció sus tertulias y recitales. Cuando alcanzó el segundo piso, Francisco se dirigió, siempre arrastrando su desgano, hacia la habitación que hacía las veces de oficina del joven abogado y prodigio de la familia.

Su alma dio un brinco cuando, además de a Alfonso, vio en la oficina a su madre, mi abuela María Montesinos Martínez. La cosa pintaba mal. No se trataría de una de las amonestaciones habituales que Alfonso, como hermano mayor y pater familias, solía endilgarle.

María mantenía la expresión severa, casi impenetrable, de pie, al lado y un paso detrás de mi tío.

Cierra la puerta, ordenó Alfonso.

Con evidente renuencia, Francisco obedeció.

¡Ya basta! Has ido demasiado lejos. ¿Acaso quieres matar a nuestra madre con tus calaveradas?, tronó Alfonso una vez cerrada la puerta.

Mi padre los miraba con una tranquilidad casi insolente. Veía venir el mismo reproche de su hermano, solo que ahora reforzado con las melodramáticas lágrimas de su madre. Contuvo una sonrisa y mantuvo una postura neutra, aunque le costaba disimular cierto disfrute al ver a Alfonso, el imbatible, el ejemplar, el intelecto puro, el heredero natural del difunto Guillermo, rojo de rabia y frustración. Al final, no se podía tener una vida perfecta, porque o bien te la fregabas tú mismo o te la fregaba alguien de tu familia. Francisco era el cáncer de la felicidad de Alfonso.

¡Contesta!, exigió Alfonso desde su escritorio. No se había tomado la molestia de levantarse ni de saludar a su hermano. Francisco tampoco. Mi abuela María solía decir que el recién llegado debía iniciar los saludos de rigor, pero lo que estaba ocurriendo ahí distaba mucho de cualquier ejemplo de buen protocolo. Mi padre había entrado en una olla hirviendo sin tener idea de su temperatura.

¿Qué pasó?, dijo Francisco, displicente. ¿Otra vez lo mismo? ¿Van a hablarme de Elena? Ya les dije hasta el cansancio que me casé con ella por amor, por convicción. Pueden decir misa, pero yo voy a seguir con ella.

Sí, claro, replicó Alfonso. ¿Y creíste que no nos íbamos a enterar de que la has embarazado?

Mi padre se blanqueó al instante. ¿Cómo se habían enterado? Elena casi no salía, y habían planeado largarse de Arequipa antes de que la barriga los delatara. Francisco no estaba muy feliz con la idea de convertirse en padre, pero albergaba la ilusión de que, con el bebé, llegarían cambios que lo impulsarían a salir de la mediocridad en la que se movía. Llevaba arrastrando el estigma de haber abandonado la universidad, una afrenta imperdonable para la viuda de su padre y para los Montesinos más encumbrados, guardianes obsesivos del prestigio intelectual familiar.

No sé quiénes más estén al tanto de esta infausta noticia, declaró Alfonso, pero te aseguro que haré todo lo posible para evitar que sigas mancillando el prestigio y la decencia de nuestro apellido. 

En qué mala hora te involucraste con esa mujer, Francisco, lamentó doña María, aferrada a un rosario de gruesas cuentas, entrelazadas en sus dedos como si quisiera estrangular la desgracia. Tiene todos los defectos posibles que se le pueden achacar a una mujer.

¿Cuáles defectos? Yo siempre la he visto muy bien, respondió Francisco, con un dejo de sarcasmo que era el indicio de que se recuperaba del primer golpe que le habían asestado. Y todavía más en la intimidad.

¡Majadero! ¡Cochino!, estalló doña María. Tú sabes perfectamente a qué me refiero, mocoso insolente. Esa mujer es una adúltera, una corruptora de menores y, encima, pobre; no tiene un centavo partido por la mitad, remató con furia. Lo de corruptora de menores no era mentira: Francisco tenía diecisiete años cuando se casó con Elena Bouroncle, una mujer abandonada por el hombre con el cual jamás llegó a casarse, sosteniendo así relaciones sexuales sin el consentimiento de un cura. La ley peruana de entonces, como la de ahora, consideraba a Francisco menor de edad. Pero la sociedad de aquel tiempo, a diferencia de la actual, juzgaba terriblemente a las mujeres que fornicaban sin la aquiescencia del Divino.

Es una Bouroncle, madre, defendió Francisco a su mujer.

