Leopoldo who nevertheless looks like the son of a horsekeeper raised by law clerks, had synchronized himself to León, courtesy of some municipal snoop who’d relayed the data from León’s wristwatch, some sneak who shook León’s hand and managed to extract León’s data to the millisecond, some groveler or someone posing as a groveler just like this Jacinto Cazares individual who showed up with Volume III of León’s Thoughts and Works, which had been published by the National Secretariat of Public Information when León was president and that León probably overlooked as a prop of ingratiation because that impossible to find volume describes the most ambitious highway system the country had ever seen, plus it was tagged with so many sticky notes that it looked like a flattened sandwich or a
(León’s daughter Mariuxi used to collect centipedes)
look Son, three foreign publishing houses and one international television network have offered me large sums of money to allow them to write about me and I’ve always refused because I’m not going to begin at this stage in my life to have the vanity of having someone write about my life when the only merit I presume to have is that I have fulfilled my duty and above all other considerations have abided by a strict respect for the law.
Mister President the reporters are here.
But you are the one leader of this nation who could serve as an example for our youth.
Mister President?
From afar León’s leaning on Leopoldo’s shoulder probably looks like gesture of camaraderie, although of course Leopoldo doesn’t care if this is what it looks like, nor does he care that unfortunately no one’s around to witness what this looks like, León’s right hand man here, folks, Leopoldo Arístides Hurtado, nor does it matter if he cares because everyone at the municipality already knows he’s León’s right hand man. What Leopoldo does care about is León’s tubercular coughing. Not that he knows what tubercular coughing sounds like. Although he’s heard something like it before. At the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín that Leopoldo and Antonio used to visit when they were sophomores at San Javier the coughing of the old and the infirm sounded tubercular. Like a calling, too: talk to me, visit me, and at the same time like a refusal: we’re still here! Today León’s coughing is partly Leopoldo’s fault though. Leopoldo knew that if he didn’t intercept León on the way to the press room, if he didn’t slow him down with administrative checklists, León was likely to swagger down the hallway at an overtaxing speed. The same speed León’s been brandishing since he was prefect. The same swagger of someone who could afford to leave his post as head of Industrial Molinera to become senator of Guayas, president of Ecuador, mayor of Guayaquil, of someone who once campaigned on horseback, who once ordered tanks to flank a congress that wouldn’t stamp his decrees, who once traversed the country atop caravans that would quadruple in size from Machala to Naranjal, from Babahoyo to Jipijapa, who toward the end of his presidential campaign gathered at a stadium abloom with signs and flags and chants of bread, roof, and employment in which he swore, in front of god and the Republic, that he will never betray them. Leopoldo grew up with those words. That stadium. León wreathed by a procession of children. Sweating as if inspirited by his people or by a sorrow he must overcome to swear, no, in that stadium León’s voice breaks off, as if allowing the echo of his voice to reach as far as Esmeraldas and Calceta, Macas and Junín. I swear, in front of god and the Republic, but then León breaks off again, as if taking in the gravity of his promise. I swear, in front of god and the Republic, that I will never betray you. On the field and on the stands the crowd bursts. Some are chanting León / León / León. Others are jumping in unison and waving their flags. On his father’s shoulders, Leopoldo waves his flag, too. It’s yellow like the others and tiny like his hands. His father isn’t waving his sign though. He’d been flapping it tirelessly since they boarded a pickup at La Atarazana but now he doesn’t move. Because of the commotion around them Leopoldo cannot tell why his father shivers as if he’s cold. It’s not cold. It’s hot and humid and the headlights are exacerbating the heat and everyone’s soaked and screaming along or in spite of the loudspeakers that are unburdening themselves of songs. His father’s sign is staked on the grass and his hands are resting on it as if it’s a waypost that has appeared just for him. His father’s about to rest his forehead on his hands, oblivious to his son on his shoulders, who’s instinctively tilting backwards as his father tilts forward, but then his father straightens as if he’s been pricked and shrieks. Anda que te parió un burro. My back. Bread, roof, and employment. With León it can be done. The rally ends. León wins. His father flees in the wake of an embezzlement scandal. Leopoldo finds himself one night, groggy and cold, in the dark living room of the old Centenario house. His mother is gone and the bald domestic is watching troglodytes on a screen that flickers like a lantern on a boat. They’re clobbering each other and sniffing the bark of giant palm trees. The living room smells like burnt veal. Then a tidal wave rises like a hand that’s also a spider and swallows everything. The end. Go back to sleep, Negrito. León’s tubercular coughing worries him. And yet today Leopoldo didn’t intercept León dashing down the hall. He had too much to coordinate before the press conference about El Loco. Besides, León was busy giving audience to that Jacinto Cazares individual (known at San Javier as Funky Town, Excrement, Thief).
León tries to contain his coughing with his fist, which seems pointless, although this thought strikes Leopoldo as pointless too, for what else can anyone do? How ungenerous of him. And how ludicrous to make yet another vow of compassion toward his fellow men. As if to rebuke him, León’s coughing ends. He grimaces, irritated at having Leopoldo witness his coughing, or trying to discern why this dark kid’s standing so close to him. León shakes Leopoldo’s hand with both hands as if campaigning at a kindergarten, but before Leopoldo has time to consider the absurdity of León’s gesture he starts coughing again. Down the hall two reporters are peering at them. Leopoldo shields León from the reporters by shifting sideways, placing one hand on León’s shoulder and the other on León’s back, patting it three times, soothing him, before Leopoldo realizes what he’s doing. León doesn’t mind or hasn’t noticed but Leopoldo pulls back nevertheless. The reporters still need an interpretable gesture. Leopoldo leans to León’s ear, cupping his hand as if blinkering them from what he’s conferring about with León, and if Leopoldo could he would blinker himself from seeing León like this, for even the most generous bystander would agree that León looks like a disheveled Santa, or a one eyed wheezer, or a strained Lear unlike the King Lear that Leopoldo’s grandmother, on her farm in the outskirts of Manabí, would perform for Leopoldo after baking him his favorite sugar rolls, tying a white plastic bag on her head like a wig and then hobbling while she proclaimed, in unintelligible English, blo win, crack you cheek, rage!, blo!, her voice steeped in the same excitement she will use years later when Leopoldo’s about to deliver his valedictorian speech, sharing with the distinguished parents in the audience how as a boy, barely reaching the veranda of her balcony, little Leo would spend hours giving speeches to the passing trucks and sometimes even an ambulatory salesman would stop and clap and try to sell little Leo pink ceramic piggy banks — los chanchitos la alcancíaaa — and while Leopoldo delivers his speech his grandmother hears León saying to his wife carajo, that kid sounds just like me.
El Loco’s people are arriving as planned. I have everything under control.
You? You have everything under . . .?
León sidesteps him so Leopoldo has to scramble behind like a domestic who should’ve known better, a domestic who’s carrying León’s briefcase, which contains the Cohiba cigars that Fidel still ships to León, a recommendation letter so Alvarito Rosales can be admitted into Babson College, a stockwhip from León’s ranch that León plans to unleash on El Loco’s people, brown shoe polish for his cowboy boots, double chocolate wafer crumbs from La Universal, called Tango for no good reason.
How are the horses, Mister President? Marcial still on a winning streak? How are the Dobermans? The bonsais growing nicely? Shooting at the range this weekend?
It’s never easy to tell when León’s in the mood to chat with reporters. Definitely not today. The reporters and the film crew arrange themselves on the floor, by the one rolltop oak desk.
León preempts questions about the human rights lawsuit against him by lecturing them about antiterrorist practices around