I QUIT

I QUIT

HERNÁN
CASCIARI

orsai
2020, Hernán Casciari
[email protected]
@casciari

Original Title: Renuncio

First Edition: October 2020

2020, Editorial Orsai SRL

@EditorialOrsai

Mariano Acha 2346

1430 CABA
Argentina

editorialorsai.com

All stories translated by Frances Riddle and Maureen Shaughnessy

Except for “Messi is a dog” and “10.6 Seconds”, translated by Brian Hagenbuch. “Finland” and “The True
Age of Countries”, translated by Ana Guerberof Arenas. “Little Slips of Paper”, translated by Cristina
Vargas. “Incoming Call: Literature”, translated by Helen Foster and Mara Golibroda.

ISBN: 978-84-15525-20-2
Printed in Argentina

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license,
i.e., it may be publicly shared, copied, distributed, performed and broadcast;
derivative works and even commercial uses of this work are permitted as long as
the original authorship is expressly named.
To Nina and Pipa
Index

Flat Rate for Weed and Other Progress ..................9

Story with a Witch and a Steak Knife ...................23
!e Intermediary .................................................31
A Belgian in the House ........................................41
Tits ......................................................................53
!e Pennant Prank...............................................59
Basdala .................................................................69
Backstage to a Minor Miracle ...............................85
Messi is a Dog......................................................93
!e Mother of All Misfortunes ..........................101
Made for Each Other .........................................111
Domestic Appliances..........................................121
Cannelloni .........................................................133
!e Second Drawer............................................143
Finland ..............................................................151
Our Domains ....................................................157
Little Slips of Paper ............................................165
Guests and Hosts ...............................................179
!e True Age of Countries .................................185
Incoming Call: Literature ...................................191
10.6 Seconds......................................................197
Julieta Won Six Books ........................................215
An Affair to Remember ......................................221
Gaussian Blur ....................................................231
An Unexpected Alarm........................................245
I dedicate this book to my fellow travelers..........255
Flat Rate for Weed and Other Progress

On September 12, 2098 Woung will take a second

trip through time. Ever since he was a boy, he’s always
wanted to meet his great-great-grandfather, because
Woung is a writer too: a young, twenty-three-year-
old writer. When he gets back to our time Woung
leaves me a voicemail: “Hello, I am looking for Her-
nán Casciari. My name is Woung. You don’t know
me but I know you . . . I would like to meet you. Call
me, please,” and he leaves a cell phone number.
“It must be an Orsai reader,” Cristina says, as she
changes Nina’s diaper. “It’s strange that he knows our
landline number. Those people usually call your cell.”
“Not even.”
It’s true that readers often contact me to meet for
lunch at FreeWay or things like that, but they always
reach out by e-mail first, timidly. They never call the
house. They never say, “I’d like to meet you.” Plus,
there were other odd details:
“His name is strange, too,” I say. “He has a Chi-
nese name, but he speaks with an Argentine accent.
And he was so respectful, but his voice sounded
young.”

#9
 I’m a bit wary of strangers in general and especial-
ly strangers with no shame, so I didn’t even consider
calling him back. Three days passed and then Mon-
day (yesterday) the phone rang again. This time I was
home playing with Nina.
“Hello, this is Woung. May I please speak with
Hernán Casciari?”
“Speaking.”
“I need to see you,” he says. “I’m going back
tonight and I made this trip just to meet you. If you
don’t mind, I’ll come by your house in a little while.”
“I don’t think I can meet up right now. My wife
isn’t home and I’m here with my daughter, it’s chaotic
when people come over . . .”
“Oh, that’s great,” he says. “I would love to see
my great-grandmother too.”
“What great-grandmother?”
“I’ll explain when we see each other. Please,
Hernán. It will just be a little while. We’ll have some
mates, talk a bit, and then I’ll go.”
The idea of drinking some mate made me feel a
little more relaxed about it.
“Well, I don’t know, I guess so. I’ll give you the
address. Do you have a pen handy?”
“I’m close by, at the Sagrada Familia, and I re-
member the address from last time,” he says. “I’ll ring
the doorbell in just a minute. You put the kettle on.”
I barely had time to wonder how he knew my
address “from last time.” What last time? Not a
minute had passed since our conversation when the

#10
doorbell rang. Instead of buzzing him in, like I usual-
ly do, I went out to get a look at the guy’s face first.
What I saw was a half-Asian guy, that kind of hy-
brid you see now, the modern, cosmopolitan type.
He was well-dressed at least, with a wide smile on his
face. He was waving at me.
I opened the door timidly and he gave me a hug.
As I looked into his face, my heart jumped: he
seemed familiar, but I didn’t know where I knew him
from. I was disturbed by this familiarity, especially
when he was serious. When he laughed, on the other
hand, he looked more Asian, and that made me feel
more comfortable.
After we’d exchanged greetings in the entryway,
he walked into my house without waiting to be invit-
ed and headed straight to the couch where Nina was
sitting. My daughter looked like she was glad to see
him: a strange thing for her, she’s standoffish with
new people. She usually gives everyone dirty looks
until they offer her candy or bread. But she smiled
happily at the Asian kid, as if he were a toy.
“I never got to meet you,” Woung said to me as
he pinched my daughter’s cheeks, “but I know Nina.
I do know Nina, right Nina?”
Nina nods. This is too much.
“Where do you know Nina from, the blog?” I
ask, starting to regret letting this man in, especially
with my daughter here.
“No, not from the blog,” he says. “Nina is my
great-grandmother, on my mom’s side.”

#11
 A shiver runs down my spine. I’m terrified of
crazy people, always have been, because I never know
how I should react to their craziness. I try to make
some logical sense of what he’s said:
“Your great-grandmother is named Nina, too? Is
that what you mean?” I ask, looking him in the eye,
silently begging him not to say what I suspect he’s
about to say.
But he goes ahead and says it, a second after I
predicted he would, he smiles as he says: “Nina is my
great-grandmother, Hernán. You’re my great-great-
grandfather.” He sits down, as if he were exhausted, as
if sitting were the only thing that mattered, and he
concludes with: “I come from the future.”
Cartoons flash on the muted TV, which Nina
watches unblinkingly. Everything else in the house is
silent, and the crazy Asian kid stares at me.
“You come from the future,” I repeat slowly,
without losing my cool, placing myself between the
guest and my daughter, measuring the distance to the
door, glancing around for a steak knife with which to
fend off the imminent attack from this escaped men-
tal patient.
“From the year 2098,” he says. “Here’s the family
tree, have a look.”
He hands me a piece of paper with a hand-drawn
genealogical diagram on it—very messy, as if it had
been sketched during a bumpy train ride. The page is
crisscrossed with lines, arrows, and circles, which I
ignore. It reads something like this: Nina marries

#12
Fernando (Uruguayan lawyer) and gives birth to
Marc in 2026. Marc marries Dai-ki (Korean) and
they have twins, Yuan and Andreu, in 2051. Yuan
marries an Argentine lawyer and gives birth to Li
(2070), Lucas (2072), and Woung (2075).
On the other side of the page there’s a map show-
ing how to get to the Sagrada Familia, Park Güell,
and other tourist sites around Barcelona. I hand the
“family tree” back to him and look him in the eye,
sizing him up.
To be honest, the Asian kid doesn’t seem threat-
ening in a physical sense. I mean, he doesn’t seem
anxious or desperate to kill me. All his craziness, for
the moment, is verbal. But I’ve come across crazies
many times: I know they are quick, I know their
delusions always reach a crescendo, and you can nev-
er trust the stillness of their hands. Why lie? I’m shit-
ting myself. My daughter is one and a half, I’ve only
had her with me for eighteen months. I’ve come
across crazies many times, and I’ve always been able
to defend myself, to handle the situation with a dose
of psychology or—failing that—to run away in time.
But at risk now is something more important than
my own life. Nina is there, on the couch, with her
huge innocent eyes. And I’m shitting myself with
fear.
Time. I need to stall until I can figure out what to
do, how to get this nut job out of here.
“You don’t believe me,” the Asian kid says.
“Should I?”

#13
 “Actually, I thought it would be easier to convince
you, once you saw the family tree,” he says. “I read a
theory of yours, do you remember? Where you said
that aliens don’t exist, that it’s us from the future. You
wrote that yourself.”
“I write all kinds of stupid things, too many to
keep track.”
“But this was true,” he says encouragingly. “Come
on, why don’t you sit down and relax?” He brings me
a chair. “Do you want me to put the kettle on, so we
can have some mates?”
Then I decide on a strategy and act accordingly.
“Let’s do this,” I tell him, very tactfully, trying to
casually glance at my watch. “I have to take Nina to
daycare right now. If you want, we can meet at the
café on the corner in a half hour. You wait for me
there and we’ll talk. All afternoon, what do you say?”
“You’re not gonna show,” he says, suddenly disre-
spectful.
“Where?” my legs begin to tremble. “Where am I
not going to show?”
“At the café. I’ll wait for an hour, two hours, and
then an officer shows up and asks for my ID. You’re
at your in-laws. You call the police on me because
you think I’m crazy, that I want to hurt you.”
My eyes sting. That was my plan exactly, step by
step.
“No, not at all . . . What would make you think
something like that?” I ask.
“This is the second time I’ve come to see you.

#14
The first time you called the police on me. I was
waiting for you at the café. Now I know better, that’s
why I brought the family tree, so you’d believe me.”
“It’s your second visit?” I say, with a panicked
smile. “What is this, Groundhog Day?”
“Yes . . . And you are Andy McDowell,” he says,
and chuckles. “Look. Let’s get things straight. I’m not
going to do anything bad to you, not to you or to
her. How could I harm my own blood? I just came to
talk for a while, to meet you.”
“You’re crazy, brother, you can’t expect me to be-
lieve you,” I say.
“In one minute, precisely one minute, your wife
is going to call your cell phone,” he says. “Asking if
I’ve come by. It happened the first time, and it’s going
to happen again now. In fifty seconds, to be exact.
This should convince you that everything I’m saying
is true. Will that convince you? Thirty seconds till
your phone rings. Will that put you at ease?”
I don’t answer; I bite my lip. At ease, will that put
me at ease? I look at my cell phone on the table. I
don’t know what I want to happen. I don’t know if I’d
rather it didn’t ring—so I could know for sure that
I’m dealing with a dangerous wacko who knows
karate—or if I’d rather it ring, to pick up and hear
Cris, which would mean that the smiling Asian kid
really and truly is my great-great-grandson, who has
come from the future on a mothership or something
like that. I don’t know what I want.
“Twenty seconds,” says Woung. “When your wife

#15
calls, tell her I’m still here, that we’re still talking, that
I’m just an Orsai reader, and that everything is fine.
There’s no sense in worrying her . . . In the meantime
I’ll put on the kettle for some mates.” He winks and
says, “Ten more seconds and it’ll ring. Relax.”
Woung stands up and goes into the kitchen. I
don’t move. I hear him running the faucet, the water
like rain hitting the bottom of the kettle, the flame of
the burner, and his voice saying very quietly: “Five
seconds. Four, three . . .” Everything seems like a
dream.
And then my phone rings. It’s Cristina: she wants
to know if the weirdo reader came by, if he’s left yet,
what he was like, what he wanted.
“I’ll tell you all about it tonight,” I say. “We’re
having some mates here at the house. I’ll call you lat-
er. Nina’s watching TV. Love you.”
When I hang up, Woung peeks his head out from
the kitchen, grinning that way he does and says: “You
take it with sweetener and a squirt of lemon, right?
The way everyone in our family takes their mate.”
“Yes, Woung,” I say. “The way you take it.”
*
“I don’t want to know what’s going to happen to
me. I don’t want to know what’s going to happen to
the people I love. Please don’t let even some vague
comment slip out; I don’t want any clues. Respect my
life, Woung. Respect the peace and quiet of this Sep-

#16
tember in which no one has died. I want to enjoy it
for a while. I don’t want the shadow of your words to
block out my sunshine,” I say to my great-great-
grandson. “What I want to know about the future is
the superficial stuff, the gossip; I’m too chicken to
hear about anything that matters.”
Woung gives me a serious look and nods. He
makes a face like someone about to spit out mouth-
wash, like he’s saying: don’t worry.
“Unless,” I say cautiously, “in the future I’m a
leader of the resistance against intelligent machines.
In that case, if I’m a hero and your generation idolizes
me, tell me everything.”
“No, Grandpa. You’re nothing like that.”
“Good, because I’m in favor of machines. What’s
up with you guys in the future?” I ask him. “Do you
come visit the past often, or is it a new thing?”
“People come back here pretty often to buy weed,
because there’s hardly any left in the future. But like
this—like me, to visit ancestors—very little. It’s an
uncomfortable trip, and pretty expensive.”
“There’s no weed in the future?”
“Well, there is, but we don’t have the dank nugs
you guys have. Buds you can touch, roll up, smoke,
and exhale. There’s no more of that.”
“How do you smoke weed then?”
“We have a flat rate,” he says. “We pay a fixed
amount per month and there are companies that pro-
vide the service, direct to the brain.”
“You’re high all the time?”

#17
 “No! Well, not most people. I’m disconnected
right now, for example, because you and I are talking.
But if I want a little hit, I just blink three times and
it’ll come down the line. It’s very practical.”
“It’s more than practical—it’s fantastic!” I say.
“You don’t have to go out and buy it, duck into an
alley, you never have to carry it on you . . .”
“And you don’t have to fake anything. If you’re
high and your mom shows up, you blink twice and
you’re sober. For as long as you need.”
“The future is amazing,” I say. “And how much
does this cost a month, the flat rate for weed?”
“There are several price points. I have the Voda-
fone service, which is eleven minutes a month.”
“Eleven minutes?”
“There’s no money in the future,” Woung says.
“The thing we value most is time. We’re all born rich,
you could say. Every baby is born with about a hun-
dred years of credit. Then, as you grow, you start
spending time. You want a motorcycle? That’ll cost
you six months. A house? A little over a year. Every-
thing you buy is automatically deducted. And every-
thing you sell is added on.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Imagine you pick up a prostitute,” Woung says.
“She charges thirty minutes for a full service. Once
you’re done fucking her, you have half an hour less of
life, and she has half an hour more. It’s simple.”
“So then who are the wealthy people of the
future?”

#18
 “The concept of wealth varies depending on each
person’s interests. For example, I’m twenty-three,
which means I have enough capital to buy seven cars,
two chalets, and live it up for five more years and
then die. Or I could live without luxuries until I turn
eighty or ninety. Everybody chooses the route they
want to take.”
“And what do most people choose?”
“There’s a bit of everything. The posh die young,”
Woung says. “I personally prefer to live slowly and
have a longer life. Until now, my most extravagant
expense has been coming to the future to see you.
This trip cost me three years. It’s super expensive.”
“You’re going to die three years sooner be-
cause of me?”
“No, that’s not how it’s measured . . . I’m going to
live the years I have left with the joy of having done
what I wanted to do, let’s put it that way.”
“And what about jobs?” I ask. “How does that
work? How much do people earn in the future?”
“You earn exactly the amount you work,” Woung
says. “If you work six hours a day, you earn six hours
a day. A person who works forty hours a week earns
that much. And you can live without working, but,
of course, you don’t live as long.”
“So then skill doesn’t matter,” I say. “A carpenter
who takes two hours to make a chair and a poet who
takes two hours to compose a poem earn the same.”
“Exactly: each earns two hours.”
“But what if the poem is amazing?”

#19
 “That’s the big problem with your society . . . You
believe that a poem is more important than a chair.”
“And what about thieves? Who do they rob if
there’s no money?”
“There are no thieves,” Woung says. “There’s no
financial crime at all. Only crimes of passion, every
once in a while.”
“So there must be prisons.”
“No. We have fines. You get fined the exact age of
the victim. If you kill a thirty-five year old, that’s your
fine: thirty-five years. That often amounts to a death
sentence. There are very few murders. There’s no sui-
cide either. Why would you kill yourself, if you could
just buy everything you want and live in opulence for
the time you have left?”
“So there are no bad guys?”
“Of course there are bad guys! Annoying acquain-
tances you bump into on the street who start talking
and waste your time. Nosy people—they’re scum
where I come from. People who take too long to tell a
joke, who cause you to wait in traffic, who invite you
to boring parties . . . Anyone who makes you waste
your time without enjoying it, those are the bad
guys.”
“And politics, how does that work?
“I already told you, there are no thieves.”
“But I’d imagine every country has a president,
and that the president is elected to office. A democra-
cy, something like that.”
“Once we eradicated all illnesses,” Woung says,

#20
“and were able to ensure that health is the greatest
human capital—which is to say, survival rate—we
also did away with capitalism and communism. We
did away with everything. No one has anything that
another person can take from them for their own
benefit. If you kill someone, you don’t get their left-
over time. So, why kill? Why would we need democ-
racy and silly things like that if everything is always in
order?”
“I’m so happy to hear all this, Woung,” I say sin-
cerely. “But there has to be a catch, some drawback.
We’re humans, we’re designed to fuck everything up.
What’s the catch?”
“Catches are also a misconception of your society,
Grandpa. Over time, things will get a lot better. I
promise.”
Woung stayed until it got dark and I had a
strange sense of calm. It was obvious that I wouldn’t
live to see any of this progress (I smoke too much to
have any hopes for longevity) but maybe Nina, my
daughter, would get to see a world in which the most
important human capital was time.
I blinked three times, just in case Woung’s wi-fi
for flat-rate weed might still be flowing through the
dining room, but nothing happened. So I got out my
treasure chest and rolled up an old-school joint, the
kind you can touch with your fingers and buy for ten
euros on a street corner. And I sat down on my big
couch to waste some time.

#21
Story with a Witch and a Steak Knife

We were riding in a taxi down Álvarez Thomas Ave-

nue. When we got to the corner of Lugones Street
the light turned red and I pointed out the house to
my daughter:
“Look, Nina, that’s where it happened. Right
there on that little balcony, that’s where Chiri
stabbed me.”
My daughter raised her head and looked at the
crooked window that, twenty years later, still needs
painting. She was excited to see the setting in real life:
it was like visiting the original forest where Little Red
Riding Hood met the Big Bad Wolf. Then she asked
me to show her the scar and tell her the story again.
I spread the fingers of my right hand and let her
inspect the old wound. “You can still see the stitches
where the doctor sewed you up.”
Before bed at night, I tell Nina true stories of
things that happened to me in 1989. I don’t know
why these seem to be the most appropriate tales, I
guess because it was a simpler time, and the things
that happened to me then can be easily understood
by a four-year-old girl: a time full of surprises. That

#23
was the year Chiri and I had just graduated high
school and moved to Buenos Aires.
My daughter loves stories where kids leave home
to have nocturnal adventures, without adults, stories
involving witches and knives. And even better if one
of the kids, generally the fatter one, is also her dad.
“Tell it from the beginning.”
The light was still red, so I leaned back in the seat
and let my mind drift back in time.
It was the night that Dustin Hoffman won an
Oscar for the movie Rain Man, I told Nina. A night
in April. (!e taxi driver, I think, started paying at-
tention.) We were in San Luis Plaza, keeping each
other awake on our last night in Mercedes before
our big journey into adulthood. All through high
school we’d been waiting for the day we could move
to the city, and now we just had to wait for the sun
to come up. Chiri and I made plans. We talked
about the future.
“What’s the future?”
For us, the future was that house, the one right
there on the corner. Not the whole house for just us
two, but a little room inside it: a rented room. We
had to share the kitchen and bathroom with an old
lady, a widow we didn’t know—and even worse, she
was a school principal.
“A witch.”
Exactly, we were moving in with a witch. That
wasn’t part of our plan when we imagined moving
out, living far away; but hyperinflation wasn’t in our

#24
plans either. In those times of devalued australes, nei-
ther my parents nor Chiri’s had enough savings to
rent a whole apartment for us. We had the choice be-
tween living with a witch or staying in Mercedes. We
didn’t think twice.
The old lady was named Tita and she and my
mother had a friend in common; that’s how we’d
learned about the room for rent. She hadn’t planned
for hyperinflation either, and was forced to open her
door to boys she’d never met. She was given false in-
formation that made her think Chiri and I were
healthy, well-adjusted young men, sons of respectable
families from a small town. The second part was true.
Logically, your Grandma Chichita felt responsible
for our behavior at Tita’s house. The morning we set
out she told us a hundred times not to do anything
inappropriate, not to play loud music, not to bring a
bunch of long-haired guys into the house, not to
smoke any funny cigarettes. That is to say, she listed
the things she’d been suffering through since 1986.
Chiri and I sincerely intended to behave like up-
standing citizens during our stay with Tita. It was al-
ways extremely difficult for us to resist the temptation
of driving an old lady crazy, but we promised to make
an effort with this one in particular. If we started off
on the wrong foot, a huge kick in the ass would land
us right back in Mercedes. And we didn’t want that.
On April 30 1989, each holding a bag packed
with Tupperware of milanesas, some clothes, and
quite a few books, we rang the bell. It was just after

#25
midday. Tita opened the door and greeted us like two
students who had been sent to the principal’s office
for misbehaving. Her expression conveyed a mixture
of reluctant acceptance and wariness over what was
sure to come.
She showed us the bedroom—a loft with a win-
dow overlooking the street, a desk, and two beds.
Then she showed us the shared bathroom and
kitchen, charged us the first month’s rent up front,
gave us a single set of keys to share, and then, only
half-heartedly, like someone reading a script, she told
us that she’d be there for us if we needed anything.
We set our stuff on the bed and went out for a
walk, with the excuse of having to take care of some
things for university. Buenos Aires was finally our
city. The keys in our pockets were not the same ones
as yesterday and they weren’t copies of our parents’
keys. We bought old books in Plaza Italia, we ate piz-
za, we visited people.
That night we did something that still to this day
embarrasses us: from a pay phone we called Tita (our
house, our landlady) to let her know that we were
fine, that we wouldn’t be back for dinner, that she
shouldn’t worry.
She cut us off: “You don’t need to call and tell me
these things.”
We realized, blushing, that we were trying too
hard to fake decency.
At two o’clock in the morning we returned to
spend the first night in our new home. We were

#26
ecstatic. So as not to make noise, we didn’t even
play the guitar. We lay down in our beds and tried
to sleep. Chiri was out immediately, but an annoy-
ing breeze coming in through the window kept me
awake.
I got up and smoked a cigarette looking down at
the street: I felt like a grown up, invincible. I watched
the cars and buses passing by on Álvarez Thomas Av-
enue, where, twenty years later, I’d pass by in a taxi,
get stopped at a red light, and recall the details of that
night for my daughter.
I threw the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and
tried to shut the window so I could get some sleep.
But the window wouldn’t close: that’s why there was a
draft. One of the window panels was swollen and it
didn’t fit into the frame. I pushed hard, but I couldn’t
shut it. I should’ve stopped, I should’ve gone to sleep.
But that night I was invincible.
I took a steak knife from my bag (the Brazilian
brand Tramontina) and, using it as a screwdriver, I
removed the window. I sat on the bed and, pretend-
ing the handle of the knife was a club, began to
pound the uneven wood, trying to smooth it out.
Chiri woke up: “Chunk,” he said, “shut the fuck
up,” and he covered his ears with the pillow.
I tried to make less noise. I hammered softly for a
minute or two, but softness is no friend of hammer-
ing. I silently smoked another cigarette, let a few
more minutes go by. Once I figured that Chiri was
deeply asleep, I went back to hitting the window with

#27
more manly blows. Pum, pam, pim. I guess I got dis-
tracted, I went too far, or I concentrated too hard.
What happened next took only three seconds:
Chiri woke up enraged, he lobbed another insult at
me and, like a sleepwalker, he ripped the steak knife
out of my hand. He threw it out the open window
and went back to sleep. Three seconds, and then si-
lence.
I started to feel lightheaded, but I didn’t know
why. When you see this in the movies it seems like a
dramatic effect, but I truly didn’t understand what
had happened.
I didn’t notice that my fingers—the pointer and
middle—were hanging off of my hand. I didn’t feel
instant pain. It was more like a storm: first a mute
flash of lightning, then a blind clap of thunder.
The lightning bolt of pain came as a wet sensa-
tion on my leg. I noticed, before anything else, the
spurt of warm blood dripping down my knee, then
onto the sheet. The blade of the Tramontina, which
I’d been using as the handle of a hammer, had cut
through my tendons down to the bone. My friend
and torturer was once again sleeping: I had to wake
him up.
“Chiri,” I whispered, going pale, “I have blood on
my hands.”
I didn’t want to alarm him, but there were thick
splatters on the walls, the floor, and on his bedspread.
I called to him again:
“Chiri, help, you cut me for real.”

#28
 Chiri slept, or pretended to be mad. Or maybe he
was mad and pretending to be asleep. I tied the sheet
around my fingers to stop the dripping, and that’s
when I felt the pain, a roaring pain that hit my brain
like a flash of lightning. I screamed. I screamed loud.
I screamed like an opera singer who has just found
his puppy dead.
!at finally woke Chiri up. He jumped out of
bed, stood up, and began to take in the scene. Once
I stopped screaming, what he saw was a little fat kid
with yellowish skin, hunched over on the bed
bathed in sweat. He saw the lashes of blood across
the bedroom wallpaper, on the tile floor, and on his
own pajamas. But he still didn’t understand what
was going on.
I couldn’t explain the situation in words; I had no
words. All I had was the (misguided) idea of unwrap-
ping the tangle of sticky sheets to show him the two
fingers dangling from my right hand. When he saw
this carnage, Chiri did three things.
His eyes rolled back in his head.
He vomited.
He fainted.
It was the only time in my life I ever saw a person
do those three hilarious things all at the same time. If
it hadn’t been for the problem with my hand, I
would’ve applauded. But instead, I sat back down on
the bed and, as best I could, I made a tourniquet and
started to laugh. I laughed like a madman, racked
with pain. It was a time of huge, marvelous adven-

#29
tures and I knew what was about to happen. It had to
happen. So I turned to the bedroom door with a
smile, paused theatrically, and froze with a look of
ecstasy on my face, waiting for the doorknob to turn.
That was Tita’s cue to appear in the doorway. In
those days everything was perfectly timed. One half-
naked guy lying on the floor, unconscious, in a yel-
low puddle. A dehydrated fat kid with a sheet
wrapped around his fingers. Massive trenches of
blood, seas of blood, and a window broken in three
parts. How could the woman not walk in at that
moment?
In the year 1989 everything happened as if a
drunken playwright had choreographed each scene
and calculated each stage entrance with the precision
of a clockmaker. Misfortunes were hilarious and land-
ladies were storybook witches who walked into in-
credible stage settings without knocking.
The traffic light turns green, life goes on. Now we
are once again flying through the night of Buenos
Aires. Nina likes stories about boys who leave home
and have adventures where there are witches and
steak knives. So she turns around, kneeling on the
back seat of the taxi to take one last glance at the
window where it happened, on the corner of Lugones
and Álvarez Thomas.
I hold her hand, happy. She rubs my scar.

#30
!e Intermediary

!ere are two types of lowlives who ring the door-

bell before nine o’clock in the morning: salesmen
and collection agents. !e only difference between
them is that collectors don’t smile when you open
the door. !e guy who rang my doorbell the other
day was a salesman. He had that friendly smile that’s
just screaming for a punch in the face. I was still in
my pajamas and I didn’t even have the reflexes to
slam the door on him. !at’s when he got out a
form, looked at me, and said something I really
wasn’t expecting.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Casciari,” he said in a
Spanish accent, “but our records show that you are
still an atheist.”
That’s what he said. Direct quote. Not one word
more, not one word less.
The fact that he knew my last name wasn’t what
scared me, because it’s written on the mailbox out-
side. It wasn’t the religious accusation either, which
could have been a coincidence. What terrified me was
the bit when he said, “our records show.”
Since time immemorial, people who use the first-

#31
person plural have always been bad news. But the
words “our records show” suggest that someone has
been snooping around in your past. And anyone who
uses those words can’t be considered a friend, because
they speak on behalf of others, and those others are
always the bad guys. “Our records show” is a con-
struction used only by mafia thugs, your ex-wife’s
lawyers, and telephone company employees.
“Am I mistaken, Mr. Casciari?” asked the sales-
man upon noticing that I was shaken up. “Are you
still an atheist?”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” I told him. “At
this time of day I’m whatever will take the least
amount of time.”
“The quickest thing would be for you to tell me
the truth.”
“Then I’m a Christian. I took Communion when
I was eight years old, at the cathedral in Mercedes.
I’ve got witnesses. Anything else?”
“That we know, that we know,” he said smiling.
“But we also know that, for some reason, you didn’t
swallow the host.”
My heart stopped. This is my usual response
when panic takes me back to my childhood. To the
secrets of childhood. And then my memory swept me
back to that unforgettable morning in 1979.
Now I’m sitting in the seventh row of the Mer-
cedes Cathedral, dressed immaculately in white along
with three hundred other children my age, about to
receive my first Communion. Mass is officiated by

#32
Father D’Angelo. My parents, grandparents, and a
dozen relatives who came in from the city sit on the
other side of the atrium, pointing their various cam-
eras at me.
I’m sandwiched between two boys: Chiri Basilis
on my right, and Pachu Wine on my left. The three
of us are fervent Catholic tykes: we’ve spent an entire
year attending preparatory courses at the Misericordia
Catholic School. Saturday after Saturday, each morn-
ing, we’ve been preparing for this miraculous day, on
which we will receive the body of Christ.
Father D’Angelo is saying things that fill me with
joy, emotion, and responsibility. He talks about being
a good person, he speaks of love and loyalty and of a
commitment to God. I’m hypnotized by his words.
At one point I glance to my right, to see if Chiri feels
it too. Chiri sits there with his mouth half-open,
filled with jubilation. I look to the left, to see if Pachu
Wine is on our wavelength, and that’s when I notice
his ear.
Pachu Wine’s ear is filled with wax.
Earwax is a disgusting, greasy substance that be-
comes visible only when the person flaunting it
hasn’t cleaned their ears. !ere are easily three
pounds of that junky paste in Pachu’s ear; it’s as if
someone has piped the wax in there using a pastry
bag, as an act of revenge. It is so disgusting, so re-
pulsive to look at, that the magic of Christianity va-
cates my heart forever.
Two minutes later I’m standing in line down the

#33
main aisle of the church, ready to receive Commu-
nion. But I can’t stop gagging. When it’s my turn, Fa-
ther D’Angelo offers me the host and I take it with
my lips parted, but I don’t swallow it out of fear that I
might vomit Christ. Vomiting Christ, at the age of
eight, is worse than jerking off. So, I carefully remove
it from my mouth and slip it into my pocket. Later,
on my way out of church, amidst congratulations
from my family, I throw the host into a garbage can.
I’ve never told anyone this before. In fact, this is
the first time I’ve even written it down. The man who
rang my doorbell, however, knew the story.
“There’s no way you could know that,” I whis-
pered.
“Don’t be scared, Mr. Casciari,” he told me.
“Please, just let me in. This will only take a minute.”
You can’t deny entry to someone who knows the
worst about you: the secrets you’ve kept concealed
and never even uttered out loud. I don’t think I have
more than three or four unspeakable secrets, and the
gentleman who was now sitting at my table knew at
least one of them. What did this man want from me?
Who was he?
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” he said, reading my
thoughts. “And I don’t want anything of yours, either.
I only want you to consider the benefits of convert-
ing. You can’t live without a god.”
I took a deep breath. I think I even smiled, re-
lieved.
“Are you a Mormon?” I exclaimed. “You almost

#34
made me shit my pants. It’s just that since you came
alone instead of with another guy I thought that—”
“I’m not a Mormon,” he interrupted.
“I mean a Jehovah’s Witness, same thing . . .
You’re one of those guys who rings the doorbell too
early. A latter-day pain in the neck.”
“Not that either,” he said serenely. “I belong to
Associated Gods, an intermediary company of faith.”
“Excuse me?”
“Religions are losing their followers, as you know.
They’ve gotten behind the times. What our company
does is acquire low-cost stock options for the ones
that have been hit the hardest: Christianity, Bud-
dhism, Islam, Judaism, et cetera, and we revitalize
their weakest points.”
“Charity?”
“Marketing. One of the biggest problems reli-
gions have is that their followers adopt their faith out
of tradition, habit, inheritance . . . but not necessarily
free will. We provide the option of switching to an-
other company at no additional cost—in fact, in
some cases there are major benefits.”
“I’m all set,” I told him.
“That’s not true, Mr. Casciari. We know that
you’re not satisfied with the services provided for you
by Christianity.”
The stranger was right.
A few weeks ago I had been at the airport and
some Hare Krishnas appeared. I’d been mildly an-
noyed by seeing them so happy: they’re always show-

#35
ing up in places that have air conditioning and they
get to wear orange . . .
“And no one stops them from running around
barefoot,” the man said, once again reading my
thoughts.
At that point, feeling defeated more than scared, I
decided to voice my thoughts out loud.
“Something similar happens to me when I see
Mormons,” I said, “they get a bike and a crisp suit.
Jews get an extra New Year’s thrown in for free in the
middle of September. Muslim men never have to
worry about their wives changing the radio since
they’re in the back seat. Jehovah’s Witnesses get out of
military service . . . And what about us? What do
Christians get?”
“Good advice, perhaps?” the man said.
“Don’t have anal sex, don’t use a condom, don’t
get an abortion, don’t buy Madonna CDs,” I was
starting to get worked up. “I’d prefer a bike that
changes gears.”
“That’s just what I came here to offer you, Mr.
Casciari: a change . . . Last week I convinced a Chris-
tian client to convert to Islam. The poor guy had a
serious girlfriend plus two lovers. He was drowning
in guilt; he could barely sleep. Now he’s married to all
three and couldn’t be happier. The only thing he has
to do is pray facing Mecca every once and a while.”
The intruder was starting to grow on me. At the
very least I was having a less predictable conversation
than I would have had with a religious fanatic.