Ese apellido jamás fue de alcurnia, y la poca fortuna que tuvieron se fue al diablo cuando cayó Leguía. Los Bouroncle están tan arruinados como…, doña María buscaba la palabra exacta que pudiera infligir la humillación más profunda a su hijo.

Como nosotros, completó Francisco. Desde que murió nuestro padre ya no tenemos nada. Míralos: todos tus nietos implorando por un techo, y dentro de poco inundarán este caserón, porque aquí caben fácilmente las decenas de familias de las decenas de tus hijos.

No te voy a permitir que le hables así a nuestra madre. Mejor cállate, ordenó Alfonso.

¿Ahora quieren que me calle?, se mofó Francisco. ¿En qué quedamos? ¿Hablo o no?

Mañana el obispo Holguín te va a divorciar, sentenció doña María. Sus palabras cayeron como un machetazo sobre la espalda de Francisco, marchitándosele el gesto burlón.

Alfonso abrió un cajón de su escritorio y sacó un mazo de papeles que plantó con altanería frente a él. Y aquí están las copias del legajo que ya fue ingresado al tribunal eclesiástico. Todo está dentro de la ley y el divorcio es casi un hecho. Como dijo nuestra madre, nuestro amigo, el obispo Holguín, le estampará mañana su sello a la petición.

Ustedes no pueden hacer eso, protestó Francisco.

Por supuesto que no, admitió Alfonso, sin ocultar el sarcasmo. Por eso lo hará el mismísimo obispo de Arequipa, que es amigo de la casa y que, como bien sabes, fue presidente de este convulso país. Siéntete afortunado de que tan alta figura te divorcie, no como el curita pichirruchi que te casó a nuestras espaldas.

El obispo Mariano Holguín había sido, hacía apenas cuatro años, uno de los cuatro fugaces presidentes que tuvo el Perú en el vertiginoso lapso de once días que siguió a la renuncia de Sánchez Cerro a la junta militar que él mismo había instaurado tras derrocar al presidente Leguía. El obispo gobernó algunas horas antes de cederle el mando al presidente de la Corte Suprema, un tal Ricardo Elías.

Y también tengo listo este otro legajo, continuó Alfonso, extrayendo del cajón derecho de su escritorio otro voluminoso atado de papeles. Con esto le íbamos a clavar una buena demanda a la nefasta de tu mujer por haber desposado a un menor de edad. Afortunadamente, ella supo elegir bien.

El cálculo verbal de Alfonso surtió efecto. La incógnita angustiada en el rostro de su hermano era una pintura.

¿Qué eligió?, se atrevió a murmurar Francisco. ¿Por qué dices que le “iban” a clavar la demanda? ¿Ya no lo van a hacer?

Nuestra abnegada madre, siguió Alfonso, ha tenido que vender una de las últimas propiedades de nuestro difunto padre para darle todo el dinero de esa venta a tu mujercita a cambio de que se largara de nuestras vidas. Era eso o aceptar pasar el resto de sus días en prisión. Haciéndole honor a su reputación, tomó el dinero sin pensarlo dos veces.

Los ojos de Francisco pretendían encontrarle un sentido a lo que sus oídos escuchaban escrutando el complejo diseño impreso en la gruesa alfombra de esa habitación.

En el futuro vas a valorar todo esto que estamos haciendo por ti, Francisco, dijo Alfonso. Ahora quizá no te des cuenta, pero te estamos arreglando la vida. De aquí a unos cinco años, cuando seas un prestigioso abogado y formes una familia de verdad, nos lo vas a agradecer. De momento, me tiene sin cuidado tu cara larga. La cosa es que de esta casa no sales hasta convertirte en un gran magistrado y te olvidas de esa mujer.

¿Y mi hijo?, levantó la mirada Francisco.

Tú no tienes hijo, zanjó mi abuela, borrando, así como así, al primogénito de mi padre de la historia de los Montesinos.

¿Cómo que no tengo hijo?, dijo Francisco, pensando en Elena, su esposa, que lo estaba esperando en casa, aguardando los manjares de la Negra Dolores.

Tu Elena tomó el dinero que se le ofreció y ahorita, según lo acordado, ya debe de haberse ido de la pocilga donde vivían, llevándose en el vientre a ese hijo que, podría apostarlo, seguramente ni es tuyo. ¿Crees que a ella súbitamente se le antojó el guiso de Lola? Yo le di la idea de que te meta ese cuento para que se pueda largar sin inconvenientes.

