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.I ran to the right wing of the mansion: a man was urinating in the narrow, shady part of the garden, a man in a lacquered straw hat was pissing against the wall between my house and …I was surrounded.A smell of purslane came from the kitchen.I entered.I had never seen the new cook, a fat woman, square as a die, with jet-black hair and a face aged by skepticism.—I am Lupe, the new cook—she told me—and this is Don Zacarías, the new chauffeur.Said chauffeur did not even rise from the table where he was eating purslane tacos.I looked at him with astonishment.He was the image of the ex-president Don Adolfo Ruiz Cortines, who in turn was identified, in popular wit, with the actor Boris Karloff: bushy eyebrows, deep eyes, huge bags under the eyes, wrinkles deeper than the Grand Canyon, high forehead, high cheekbones, compressed skull, graying hair brushed to the back.—Pleased, I said, like a perfect idiot.I returned to the bedroom and, almost instinctively, I decided to put on some of the few shoes with laces that I have.I looked at myself there, seated on the unmade bed, by the pillow that held her scent, with my shoelaces untied and hanging loose like inert but hungry earthworms.I pulled the bell cord by the headboard, to see who would answer my call.A few minutes passed.Then knuckles rapped.He entered, the young man who resembled (according to my fancy) the incarcerated Dimas Palmero.I decided, nonetheless, to tell them apart, to separate them, not to allow any confusion.The murderer was locked away.This was someone else.—What is your name?—Marco Aurelio.You’ll notice he didn’t say “At your service, sir,” or “What may I do for you, patrón.” Nor did he look at me sideways, eyes hooded, head lowered.—Tie my shoes.He looked at me a moment.—Right now, I said.He continued to look at me, and then knelt before me.He tied the laces.—Tell the chauffeur I’m going out after eating.And tell the cook to come up so I can plan some menus.And another thing Marco Aurelio …Now back on his feet, he looked at me fixedly.—Clear all the intruders out of my garden.If they’re not gone within half an hour, I’ll call the police.You may go, Marco Aurelio.That’s all, you hear?I dressed, ostentatiously and ostensibly, to go out, I who had gone out so seldom.I decided to try for the first time—almost—a beige gabardine double-breasted suit, blue shirt, stupid yellow clip tie, and, sticking out of my breast pocket, a Liberty handkerchief an Englishwoman had given me.Real sharp, real shark: I spoke my name and, stomping loudly, I went downstairs.But there it was the same story.Locked door, people surrounding the house.A full-fledged party, and a piñata in the garage.The children squealing happily.A child making a hubbub, trapped in a strange metal crib, all barred in up to the top, like a furnace grate.—Marco Aurelio!I sat down in the hall of stained-glass windows.Marco Aurelio solicitously undid my shoes, and, solicitously, offered me my most comfortable slippers.Would I like my pipe? Did I want a brandy? I would lack nothing.The chauffeur would go out and get me any videotape I wanted: new pictures or old, sports, sex, music … The family has told me to tell you not to worry [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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