León’s strong arm performance, interrupted by his coughing, continues. Leopoldo tries not to think about El Loco’s people waiting outside. What does he care about El Loco’s people anyway? With his handkerchief he wipes his face slowly, careful not to appear desperate, but not too slowly so as to appear like he’s applying face powder. Should he have his initials embroidered on his handkerchief? Light gray would be the best color. Because light gray goes with everything. He could do it himself, too. Unlike Antonio, whose longhand was as uneven as his flare ups, which ranged from sobbing on the soccer field after losing a game to hurling his calculator against the back wall of their classroom after supposedly botching a physics exam — hey, the Snivel’s here, watch your calculators, fellows — Leopoldo excelled in calligraphy. He still has a few of those lined notebooks with the translucent paper. Though of course excellence in calligraphy does not equate to excellence in embroidery. Just as excellence in history does not necessarily equate to being chosen to write León’s biography. Just as extreme intelligence does not necessarily equate to a nomination from León for the upcoming elections, or any elections, even a little one, ever. There’s even a rumor that Cristian Cordero, also known as the Fat Albino, that pretentious agglomerate of flab, one of the laziest students at San Javier, who would only show up at Leopoldo’s doorstep to borrow the answers to their calculus homework, and who also happens to be León’s grandson — don’t think of you groveling after the Fat Albino to obtain a recommendation for the post as León’s domestic, Microphone — might be running for president. At San Javier, Antonio lost two out of three fights against the Fat Albino. Does Antonio remember those fistfights at the Miraflores Park? Does he remember teaching catechism in Mapasingue with Leopoldo? Does he remember their work at the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín? From a wicker basket they would hand bread to the bedstricken inside rooms the size of hangars. The elderly waited for them along the hallway, one of them waiting for Antonio at the farthest end. Rosita Delgado? Once, before Antonio arrived at the hospice, Rosita unwrapped for Leopoldo a photograph Antonio had gifted her: Antonio as a boy in a cardboard penguin costume. Years later that boy in the costume became a Stanford economist who has come back to discuss their role in the upcoming presidential elections. Leopoldo checks his watch. He will be meeting with Antonio in thirty two minutes. They’re just meeting to talk, nothing definite yet, the country’s too unstable for León to find out, not that he’s going to let León find out, that he’s conspiring with Antonio to run in the upcoming presidential elections. Antonio’s probably expecting an audacious plan from him. Which Leopoldo actually has. Sort of. He pockets his handkerchief. Calligraphy and embroidery are probably not related at all.
Mister President, are you reconsidering your party’s position of not nominating a presidential candidate for the upcoming elections? Mister President, are you ever going to run for president again? Mister President, are you ever going to buy furniture for this building?
I won’t buy anything for this building, Leopoldo hears León say, indignant as ever, narrowing his eyes, or at least one of them, and like a priest denouncing the stench of sin he points at the vacant corners of the room, as if the corners had anything to do with it, as if once upon a time León flunked geometry just like his grandson flunked everything but flute lessons, although of course Leopoldo knows that León never flunked anything and that this pointing is just León’s theatrical way of enumerating the missing clerk desks, reception desks, oak chairs, tin chairs, white paper, brown paper, air fresheners, copy machines, washing machines, phone lines, phone cords, everything that was carried away by the friends and family of El Loco. Except the rolltop. That’d been too heavy to haul. Everyone had seen the looted palace on television. And yet to most people the images of the sacked rooms had not seemed surreal or incredibly despairing but funny. Everyone’s saying that they found nothing but a pig chomping on the wallpaper, Don Leopoldo. That the pig’s tiny ears made her nose look unnecessarily big. And on top of that she smelled like garbage. Oh but Elsa the Pig did not care. She munched on the municipal wallpaper and did not care. That’s how the idea of summoning El Loco’s people occurred to Leopoldo. People weren’t outraged, he’d told León. Everyone thinks it’s funny. Extra, niño Leo, read it here first: León’s Right Hand Man Pockets Pensions and Roars to Miami. Check it out, Microphone Head, Fraud Forces Francisco Swett to Jet to Florida. Extra, Don Leopoldo, Jeffrey the Hutt Escapes Prison Order and Flees to Miami. Jeffrey Torbay did look like Jabba the Hutt, which made his embezzlement during León’s presidency even more sinister. Everyone’s saying that Jeffrey the Hutt opened a nightclub in Miami Beach, Don Leopoldo. That they’re calling it Ecuador Bar & Beer. Although more likely it was called The Palace or The Cathedral or The Mansion and its doors were probably flanked with pit guards spurnful of dark Mexicans and blacks. The other thing Leopoldo didn’t tell León is that everyone still remembers El Loco lashing a stockwhip out the window of the municipal palace, promising to flog oligarchs like León during El Loco’s tenure as police chief.
I won’t buy anything for this building until the people realize the extent of that man’s corruption, Leopoldo hears León say. That swindler shouldn’t be allowed to return. Accomplished and honest professionals are what our country needs.
Is León showcasing Leopoldo as an example of an accomplished and honest professional? The reporters seem to be wondering the same thing because they’re turning to appraise Leopoldo. Do they remember what Leopoldo has accomplished for the city? Do they remember that El Loco and his cohorts had also emptied the city’s coffers and that that’s the other reason León can’t buy anything for this building? Or that León had shut down the empty palace and jumpstarted a tax collection campaign to replenish the coffers but what he collected he had to immediately disburse to avert an epidemic because the sewers had clogged somewhere and black water was inundating the streets and the rainy season hadn’t even started and on the way to work people were seeing rats splashing for life? Leopoldo approaches the window on the other side of the room to check on El Loco’s people. To keep it manageable Leopoldo had only summoned two hundred out of the two thousand four hundred and ninety pipones, and yet outside more than two hundred are already crowding the courtyard, spilling onto the streets and gardens, he should’ve anticipated that more than two hundred would show up, although perhaps his arithmetic is off? One by the oyster stand, two by the juice vendor (hey, is that Facundo Cedeño?), three by the, well, don’t worry too much, Leo, no one’s going to notice in any case. Across the room Leopoldo signals León. Let us begin.
—
Facundo Cedeño, sporting cream polyester pants and a brown SPAM tee shirt, which barely covers his ventripotence, or as his classmates at San Javier used to call it, his bus driver beer bulge, I’ll show you a bulge!, he would retort to them, adopting a leader of the hencoop posture, a poultry falsetto, a mock priapic strut along with grabfuls of his storied maid killer under his school jeans, the same cotton butt jeans that used to be an indefatigable source of school hall badinage, the latter word, incidentally, being the kind of word that Facundo would often call out for clarification during Who’s Most Pedantic: ba the bleet of sheep, di the circus interlude, nage the Vader belch: baah, dee, NAAAAAGE, transmogrifying their recondite words as payback for their mocking of his shabby, ill fitting jeans that would drop on him just as his cream polyester pants, two sizes too big, are dropping on him as he stands on the steps of the municipal palace.
Buying a belt is a passing thought amid the Saharan heat. No sand here though. No Arabian ghost masks either. A limerick about camels and parasols is a passing thought as he spots a juice vendor on the other side of the courtyard. A pint of papaya juice would be swell. Not as swell as my belly here,