Alfonso dejó el espacio necesario para que sus palabras pudieran golpear contundentemente la moral de su hermano. Luego, añadió, con frialdad: Así te amaba ella. Así es la gente sin dignidad: siempre termina eligiendo la cómoda filosofía del dinero, en lugar de defender su honor. 

Me están mintiendo. No les creo, par de mentirosos, gritó Francisco.

Óyeme, estalló Alfonso, poniéndose de pie con la misma vehemencia con la que años después defendería sus posiciones políticas en el Senado, ya militando en el Partido de las Juventudes Nacionales Democráticas, aquel que en 1956 mutaría en Acción Popular, un partido que nació lanzando bravatas contra Odría y terminó convertido en el refugio de señoritos limeños expertos en prometer castillos de arena, siempre enredado en pactos con todos menos con el pueblo al que nunca consiguió acercarse. A nuestra madre no le vas a hablar así, ¿entendiste?

Francisco permaneció en silencio. No tenía más que agregar. Desde la muerte de su padre, y más aún desde que Alfonso se graduó de abogado, este se había erigido en amo y señor del universo familiar. Cada una de sus palabras llevaba la venia de doña María. Él, en cambio, había dejado la universidad, se había entregado a la bebida, y había terminado por mandar su vida al carajo casándose con una adúltera, siendo él menor de edad y, para colmo, dejándola embarazada.

Pero el gran Alfonso Montesinos y Montesinos (se había añadido la “y” para darse un aire de nobleza suplementaria) o Almanegra, como lo apodaba, junto a la todopoderosa doña María Montesinos, acababan de enmendarle la vida. No habría ni muertos ni heridos, porque cuando uno es conocido de presidentes, obispos y militares, o militares presidentes y obispos presidentes, todo se podía resolver, evitando el escándalo o reduciéndolo al mínimo.

Mi futuro padre, Francisco, se encerró en el bar de la casa, siempre surtido de los mejores licores gracias al dinero de Alfonso, y descorchó una botella de vino que se bebió en menos de una hora. Se quedó dormido, profundamente ebrio: una costumbre que, con el tiempo, no haría sino agravarse. 

The Intelligent System - Story 10 - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Short Story Book by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Three hundred? You reckon?, said Mark, my boss, the bank manager. Three hundred? You reckon? said Mark, my boss, the bank manager.

Straight up, I told him. Three hundred. I showed him the final chart of my presentation, the one that summed up all the benefits of the program I'd just developed, a system built on an artificial intelligence engine that I'd created and fed line by line myself.

Seeing the satisfied look on the boss's face was everything to me; and, wanting his expression to last and get even more intense, I let him in on one of the most extraordinary qualities of my creation: By next month, we'll be able to sack another six hundred employees.

What?

I didn't need to repeat a thing. Mark had heard me perfectly and my finger was pointing to the number and the evidence on his laptop screen.

So that's three hundred in the first month and six hundred in the second month? Nine hundred in three months of your program being up and running?

 

 The number of people getting the sack follows a simple arithmetic progression; each month, the number goes up by three hundred employees compared to the previous month, I added with apparent disinterest, as if it was a minor detail.

The boss's face was a simultaneous parade of joy and disbelief. Those emotions wouldn't leave him for a good while. The avalanche of good news was overwhelming him; looked like it might crack his skin.

I want you to present this tomorrow to the directors. It'll be an achievement for both of us: yours for creating such a revolutionary program, and mine for hiring you a couple of years back. When I did that, I saw potential in you that hasn't let me down. And now you've proven it in spades. With what we save the company by sacking those three hundred, and then the six hundred, and so on until we're left with only the necessary staff, I'm dead certain they'll give me triple pay plus shares in the bank, some long and well-deserved holidays, and to you, of course, the bank's star, a generous bonus, he announced, without taking his eyes off the promising results on his computer screen.

 I don't care about the money, I thought, while Mark pictured himself sprawled on some Caribbean beach, running the bank from there, sipping a piña colada, getting a massage from some local sheila, hygienically away from his wife and kids for whom he was just another one of the many ATMs the bank he worked for had scattered all over Australia. I'd created that revolutionary program just to see him this happy and chuffed. And I'd done it.

Here, he handed me three hundred dollars he pulled from his wallet. It's a little advance I wanna give you from my own pocket as a first nod to such a magnificent job, dear Patrick.

***

A month and a half after we presented the Intelligent System to the bank's directors, Mark had already reaped juicy salary benefits thanks to the success of cutting three hundred strategically eliminated positions. He was also enjoying long holidays in Aruba, one of his favourite getaways. He'd left me, with the directors' approval and blessing, in charge of the bank's general management.