#36
 “So what does it cost to convert to another reli-
gion?” I asked.
“Converting with us at Associated Gods doesn’t
cost you a cent. Sometimes we even throw in a new
cell phone or a microwave oven. We’ll take care of the
paperwork, the initiation, and the mystic details. And
if you’re not sure which new religion to choose, we
provide consulting services at no additional charge.”
“A new phone would be nice.”
“In your specific case I couldn’t actually do that,
because you’re an atheist. !ere’s that tiny incident
with the earwax,” Just hearing it come out of some-
one else’s mouth made me blush. “!e gifts are for
when a client changes from one company to anoth-
er, but technically you don’t belong to any religion
right now.”
I knew that sooner or later the incident with
Pachu Wine would come back to bite me in the butt.
“Either way, this month there’s a special offer,” the
salesman told me, “If you convert to a minor religion
before October 30 we’ll throw in a second alternative
faith absolutely free of charge.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘a mi-
nor religion’?”
“Some faiths are overpopulated, like Buddhism,
Confucianism . . . Scientology is the faith most re-
quested by teenagers these days, so it’s currently at
capacity. But then there are other newer, more hum-
ble religions. We’re trying to engage customers with
these options. We call them ‘low-season’ faiths.”

#37
 “Like what, for example?”
The salesman opened his portfolio and looked at
a spreadsheet:
“Taoism, Voodoo, Rastafarianism, Waaqeffanna,
Pantheism—just to name a few. If you aren’t that
into praying, and you aren’t bothered by the fact
that your neighborhood doesn’t have any temples, I
might recommend one of these to you. !ey’re quite
comfortable.”
“Can you eat ham?”
“You can even eat people in some of them.”
“I’m interested. Which one would be the most
relaxed?”
“If you don’t like to make an effort, I would rec-
ommend Pantheism: you hardly have to do anything
at all. Every month—month and a half or so—you’d
have to hug a tree, by contract. Nothing more.”
He handed me an explanatory brochure, in full
color.
“I like it,” I said, looking at the pictures. “But I’d
have to discuss it with my wife . . .”
The intermediary didn’t let up:
“If you sign up now, I’ll throw in Rastafarianism
too. It’s a Central American faith that mandates its
followers to smoke pot at least twice a day.”
“I’ll take ‘em. Both of ‘em,” I blurted out. “Where
do I sign?”
He had me fill out some forms and I gladly
signed three or four pieces of paper, without reading
the details because they were all written in English

#38
anyway. Before leaving, he gave me some sort of Pan-
theist bible (written by Averroes), a stick of incense, a
tambourine, and a sacred baggie of weed. I bid him
farewell with a hug and watched as he left the build-
ing and turned the corner outside.
Since it was still early, I went back to bed. I
stashed the weed and the tambourine in the drawer
of my nightstand, laid down on my back in the dark-
ness of the room, and smiled. All for the price of
nothing, I thought to myself feeling satisfied. No sac-
rifice. No effort. No sweat on your brow, none of that
bullshit about painful births, none of that absurdness
from Christianity, my old mistaken faith.
Cristina was still asleep. Oddly enough, her alarm
clock still showed that it was 8:59 a.m. But that
wasn’t possible. The intermediary and I had been
chatting for well over an hour. It had to be at least ten
o’clock in the morning by now. That’s when Cristina
rolled over and hugged me.
“Is your back acting up again?” she said half-
asleep.
Without knowing why, I had a bad premonition.
As if something weren’t entirely right.
“No. Why?”
“Your hands . . . They smell like those sulfur rods
you use when your back hurts,” she murmured, and
went back to sleep.
She was right, something smelled rotten.
Then the clock blinked to nine o’clock.

#39
A Belgian in the House

A few months ago I received an email from a magazi-

ne out of Brussels: they wanted to interview me over
the phone. I said yes and we had a very pleasant chat
on Skype, although I never really understood what it
was all about. Then I forgot about it until a few
weeks ago, when they wrote to me again. Now they
were asking for my permission to send an illustrator
to my house. It seemed strange, because magazines
usually send photographers, but I said okay.
Almost immediately I received an email from the
illustrator himself. He asked me—in French—when
would be a good time for him to come to my town.
He introduced himself as Jeroen and said a few other
things that I didn’t understand. I googled him, out of
fear more than anything else, and discovered that he
was a fantastic illustrator. That put me at ease.
Since my wife speaks some French, and also be-
cause she helps me filter out some of the weird people
that get in touch with me, I saddled her with organiz-
ing the meeting. Over the following days they main-
tained a very Francophone exchange of emails, and
one day at lunch Cristina caught me up to speed:

#41
 “You do know that this Belgian guy is going to be
underfoot for three or four days, right?”
“Which Belgian?” I asked her, since I tend to
forget about any problem the minute my wife takes
it over.
“The Belgian! The one who’s coming this week to
draw your portrait! He casually mentioned that he’d
be here for three or four days, almost as a side note.”
“He’s going to sleep here?” I was panic-stricken.
“He wants me to find him a campground here in
Sant Celoni, because he’ll be drawing you for four
hours every afternoon.”
“Four hours a day?!”
“But didn’t you already agree to this when he first
got in touch with you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I read his email and for-
warded it to you. I don’t understand French, I’ve been
telling this to everyone over and over since high
school. I don’t understand French!”
“Well, now you know. There’s a Belgian who’s
coming here this week: he’s going to follow you
everywhere you go, drawing you from top to
bottom.”
“But I never even leave the house,” I said, feeling
uneasy.
“That’s why I was asking you if you realized that
we are going to have a Belgian guy underfoot. Fuck-
ing hell!” Cristina said, and she left slamming the
door.
No sir. I didn’t know anything about it. I’d read

#42
that first email with the help of an automatic transla-
tor and the truth is that those technologies don’t
work very well. I thought it was going to be like a
photography session: one hour making funny faces at
my desk and then we’d call it a day.
But now things had gotten more complicated and
it was too late to cancel: the man had already boarded
a plane from Brussels.

The First Afternoon

In the days leading up to his arrival I was really ner-

vous. I’ve always been scared of obligations, of peo-
ple I don’t know, new situations, and things that last
too long.
And this Belgian guy was a combination all
these misfortunes rolled up together in one giant
package.
Two days later I was taking a nap when the doorbell
rang. Soon thereafter my wife shook me awake:
“The Belgian is here!” she told me. “He’s here: a
long-haired blond hippie with an enormous back-
pack.”
“Did you tell him that I’m napping?” I whispered
fearfully.
“Yes, I told him . . . But since he’s a hippie he
doesn’t care. He just sat down on the patio and start-
ed to paint. He says he’ll wait for as long as you
need.”
“What do you mean he’ll wait?”

#43
 “I mean that when you get up to work, he’ll be
there to follow you.”
I put on my pajama pants and spied on him
through the dining room window. And there he was:
around fifty years old, looking good for his age, like
someone who’s spent his life vacationing in warm
climates. Reddish hair, very long and pulled back in a
ponytail. He was drawing, without missing a beat,
the landscape as seen from the patio of my house. His
fingers were stained with green and he seemed quite
content in my deck chair, as if it were his own. As if
the patio were his. Or the entire world. That’s when a
shiver ran down my spine: was I going to have to take
a shower to meet him? Even worse: was I going to
have to shower three or four times this week?
Before meeting new people I generally take a
quick shower, as a gesture of goodwill toward my fel-
low man. But I’d never had to put up with such a
long visit. What should I do? It was an intense strug-
gle between vanity and laziness. In the end, laziness
won three to one, so I put on my pajama top and
went upstairs to work on my computer like always:
dirty, ugly, and poorly dressed.
He came in from the patio after a while; I heard
his nimble steps on the staircase and timidly we
shook hands, both feeling embarrassed. He was ex-
tremely tall and our inability to converse made us feel
awkward, because people usually try to break the ice
with a joke—a bad joke—that serves to ease these
types of situations. But any banter between us was

#44
out of the question, and Cristina hadn’t even both-
ered to come up and assist me with some simultane-
ous translation.
Jeroen found himself a chair, sat down around ten
feet away, and started to sketch. Before doing so, he
gestured to me by sticking out his lower lip and sig-
naling with the palm of his hand like someone gently
nudging a hamster. It meant:
“Go about your business and forget that I’m even
here.”
I gave him the international thumbs up and fo-
cused on my computer screen. At first I tried to feign
business as usual. My thoughts drifted to the Mona
Lisa, who’d also had to sit still for so many hours, but
she’d had it worse: forced to stare at a fixed point the
whole time. I tried not to burp or scratch myself too
much, not to watch porn with the volume on, not to
add liquid sweetener to the thermos of water I use to
prepare mate, not to light up any skunk, not to watch
celebrity gossip videos . . . But how long can a person
last before they slip back into their regular habits?
At some point, after three hours of drawing in
silence, the Belgian had become more like a piece of
furniture, like the coffeemaker or the sofa. He made
dozens of sketches in his notebook—some of them in
color, others in pencil.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and
started to feel more and more comfortable in spite of
his exotic presence. I suppose I ended up inadvertent-
ly relaxing, or something like that, because when the

#45
sun started to set a loud fart escaped from me, echo-
ing in the silence of the early evening.
Farting in front of strangers is horrible.
The Belgian took his eyes off his notebook and
looked at me; the sound of the echo still reverberated
in the air, which was already starting to thicken.
I looked back at him from over the top of the
screen. And that’s when something splendid hap-
pened. He leaned to one side in his chair, smiling
ever so slightly, and answered me with another fart
that was much longer, much more elegant, and much
more European than my own had been.
The he continued to sketch in silence.
It was the first time I had shared a friendly form
of communication via butthole with another human,
and I think it may have been the most important ex-
perience in my adult lifetime.

The Second Afternoon

!e next day, which was a !ursday, he didn’t show

up at the time we’d agreed upon.
It was around two-thirty, but the Belgian was
nowhere to be seen.
I asked Cristina where the hippie was and she
told me that when she’d gone into town that morning
to buy bread she had seen him in different places
around town, leisurely sketching the Sant Celoni his-
toric district.
“And now? Where is he now?” I asked her.

#46
 “He’s been on the corner for the last two hours, it
looks like he’s drawing the front of our house.”
I went to the window, hiding behind the curtains,
and there I saw him. He looked like a statue. He
came off as indifferent to the world.
He was looking at my house from the other end
of the block, trying to embody it on paper as if it
were the most important thing in his life. Or the least
important.
“But is he going to come in?” I asked Cristina as I
spied on him.
“Probably,” she said. “Missing him already?”
That wasn’t it. I’d canceled a lunch date with Ho-
racio Altuna in Barcelona to be able to sit with the
illustrator. In fact, I had told Horacio on the phone
the reason for my cancelation, and he’d been quite
amused by this snag in our plans. At first I thought
that since Horacio is also an artist, he was happy for
the profession as a whole. But that wasn’t it:
“You’re sure to write about your suffering on your
blog later,” he told me, as if delighted to see me em-
broiled in disaster.
Jeoren arrived an hour late and sat down on the
same chair as the first day, although this time he
brought wood-colored paper and black and white
tempera paint. He started to sketch me all over again.
I set to work without paying attention to him be-
cause by then I felt like he was part of the family. Not
long after, Nina came in to get a glimpse of him, be-
cause she loves strangers. She can sniff them out.

#47
 She greeted the illustrator as if she’d known him
her entire life. Then my daughter, who has a tenden-
cy to imitate everything, grabbed a notebook and a
pencil and sat down on the other side of the room,
also ten feet away, and began to draw me herself. I
felt like a monument surrounded by Japanese
tourists. Jeroen, with amused eyes, included Nina in
his sketches, making me, for a spell, a blind spot be-
tween two mirrors multiplying to infinity.
I continued to refrain from smoking skunk, still
striving to be a decent host, but later my cousin
William showed up at the door with a bag of freshly
harvested weed.
William is also somewhat of a hippie, and his age
and inner motivations are on par with those of
Jeroen. I realized this because they greeted one anoth-
er as if they’d been lifelong friends, discreetly but with
a secret camaraderie. I imagine that when hippies,
pregnant women, and dwarves pass each other on the
street they say hello even if they’re perfect strangers.
These greetings are communal, a sign of mutual re-
spect. As if a mere gaze could communicate, “What
can I say, man?”
William and I got stoned out of our minds, and
we no longer gave a shit. Of course we offered the
joint to Jeroen, but he declined. He made a friendly
gesture of refusal by lowering his head and extending
his arm towards us with the palm facing out, as if to
say: “When I’m home, I take more drugs that the two
of you combined, but my hand gets unsteady when

#48
I’m high.” Or at least that’s what we figured. Once his
four daily hours of work were up, he stuck his paint-
brushes into his backpack and timidly bid us farewell.
William and I were so engaged in our little world of
PHP, CSS, and MySql that we almost didn’t notice
when he got up. But once we came back to Earth we
noticed that Jeroen had left us some stunning black
and white sketches on the table.
A small gesture of friendship.

The Last Afternoon

The last day the Belgian spent at my house was

magical because somehow we managed to communi-
cate. It was thanks to yerba mate. While Jeroen was at
my home, so attentive to my movements, I noticed
the confusion in his eyes every time I got up to
change the yerba, or to heat up more water.
It’s that everything one normally does becomes
unusual when there’s a stranger staring at you. If you
think about it objectively, there’s nothing logical
about heating up water every two hours, pouring it
into a receptacle, and sucking it down with a metal
straw for no good reason.
I kept trying to imagine what he might be think-
ing: “Is it that thing he keeps sucking on what makes
him so fat?” “Could that thing he keeps sucking on
be drugs?” “Could that thing he keeps sucking on be
the same thing that gauchos drank?” “Then how
come gauchos aren’t fat?”

#49
 Throughout those three days, these questions co-
existed in the illustrator’s gaze. But his confusion be-
came more evident on the last afternoon: he seemed
fascinated by the yerba mate, the metal straw, and my
never-ending ritual: he sketched them constantly, and
it bothered me that the language barrier kept me
from being able to explain more about this ritual that
was such a mystery to him.
Then I remembered something, which ended
up saving us from the Babelesque situation. I
searched my bookshelf for the French version of
my novel More Respect, I’m Your Mother and I
flipped through the pages until arriving at the
chapter entirely dedicated to yerba mate, its pur-
pose, and what it means to us.
I handed him the book as a gift, gesturing that he
should read chapter 122. That he should read it right
there and then.
So Jeroen read, in French, something along the
lines of:

Yerba mate is not a beverage, my dear readers

from other countries. Well, okay, it is. It is a
liquid and it is taken by mouth. But it is not a
drink. In Argentina no one drinks mate because
they are thirsty. It’s much more of a habit, like
scratching an itch. Mate is exactly the opposite
of television. If you are with someone else it
forces you to have a conversation; if you are
alone it makes you think. This happens at every

#50
 home. Rich and poor. Among chatty, catty
women; among serious and immature men
alike. Among the elderly at retirement homes
and teenagers while they study or take drugs. It’s
the only thing that parents and children share
without getting into an argument or blaming
each other. Left- and right-wingers drink mate
together no questions asked. In summer and
winter. This is the only country in the world
where the decision to stop being a boy and
become a man occurs on one day in particular.
It’s not about wearing long pants or
circumcisions. Here, we officially become
grown-ups the day we first feel the need to
drink yerba mate alone. By ourselves. It’s not a
coincidence; it’s not ‘just because.’ The day a kid
decides to put on the kettle and drink their first
mate when no one else is home—that exact
minute—is when they discover they have a soul.

After reading these words, the Belgian illustrator

looked at me and I had the impression that he finally
understood something about me. Or better said:
about my identity and my past. All of the sudden I
felt an enormous sense of relief. I was touched to real-
ize how much we all need others to understand some-
thing about us—more than just through the pages of
a book or the childish gesture of a concert of farts.
That no one should cross our paths without a wink
of understanding.

#51
 Jeroen slipped my book into his backpack, point-
ed at his own chest with his index finger, and asked
me shyly:
“Mate pour moi?”
I said yes, of course, and I poured him a nice,
warm mate with sugar. When he gave it back to me I
poured one for myself and then asked him with ges-
tures if he wanted more.
He consented again, smiling.
We downed two thermoses in silence and, for the
first time, breathed a complicit air.
That’s the whole story between us, because then
he said goodbye, went home, and I don’t know if I’ll
ever see him again. But for those three hours in my
office, we were no longer a fat weirdo and a Belgian
hippie; all of the sudden we became two colleagues
working on the simple things we enjoy: writing and
drawing.
Drawing and writing as if there were nothing else
to do. As if this made our lives better. As if the world
were a place designed exclusively for strangers to keep
each other company in silence.

#52
Tits

I have an infinite number of memories on the subject

of tits. I’ll choose one at random. Once, at recess,
someone noticed that I had tits. And someone else,
who was in the same group, said: “You’re lucky,
Chunk—you can touch a tit whenever you like.” He
said it in earnest, not as a joke. That morning I was
seven years old and I was in love with Paola Soto. At
night I looked at myself in the mirror and asked my-
self why I had bigger tits than the love of my life. It
didn’t feel right for my beloved to be at such a disad-
vantage.
Though I could have, I never used my chubbiness
as a weapon. Never belly flopped onto a distracted
rival, never hurled myself atop the enemy to smother
them. Over time, instead, I became a comedian. I
cultivated irony and self-criticism. I laughed at my-
self—with great effort—and was able to become an
astute observer of the shortcomings of others. I found
faults in everyone. Everyone except Paola Soto, who
was perfect.
Paola Soto didn’t have tits, but she didn’t need
them. She had something much more subtle: she

#53
had, in my opinion, the best laugh in school. Her
happiness worked much the same way that thunder
trails behind lightning. In a storm, first there’s a flash
of light, then we wait to hear the boom. In Paola
Soto’s laughter, first her face flushed a deep red color,
then her mouth burst into joy.
I couldn’t hold her gaze when she laughed, sitting
in a group of three or four of her friends at recess.
Moreover, she had the virtue of seldom laughing, and
she never laughed just because; she didn’t give that
magic away easily. I couldn’t make her laugh; a mere
glimpse of her teeth crippled me.
I couldn’t make her laugh because I’d been spoiled
from the cradle. At home and in my neighborhood I
amused everyone by breaking out random fat-boy
funny faces. Up to the age of five, getting others to
laugh had been as easy as downing half a tub of dulce
de leche in one gulp.
Childhood is generally easy for a comedian; par-
ents are extremely partial critics and any foolishness is
well-received. At home I was Jerry Lewis, and at
preschool too. But then I started elementary school
and everything changed. Paola Soto appeared and I
stumbled upon the cruelty of love, bellyache and all. I
stumbled upon the trouble of her laugh.
Paola Soto didn’t find anything humorous about
my funny faces.
It didn’t matter if I crossed my eyes in her pres-
ence, imitated the sound of a boat casting off to sea,
or did aerial cartwheels. Any of my routines could

#54
cause the rest of my first-grade classmates to pass out
from laughter, but Paola remained aloof and impassi-
ble, like a photograph. Miss Norma didn’t laugh at
my silliness either, but I wasn’t in love with Miss
Norma, and her teacher-like indifference mattered
very little to me.
I only cared about Paola Soto.
When the year ended, my parents and hers (they
were friends) changed us both to a different school.
Out of the blue, Paola and I found ourselves sur-
rounded by classmates we didn’t know. She was the
only familiar face in that world of white school
smocks, and my face was the only one familiar to
her, too.
In that brand new world of public school, those
first few recesses were the best in my life. Paola, with-
out any friends, had me and only me to chat with.
They were intense weeks of work on my part, during
which I was sometimes able to get a half-smile out of
her—using words, sentences that felt forced. I might
get a fleeting grimace, and then she would immedi-
ately go back into her shell. In any case, I was dazzled
by those thousandths of a second in which her teeth
shone. I understood, for the first time, that I had to
better develop my story lines. I also understood that
physical comedy was not my forte. I realized that, to
make Paola Soto laugh, it would take some effort.
It took only six recesses for me to understand that
comedy would be the only thing I was willing to
make an effort at in life. If I had fallen in love with

#55
someone else—with Colorada Giacoy for example, or
Pablo Santoro—I wouldn’t be a comedian today.
It also helped that I had tits by age seven. Because
that’s the other part of this story: when we changed
schools, our new classmates discovered something
that the old ones had been blind to.
“You’re lucky, Chuck—you can touch a tit when-
ever you like,” Bugarín said one day, and the others
nodded with a mixture of respect and wonder.
(Bugarín was the Rodrigo de Triana of my tits.
!e first to spot them, calling out his sighting.)
Like the sailors captive on the three caravels, my
new classmates, who would later become my friends,
were desperate to see a tit, to touch one, to caress the
supple human flesh crowned with a nipple.
And there I was: buxom, full-bosomed, and in
the third string. Available, friendly, unisex. That’s
when I knew that I would either have to make myself
known for my sharp sense of humor, or fall into
ridicule. There was no other choice. I would have to
be funny, scathing, spot on, or allow myself to be
fondled in bathrooms until the end of high school.
The decision was transcendent, because once I
had chosen one of the two paths, there was no turn-
ing back. That’s why, the first time Diego Caprio
made me an offer of exchange, it was possibly the
most important moment of my childhood. I didn’t
know it at the time, but I know it now.
“If you let me touch one of your tits,” he told me,
“I’ll give you a sandwich.”

#56
 It wasn’t a threat, which spoke highly of Diego
Caprio. Nor was it, however, a bad proposition, and
this spoke well of me. He wasn’t offering me a punch
in the face or a stick of chewing gum. He was offer-
ing me a massive sandwich at ten o‘clock in the
morning. In a confusing sort of way, I was flattered
by the proposal.
Although my tits were anachronistic, they were
worth a precious sandwich, of which there was only
one: the morning sun glinted off the crust of the
doughy bun and two slices of ham spilled out the
sides, being larger than the bun itself.
“I’ve only taken one bite,” said Diego Caprio.
These were also my first few days of second grade,
at a new school. It was one of the first times that any-
one other than Paola Soto had spoken to me at recess.
“Without even pulling up your shirt, c’mon,”
Diego Caprio said.
Paola Soto passed by at that moment; she was
walking alone, like always, concentrated on her own
things, almost floating. Perhaps she’d heard Diego
Caprio’s indecent proposal. And perhaps that’s why
she now stopped and pretended to sit down, or tie
her shoe, to hear better.
“I’ll count to three and let go,” Diego Caprio in-
sisted.
Humor is important when you have tits, and also
when you are in love. Humor is not a choice, it’s not
even a calling, a sign, or a talent. When you have tits,
humor is survival.

#57
 “If you bring me some ‘meatpralls,’” I told him,
“I’ll let you touch my dick.”
It wasn’t a great joke, true enough, but at that age,
the word ‘meatpralls’ works. I’m not quite sure why.
Diego Caprio smiled and forgot about the trade.
He smiled and he offered me half his sandwich
without asking me for anything in return. The next
day he’d resume his assault, but now I knew how to
district him with words like ‘dayonnaise’ and
‘moughnuts’. By using new, compelling arguments.
But that isn’t the most important thing about this
memory. Something else happened that I wasn’t ex-
pecting. When I used the words ‘meatpralls’ and
‘dick’ in that simplistic, childish retort, Paola Soto
lowered her gaze, turned red with embarrassment,
and then she laughed, with her enormous mouth
lighting up the schoolyard. It was the first time I had
made her burst into laughter. If that hadn’t happened,
I might be a serious writer today. Or a serious trans-
vestite. If I’d blundered those words—if I hadn’t been
able to make up a silly word out of nowhere—some-
one would have been feeling me up in a bathroom a
few minutes later, and right now I’d be confessing
that humiliation to all of you. I was lucky. Or per-
haps, I just had reflexes. I don’t know. But if I can’t
help adding a stupid joke to everything I write—even
melodramas—it’s because I spent half a decade trying
to get Paola Soto to laugh.

#58
!e Pennant Prank

When you’re young and you screw something up,

you can chalk it up to recklessness. But the truth is
cruelty has no age. All these years, I’ve tried to con-
vince myself that the whole thing was inevitable.
But no: what happened to Colorado Ulmer on the
night of August 14, 1994 was, more than anything
else, our fault.
Colo Ulmer had been our classmate from ele-
mentary all the way through high school. In other
words, we had been friends since the beginning of
time. When we finished school we all went to live in
the city. We lived in different neighborhoods but saw
each other often, until one night, when Colo was
twenty-three years old, one of the people who lived in
his building accidentally shot him with a shotgun. He
survived, but could no longer walk. Chiri and I had
eaten dinner at his apartment that night, which is
why we were present at the trial.
The neighbor’s last name was Cárdenas; I can’t
remember his first name, but he wasn’t a bad guy. His
hands shook as he explained what had happened that
night; he was still scared to death.

#59
 “There have been lots of robberies in the neigh-
borhood and in our building,” Cárdenas declared,
“that’s why I had a gun. That night my daughter was
spending the night, her mother had dropped her off.
At three o’clock in the morning a loud bang woke me
up. It didn’t come from the street; it came from inside
the building. I got scared, mostly because my daugh-
ter was with me. Then I heard yelling and footsteps
on the stairs. I thought there was a robbery inside the
building. I got up, grabbed the shotgun, and went to
the door. Someone was trying to get in, they were
trying to force the door open. I fired out of fear, at
the doorknob. I just wanted them to leave us alone.”
Cárdenas lived on the fifth floor, in apartment B.
The bullet got lodged into Colo’s spine. Colo lived
on the fourth floor, also in apartment B. Our friend
had mixed up the floors. When he was shot, Colo
was just trying to get into his own home.
*
Colo was in a coma and it took him fourteen
days to wake up. Chiri and I visited him in the after-
noons; he was at the Durand Public Hospital. The
police, who were in and out those first few days, took
our statements separately, first Chiri and then me. We
had decided to tell the truth: that it had only been a
joke, a joke that backfired.
Colo’s father wasn’t talking to us; his older broth-
er simply wanted to beat the shit out of us. That’s

#60
why we visited our friend in the afternoon: so we
wouldn’t run into the family. More than anything, we
wanted to be there to apologize when he woke up.
We were devastated.
Two weeks later, Colo opened his eyes and started
to eat by himself. It was hard for him to accept that
he could no longer walk, but he didn’t remember
what had happened. We visited him, cheered him up,
brought him music to listen to, but we didn’t bring
up what had happened. The truth is that we wouldn’t
have known how to tell him.
Then one afternoon when we went to the clinic
he didn’t want to see us. His memory had been
jogged, he remembered everything. He wouldn’t
speak to us for years—he didn’t want to have any-
thing to do with us.
We made up with him—to some extent—in
2008. At the time, I shared a version of this story in
one of my books, although it was a more abstract ver-
sion. Specifically, I wrote about one of the practical
jokes we used to play when we were younger. But un-
til now, I never bothered to explain why we stopped
playing this particular joke.
*
Chiri and I played the Pennant Prank often, it
was one of many practical jokes that occurred to us
when we were bored.
We were proud of the sketch and we put it into

#61
practice whenever we could, with different friends.
We always added a funny twist. The night we went to
Colo’s place for dinner we had incorporated a varia-
tion we called “the big bang.”
We arrived at Colo’s apartment at 10:30 that
evening carrying a backpack that contained a Vélez
Sarsfield soccer club pennant, a box of firecrackers,
and a bag of weed. We buzzed up to him (he lived in
apartment 4B) and he came down to open the door
for us. The three of us took the elevator back up to-
gether.
When I tell the story like this it sounds like we’d
only go to our friends’ houses to make trouble, but
that’s not true. We’d go to eat dinner and have a good
time. To watch soccer matches or rent a movie. The
Pennant Prank was the cherry on top, a silly, grand
finale that we executed down to a T.
“Look what we brought for you, Colo,” Chiri said
that night, before we stepped inside his apartment,
taking the pennant out of the backpack. That was
how it started, a king pawn’s opening.
Colo loved the gift. That year Vélez was on its
way to winning the Libertadores Cup and our friend
was a big fan. He grabbed the pennant, laid a kiss on
it, and started toward the dining room. I stopped him
at the door.
“Let’s hang it up out here, so the whole building
knows that you’re a Fortín fan,” I told him, and I
hung the little flag on the outside doorknob. Colo
thought it was a great idea.

#62
 Then we went inside, ate dinner, watched soccer,
and did what we always did at that age: chat, smoke
joints letting the ashes fall all over the table, read
Borges stories out loud to each other, play the guitar
and sing songs. At two o’clock in the morning I sig-
naled to Chiri, raising my eyebrows, gesturing at the
keys to Colo’s apartment. The key chain was sitting
on the kitchen counter. This signal meant it was time
to initiate the second phase of the plan, which we
called “the Exodus.” Chiri got up from the table and
said:
“I’ve got the munchies. I’m gonna go down to the
corner and pick up some alfajores,” and he grabbed
the key chain to go out to the street.
“Great idea,” Colo said. “There’s a kiosk open on
Scalabrini.”
I stood up and grabbed my coat:
“Why don’t we all go? Stretch our legs a bit?” I
proposed, as if the idea had just occurred to me.
Colo agreed and in less than a minute the three of
us were in the hallway, on our way out. Then, in
keeping with the script, I doubled over with a belly
ache.
“Uff . . . I’ve gotta take a shit,” I said. “I’d better
stay here. Do you guys mind going without me?”
“Sure, whatever,” Colo said.
They went out to buy alfajores and I stayed in the
apartment. So far, everything was going as planned.
The first three steps had been implemented: Colo
was out in the street; Chiri had the apartment keys in

#63
his pocket; and I had been left alone, with time to
prepare the scene.
*
I didn’t have to take a shit, obviously. Once I had
confirmed from the balcony that my two friends were
crossing the street, I looked for a lighter and placed it
in the doorframe, to make sure I didn’t get locked
out, in case the wind tried to whip the door shut. I
removed the pennant from the doorknob, went out
into the hallway and climbed the staircase to the fifth
floor. Then I stealthily hung the pennant from the
door of apartment 5B.
Afterward, I quietly returned to Colo’s apartment,
locked the door, and turned off the lights. ALL the
lights. I sat down in the darkness with the box of fire-
crackers in my pocket and the lighter in my hand.
That was all I had to do until my friends came
back. Everything else was Chiri’s job, and he was tak-
ing care of business.
Chiri and Colo bought a bag of fruit-flavored
Guaymallén alfajores and they were on their way back
to the building, laughing and kidding around. This is
a crucial moment in the Pennant Prank.
Chiri was in charge of distracting Colo while they
were getting into the elevator, to be able to push the
button himself. That’s where the trick lies: Chiri had
to press the button for the fifth floor, not the fourth
floor. He pulled it off like clockwork and Colo didn’t

#64
notice a thing. Then he stood blocking the door, so
our friend wouldn’t be able to see the digital numbers
flashing by.
What’s most important at this point is to keep the
victim entertained during the ride. Under normal cir-
cumstances, any tenant knows, out of habit, the exact
time it takes for the elevator to reach their apartment.
This is why the marijuana comes in handy: among
other things, smoking a joint leads to a distorted
sense of time and place. That’s why people on drugs
always feel like elevators take longer than they should.
Colo didn’t notice the real passing of time, and
when the elevator stopped on the fifth floor he
thought they were arriving on the fourth floor. Then,
walking down the hallway he saw the pennant hang-
ing outside the door labeled B, and he was sure he
was on the right floor.
Chiri stepped out of the elevator with the keys in
his hand, ready to open the door. Then he stopped
and said:
“Did you know that these keys open the doors to
all the apartments in the building?”
“No way,” Colo said. “That’s not true.”
“C’mon, I’ll show you,” Chiri said. “Come down
to the third floor with me.”
Our friend—partly out of curiosity and partly
because he was feeling good—followed Chiri without
suspicion. It was two thirty-five in the morning when
they walked down the staircase.
Once they were both standing on the real fourth

#65
floor—at this point Colo was convinced they were on
the third floor—Chiri walked up to apartment B and
turned the key in doorknob. Needless to say, the door
opened.
“Motherfucker!” Colo blurted out in surprise. “It
worked!”
“See?” Chiri responded.
From the darkness of the dining room I could
hear them clearly, the firecracker in my hand.
“Shut the door,” Colo said respectfully, “my
neighbors live there.”
I was on the verge of bursting into laughter and
ruining the joke, but I held myself back.
“I’m going in,” Chiri said. “Maybe there’s some
Fanta in the fridge.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Colo said, getting
scared.
Then, at the speed of light, Chiri did three
things: he stepped inside the darkened apartment,
threw the keys at Colo, and closed the door behind
him.
Colo was out in the hallway. He started to whis-
per, very quietly: “Chiri! Chiri, get out of there, it’s
dangerous.” From inside we could no longer hold
back our laugher.
I got up from the sofa and put on a low voice:
“Who’s there?” I boomed.
Chiri switched on a lamp, so that Colo would see
light coming from the slit under the door. For us, this
part of the joke was like putting on a radio drama.

#66
 We feigned a struggle, rolling around on the floor
for a while. As I lit the fuse of the firecracker, Chiri
threw a plate on the ground, which shattered making
a clamor.
Then the firecracker went off—echoing like a
bullet in the silence of the night—and Chiri threw
himself against the door, as if he’d been shot.
“Ouch!” Chiri yelled, in stitches, “I’m dying! Aw,
shucks!”
Colo panicked. He was so utterly confused that
he didn’t even get the humor when Chiri said
“shucks.” Distressed, our friend did what all the vic-
tims do at this point in the joke: he ran upstairs to
take shelter in what he thought was his real home.
We heard his steps on the staircase. We couldn’t
believe that the joke always worked out so perfectly.
Scared out of his mind, Colo went up to the fifth
floor (thinking he was back on the fourth floor) and
put the key into the lock, where the Vélez pennant
was still hanging.
He tried to open the door once, twice, three
times. He thought he just couldn’t get the key to turn
because of his nerves.
He never knew that he was trying to open Cárde-
nas’ door. Nor that Cárdenas was standing on the
other side, scared to death, ready to shoot.

