S.P.

To be sure I look good, I take a quick glance at myself from the soles of my shoes all the way up to the buttons of my suit. Curiously, I am not nervous though I am aware of the importance of this meeting. After passing through the safety device I walk with more ease through the extensive corridors, where symmetry is the rule. She walks before me, a tremendous blonde, who every now and then looks at me. I smile at her and then concentrate on the grace of her high and sharp heels, which at every step deliciously tremble, producing an echo that fills the cold and high galleries. After walking for 22 minutes, we stop in front of a door that has embedded in it a fluorescent sign that reveals the word “Snacks”. The Blonde enters a combination code on the keyboard under the lock at which the door opens; she kindly yields me the way. Once behind me, the violent bang of the door forces me react like a frightened animal to turn and face her. An evident laughter invades her at which she, trying not to be so obvious, veils her lips with her right hand while offering me with the other a fistful of coins. If this blonde were not as beautiful, I would have flung the dammed coins back at her. But instead, I smile with a docile and disjointed gesture caused by the scare that still agitates my pulse. The place we find ourselves in now has all the opposite characteristics of the place just behind the loud door. In this room the only extant light is the one emanating from the vending machines placed in files on each side of the narrow hallway.

—Are you hungry?— the blonde asks me.

—Un poco— I answer.

—Tamales are the best… would you like to try it?

—Si.

—Put a couple quarters in this machine.

Immediately after I slide two coins through the slot, from the bottom of the machine there appears a woman with an apron sitting behind an enormous pot. In it a greenish liquid boils, fogging the glass of the showcase. With rapid dexterity she pulls out a tamale from the pot, unwraps and disposes of its leaves and serves it on a plate. A strap hauls the tamale up to a side door in which I place my hand. The lady draws a pair of circles on the glass, and in that very instant I recognize in her face that of my mother’s.

—If you want some fresh coffee better hurry up, we do not have enough time left. Do you need more quarters? —asks the blonde.

—No gracias. Disculpe, tengo algo que decirle.

—What?

—La señora en esa máquina es mi mamá.

—She’s making good money, so don’t worry. We need to run now; it is almost time for your appointment.

The blonde, who now carefully sips on her coffee, leads the way, while I, with the smoldering tamale on my plate, follow her. The different scents that pour out through the machines rebuild a past of which I am no longer sure of belonging. Before reaching the door at the other end of the hall, I am able to try the tamale. The tamale spreads in my mouth a repugnant taste that impels me to spit. The blonde ahead of me is not aware of my disgust, of which I silently take advantage of by abandoning the food on the floor. She opens the door and I show her my empty plate to which she smiles and signals the trash can. Instead, I fold my plate in three parts and place it in my pocket. On the other hand, the blonde crumples her paper cup, out of which small drops of coffee trickle, and with precision throws the cup over my head right into the trash can. We enter the new room in which a gigantic gray flag waves vigorously, as if it had a life of its own, for there are no windows here through which the wind could crawl. From the ceiling there hangs an infinite amount of bright lamps, which due to my curiosity, fail to drive my sight away, on the lamp’s ramifications there is something that resembles a swarm of ants that frantically come and go. The blonde is now wearing shades, which makes her even sexier. She takes me by the arm and begins to walk. The height of this ceiling is of incalculable dimensions and what seemed to be ants was nothing more than the bustle of busy men in charge of some sort of work or project. I lower my sight in order to rest my eyes from the beaming light that dramatically invades the place. With my eyes closed, I am lead by the blonde.

—¿Me podría dar unos anteojos? —I ask the blonde

—Only for employees, sorry.

Once my pupils became accustomed to the light I managed to uncover the mystery. Those men up in such heights work to replace the bulbs of the enormous lamps, which burn out every minute. I calculate about fifty men to every lamp, who like monkeys jump from one side to the other, and who from this distance give the impression of a flea circus. We continue on our walk when with a single blow my head is covered with a hood, leaving me completely blind.

—Don’t worry, its just part of the requirements—says the blonde as she carefully sits me on a chair.

Around me, I hear the movement of seats, tables, glass, and even someone probing a microphone. People come and go; they speak among themselves, whisper. They pull off the hood. Before me and in a file, seven men with shades and dressed in black, pale skin and identical features, salute me simultaneously.

—Hello Mr. Chavez, what a pleasure to have you this evening—the salute as well as their movements are a perfectly synchronized choir, each gesture repeats itself in the seven men as if reflections of the same image.

—Hola señor presidente, gracias por su tiempo—I answer.

—Let’s go straight to the point. Would you like to become a “S.P.” —says one of the seven men, while the other six limit their participation to a simple smile.

—Un S.P., ¿que es eso?

—A serious person, it’s that correct?

—Correcto.

—Well, how many cylinders does your car have?

—Cuatro.

—Not too many, young man. Do you have A.C. on your car?

—¿Perdón?

—Air conditioner?

—Ah, no tampoco.

—The last question and maybe the most important one, do you have credit?

—No señor.

—Mr. Chávez, I am afraid that you are not eligible.

—Pero, cuál es el problema?

—In order to become an S.P. you at least need to have credit, it is an offence to live in this country without it.

All of a sudden, in unison and with menacing gestures the seven men rise from their seats extracting from their suit-pockets different objects, tomatoes, oranges, mangos, and bananas. I am afraid, I stand up. The fruits all crash against me, and once on the floor, I notice how the fruits bounce as if made of rubber. I run through galleries and rooms. There is a tumult of people that seem to increase with every step I take. The rubber fruit continue raining on me while all the while it seemed ridiculous the manner in which my enemies insist on battering me without being able to cause me any pain; I am more anguished by their rabid faces and their hateful shrieks than the bouncing rubber fruit. I finally manage to run out of the building and continue running without a stop. Around the corner I am once again in my own neighborhood; I recognize the dead end streets and the houses protected by barbed wire. A red gate made out of cans, strangely devoid of its sharp protection, appears to my left; desperately I climb it without any difficulty. When I fall over the other side I try to recover my breath as I sit on the pavement. To my right I see the façade of a house that extends itself towards the back, and an open door that stands between two rocking chairs. I run in through the open door without even thinking about it. In the living room there are two women with long braids, bordered blouses, and skirts of satin; they speak with three men dressed in white and long-winged hats, all of them sun-burnt. I seek refuge under a table and begin to cry inconsolably. The older of the two women comes close to me and offers a glass of milk.

—With this you will feel a lot better; you can stay until all is safe.

—And what if they take us all in because of him?—says a fourth man that enters the house, his strong features contrasts with the compassionate gestures of the others.

—He is a fugitive and we do not know why they are after him. I am right when I tell you that one has to be content with the cards you are dealt, that when they give away what was loaned to you, it is and always will be loaned, that favors are never repaid and are simply used to enslave.

I have received several letters from my family charged with hope, they work hard to add a few cylinders and an a/c to my car; but concerning my credit, I do not know, they say nothing. I have forgotten how long it has been since I learned how to live under this table and quench my thirst with the milk of this woman.

Traducción a cargo de Oscar.