¡Mundo de bistec! ¡Barbacoa loco! ) and American sitcoms ( Hogan’s Heroes , Green Acres , Happy Days ). And of course, the War of the Triple Fucking Alliance.
The Presidente-in-Exile sighs, flips off the TV. He cocks his head, listens. He drops the bloody hankie on a kitchen counter. He opens the refrigerator, finds a pair of baked chickens, and tugs at a drumstick until it comes off. He pads to the sliding glass door, unlocks and opens it, crosses to the iron fence a few yards away. He rat-a-tats the chicken leg between two pales, and waits. He knows the dogs are trained not to take food. They never come. But tonight he hears them, panting and tumbling down the hill, crashing through undergrowth, then moving past him along the fence perimeter toward the back of the house. Could they be hunting? He has heard that the dogs once killed and ate a man. Gallardo—talking to the gardeners or chatting up Stroessner’s monkeys—has relayed such stories to him. A drug lord tossed an informant to them for vengeance and sport. A Mossad agent prowling for Nazis got trapped in the cañón . Some street kid climbed over the fence on a dare. The stories are varied; they always change, and they all intrigue the Presidente-in-Exile.
He follows the dogs along the gravel walkway that runs the length of the house for thirty yards, toward the back. Where the cook lives. He comes around the corner into a tiny patio area no more than fifteen feet square. A pool of light from Cook’s open apartment door illuminates the soles of her feet, the backs of her calves. She is on her knees, up against the cañón fence. Her back is to him, and her hands are moving in the gaps between the iron pales.
The Presidente-in-Exile is peeved. She is feeding the dogs. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he says to her. He can see their tongues, pink and sudden at her hands in the dark. “Hey!” he says. “What the fuck are you doing?” She turns, and her level gaze confuses him. He looks at the chicken leg in his hand, points it at her. “You stop that now .” But she doesn’t. She seems unfazed, perhaps even bored. There was a time when he could have done anything to her and gotten away with it. There was a time when women were afraid of him. But he sees nothing in this india ’s face. It is the face of a woman who wouldn’t care what you did to her. She turns away, back to the dogs.
And as swiftly as it came, his anger is gone, dropping away like a stone off a precipice. He sighs, picks his way back down the gravel path toward the kitchen. He gnaws absently at his drumstick. His eye stings and he wipes at it. Blood. The cut has opened up again. Something in his stomach shifts and plops, and he grimaces. He’ll need a bromo before bed, and the thought of this leaves him somehow disconsolate and vaguely depressed, and only adds to the chain of disappointments in this life of exile.
* * *
The Assassin of the Presidente-in-Exile gets the word. Osvaldo, calling from the magazine kiosk on Avenida España, repeats the go code into the phone: “Blanco, blanco, blanco.” The Assassin of the Presidente-in-Exile loads a rocket into the launcher and sets a percussion cap. He hoists the launcher onto his shoulder and rests the barrel on the lip of the sill. Through the open window he trains the sight on a statue in a sliver of park across the street. He focuses on it—Francisco Solano López, killed at the glorious battle of Cerro Corá in 1870. He can hear Analisa warming up the Chevy pickup in the driveway outside. The engine rumbles precariously. They’ve had trouble with the throttle, and she revs it up. He can see Josias at the curb watching for the Mercedes, his M16 shielded by a topcoat draped over his wrist. He sees Lourdes across the street, minding a baby stroller filled with Browning 9mm pistols and an Ingram MAC-10. He sees Josias wave, hears the truck ease down the length of the driveway, piston-slap rattle receding. Through
The Presidente-in-Exile sighs, flips off the TV. He cocks his head, listens. He drops the bloody hankie on a kitchen counter. He opens the refrigerator, finds a pair of baked chickens, and tugs at a drumstick until it comes off. He pads to the sliding glass door, unlocks and opens it, crosses to the iron fence a few yards away. He rat-a-tats the chicken leg between two pales, and waits. He knows the dogs are trained not to take food. They never come. But tonight he hears them, panting and tumbling down the hill, crashing through undergrowth, then moving past him along the fence perimeter toward the back of the house. Could they be hunting? He has heard that the dogs once killed and ate a man. Gallardo—talking to the gardeners or chatting up Stroessner’s monkeys—has relayed such stories to him. A drug lord tossed an informant to them for vengeance and sport. A Mossad agent prowling for Nazis got trapped in the cañón . Some street kid climbed over the fence on a dare. The stories are varied; they always change, and they all intrigue the Presidente-in-Exile.
He follows the dogs along the gravel walkway that runs the length of the house for thirty yards, toward the back. Where the cook lives. He comes around the corner into a tiny patio area no more than fifteen feet square. A pool of light from Cook’s open apartment door illuminates the soles of her feet, the backs of her calves. She is on her knees, up against the cañón fence. Her back is to him, and her hands are moving in the gaps between the iron pales.
The Presidente-in-Exile is peeved. She is feeding the dogs. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he says to her. He can see their tongues, pink and sudden at her hands in the dark. “Hey!” he says. “What the fuck are you doing?” She turns, and her level gaze confuses him. He looks at the chicken leg in his hand, points it at her. “You stop that now .” But she doesn’t. She seems unfazed, perhaps even bored. There was a time when he could have done anything to her and gotten away with it. There was a time when women were afraid of him. But he sees nothing in this india ’s face. It is the face of a woman who wouldn’t care what you did to her. She turns away, back to the dogs.
And as swiftly as it came, his anger is gone, dropping away like a stone off a precipice. He sighs, picks his way back down the gravel path toward the kitchen. He gnaws absently at his drumstick. His eye stings and he wipes at it. Blood. The cut has opened up again. Something in his stomach shifts and plops, and he grimaces. He’ll need a bromo before bed, and the thought of this leaves him somehow disconsolate and vaguely depressed, and only adds to the chain of disappointments in this life of exile.
* * *
The Assassin of the Presidente-in-Exile gets the word. Osvaldo, calling from the magazine kiosk on Avenida España, repeats the go code into the phone: “Blanco, blanco, blanco.” The Assassin of the Presidente-in-Exile loads a rocket into the launcher and sets a percussion cap. He hoists the launcher onto his shoulder and rests the barrel on the lip of the sill. Through the open window he trains the sight on a statue in a sliver of park across the street. He focuses on it—Francisco Solano López, killed at the glorious battle of Cerro Corá in 1870. He can hear Analisa warming up the Chevy pickup in the driveway outside. The engine rumbles precariously. They’ve had trouble with the throttle, and she revs it up. He can see Josias at the curb watching for the Mercedes, his M16 shielded by a topcoat draped over his wrist. He sees Lourdes across the street, minding a baby stroller filled with Browning 9mm pistols and an Ingram MAC-10. He sees Josias wave, hears the truck ease down the length of the driveway, piston-slap rattle receding. Through
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