*** 

Mark is tanned. It's Tuesday and he's just arrived on the tenth floor of the bank's main building, where his office and the cubicles of the people who work under him are located.

He knows he won't do anything important today; just have a squiz at some of the thousands of emails that have piled up over the more than sixty days he took as holidays, a well-deserved break, mind you, for having generated significant income for the bank by removing three hundred workers from the payroll. Nah, what am I on about, three hundred, he says to himself, while searching for his access card to the floor. As always, he's arrived early. Through the glass walls of the office, he can see, with a certain childish pride, that no one's shown up yet. He likes being first at everything, whatever it is.

What am I on about, three hundred?, he corrects himself again, savouring the correction. We're nearly two months in; now it must be six hundred sacked.

He's about to laugh, but holds back. He swipes the electronic key past the sensor next to the door and it stays shut. Did I grab the wrong card?, he thinks. He checks it and yeah, it's his key. Bloody hell. He wipes it on his shirt and swipes it again. The door stays shut.

 

 Then he lifts his hand like a visor and leans towards the glass of the door, trying to see inside with renewed urgency. His eyes no longer scan the place with the calm they had before, but with growing anxiety, almost a silent plea for someone, anyone, to have arrived before him. After a few tense seconds, he makes out the figure of Patrick, his assistant, in the manager's office, in his office.

Patrick? What's he doing at my desk? He doesn't bother giving himself an immediate answer because the most urgent thing is to get the door open.

He moderates his initial desperation so his subordinate doesn't see him vulnerable. With an almost casual gesture, he knocks on the glass to catch his eye. When he sees him, he mouths silently: Open up, please. Patrick stops what he's doing and comes straight over, as obliging as ever.

Hey, d'you know what's up with these sensors? I swiped my card a few times and the door never opened, says Mark with the same arrogant tone as always, as if Patrick ought to be across every single one of his problems, even the most trivial, like why the traffic's a nightmare in the mornings or why the midday sun's a proper curse.

 

Patrick, however, doesn't take long to clear it up for him. Thing is, you're not the manager anymore, Mark. Check your email. The Intelligent System must've sent you your new position within the company, one that fits better with your knowledge and skills, and no doubt that new position is on another floor of the bank or at some branch.

What? Mark stammers, dumbfounded.

Check your email, says Patrick. The System's infallible.

And what position has the System put you in?

I'm the new manager. The System appointed me a month ago. It evaluated my knowledge and capabilities and, based on that, figured I brought more value to the company by running management.

Mark dives into the chaos of his email inbox, overflowing with unread messages, while Patrick's unbelievable words ring in his ears. If they've made Patrick manager, then they must've moved him to the board. That's the logical thing. Desperately, his eyes search for some message sent by the Intelligent System.

Here it is, he says at last, triumphant.

But as he reads the lines of the message, his face crumbles.

So now I'm your assistant?, he manages to say, his voice caught between disgust and disbelief, as if the very idea tasted like rust.

Nah, says Patrick, with a patient voice, like talking to a distracted kid. Have a proper look. That email must be from two months ago. Look for the most recent message.

Mark finds it and reads it out loud: Following the optimisation of the company's competitive structure, your position as management assistant is no longer necessary. Your duties will be taken over, with greater accuracy and no absences, by us, the Intelligent System. So you are sacked with gratitude and courtesy. We present you with a lovely virtual floral arrangement in recognition of your twenty years of dedicated service. Please vacate your office before midday. He can barely get the end of the message out.

Patrick, with a smile that seems polite, points to the box with his belongings. They were gonna chuck your stuff out, he says, but I, as the new manager, asked them to leave it in that corner until you arrived.

A buzzing sound wakes Mark from his mental stupor. It's Patrick's mobile. He takes it out of his pants pocket and, after checking it, hands it to Mark.

I just got a message from the Intelligent System. Would you do me the honour?

Mark takes the phone with hands that no longer seem to obey him. The characters of the text appear sharp, inexorable. The Intelligent System has just appointed Patrick as director of the bank, sacking three inefficient directors.

Disbelief settles in with all its weight inside Mark.

 Here in my wallet, I've got three hundred dollars spare, says Patrick. They could be yours if you put all my stuff in a box and take it upstairs to my new director's office.

If there's one thing Mark has learned in the corporate world, it's that opportunities, whatever they are, have to be taken. Moving his ex-subordinate, ex-boss and then ex-colleague's gear took him half a day.