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it?”
    â€œI saw the movie,” I said.
    â€œIt’s beautifully told with a refined German’s lean, elegant prose.”
    â€œAnd how would you know Gardenia is mouthwatering ?” Antelo inquired. “If you know, you’d think everyone would.”
    Don Antonio chuckled. “I might be a salt statue from the waist down, but my imagination is a cyclone.”
    â€œHave you ever written a book?” I asked.
    â€œA long time ago, I started a harrowing story about my confinement in the National Stadium in Santiago, Chile, where I was imprisoned by General Pinochet for six months. I never finished it. If only I had some peace and quiet and a typewriter.”
    â€œYou had one until just recently,” Antelo said.
    â€œI sold it at half-price. That’s one of my biggest faults. I sell everything that lands in my lap.”
    â€œHe can’t help himself,” Gardenia said.
    â€œI admit it’s nothing to be proud of,” Don Antonio lamented. “It boils down to laziness. I rely only on my talent.”
    â€œTalent is not enough. You need to work harder,” Antelo said.
    â€œToo late for me,” Don Antonio replied. “What I ought to write now is my epitaph.”
    I glanced at my watch: 3 in the afternoon. I jotted down the address of the travel agency and said goodbye to those characters.
    * The Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionario (Revolutionary Leftist Movement) was the ruling political party at the time of the original writing of this book in 1993. It has been one of Bolivia’s largest parties since the 1970s.

Chapter 4
    T he taxi dropped me off in front of the Cultural Center. Luckily, a mild breeze was cooling off the dry, sunny afternoon. A line of stores wound like an accordion around the base of the building. I walked hurriedly to the other side of that enormous structure and asked the bellboy for the Andean Tourism Agency.
    â€œEleventh floor, left-hand side,” the doorman indicated with an expression of such disgust that he seemed to be suffering from ulcers.
    The eleventh floor was jammed with law firms and notary offices, but I managed to find Andean Tourism at the end of one of the hallways. I was greeted by the unpleasant stare of a secretary who was wearing sunglasses and had her hair done up in an Afro. With a quick, haughty upturn of her nose, she showed me to an ugly plastic chair. Aside from the secretary, nearly everything in that tiny office was made of plastic. A mountain of tourist brochures, tickets, and pencils stood on top of the desk. The lady periodically glanced up at me, distracted. Her expressionless eyes seemed to be waiting for me to initiate conversation.
    â€œI’m here to apply for a tourist visa to the United States,” I said.
    â€œWho gave you our address?” she asked with affected disinterest.
    â€œA hairdresser friend of mine from Tarija who lives in Washington.”
    â€œWhat did she tell you?”
    â€œThat you know all the secrets to writing a strong application. She said you’re well connected in the U.S. consulate and she spoke highly of your professionalism and your attention to detail.”
    â€œDoes she still live in Washington?”
    â€œSure does. She’s raking it in with that hair salon business of hers.”
    â€œSo, you’d like to travel as a tourist?”
    â€œFor a few months at most. My son lives in Florida.”
    She stared me down for a few seconds without saying a word. “Now and then we give good friends of ours a hand with their visa applications. What’s your last name?”
    â€œAlvarez, from Oruro.”
    â€œDo you have a valid passport?”
    â€œYes, plus a round-trip ticket.”
    She stood up and tapped her knuckles against a door, the upper half of which was made of frosted glass framed in aluminum. When she opened it, I caught a glimpse of a fat man chatting on the phone. Seated in a swivel chair behind a desk, he