#67
Basdala

At some point in the last twenty years I discovered

that I no longer wanted to write like before. What I
mean is: never again sitting alone with my Olivetti
typewriter in the kitchen, watching the stack of paper
grow, without showing each individual chapter or
story to anyone, without being continually invaded
by my readers, without the adrenaline of the draft on
display. I knew that I could no longer sit there, for
months on end, developing a plot-line, without other
opinions to give me immediate feedback—their
snappy comments, their instantaneous e-mails, their
criticism, and even, with luck, new plots that were
better than my own. As for this last bit about the
magic of literary feedback, I have an anecdote to tell.
I’m in the midst of a dilemma: this story is des-
tined for a printed magazine, not a blog. And it
doesn’t matter that the magazine and the blog have
the same name, I don’t have the rhythm or the flow.
It’s been a thousand years since I’ve been able to write
an anecdote intended for print. Since 2003 every-
thing I’ve shared—real or made up—has ended with
the final act of clicking the send button. It’s become a

#69
something of a tic, I crave immediate publication. I
write and then they read, and nothing comes between
these two pure acts.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had to worry about
writing a proper ending. What I love most is know-
ing that my readers will see the final story only two
seconds after I send it—typos and all—but what
matters is that the words and ideas are still fresh. If
narrating in real time were an exercise in target prac-
tice, the arrow would still be flying through the air
when it reached the reader. My virtual audience
jumps up to meet the projectile. They don’t wait pa-
tiently on the ground, bracing for impact: these read-
ers leap into the air and stick their hearts into the
path of the arrow. Moreover, my virtual audience is
quick: they correct my spelling in under an hour, de-
bate over grammar, and then all start arguing among
themselves over what they’ve read. That murmur of
voices is quite gratifying when the plot is still smol-
dering, when I still don’t know whether what I’ve just
thrown down on the grill is a good cut of meat. The
commotion of voices and conversations reaches a
verdict. I like to eavesdrop on other people’s com-
ments and chats; it’s a chance to fulfill that dream of
becoming a fly on the wall and getting to listen to
what people have to say about my story at the exact
moment when the story is the most important to me
—because I’ve just given birth to it.
Actually, I don’t know if the practice of sharing
literature in real time is good or bad, if it’s better or

#70
worse than other methods. In any case, there will al-
ways be twenty-six letters and one keyboard, nothing
more. But I’m certain that, for me, immediacy is
more enjoyable than waiting. For example, now: I’m
writing this at the end of May. You’ll be reading this
paragraph in July, August, September. Who knows if
the world might’ve ended by then?
The story I’m going to tell explains better than
any literary discussion or bloggers’ debate why I like
to write in real time and not on printed paper. It’s an
anecdote in which immediacy facilitated the best pos-
sible story, one that I never would have been able to
invent. It happened right at the beginning, when
people weren’t yet aware of the advantages of publish-
ing fiction on the web; when no one even suspected
there were avid readers on the other side of the
screen, or that those readers were real, that they had
first and last names, and weren’t just pseudonyms. At
the precise moment that this event occurred I knew
that writing in real time was going to become vital
and necessary for me.
*
For this story, we have to travel back to the times
that would later be called “the blog phenomenon,” a
fervor that lasted around six or seven years. I was
anonymously writing my first novel in blog install-
ments, disguised as a 52-year-old housewife in Mer-
cedes. I kind of imitated the voice of my mother

#71
while trying the best I could to recreate the nostalgic
joys of my adolescence.
One night, after dinner, I received an e-mail from
someone I didn’t know named Montse. I remember
that e-mail very clearly, because halfway through
reading her letter I broke into tears. I hiccuped and
sobbed, and I couldn’t stop crying. I knew, as I cried,
that the scene was pathetic: a big fat guy sniffling in
front of a screen is worse than a big fat guy watching
porn on that same screen. Both images are humiliat-
ing, but crying suggests something effeminate, it
comes as a greater affront.
I cried and cried. I couldn’t stop.
Earlier that evening Cristina and I had chatted at
the table after dinner, but then she’d gone to bed ear-
ly because she could no longer stand the size of her
pregnant belly. It was January 2004, the dead of win-
ter in Barcelona. I was really happy with my new lit-
erary toy, which at the time was called a ‘weblog’ and
not a blog. I sat down at the typewriter to write a
new chapter in the story about the housewife and her
dysfunctional family. I was publishing like crazy at
the time: every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I
would hit the send button smack dab in the middle
of the night, Spain local time. In those three hours,
between writing and publishing, I would close my
eyes and allow myself to be transported back to Mer-
cedes, my hometown, where the story took place. I
didn’t have a plan or a narrative structure; more than
writing, I thought of the screen as a sort of silent film

#72
that was emerging from my fingertips. I was surprised
by the sensation of pleasure, of inner celebration, that
overtook my body when narrating in real time. Up
until then writing had been torturous; literature was a
difficult exercise that had to be attained and then
maintained. I’d assumed you had to project the lofty,
thoughtful tone of the narrator; to demonstrate a cer-
tain indulgent intelligence; that it was fundamental
to try and seem to be no one in particular, even at the
cost of unnecessary experimentation; that you had to
be highbrow—or at the very least wear glasses and a
black turtleneck. Too much work. Meanwhile, the
internet felt more like a hobby or a sport. The readers
didn’t ask for anything, they weren’t intellectuals, they
didn’t form part of the closed circle of Letters—that
group of people who write and publish for their
writer-colleagues. This was a real, fervent audience. I
was also surprised by the fact that, week after week,
there were more and more readers, and they were en-
tertained and moved by my saga. Back then, no one
knew who was writing the story, and it was exciting
to note the number of readers who stayed up past
midnight, awaiting an update on the storyline. Read-
ers fought to make the first comment, leaving their
stamp of loyalty like a triumphant battle cry.
Many people already suspected that the three
weekly chapters written by the housewife weren’t real-
life experiences; but others still believed that Mirta
Bertotti, the narrator, actually existed. To make things
more ambiguous, the protagonist had an e-mail ad-

#73
dress where I received lots of private messages, almost
all of them funny and sweet. I opened that e-mail ac-
count every night and answered the e-mails as if I
were Mirta: “Thank you, sweetheart. Kisses!” or
something along those lines. The readers of her saga
had started to become a community, and they were
from all around the world. Nobody knew anyone
else’s real name or age, but they did know each other’s
internet pseudonyms. I will be forever indebted to
that first clan of prehistoric aliases, for helping create
inertia at the outset. I suspect many of them have a
copy of this issue of the magazine and they will surely
remember this story.
It turns out that one of my most dedicated and
involved readers called himself Basdala. He always left
polite, well-written comments that were respectful
and warm-hearted, and he called the protagonist
“Mama Mirta.” One afternoon at the end of 2003 he
left a comment that I liked a lot. It said the stories of
the Bertotti family were like “a minuet in a world of
adagios.” He praised the fact that so many people had
joined together to read a story about everyday life, he
was pleased to be part of such a peaceful community
in which there were “no trolls or malos rollos,” aka,
ego trips.
Since no one could know who was hiding behind
each pseudonym, we only had hunches about the
other readers’ ages and nationalities based on the way
they wrote. I thought that Basdala was Spanish, since
he used terms like malos rollos and other local slang,

#74
and I also imagined that he was a middle-aged read-
er—let’s say around thirty or forty years old. I was
wrong. Mirta, the narrator of the blog, had become
fond of him. To the extent that she once referred to
him in the middle of a conversation with her son
Caio: “Oh, son, if only you were well-mannered like
Basdala, who never misspells a word. And I bet he al-
ways takes a bath.” Basdala expressed his gratitude for
being named in the piece.
That happened in November.
A month later Basdala disappeared. His absence
wasn’t so obvious because blog commentators and
readers drifted in and out of existence. Sites like
Facebook and Twitter, where you could drop an an-
chor, didn’t exist yet. Another month went by and on
the evening of January 22, 2004 Mirta’s e-mail ac-
count received an e-mail signed by Montse, Basdala’s
sister. After a cold greeting, which implied that she
was writing the letter not because she wanted to, but
rather because it was her obligation, Montse said:

My brother, Miguel Ángel, died on December

16, 2003 at the Vall d’Hebrón Hospital in
Barcelona. He had a hereditary heart condition
and had survived two cardiac arrests, but couldn’t
endure a third. He died just after his eighteenth
birthday with a smile on his lips and sixty-four
marvelous new poems—one for each day he’d
been admitted to the hospital. In his honor, his
school orchestra played Mozart’s Requiem—his

#75
 favorite piece. And there was a reading of his
complete poetry. My brother knew he was going
to die, and he wrote several letters before he
departed, which were found this week on his
hard drive. One for my parents, another for me,
one for his family doctor—whom he was fond of
—another for his girlfriend, and the last of these
letters made reference to your website and e-mail
address. One of his letters was for you, Mirta. I’ve
attached it to this e-mail because I think carrying
out his last wishes is the right thing to do.

Only then did I notice there was a .txt attached to

Montse’s message. I opened it, shaking, but I couldn’t
read it right away. I’d started to cry halfway through
the sister’s e-mail and the tears blurred my ability to
focus.
In those five minutes, I learned more about litera-
ture than I had in all the analog years I’d been trying
to write stories and novels on my Olivetti. Some kid
named Miguel Ángel had written a farewell letter to a
lady in Mercedes, province of Buenos Aires, without
knowing that the real author who’d invented that
character lived only seven blocks from the hospital
where the reader lay dying. A story like this—with
such a simple synopsis, so poetic—had never oc-
curred to me. The kid had died, I suspected, at the
center of a literary paradox. I tried to imagine him in
the hospital, reading the blog, always leaving nice
comments that were pleasant and vivid. Intelligent

#76
messages that didn’t seem to come from someone his
age, let alone someone who was dying. Among the
five farewell letters he’d left before dying, one was in-
tended for a fictional character. That’s when it hit me
out of nowhere that writing in real time—foregoing
the traditional process of publishing on paper and the
author’s signature on the cover—could bring in re-
turn incredible stories, even if they weren’t your own.
Once I was able to calm myself down somewhat I
finally opened the letter that Basdala had left for Mir-
ta Bertotti. I read it with the awful feeling that I was
snooping on someone else’s correspondence. “Greet-
ings Mama Mirta!” the boy began his letter.

By the time you read this, my quill will have been

set to rest. I hope you receive it soon, I left this in
a message to my sister and family. I don’t know if
they will be able to find all the letters, but I hope
so. Oh, how I’m going to miss my dear sweet
computer! You know who I am, right? I’m
Basdala, who once called you Minuet. A minuet
in a world of adagios . . . That’s what you are,
Mirta. And I’m entirely sure you will continue to
be that way for a long time. I’m sure of it! I came
to the hospital a few weeks ago. Eighteen years
and I’ve already survived a heart attack! I hope
my mother’s right and that nothing can stop me .
. . Anyway, let me get to the point. I want to wish
you lots of luck and courage to move forward in
your life, Mirta. Remember that I will be with

#77
 you wherever you are . . . because I expect to give
life a run for its money for many more years.
Although the truth is that that I’m scared . . . I
have so many things to do—and so little time! I
might have another three months left. Have a
good life, Mirta. Take care of yourself and be
happy. From someone who cares for you and
always has, starting with your very first post.

Basdala, a requiem in a world of dreams.

*
Cristina woke up on account of my crying and
she thought someone from my family had died. But
then, when she read Basdala’s letter, she also got sad
and teared up.
The next chapter in the saga wasn’t another story
about the Bertotti family, it was a mournful farewell
from Mirta to one of her most loyal readers. It was
really hard for me to write that chapter using the usu-
al female voice. On the one hand, I had to continue
being the narrator and act as such, but on the other I
was transforming into a made-up character to talk
about a real death. I found there to be something al-
most immoral about it. So I decided that Mirta and I
would face the music together. I wrote several ver-
sions of the chapter that long and painful night. It
was the first time in the whole saga that I dropped
Mirta’s style, which had become automatic in me,

#78
and it became obvious there was someone behind
her: an author.
Those of you with a good memory—Mirta wrote
that evening—will remember the afternoon when
Basdala wrote me one of the most flattering com-
ments anyone has ever given me: Mirta, you’re like a
minuet in a world of adagios. I was so happy that day,
signing my name Mirta Bertot de Minuet. Basdala’s
real name was Miguel Ángel, he was a Spanish boy
whose heart stopped on December 16. I found out
only half hour ago. His sister Montse just wrote to
tell me, and you can imagine I’m not in a dancing
mood. “He died just after his eighteenth birthday
with a smile on his lips,” Montse told me. There is
hardly ever a relationship between those of us who
write and those who read our stories. Aside from two
personal friendships here in Mercedes, I don’t know
the face of a single reader on this weblog. But, my
distant friends, I feel a great mutual understanding
between us. Montse told me that Basdala knew he
was going to die, and that he left several letters before
departing, which were found this week on his com-
puter. “One of them was for you,” she wrote. I never
believed, in all my life writing stories, that literature
could bring real pain to a fictional character. Because
I am Mirta and I am crying. I opened Basdala’s letter;
I read it with a strange physical sensation in my body.
I’m not going to add so much as a comma to his
words of farewell, his letter is short and full of opti-
mism. I hope each and every one of you, my dear

#79
readers, will be able to take something from this letter
written by a friend, before he departed, to a woman
who wrote for him on the internet.
Then Mirta published Basdala’s letter and thus
concluded the daily chapter. The next morning there
were hundreds of comments, all written with sorrow
and confusion. The readers went on to share their
anecdotes about Basdala, they eulogized his prose,
they were saddened by his young age. Some were
surprised to find out he’d been a male, because, due
to his pseudonym, they’d always thought him to be
female. It was like a sad virtual wake in which no one
used uppercase letters or exclamation marks.
In the chapters that followed, the chats between
readers were gloomy and philosophical, all tainted by
the inevitability of death. Little by little, there was a
monumental shift in the group dynamic: the hun-
dreds of commentators who, until then had been
nothing more than a handful of aliases, started to
publicly reveal their true identities, share who they
were, name the towns where they actually lived. Bas-
dala’s death had touched them so profoundly that, as
a form of catharsis, they needed to come forward and
share who they really were. From the beginning of
January through the middle of February 2004, many
decided to raise their hand: my name is Carlos and I
live in Santo Domingo, I have one daughter and I
like jazz music; my name is Luisa, I’m sixty-two years
old, three grandchildren; I’m Ernestina, from
Rosario, I’m twenty and I’m studying law; my name

#80
is Julio, I’m from Uruguay but I live in Dublin,
sometimes I feel lonely.
Each one greeted the others, and began to write
in a different way. That was around the time that
some of them started to visit each other, and also to
become friends in the flesh, planning trips together.
Many also started their own blog and stopped visiting
Mirta altogether. They were no longer aliases or nick-
names or pseudonyms. Nobody ever wanted to be a
Basdala again: everyone wanted to be a Miguel Ángel.
The same thing happened to me. At the end of
February I started another blog where I continued
writing in real time. I called it Orsai, but at the bot-
tom I signed it, for the first time, with my real first
and last name.
*
Some months after the posthumous letter from
Basdala, or Miguel Ángel—by then I was almost at
the end of the Bertotti saga—I received an e-mail
from a mother in Valencia, Alejandra, who was ex-
tremely angry with me. She told me that her teenage
daughter, Nery, had found out about Basdala’s death
on my blog, and “fallen into a deep depression, cry-
ing for days on end and unable to eat a thing.” It
seems that Nery, who’d had a summer romance with
Basdala and then never seen him again, had just
learned about his death.
And here’s the zinger: the mother also mentioned

#81
in her e-mail that, to their surprise (mother and
daughter), “we saw Basdala last weekend at the mall,
alive and kicking.” And she blamed me for playing
what she believed to be a sick joke.
At first I thought it was all one big misunder-
standing. Perhaps there were two people nicknamed
Basdala. But Alejandra also gave me the first and last
name of the dead kid who wasn’t really dead. And his
name was Miguel Ángel. It was too coincidental.
That’s when I began to doubt the first letter. Not
earlier. How gullible we all were back then! Up to
that point no one had bothered to scrutinize the ve-
racity of my reader’s death. Now that practically
everything on the internet is considered to be a hoax
or fake until proven otherwise, I wouldn’t have fallen
for Montse’s letter without a little bit of research. But
everything was so real back then . . . How could such
a heartfelt message be fake? And, above all, how could
a fabricated letter make me cry? When, in my mind, I
was the only one capable of pretending to be a
woman and bringing others to tears.
With the information provided to me by Alejan-
dra (specifically Miguel Ángel’s last name) I did a
simple Google search and discovered that Basdala—
our Basdala, with the same precise and diplomatic
prose—had left messages on dozens of forums and
blogs well after his supposed death. I’m so naïve, I
thought just then, and he’s such a genius. What a
motherfucking asshole.
What I liked most about Basdala’s strategy was

#82
that he must have prepared the trap with great care,
with incredible literary skill (Montse’s e-mail didn’t
sound anything like the voice in the dying boy’s post-
humous letter). But I especially admired him because
he had detonated that bomb to ensure that I alone
fell: the liar, he who pretended to be an old lady from
Mercedes. I admired him because, after succeeding in
his ploy, he had no need to boast or brag, or to call
me up and gloat over his supremacy or taunt me.
Concocting the plot and bowing out anonymously
was enough for him. That’s commendable, I thought.
There’s an extra amount of nobility in victories bear-
ing no signature. And Basdala—or whoever he was—
had never sought out personal glory.
I desperately needed to write to him to show him
my admiration. I easily found his e-mail address
when I looked him up. And I wrote to him right
there and then, in the heat of the moment, thinking
he’d never write back. I was wrong again: I received
his reply in an instant. Every step of the way, Basdala
was always ahead of the game.
I received his reply and I realized that he really
was a good writer. He actually was eighteen years old
and his name was Miguel Ángel. He told me, humbly
and without spelling mistakes, that for six months he
had believed that Mirta Bertotti was real. That he
came to care for her deeply, like a foster mother, and
that over time and because of the latent surrealism in
the stories she told, he had discovered that Mirta
didn’t exist, that someone had tricked him, that a

#83
stranger had brought him to tears with their lies.
He told me about the awful sensation caused
by believing in someone, trusting in their words,
and then later discovering that where he’d thought
there was a house, a family, a mother, there was ac-
tually nothing. First, he considered no longer read-
ing the blog, but that felt, he told me, like point-
lessly losing six months of his life. And that’s why
one afternoon he’d come up with the revenge and
put it into practice.
We had a good conversation, over e-mail,
throughout the evening. I bid him a reverent farewell
and thanked him again, because he had given me two
good stories, a drama and a comedy, which I would
someday use in my own writing. I also applauded
him for playing his cards in silence:
“If it hadn’t been for that mother and daughter
who’d seen you walking around the mall, I never
would have found out about any of it.” I said. “The
fact that you didn’t want to sign your masterpiece is
quite laudable.”
His reply served as the closure to our exchange:
“So,” Basdala said, “You believed that Alejandra
and Nery were real too?”

#84
Backstage to a Minor Miracle

I’m going to tell a story that, for a brief moment,

seemed to us like a homespun miracle. Now, I could
just recount the miraculous part, without explaining
its internal logic, hiding from view the explanation
that ruins the mystery. But I won’t, because that
would make it nothing more than a fantastic tale. So
I’m going to present all the facts, without any tricks.
You will see the puppets, but also the strings that
move them.
With that out of the way, the story begins with a
woman, seated in a chair, and it continues with an
eleven-year-old girl riding in a car down the highway.
The woman, who is also my mother, has just kicked
everyone out of her house (her friends, her siblings,
her grandchildren) because she needs to be alone, to
cry alone and wait alone for sleep to come. She hasn’t
slept for fifty-two hours. She needs to rest. So she
flops down onto the very seat where, two days prior,
her husband—who was also my father—died.
It’s now July 11, a month after the night that this
woman, for the first time in forty years, shut the door
to her home, where no one else lives.

#85
 The trick begins in this paragraph, because six
miles away on Route 5, my sister, her husband, and
her kids, are driving back to La Plata after the burial.
It’s nighttime and no one speaks, because it was a sad
day after a very long night.
An eleven-year-old girl named Manuela, who is
my niece, leans against the window watching the
lights of the road pass by; she takes a cell phone out
of her backpack and scrolls through the contacts. No
one pays her any mind.
Let’s return to Mercedes. The woman who is my
mother takes advantage of her first moment alone to
vent without any witnesses. She wasn’t able to do this
before because she didn’t have a single second without
others present—hugging her, holding her hand. She‘s
been putting on a brave face everywhere: calm in the
viewing room and hallways of the funeral parlor,
composed on the paths of the cemetery, outside the
crypt. She greeted, kissed, and thanked every person
in attendance; her head down and eyes watery, to be
sure, but without excessive drama. She has gone fifty-
two hours without making a single public scene.
Now, finally, she’s alone.
She begins to scream as if she were being burned
alive.
Miles away, passing the toll booth for the Luján-
Mercedes highway, one of my nephews notices the
cell phone that Manuela, his sister, is holding in her
hands. It’s not her usual cell phone, the pink toy, but
a different one; it’s black, it looks real.

#86
 The brother asks: “Where did you get that?”
Manuela doesn’t respond as she continues to look
out the window.
The brother persists: “Is that a real phone?”
Then Manuela leans toward his ear and answers,
in a very low voice so that their parents won’t hear:
“It’s Grandpa Roberto’s cell phone.” And she also
says: “It has credit.”
As you can see, what’s about to happen in a little
while has nothing to do with any miracle. But let’s see
how the events unfold: inside what was once my
home—is still my home—the woman continues to
scream. They are not random laments, not raw howls
or savage onomatopoeia, but rhetorical questions di-
rected at her husband, in a deep, reproachful bari-
tone.
The woman berates her husband, loudly, for the
lack of consideration he showed by not warning her
of his death, so sudden and inopportune. She stands
up and shouts at him. The words she utters do not
make sense, at least not in the logical realm, but they
are more than sufficient to vent the widow’s emo-
tions.
She knows that it’s useless to scream, “Why didn’t
you warn me?” But she does it anyway. And she re-
peats it again and again, because useless reproaches,
in empty houses, sound better when repeated.
In time, she will learn to use her thoughts, to
converse in silence without making use of her voice
or facial expressions, but right now the woman is still

#87
inexperienced and she talks to her husband aloud.
She talks to the chair, in reality. She no longer shrieks:
the scene gradually becomes a typical conversation for
the married couple, a minor crisis, another of the
many nocturnal monologues in which she shouts and
he remains silent.
“Always the same with you,” she says to him.
“Whenever there’s a problem, you clam right up.”
In the car, two of my nephews sleep. Manuela
does not. She continues looking at the lights through
the window, with the phone still in her hand. She
took the phone because no one else was going to use
it, and because she still doesn’t have one. Later she
will explain that it wasn’t stealing: two or three times
she tried to ask her mother if she could have it, but
her mother was always crying or being hugged by
someone. At one point she showed it to her grand-
mother and said, embarrassed: “Chichita, can I use
this now?”
And her grandmother nodded her head, but it
was a yes in general, to anything, she wasn’t even
looking. The girl now thinks of her sad grandmother,
whose face was lined with exhaustion and sadness,
and she feels guilty for having left her alone in Mer-
cedes. They said goodbye at the door, her parents of-
fered to stay, or take her with them to La Plata, but
the grandmother didn’t want to:
“I have to be alone at some point,” she said, and
she closed the door. My grandmother is so strong,
Manuela thinks—I wouldn’t have been able to stay

#88
alone so soon. She’s strong, but sad. In eleven years,
Manuela’s entire life, she has never seen Chichita
without a sparkle in her eyes. So she takes out the
phone and writes her a message.
This is when the strings and the puppets join in,
because at the same time that the granddaughter
starts typing the first letter of the message, the widow,
at home conversing with her husband, asks the dead
man for a sign.
“Give me a sign,” says the woman who is also my
mother, staring at the empty chair.
Isn’t it incredible? Isn’t it magical that Manuela
would write her message at this very point of the sto-
ry? Viewed in the right light, it is a miracle. One
thing could have happened and then much later the
other—hours apart even—but the two things happen
at the same time, and it shouldn’t shock anyone.
The girl writes a message from a car while the
woman, in her house, asks her husband—in a very
loud voice—to give her a sign. She also asks him
what she’s supposed to do now, without the kids and
without him. How is she supposed to reconstruct her
life? Where are the bills and how does she pay them?
She wants to know if time heals; she demands that he
help her get her pension; she asks him again for a
sign; she tells him that it should’ve been the other
way around—and not for another twenty years; but
most of all, the other way around.
Her words are a combination of philosophical
anxieties and domestic demands, sometimes within

#89
the same sentence. She speaks calmly, even though
she’s not in control, as Manuela simultaneously writes
a very simple sentence, just four words, now forty
miles away: “DON’T BE SAD, REST” is what my
niece writes, and she sends the message. Then she lays
her head on her brother’s shoulder and falls asleep.
Let us observe for a moment how the text travels
to a satellite, how the frequency bounces back and
converts into bytes. Let us examine the scene from all
angles, to assure ourselves that there is no possible
miracle, that everything is rooted in the logic of time
and space.
As the words of her granddaughter travel through
the night, the woman continues her angry mono-
logue. She suspects that as a corpse her husband will
be timid, as he was in life, uninterested in the tran-
scendental, because he doesn’t show up. She knows it
would go against his nature to make himself seen.
And so she says to him:
“You’re not the kind of man to make an appear-
ance after death. I know you’re embarrassed, but you
have to make an effort. You . . .”
She is interrupted by a cell phone notification
echoing through the empty house.
She stops what she’s saying and walks toward the
fake miracle, putting on her reading glasses. She sees
an impossible sentence on the cell phone screen, in all
caps:
YOU HAVE A NEW TEXT
MESSAGE FROM ROBERTO.

#90
 The woman, who is also my mother, presses a
button and reads the four words written by Manuela
in the car just ten seconds earlier. “DON’T BE SAD,
REST.”
She stands there looking at the phone for several
seconds, her fingers frozen. She does not breathe or
blink. The green light of the screen shines in her eyes,
which are open wide.
Then, suddenly serene, the woman leaves the din-
ing room without another word and without so
much as a glance toward the empty chair. Her throat
is dry from her long soliloquy. She turns off the
kitchen light, goes into her room, and lies down. She
falls into a restful sleep.
The tale ends here, there’s nothing else. I could’ve
told the story omitting the scenes in the car, and it
would’ve been a somewhat successful tale about a
widow asking for a sign from her dead husband, who
answers her. But that’s not how it went. I chose to tell
things the way they happened, backstage and all, be-
cause stories are better when they don’t have anything
otherworldly about them.

#91
Messi is a Dog

The quick answer is: because of my daughter, because

of my wife, because I have a Catalan family. But if
you want to know why I’m really still here, in Bar-
celona, in these awful and boring times, it’s because
I’m only forty minutes away by train from the best
soccer in history. What I mean to say is that if my
wife and daughter decided to go live in Argentina
right now, I would get a divorce and stay here—at
least until the Champions League final. Because the
world has never seen anything like this on the soccer
field, ever before, and it’s quite likely that this will ne-
ver happen again.
It’s true, I’m writing this in the heat of the mo-
ment. I’m writing this the same week that Messi
scored three goals for Argentina, five for Barça in the
European Champions League, and two for Barça
in the Spanish National League. Ten goals in three
games for three different tournaments.
The Catalan press speaks of nothing else. Finally,
the economic crisis isn’t the first topic covered on the
nightly news. The internet is exploding. And in the
middle of all this, a very strange theory that’s hard to

#93
explain has popped into my head. Which is exactly
why I want to try and get it down on paper, to see if I
can get it off the ground.
It all started this morning: I can’t stop watching
Messi’s goals on YouTube. I feel guilty about it be-
cause I’m supposed to be editing the sixth issue of the
magazine. I should be getting down to business.
But I happen to click on a compilation of clips
I’ve never seen before. At first I think it’s going to be
another video like all the rest, but soon I realize it’s
not. The clips are not of Messi’s goals, or his best
plays, or his assists. It’s a strange compilation: the
video shows hundreds of clips, two or three seconds
long each, in which Messi receives blatant fouls and
doesn’t fall to the ground.
He doesn’t dive or whine. He doesn’t intentionally
try to get a free kick or a penalty shot. In each frame,
he keeps his eyes on the ball while he struggles to find
balance. He performs inhuman feats to ensure a foul
isn’t called and thus keeps the other team’s defender
from getting a yellow card.
They’re lots of short clips of fierce kicks, obstruc-
tions, stomping, cheating, reckless tackles, and shirt
grabbing; I’ve never seen them all one after another.
He carries the ball upfield, receiving a brutal kick in
the tibia, but keeps going. He gets hammered on the
heel: stumbles and keeps going. Someone grabs onto
his shirt: he spins, breaks free, and keeps going.
I was dumbstruck, there was something familiar
in those images. I replayed each frame in slow motion

#94
and noticed that Messi’s eyes are always focused on
the ball—not involved with the sport itself. He’s in-
different to what’s going on around him.
Soccer today has very clear regulations and there-
fore falling to the ground oftentimes means securing
a penalty kick or getting a defender booked, which
could be useful in subsequent counterattacks. In
these clips, Messi seems to not understand anything
about soccer or about opportunity in general.
He seems to be in a trance, hypnotized; he only
wants the ball inside the goal. He doesn’t care about
the sport or the result or the rules. You have to look
at his eyes carefully to understand this: he squints, as
if he were struggling to read the subtitles; he focuses
on the ball and doesn’t lose sight of it, even if he gets
stabbed in the meantime.
Where had I seen that look before? In whom?
That gesture of unmeasured introspection was famil-
iar to me. I paused the video and zoomed in on his
eyes. And then I remembered: it was the same look
Totín had when he went crazy over the sponge.
When I was a child I had a dog called Totín.
Nothing fazed him. He wasn’t an intelligent dog.
When our house got robbed, he just watched as they
carried off the TV. When the doorbell rang he
seemed not to hear it. When I puked he didn’t come
to lick it up.
But when somebody (my mother, my sister, my-
self) grabbed a sponge—a specific yellow sponge we
used to wash the dishes—Totín went mad. He want-

#95
ed the sponge more than anything in the world, he
was dying to carry that yellow rectangle off to his
doghouse. I held up the sponge with my right hand
and he focused on it. I moved it from side to side but
he never stopped looking at it.
He couldn’t stop looking at it.
It didn’t matter how fast I moved the sponge: the
scruff of Totín’s neck would move through the air at
the same speed. His eyes became attentive, intellectu-
al. Like Messi’s eyes, which stop being the eyes of a
distracted teenager and, for a few seconds, take on the
penetrating gaze of Sherlock Holmes.
This afternoon, watching that video, I discovered
that Messi is a dog. Or a dog-man. That’s my theory,
I’m sorry if you’ve read this far and were hoping for
more. Messi is the first dog to ever play soccer.
It makes a lot of sense that he doesn’t understand
the rules. Dogs don’t fake dive when they see a car
coming at them; they don’t complain to the referee
when a cat ducks under the neighbor’s fence; they’re
not trying to get the soda delivery man ejected with a
double yellow card. At the outset of soccer humans
were like that, too. They went for the ball and noth-
ing else: there were no penalty cards, no offside rule,
no player suspension after five yellow cards, away-
goals weren’t more important than those made at
home. In the beginning, people played soccer like
Messi and Totín. It was later that soccer became so
strange.
These days, everyone seems to care more about

#96
the bureaucracy of the sport, its rules. After an im-
portant game, people subsequently discuss the regula-
tions for a whole week.
Did Juan get booked on purpose so he could miss
the next game and play in the classic FC Barcelona
versus Real Madrid match between rivaling teams?
Did Pedro really fake the foul inside the penalty box?
Will they allow Pancho to play, invoking clause
number 208 that indicates Ernesto is playing for the
U-17? Did the home team coach order the field to be
over-watered so the opponents would slip and break
their necks? Did the ball boys disappear when the
game was 2–1 and then reappear when it was 2–2?
Will the club file an appeal at the Court of Arbitra-
tion for Sport about Paco’s double yellow card?
Did the referee correctly deduct the minutes lost
by Ricardo for protesting the sanction received by
Ignacio because of the time Luis wasted before throw-
ing the ball in?
No, sir. Dogs don’t listen to the radio, they don’t
read the sports press, they don’t differentiate between
an unimportant friendly match and a cup final. Dogs
always want to take the sponge back to their dog-
house, even if they’re dead tired or being massacred
by ticks.
Messi is a dog. He breaks records from times past
because the previous generation of dog-men stopped
playing soccer in the 1950s. Then the FIFA insisted
we talk about rules and regulations, and we forgot
how important the sponge is.

#97
 And then one day a sick boy appears. Like the
day a sick monkey stood upright and thus began the
history of mankind. This time it was a kid from
Rosario with different capabilities. Unable to string
together two sentences, visibly antisocial, incapable of
almost anything related to human guile. But he has
an impressive talent for keeping and controlling
something round and inflated, and taking it to a net
at the end of a green prairie.
If people let him, he wouldn’t do anything else.
Taking that white sphere and shooting it between
those three posts every time, like Sisyphus. Over and
over again. Guardiola said, after Messi scored five
goals in a single game:
“The day he wants to, he’ll score six.”
It wasn’t praise, it was the objective diagnosis of
his symptoms.
Lionel Messi is a sick man. It’s a strange illness
and it makes me emotional, because I loved Totín
and now Messi is the last dog-man. And getting to
see that illness up close—watching it evolve every
Saturday—that’s why I’m still in Barcelona, even
though I’d prefer to be living somewhere else.
Every time I climb the Camp Nou staircase and
come upon the brilliance of the illuminated field—in
that moment so reminiscent of childhood—I say the
same thing to myself: Hernán, you’re really lucky to
like a sport so much and get to witness its best ver-
sion and, to top it off, live so close to the field where
it all happens.

#98
 I relish my good fortune. I treasure it, I’m nostal-
gic for the present moment every time Messi plays.
I’m a fanatic supporter of this historic time and place
in the world. Because I know that on Doomsday all
the humans who have ever lived will congregate to
talk about soccer, and someone will say: I studied in
Amsterdam in ‘73; another will say: I was an architect
in São Paulo in ’62; and another: I was a teenager in
Naples in ’87; and my father will say: I traveled to
Montevideo in ‘67, and someone else from the back:
I heard the silence at Maracanã in 1950.
Everyone will trade tales of the battles they wit-
nessed until late into the night. And once everyone
else has spoken, I will stand and slowly say: “I lived in
Barcelona in the times of the Dog-Man.” And you’ll
be able to hear the drop of a pin. There will be si-
lence. Everyone will lower their heads. And God will
appear, dressed for the occasion, and pointing at me
he’ll say: “You—the little fat guy. You are saved.
Everyone else, time to hit the showers.”

#99
!e Mother of All Misfortunes

Those of us who live far from home, with an Atlantic

Ocean in the middle, are all haunted by the same
thought. We know (this knowledge terrifies us) the
day will come when we’ll have to purchase a last-mi-
nute flight and travel twelve hours by plane with our
eyes swollen to attend the funeral of one of our pa-
rents who has died without us by their side. It’s a
grim reality that will occur sooner or later, based on
natural law. It’s not a mere possibility but a tragic
truth that fills us with dread every time the phone
rings in the early morning hours.
Well.
My phone just rang.
“You have to come,” said my mother, her voice
choked with pain early one Thursday morning.
“What’s wrong?”
“Dad is going to die.”
“Are you sure?” I asked unnecessarily.
“I’m telling you that he’s going to die,” she said,
offended. “He doesn’t know it yet.”
“Don’t tell him,” I warned her. “Don’t do what
you always do.”

