The Revolutionaries Try Again

by Mauro Javier Cardenas

  PART FOUR

  —

  FACUNDO SAYS FAREWELL

  XVI / FACUNDO SAYS FAREWELL

  El Loco, Facundo says into his tape recorder, bah, Macundo, you sound like a circus mouthpiece, Facundo thinks, rewind and jumpstart, El Loco, Facundo says into his tape recorder, and not only is he tired of parroting circus loudmouths, Facundo thinks, his audience at La Ratonera is probably tired of him reparroting from circuses nobody attends anymore, hey fatty, someone in his audience had once yelled, you’re turning into the Fat Lady, to which Facundo replied by singing everyone loves the Fat Lady / because we’re all going to win, a popular limerick for an old raffle called The Fat Lady, which, according to a mathematician who later became the chief of statistics for the ministry of information, was rigged, rewind and jumpstart, El Loco, Facundo says into his tape recorder, a tape recorder to which he could’ve attached a microphone but didn’t because he doesn’t own a microphone and, besides, a microphone would only accrete his likelihood of sounding like a circus loudmouth, bearded ladies and obese gentlemen and amented children and that kind of Welcome to the Circus crap, but let us omit any mention of the microphone from La Ratonera, which he wasn’t allowed to borrow to rehearse his skits in his mother’s kitchen like he’s doing tonight, as if he cared that much about borrowing a bulbous microphone that smells like algae doused in Patito, the word bulbous, incidentally, being the kind of word the Microphone Head would have picked to strafe other Big Headed Microphone looking fellows like himself, in any case he can rehearse without that priapic microphone, Facundo thinks, hey fatty, someone in his audience had once yelled, quit it with your comic intros and sing us the one about the rabbit in the mirror, a popular tune by a band of pissed off Spaniards who sang about unfettered destruction, sexual dysfunction, women jumping out of windows, and a rabbit faced guy inside the mirror who’s staring at you, why are you staring at me / do you want me to meal on you / rabbit / good evening ladies and gentleman, Facundo says into his tape recorder, have you heard the one about the free houses El Loco promised during his campaign, yes, now that he’s finally president, our free houses are on their way here from Paraguay, yes, that’s right, but they might vanish in customs unless El Loco kickbacks enormous sums to Jacobito, our brand new customs director, also known as El Loco’s son.

  —

  Do you think Ecuadorians appreciate everything you’ve done for them, Jacinto Manuel Cazares writes in his notebook, preparing for his interview with León Martín Cordero. Do they thank you enough? Does it bother you that young people don’t remember your public works? All those yellow signs that read Another Public Work by León? Even if everyone was saying that you were building all those overpasses to deplete the public coffers so that your enemy, Rodrigo Borja, would be hampered when he assumed the presidency after you? Do you remember when you swore, in front of god and the republic, that you would never betray us? Did you betray us? What did you tell John Paul II when he confessed you during his visit to Ecuador? Did you two share your strategies for squashing dissent? What did you and Fidel Castro talk about? Do you find it ironic that despite all your physical ailments people continue to admire your fortitude? Is it true that when your retina came out you continued working for the good of the nation? What’s behind the unconditional support people have toward you? Are you an oligarch? Are you the owner of the country or do Ecuadorians hide their own desire to defalcate the country by calling you the owner of the country? León no se ahueva? Did you fabricate the drug trafficking charges against El Loco? Is it true that you prefer the country to be unstable because that way you can run the country without having to put forth a presidential candidate? Is that why you allowed El Loco to win? Do you think you’ve sacrificed yourself? Do you think the history of modern Guayaquil will be divided in two, Before León and After León? After the success of your presidency, why didn’t your political party win any presidential elections when you did put forth presidential candidates? What motivated you to assume the overwhelming responsibility to serve us? Do you think you’ve left a mark? Would it bother you to find out your family paid me to write your biography? What constitutes, for you, a state crime? Do you believe in the repose of the warrior? What does Ecuador owe you? Everyone recognizes that your fight against terrorism liberated Ecuador from the plague of terrorism; nevertheless, why do some people keep battling you because you supposedly violated human rights? Do you see dead terrorists? Do you still carry the .38 Reagan gifted you? Is your strong arm still strong? Would it bother you to find out your family will be bankrolling the publication of this biography? Do you like my tie? Do you ever point the .38 Reagan gifted you to your mouth and say León no se ahueva? Was the sacrifice worth it? Do you see dead nonterrorists? Why aren’t you dead already? Do you think, like I do, like so many of us do, that your thoughts and the principles that have guided your life would be of value to our youth?

  —

  Jacobito, Facundo says into his tape recorder, or rather Jacoboto, because Jacobito’s envergadura is such that the president of Ecuador, also known as Jacobito’s father, had to ship him, on the presidential jet, to an institute of ventripotence in Miami, an institute of trimming the guata so he can reguata, tome pin / haga pun, an institute that has not been photofeatured in our newspapers yet because our newspapers are running out of space to feature every single desmadre from these conchadesumadres, Jacobito, Facundo says into his tape recorder, but when the son of El Loco suffers, El Loco said, the nation suffers, just as the nation suffers when Jacobito doesn’t invite anyone to celebrate his first million, yes, I know you’ve heard that in less than four months Jacobito has accumulated one million from his post in customs, even though he doesn’t even have an official post in customs, and yes, you’ve read in every newspaper about Jacobito’s party to celebrate his first million, but no one has relayed the sad news that Jacobito didn’t invite anyone, this sad boy with so much extra weight because when he was seven years old León kicked him, El Loco said, Jacobito, my son, I have returned, Jacobito not inviting anyone because why should he share his caldo de bolas with anyone, his guata de cerdo, plus all his feculent friends were too busy grabbling inside the six containers filled with stereos that had been wheeled out of customs on Jacobito’s orders, oh, and he’s especially not sharing anything with the American ambassador, who on national television proclaimed that under El Loco the current levels of extortion exceed the solid customs of corruption in Ecuador, but apparently Jacobito doesn’t mind sharing his Argentinian prostitutes with our hircine forefather also known as his father, or at least that’s what the Argentinian newspapers said after El Loco and his scrofulous coterie visited Buenos Aires to smear themselves with the excremental economic miracles of Menen and Cavallo, no Macundo, Facundo thinks, you’re unspooling too much negativity, no one wants to ingest this summation of minuses, give your audience equivoques not hebetudes, perpend, Macundo, cachinnate, Fecundo, rewind and jumpstart, Jacobito, Facundo says into his tape recorder.

