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It was past six when Amalfitano fell into bed without
undressing and slept like a baby.
Rosa
woke
him at nine. It had been a long time since Amalfitano felt so good, although
his classes that morning were entirely incomprehensible. At one o'clock he ate
at the cafeteria and sat at one of the farthest, most out-of-the-way tables. He
didn't want to see Professor Perez, and he didn't want to run into any other
colleagues either, least of all the dean, who made a habit of eating there
every day, surrounded by professors and a few students who ceaselessly fawned
over him. He ordered at the counter, almost stealthily, boiled chicken and
salad, and he hurried to his table, dodging the students who crowded the
cafeteria at that time of day. Then he sat down to eat and think some more
about what had happened the previous night. He realized with astonishment that
he was excited by what he had experienced. I feel like a nightingale, he thought
happily. It was a simple and antiquated and ridiculous sentiment, but it was
the only thing that fully expressed his current state of mind. He tried to
relax. The students' laughter, their shouts to each other, the clatter of
plates, made it a less than ideal spot for reflection. And yet after a few
seconds he realized there could be no better place. Equally good, yes, but not
better. So he took a long drink of bottled water (it didn't taste the same as
the tap water, but it didn't taste very different either) and he began to
think. First he thought about madness.

About the possibility—great—that he was losing his mind. It
came as a surprise to him to realize that the thought (and the possibility) in
no way diminished his excitement. Or his happiness. My excitement and my I
happiness are growing under the wing of a storm, he said to himself. I may be
going crazy, but I feel good, he said to himself. He contemplated the
possibility—great—that if he really was going crazy it would gets worse, and
then his excitement would turn into pain and helplessness and, especially, a
source of pain and helplessness for his daughter. As if he had X-ray eyes he
reviewed his savings and calculated that with what he had saved, Rosa could go
back to
Barcelona
and still have money to start with. To start what? That was a question he
preferred not to answer. He imagined himself locked up in an asylum in Santa
Teresa or Hermosillo with Professor Perez as his only occasional visitor, and
every so often receiving letters from Rosa in Barcelona, where she would be
working or finishing her studies, and where she would meet a Catalan boy,
responsible and affectionate, who would fall in love with her and respect her
and take care of her and be nice to her and with whom Rosa would end up living
and going to the movies at night and traveling to Italy or Greece in July or
August, and the scenario didn't seem so bad. Then he considered other
possibilities. Of course, he said to himself, he didn't believe in ghosts or
spirits, although during his childhood in the south of Chile people talked
about the
mechona
who waited for riders on a tree branch, dropping onto
horses' haunches, clinging to the back of the cowboy or smuggler without
letting go, like a lover whose embrace maddened the horse as well as the rider,
both of them dying of fright or ending up at the bottom of a ravine, or the
colocolo,
or the
chonchones,
or the
candelillas,
or so many other
little creatures, lost souls, incubi and succubi, lesser demons that roamed
between the Cordillera de la Costa and the Andes, but in which he didn't
believe, not exactly because of his training in philosophy (Schopenhauer, after
all, believed in ghosts, and it was surely a ghost that appeared to Nietzsche
and drove him mad) but because of his materialist leanings. So he rejected the
possibility of ghosts, at least until he had exhausted other lines of inquiry.
The voice could be a ghost, he wouldn't rule it out, but he tried to come up
with a different explanation. After much reflection, though, the only thing
that made sense was the theory of the lost soul. He thought about the seer of
Hermosillo
, Madame
Cristina, La Santa. He thought about his father. He decided that his father
would never use the Mexican words the voice had used, no matter what kind of
roving spirit he had become, whereas the slight tinge of homophobia suited him
perfectly. With a happiness hard to disguise, he asked himself what kind of
mess he had gotten himself into. That afternoon he taught another few classes
and then he went walking home. As he passed the central
plaza
of
Santa Teresa
he saw a group of women protesting in front of the town hall. On one of the
posters he read: No to impunity. On another: End the corruption. A group of
policemen were watching the women from under the adobe arches of the colonial
building. They weren't riot police but plain Santa Teresa uniformed policemen.