#101
 “I don’t know what to do, Hernán,” she said, cry-
ing. “You have to come.”
“Did you see how it’s going to happen? Or
when?”
“Traffic accident, tomorrow, Friday,” she said with
millimetric precision, and repeated: “You have to
come.”
I hung up, a lump in my throat.
The hardest part would be convincing Cristina
that we really had to fly to Buenos Aires. I’d spoken
often of Chichita’s premonitions, but I’d never placed
much importance on them. During the six years
Cristina and I had been together in Spain I’d shared
anecdotes from my childhood and adolescence in
which my mom had accurate clairvoyant visions and
precise predictions, but I always narrated these events
loosely, never revealing the whole truth.
The fact was that the truth embarrassed me. A
person who’s not born into a family marked by pre-
monitions doesn’t know—can’t know—how much
the son of a psychic mother can suffer. I lived with
the esoteric from an young age, without ever wanting
to. Just as other boys are born into families of carpen-
ters, or intellectuals, or might even have parents that
are blind, I accepted early on that my mother could
anticipate my destiny. It never seemed particularly
extraordinary to me.
Just the opposite. When I began to visit my
friends, to enter other homes and get to know other
mothers, it was always surprising to me that these

#102
ladies didn’t have so much as an ounce of extra-senso-
ry perception. The other mothers waited anxiously
for their children’s report cards. Not at my house.
Once, at age eleven, I woke up excited to go to
school. As I was leaving my room Chichita appeared
out of nowhere and smacked me across the head.
“Three weeks without TV!” she said furiously.
“Let’s see if you study for once. What a disgrace!”
Two days later I got my report card at school, full
of bad grades. I handed it over to my mother and she
signed it without even looking, she didn’t need to.
That’s how it had always been. All my life. Once I
saved up my allowance to buy a fox terrier puppy. He
was adorable and playful. But when I got home Chi-
chita was already digging a hole in the backyard:
“It’s going to get rabies,” she said sadly. “It’ll die
on May 2. Hurry up and give it a name so I can get
the tombstone engraved.”
She unwittingly ruined every single World Cup
for Roberto and I. In 1986, almost a month before
the games were scheduled to begin in Mexico, Chi-
chita was parading around Plaza San Martín waving
the Argentine flag and blowing a horn. In 1990, on
the other hand, she began badmouthing the Germans
in April. And four years later, on the afternoon of the
first match, she said: “Just look at Maradona: he’s
doped up.”
Thanks to her we never learned about anything at
the right time. We always knew things before anyone
else. The worst were her personal predictions. True,

#103
it’s normal for mothers to dislike their sons’ girl-
friends. But at most they’ll say, “I don’t like that girl,”
or, “she’s a little old for you,” and leave it at that.
When I introduced a girlfriend to Chichita, she went
much farther.
“Watch out for that Claudia,” she told me once
about a blonde girl I was hopelessly in love with. “She
may seem harmless as a fly now but in two years she’s
going to drown her brother in the pool.”
My adolescence was hell. I heard about deaths,
disgraces, lucky breaks, and literary prizes well before
they occurred. By fifteen I already knew I was going
to be sent to the Air Force Academy in Córdoba for
my mandatory military service. At seventeen my
mother dragged me by the hair to rehab a full six
months before I first tried marijuana.
One afternoon in 2000 I couldn’t take it anymore
and decided to leave Argentina for good. I dreamed
of living a normal life in a place where I wouldn’t
have to experience every tragedy ahead of time. I
wanted a love story with a surprise ending, a pet I
could love blindly, a World Cup where the outcome
of the semifinals was unexpected. I didn’t care where I
went, as long as it was far from my mother’s predic-
tions. I walked into my house determined to forge a
new path. I’d figure out where to go later. When I en-
tered my room I found Chichita, teary-eyed, putting
my clothes in a suitcase.
“Barcelona would be best,” she said to me. “You’ll
have a beautiful family there.”

#104
 I don’t want to say that I came to Spain just be-
cause of that. There were many other factors. But it’s
also true that here, seven thousand miles away, far
from her forecasts, I’ve lived each moment with
greater peace.
The day that I watched the Twin Towers fall on
live TV, without anyone having told me about it be-
forehand, I cried with happiness. What an enormous
joy to suffer through a tragedy together with the rest
of the world for the first time.
Mea culpa, I know. I should’ve been more honest
with Cristina about my mother’s powers. Chichita’s
visions went far beyond the embellished anecdotes I’d
shared three or four times at the beginning of our re-
lationship. But I didn’t want my wife to think I was
crazy, or a liar, or worse, too Latin American.
My wife is European and whenever I tell her
strange tales from my youth in Argentina she inter-
prets them in one of two ways: she either says, “you’re
a liar,” or “that’s magical realism.” I hate that stereo-
type. How come if an Asian levitates it’s called yoga,
but if a Colombian levitates it’s a García Márquez
story?
Why is it that if an Indian man gets rid of all his
savings it’s considered asceticism, but when an Argen-
tine does it, it’s called economic collapse? There’s a lot
of intellectual racism in Europe.
When I told my wife that the Cultural Affairs Di-
rector of Mercedes had been stripped of his post for
stealing a loaf of bread from the minimart she didn’t

#105
believe me, even after I showed her the clipping from
the local newspaper.
“I’m so sick of you and your tall tales,” she said.
How could I confess, then, that Chichita could
see the future with devastating clarity? How could I
explain to Cristina that her own mother-in-law was a
witch? And not in the usual sense of the word. What’s
the right way to give this kind of news to a middle-
class European woman?
But I had to do something. The clock was ticking
and I wanted to be there for the burial, at the very
least. My father was going to die on Friday in a traffic
accident. We had to go. We had no choice. And I had
to give my wife a logical reason, a first-world reason
that would justify an urgent flight to the other end of
the world.
I’d painted myself into a corner through my own
omissions, my embarrassment. So I weighed my op-
tions. I didn’t have the courage to be totally truthful,
nor could I deceive her entirely. So I offered Cristina
a lie hidden between two truths. This technique is
also known as a pity sandwich.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled, after I hung
up with my mother. “Who’s calling at this hour?
What’s that look on your face?”
“It was Chichita,” truth on top. “She says my dad
is very sick,” lie in the middle. “We have to go to
Buenos Aires,” truth on the bottom.
That very Thursday night we got two tickets for
early Friday. We couldn’t leave any sooner: we had to

#106
drop Nina off at my in-laws, find tickets at a reason-
able price, pack our bags, wrap things up at work, et
cetera. I did what I could but it was impossible to
leave sooner. We would get to Ezeiza Airport on Fri-
day at 9:00 p.m. and a taxi would be waiting to take
us to Mercedes. Seventy more miles (which takes
about two hours) and we’d finally arrive at my child-
hood home.
On the way there I told Cristina the whole truth.
The pity sandwich was just a ploy to get her on the
plane. At thirty thousand feet in the air, the lie was
no longer necessary. Where could the poor woman
go? What was the worst that could happen if I told
her the truth?
The worst happened; Cristina had a nervous
breakdown.
“Three thousand euros plus tax!” she shouted into
the darkened plane. “Is it seriously possible we’re
throwing away all that money just because your
mother is crazy?”
“She’s not crazy, Cris,” I tried to calm her down.
“She’s just a special kind of mother. Her predictions
have never been wrong—never in her mother-fuck-
ing life.”
“We’re spending our savings!” she howled, en-
raged, as the other passengers shushed us or whis-
pered frightenedly to each other. “How can you even
believe in that kind of thing?”
“I believe what I see, Cristina. I don’t care if it
seems impossible. I can’t fathom how this machine

#107
can fly across the world with two hundred people in-
side it, but here I am.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Yes, it is. My mother sees the future, she’s never
wrong. I’ve seen planes crash, but my mother has
never been wrong.”
My wife looked at me with hatred in her eyes,
like she always does when I win an argument.
“I’ll just say one thing,” she hissed, pointing a
finger at me: “if your father doesn’t die, you can for-
get about me. And our daughter. You’d better pray
your father dies today.”
Two flight attendants exchanged glances. I saw
them.
We didn’t say one word to each other at Ezeiza.
We spent half an hour with our arms crossed in idiot-
ic silence as we watched the suitcases parade by on
the conveyor belt.
At 10:04 p.m. we got into the taxi waiting to take
us to Mercedes. I told the driver to do the best he
could to get us there before midnight. It was a slow,
difficult journey, and I couldn’t even enjoy the land-
scape I hadn’t laid eyes on in four years. The fields . . .
It had been so long since I’d seen a real horizon, the
dim-witted cows. As we passed Flandria I had the
urge to cry. It was a quarter to midnight and I was
returning to Mercedes to bury my father. A person
stops being a child when they bury their father, I
thought. Not before. I wanted Cristina to hug me,
but she was still pissed off, looking the other way.

#108
 “Take the exit at 40th,” I told the taxi driver, who
was from Buenos Aires and didn’t know the area.
Then we were in my neighborhood, passing my
friends’ houses, the kiosks closed, motorbikes with
new kids riding them. The same dim streetlights, the
same old potholes. The driver followed my directions
because he wasn’t familiar with Mercedes. I told him
to go past 29th to 35th, and then to the left.
The crash happened right there, on the corner of
35 and 40th. My father was walking home from a
th

client’s house. The taxi driver turned around to ask

me the street number and didn’t see him crossing. We
hit him head-on, right at the waist.

#109
Made for Each Other

Going to someone else’s house for dinner involves a

series of inconveniences: taking a shower, getting
dressed up, missing the Euro Cup game, buying an
expensive bottle of wine, involuntarily smiling for
two hours—sometimes even three. Getting a tour,
room by room, so you can see all the details that went
into a house you couldn’t care less about. Dropping
your daughter off at her grandparents’, missing her.
Having to eat without the TV on, without Coca-
Cola. Eating salad as an appetizer, keeping a low pro-
file, refraining from smoking if no ashtrays are visible.
Not to mention that pulling out a baggie of weed
would be out of the question. One too many rules at
my age.
Last Friday I suffered through one of those absurd
dinner parties that occur when you’re married:
Cristina has a close friend who moved in with the
man she’s dating. No bone of contention there. The
problem started when the two women decided to or-
ganize a dinner party. Allow me to correct myself: the
problem started when they included me at that din-
ner party.

#111
 Up until then, Cristina had a friend who was sin-
gle and they would have lunch or dinner together
now and then, but just the two of them: I wasn’t part
of their relationship. But now that her friend had
moved in with someone, I was invited. I suppose it
was due to a question of symmetry.
“They want us to see their house,” Cristina told
me. “Besides, he sounds like a nice guy.”
“No man who agrees to a dinner party at the
same time as a Euro Cup game can be referred to as ‘a
nice guy’,” I said. “He’s gay.”
We arrived at nine o’clock sharp with a bottle of
wine in hand. Cristina’s friend Mireia was glowing,
hanging off the arm of this nice guy we didn’t know.
The house was his. A modern house, in the suburbs
of Barcelona.
“This is Pol,” Mireia said.
“We’ve heard so much about you, Pol,” Cristina
said, giving him a kiss on either cheek. I shook his
hand and smiled.
Pol was one of those guys who, although younger
than me—three or four years younger—command
the same tremendous respect as someone who were
twenty years older. His clothes looked good on him,
he was freshly shaven, and he moved about like
someone more mature. He was one of those people
who dress smartly due to their own convictions, not
because their wife or mother tells them to. It was safe
to say that nobody had asked Pol to take a shower
and dab some cologne on the nape of his neck that

#112
afternoon. He’d done it of his own accord, by choice.
He was that type of incomprehensible human being.
The dinner party, as you’d imagine, unfolded
within the limits of straitlaced society. A languid con-
versation complete with the grating undertones of
cutlery screeching against plates. It was obvious that
they—Cristina and Mireia—were dying to spill the
beans and gossip about women’s things; it was also
clear they were not doing so precisely because they
were accompanied by two men. So why had they or-
ganized a dinner with all four of us?
Later, I understood that this was the only way for
Cristina to meet Pol without it seeming obvious
(meeting him in a social setting, that is), so that in
the future, when the two friends were alone, she
could share her conclusions. Pol and I were merely
pieces of furniture at the dinner party, anecdotal con-
stituents. Especially me.
During the dinner itself, I made a brief cameo
when the subject turned to our daughter. It’s easy for
me talk about my daughter and, moreover, the hosts
seemed to be interested in her—albeit not interested
enough to have actually invited her. Everything
would have been different with my little girl at the
table: I would have had someone my own age to con-
verse with.
The women carried the conversation for the most
part. Pol and I smiled in silence a few times. At the
beginning of the evening, I tried to bring up the sub-
ject of soccer, but there was no response on his end.

#113
Then he tried testing the waters on the subject of
business, but I lowered my eyes and nibbled on an
olive. It didn’t take more than a minute for us to real-
ize we were incompatible, and we surrendered with
honor. Nevertheless, something happened to partially
unite us. At some point, I think it was around
dessert, he flashed me a look: he shut his eyelids
halfway, raised his eyebrows, and made a slight nod of
the head. It was the universal masculine gesture, the
one that means: “Brother, hang in there, it’s almost
over.” It made me feel better to know that I wasn’t the
only one at the table bored out of my skull.
When it was time for coffee Mireia told us how
they had met, her and Pol. The soppy, romantic bit
couldn’t be left out. It seems they both worked at the
same multinational; she was an executive secretary
and he was the head of human resources. Humdrum
story. Then the romance started to blossom, in com-
pany corridors no less.
“Little by little,” Mireia told us, the grin of a
woman in love plastered across her face, “Pol started
to give me gifts, out of the blue. First a flower, then a
book. Eventually, a pair of sandals.”
Pol smiled uncomfortably. I tried not to look at
him.
“What a gentleman,” Cristina said.
“But the most incredible thing about his gifts,”
continued Mireia, “is that he never misread my tastes.
The flower was an orchid; the book, by Coelho; the
sandals were Koh-Tao . . .”

#114
 “As if he’d known you your entire life,” said
Cristina, impressed, and she looked at me in disgust,
possibly remembering the Pappo’s Blues LP I’d
bought for her on our last anniversary.
“Yes,” agreed Mireia, clasping her better half’s
hand, “as if we were soulmates.”
Pol seemed uneasy. Not because Cristina was get-
ting to hear all the frilly specifics of their private af-
fairs, but rather due to my observant presence. No
man enjoys another man overhearing the mawkish
details of his gallantry.
I made a remarkable effort on behalf of the hu-
man race: “Pol,” I said getting up, “could you show
me where there’s a balcony or something, to smoke a
cigarette?”
We went upstairs, taking a couple of beers with
us. Turning on our heels, we had barely exited the
dining room when the voices of Cristina and Mireia
switched to complicit whispering and stifled laughter:
they could finally talk, without witnesses, in the tone
they usually used when they were alone.
“Sorry to make you come all this way for a cig-
arette,” Pol said once we had made ourselves com-
fortable on an immense balcony, “but I prefer for our
guests to smoke outside.”
“I didn’t really want to smoke,” I said, which was
only half true. “I wanted to save you from the sappy
conversation. And save myself from having to listen
to it . . . Hearing about other people’s personal lives
makes me uncomfortable.”

#115
 “Sometimes, knowing other people’s secrets can
be quite useful,” he said to me mysteriously, taking a
sip of his beer. His tone of voice had changed. Sud-
denly, outside and under the light of the moon, I was
speaking to a different man than the one I had eaten
dinner with. Or at least it seemed that way.
“Would you like me to tell you the real story?
About how I met Mireia?” he asked me—and now
we’re finally getting to the actual point of this story.
“Tell me, sure,” I said lighting a cigarette.
“I work in technology; my duties include moni-
toring what all four thousand company employees do
on the internet. But around a year ago I installed a
system that enables me to see what our employees
search for on Google.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“It’s useful—what’s useful is never illegal,” he
told me. “Google is an incredible tool. People today
use Google like they would have turned to a wizard
or an oracle a thousand years ago . . . People ask the
most implausible questions, but they’re defining
questions. !e search engine has become a sort of
personal God that doesn’t make judgements and
only offers random replies, which are generally very
bad. But who cares what—”
“The answers don’t really matter at your job.”
“Exactly,” said Pol. “What matters are the ques-
tions, the searches themselves. An employee with in-
ternet access makes twenty to thirty searches a
day . . . About different types of things, always ac-

#116
cording to their mood and their needs. If, over the
course of a year, you put down someone’s searches on
paper, it’s like having their honest-to-God personal
diary. The personal diary that nobody would actually
dare to write about themselves.”
I thought about my private Google searches. I felt
embarrassed and self-conscious, and I silently agreed.
“People are concerned about the strangest things,”
Pol told me. “Like certain managers from my com-
pany who seem to be extremely self-confident but
search for colognes with pheromones to attract
women. For example. Or some veteran administrative
assistants, whose kids are teenagers by now, the type
of women who talk obsessively about their family and
all that, and then each afternoon search for videos of
women kissing. There’s an errand boy who likes to
look at pictures of naked old women, really old
women who are maybe ninety years old with their tits
hanging down to their knees, like raisins. Things like
that. I could go on, telling you the secret history of
humanity, on a miniature scale. What four thousand
people do at one company isn’t that much different
than what six billion people do worldwide.”
I was immediately reminded of that story by
Borges in which a cartographer decides to make a
map that includes everything. Then, after many years
of work, he discovers that the map has taken on the
shape of his own face. I almost mentioned it, but I
was much more interested in Pol going on with his
monologue.

#117
 “All my employees’ searches from the last year
have been saved in big data warehouses. I use this in-
formation to draw conclusions related to manage-
ment, sure. But I can also use it to find out what the
new secretary’s favorite type of flower is, for example.”
“Or which book by Coelho.”
He laughed.
“Or which brand of sandals,” he said to me then,
his real smile emerging, which was very different
from the smile he had worn earlier at the dinner ta-
ble. “Mireia caught my eye from the first time I laid
eyes on her. After that it wasn’t very hard work: I
started to study what she wanted, what she was scared
of, which things motivated her, what she bought and
what she sold. What she believed in and—most im-
portantly—what she was willing to believe. With just
half that information, you could fuck any woman af-
ter an hour of conversation. Imagine, then, what a
government can do with the searches made by an en-
tire country.”
I did imagine this and it made me sick. Not the
world, but Pol, the new Pol from the balcony. I pre-
ferred a thousand times over the shy man who had
taken his girlfriend by the hand and gazed into her
eyes over dessert. But I would never see that man
again, because now I had met this Pol. And this Pol
had killed the other one.
The other Pol, the charming amateur, was un-
doubtedly the subject of conversation between the
two women back in the dining room. Mireia would

#118
be confessing to Cristina that her new boyfriend was
perfect and sensitive, that he magically knew her
preferences in the kitchen and in bed. That they liked
the same songs, the same books, they channel-surfed
the same way, planned their trips with telepathic pre-
cision.
“Right now I’m staking out a girl with big tits
who started in the marketing department a couple
months ago,” Pol was telling me, but I could barely
hear him. “This blonde is really hot: she likes to look
at pictures of people who have been run over. Last
week I pretended to have a fractured wrist and she
devoured me with her eyes. I’ve got her on standby,
begging for it.”
But I was no longer on the balcony. I kept think-
ing about the conversation downstairs. About poor
Cris, listening to and perhaps envying all those lies
about ideal couples and perfect men. The idealization
of love, men who tuck their shirt in, smoke-free
houses, the intimate feeling of having found The
One, being made for each other, forever. Why did I
give Cristina that LP for our anniversary? What type
of thing does she search for on Google? What was I
thinking? Since when does a Catalan woman like
1970s Argentine hard rock bands like Pappo’s Blues?
No. There’s not an answer for everything. And we’re
better off that way.

#119
Domestic Appliances

It was a beautiful, open loft, with sparse furnishings.

The most expensive thing I’d bought for it was a
double bed with Bonnell springs, because, in 1998,
the only thing that mattered to me was sleep. I rented
the place from a German widower who lived upstairs
with his daughter. Hans was a hairy man with sad
eyes and a subscription to Deutsche Post. Sandra was
my age, around twenty-seven. When Hans first sho-
wed me the apartment and went over everything, he
didn’t mention that his daughter had problems.
The first two weeks I saw Sandra only a few times
—as I went in or out of the shared garage—and I was
weighing the pros and cons of seducing her. She
wasn’t especially pretty, but neither was she ugly; her
looks didn’t matter: at that age I considered any
woman who crossed my path.
Since Chiri had recently gotten married, my best
friend and confidant at the time was a guy named
Costoya. We were both bachelors and we worked to-
gether from midnight to 9:00 a.m. at a press clipping
office. Our social lives were defined by constant ex-
haustion.

#121
 It was hard to maintain any romantic relationship
with such backward hours: we had to find women
who were willing to have sex at noon, because by
3:00 p.m. we needed to get to bed so we could get up
in the middle of the night, shower, and go back to
clipping.
Our conversations, as we scanned the press clip-
pings, centered on two main topics: who we were
sleeping with, and what new trick we’d learned to
sleep better. Even if we were talking about something
else (politics or books) deep down we were speaking
solely about fucking without falling asleep.
One night I laid out the situation with Hans’s
daughter for Costoya: “Pros: she’s German, has big
tits, seems quiet, and, most importantly, she’s on
hand before noon. Cons: she looks a little like Beck-
enbauer in the face,” I said, and I turned to him for
his verdict. But Costoya wasn’t listening, he had his
own problems. He’d just gotten out of a rocky mar-
riage and his ex, a budding screenwriter, had struck it
big. Costoya had lost his house and two cats (she kept
all three) and he was crashing at a friend’s apartment.
He really missed his cats: he was sad and bitter. Rea-
sons for Costoya’s sadness: he’d walked in on his wife
with another guy; the other guy was her co-writer;
the series they’d written together was sweeping the
ratings. Reasons for his bitterness: photos of his ex
were being published in the papers, Costoya got up at
midnight to cut out press clippings; the Telefé net-
work was one of our clients.

#122
 There were fifteen of us at the press clipping of-
fice, of different ages, who all stayed awake overnight
to work. It was the only office job I ever had where
there were no idiots. My fourteen co-workers and I
shared a sarcastic sense of humor we’d cultivated to-
gether. The other guys were funny and they liked
drugs. The job was boring (scanning and cutting) and
we constantly made fun of our pathetic lives. When
someone came across news of Costoya’s ex, they
would cackle. Those cackles at 5:00 a.m. made us feel
better.
My daytime problems were simple ones. Should I
seduce Hans’s daughter or not? I wasn’t a winner; I’d
never known how to pick up women at dances or
noisy parties; first impressions were not my strong
suit. But if I could get close to a neighbor girl or a
lady who worked at a nearby bakery, I had an effec-
tive technique that I played out in four parts. Day 1:
Make her smile and then leave. Day 2: Make her
laugh hard and then leave. Day 3: Make her tear up
over a story and then leave. Day 4: Say something
sappy and stay. Generally, something good happened
on the fifth day.
I started putting the method into practice with
Hans’s daughter, but fortunately when I got to Day 2
I was saved by the bell. It was a Wednesday. I was
suddenly awoken from my nap by a strange, furious
shrieking that echoed through the house. It was San-
dra’s voice and it sounded very close. I went out onto
the patio and looked up. I saw her in her nightgown:

#123
her tits swinging, her hair in her face. She was trying
to jump from her window down onto my patio.
Hans was holding her back so she wouldn’t fall.
I turned around and went inside, like a coward. I
didn’t want to intrude on the family’s privacy. After a
minute the shouting stopped and I went back to
sleep. Two hours later Hans knocked on my door to
apologize. I hated having my nap interrupted, be-
cause that was all the rest I got. Back then, sleep was
the only thing that mattered to me. I invited him in,
but Hans declined. From the doorway he informed
me that his daughter was schizophrenic. He ex-
plained: “She’s in treatment, sometimes she has these
relapses, but it’s not common.” And then he added:
“I don’t keep scissors or anything sharp in the house,
you don’t have to worry.”
The next morning, at work, Costoya listened to
the newest chapter of my seducer-tenant story and he
was unequivocal: “You can’t fuck her, the father told
you she’s sick,” he said, “but you should bring her to
our Friday swap meets.” It seemed risky to me; I told
him I would think about it. What we called “Friday
swap meets” were parties at my house. It was the only
day of the week that we could socialize at night, so we
had to make the most of our limited time. So the fif-
teen clipping service employees came to my house
with alcohol and one guest each.
This guest could be an ex-girlfriend, an acquain-
tance, a cousin from the country—no one cared too
much as long as she had the recognizable features of a

#124
female. We didn’t have time to go out and pick up
women, or to try new places. We had to provide for
ourselves. So we gathered together our old crumbs
and scattered them amongst each other, so they could
become another guy’s sandwich. The guests could be
ugly up to reasonable limits and age didn’t matter.
There were guys who brought their own aunts. There
was only one requirement: the woman you invited
had to be someone who refused to fuck you, or who’d
already fucked you enough times and was done with
you, or to whom you were unfuckable for legal or re-
ligious reasons.
Costoya had a point: Hans’s daughter met the re-
quirements. I couldn’t fuck Sandra, so I should put
her in circulation at the next swap meet. But I didn’t
do it, I’m relieved to say. I couldn’t do it.
Ever since I’d learned she was schizophrenic I
found it hard make conversation when I ran into her.
What excuse would I give, anyway, to invite her to
one of my parties? Wasn’t it practically the same as
trying to seduce her? Weeks passed and Costoya for-
got about it.
What I did do (and I am ashamed of this) was
talk a lot about her at work.
I told them about Sandra’s guttural screams, the
broken plates smashed against the floor upstairs, her
wolf-like howl interrupting my sleep at ungodly
hours. My friends called her, affectionately, the crazy
girl upstairs. “Did you fuck the crazy girl upstairs?”
“Did the crazy girl upstairs let you get any sleep last

#125
night?” I shouldn’t have made fun of Hans’s daughter
that way.
Time passed. We fell into a routine and I became
fond of my landlords. Anyone who has lived for a
while in someone else’s home knows that you slowly
become something like a silent pet; you begin to care
about your owner. You perk up an ear when the
garage door opens and you hear the familiar sound of
their car. You feel less alone.
After I’d been renting there for over a year, Hans
came down to tell me he’d be out of town for a few
days; he was a set designer and he’d gotten a project
abroad. He casually mentioned that Sandra would be
staying home alone for the first time; he told me that
she was on medication and there wouldn’t be any
problems.
It was the early days of mobiles and Hans had an
enormous brick of a phone; I’d bought one too. He
gave me his cell number in case anything unexpected
should happen; he trusted me. I was happy that I’d
never brought his daughter to our swap meets: Hans
was a nice guy.
The party that Friday was noisy—as they always
were—but the fifteen guys from the clipping service
and their guests all remember that night especially
well. I was out on the patio, very high, trying to
make a friend’s guest cry with a sad story, when an-
other guest came out to say that someone had come
into the house looking for me.
“Who?” I asked.

#126
 “A blonde girl, with a really crazy face.”
I went into the living room and there she was.
Hans’s daughter was standing on the rug in her
nightgown: tits swinging, hair in her face. The others
had improvised a kind of circle around her, like in a
bad movie when someone is doing a dance solo or
has leprosy.
“Hello, Sandra. Is everything all right?”
“Can I stay?”
She was scared. She must’ve felt lonely upstairs,
she was trying to sleep and we were driving her nuts
with the music so she came down.
“You don’t want to stay. You want to sleep, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bring the speakers inside so you won’t hear
them from your room. I’ll close the patio door and
we’ll try to talk more quietly.”
“Okay.”
“Want me to walk you up?”
“No.”
She turned around and left. She was naked under
her nightgown.
When she closed the door behind her the fifteen
guys from the clipping office celebrated her exit with
cheers and hugs all around. Sandra was a character
they knew well, but none of them had ever seen her
in person until that night. I felt sorry for her in a way,
her mental illness, her confusion; but I also felt a self-
ish pride. I liked that she’d come down, because the
parties at my house always had a splash of color: a fat

#127
albino woman, a schizophrenic girl in a nightgown, a
rising young starlet.
I looked around for Costoya, to see if he’d finally
met Hans’s daughter in person as well, but that night
Costoya was hooking up with a girl (who much later
would become his wife); they were making out on
my double bed with the Bonnell springs. He didn’t
get to meet the crazy girl upstairs.
The next week Costoya wasn’t sad or bitter over
his ex’s success. He was in love. He’d found the per-
fect woman: she worked only in the afternoons, at
the appliance store Garbarino, and they could fuck
from 10:00 a.m. to noon with no problem. But only
in rent-by-the-hour hotel rooms. Neither she nor
Costoya lived alone, which meant their love was cost-
ing them a fortune.
I never spent weekends in Buenos Aires. Every
Saturday morning after the swap meet, I took a bus
out to visit Chiri in Luján, or my parents in Mer-
cedes, or my sister in La Plata. I returned on Sunday
nights, straight back to the sad task of cutting out
news clippings. One Saturday I left my house keys
with Costoya so he could spend the weekend with his
girl.
When I got home, the following Monday, Cos-
toya and his girlfriend had left my key under the
doormat in the garage and a gift on the counter: an
electric mixer. Next to the mixer—bright white,
brand new—was a thank you note: “You don’t have
any kitchen appliances, you’re a disaster. If you let us

#128
come back some other weekend, we’ll bring you more
stuff.”
That Tuesday I told Costoya that gifts were un-
necessary, he could use my house whenever he want-
ed without giving me anything in return. He argued:
“I like cooking for women because it drives them
wild. But you don’t have anything to cook with, and
she can get the appliances at cost from her job. I play
chef and you get your kitchen decked-out like a regu-
lar TV chef.” Sounded good to me.
Costoya and his girlfriend started using my house
every Saturday and Sunday that I left town. They not
only always left me a gift on the counter (a juicer, a
grater, an electric kettle) but they also left the house
immaculate, smelling fresh, and they never forgot to
put my key under the mat in the garage.
The exchange became so habitual that some
Tuesdays, when I got to the clipping office, I forgot
to thank Costoya for the new gift I’d discovered on
Monday. So when I got home one day and there was
no new gift on the counter I didn’t say anything.
What would I say. “Why didn’t I get anything new
from Garbarino this time?” It was actually a relief
that there were no new appliances. I already had a
blender, a food processor, a coffee maker, a toaster, a
bread machine . . . There weren’t enough plugs in the
house for any more.
That Tuesday night work was fun because the en-
tertainment section of Clarín had published a long
interview with my friend’s ex-wife. The central image,

#129
huge and in color, showed her petting two cats. They
were Costoya’s cats, his two loves, lost in the divorce.
We cackled a lot that night.
I got home mid-morning, exhausted from all the
laughter and desperate for sleep. I got off bus 59 at
Cabildo and when I reached Olazábal I heard two
ambulances and the chatter of concerned neighbors. I
stood on the corner of my block. Hans, my landlord,
was pulling at his hair and trying to hug the body of
his daughter, who was being rolled out on a stretcher,
her face covered by a blue sheet.
I felt a tickle of anxiety. I didn’t know what to do.
I once again felt like their pet. I paced in circles like a
confused dog who’s found one of his owners lying
lifeless on the floor; I could smell the scent of death
in the air. I wanted to sniff the body, I wanted to run
away. I wanted to scratch my fleas, curl up, and go to
sleep.
I knew that I wouldn’t be able to go into my
house and lie down on the bed, because the place was
a minefield of medics and police officers coming and
going. And I didn’t want to go over and ask what had
happened, because I was dead on my feet. It’s not
that I didn’t feel bad for Hans, or over whatever had
happened to Sandra. I felt terrible. But sleep, at that
point in my life, was the only thing that mattered to
me.
I called Costoya on my three-pound cell phone. I
asked if I could sleep at his place. His roommate usu-
ally worked during the day so there was an empty

#130
bed. I crossed my fingers. He said yes, to hop in a taxi
and come over, it was no problem.
And before hanging up, he added: “But if we’re
going to be swapping houses both ways, dude, you
can give back last Sunday’s gift.”
I was about to ask what he was talking about, be-
cause that Monday I hadn’t found any gift on the
counter, but it wasn’t necessary. One of the police of-
ficers walked out of the house: he was holding up an
electric knife, bright white, brand new. Covered in
blood.

#131
Cannelloni

Prank phone calls were known as cachadas and they

were as old as the invention of the phone itself. We
had a wide array of tactics, all aimed at annoying an
unsuspecting interlocutor; pissing them off, riling
them up. Somewhere around the middle of high
school Chiri and I became experts in the art. We were
telephone magicians. But then a sad event forced us
to abandon our calling. To this day, the story is a re-
minder of the evil that resides within us.
We began, like everyone does, as children. When
telephones were black, rotary, and state-issued. The
first infantile prank calls are always made to someone
with the last name Gallo, (no one knows why, but
that’s the way it is). In the Mercedes municipal phone
book there were nine listings under Gallo, which
means rooster in Spanish. We called them one by one.
“Hello, the Gallos?”
“Yes,” they said on the other end.
“Is Remigio there?”
“There’s no Remigio here.”
“Sorry, I guess I have the wrong henhouse,” and
we hung up, dying of laughter.