  —

  Professor Hurtado.

  Economista Bastidas.

  Has it been years?

  Missed you at the alumni barbeques.

  You guys still do those? Take a seat, Leo.

  Had imagined your office differently. No ferns, no watercolors, all business.

  My assistant insisted on these fripperies and I didn’t . . .

  Your assistant has a nice . . .

  She can hear us.

  She should hang your favorite quotes from Rubén Darío.

  The Veil of Queen Mab?

  Remember? During Berta’s class?

  Or Facundo singing Happy Birthday to Berta on Halloween.

  Berta crying and running out.

  Or that time at Kennedy Park when you and Facundo tried to lift me with a plank of wood that happened to have a rusted nail.

  Cauterized your wound with Patito.

  We continued singing.

  Those were the days.

  I’m fond of them
but . . . don’t miss them.

  To San Javier you enter but you do exit.

  Do you?

  The Drool’s in town did you hear?

  Called me yesterday, said he wanted to see me, say goodbye.

  He’s leaving already?

  Your husband didn’t inform you?

  We broke up years ago.

  How is he? Still hurling his calculator against the wall?

  That was after our math or physics final?

  Physics.

  Problem is the Drool has no physics finals anymore. Did he tell you why he came back?

  To see you?

  We were supposed to run for office with Julio but . . .

  Julio didn’t show?

  He’s in Miami opening a new nightclub with Cristian.

  Minister of finance.

  What?

  I used to imagine you as minister of finance.

  Used to?

  I haven’t see you in so long, Leo. I don’t want to get into it.

  You never spoke much about . . .

  You started spending so much with Antonio and Julio, reveling on what you could get away with. I still remember how proud you looked when you told us that you and Antonio had swindled the answers for Who Knows Knows. Rafael and I were dismayed. If my father would have found out he would have pulled me out of that contest.

  We won.

  I’m sorry, Leo. Who goes to the alumni barbeques by the way? Does Facundo still . . .

  You celebrated with us.

  I was never very good at saying no to either of you. I enjoyed being around you despite . . . I used to wish I could be as eloquent as you. Did you know that years ago Antonio came to see me in Paris? Or rather he didn’t come to see me but needed a place to stay. My wife didn’t like the idea of having a high school friend staying with us for a week. We were living in a small dorm room then, and after arguing with my wife about it I realized I didn’t care as much as I thought I did about whether he stayed with us or not. Too late to let him know so I waited for him to call me.

  You didn’t pick him up at the airport?

  He told you about this?

  Didn’t mention it, no.

  The information booth at the airport picked a hotel for him. He spent most of his time in Paris shopping for expensive sweaters and leather jackets. He’d purchased a long purple leather jacket with a fur collar at one of those irrational designer stores and he seemed so proud of it, as if at last he could show up anywhere. Dragged my wife and I to those ridiculous nightclubs roped at the front. Had to call his bank long distance so they would approve his purchase of that flashy leather jacket.

  –Coffee, Economista?

  And Danish cookies for Leopoldo too, yes, thank you.

  Sugar cubes on the side would be . . .

  –You just don’t do that to a friend, Giovanni.

  Marta, please.

  You should see this Antonio guy he’s so conceited, Marta.

  –Antonio’s the one who convinced you to join the apostolic group?

  What does that have to do with . . .

  He convinced me too and look at me now, Marta.

  –You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Talking about your friend like that. I’m not bringing you two anything.

  Well that was . . .

  Shut the door?

  Let’s try and whisper, okay?

  –I heard that!

  How does she know about the apostolic group?

  Too many tequilas one night and . . .

  Told her how good we used to be so you could . . .

  I heard Mazinger still goes to . . . can she still . . .

  I can’t even hear us. Whisper less.

  Ever think about Mapasingue?

  Come closer what?

  Ever think about the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín?

  I wish I could tell you that I don’t.

  Remember the old lady with the electric makeup?

  Sometimes I wish we could . . .

  Bright red blush on her cheeks and . . .

  Orange seashell beads around her neck?

  That’s the one. Always ready for a cumbia.

  She’s the one who pined after the Drool.

  Rosita Torres. Listen. When Antonio . . . can she hear us?

  I think she’s gone.

  When Antonio arrived in Paris he called me ten or fifteen times at least. I don’t know how long he waited for me at the airport but with each call I could sense his rising disbelief. I wouldn’t have believed it either. Pick up the phone, my wife said, and tell that individual he’s a thoughtless mooch for trying to impose himself on us for a whole week. I didn’t know how to explain to her that although I hadn’t talked to the Drool in years he was still . . . you know Antonio . . . he’s rash and . . . probably thought what you and I would have thought: my buddy from San Javier is in Paris so of course I’m staying with him. I didn’t pick up the phone and he gave up calling and I left our dorm room without . . . didn’t tell my wife. Wasn’t trying to punish her I . . . just didn’t know what to say to her. Outside our gray slab of dorm I thought about you and Mazinger and the Drool and Facundo singing about the blue unicorn.