Mauro Cardenas - The Revolutionaries Try Again

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, eh? Eh? Ha ha. This round fellow here, his grandfather used to say as he petted his whale of a belly, is worth thousands. Everyone always laughed at that joke. And yet when Facundo tried it on his audience at La Ratonera no one did. Pretend you’re old and still living in a mud hut and they’ll roar over, Facundito, Grandpa Paul had explained. Facundo straightens his hands like a visor, eyeing the courtyard like an explorer overseeing the Americas. A limerick about Cortez is a passing thought as he spots an oyster stand, a tricycle of sorts, which also looks promising as relief from the heat. A catfish look alike is placing his oysters by his ear before slurping them, as if expecting to hear their last words. Don’t eat me, catfish! Kiss me, catfish! Mrkrgnao. Too many people are thronging the courtyard. Too many people are beached on the stairs. Some of them are grousing about the long wait, others about the jump in the price of lentils, others about weevils in the rice imported from Thailand by a minister who fled the day before his prison order was issued, about the probabilistic that El Loco might return to squash those corrupt oligarchs conchadesumadres in the upcoming presidential elections. Shush it, Fabio, León might hear you and pop your eye. You think weevils are crunchy, compadre? To traverse the crowded courtyard for some juice of dubious sapidity, not to mention its dubious coldness, for even if the juice vendor had the strength to carry the weight of the buckets plus juice plus ice blocks, he probably loaded the ice early in the morning so it must be all melted by now, yuck, well, hold on, why do I have to traverse anything? Hey juice man. Psst. Over here. At a miraculous speed the skeletal juice man approaches him.

How much for your punch?

Twenty five, patroncito.

Getting sly on me?

Fifteen and fresh from the fruit, patroncito.

Say again?

Ten and to the brim, patroncito.

Facundo pulls a photocopy of an official looking letter with the municipal seal, waving it like an eviction notice in front of the lanky juice man, whose roasted body reeks of shrimp, and whose veiny arms are overtensed by the buckets’ weight.

I’m with the municipality. This juice’s probably a health hazard. Let me see your permit.

The defeated look of the juice man seems like an obvious exaggeration, no? As if he’s not used to it? Right. What an actor. The juice man squats to set the buckets down but right before they touch the cement he changes his mind and lets them drop. Flatly they land on the step. The skinned bean jars clink against each other. Splashes of red juice land on his rubber sandals. He submerges his hand into the water bucket, the one where he rinses the jars, retrieves one, and then inserts it inside the other bucket, the one with the juice and the ice.

Free for you, patron.

Ah. Much better. Nice and cold.

A limerick about gluttony is a passing thought as he swills the juice. The juice man is eyeing the smoke clouds nearby. Hoping for what? The smog of retribution? The avenging thunderbolt? Facundo tries to appease the juice man, sticking his teeth out, bunnylike, diligently wiping his curd from the rim of the jar. Nothing. No funnybone on this one. Facundo hands him back the empty jar. At a miraculous speed the juice man vanishes inside the crowd.

More arrivals stream to the front, by the stairs, mostly because there’s no line but eventually there’ll be a line and then they’ll be first, not knowing there’s probably a long wait ahead, not caring about crowding the courtyard further, hey, stop pushing, quit shoving. A green balloon escapes from someone’s grip but doesn’t drift up. Facundo swats the limp balloon, which tries to float, like an eyeball above them, toward a magician who’s selling lottery tickets and stuffed pets. The magician releases the balloon as if it were a dove on a mission, find the fig little one, fly. The balloon lollops by the magician’s feet, landing by three businessmen in blue suits. One of them scoops the balloon from the floor, careful not to scratch his cufflinks, holding it from its knot and fretting it against his fist. The other two businessmen are comparing his municipal letter with theirs. The businessmen inspect their surroundings, confirming their suspicions that everyone but the street vendors, those cholos and lowlifes, are also carrying a municipal letter, some of them carrying the original document, others probably carrying a counterfeit of the original document, which states that all municipal employees hired by El Loco will be reinstated to the payroll, your one time appearance is required at the municipal palace. Something’s fishy, one of the businessmen says. I don’t think El Loco loaded this many riffraffs into payroll. I couldn’t get ahold of El Loco today either. The other two businessmen agree. Something is fishy. Shield your wallets, gentlemen, and let’s get the hell out of here. The magician tells someone who tells someone who tells someone what they overheard those businesspeople say, and as the something’s fishy rumor spreads some are saying I don’t care if El Loco’s Loco or Sapo, at least he cared enough to write us a check, which I desperately need to buy textbooks, someone says, to buy powdered milk, someone else says, to pay the water truck, someone else says, to rent a washing machine, someone else says, and I’ve traveled far, someone says, I’ve traveled far. No one flees. Everyone remains in place. The oyster man turns the dial of his portable radio, skipping from song snippet to static to the interim president has just announced a new package of tightening measures, to Wilfrido Vargas and his papi no seas así / no te pongas guapo / ese baile les gusta a todos los muchachos. The balloon wanders back to Facundo. This time he picks it up. As he reaches the oyster stand, he digs his nails on the balloon and. .