#133
 There are dozens of these basic jokes, and we
copied our older siblings or cousins, who had already
moved on to more elaborate pranks. As you can see,
the main objective of our first incursions into the art
of the prank call was laughter: a clean cackle that
didn’t cause any major harm to the victim.
Oh, if only we could’ve remained in our child-
hood innocence, free from evil and guilt. But no: we
have to mature. And mature we did.
There are always rumors circulating in small
towns, facts and details about neighbors who are easy
targets for prank calls. Neighbors considered
“prickly.” It was generally a certain type of old man
who, when he received a prank call, would unleash
the full force of his fury and seemed incapable of
hanging up the phone. Around age ten or twelve, we
got a reliable tip: you have to call Mr. Toledo and say
the magic word.
“Hello, is this the Toledo residence?”
“Yes.”
“Is ‘Trumpeter’ there?”
This was the word that triggered Mr. Toledo, who
had a high-pitched, strident voice like a horn, to be-
gin his steam of insults and curses, punctuated with
hilarious huffs and wild neologisms. Chiri and I
would crowd around the receiver and imagine Toledo
at his house, in his underwear, his cheeks a deep red
color and smoke shooting out of his ears. Ten min-
utes in, when his diatribe began to lose steam and his
lungs to lose air, all we had to say was “don’t get so

#134
worked up, Trumpeter,” and he’d start all over again.
Mission accomplished.
But a boy must grow, and with him, ambition,
dramatic structure, and a still-dormant evil begins to
take shape. It wasn’t long before Chiri and I became
bored with invisible Gallos and Toledos, who were
merely disembodied voices on the other end of the
line, so we moved into the realm of three-dimension-
al pranks, with live victims.
Every afternoon the bald man who ran the shop
across the street would close up for the day and head
home following hours of total boredom without hav-
ing sold anything. We could see him, resigned, from
the dining room window. Right when the bald guy
lowered the heavy metal shutter over his storefront,
just before he wrapped the chain around the latch, we
called him on the phone. The poor man, who didn’t
want to lose a sale, desperately raised the shutter, ran
to the back of the shop and, on the fifth or sixth ring,
panted: “Pontoni Carpets, good afternoon.”
And we hung up.
A little while later we’d see him once again, hu-
miliated and defeated, lowering his gigantic shutter; it
was twice as heavy this time. His life was shit, you
could see it in his eyes and in the curve of his spine.
Then the bald man once again heard the phone ring
inside the shop. “If it’s the same person who called
before, they must need carpeting urgently,” the shop-
keeper thought, and once again his heart pounded,
and once again he raised the shutter, once again he

#135
ran to the back of the shop, and once again he said,
“Pontoni Carpets, good afternoon,” with a thread of a
voice. We hung up. We always hung up. One day we
repeated the trick so many times that on the
umpteenth fake call the bald man had no other re-
course than to say, “Pontoni Carpets, good evening.”
We would’ve gone on like that until the end of
time, but a year later we crashed headlong into the
future. One day, on the first ring, old bald Pontoni
pulled out a brick with an antennae on it and said
“Hello.” He’d bought a cordless phone.
Far from deterring us, the advent of technology
afforded new opportunities. When we got a second
phone at my house (one with a cord, one without)
Chiri and I invented something we called telecomedy.
This type of prank involved two voices and a passive
receptor. It consisted of calling any random number
and making the victim believe they were interrupting
a private conversation.
VICTIM: “Hello?”
CHIRI (in a woman’s voice): “. . . you like it when
I do that.”
VICTIM: “Excuse me?”
HERNAN (in a man’s voice): “What I like is to
lick your ass.”
CHIRI: “Mmmm, don’t say that, you’re getting
my nipples all hard.”
VICTIM: “Who is this?”
HERNAN: “What’s getting hard is my cock,” et
cetera.

#136
 !e objective of this dramatic exercise was to get
the interlocutor to stop saying “hello” and start lis-
tening to our obscene conversation, like someone
hidden underneath a hotel bed. !e better our sto-
ries, the longer the victim took to get bored and
hang up. It was, I suppose, great practice in plot-
ting, which would serve us—in the future—to keep
our readers hooked. One day, after ten minutes of
telecomedy, one of our victims started panting, and
it grossed us out.
By age sixteen or seventeen, we considered our-
selves radio theater professionals. We’d learned pres-
ence and emotional expression, and had developed a
natural reflex for improvisation. Chiri and I skipped
our afternoon gym class to shut ourselves up at home
with two or three telephones, a little Sanyo recorder,
and some props that could make sounds like rain,
traffic, fire, or blizzard. We also had egg whites on
hand, in case we wanted to change the pitch of our
voices.
We didn’t need to talk to each other: we commu-
nicated solely through gestures and glances, like radio
announcers behind the glass. We worked magic. We
could send a stranger down to City Hall to pick up a
non-existent tax bill, seduce the receptionist at a doc-
tor’s office, make a firetruck siren sound whenever we
felt like it, and convince the owner of the kiosk on
the corner of 19th and 30th that he was speaking to us
live on-air from a radio station in Luján.
We thought we were gods, and perhaps this

#137
hubris is what caused us to fall so quickly from the
zenith of our glory and hit rock bottom.
It was the middle of 1988. I remember because
we were wearing digital watches to time ourselves. It
was dark and my parents weren’t home. For hours,
Chiri and I had been playing an enthralling game:
make the victim stay on the line as long as possible at
all costs. When you become a professional prank call-
er you go back to the basics. The game consisted of
calling a random number and pulling a conversation
out of thin air. The clock started at “hello” and ran
until the click of the hang up.
That night Chiri had put on a perfect perfor-
mance: he’d maintained a conversation for seventeen
minutes twelve seconds with an old lady, telling her
he was calling from the dry cleaner’s. They’d had a
hilarious exchange about ironing and drying and
ended up singing a duet of “Nostalgias” together.
Chiri had the woman wrapped around his little fin-
ger, with masterful winks and touches of genius. It
would be impossible to outdo him.
I rolled the dice. I got 24612. I dialed the num-
ber. Chiri had the stopwatch in his hand and he
looked smug. When the voice of an old lady said
“Hello” the seconds began to tick away.
I had developed a system—my house brand if
you will—that I could pull out at any critical mo-
ment. It was a risky strategy that involved using a
standard male voice, a monotonous, slow voice, and
urging the victim to guess my identity. That night, in

#138
what would be the last prank call of my life, I used
this technique.
“Who is it?” the old lady asked after my “hello.”
“Oh great,” I said. “You don’t even recognize my
voice?”
This was a king’s pawn game. A classic opening.
It generated a feeling of familiarity in the other.
There’s always some grown nephew whose voice has
changed, or a godson. Always.
“I don’t know,” said the old lady. “Who are you
trying to call?”
“You, you old bag!”
Super risky move. I was placing the queen in the
center of the board. Very few people would call a lady
“an old bag.” But if I wanted to beat Chiri’s time, I
had to behave like a kamikaze. It worked:
“Daniel?!” she said, in that tone halfway between
a question and an exclamation. The tone is called
“wishful thinking.”
The way she pronounced that name gave me a
million clues. Daniel wasn’t a nephew or a godson,
because the old lady’s scream had been deafening. It
could be no less than a son. Possibly an only son. And
that same piece of evidence led me to another conclu-
sion: the son lived far away and he didn’t call his
mother often. I dove in headfirst.
“Of course, Mom! Who else would it be?”
“Danny, little Dan!” the old woman sobbed, as
Chiri silently took an imaginary hat off of his head,
surrendering to my move.

#139
 Now, time was on my side. I paced around with
the cordless so that Chiri couldn’t try to make me
laugh. He sat listening in on the regular phone. After
five minutes I’d learned that Daniel lived in the South
(“is it cold down there?” the old lady asked in the
middle of September), and also that in recent years
the relationship between them hadn’t been very
warm.
“Dad would’ve liked you to be at his funeral.”
“It’s not easy, Mom. There are open wounds, life
isn’t that simple.”
I learned that Daniel had a wife—Negra—and
two kids. The youngest, Carlitos, had never met his
grandmother. I also learned that the city Daniel lived
in was Comodoro Rivadavia, and that he worked in a
television factory. At twelve minutes into the conver-
sation, when I was on track to beat Chiri’s record, the
old lady began to suspect something was up. She
started asking ambiguous questions, I had to impro-
vise.
“How is it that you sound so close, son?” she
wanted to know.
She left me with no choice. “Mom,” I said, sur-
prised by my cruelty. “I’m here, at the station.”
Silence from the other end of the line, and then a
muffled sob. I turned around and made eye contact
with Chiri, who was staring at me, his face pale. He
wasn’t smiling. I felt, from deep inside, the pull of
evil. I felt it for the first time in my life. It came from
my stomach, my cock, and my brain all at the same

#140
time, like a diabolical holy trinity. With a gesture, I
asked Chiri how long I’d been talking. Sixteen min-
utes.
“Don’t cry, Ma,” I said.
“Have you come to Mercedes before?” she asked
in a broken voice. “Sometimes I dream that you
come, at night, and you don’t stop by the house . . .”
“No. No, no . . . It’s the first time I’ve been back,
I swear. But I didn’t want to just show up, out of
nowhere. That’s why I called.”
“Son!” she shouted, heartbroken. “Hang up and
hurry over, come home!”
Almost seventeen minutes, I needed something
else. I clenched my left fist as I decided what to say. I
think the evil had taken full control of me by that
point. I don’t think I was even the one speaking.
Something indefinable, the thing that makes us hu-
man and horrible, was now rooted deep within me
and I was its puppet.
“I have to do a few things first, then I’ll come
home,” I said. “Listen, Mom. Will you make cannel-
loni? I’m starving.”
“Of course, Danny.”
“I miss your cannelloni.”
“Hurry up, I’ll make them now.”
“Bye.”
“Bye, son. I’m trembling all over, hurry up.”
And the woman hung up the phone.
I looked at Chiri, who was staring down at the
floor. He refused to make eye contact, I guess he

#141
couldn’t look me in the face. He didn’t remember to
stop the clock, so we never even found out who won.
We sat on the couch for a while, not saying a word.
Half an hour later we knew that somewhere in Mer-
cedes there was a house, and in that house there was a
table, and on that table sat a steaming dish.
And we knew that our childhood would be over
the moment Daniel’s cannelloni grew cold.

#142
!e Second Drawer

A while ago, on my blog, I wrote a love story called

“Tits” that happened when I was eight years old. The
characters in the story were my third-grade classma-
tes, who I never saw again because the next year they
moved me to another group. I used real first and last
names in the story and one of my former classmates,
Juan José Bugarín, wrote me an e-mail as soon as he
saw I’d mentioned him. At first I was worried he’d be
angry, because I tend to exaggerate. But his e-mail
was very warm. And most importantly, and surpri-
singly, Juan José unearthed another story from my
memory—a true tale from start to finish, an incident
I’d completely forgotten about.
“Chunk,” Bugarín addressed me in his e-mail,
“my family always remembers you and that’s why,
even though I haven’t seen you for almost thirty
years, reading a story like the one you wrote, and be-
ing mentioned, fills me with emotion. One of the
anecdotes I always tell, whenever anyone asks about
you, is that time with the porn magazines. I’m happy
to hear things are going well for you. Sending you a
big hug, Juanjo.”

#143
 For a minute or two I didn’t remember what he
was talking about, I’d buried it under pounds of other
useless memories. When it finally came back to me I
was shocked: it was a pivotal moment in my relation-
ship with my father, yet I’d gone and buried it. That
night, the one Bugarín still remembers, had been
bound and gagged inside my brain since 1979, and
there it would’ve stayed—mute, neglected—if it
hadn’t been for that e-mail.
It all came rushing back to me: I relived the
events just as they’d unfolded. I vividly remembered
the smell of the second desk drawer; the trees Rober-
to and I walked under that night, there and back; the
shameful silence of that walk; Chichita’s horrified ex-
pression at the dinner table; my heartburn that day at
recess. I also understood, now through my adult eyes,
how mortifying it must’ve been for him.
Roberto, my dad, was the shyest and most re-
served person I knew. It was as if his main objective
in life was to pass unnoticed, to never call attention
to himself, to avoid any eccentricity. Maybe because
of my father’s aloof, feline personality, I behaved in a
doggish manner as a child, intent on uncovering his
secrets, on digging beneath his words and expres-
sions. From a young age I obsessively checked his
pockets as soon as he’d hung up his pants, rummaged
in the glove compartment of his car, and, most of all,
I was fascinated by the only locked drawer in his oak
desk. The second drawer on the right; I was fixated
on it. Roberto opened and closed this drawer all the

#144
time, but he never left it unlocked. One triumphant
Sunday morning I found myself home alone and dis-
covered that I could remove the top drawer, which
wasn’t locked. Then, as if by magic, the contents of
the second drawer majestically appeared within reach.
The secret drawer was filled with interesting
things: a stopwatch used for time-speed-distance
rallies, a wad of new hundred-peso bills from the
bank, two of the nicest pens I’d ever seen in my
life, my dad’s old military ID card with his draft
photo and, underneath all that, wrapped in brown
paper, a collection of six magazines in a foreign
language, filled with pictures of naked men and
women doing acrobatics.
Of all the treasures, I would’ve liked to keep the
stopwatch, or one of the pens, but I thought my dad
might notice if they went missing. There were plenty
of bills and magazines, on the other hand; so I took
three bills and two magazines, figuring he wouldn’t
notice. I put everything else back as if no one had
been there, slid the top drawer in place, and crept to
my bedroom with the booty hidden under my shirt.
I didn’t realize it then, but I’m now certain: they
were European magazines smuggled into Argentina
by one of Roberto’s more pleasure-seeking buddies (I
can even imagine which one). In 1979, under the
shroud of Argentina’s conservative dictatorship, that
kind of porn wasn’t sold in the kiosks. They were
nothing like the aesthetic, naive, serene nudes that
began to appear in the eighties; these were brutal an-

#145
thologies of explicit sex: interracial, polyamorous, ac-
cessorized.
There were gigantic cocks and tits dripping with
semen, men with bristly sideburns, and women with
eyelashes thick as fingers wearing off-color makeup. I
flipped through the pages with shock and embar-
rassment—not excited but not disgusted either. Two
things caught my eye most of all: the physical protu-
berances covered in hair and the vowels with two dots
over them in the captions: there were very flexible
women practicing smögen här with great skill, two
black men doing könssjukdomår with a blonde
woman, and one woman licking another woman’s
erotikmässor.
The next day I went to school with the magazines
and the three hundred pesos. At lunch I bought more
sandwiches than a fat eight-year-old kid could eat,
and at morning recess I showed the magazines to
Juanjo Bugarín, who automatically named me his
best friend in the universe. By afternoon recess my
stomach had stared to hurt.
I guess the stomachache could’ve been indiges-
tion, but I believed it to be guilt: I suspected that by
the time I got home my dad would’ve discovered the
theft of his bills and magazines. So I did what any
bad child thief would do: I got rid of the evidence.
After school, I spent the last bill on trading cards and
I gave the magazines to Bugarín, who eagerly slid
them into his homework folder.
When I got home everything was normal and I

#146
felt relieved. The afternoon passed slowly, with no
news, and by nightfall I’d completely forgotten about
my guilt and my sin. In the middle of dinner the
phone rang; my mom answered. On the other end of
the line I could clearly hear Bugarín’s mother shout-
ing. Chichita’s eyes grew wide, glassy, and terrifying.
I had always feared the ferocity of my mother’s
gaze, that look she gave me whenever I did something
bad. It was a look that always led to a spanking,
which felt—in time and intensity—like an earth-
quake. But there was something different in Chichi-
ta’s eyes, something new that I didn’t understand at
the time. Now that I can view the story from the
matrimonial perspective I finally get it. That look
wasn’t for me, but for Roberto. For the first time, my
mother’s fierce expression wasn’t aimed at me.
After Chichita hung up the phone she sat back
down at the table and asked me two simple ques-
tions. Did you give Juanjo some magazines? Question
one. Where did you get those magazines? Question
two. I answered the first with a weak yes and when
she asked the second I pointed toward my dad’s oak
desk. Roberto’s gaze darkened and he stared down at
his steak, as if suddenly the cut of meat was saying
something of great importance, about soccer or poli-
tics. I closed my eyes and covered my head with my
arms to absorb the blows that were sure to come.
But there were no blows.
I sat waiting with my eyes closed a little longer. I
waited and waited for the kicks and sandal swats, but

#147
no, Chichita didn’t lift a finger. I kept my arms over
my head, just in case, as I listened to my mother:
“I’m going to make sure you feel the embarrassment
of the century, for being such an idiot.” That’s what
Chichita shouted. “You’re going to go ring the
Bugaríns’ doorbell right now and ask for those maga-
zines back.”
How amazing, childhood. That night I thought
that her words, her punishment, were all for me. But
she wasn’t talking to me. And when Chichita added:
“And you, you idiot, you’re going to go with him,” I
thought she was saying that to my dad.
Because of this misunderstanding, because I
hadn’t been looking my mother in the eyes, I had the
feeling I was receiving a very weak punishment for
my crime. Just an order from my mother to go get
the magazines from Bugarín’s house, I thought. Just
that? No heavy blows or painful consequences? I felt
physical relief, yes, but my rebellious pride demanded
big bruises and loud screams. This wasn’t my five-
year-old sister we were talking about. I was terrible, I
was a dangerous fat kid. I didn’t deserve the charity of
such a wimpy reprisal. And my dad had to go with
me too? I felt ashamed of my sentence, so feminine
and unimaginative.
Roberto and I walked down the street. It was au-
tumn and it was chilly. Bugarín’s house was two
blocks from mine, no big deal. It was just after 10:00
p.m. as I walked those two hundred yards with my
father in silence. Never understanding that I wasn’t

#148
the person being punished. The humiliation had
been handed down from wife to husband, not from
mother to son; the sentence wasn’t a spanking, but
public ridicule, and the person silently accepting his
fate was an almost forty-year-old man, from Mer-
cedes, a conservative provincial town. This was the
mortification of a man who lived a quiet life as a tax
agent in a town where everyone knew everyone else
and they all tried to blend in to avoid generating gos-
sip. “I’m going to make sure you feel the embarrass-
ment of the century,” Chichita had said to him.
I knew Roberto well, given the little he let people
know him. And I am certain now—now that I’ve
reached the age he was then—that his shame was in-
finite. My father had to ring the doorbell of another
family’s home, late at night. I remember perfectly
how hard it was for him to speak, to greet everyone,
to apologize. My classmate’s mother came out
through the garage door looking very stern. She
handed my dad the magazines in a blue bag, with an
offended expression on her face, as if she were hand-
ing over the remnants of a bomb that had exploded
in the wrong place.
Bugarín’s father poked his head out from the
doorway, greeting my father with an imperceptible
gesture of resignation to feminine supremacy. Rober-
to returned the same gesture, blushing. Bugarín’s
mother never smiled or said a word to break the ten-
sion. Juan José, my classmate, never appeared; I imag-
ined he’d been grounded from watching The Pink

#149
Panther as punishment, perhaps after being pum-
meled by his mother’s brute force. I envied him.
Roberto said goodbye to the woman, who was
still angry. No one returned his farewell. The garage
door shut and the Bugaríns resumed their evening.
We walked home on our second stroll of the night,
just as dark and silent as the first.
The story ends here; it’s not that interesting. It’s
short, there’s almost no dialogue. Roberto and I never
spoke of the incident. I’d forgotten all about it by the
following week, but he hadn’t. I’m sure of it. The sto-
ry of the porno magazines wasn’t important to me. It
wouldn’t even have floated to the surface of my
memory if it hadn’t been for Bugarín’s e-mail.
Among the things that I recall from that night in
Mercedes there’s one more detail I hadn’t remem-
bered that now seems crucial: Roberto and I walked
both ways, there and back, holding hands.

#150
Finland

On December 14th, 1995 I killed my sister’s eldest

daughter while backing up my car. Between the blunt
impact, my family’s cries of panic, and the realization
that I had actually only hit a tree trunk, I experienced
the most intense ten seconds of my life. I clung to
those ten seconds, knowing that any possible future
would be an endless hell.
I was living in Buenos Aires and had gone to
Mercedes to celebrate my grandmother’s eightieth
birthday (that’s why I remember the exact date, be-
cause she will be ninety in a few days; because in a
few days it will be the ten-year anniversary of this
event which has defined my life unlike anything else,
good or bad).
We celebrated my grandmother’s birthday by
holding a barbecue at our country house. We were
sitting around the table talking after the meal; at
three o’clock I ask Roberto if I can borrow his car to
go to the newspaper and hand in an interview. I get
into the car, look in the rearview mirror to make sure
there are no children around, and start to back up
through the gate onto the street. That’s when I feel

#151
the impact: a sharp blow against the back of the car,
and the world stops forever.
A hundred feet away, back at the table where
everyone is chatting, my sister stands up, terrified,
and shouts her daughter’s name. My mother—or
perhaps my grandmother, or somebody else—also
screams:
“He hit her!”
That’s when I realize that life as I know it has
come to an end. My life was over. I knew it immedi-
ately. I knew that my three-year-old niece was behind
the car. I knew that, because of her height, I wouldn’t
have been able to see her through the rearview mirror.
Lastly, I knew that I had just killed her.
Ten seconds is the time it takes for my family to
run from the table out to the car. I see them stand up,
their faces unnerved. I see an endless glass of wine
falling to the floor. I see them all coming straight to-
ward me. I don’t do anything; I don’t get out of the
car; I don’t look at anybody: I can’t focus my eyes on
the real world because I have begun to travel through
time—a very long and awful trip that will only last
ten seconds in real time, but which becomes an end-
less nightmare in my head.
At that moment—I don’t know why I am so cer-
tain—I have no doubts about what I’ve just done.
The possibility of having hit a tree trunk doesn’t oc-
cur to me, or the fact that my niece is taking a nap
inside the house. I see everything so clearly; it’s all so
real that the only thing left to do is think about my-

#152
self for the last time before giving myself over to the
slaughter.
“I hope my brother-in-law kills me,” I think, “I
hope he gets so mad, so enraged, that he beats me to
a pulp, like an unmerciful father, until I’m dead. That
way I won’t have to kill myself later tonight, because
I’m a coward and I won’t be able do it. Because I
would commit the most despicable act: I would run
off to Finland.” I spend my last ten seconds, the last
peaceful seconds I will ever have in my entire life,
thinking about the person I will no longer be.
I was almost twenty-five years old. I was writing a
very long and pleasant novel. I lived in a beautiful
house in Villa Urquiza, with a ping-pong table on the
terrace. I had my whole life ahead of me. I worked
for a magazine that paid well. I had a lively social life.
I was happy. And then I killed my three-year-old
goddaughter, extinguishing all the lights in all the
rooms in all the houses where I might have lived
happily ever after. I reflected on all of this with a feel-
ing of numbness, because I no longer possessed a
body with which to tremble. In those ten seconds—
in which time literally ceases to exist, in which my
brain ticks away for hours crammed inside a ten-sec-
ond box—I know with certainty that I have only two
options (unless my brother-in-law does me the favor
of killing me right there and then). I can run away—
immediately, bribe somebody and flee the country—
or kill myself. My biggest regret is that I will never be
able to write or laugh ever again.

#153
 For a long time—for years afterward—I was sur-
prised by how coldly I had faced disaster in those ten
seconds when I thought I had killed my niece. It
wasn’t exactly indifference, but something worse: like
a split soul, an inhuman objectivity. It pained me to
know that I would no longer be able to write, that in
my suicide or escape—I had yet to decide which
one—I would undoubtedly have to give up one
thing: pleasure.
I could always just go to Finland—or to any cold,
remote country. I could decide never to call my
friends and family ever again. I could become a
butcher at a supermarket in Hämeenlinna, but I
would never be able to write or love a woman or go
fishing ever again. I would be ashamed to feel happi-
ness. I would be ashamed of forgetting, of distrac-
tions. A latent guilt would always be there. Any false
sense of calm that might seep in, or if I momentarily
forgot what had happened, would be followed by re-
morse and prolonged suffering. My life was over. I
had to disappear.
And if I disappeared, then what? What peace of
mind would I be giving my family? The relief of nev-
er having to see the killer again? My family, the peo-
ple who were now slowly running from the table to
the car to kill me or see the corpse of a child. They
might imagine me in exile, hurt and afraid, fearful
and mean, agoraphobic. Or they might suspect I
went mad, like those people who wander around
aimlessly after an earthquake; in shock, sick, a bum.

#154
They might even forgive me, seeing I was incapable
of happiness, entirely dejected. My family might de-
fend me against others who cursed me saying they’d
seen me laughing in a Finnish town, drinking in a
brothel, writing a story, making money, seducing a
woman, petting a cat, catching a boga, or giving
money to a beggar on the subway. They wouldn’t be-
lieve that anyone (not me in particular at this point,
but anyone at all) could be capable of such weakness,
of such sad forgetfulness, of killing and not crying, of
fleeing and being able to forget a summer’s afternoon
when a child—your own flesh and blood—lay dead
under the wheels of a car.
Ten endless seconds until someone sees the tree
trunk and everyone forgets the whole situation.
Nobody—none of the people who were having
lunch that day ten years ago in Mercedes—remem-
bers this story now. Nobody has had nightmares
about it; I am the only one who has woken up in a
sweat for years on end, when those ten seconds come
back to me at night without the happy tree-trunk
ending. For them it was nothing more than a dent in
the bumper at the end of spring.
Nothing bad happened that afternoon, and noth-
ing bad has ever happened in my life, before or after
that incident. Ten years have passed since that day
and everything has been a safe haven in which noth-
ing has irreversibly interfered in my life. Why then,
am I now feeling like I’ve just turned ten years old,
and not thirty-five? Why do I find this date—the day

#155
I didn’t kill anyone—to be more important than the
day on which I emerged from my mother’s womb
with a loud scream, euphoric with life? Why do I
wake up some nights and discover I’m short of breath
from the chill inside a Finnish cabin? Feeling the
frayed threads of anguish and exile, suffocating be-
cause I didn’t have the guts to kill myself.
The fragility of peace provokes shivers and uncer-
tainty. The terrifying speed of misfortune stalks us
like an eagle at night, crouched in wait ready to take
everything from us, gripping the steering wheel,
thinking that the only option is to die alone in Fin-
land, our dry eyes unable to weep.
Luckily, there is almost always a tree trunk and we
live on in peace. But we all know, beneath the laugh-
ter, beneath love and sex, and the nights we spend
with friends, beneath the books and the records, that
there isn’t always a tree trunk. Sometimes there is Fin-
land.

#156
Our Domains

I’m writing this on the afternoon of October 27,

2014, as I wait in the hopes that Mauro will forget to
pay his triennial fee for the domain casciari.com. I
don’t think he will actually forget, because he’s a cle-
ver and methodical Italian, but just in case I’ve got
my credit card ready. I kept this same futile vigil in
2008 and in 2011, and here I am again today. But
this time I’m not alone in the trenches: my daughter
is with me.
“Do you think that Mauro might forget to pay,
Dad?”
“He might have had an accident,” I fantasize. “If
he’s even ten minutes late on his payment, I’ll swipe
that domain out from under him.”
“Why do you look so angry, Dad?” she asks me.
Nina is ten years old, and she still doesn’t under-
stand that her last name is unusual. Perhaps it would
have been better to name her Fernández, Pérez, Rossi,
or Smith, so she doesn’t have to go through some-
thing like this in the future.
I started to worry about it when I was around
eleven or twelve. There were only two Casciaris in the

#157
Mercedes telephone book: my father and my grandfa-
ther, who, to make matters worse, lived around the
corner from each other.
And I was envious of the kids with common last
names, the type you’d see in the final credits at
movies. Whenever I went to Buenos Aires I enjoyed
looking up my last name in the phone book because
there were three volumes and millions of sub-
scribers—but Casciari was nowhere to be found in
those phone books either.
Throughout childhood, I understood what an
astronaut must feel looking back at the landscape of
Earth from his porthole: a sad and solitary arrogance.
Then, one day, the internet arrived, uncorking
the bottle on all the Casciaris in the world. They were
mostly in Italy and the United States. They came in a
diversity of ages, professions, hair colors, and social
classes.
I liked how James drew, he made political comic
strips for a daily newspaper in Washington; I found
Carla’s strength to be exemplary, she had run for the
municipal elections in Perugia; and I was proud of
Raymond, who was researching a cure for cancer in
New York.
But more than anyone it was Mauro who caught
my eye, an Italian man around my age. Perhaps be-
cause he was the only one who—in those prehistoric
days of internet—uploaded audio and video files of
his radio shows.
His voice surprised me; it sounded a lot like my

#158
own at the time, and I was especially taken by his
nose, which was identical to my father’s. Once, when
I was spying on Mauro, watching one of his videos,
he looked straight into the camera. I hit pause and
was mesmerized by the familiarity of his face.
We would have been friends, I’m sure of it—if he
hadn’t started the territorial battle. At some point in
1999 Mauro signed up for a Hotmail account with-
out using the letter “M” before his last name. That’s
how this absurd war started.
Here’s what the Italian did: he signed himself up
using the generic email [email protected]. In oth-
er words, he inaugurated his virtual life with a
vengeance, as if James, Carla, Joseph, me, my father,
my future children, and all the rest of the Casciaris
didn’t exist.
Swallowing my anger, I had to add an “H” to my
first official account: [email protected]. I never
liked my first email address; I used it with a sense of
shame until 2004, as if it were a mediocre
jjperez241@ or hgonzalez_79@. Meanwhile, Mauro
the Italian—wherever he was—was strutting around
with his straightforward casciari@.
On December 31, 2000, as I was watching a
fireworks show to celebrate the start of the new cen-
tury, I swore I would get my act together; and I
moved to Europe to keep better tabs on my enemy, at
close range.
When I first heard that Google had released their
own email I was at the hospital because my wife had

#159
gone into labor. I heard the news on the radio, in the
waiting room. It was April 15, 2004. Later that day,
at almost exactly the same time, my daughter Nina
and Gmail were born.
As my wife dilated, calling out my name, I was in
the library across the street signing up for my brand-
new Google email address, fearing that Mauro would
beat me to the punch.
But he didn’t. This time I was quicker on the
draw and I got my revenge: [email protected] was
mine; it would be mine for eternity.
When I got back to the clinic in time to see Nina
come into this world, Cristina thought my tears of
joy were due to my brand-new paternity. The first
thing I said to my daughter as I held her in my arms
was an apology whispered into her ear:
“Sweetheart, when you get your first Gmail ac-
count you’re going to have to add an “N” before your
last name, because Daddy already got the generic
Casciari account.”
I quite enjoyed all the news related to technology
that year, because everyone was saying that Hotmail
users were switching en masse to Gmail. And I ex-
pected that Mauro, at some point, would have to
change his blog’s contact email.
I wanted to see him bite the dust. I wanted to
know whether his new Gmail account would be
mauro_casciari@ gmail.com or the even more humil-
iating [email protected]. But at the end of 2005
something terrible happened. Mauro changed his

#160
email to another server, but it wasn’t Gmail. He pub-
lished his new email as [email protected].
Just casciari.com.
The Italian had jumped the gun by securing the
URL. He’d bought it, in secret, on October 27, 2005,
and it would be his as long as he paid his renewal fee
every three years. The thought had never even crossed
my mind! Casciari.com, the most valuable internet
address, would always belong to someone else. I cried
in silence, embracing my eighteen-month-old daugh-
ter, and she began to cry along with me.
“Do you think she’s hungry?” her mother asked.
“No, Cris. She’s crying because they stole our last
name.”
As of 2006, Mauro and I have been engaged in a
silent war. I made sure to buy all the technology sup-
plements in the newspapers, just to keep up with the
trends. I imagine that he did the same, from his filthy
hideout in Perugia. We even got to the point where
we didn’t sleep at night, because in the early aughts
any nerd off the street could upload a social network
in the beta phase. He got a leg up with MySpace, and
I got my foot in the door with Orkut; but both those
networks soon sprung a leak.
Meanwhile, our careers continued to advance. He
went from being a regional radio commentator to a
national television host. I went from blogging to
writing books. He became known as a reporter for
the Italian version of Caiga Quien Caiga; I made a
name for myself with a successful play.

#161
 We didn’t triumph in our professions for fun, or
due to talent or ambition, but rather to better posi-
tion our last name in search engines. I appeared on
Wikipedia before him, but he had more photo hits
on Google Images.
We signed up for every stupid thing that came
out, always using our generic last name as a launch-
ing pad. Like dogs peeing on somebody else’s lawn
down the block.
He pre-empted me on LinkedIn, because that
very night I happened to be playing poker with some
friends. From that day forward I stopped playing
poker, I stopped going out in general. I kept myself
from getting distracted by friendships; I stayed home
and on guard.
For Mauro and me, opening accounts with the
single word Casciari was like buying stocks: if any of
those social networks became popular, the early bird
won another battle.
Thanks to my perseverance, I was able to beat
him in the two most important contests of the
decade: I got the upper hand with Facebook (May
2006), and cleaned up with Twitter (October 2008).
I bet he’s still sore about it . . . Ah, that dirty
scoundrel! It’s also true that he planted his flag first
on YouTube—and that hurt a lot. But I snatched up
Instagram. I just uploaded three photos one day
while I was taking a shit, so that Mauro would know
how trivial it is for me to spend time cultivating all
the territories I occupy.

#162
 And we’re still at it today: common enemies mon-
itoring one another, closing ranks, keeping up with
new technologies, barely sleeping, one eye always
open.
Today is October 27th, the day of his triennial
dot-com payment, and he might oversleep. I’ve got
the whole night ahead of me. It’s the first time I’m
not alone in my insomnia. As I keep watch, my
daughter pours me some yerba mate and chatters
away to keep me awake.
In previous years she was too young, but now she
understands my mission and she’ll stand by my side.
She also consoles me:
“Don’t worry if Mauro ends up paying tonight,
Dad. We’ll try again in 2017.”
“Okay.”
“And if you can’t stay up tonight, because you’re
too old or whatever, I’ll be here watching the whole
time,” she says
“Thanks, sweetie,” I tell her, beaming with pride.
But as I look at her it suddenly dawns on me that
Nina’s last name is also Casciari.
And she was born a digital native. And she’s an
only child. And she’s possessive. And she’s skilled in
web browsing.
And suddenly, instead of seeing my daughter’s
sweet, innocent eyes, I discover for the first time the
fierce gaze of a new enemy, lying in wait.

#163
Little Slips of Paper

Once upon a time, there was a quiet village where

all the neighbors lived together in peace. !ey led a
nice and simple life and everyone wanted to prosper.
Pepe was one of them. One afternoon Pepe went
out for a walk in the village and he became thirsty.
As he walked, his thirst grew and grew. Once back
home he was uncorking a bottle when he realized
something that no one had realized before: there
were no bars in the village! Pepe figured that if he
opened a bar he could be happy and make others
happy by serving them a drink or two. Plus, he
could make some money.
Pepe spent two nights making a list of what he
would need to open the village’s first bar. For starters,
he would need ten thousand coins to buy tables,
chairs, glasses, drinks, and a hitching post where the
villagers could tie up their horses. Then he would
need two weeks to convert his home into a bar, and
another two weeks to get the tables lined with thirsty
villagers.
His friend, Moncho, who dropped in on him that
afternoon, suggested an excellent name for the bar.