As he walked past he heard someone call his name. When he turned he saw
Professor Perez and his daughter on the sidewalk across the street. He offered
to buy them a soda. At the coffee shop they explained that the protest was to
demand transparency in the investigation of the disappearances and killings of
women. Professor Perez said she had three feminists from
Mexico City
staying at her house, and that
night she planned to have a dinner for them. I'd like you to come, she said.
Rosa
said yes. Amalfitano expressed no objection. Then
his daughter and Professor Perez returned to the protest and Amalfitano
continued on his way.

But before he got home someone called his name again.
Professor Amalfitano, he heard someone saying. He turned around and didn't see
anyone. He wasn't in the center of the city anymore. He was walking along
Avenida Madero, and the four-story buildings had given way to ranch houses,
imitations of a kind of California house from the fifties, houses that had
begun to suffer the ravages of time long ago, when their occupants moved to the
neighborhood where Amalfitano now lived. Some houses had been converted into
garages that also sold ice cream and others had become businesses dealing in
bread or clothes, without any modifications whatsoever. Many of them displayed
signs advertising doctors, lawyers specializing in divorce or criminal law.
Others offered rooms by the day. Some had been divided without much skill into
two or three separate shops, where newspapers and magazines or fruit and
vegetables were sold, or passersby were promised a good deal on dentures. As
Amalfitano was about to keep walking, someone called his name again. Then he
saw who it was. The voice was coming from a car parked at the curb. At first he
didn't recognize the young man who was calling him. He thought it was a
student. Whoever it was had on sunglasses and a black shirt unbuttoned over his
chest. He was very tan, like a singer or a Puerto Rican playboy. Get in,
Professor, I'll give you a ride home. Amalfitano was about to tell him he'd
rather walk when the young man identified himself. I'm Dean Guerra's son, he
said as he got out of the car on the side of the street where the traffic
thundered by, not looking either way, ignoring the danger in a way that struck
Amalfitano as extremely bold. Walking around the car, he came up to Amalfitano
and offered his hand. I'm Marco Antonio Guerra, he said, and he reminded him of
their champagne toast at his father's office, Amalfitano's welcome to the
department. You have nothing to fear from me, Professor, he said, and
Amalfitano couldn't help but be surprised by the remark. The young Guerra
stopped in front of him. He was smiling just as he had been the first time they
met. A confident, mocking smile, like the smile of a cocksure sniper. He wore
jeans and cowboy boots. Inside the car, on the backseat, lay a pearl-gray
designer jacket and a folder full of papers. I was just driving by, said Marco
Antonio Guerra. They headed toward Colonia Lindavista, but before they got
there the dean's son suggested they get a drink. Amalfitano politely declined
the invitation. Then let's go to your place and have a drink, said Marco
Antonio Guerra. I don't have anything to offer, apologized Amalfitano. Then
that's settled, said Marco Antonio Guerra, and he took the first turn. Soon
there was a change in the urban scenery. West of Colonia Lindavista the houses
were new, surrounded in some places by wide-open fields, and some streets
weren't even paved. People say these neighborhoods are the city's future, said
Marco Antonio Guerra, but in my opinion this shithole has no future. He drove
straight onto a soccer field, across which were a pair of enormous sheds or
warehouses surrounded by barbed wire. Beyond them ran a canal or creek carrying
the neighborhood trash away to the north. Near another open field they saw the
old railroad line that had once connected Santa Teresa to Ures and
Hermosillo
. A few dogs
approached timidly. Marco Antonio rolled down the window and let them sniff his
hand and lick it. To the left was the highway to Ures. They began to head out
of Santa Teresa. Amalfitano asked where they were going. Guerra's son answered
that they were on their way to one of the few places around where you could
still drink real Mexican mezcal.

