it?â
âI saw the movie,â I said.
âItâs beautifully told with a refined Germanâs lean, elegant prose.â
âAnd how would you know Gardenia is mouthwatering ?â Antelo inquired. âIf you know, youâd think everyone would.â
Don Antonio chuckled. âI might be a salt statue from the waist down, but my imagination is a cyclone.â
âHave you ever written a book?â I asked.
âA 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
âYou had one until just recently,â Antelo said.
âI sold it at half-price. Thatâs one of my biggest faults. I sell everything that lands in my lap.â
âHe canât help himself,â Gardenia said.
âI admit itâs nothing to be proud of,â Don Antonio lamented. âIt boils down to laziness. I rely only on my talent.â
âTalent is not enough. You need to work harder,â Antelo said.
âToo late for me,â Don Antonio replied. âWhat I ought to write now is my epitaph.â
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 Boliviaâs 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.
âEleventh floor, left-hand side,â 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.
âIâm here to apply for a tourist visa to the United States,â I said.
âWho gave you our address?â she asked with affected disinterest.
âA hairdresser friend of mine from Tarija who lives in Washington.â
âWhat did she tell you?â
âThat you know all the secrets to writing a strong application. She said youâre well connected in the U.S. consulate and she spoke highly of your professionalism and your attention to detail.â
âDoes she still live in Washington?â
âSure does. Sheâs raking it in with that hair salon business of hers.â
âSo, youâd like to travel as a tourist?â
âFor a few months at most. My son lives in Florida.â
She stared me down for a few seconds without saying a word. âNow and then we give good friends of ours a hand with their visa applications. Whatâs your last name?â
âAlvarez, from Oruro.â
âDo you have a valid passport?â
âYes, plus a round-trip ticket.â
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
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