#165
 Now, it goes without saying that Pepe didn’t have
ten thousand coins, but that night he thought of a
great way to get a hold of them. On Saturday after-
noon he cut up one thousand slips of paper and wrote
on each: “Coming soon, Pepe’s bar.” On Sunday, after
church, he went to the town square dressed in his best
suit: “My dear neighbors, I’m going to open a bar on
the outskirts of the village,” he said, and everyone
stopped their conversations to listen to him.
“What a great idea!” Ramón exclaimed, with a
cigar in his mouth.
Pepe felt perfectly at ease being the center of
everyone’s attention and he showed them the slips of
paper. “Each of these 1,000 slips of paper costs ten
coins,” Pepe told his neighbors. “Whoever buys one
of these paper slips must make sure to put it in a safe
place and not lose it, because in one month’s time,
when my bar has customers, I will pay twelve coins
for every piece of paper that comes back to me.”
“But didn’t you just say that each paper costs ten
coins?” Asked Moncho, who was widely viewed as
the village idiot. “Why would you give away two
coins?”
“I won’t be giving them away, Moncho. I’ll be
compensating those of you who help me fulfil my
dream, which is to have a bar on the outskirts of
town.”
“That makes sense,” the mayor said.
“Sounds good to me,” said Ernesto, who was rich
and understood business matters.

#166
 “What a great idea!” Francisco the priest said, as
he fumbled in his pockets.
So it happened that in the space of just one Sun-
day morning, Pepe rounded up all the money he
needed to open his bar. His neighbors gave him ex-
actly ten thousand coins in exchange for the thou-
sand slips of paper.
“I bought two slips of paper,” said Sabino, who
was hard up but eternally optimistic.
“I got thirty-six!” exclaimed Quique, who was
greedy and arrogant.
“I bought five slips of paper, and I look forward
to getting drunk at that bar to celebrate the easiest
money I’ve ever made,” said Luis.
And everyone laughed.
Pepe went home that Sunday with ten thousand
coins in his bag and fell asleep thinking about the bar.
On Monday morning he set out for the big city,
where he bought lumber to build a sturdy counter-
top. When he returned home, he got straight to
work. A week passed and not once did he venture
down to the village square. Hence, he didn’t realize
that he had started a strange craze among his fellow
villagers for little slips of paper . . .

The First Week

The town square was packed with people, which

was unheard of for a Monday. Several neighbors had
spent the entire night cutting out and writing on

#167
their own slips of paper, because they discovered that
they too had things to offer.
Some slips said, “Coming Soon: Horace’s Ice
Cream Parlor.” Or, “Prepare Yourselves for Carmen’s
Hair Salon.” There were even slips saying, “At the end
of this month, Moncho will travel to the Moon.”
The square suddenly became so crowded that
some villagers had to climb on lampposts or scale the
fountain to buy or sell shares in the new projects.
This happened on Monday; but Tuesday was
even worse. And on Wednesday it was impossible to
cross the square. To restore some semblance of order,
the mayor designated a small building for the vil-
lagers to congregate without intruding on public spa-
ces. This small building was opened on Thursday
morning and became known as the Hall of Papers.
Thus, by Friday, everyone with a project had ob-
tained the coins they needed and were getting down
to work. Horacio started investigating the best ice
cream flavors; Pepe sawed wood for his countertop;
Carmen sharpened scissors for her new hair salon;
and Moncho bought two horses for his trip to the
moon. All that was left in the Hall of Papers was a
handful of neighbors who had never thought up an
interesting idea for a project. And all they had were
little slips of paper.
“I need money for cigarettes,” Ramon com-
plained out loud. “A few days ago I gave Pepe my
only ten coins for this piece of paper, but Raul’s cigar
shop won’t accept it, and I need to smoke.”

#168
 “The same thing happened to me!” Luis said. “I
want to go to the movies but my pockets are empty!”
Gradually the whispers of discontent began to
spread.
“In three weeks, Pepe will pay twelve coins to the
person who returns him this slip,” Sabino said, his
eyes bright. “You can buy it right now for nine
coins!”
“It’s a deal,” shouted Ernesto, who was rich but
always wanted more, tearing the slip out of Sabino’s
hands.
Ramon and Luis also sold their slips of paper for
less than ten coins and, as one ran off to buy ciga-
rettes and the other went to the movies, their neigh-
bors realized that this was a new way of doing busi-
ness, even though there were no more projects to sell.
Some climbed on chairs, others onto tables, and
they began to offer up what they had.
“I’ll swap four of Horacio’s papers for two of
Carmen’s!”
“I’ll exchange eight of Moncho’s papers and my
horse for fifty coins!”
When Father Francisco entered the room they all
fell silent.
“The day Moncho began selling his slips,” said
the priest, “I decided to buy some because Moncho is
a fool: he was selling them for seven coins and
promising to pay back 15 on their return. But now I
need coins to get the church bell fixed, so I’m putting
my Moncho slips up for sale at six coins each.”

#169
 “What is Moncho’s project, Father Francisco?”
Quique asked.
“He’s building a very long coach, drawn by two
horses,” said the priest. “The poor fool wants to travel
to the moon.”
Quique shook his head in refusal.
“What about five coins?” Father Francisco hag-
gled.
“I’ll take them for four, Father,” Quique said, in a
gesture of Christian charity.
“God bless you, my son!”1

The Second Week

Only seven days had passed and Pepe’s house no

longer looked like a normal home. There was a pol-
ished wooden bar in the dining room, the bathroom
had been split into two (one for the ladies, one for
the gents), and the walls were being painted an in-
tense navy blue. Pepe smiled to himself as he hung a
neon sign outside his new bar. He was delighted with
the progress he’d made. He still hadn’t visited the vil-
lage, so he didn’t know that the lives of his neighbors
had been turned upside down in a frenzy of little pa-
pers that were constantly changing price and owner.

1 Dear Child: in the real world, the Hall of Papers is called the
Stock Exchange. The slips of paper are called either Bonds or
Debentures. The twelve coins Pepe will pay once his bar is full of
villagers (or the fifteen coins Moncho will pay if he ever makes it
to the moon) are known as the bond’s face value.

#170
 Even the mayor, after talking it over with his aide
one night, decided to join in on the new craze. The
second Monday morning, he took to the balcony
with a megaphone and said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the village square was se-
riously damaged after all the fury over the paper
slips.”
And it was true. The first week of buying and sell-
ing had left the gardens and public spaces in terrible
disarray.
“I need to raise funds to repair the fountain, re-
place the streetlamps and, while we’re at it, buy my-
self a new coach,” said the mayor. “To that end, I’m
putting up 20,000 official paper slips for sale, each at
the cost of one horse. Once the fountain has running
water again, the streetlamps once again brighten our
square, and my new coach is ready, I will pay back
two horses for each slip. The official slips are now on
sale. Hurry, hurry, they’ll run out fast!”
Indeed the mayor’s slips of paper sold out in
record time at the Hall of Papers: everyone pledged
their horses and took to making their daily rounds on
foot.
The sale of paper slips continued to thrive until it
reached such a scale that it was impossible to tell who
owned what. Some slips were very desirable—for ex-
ample those belonging to Pepe, who toiled night and
day to get his bar ready. But others were wanted by
no one, such as Moncho’s, since his vessel for making
trips to the moon only consisted of two skinny horses

#171
attached to a cart, and then another cart, and then a
third one. Nobody believed that Moncho could make
it fly.
Ernesto, the richest villager, had embarked on a
spending frenzy during the first week, and now Mon-
cho’s slips were burning a hole in his pocket. But he
also had plenty of Pepe’s slips, so he invented some-
thing which he called “Ernesto’s Bundles.”
These were sealed packages with one hundred
slips, representing a broad spectrum of projects. For
example, they might contain ten slips for Pepe’s bar,
twenty for Horace’s ice cream parlor, and seventy for
Moncho’s strange vehicle for making trips to the
moon.
For all of Thursday, Ernesto’s Bundles were a
great success among the villagers, as they frantically
sought to get hold of slips for Pepe’s bar or the may-
or’s public works. By Friday, however, Quique had
discovered Ernesto’s trick, and he made a public an-
nouncement in the Hall of Papers:
“Watch out, neighbors! Ernesto’s Bundles some-
times come with a slip for Pepe’s bar or the mayor’s
official projects on top, and that’s fine. But the bot-
tom of the pile is full of slips for Moncho’s insane en-
terprise, which will never take off. I suggest that be-
fore you buy Ernesto’s Bundles you stop by my house
for advice. My fee for each consultation is six coins,
or two of Pepe’s slips.”
During the rest of that week and the next, any
prospective buyers consulted first with Quique before

#172
purchasing Ernesto’s Bundles.
Ernesto and Quique, who had played cards to-
gether down at the rec center for years, never spoke to
each other again.2

The Third Week

Twenty days had passed since the inception of the

activities and the villagers began to notice that some
projects were almost complete, while others were still
in their infancy.
Pepe only needed to build the hitching post so
the customer’s horses could graze outside the bar.
Horace had successfully managed to whisk milk
and fruit for his ice cream, and all he needed was to
bring in blocks of ice from the big city.
Carmen, however, had not yet found a suitable
place to set up her hair salon, although she had ac-
cumulated dozens of sharp scissors.
And what to say about Moncho? His horses’ coats
were looking shinier, because he groomed them night
and day, and he had managed to tie them to four
carts. Still, it seemed impossible that his vessel would
be flying to the moon by the week’s end.

2Dear Child: in the real world, the official slips offered by the
mayor are called Public Debt Securities. Ernesto’s Bundles are
called Collateralized Debt Obligations, while Quique’s house—
where the neighbors go to decide whether or not to trust in
Ernesto’s Bundles—is called Investment Banking.

#173
 The villagers with slips from Moncho or Carmen
were growing restless and they could no longer find
any buyers. Until, that is, Quique came up with a
great idea: “Listen!” Quique said. “For those of you
who still have Moncho’s slips, I’ll offer to sell you
what I call Quique’s Peace of Mind . . .”
“What are you talking about?” asked Raul, who
had several of Moncho’s slips.
“It’s very simple. You pay me two coins every
night, from now until the end of the month, and if
Moncho isn’t able to make trips to the moon—and
therefore cannot pay you back the fifteen coins he
had promised—I will personally give you those fif-
teen coins myself. Exactly what he owes you.”
“Even if the trip to the moon fails?”
“Even if it fails.”
“Great idea!” Sabino said. “That way we’ll feel
reassured and be able to buy more slips of paper.”
“That’s why my idea is called Quique’s Peace of
Mind,” Quique said with a smile, and many residents
began paying two coins every night, just in case any
of the projects didn’t work out.
Amidst the euphoria for all these new ideas, no
one in the village had noticed that the mayor was
nowhere to be seen in the Hall of Papers. Nor had
they noticed that the streetlamps and the fountain in
the square were still unrepaired.
The mayor had fulfilled one of his promises
though: he’d bought a new stage-coach, which he’d
used to flee the village with everyone’s horses in tow.

#174
 The aide, who’d been the mayor’s right-hand man
and had known about the scam from the outset, de-
cided to take drastic action to ensure no one would
discover his boss’ absence. And his idea was truly in-
genious. He went to the Hall of Papers with a black-
board and began grading each of the village’s many
projects (from 1 to 10).
“What are you writing on the blackboard?”
Ernesto asked him. But the aide pretended not to
hear the question and continued working in silence.
He awarded eight points to Pepe’s bar, five to Car-
men’s hair salon, seven to Horace’s ice cream parlor,
and two to Moncho’s vehicle for trips to the Moon.
Then, feigning absentmindedness, he gave nine points
to the streetlamp-village square renovation plan.
“There,” he said. “All set.”
“What do those numbers mean?” they all asked.
“They’re the mayor’s ratings. So that no one buys
slips of paper without knowing whether they’ll be
able to regain their coins or their horses,” said the
aide. “It’s for your benefit. You can trust these
ratings.”
All the villagers appreciated the gesture and that
afternoon many of the mayor’s slips were resold at
high prices.3

3 Dear Child: in the real world, Quique’s idea of offering Peace of

Mind for Moncho’s slips is known as a Credit Default Swap. And
the large blackboard on which the aide graded each project is
called a Credit Rating Agency, which has been known to make
mistakes—sometimes inadvertently, sometimes deliberately.

#175
The Last Week

On the day of Pepe’s grand opening, he got up

early and slowly walked to the village. From a dis-
tance he looked back at the front of the bar, with the
neon sign glaring. The bar was called The Moon, just
as Moncho had baptized it on the first day. Now
everything was ready. The only thing missing was the
arrival of customers from the village, with parched
throats. He walked the five miles to town nailing up
posters to all the trees along the way. “The Moon Bar,
Grand Opening Tonight.” He lingered, gazing with
pride, as he nailed each new sign onto a tree trunk.
During his walk into the village, Pepe fantasized
that, from that day on, dozens of villagers would
come on horseback to his bar and everyone would
enjoy themselves, talking and drinking.
But when he arrived at the town square he
couldn’t believe what he saw. For a moment he
thought he’d somehow taken the wrong road, and
walked into a different village. It looked as if ravaged
by war.
The streetlamps and the fountain were in sham-
bles. Some villagers walked in circles mumbling to
themselves, and there were groups of men and
women arguing and fighting.
“What’s happened here?” Pepe asked Horace,
who was crying against a lamppost.
“Oh, Pepe! Don’t you know?” Horacio sobbed.

#176
“Everyone went crazy with the slips of paper. With
mine, with Carmen’s, with yours . . . With all of
them! At first there were more slips than coins. Then
there were no coins left; then the horses disappeared,
and that’s when the mayor fled the village and the
vendors of Ernesto’s Bundles went bankrupt. And
then the sellers of Quique’s Peace of Mind couldn’t
pay anyone so they escaped in the dead of night . . .
And now everyone is ruined . . .”
“What the hell is all this about ‘Ernesto’s Bun-
dles’ and ‘Quique’s Peace of Mind’?”
“It’s a long story,” said Horace.
“What about your project? And Carmen’s?”
“My ice cream parlor failed: there were no horses
to fetch ice from the city. And Carmen has no cus-
tomers for her hair salon. Can’t you see that everyone
is already pulling their hair out with their own
hands?”
Pepe went silent.
“I need a drink,” said Horace.
“My throat is dry,” said Luis.
“Have you opened your famous bar yet?” Sabino
asked. And other villagers gathered around too.
Pepe knew that without any horses in the village
no one would ever come to his bar on the outskirts of
town. He also realized that he could never return the
ten thousand coins.
And then he saw Moncho in the middle of the
square. His horses were the only ones left in the re-
gion, and they were pulling three carts with two

#177
wheels each, like a train. Many villagers had already
jumped on board. Others formed a long line for their
turn to get on.
“Where are you taking them?” Pepe asked
Moncho.
“To your bar!” Moncho said with a huge grin.
“To The Moon!”
There was a sign hanging from the broken
fountain:
“Moncho makes trips to The Moon. Fare: one
coin, free return trip.”
“Did you know all this would happen?” Pepe
asked, hugging him. “Did you know that everyone
was going to run out of horses?”
“No,” said Moncho. “All I knew was that people
can go to a bar on horseback, but they can’t come
back riding a horse. And since I don’t drink, I
thought I’d start a business to take people to and
from The Moon.”
Pepe got on the first cart and shouted:
“Let’s go to The Moon, then! Free drinks for
everyone today!
And they all cheered.4

4 Dear Child: in the real world there are hardly ever happy end-
ings in the stories about people like Pepe opening bars or Mon-
cho making trips to the moon. This is because in the middle there
are always the Quiques, the mayors, the aides, and the Ernestos
who spoil everything. But when things do work out—when some-
thing magical happens— they are called “dreams.” And they are
often great fun.

#178
Guests and Hosts

I’ve spent a lot of time on the road over the years and
since I hate hotels I opt for houses on Airbnb. The
hosts furnish them and we, the guests, get to inhabit
them. Sometimes for a week, or three days. To avoid
any unpleasant surprises, I tend to read through the
reviews left by other guests for any houses I’ll be
staying at. And I always choose trustworthy hosts.
Last December, I rented a weekend house in Mon-
tevideo. I chose a place that was far from downtown,
which was a mistake because I ended up having a
heart attack in the living room and I almost died.
If I’d had to choose the worst time to die, that
would have been it. Not only was I in a foreign coun-
try, I’d also just split up with Cristina after fifteen
years and the only person who knew that I was in
Uruguay with Julieta was Cristina herself. To make
matters worse, the rowdiest soccer team in Montev-
ideo, Peñarol, had just won the championship, mak-
ing traffic to the hospitals horrendous.
It was the first warm Sunday in December and I
was feeling good—or at least I was starting to—when
I felt a burning sensation in the center of my chest. It

#179
wasn’t an intense pain, so for a while I chose to be-
lieve it was heartburn. Deep down, I knew that prick-
ly sensation was coming from my heart and not my
belly, but when death looks you in the eyes it’s impos-
sible to accept it, to believe that the extraordinary
things in life might actually happen to us. The begin-
ning of a heart attack always seems like it’s just a bit
of sour stomach.
“Do you want me to call someone?” Julieta kept
asking me, and I told her no, it would pass soon
enough, all the while crossing my fingers that it
wouldn’t get worse. Dying from a heart attack when
you’ve just started a new relationship with a woman
who’s younger than you is the worst because at your
funeral everyone will think that you died from sexual
exertion. It’s futile to explain that you were actually
about to watch the Racing soccer club match on tele-
vision, you’d just bought pastries, and you were fully
dressed: your death will always be perverse and, in the
imagination of others, you will always have your ass
in the air. My pressure dropped just thinking about
my wake.
“Should I call someone? You’re really pale now.”
She too was crossing her fingers that it wasn’t a
heart attack. We’d only met a few months before: she
might have been looking for something whimsical in
her life, a sort of old yet kind boyfriend—but not a
dead boyfriend. How horrible to be a woman having
a soulful affair that suddenly becomes a stiff, fat body
that she’ll have to repatriate quickly so it doesn’t rot.

#180
 Perhaps she wanted a summer romance, a fling,
a funny story to tell her friends, and here I was,
bequeathing her the bureaucratic nightmare of
having to cram a cadaver into the icebox of the
Buquebus ferry company.
Just who was she—Julieta—going to call to in-
form about my death? When Cristina was the only
one who even knew what was going on? I still hadn’t
told anyone that Cristina and I had split up. Not
Chichita, not my sister, not even Chiri. In fact, I had
planned to wait until New Year’s Eve to tell them
about it. The only person in the world who knew
that I was with Julieta was Cristina, but it’s unwise to
call someone’s ex-wife so soon after a separation and
tell them “Look here, you can have him back—be-
cause he died.”
Then, my left arm suddenly started to go numb
and all jokes were off the table. “Hey, it’s a heart at-
tack,” I said, and my breath went very cold. Julieta
ran outside to look for help. And then, right then, at
that exact moment, on a Sunday, I was left alone with
my heart attack.
And I said it twice more, out loud. “Heart attack,
heart attack.” And that changed everything, it was as
if I’d crossed a line. Because even though I used to
say, when I was forty, that I’d be dead by forty-five, it
had all been a joke. Even though I smoked like a
chimney and heard the death rattle in my throat
every night, a sensation of immortality persisted at
my youthful core. As I ate saturated fat, nonstop, the

#181
stories and ideas continued to occur to me. Even just
ten minutes earlier, when my mouth was saying “it’s
nothing” or “it’s going to go away,” and my head was
telling me it might just be a stomach bug, I had re-
mained a character in my stories, a funny fat guy who
normally had luck on his side, who never had to
make the slightest effort.
But once I said out loud “it’s a heart attack” and
Julieta left, once I was by myself in the guesthouse, I
became just another man who dies alone. I became
my father in his armchair after tennis, my grandpa on
his last night in the hospital, a beggar underneath a
bridge whose apnea becomes eternal; I was all the
dead men who didn’t have people at their bedside.
And if I’m here to tell the tale—if I continue to
be the character—it’s because Julieta came back with
Javier and Alejandra, the house hosts. They got me
into the car as best they could. We drove onto an av-
enue filled with Peñarol fans, and were lucky to pass
by a police car. Alejandra, who was driving, stuck her
head out the window and told the policeman: “We’re
driving with a man who’s having a heart attack, turn
on the siren and take us to the hospital.” The police
lights flashed red and blue, like on an American TV
series, and an emergency howl welled up, parting
traffic like the Red Sea. I watched the road as my
blood pressure nearly sunk to zero. I realized that
breathing required great effort on my part, and if I
lost consciousness my body would no longer be able
to keep it up. I knew that I shouldn’t get lost in men-

#182
tal drama: no nostalgic thinking about my daughter,
or my life up to now, because if I became emotional
all the energy I needed to breath would dissipate.
All I had to do was breathe and make it there.
And not die. Breathe and get there. And not die. If I
saw a stretcher then everything was going to be al-
right, because if there’s one thing to avoid in life it’s
the phrase: “He died on his way to the hospital.”
Those are bleak words.
What happened next was a trick that I’d never
heard about before. Cardiologists probably go to
congresses and discuss these types of things the way
you and I might talk about the rain, but for the rest
of the world it isn’t every day that someone makes a
hole in your wrist to stick a piece of wire inside it. I
didn’t know what they were doing to me. I only un-
derstood that having a heart attack meant pain fol-
lowed by death.
But a doctor appeared, Dr. Vignolo, and he in-
serted a wire into my wrist. This wire travelled under
the skin of my forearm and I sensed its path: it kept
traveling all the way up to my shoulder. The doctor
watched a monitor and I had a strange sensation. It
felt like he was playing a video-game for which there
was only one screen and one life—mine—as the doc-
tor guided the wire to my chest area.
It took a while before I realized that what we were
seeing on the screen was actually happening inside
my body. But when the wire got to my heart a mi-
nuscule spring appeared, like the kind inside a cig-

#183
arette lighter, and this was inserted into my artery,
making it bigger.
Then, at that exact instant, my chest heaved,
sucking in an urgent breath of air, which felt differ-
ent. I hadn’t inhaled a gulp of air like that since I was
a boy, and I felt death slipping away from my chest.
After the operation, Doctor Vignolo said the fact
that I’d been driven there had been vital. Thanks to
the patrol officer and Julieta and my hosts we’d made
it to the hospital in nineteen minutes; that route
would usually take forty. “Your heart wouldn’t have
lasted for forty minutes,” the doctor told me.
A few days later, in the ICU, I received an e-mail
from Airbnb. The e-mail requested a public review of
my hosts in Montevideo. Since I was still unable to
write, I dictated my review to Julieta:

Excellent property for guests prone to heart

attacks. !e neighborhood has a direct route to
the best hospitals in Montevideo. !e hosts,
Javier and Alejandra, instantly transform into
guardian angels and save your life without even
knowing you. As you’re dying, they whisk you
away to the hospital—in their own car—and
then stay in the waiting room while the
doctors perform a bypass. !ey don’t let you
plunge into depression or feel lonely: they
bring you books to read. Moreover, they refuse
to charge you for the extra days you stay at
their home. Highly recommended!

#184
!e True Age of Countries

One day a reader from Madrid scolded me for one of

my more belligerent articles, using a phrase I found
very apt: “Argentina isn’t better or worse than Spain,”
she wrote, “just younger.” I liked that theory so I
made up my own algorithm to arrive at the true age
of countries. It’s based on the system we use for dogs.
We were told as children that to understand a dog’s
real age we should multiply its biological age times
seven. So, with countries, I thought, we should divide
their age by fourteen to arrive at the human age equi-
valent. Argentina, for example, was born in 1816. It
is 190 years old. If we divide this by fourteen, Argen-
tina is thirteen and a half. In other words, Argentina
is at an awkward age: a rebellious jerk that has no
memory and speaks without thinking. Its balls have
just dropped, which is why it has some of the world’s
best soccer players.
Most of the countries in Latin America are
around the same age, and, logically, they’ve formed
cliques. The Mercosur gang is made up of four teens
who have started a rock band. They rehearse in a
garage making lots of noise but have never released an

#185
album. Venezuela, with her budding breasts, wants to
join the band as a back-up singer so she can get close
to Brazil, a fourteen year-old with a big cock. They’re
just kids, they’ll grow out of it.
Mexico is a teenager with indigenous heritage.
!at’s the reason he seldom laughs and smokes only
peyote, refusing the harmless joints passed around
by his pals. He hangs out with the United States, a
mentally-handicapped seventeen-year-old who
spends his time killing starving six-year-olds from
other continents.
On the other extreme, there is ancient China, for
example: if we divide its twelve thousand years by
fourteen, we get an old woman of around eighty-five,
conservative and smelling of cat piss, who spends her
days eating rice because she’s too poor to afford den-
tures. She has an eight-year-old grandson, Taiwan,
who renders her life impossible. She was divorced
ages ago from Japan, a cantankerous old man who
can still get it up. Japan has shacked up with the
Philippines, a silly young thing willing to commit any
atrocity in exchange for money.
Then there are those countries that have already
come of age and are allowed to drive their fathers’
BMWs. Take, for example, Australia and Canada.
They are the typical countries that grew up protected
by Daddy England and Mummy France. They had a
very strict, posh education, and now they’ve gone
wild. Australia is an eighteen-year-old woman who
goes topless and sleeps with South Africa; Canada is

#186
an openly gay man who plans to adopt little Green-
land and form one of those alternative families that
are so in vogue.
France is a thirty-six-year-old divorcée who will
fuck anything that moves but is much respected pro-
fessionally. Germany, a wealthy truck driver married
to Austria, is France’s occasional lover. Austria knows
she’s being cheated on but she doesn’t care. France has
a six-year-old son, Monaco, on his way to becoming
gay or a dancer, or both.
Italy has been widowed for a long time. She
spends her days minding San Marino and the Vati-
can, her Catholic sons, very similar to the sons of
Ned Flanders. Italy had a short-lived second marriage
to Germany (together, they had Switzerland) and
now she couldn’t care less about men. Italy dreams of
being more like Belgium: an independent, liberated
female lawyer who wears pantsuits and discusses poli-
tics with men as an equal. (Belgium, in turn, has wild
fantasies about cooking spaghetti).
Great Britain sails the seas at night, screwing
young women, and nine months later a newborn is-
land pops up on the other side of the world. But
England doesn’t look the other way: the islands might
live with their mothers, but England pays child sup-
port. Scotland and Ireland, England’s brothers who
live upstairs, are always drunk and they’re shit at soc-
cer, bringing shame to the family.
Sweden and Norway are a couple of thirty-nine-
year-old (almost forty) lesbians in great shape for

#187
their age who don’t give a fuck about anybody. They
have sex and go to work, with advanced degrees in
something or other. They’ve been known to have
threesomes with Holland (when they’re in need of
weed or hash), and sometimes flirt with Finland, a
thirty-year-old androgynous male who lives in an un-
furnished attic and spends hours chatting with Korea
on his cell phone.
South Korea is tasked with looking after her men-
tally-ill sister. They are twins, but North Korea was
brain damaged after swallowing amniotic fluid at
birth. She spent her childhood playing with guns and
now, alone and isolated, she can be unpredictable.
The United States, that seventeen-year-old retard,
keeps an eye on her—not because he’s afraid but be-
cause he wants her guns.
Israel is a sixty-two-year-old intellectual who’s had
a shitty life. Many years ago, Germany was driving
his truck, getting road head from Austria, when he
didn’t see Israel crossing and ran him over. From that
day on, Israel has been enraged, and now, instead of
reading books, he spends his time throwing stones at
Palestine, a washer-woman who lives next door.
Iran and Iraq are two cousins who used to steal
motorbikes for parts until one day they stole a muf-
fler from the United States’ bike and their business
went bust. They are now sitting around with their
fingers up their asses.
Lastly, we have Spain. Spain is the most beautiful
woman in Europe (maybe France could compete, but

#188
she loses points on spontaneity: too much perfume).
Spain often walks around topless and is invariably
drunk. She lets England fuck her and then reports it
as abuse. Spain has many children (almost all of them
are thirteen years old) living far away from home. She
loves them dearly but is annoyed when they get hun-
gry and come home to rummage through her fridge.
The world was humming along fine this way un-
til Russia got together (living out of wedlock) with
Perestroika and they had eighteen children, all
strange, some morons, others just schizoids.
Just a week ago, and only due to a mess that in-
volved gunfire and dead civilians, we, the earnest
people of the world, discovered that there is a country
called Kabardino-Balkaria. A country with its own
flag, president, national anthem, flora, fauna, and
even inhabitants!
I’m a bit uneasy over these young countries that
spring up out of nowhere, all of a sudden. We find
out about their existence inadvertently and are forced
to pretend we knew all about them, so we don’t look
ignorant. Why are we bringing new countries into
the world—I ask myself—if the ones we already have
aren’t working?

#189
Incoming Call: Literature

Last night I was reading a very famous children’s tale

to little Nina, “Hansel and Gretel” by the Brothers
Grimm. There is a dramatic moment in the story
when the siblings find out that birds have eaten the
breadcrumbs they had strategically scattered in a
foolproof plan to trace their path back home. Hansel
and Gretel realize they are all alone and lost in the
woods, and it’s getting dark. Right at this turning
point in the story my daughter says to me: “That’s
okay. They can call up their daddy on one of their
cells.” And then, for the first time, it hit me: my
daughter has no notion of life without cell phones.
That was also the moment I realized how awful litera-
ture would be, generally speaking, if cell phones had
always existed, as my four-year-old daughter believes.
So many classics would have been left without their
climax. So many plots would have never come to be.
And, critically, the most complex predicaments of
history’s greatest literary creations would’ve been re-
solved so easily.
I would like you to think now of a classic story,
any story that comes to your head. It could be any-

#191
thing from The Odyssey to The Adventures of Pinoc-
chio, The Old Man and the Sea, Macbeth, Hopscotch,
or One Hundred Years of Solitude. It doesn’t matter if
it’s a poignant drama or a popular tale, and the set-
ting is irrelevant. I’d just like you to think of a classic
story you know by heart, one with a setup, a conflict,
and a resolution.
Do you have it yet?
Good. Now place a phone inside the main char-
acter’s pocket. Not an ancient black device mounted
on a wall but a modern-day mobile phone—a phone
with coverage and email access, that enables you to
chat, send text messages and make phone calls to the
most remote corners of the world.
What has happened to the story? Now that the
characters can call each other no matter how far apart
they are, now that they can chat, video call, and text,
does the plot still work? Not even a little.
Last night, without realizing it, little Nina opened
my eyes to a dreadful reality: cell phones will com-
pletely destroy all future stories, leaving behind cheap
technological anecdotes.
For example, if Penelope had a phone, she
wouldn’t have had to wait impatiently for Odysseus
to return from war. With a cell in her basket, Little
Red Riding Hood would be able to warn Granny
about the wolf in time, making the woodcutter’s help
unnecessary. Cinderella could just give her number to
the prince right off the bat and he wouldn’t have to
run all over town trying to find the owner of the glass

#192
slipper. Thanks to Verizon’s remarkable GPS service,
Tom Sawyer would never get lost on the Mississippi
River. The Three Little Pigs could google a way to
trap the wolf before their houses are blown down.
And Geppetto would get a text notification from
school saying that Pinocchio hadn’t shown up that
morning.
For the past twenty centuries, the main conflicts
in most stories—whether written, sung, or acted out
—have centered on misunderstandings and the in-
ability to meet up or keep in touch. In other words,
the reason these stories exist is that cell phones didn’t.
No love story, for instance, would have been so tragic
or complicated if the lovers had been able to stay
connected by cell.
The iconic climax of the most famous love story
in the world, Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, is based
entirely on a ridiculous lack of communication: Juliet
fakes her own death, Romeo believes she really died
and kills himself. Then, once Juliet awakens and real-
izes what has happened, she commits real suicide
(spoiler alert).
If Juliet had had a cell phone, she would’ve texted
Romeo in Act 4, saying something like:

IM PLAYIN DEAD,
BUT IM NOT REALLY.
DNT WORRY ABT ME
OR DO ANYTHIN STUPID XOXO.

#193
 And all the subsequent drama could have been
avoided. The last act would have been a waste of pa-
per; it would never have been written if, in four-
teenth-century Verona, AT&T had launched a 3G
data plan.
Many important works would’ve also had to
change their names. If there had been no solitude to
speak of in Aracataca, because technology had de-
stroyed it, García Márquez’s novel would’ve been
called One Hundred Years Offline. It would narrate the
adventures of a family who share the same username
(buendia23, a.buendia, aureliano_goodmorning) but
Messenger doesn’t work for any of them.
The famous novel by James M. Cain, The Post-
man Always Rings Twice, written in 1934 and later
adapted for cinema, would be called Gmail Duplicates
Incoming Emails, about a man who reads his wife’s
chat history and discovers she’s having an affair with a
drifter of ill-repute.
Two acts in, Samuel Beckett would’ve had to
change the name of his famous tragicomedy to a title
more in line with the technological advances, such
as Godot’s Phone is Off or Outside Coverage Area—the
story of two men who wait, on the remote moors, for
the arrival of a third man who never shows up be-
cause he’s run out of credit.
In The JPG Image of Dorian Grey, Oscar Wilde
would tell the story of a man who remains forever
young and wrinkle-free thanks to a pact he made
with Adobe Photoshop, but in the image gallery on

#194
his phone there is a photo of his face that inevitably
becomes pixelated, little by little, until all definition
is lost.
The witch from the classic Snow White would not
be able to ask the mirror every night “who is the
fairest of them all” because it would cost $2.25 to
connect and $0.71 per minute for a consultation
with the oracle. She’d have to make do with asking
just once or twice a month. And, eventually, she’d get
fed up.
We, too, shall become fed up and bored with
these easy solutions. All of literature’s mysteries, se-
crets, and misfortunes (those big obstacles that cre-
ate great plots) collapse in the era of cell phones and
wi-fi.
All those wonderful romantic movies, where the
boy ends up running like a madman through the city,
racing against the clock because his beloved is about
to get on a plane, would be solved today with a quick
text. There is no longer any need for that cheesy rush-
ing around, that regret, that explanation that never
comes; we don’t need to stop planes or cross seas
anymore. We don’t have to leave breadcrumbs in the
woods to find the way back home.
Cell phones, little Nina unintentionally warned
me last night, will hinder the stories we write from
now on, making them sadder, less soothing, and
much more predictable. And yet I wonder—isn’t the
same thing happening in real life? Aren’t we depriving
ourselves of idyllic adventures because of this 24/7

#195
connection? Will any of us ever run desperately to the
airport to tell the person we love not to get on the
plane, to live in the here and now?
No. We’ll send them a pitiful, short text message
from the couch. Four lines in capital letters. Maybe
we’ll give them a missed call on purpose to get their
attention, if we’re lucky and they don’t have their
phone on vibrate. Why make the effort to live on the
edge of adventure, if something is always going to
ruin that suspense; a call, a text message, an alarm?
Our skies are plagued with clues and solutions:
beware that the duke is on his way to kill you. Be
careful, the apple is poisoned. I won’t be home
tonight ’cause I’ve been drinking. Kiss her, and the
girl will wake up and fall in love with you. Dad,
come get us, some birds ate the breadcrumbs.
Our plots are losing their brilliance—the written,
the experienced, even the imagined—because we our-
selves have become lazy heroes.