The
place was called Los Zancudos and it was a rectangle three hundred feet long by
one hundred feet wide, with a small stage at the end where
corrida
or
ranchera
groups performed on Fridays and Saturdays. The bar was at least one hundred
and fifty feet long. The toilets were outside, and they could be entered
directly from the outdoor patio or by way of a narrow passageway of galvanized
tin connecting them to the restaurant. There weren't many people there. They
were greeted by the waiters, whom Marco Antonio Guerra called by name, but no
one came to wait on them. Only a few lights were on. I recommend the Los
Suicidas, said Marco Antonio. Amalfitano smiled pleasantly and said yes, but
just a small one. Marco Antonio raised his arm and snapped his fingers. The
bastards must be deaf, he said. He got up and went to the bar. Some time passed
before he came back with two glasses and a half-filled bottle of mezcal. Try
it, he said. Amalfitano took a sip and thought it tasted good. There should be
a worm at the bottom of the bottle, said Marco Antonio, but those scum probably
ate it. It sounded like a joke and Amalfitano laughed. But I guarantee it's genuine
Los Suicidas, drink up and enjoy, said Marco Antonio. At the second sip
Amalfitano thought it really was an extraordinary drink. They don't make it
anymore, said Marco Antonio, like so much in this fucking country. And after a
while, fixing his gaze on Amalfitano, he said: we're going to hell, I suppose
you've realized, Professor? Amalfitano answered that the situation certainly
wasn't anything to applaud, without specifying what he meant or going into
detail. It's all falling apart in our hands, said Marco Antonio Guerra. The
politicians don't know how to govern. All the middle class wants is to move to
the
United States
.
And more and more people keep coming to work in the maquiladoras. You know what
I would do? No, said Amalfitano. Burn a few of them down, you know? A few what?
asked Amalfitano. A few maquiladoras. Interesting, said Amalfitano. I'd also
send the army out into the streets, well, not the streets, the highways, to
keep more scum from coming here. Highway checkpoints? asked Amalfitano. That's
right. I can't see any other solution. There must be other solutions, said
Amalfitano. People have lost all respect, said Marco Antonio Guerra. Respect
for others and self-respect. Amalfitano glanced toward the bar. Three waiters
were whispering, casting sidelong glances at their table. I think we should
leave, said Amalfitano. Marco Antonio Guerra noticed the waiters and made an
obscene gesture, then he laughed. Amalfitano took him by the arm and dragged
him out into the parking lot. By now it was night and a huge glowing sign
featuring a long-legged mosquito shone brightly on a metal scaffolding. I think
these people have some problem with you, said Amalfitano. Don't worry,
Professor, said Marco Antonio Guerra, I'm armed.

When he got home, Amalfitano immediately forgot about Marco
Antonio Guerra and decided that maybe he wasn't as crazy as he'd thought he
was, and that the voice he'd been hearing wasn't a bereaved soul. He thought
about telepathy. He thought about the telepathic Mapuches or Araucanians. He
remembered a very short book, scarcely one hundred pages long, by a certain
Lonko Kilapan, published in Santiago de Chile in 1978, that an old friend, a
wiseass of long standing, had sent him while he was living in Europe. This
Kilapan presented himself with the following credentials: Historian of the
Race, President of the Indigenous Confederation of Chile, and Secretary of the
Academy of the Araucanian Language. The book was called
O'Higgins Is
Araucanian,
and it was subtitled
17 Proofs, Taken from the Secret
History of Araucania.
Between the title and the subtitle was the following
phrase: Text approved by the Araucanian History Council. Then came the
prologue, which read like this:
"Prologue.
If proof were desired
that any of the heroes of
Chile
's
Independence
shared kinship with the Araucanians, it would be difficult to find and harder
to verify. Only Iberian blood flowed in the veins of the Carrera brothers,
Mackenna, Freire, Manuel Rodriguez. But the dazzling light of Araucanian
parentage shines bright in Bernardo O'Higgins, and to prove it we present these
17 proofs. Bernardo is not the illegitimate son described by historians, some
with pity, others unable to hide their satisfaction. He is the dashing
legitimate son of Irishman Ambrosio O'Higgins, Governor of Chile and Viceroy of
Peru, and of an Araucanian woman who belonged to one of the principal tribes of
Araucania. The marriage was celebrated according to Admapu law, with the
traditional Gapitun (abduction ceremony). The biography of the Liberator
exposes the millenarian Araucanian secret on the very bicentenary of his birth;
it springs from the Litrang* to paper, as faithfully as only an Epeutufe can
render it." And that was the end of the prologue, by Jose R. Pichinual,
Cacique of Puerto Saavedra.