Th ey put him on a sofa and sent for a doctor and
the Treasurer’s secretary. Th e presence of the
latter was superfluous, because the black man, Cigarro (as well as being a
driver and a betting agent, he was also a purveyor of smuggled tobacco; hence
the nickname), took control of the situation. Before Dídimo, the secretary,
arrived, he explained his suspicions to Varamo: the attack had been perpetrated
by anarchists, pretending to participate in a regularity rally that was under
way, an event of national significance. Since Varamo wasn’t familiar with
rallies of this kind, Cigarro explained.
In so-called “regularity rallies,” the aim is to maintain
a predetermined speed, and the winner is not the first to arrive, but whoever
deviates the least from that speed between the start and the finish. But how
could they tell who was sticking to the speed and who wasn’t? Well, said
Cigarro, it was pretty complicated but perfectly feasible, although it did
require meticulous planning and many calculations. If the total length of the
course was two hundred miles, and the set speed was fifty miles an hour, and a
car left at exactly five o’clock (the competitors didn’t start all at once, but
one every fifteen minutes), it would pass the midpoint (the hundred-mile point)
at exactly seven; a timekeeper stationed there, with a list and a watch, would
record its passing. At many other points along the route there were other
timekeepers noting down the times at which each car went by in exactly the same
way. When the rally was over, all the lists were gathered up, there was a
general reckoning, the average punctuality of each competitor was calculated in
minutes and seconds, and the winner was whoever turned out to have been the most
punctual. But wasn’t that too simple? wondered Varamo. If the driver had a list
of the checkpoints and the times, couldn’t he just pass each point at the time
he was supposed to, without worrying at all about traveling at a constant speed?
For example, after passing one point he could drive at top speed till he was
near the next one, then stop and wait until it was time to go past. Cigarro
laughed, pleased to be asked this question, and proceeded to enlighten Varamo:
apart from two or three indicative checkpoints, whose locations were indulgently
revealed to the public, all the rest were kept secret. Only the organizing
committee knew where they were. Varamo nodded. But it seemed like a very boring
event, a test of patience and nerves, without any kind of emotion. Cigarro,
Dídimo and the doctor, who had arrived in the meantime and joined the
conversation, agreed, although the doctor added a qualification: one kind of
emotion was replaced by another, and the competitive spirit lived on. He
concluded, philosophically, that “it took all sorts.”
At this point, Cigarro, who was well informed, had
something to contribute. But first he inquired about his boss’s condition.
“Uncertain,” pronounced the doctor succinctly, and they resumed their
conversation. Th e rallies, said Cigarro, were
fundamentally technical competitions, an opportunity for the fledgling
automobile industry to test its innovations, and they appealed mainly to car
fanatics rather than to the general public, which made them somewhat esoteric. Th e rally under way was a special case,
because it had been promoted by the Central Administration as part of the
festivities for the inauguration of the linked highways running right across the
isthmus, connecting the cities of Colón and Panama. In fact (and here he lowered
his voice, as if revealing a state secret) the rally had been planned, mainly,
as a trap for anarchists. To them, a regularity rally was a provocation; its
strict regulation of time and space was bound to prove repugnant to the
libertarian spirit. Th e way things were going,
with conspiracies about to erupt across the country, the event would act as an
irresistible lure. In fact, competing in a regularity rally
the Treasurer’s secretary. Th e presence of the
latter was superfluous, because the black man, Cigarro (as well as being a
driver and a betting agent, he was also a purveyor of smuggled tobacco; hence
the nickname), took control of the situation. Before Dídimo, the secretary,
arrived, he explained his suspicions to Varamo: the attack had been perpetrated
by anarchists, pretending to participate in a regularity rally that was under
way, an event of national significance. Since Varamo wasn’t familiar with
rallies of this kind, Cigarro explained.
In so-called “regularity rallies,” the aim is to maintain
a predetermined speed, and the winner is not the first to arrive, but whoever
deviates the least from that speed between the start and the finish. But how
could they tell who was sticking to the speed and who wasn’t? Well, said
Cigarro, it was pretty complicated but perfectly feasible, although it did
require meticulous planning and many calculations. If the total length of the
course was two hundred miles, and the set speed was fifty miles an hour, and a
car left at exactly five o’clock (the competitors didn’t start all at once, but
one every fifteen minutes), it would pass the midpoint (the hundred-mile point)
at exactly seven; a timekeeper stationed there, with a list and a watch, would
record its passing. At many other points along the route there were other
timekeepers noting down the times at which each car went by in exactly the same
way. When the rally was over, all the lists were gathered up, there was a
general reckoning, the average punctuality of each competitor was calculated in
minutes and seconds, and the winner was whoever turned out to have been the most
punctual. But wasn’t that too simple? wondered Varamo. If the driver had a list
of the checkpoints and the times, couldn’t he just pass each point at the time
he was supposed to, without worrying at all about traveling at a constant speed?
For example, after passing one point he could drive at top speed till he was
near the next one, then stop and wait until it was time to go past. Cigarro
laughed, pleased to be asked this question, and proceeded to enlighten Varamo:
apart from two or three indicative checkpoints, whose locations were indulgently
revealed to the public, all the rest were kept secret. Only the organizing
committee knew where they were. Varamo nodded. But it seemed like a very boring
event, a test of patience and nerves, without any kind of emotion. Cigarro,
Dídimo and the doctor, who had arrived in the meantime and joined the
conversation, agreed, although the doctor added a qualification: one kind of
emotion was replaced by another, and the competitive spirit lived on. He
concluded, philosophically, that “it took all sorts.”
At this point, Cigarro, who was well informed, had
something to contribute. But first he inquired about his boss’s condition.
“Uncertain,” pronounced the doctor succinctly, and they resumed their
conversation. Th e rallies, said Cigarro, were
fundamentally technical competitions, an opportunity for the fledgling
automobile industry to test its innovations, and they appealed mainly to car
fanatics rather than to the general public, which made them somewhat esoteric. Th e rally under way was a special case,
because it had been promoted by the Central Administration as part of the
festivities for the inauguration of the linked highways running right across the
isthmus, connecting the cities of Colón and Panama. In fact (and here he lowered
his voice, as if revealing a state secret) the rally had been planned, mainly,
as a trap for anarchists. To them, a regularity rally was a provocation; its
strict regulation of time and space was bound to prove repugnant to the
libertarian spirit. Th e way things were going,
with conspiracies about to erupt across the country, the event would act as an
irresistible lure. In fact, competing in a regularity rally
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