#196
10.6 Seconds

Fewer than eleven seconds before, when the Argenti-

ne player received the pass from his teammate, the
clock in Mexico read twelve minutes and twenty se-
conds past one o’clock in the afternoon. Also on the
field are two British men and an older man of Tuni-
sian origin. The sport they are playing, soccer, is not
particularly popular in Tunisia. That’s why the Afri-
can man seems to be the only one who is not in a
frenzy of high athletic excitement.
His name is Ali Bin Nasser and, while the others
run, he walks slowly. He is forty-two years old and
feels humiliated: he knows that he will never again be
asked to referee an official international game.
He also knows that twelve years earlier, when he
injured himself playing in the Tunisian league, he
would not have believed it if he’d been told he was
going to participate in a World Cup. Nor would he
have believed it the day he became a referee: in
Tunisia, the only job requirement is to possess as
many legs as you have lungs.
From his very first match he knew he was going
to be a fair referee. But it was more than that: he be-

#197
came the first referee to be recognized in the streets of
the city. They called him up for the African qualifiers
in 1984 and he did such a good job that, a year later,
he was asked to officiate the World Cup.
In Mexico they asked for his autograph, took pic-
tures with him, and he stayed in the finest hotel. He
successfully refereed the Poland-Portugal match in
the first round, and worked as linesman in the Den-
mark-Spain match in which the Danes played de-
fense the entire second half; he didn’t make a single
mistake while raising the offside flag.
When the organizers told him he would officiate
a game in the quarterfinals—a Tunisian referee had
never made it that far—Ali called home from his ho-
tel, a collect call, to tell his father. Both men cried.
That night he slept uneasily and twice dreamed of
being ridiculed. In the first dream, he twisted his an-
kle and the reserve referee had to sub for him; in the
dream, the reserve referee was his mother. In the sec-
ond dream, a fan rushed the field and pulled down
his pants, leaving his genitals swinging in the wind on
TV screens around the world.
From each dream he awoke with heart palpita-
tions. But he never dreamed, on that eve, he’d ever
rule a handball as a valid goal. He never dreamed
that, in Tunisia’s street slang, his last name would be-
come synonymous with blindness. That is why, as he
referees the second half of this game, he is wishing it
were already over.

#198
 *
Now the Argentine player taps the ball with his left
foot and kicks it out of the shade. It’s over eighty-six
degrees and this patch of shade, in the shape of a spi-
der, is the only relief from the heat.
Surrounding the field, 115,000 sweaty people
track the Argentine player’s movements, but only
two, the two closest to him, could possibly halt his
forward momentum. They are both named Peter: Pe-
ter Reid and Peter Beardsley; both born in northern
England, one along the River Tyne and the other near
the mouth of the same river. Both of them, a few
years prior, had sons they named Peter; they both di-
vorced their first wives before traveling to Mexico;
and they were both certain, at twelve minutes and
twenty-one seconds past one o’clock in the afternoon,
that it would be easy to take the ball away from the
Argentine player, because he had received it with his
back to the goal, and there were two of them: one in
front and one in back. They do not yet know that, a
decade later, Peter Reid Jr. and Peter Beardsley Jr.—
fifteen and sixteen years old—will be dancing togeth-
er at a London rave.
A Scottish kid by the last name O’Connor—who
will later become a scriptwriter for the comedian
Sacha Baron Cohen—will recognize the boys and, in
the middle of the dance-floor, pretend to dodge them
with a feint and a sidestep. He will do it once, twice,
three times, imitating the dance step that now, ten

#199
years earlier, the Argentine player performs for their
fathers.
Reid Jr. and Beardsley Jr. will not get the joke,
but then other people at the rave will join O’Con-
nor’s taunt and a circle of dancers will form, like a
human train, dodging the boys in two beats. Peter
Reid Jr. will be the first to understand the mockery,
and will say to his friend: “It’s because of that video of
our dads, the one from Mexico in ’86.”
Peter Beardsley Jr. will look humiliated and the
two friends will flee the rave as dozens of teens chant,
in chorus, the last name of the player who, ten years
earlier—right now—is evading their fathers with a
swish of his hips.
Reid Sr. and Beardsley Sr. will soon cease to pur-
sue the player: further attempts to stop him will be
the work of their teammates. They are now frozen at
the center of a video transformed by time, in slow
motion, from VHS to YouTube.
Their sons are now five and six years old and they
won’t remember having witnessed the Argentine
player’s first sidestep, but during their adolescence
they will watch it thousands of times on video as they
lose respect for their fathers. Peter Reid and Peter
Beardsley, immobile in the center of the field, still
don’t know exactly what has happened to make
everything in their lives implode.
*

#200
Quick, and with short steps, the Argentine player
advances into enemy territory. He has only touched
the ball three times on his own side of the field:
once to receive it and taunt the first Peter, the se-
cond time to trap the ball long enough to confuse
the second Peter, and a third time to move the ball
toward the midfield line.
By the time the ball crosses the chalk line, the
player has covered ten of the fifty-two yards he will
travel, and has taken eleven of the forty-four steps he
will have to take. At twelve minutes and twenty-three
seconds past one o’clock, a gasp of amazement drifts
down from the bleachers and the radio announcers in
the press booths lift their backsides from their seats.
There is a hole in the defense down the right side that
the player has just penetrated with a double sidestep
and long stride: everyone understands the danger.
Everyone except Kenny Sansom, who emerges
from behind the two Peters to pursue the player with
an absence of urgency that seems to come from some
other sport. Sansom jogs calmly alongside the Argen-
tine player, as if he were accompanying a small child
on his first bike ride.
“It looked like you were at practice, goddammit,”
Coach Bobby Robson will say two hours later, in the
locker room.
“That wasn’t you,” Sansom’s half-brother Allan
will say to him a year later, both of them drunk in a
Dublin pub.
In the years to come, Kenny Sansom will rewind

#201
the tape thousands of times. He will watch his own
sluggish gait, almost a trot, as the other player escapes
him. He will begin, in November of that year, to have
problems with gambling and alcohol. The tabloids
will nickname him “White” Sansom because of his
affinity for white wine. His only remaining friend
from those golden years will be Terry Butcher, per-
haps because they’ll share an identical trauma.
Butcher is the one who, now, as the radio com-
mentators and spectators in the stands are getting to
their feet, will ineffectively kick at the Argentine
player who advances up the sideline. Butcher, crazed,
will pursue the rival player—who has no idea what
the word “butcher” even means. Butcher will attempt
a second kick, this one equally ineffective but with
murderous intent, in the corner of the penalty area.
Terry Butcher will forever be haunted by the
ghost of those ten seconds under the Mexican mid-
day sun. “He dodged the other players just once, but
he dodged me twice . . . the bastard,” he will say years
later to the press, tears in his eyes.
Kenny Sansom and Terry Butcher will never re-
turn to Mexico, not even to the tourist beaches far
from Mexico City. Years later, still with no children or
stable relationships (each almost sixty by now) they
will enjoy getting together on Thursday nights to
drink whisky and invent new insults for the Argen-
tine player who now, without anyone guarding him,
enters the opponent’s field with the ball glued to his
feet.

#202
 *
Before this play started, one man made a bad pass.
That error is what started this story. He could have
played the ball back or to his right, but he decided to
turn it over to the least-open player on his team. This
man’s name is Héctor Enrique, and he remains mo-
tionless after the pass, his hands on his hips. From
this moment on, he will never be able to separate
himself from that other player, as if the invisible th-
read of that vertical pass transformed, over time, into
a magnetic field.
Enrique doesn’t know it yet, but he will partici-
pate in another World Cup twenty-four years later on
South African soil, as the assistant to a coach who,
fatter and older, will have the same face as the young
man now zigzagging downfield. And he will close out
his career in the United Arab Emirates, again assisting
the player to whom, seconds before, he passed the
ball, even though the man had his back to the goal.
Many nights in the future, in a foreign country where
women have to ride in the back seats of cars, Enrique
will think about what might have happened if, in-
stead of making that bad pass, he had kicked the ball
to Jorge Burruchaga, his second option.
Burruchaga now runs parallel to the player in the
center of the field. It is twelve minutes and twenty-
four seconds past one o’clock. He is certain that his
teammate will pass him the ball before entering the
penalty area, that the man is only shaking off defend-

#203
ers so that Burruchaga will be alone once he gets in
front of the goal.
Burruchaga runs and looks at the player; his body
language says I’m open over the middle. As he waits in
vain for the pass, he has no idea that years later he
will accept a bribe in the French league and be sanc-
tioned by FIFA. Another bad move. But now, stuck in
the present, he continues to run and to prepare for
the pass that never comes.
Days later, he will make the winning goal in the
Finals, but the world will only have eyes and memory
for this prior goal. Year after year, homage after
homage, the name most admired will not be his. One
night, Burruchaga will call Saudi Arabia to speak
with his friend Héctor Enrique and will regret—half
in jest, half serious—that this earlier goal overshad-
owed his winning kick in the Finals. Enrique will
then look out the window at a sandstorm and, unin-
tentionally, cheer Burruchaga up. “His goal wasn’t so
great,” he will say, “I made the pass. If he hadn’t made
that goal, we would’ve had to kill him.”
*
The wind on the field is blowing at seven miles an
hour. If it had been blowing forty miles an hour, as it
was six days later in Mexico City, the play might not
have been successful.
The advance seems deceptively quick, but the
player regulates his speed, slowing down and faking.

#204
There’s a secret geometry in the precision of the
zigzag, an exactitude that could have been broken by
a slight shift in the wind or the gleam of a single
watch face from the stands.
Terry Fenwick thinks about these chance variables
as he showers with his head down after the loss, fo-
cusing on one single factor, the least random. Before
the game, Fenwick had advised Coach Bobby Robson
that it would be best to assign someone to guard this
rival player for the entire game. Bobby responded
that they would guard him by zone, as they had in
previous matches. What would have happened if Rob-
son had taken my advice? Terry Fenwick will ask him-
self, naked in the locker room, water blasting at his
temples. At this moment, twelve minutes and twenty-
six seconds past one o’clock, Fenwick sees the player
controlling the ball; he believes the player will pass
the ball to the center of the penalty area. Fenwick
thinks the same thing as Burruchaga. He puts all his
weight on his right foot to block the pass, leaving the
left flank open. The Argentine player, with a little
hop, passes through that empty space, steps into the
penalty area and finds the goal.
“Shit,” Terry Fenwick will say to the press in
1989, “he ruined my career in four seconds.” Two
years after that outburst, in 1991, Fenwick will spend
four months in prison for drunk driving. He will say,
halfway through the following decade, that he would
refuse to shake the Argentine player’s hand if he ever
saw him again.

#205
 Around that same time, one of Terry Fenwick’s
daughters will turn eighteen. At her birthday party,
he will find her making out with an Argentine boy on
a beach in Trinidad. He will recognize the boy’s na-
tionality by the light blue and white soccer jersey he
wears, with the number ten on the back. Fenwick
doesn’t know it yet, but as an old man he will coach
an unknown team called San Juan Jabloteh in Tri-
nidad and Tobago, a country that has barely ever
qualified for the World Cup, but does have beaches.
Fenwick will get drunk every day on those beach-
es. On the evening of the encounter between his
daughter and the Argentine, he will try to punch the
kid. The Argentine will dodge to the left and escape
to the right. Fenwick will once again be faked out.
*
Of his total forty-four steps, the Argentine player
takes eight of them inside the penalty area, enough
for him to understand that the conditions are not
favorable.
There is a rival player, Terry Butcher, breathing
down his neck from the right; another on the left,
Glenn Hoddle, prevents him from passing to Bur-
ruchaga; Fenwick has recovered from the fake and is
now blocking a possible back-pass; and, in front, the
goalie Peter Shilton is guarding the closest goalpost.
North, south and east are blocked from any
move. It is twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds

#206
after one o’clock. It’s three hours later in Buenos
Aires. Six hours later in London. In any other city in
the world, at any time of day or night, shooting on
the goal in the middle of that jumble of legs would be
impossible, and no one knows that better than Jorge
Valdano, who jogs alone, very alone, up the left side.
No one takes note of Valdano’s presence, not
there in the penalty area and not before, in his home-
town of Las Parejas in the Argentine province of San-
ta Fe. Jorge Valdano sat reading Emilio Salgari novels
while his classmates played soccer at recess, throwing
themselves after the ball. Soccer seemed like a rudi-
mentary game to him at nine years old, but then at
age eleven, something occurred to him: he finally un-
derstood the rules and it came as no surprise that the
other kids did not play intelligently.
So he started to play with them and, as they ran
after the ball with no strategy, he moved along the
sidelines searching out the geometry of the sport.
And he was good. He played for two teams in town
and was soon invited to play for the Newell’s team in
Rosario. He made his debut in the major leagues at
eighteen. At twenty, he became a youth champion at
the Toulon Tournament. At twenty-two he had al-
ready played for the national team.
But even over all those eventful years, he’d never
held the sport above everything else. If given the
choice between a friendly match or a good novel, he
always chose the book. Up until that moment, at
thirty years old, Valdano wasn’t sure he had chosen

#207
his true calling. That is why now, as he waits for the
pass, he finally feels that this might be his destiny,
that perhaps he had been brought into the world to
kick this ball into this net.
He knows the other player’s only option is to pass
to the left. There’s no other way out. As he steps into
the penalty area, he thinks: “If he doesn’t pass it to
me, I’m quitting everything and becoming a writer.”
But his teammate doesn’t even register Valdano’s
presence. Neither does Butcher, Fenwick, Hoddle, or
Shilton. Not even the cameraman, who was following
the play with a tight frame, saw him in time. In the
video, Valdano is a ghost who materializes out of thin
air just as the ball reaches the top of the penalty area.
Jorge Valdano does not yet know it, but after this
tournament he will begin writing short stories.
*
There is no greater enemy for a striker than the goa-
lie. The other opponents may try to trip him or knee
him in the thigh. These moves are allowed—it’s a
man’s game after all—and the victim can simply reta-
liate during the next play.
But the picket, the rearguard, the goalkeeper, the
goaltender (like Lucifer, his names are infinite) can
touch the ball with his hands. The goalie is an anom-
aly, an exception, able to use his hands to strike down
the best acrobatics performed by men with their feet.
And up until earlier that day, no soccer player had

#208
ever been able to exact revenge for this injustice dur-
ing a World Cup. That is why, now, when the player
steps into the penalty area and looks into the eyes of
the goalie Peter Shilton, (grey shirt, white gloves), he
understands the hatred in the Englishman’s gaze.
Half an hour before, the Argentine had gotten
revenge on behalf of all the strikers in the history of
soccer: he had made a goal with his hand. The strik-
er’s palm had reached the ball before the goalkeeper’s
fist. In the rules of soccer this is an illegal move, but
in the rules of another game, a game more inhumane
than soccer, justice had been served.
At this culminating moment of the story, at
twelve minutes and twenty-nine seconds after one
o’clock, Peter Shilton plans his retaliation on the
player’s previous revenge. He knows full well that it is
in his power to foil the best goal of all time. This he
must do if he wants to return to his country a hero.
Shilton was born in Leicester, thirty-six years be-
fore that Mexican midday. He was already a living
legend. He didn’t even need this first and overdue
World Cup to prove it. He still does not know it, but
he will play professionally until he is forty-eight years
old. In the future, he will make so many unforget-
table blocks that, added to the ones in the past, he
will be considered the greatest English goalkeeper of
all time.
However (and he does not know this either) in
the future there will be an encyclopedia, more famous
than the Britannica, that will say of him: “Shilton,

#209
Peter: English goalkeeper who missed, in the same
day, the goals known as the Hand of God and The
Goal of the Century.”
That will be his destiny and it’s better that he
doesn’t know it now, as he looks into the eyes of the
approaching Argentine player and guards the left
goalpost like his coaches have taught him. He thinks
that Terry Butcher will get there in time to kick the
ball away. Maybe it will be a corner kick, he thinks.
Maybe I can knock the ball away with my fingertips.
Nor does he know that two years later, in Great
Britain, there will be a video game called Peter
Shilton’s Handball that his children will play in secret
during their 1992 summer break.
It’s better he doesn’t know the future now, because
he must decide—right now—what the player’s next
move will be. And he decides: he plays to his left,
throwing himself to the ground and waiting for the
left crossover kick. The Argentine, who does know
the future, chooses to continue to the right.
*
Before kicking the ball one last time with his left foot,
at twelve minutes and thirty seconds past one o’clock
under the Mexican midday sun, the Argentine player
knows he has faked out Peter Shilton; he sees Jorge
Valdano guarded by Terry Fenwick; he sees that Peter
Reid, Peter Beardsley, and Glenn Hoddle have fallen
off; he sees Terry Butcher lunge toward him with

#210
cleats pointing out; he sees Jorge Burruchaga stop,
resigned; he sees Héctor Enrique, still standing in the
middle of the field, clenching his right hand into a
fist; he sees his own coach spring from the bench and
the other coach, the rival coach, look down to avoid
witnessing this forward motion; he sees a man with
red hair smoking a pipe in the first row; he sees the
chalk line of the opposing goal and remembers the
employee who, at halftime, went over it with a roller;
and he can clearly see his brother, Turco, who, at se-
ven years old, scolded him for an error he made at
Wembley on a similar play; he can see his brother’s
lips, smeared with dulce de leche, saying: “Next time
don’t do a crossover, dummy. Better to fake out the
goalie and continue to the right.”
He sees his brother’s face in the light of the
kitchen where the scene occurred. He sees the mis-
chief in his eyes; he sees, behind the goal, a sign that
reads “Seiko” in white letters on a red background; he
sees his first girlfriend’s fingernails painted green the
day he met her, and he sees the same girl, now a
woman, breastfeeding a baby; he sees a deflated soc-
cer ball and he sees himself, at nine years old, trying
to control it; he sees his mother and his father drag-
ging, with difficulty, an enormous canister of
kerosene along a dirt road wet with rain; he sees a
nametag in locker room in La Paternal that bears his
name in brand-new lettering; he sees with pride his
adolescent self reading this nametag for the first time;
he sees the stadium outside, its wooden stands, and

#211
he also sees that one day not just that nametag but
that entire stadium will bear his name. The Argentine
player has held the air in his lungs for a full nine sec-
onds, and he’s now going to let it all out in one blast.
Unlike the opponents and teammates he has left be-
hind, he can breathe through his left leg, and he can
also predict the future as he advances with the ball at
his feet. He sees, ahead of time, that Shilton has
thrown himself to the right; he sees that Terry Butch-
er wants to cut him down from behind; he sees him-
self, many years later, with a grandchild in his arms,
visiting the Estadio Azteca where they are raising a
bronze statue with no name: just a young player with
his chest puffed out, a ball at his feet, and a date en-
graved at the base: June 22, 1986; he sees a rave in
London where two teenage boys flee a mocking
crowd; he sees a dark apartment where two friends sit
at a table with a mirror on it; he sees a girl on a tropi-
cal beach being kissed by a boy wearing an Argentine
jersey; he sees a swarm of journalists and photogra-
phers outside all the airports, all the terminals, all the
stadiums, and all the malls around the world; he sees
a boy hypnotized by a video game in Leicester, as his
brother keeps lookout to make sure their father
doesn’t catch them; he sees the dead body of an old
man who died in Geneva eight days prior to that
midday in Mexico, a man who had also seen every-
thing in the world in a single instant.
He sees Fiorito, the shantytown where he grew
up, in daylight.

#212
 He sees Naples in the evening.
He sees Barcelona at night.
He sees the jam-packed stadium in La Paternal as
he stands in the middle of the field with no ball at his
feet, just a microphone in his hands; he sees an old
man at the airport in Tunis waiting for his son to ar-
rive on the last flight from Mexico, ready to console
him; he sees a swollen ankle; he sees a Red Cross
nurse, pudgy and smiling; he sees all the goals he’s
ever made and will ever make; he sees all the goals
he’s cheered and will cheer for throughout his entire
life; he sees himself at fifty-three years old watching
the World Cup Final from box seats in the Maracaná
Stadium; he sees the day he will see his mother for
the last time; he sees the night he will see his father
for the last time; he sees all his children’s children
grow; he sees the labor pains of a woman about to
give birth to another left-handed player in Rosario, a
year and two days after that Mexican midday; he sees
a tiny, impossible space between the right goalpost
and Terry Butcher’s shoe. He closes his eyes. He lets
himself fall forward and the entire world goes silent.
The player knows he has taken forty-four steps
and kicked the ball twelve times, all with his left foot.
He knows the play will last 10.6 seconds. He knows
it’s time to let everyone see who he is, who he has
been, and who he will be until the end of time.

#213
Julieta Won Six Books

I read this week that in the city of Buenos Aires 80%

of marriages end in under ten years. An enormous
failure rate. And despite this figure, at this very time
of morning, in some office building, or some square
in Buenos Aires, two strangers are starting a conver-
sation (it’s happening right now) and they like each
other. And so they start, little by little, to transform
into that eighty percent over the decade to come.
Love at first sight, intuition, chemistry. It happens
to us all. We know, statistically, that it’s going to fail,
yet we don’t hesitate. It happened to me around three
years ago. I met a reader who, during the 2015 Copa
América, won six of my books in a bet.
I promised my readers one book for each goal
made by Argentina in the semifinals, and Argentina
beat Paraguay 6-1. I almost went bankrupt. Sending
the books out from Spain would have cost me
$96,000 dollars—just in shipping fees alone.
So I ordered a print run in Buenos Aires and took
an airplane to hand them out in person, and save my-
self the postal bill. And on one of those days I met
Julieta, who wanted me to sign her books.

#215
 What happened the afternoon I met her was real-
ly strange . . . I don’t want this story to come off as
romantic, because it’s not romantic. It was a timing
error, and in fact I got scared.
Let me see if I can explain myself. The first time I
saw Julieta, that exact moment I laid eyes on her, I
felt a sinking familiarity. For five or six seconds my
head actually split in two and I saw a scene from the
future, I heard my own voice saying: “Look, that’s
when we met for the first time. Look how young we
were. Look, her hair was shorter back then.” That’s
what I heard.
Do you understand what I’m getting at here? It
was my own voice inside my head, but a weary voice,
the voice of an old man. And that’s when everything
made sense. As I looked at Julieta for the first time in
real life I realized that, in the future, we are going to
be able to look back on important scenes from our
past, like flipping through an old photo album.
Because inside my head I was saying: “Look,
there we both were for the first time, it was back
when skinny jeans were in. What a fucked up time.”
I could hear my own future surprise. It must have
been the year two thousand fifty-something. I could
sense it by the sound of my voice. I was surely sitting
in my armchair, over eighty years old, a little bit nos-
talgic . . . watching scenes from my life pasted into an
album. And without meaning to, I turned the page
and there was the scene of the day I met Julieta. And
for some reason my future voice became part of the

#216
scene and I could hear myself while the scene was
taking place in real life.
This went on for five or six seconds. I swear on
my two daughters. I’m not making this up, and I’m
not exaggerating.
I heard my voice from the future. I heard myself
say: “Look, look, she had short hair. Look at how
pretty she was.” Meanwhile, in the present—in 2015
—it was the first time I’d ever met this lady.
And I nearly shit my pants! It wasn’t a pleasant
sensation: it sent shivers down my spine. I had to
light a cigarette and grab onto a handrail because I
could also feel what that old man was feeling as he
watched the scene. And that old man felt a feeling of
serene love for this lady, it was a love filled with many
years together and grandchildren; plants and pets;
trips and chats. I was flooded with all those deep
memories, in just five seconds, as if someone had
shoved a pen drive up my ass.
I stared at the reader with wide eyes, unable to
speak. A few days later Julieta told me it had seemed
like I was on drugs.
Which was true.
It’s true, I had smoked quite a bit on the day I
met Julieta. But that doesn’t invalidate the experience.
It doesn’t negate what I’m saying. A good smoker
knows it: cannabis only highlights what’s already go-
ing on in your head. Smoking a joint provides a valid
pathway to magical thinking, nothing more.
Throughout my life I’ve met a lot of people while

#217
being high, and my head has never traveled into the
future before or connected the conversation to my
old age; I never heard “Oh, look how young they
were,” the day I met my friend Andy at a bar.
This thing that I’m telling you about only hap-
pened to me once in life, after the 2015 Copa Améri-
ca. Some people call it love at first sight. Others call it
chemistry. And eighty percent of the time it’s just
arousal that evolves into a big mistake.
I went back to Barcelona after meeting Julieta,
passing out books, and writing 1,200 dedications.
And in Barcelona I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
We started to chat on WhatsApp. That’s when I
found out that she was antisocial, like me, and that
she was a Racing soccer club fan, a true fanatic. And I
started to believe the words of that old man in the
future.
Then I visited Buenos Aires for her birthday. It
was December 2015 and she was going to turn thir-
ty-two. I flew in a few days before and I invited her to
spend the weekend with me in Montevideo. We had
only met each other in person a few times; there was
a slim chance of things even going well.
It ended up being much worse than I’d expected:
I had a heart attack and she took me to the hospital.
Something happened in the hospital that I’ve never
told anyone. And now that I feel like writing again, I
want to share it.
I was lying on a stretcher. I couldn’t breathe and
there were two doctors performing CPR on me. I had

#218
just split up with my ex-wife three months before.
We’d lived together for fifteen years. We weren’t on
bad terms, we’ve never been on bad terms.
And now I was dying with a stranger by my side.
If you’re not sure whether getting divorced was
the best decision, or if you’re in a new relationship
only for the sex, being pushed to the verge of death
will help you know whether you made the right
choice. You can’t elude the truth when you’re dying.
Because it becomes crystal clear.
And as I lay there dying I couldn’t stop thinking
about Julieta. We’d met each other eight times in
life. She was standing there outside the operating
room, alone, arguing with some nurses who
wouldn’t let her in. And I was thinking, “Poor
thing, what a raw deal she got and she hardly even
knows me.” I was dying and all the while thinking,
“Poor thing, all the fucking paperwork she’s going
to have to deal with when I die!”
From the stretcher I could see the door to the op-
erating room. And she was leaning through the
doorway, trying to get a peek. I could see strands of
her hair out of the corner of my eye, as if she were a
cartoon. And that made me laugh, as I was dying.
It made me laugh while I was dying!
And I didn’t want to die. I made an effort—I
wanted to become that old man and find out if that
future in which there are albums with scenes from the
past was real. To see if peaceful love could exist, years
filled with grandchildren and dogs and trips.

#219
 And then I survived. And I had to stop smoking
forever. And as a result I no longer enjoyed writing.
And I stopped writing. In these past three years I’ve
dedicated myself almost exclusively to forming a fam-
ily with the woman who was leaning through the
door of the operating room.
And now three years have passed since that heart
attack, and I woke up today and felt like writing
again, I first and foremost want to write a scene. A
very small scene.
I want to take advantage of the fact that today is
December 14th, Julieta’s birthday, and I want to give
her the gift of a scene for the future album. This is
the scene, take a peek:
“Look at how young we were, this must be the
end of 2018. Look at how beautiful Pipa was—not
even two years old yet. Look at her curls. Look at
how she plays with the dog—do you remember that
first dog? What an idiot that dog was . . . Look at
you, with your long hair. That was the year Racing
was in first place after the first half of the season and
you turned thirty-five that morning. And I gave you
the first story I ever enjoyed writing without being
high, and I read it to you on the radio without warn-
ing you beforehand. How young we were, and what
an intense life. Sometimes I get nostalgic for the
present.”

#220
An Affair to Remember

!e story I’m about to tell happened when pesetas

were still in existence, on the exact day I found my-
self broke, without a single one. I had just turned
thirty years old; I was living in a boardinghouse in
the Gràcia neighborhood. A bed, a desk, a bath-
room down the hall. I hadn’t been living in Bar-
celona for very long and Cristina was already paying
for my cigarettes.
My memories of those months have started to
fade: I was writing—unpassionately—a horrible nov-
el I never figured out how to finish. Then I’d spend
the rest of the day asking myself why I couldn’t think
up a good story—the context was ideal: Europe, a
cheap boardinghouse, poverty, and youth. But the
truth is I wasn’t making progress and I was bored, un-
til Cristina finished up work and I finally had some-
one to talk to.
Although I had already missed my airplane—on
purpose—back to Buenos Aires, I acted as if I were
on vacation, unconcerned about the future, and I
continued that way until the day Cristina had to pay
for my entire month’s rent at the boardinghouse. The

#221
following morning I went down to the street with
two fifty-peseta coins and bought myself a copy of
the Segundamano classified ads. I sat down at the
Barbarella, the only bar in Barcelona with a bidet,
and resolved to find myself a job.
I didn’t do it out of a sense of responsibility or
guilt, I did it so that Cristina would understand that I
wasn’t a lazy Argentine.
By the second phone call I’d secured an interview:
a sales rep for a magazine about to put out its first is-
sue. I showered, tucked in my shirt, and walked
down to República Argentina avenue. I took the
street name as a good omen.
I felt carefree when I got there because, back then,
I used to think I was immortal. I took the elevator up
to the first floor, which looked more like an old man-
sion than a publishing house. A butler in his sixties
opened the door for me—he was actually dressed like
a butler. He showed me into a small living room and
invited me to sit down.
Next to me, in another chair, there was a tall guy
with straight hair, also waiting with his resume in
hand. The butler knocked on a door, ceremoniously
opened it a crack, and said:
“Young master, the model and the writer are
here.”
Young master? The guy sitting next to me was also
surprised by the butler’s words. A minute passed. The
butler just stood by the door, looking off into the dis-
tance. Finally, with the cadence of a Greek drama, out

#222
came the strangest human being I’ve ever met in my
life. First he looked at the guy with straight hair and
his eyes shone. Then he looked at me, pointed at my
body with his little finger, and guessed with disgust:
“You—you must be the writer.”
That was the first thing that Narcís Cardelús said
to me before showing me into his office.
At first I was offended. Not so much because I
couldn’t have been the model—that much was obvi-
ous. I was offended by the scorn in his voice, coming
from the mouth of a chimpanzee with human fea-
tures who was only slightly taller than a dwarf,
dressed in a robe with arabesque motifs, carrying a
Siamese cat in his arms.
I know that these details seem malicious—please
excuse me for the cliché—but Narcís Cardelús really
was a tall dwarf who made every effort in the world
to be a gay stereotype: he exaggerated his Spanish
lisp, his limp wrist, his baby powder smell. His entire
environment was a painstaking production, except
for his face and height. If you looked at his eyes and
forgot about the rest of him, he looked like a minia-
ture Romanian truck driver.
Although he had found a way to mimic the
movements and aura of a dancer, by practicing in
front of the mirror, his genes were wholly unsophisti-
cated, stemming from a long line of heterosexual
mediocrity. But I couldn’t stop looking at him. I was
hypnotized. After my initial distain dissipated, I be-
came fascinated.

#223
 I had never seen a gay dwarf, I didn’t know that
combination could exist. Which is why, when Narcís
opened his mouth or made a gesture I didn’t quite
know which stereotype to be embarrassed by. He had
the same high-pitched voice used by actors who don’t
know how to play the role of a homosexual.
And although his voice was incredible, his editor-
ial venture was even better: he was planning to
launch a gay magazine in Barcelona, with news for
gay people. He already had the most important part
figured out, he told me: all the businessmen from the
Eixample, the gay neighborhood in town, were his
friends and they were enthusiastic about financing his
magazine. The only thing missing were some adver-
torials that would allow him to collect the money.
“Can you take care of that?” he asked me.
I told him he’d found the right man for the job.
He didn’t seem very convinced, but since no one else
had responded to the ad, he hired me off the books,
promising an absurd monthly salary.
I knew from the get-go I would never see that
money and the magazine would never come out, but
I happily accepted nonetheless. Being there was better
than continuing to look for under-the-table work, or
having to spend the whole day at the boardinghouse
struggling with a hopeless novel.
In Cristina’s eyes I had gotten a job, that was what
mattered. In my mind, I had succeeded in finding
something to tell my friends back home in Mercedes.
I was required to be there every day at nine

#224
o’clock sharp. Narcís never got up before ten, al-
though every five minutes the butler repeated in the
same tone:
“Young master, the journalist has arrived.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see him there
in his room. Narcís wasn’t sleeping; he was watching
old American films, dubbed into Spanish, crying,
with a pack of Kleenex next to his bed. I lowered my
head and pretended to be busy at the computer.
During these idle hours I became friendly with
Ramón, learning that he had been the family butler
for decades. The family consisted of the Duke of
Cardelús i Monturiol, a gentleman of noble lineage
who owned two time-honored Barcelona theaters; his
wife, Emma, formerly a famous theater actress; and
their only child, Narcís, who—in the words of
Ramón—had always been overprotected by his
mother because he was a runt. But Narcís was more
than just a runt.
The duke, a man from Barcelona’s high society,
had always been embarrassed by his only son, but
while the boy’s mother was in charge he’d toughed it
out. The problem had started in September, the but-
ler relayed, when Mistress Emma had passed away.
The duke had tried living with his son, but found it
impossible. He was annoyed by the fact that Narcís
spent the whole day alone dressed up like a transsex-
ual crying about the death of his mother. “You’re
forty years old, for Christ’s sake!” the duke yelled, and
he spent more and more time outside the house.

#225
 One afternoon, fed up with not being able to re-
lax in his own home, the duke rented a duplex and
moved out. He left Ramón there to take care of Nar-
cís and maintained his son with a modest monthly
sum, in exchange for not having to see him. Ramón
was not pleased with the decision, but he was loyal to
the duke and had been looking after the child for
months by now.
“This loser is never going to pay you . . . Get out
now while you can,” the butler warned me.
I knew it, of course, but nonetheless I waited anx-
iously, day after day, for Narcís to get out of bed and
walk me down to the Eixample to collect money for
the ads. He didn’t care about the short texts I wrote
in the morning, he just wanted to show me off
around the neighborhood and introduce me as “my
Argentine sales manager.”
I soon discovered that all the gays in the neigh-
borhood knew him and avoided him: Narcís was a
sort of village idiot, they’d promise him anything just
to get rid of him.
Before long I knew gay Barcelona like the palm of
my hand. I walked into nightclubs in the light of day,
I found out about gay hair salons where you could
also get your poodle groomed, I went to travel agen-
cies that offered tours to San Francisco and other gay-
friendly destinations, I visited sex shops and kept my-
self entertained with a strange bunch of wonderful
people. At first Narcís always came along, but then
some afternoons my boss would stay home, depressed

#226
and watching movies, and send me out on my own.
When they saw me show up without him, the gay
businessmen would take me aside and confide in me
just as Ramón the butler had:
“You know you’re wasting your time, right?”
And when I told them that I knew, that I was in
the loop, they looked at me curiously. I couldn’t ex-
plain to them what that experience meant for me, the
importance of being in that house with Narcís and
his butler. If I’d had money, I would have paid them
to let me be part of their lives.
When I picked Cristina up from work I had in-
credible stories to tell her, and I wrote e-mails to
Chiri and my parents. I told them how one day I
took a thermos to Narcís’ house to make yerba mate,
and that Ramón had been intrigued by how the infu-
sion worked. The next day he heated up the water
himself and took charge of the whole operation.
What does it matter not getting paid, I thought,
if you’ve got a butler—actually dressed up like a but-
ler—pouring you mates all morning long?
Each little vignette from that month was memo-
rable: a collection of fortifying anecdotes. The best
one was on the last day, when I decided the time had
come to find a real job.
I arrived late, around noon. Narcís had started to
avoid me because he knew he owed me money. He
told me that when his father paid him his monthly
allowance he would give me mine. I knew, from
Ramón, that the duke had paid him over a week ago.

#227
So I told him that I was leaving, that a magazine can’t
be published without a designer, a printer, photogra-
phers, editors. I told him everything that I could have
said that very first day.
He got emotional, his voice became shriller than
ever and he put the cat down on the floor. He told
me that I didn’t understand the first thing about
business, that I was leaving him high and dry, right
when things were starting up. He was shouting, he
felt like he’d been taken for a ride. He told me I
shouldn’t expect one cent if I was quitting. He want-
ed a fight, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfac-
tion.
Once he knew that there was no convincing me
otherwise he said something that, for a long time af-
terward, Cristina would repeat every time she pre-
tended to get angry with me. Narcís yelled, with all
the spite in the world, “Go back to the Pampas,
queenie!” and he ran into his room crying. Then he
turned on the TV and cranked the volume up to the
max. Ramón, who had watched the whole ordeal,
raised his eyebrows and patted me on the back. “So it
always ends,” the butler said and bid me farewell with
a firm squeeze of the hands and not another word.
I walked down the hallway to the front door and,
like so many other times, I caught a glimpse of Narcís
in his room. He was crying and muttering the same
sentence over and over, choked with emotion, tots em
deixen, which means in Catalan “everyone leaves me.”
My heart broke.

#228
 I went into his room to make peace (it wasn’t the
first time I’d gone in) and I sat down next to him. It
was the first time I’d done that. He pretended not to
see me; he kept staring at the TV, his eyes glossy and
his breath choppy. There were a half dozen VHS
tapes on the bed, the old films that Narcís watched all
day nonstop. I could read some of the cases: Julius
Caesar, From Here to Eternity, Bonjour Tristesse. The
film showing just then was called Tú y Yo. I didn’t
recognize the title until I saw the images on screen. It
was An Affair to Remember.
“I’ve seen this one,” I told him, just to say some-
thing. “In Argentina it’s called Algo para recordar.”
He didn’t say anything, he was still offended.
“Do you like Cary Grant?” I asked him.
He shook his head and pointed at the television:
“I like listening to her,” he said.
The screen showed the face of a striking woman.
I noticed that all the movies strewn across the sheets
starred the same actress, but I didn’t have time to
comment because Narcís turned the volume up.
“Listen to her voice,” he said, “it’s my mother.”
And he closed his eyes.
My heart started to beat faster. All of a sudden I
knew that I’d been in his house all month in prepara-
tion for this moment.
“Mama dubbed the voice of Deborah Kerr in all
her movies,” he said.
And I felt embarrassed by the number of hours
I’d spent at the boardinghouse, trying to write a ficti-

#229
tious story. How the hell did I think I was going to
invent a story about a butler who looks after a gay
dwarf who spends his days listening to the voice of
his dead mother dubbed onto films? By staying
cooped up inside the boardinghouse all day? I felt
sorry, deeply sorry, for all the writers who fruitlessly
search their imagination for stories, as I settled in
next to Narcís on the bed.
He nestled his head in my lap.

#230
Gaussian Blur

I’m in San José, Costa Rica and it’s raining. I’ve just
ordered a coffee and I open my laptop. I find I’ve
been tagged in a Facebook photo but I think it must
be a mistake, because at first glance I don’t see myself
in the picture. It takes just a second, less than a se-
cond, for me to understand. I stare at the photo with
my eyes wide and unblinking; a few seconds go by,
then a few more, and my expression is still frozen.
Presented with an imminent threat, my ridiculous
defense mechanism is to freeze, like a deer standing
still in the middle of the highway as a truck barrels
down on them. The hotel waiter must think I’m
watching some new and amazing kind of porn, 3D
porn, because I don’t even react when the coffee ar-
rives. I’m too busy making a tremendous effort to
show no reaction, because I’m in a public place and I
don’t want anyone to see me like that.
The thing is that since Roberto died, in July
2008, this is the first time I’ve looked at a photo of
him without unfocusing my eyes. Fucking Facebook
and its intrusive tags. I hadn’t been expecting it and I
didn’t have time to apply the Gaussian blur.

#231
 A second realization increases my discomfort. I
thought I’d seen all my family photos, but this one
was never in any of the childhood photo albums or
picture frames in the house where I grew up. The im-
age shows a clear summer sky, with a single inoffen-
sive cloud cut off by a building I remember well, on
the most famous beach of Mar del Plata.
Where had that photo been all this time? The an-
swer is simple: nowhere. I would later learn that it
wasn’t even really a photo, it was a slide. My grandpa
Marcos made slides and kept them in drawers that no
one opened until his death.
My aunt Ingrid decided, this month, to digitalize
them all before time rendered them useless. When
she found this photo she sent it by e-mail to my
mom; my mom uploaded it to Facebook that morn-
ing in Argentina. Two hours later I’m in this café,
with my guard down, thinking about how much we
fat people love an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet at a
hotel, and then this image assaults me before I have
the chance to defend myself.
So these two unorganized and unstructured para-
graphs take shape illogically inside my head, and I
instantly think of Fernando and León. And another
photo taken in Mar del Plata—but that will be later,
after the sobs have swept through me. For now, I
hold back the tears and I let these disconnected ideas
flow. I don’t write them down, I watch them pass like
the cars of a freight train.
Once I get back to room 1010 and it’s no longer

#232
necessary to feign composure the sentences will form
without any coherent grammar, writing themselves
down for me to clean up later. But now I’m still at
the table staring at a photo that takes up three-quar-
ters of the monitor. And I search for the e-mail that
Fernando Luna sent me five years ago. I search for
this e-mail as an antidote to the tears.
*
First I should explain that it’s not entirely true
that I haven’t seen a single photo of my dad since he
died. In reality, when I have no other choice, I will
glance at one—in the entryway of my sister’s home
there are two portraits of him—but before passing
into her kitchen I open my mental Photoshop and
unfocus my eyes to sixty-five percent. If I have to
look at photos of Roberto, I tell myself, there should
at least be a filter. To be clear: I’m not afraid of seeing
him and it’s not that I worry about getting too upset.
It’s more like a superstition. One night on the radio
Alejandro Dolina said something that has stayed with
me. He said that in photos of dead loved ones, the
dead people know they’re dead and they look out at
you, from the image, with a sad and knowing expres-
sion, as if saying “whatcha gonna do.”
I don’t know if it’s true, but deep down I do be-
lieve it—so whenever there are photos of Roberto
around I look away just in case. It’s a cowardly habit,
I guess, but it’s also a form of self-preservation. The

#233
same mechanism has kept me, for all these years,
from setting foot inside the house in Mercedes where
I was born and where he died.
The many times I’ve been back to Argentina I’ve
avoided the house because I want my memory to re-
tain other images of those rooms, less offensive and
mundane images in which no one dies in a dining
room chair. I wouldn’t know what to do in that house
if I were to walk through it today, just like I don’t
know what to do with this Facebook photo that has
ambushed me without warning in Costa Rica, with-
out a filter in sight and before I’ve even had breakfast.
I search my inbox, desperately, for Fernando’s e-
mail but I can’t find it. And when I realize that I
know the date he sent it, the association of ideas takes
me to an even worse memory. I remember, with ris-
ing panic, another photo I know exists, but which I
will never look at, not even with a gun to my head.
When Roberto died in July of 2008 I’d already
packed my bags to go to Buenos Aires to launch my
second book. When I got the news I tried to move
my flight up by a few days but it was impossible,
which is why I didn’t get there in time to attend the
funeral or the burial. It’s strange to say I didn’t get
there in time when the objective wasn’t to see my fa-
ther alive for the last time, but rather to see him dead
for the first time.
Chiri was my war correspondent. From the Mer-
cedes cemetery he called me in Barcelona. He report-
ed everything as it happened, telling me there were

#234
tons of people, that my mother remained stoic. He
gave me details of the funeral service, told me how
the wake had lasted all night, et cetera. It was a
strange phone call, because we spoke to each other
like adults.
I remember that and almost nothing else. We
hadn’t planned to talk like that; no one plans to talk
like that. Luckily—sometimes distance makes things
easier—I never saw my dad dead for the first time.
But a week later, when I finally launched my book,
my uncle Toto was in the audience. After the talk
ended he came over—bleary eyed, because the death
of his older brother had affected him—and he whis-
pered something in my ear that left me speechless:
“Since you couldn’t make it to the funeral,” he
said, “I took a picture of him in the casket. He was
calm, he was at peace. I don’t know if you want me to
give you the photo now, or maybe later. I have it here
in the car. Just ask me for it whenever you’re ready, I’ll
save it for you.”
I didn’t ask him for it. Not then, not later. But
ever since that day the mere knowledge of its exis-
tence, and the fact that it’s waiting for me some-
where, makes me feel faint. No amount of Gaussian
blur will make it okay to look at that image. Straight
to the recycling bin.
I prefer this picture that just assaulted me on
Facebook, with a blue sky and some clouds and a
Pepsi. This photo of the Mar del Plata sky is also new.
Much more attractive than the photo of my dead fa-

#235
ther. When I say it’s new I’m speaking in a broad
sense, because I’ve never seen it before, a photo in
which the two of us were so close, so near the begin-
ning of our story.
It’s probably January or February of 1973, I guess,
no later than that, and my dad is holding me in his
arms. In the photo I’m about to turn two years old
and we are looking at each other. He, looking at me
directly, me glancing at him out of the corner of my
eye. Do I already know he’s my father, I wonder, as
the Costa Rican coffee grows cold. I guess so; at two
years old you already have an idea of your most im-
portant relationships.
And does he already know I’m his son—I mean,
in the deepest and most absolute sense? His smile
seems to indicate that he does not. He does not yet
know that I will never be a good tennis player. He
doesn’t have the faintest idea that in the future he’ll
stay up so many nights, wondering where I am and
what time I’ll be home—if I come home at all. He
doesn’t know that one day I will go live far away and
that I won’t be there when he dies. It’s summer, it’s
Mar del Plata, he doesn’t need to know any of that.
What does he know about me, then? What does
he want from me that afternoon? Is he daydreaming,
at that moment, about our future conversations, like
I imagine my future conversations with Nina? Does
he understand, or can he at least sense, that my right
hand, chubby and flexible, is already set in the typing
position? Does he know that I will sometimes write

#236
about him, when I grow up, and that when he dies
I’ll wait five years before really crying over him, and
that I’ll do so in a hotel room in Costa Rica—not at
his funeral, not even at our house, the one I can’t
bring myself to enter. The freight train of questions
speeds past the table, rattling the silverware. I’m not
the one crying, yet, it’s a windowless train in the
night that understands more than it sees. That’s why
I’ve never wanted to look at his photos or return to
the dining room of my childhood home. Because I
don’t like questions that appear out of nowhere, when
my guard is down. What must the Costa Rican wait-
er think when he sees the fat man start to cry in si-
lence while watching 3D porn? I try to calm myself
down but I can’t. I’m almost two years old in the
photo, but his age is of more interest to me than my
own. Roberto is about to turn twenty-nine; he’s four-
teen years younger than I am now. He’s a young man
holding his first child in his arms. I know that feel-
ing, of holding your first child in your arms and be-
lieving in eternity. I had to cry. It had to happen
eventually, I think. The fucked up part is that it’s
happening in Costa Rica, so far from everything,
while an older Dutch couple tries not to stare. The
fucked up part is that my appetite vanished right after
I sat down at the all-you-can-eat buffet. I hope it’s
true that Facebook will be bankrupt in two or three
years. This wasn’t the time or the place to cry.
I should’ve cried the night my sister called to tell
me Roberto had died, but I couldn’t. I was playing

#237
with Nina and Cristina in the study of our house.
The summer windows were open. When I realized
what was happening my first reaction was to gesture
for Cris to take Nina somewhere else. At the time I
was afraid of breaking down in front of Nina, and
that she, at four years old, might be frightened.
Somehow I held back those sobs for half a decade.
I held back other sobs a week later, the night of
the book launch in Buenos Aires, when Chiri and I
went out onstage and Roberto wasn’t there in the
front row. Something else happened that night, a lit-
tle while after my uncle Toto offered me the photo-
graph I never asked for. At one point, before I started
signing books in the hall outside the theater, Fernan-
do Luna pulled me aside. Fernando is an old friend
from Mercedes who had come to the book launch.
But I have to explain something else first, that’s what
I mean about these paragraphs having no structure or
logic.
*
I have to talk about how, many years before, in 1993,
I worked at a magazine in Mercedes and I traveled to
Mar del Plata to interview Fernando Luna. He had a
TV show that was very popular locally, in which he
found people from Mercedes on their beach vacations
and interviewed them.
His wife was the camerawoman, his kids held the
cables. Fernando had two kids. The younger one,

#238
León, had just turned or was about to turn ten. Over
the days I spent with the Luna family at the coast I
got to see Fernando’s relationship with his son up
close: they had a brutal complicity, especially in all
things related to soccer, and the two of them remind-
ed me of my relationship with Roberto.
One morning Fernando was telling me, for the
article I was writing, that he’d taken León to see a
Boca versus Independiente soccer match for the
Summer Cup, and they got lost on the way, passed
up the stadium, and arrived late, in time for the sec-
ond half, when Independiente was already winning
one to zero. Then Boca scored a goal but the ref void-
ed it.
“We were so pissed,” Fernando said, “we missed
the first goal and the one we got to see wasn’t even a
goal . . . There was a guy screaming curses in the
stands, and he threw a bottle at the ref. Do you re-
member, León?”
León looked at him and said, very seriously,
“That was you, Dad.”
I remember several of these verbal quips between
the two of them, as if they’d planned it ahead of time.
And I thought that if these comedic exchanges were
spontaneous, they were good, but if they’d planned
them out to make me laugh, they were even better.
A while later, a year or so I believe, León died, at
age eleven, of a sudden and fatal illness. I lived in
Buenos Aires at the time and the person who told me
about the death was my dad, by phone. That morn-

#239
ing, when I hung up, I cried uncontrollably, very sim-
ilar to the way I cried in Costa Rica. I had an attack
of short spasms, like gigantic hiccups, and I thought I
was never going to be able to stop. The way Roberto
gave me the news over the phone was devastating,
and that’s why I cried so hard. He didn’t say much,
because he was quite reserved in serious situations,
but there was something in his voice that tried to say:
“I’m scared.” There was something in his inflection
over the phone that said: “Don’t ever do that to me.”
Another year went by, and Fernando Luna and I
started a newspaper in Mercedes called El Domingo.
We talked often, and one day he told me that the
image on León’s headstone was from a photo that
had been taken by me, one of those days in Mar del
Plata. He asked me if I wanted to see it and I told
him no, I remembered the photo perfectly. It’s one
in which León is holding a VHS camcorder, filming
me as I take the photo. Fernando also told me, that
afternoon, that although some minor wounds may
heal after the death of a son, you’ll never again be
happy.
*
It had been many years since I’d seen Fernando when
he showed up in the hall outside the theatre that
night in 2008, a week after Roberto’s death. He pu-
lled me aside. I suspected he was going to give his
condolences, like other people from Mercedes had

#240
done over the past few days, but he just greeted me
and said: “I sent you an e-mail this morning, did you
read it?” I told him I hadn’t seen it, that I’d been run-
ning around from one place to another all day. And
he said to me: “Read it.”
Rereading that e-mail, which is a kind of verbal
photograph, would help me a long time later, in a ho-
tel room in Costa Rica, to calm the storm:
“Last week,” Fernando began the e-mail, dated
July 16 2008, “I was walking out of Magadán’s place
with a Sabina CD and I went by the Chelén book-
shop to see if your book had come in. There, on the
sidewalk outside, I saw your dad with a copy in his
hand. He was staring at the window display because
Andrecito Monferrand had piled up a bunch of your
books, like it was some bestseller. One day Nina is
going to be grown and you’ll understand what I’m
saying here. I’m getting goosebumps as I write this,
like I’m in the Boca stadium or something. We start-
ed talking—your father and I—and he told me that
Chichita had been trying to get a hold of me to see if
I wanted to ride with them in the van to your book
launch, and at one point there was a pause in the
conversation. I now realize there was something I
wanted to say to him but I couldn’t find the words. I
wanted to tell him that I’d always thought of you as
an incredible little fat kid.
“I wanted to tell him that I feel immensely
pleased when Boca gets a new player and on the third
play I can say: ‘this guy is going to be a champ, this

#241
guy is going to kick ass for Boca!’ That’s how I felt
when I first saw Riquelme, when I saw Bati, and
Márcico. And that’s how I felt several years ago when
I met your son. That’s what I wanted to say, but I
didn’t say anything. He must’ve guessed it though,
instinctively, because he looked me in the eye, that
kind of sidelong glance your dad had, and he said:
‘Well, we’ll see each other at the launch and we’ll talk
then.’ Believe me that I’ve hardly ever talked to him
about important things. That night (and I can say
this with certainty now that I believe in God and I
don’t have a son who writes books, because mine
checked out early) I was certain of the fact that your
dad was a great guy, which is much harder than writ-
ing a book, Chunk. When I left he was still there,
with your book in his hand staring at the window
display. The next day I heard the news and I couldn’t
believe it. I had to tell you because—and this is true,
I’m not just saying it—you made him happy up to
the last day of his life. You should’ve seen that man,
standing there, looking at your books.”
That was it. I had to cry. Crying is good for you.
In that hotel room in Costa Rica, when I finally
calmed down, when there was no more water left in
the reservoir that had been dammed up for five years,
and when—finally—the freight train had passed at
light speed, I understood that the photo of Roberto
and I, in Mar del Plata, was the first image of a love
story that lasted almost forty years. I want to let it be
the first.

#242
 And I choose as the last image of that story the
one that Fernando unknowingly painted for me with
his e-mail, the image that helps me to now give clo-
sure to my mourning. From now on, I suppose, I’ll
be able to look at my Dad in the face once again,
without unfocusing my eyes.

#243
An Unexpected Alarm

For half your life the most tragic thing you can ima-
gine happening is your own selfish death, but then
something comes along and bam, the epicenter of
your fear is forever shifted. I discovered this in a taxi.
I’d just been paid money I hadn’t expected to receive
for something that I didn’t even consider work. So I
decided not to travel from Buenos Aires to La Plata
in a grimy bus, because when you get unexpected
money the least you can do is buy yourself some
comfort. The problem was that I chose a taxi driver
who was about to cross a line.
I remember the day well: it was the winter of
2008. I’d gone to Buenos Aires to launch my book
España perdiste but in the middle of the trip my dad
had died and I was feeling rudderless. I launched my
book anyway and everything turned out more or less
all right.
One week later my friend Carolina was present-
ing her first book at the El Ateneo bookshop, and she
invited me to moderate. She worked for the publish-
ing house Editorial Aguilar. I was very disappointed
with my publisher, Sudamericana, because my book

#245
had just been launched but it wasn’t available at any
bookstores.
When I got to El Ateneo, the Aguilar people had
set out hundreds of Carolina’s books, and everyone
who came in bought one. Oh, how I hated Sudamer-
icana! But that wasn’t all. When Carolina’s presenta-
tion was over, someone from Editorial Aguilar walked
over and handed me an envelope with money in it.
“What’s this?” I wanted to know.
“Our press always pays the people who come to
speak with our authors,” the girl from Aguilar said.
I thought about poor Chiri, who’d come to help
me with my book launch a week before. And Laura
Canoura, who flew over from Montevideo to sing
with her pianist . . . The people from Sudamericana
hadn’t even given her the time of day, or a coffee,
much less a thank you. I was really pissed at my pub-
lisher that night. I was feeling prickly when I left El
Ateneo with the envelope of cash in my backpack. It
was dark. I had to go for dinner at my sister’s house,
so I asked where I could catch a bus to La Plata. The
directions I received were so complicated that my
brain shut down, so I stopped a taxi. Let Aguilar pay.
Since it would be a long trip, I asked the driver to
give me a fixed rate. He was a middle-aged man,
dark-skinned with tired eyes, and he didn’t know any-
thing about fixed rates. He explained that he’d only
been driving the taxi for a week, that it was his
cousin’s cab, and that if it was a long trip, all the bet-
ter, because he needed the money.

#246
 He called his cousin and asked for instructions
and rates. The cousin, on speaker phone, shouted out
the price. The driver looked at me. I accepted and we
set off.
We took Santa Fe and as we were crossing 9 de
Julio I noticed that the guy seemed nervous. I
thought it might be cocaine. Then I thought he
might be nervous over his inexperience behind the
wheel, but it was neither of these things. The answer
would come over the phone.
The trip we were about to take was nearly forty
miles. The cell phone would ring several times, but
the first call came right as we were about to pull onto
the highway, around Brasil Avenue. The taxi driver
put it on speaker, and a woman’s voice echoed
through the car:
“She’s getting worse, Alberto. I don’t know what
to do!” the woman shouted.
“I told you to take her to a private hospital and
we’ll figure out how to pay later,” the driver shouted
back, running a red light.
“With what money? Are you trying to drive me
crazy?”
“Get her out of the house, bundle her up, and
take her to Durán Public Hospital. Take her any-
where!”
“With what car?”
“Tell your fucking mother to ask her husband for
the car! What do you want me to do? I’m on the
highway to La Plata!”

#247
 The woman started insulting the driver, while
sobbing, but at the same time it was clear that she
was following his instructions: you could hear her
walking, huffing, and then the sound of open air and
car horns. In my head this meant: she picked up the
little girl, went down the stairs, and took her out
onto the street.
The driver also guessed at these sounds and gave
vague instructions. At one point we heard crying on
the phone. I thought it was the woman, but it was
the little girl crying. I could tell by the way, when he
heard her, the taxi driver gripped his hands around
the steering wheel and told the woman he was in the
middle of a trip and couldn’t keep talking. And he
hung up.
For a while we didn’t say anything. But then, as if
the driver had been trying to decide whether or not
to tell me, he apologized and explained the whole
drama.
He spoke without pausing, or at least I have the
memory of a real earful with no spaces, commas, or
nuances. He told me that for the past six days his
daughter had been running a high fever and he and
his wife had split up, way before, but now his wife’s
family was claiming that he was leaving her so he
wouldn’t have to take responsibility for the daughter’s
illness and he hardly slept because he worked all day
at an brickyard and at night driving his cousin’s taxi,
trying to round up the money to take his daughter to
a private hospital because at the public hospitals they

#248
just sent her home with baby aspirin and his wife was
driving him crazy.
He said something like that, but longer, and with
no commas. When he started talking, the speedome-
ter was at sixty-eight, but by the time he finished we
were going one hundred miles an hour. He scared
me, but I didn’t say anything because his voice was
steady, like he was rehearsing a monologue he’d have
to perform later.
!e tension was in his hands, not in his words. I
looked at his knuckles and racked my brain for
some encouraging words, some consolation, because
he was zooming down the highway at breakneck
speed. Just when I’d thought of what to say, some-
thing stopped me.
An ungodly alarm started to sound inside the car,
a loud, desperate wailing, like the shriek of a car
alarm on the street.
Neither he nor I understood what was happen-
ing, until a metallic, recorded voice rang out over the
speaker: “You are leaving Buenos Aires city limits,”
said the voice, “please enter security code.”
The phrase repeated three more times, over the
alarm. The driver didn’t have the foggiest idea what
that message meant so he fumbled at the phone and
called his cousin. The cousin told him it was the taxi’s
security system. It was hard to understand his expla-
nation over the deafening alarm: “Alberto!” the
cousin yelled, “you must’ve passed the city limit and
the radar picked it up. You must be in the province.

#249
You have to let them know that the passenger isn’t
pointing a gun at you or didn’t steal the taxi. Write
down this number . . .”
The cousin recited six digits. The driver typed
them into the phone and the alarm stopped. There
was an empty, surreal calm inside the taxi, like when
the washing machine suddenly finishes the spin cycle.
For ten minutes we rode in silence. I repeatedly
checked the speedometer and measured the driver’s
expression in the rearview mirror.
When the phone rang for the last time we were
just five or six miles from La Plata. This time the
woman was shrieking and it was hard to understand
what she said. The only thing we could clearly make
out were the words “she’s dead.” She repeated it three
or four times, amid other swallowed phrases, and
then she was overcome by a sob that made my skin
prickle up like a cheese grater.
The driver shouted repeatedly, “Vanina! What
happened?” And each time the woman responded
with the same two words, but he seemed not to un-
derstand the answer so he’d ask again: “Vanina! What
happened?” And she again had the same answer. This
dialogue played on loop for thirty seconds and then
cut off, as if the woman’s phone had fallen down a
well.
We didn’t say anything. Both the taxi driver and I
pretended that the call hadn’t happened. No “Vanina!
What happened?” Not her dull, monotonous answer.
It was a strange silence, full of deafness.

#250
 The landscape began to change: the trees and fac-
tories outside the window were a blur. It took me a
moment to notice that the car’s speed had shot up.
I gripped the back of the seat in front of me. The
speedometer was at 118 mph. I closed my eyes. I
opened them and it was past 125 mph. I closed my
eyes again and had two thoughts: either the driver
wants to kill himself with me inside the car, or he
wants to drop me off in La Plata as soon as possible
so he can get back to Buenos Aires.
I tapped his shoulder, without opening my eyes:
“Let me out here and go back,” I said.
“What do you mean here? Here on the highway?”
“Right here. Stop here!”
He pulled onto the shoulder in a zigzagging ma-
neuver. He turned around and I saw him from the
front for the first time. I realized he was younger than
I’d thought, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-
five years old and he’d been crying for a while. I
hadn’t realized. He must’ve been making an effort to
keep me from hearing his sniffles.
“Really?” he asked, looking me in the eye. “You
don’t mind if I leave you here?”
I told him it was fine, that I could call another
taxi from my phone, although in truth I couldn’t
make local calls with my Spanish cell phone. But I
wasn’t being generous: I did it out of the terrifying
fear that we’d end up wrapped around a light post.
The fact was I wanted to be far away from this drama
as soon as possible.

#251
 If the driver was going to kill himself, let it be on
his way back to Buenos Aires and alone, not with me
in the back seat. I felt guilty for thinking that way,
but that’s what I thought. Then I did what we cow-
ards usually do when we’re afraid: I rummaged in my
backpack for the envelope of money Aguilar had giv-
en me and I took out a hundred pesos. I closed the
envelope and gave him the whole thing, with all the
bills inside.
“The trip and a tip,” I told him.
The driver looked at the money and didn’t even
act out the customary ritual of “no, brother, I can’t
accept this.” He skipped the idiotic tradition because
he knew that any back and forth would only waste
time. I got out of the car. I imagined him getting to
the toll booth and making a lightning-fast U-turn. I
stood still with my arms crossed from the cold.
It was dark and there were no gas stations in
sight. I needed to start walking, but I couldn’t: the
headlights of the cars coming and going were filled
with an infinite sadness. I didn’t want to step outside
my two feet of calm.
So I sat on the ground and crossed my legs, and I
thought about what I hadn’t wanted to think about. I
thought about Nina, age four. I thought, terrified, of
my daughter, who was surely at home, asleep; and I
thought about my father, who’d died ten nights be-
fore.
I felt, suddenly, that I was crossing a line. Right
there, in that moment.

#252
 Not the line that separated the capital from the
province. It was a more important limit: I’d gone
from being a son to being a father. I’d gone from nev-
er being afraid to living in constant fear.
That night, in some undefined area between
Quilmes and Berazategui, a horrible alarm began to
sound inside my head. And I didn’t have—I will nev-
er have—the security code to shut it off.

#253
I dedicate this book to my fellow
travelers

To my daughters, to Julieta (who won six of my

books and has been with me through the last four)
and to the following readers who blindly preordered
the first edition of this anthology:

SEBASTIÁN ABALLAY, RITA ABALONE, JENNIFER ABATE, PABLO

JAVIER ABDALA, VANINA ABRAHAM, MARIANO "BABY" ABSATZ,
CARLOS ACEVEDO, HORACIO ANTONIO ACHAVAL FRATINI, MA-
RIANO MATÍAS ACOSTA, NICOLÁS ACOSTA, CLARA ADAMI, LEAN-
DRO ALBERTO ADARO, VERA ADDUCI, JUANA AGUILAR,
LUCIA AGUILAR, JESUS MARCELO AGUILAR ACOSTA,
LISANDRO AGUILERA, MAURO AGUILERA, MARISOL
A L E J A N D R A A G U I R R E , M AT I A S A G U I R R E R A M Í R E Z ,
R A M I R O A G U I R R E S A R AV I A , D A N I E L A H U N C H A I N ,
LEONARDO AIELLO, SILVIA AIRA, TERESA ALANIS, ANDREA ALBA,
FERNANDO ALBARRAN, LEANDRO MARTIN ALBERDI, MARIA ELE-
NA ALBERTI, LUCAS ALBORNOZ, JULIÁN ALCÁNTARA, LAURA MA-
LÉN ALCAZAR, JUAN MARTÍN ALCÁZAR ANDRÉS, MARCIA ALE-
GRE, LEONEL ALFARO, TULI ALFARO, MARÍA VIRGINIA ALI, WAL-
TER ALINI, GERMAN ALONSO, MARIA JULIETA ALSINA, MARÍA
LAURA ALSINA, JOSE BENITO ALTAMIRA, MARIA CLARA ALTAMI-
RANO GARESE, SALVADOR ALTINIER, MARIA RITA ALTONAGA AR-
MENDARIZ, LUCIANO ALVA, NACHO ALVA, MARÍA EUGENIA ALVA-
REDO SCHEGTEL, JUAN PEDRO ALVAREZ, MARÍA JULIETA ALVA-
REZ, MARIANO IGNACIO ALVAREZ, TERE ALVAREZ, VIVIANA ALVA-
R E Z , J AV I E R A LVA R E Z L E L L , I V Á N D A R Í O A M A D O ,

#255
GUILLERMO AMADOR, CECILIA AMANATTO, FAMILIA ANDECHAGA,
ABIGAIL ANDERLE, DIEGO ANDERS, GONZALO ANGAUT,
MARTÍN ANGRESANO, VALERIA ANTIH, GUSTAVO ANTONELLI,
SANTIAGO NICOLAS ANTONELLI, ALDANA APREA, JULIO APREA,
MARÍA ADELA APUD, MIGUEL ARAGUES PELEATO, IRMA ARANDA,
MARTIN ARANDA, CARLITOS ARANDA KAISER,
HUMBERTO ARANDA KAISER, GUILLERMO ARANDA KAISER, ELI-
SA ARÁOZ, ALVARO ARAUJO PINTO, LUIS ALFONSO ARAYA RO-
DRIGUEZ, HUGO ARBIZA, GERMAN ARCADIGNI, LUCIANA ARCILA
TENIAS, LEANDRO ARÉVALO, WILFORD ARGANDOÑA CONTRE-
RAS, CORINA ARGUELLES, GUX ARIAS, YAMILA ARMESTO, GA-
BRIEL ARNOSO, PABLO ARO GERALDES, MELINA BELÉN ARRIETA,
GONZALO RAÚL ARRIETA ZEFFERINO, DANIEL ARRIGO, ALEJAN-
DRA ARRUA, CLAUDIA ARUQUIPA, LUCIANA ASSENZA MAYOL,
CAROLINA ATENCIO, CÉSAR OCTAVIO AUGUSTO, MATÍAS AVALOS,
PAULINA AVIETTI, DANIEL AVILA, HILDA INÉS ÁVILA, CARMEN AYA-
LA, MAURICIO AYALA OROZCO, SERGIO AYBAR, ESTEBAN AZCÁ-
RATE, MARIEL AZCONA, ALDO BABAGLIO, LOS BACALAOS, GA-
BRIEL BAEZ, JOAQUIN BAFFICO, CAROLINA BAIGUERA,
MATIAS BAIS, DANIELA BALADO, RUBEN BALANGERO, GRACIELA
MABEL BALBI, NATALIA CAROLINA BALDO, MATIAS BALESTRIERI,
FEDERICO SEBASTIÁN BALLARATI, IGNACIO BALLESTEROS, FA-
CUNDO BAÑOS, MARCO AUGUSTO BARBIERI, SEBASTIAN BAR-
BIERI, ANDREA BARBOZA, RODRIGO BARCIA, FANNY BARCOS,
URIEL BARENSTEIN, MARILÚ BARRADAS, JUAN PABLO BARRA-
GÁN, NOELIA BARRAL, HUGO OSCAR BARRAZA, PEDRO BARRE-
RA LAPI, SEBASTIAN BARRETO, ANABELLA LAURA BARRETTO,
ADRIEL BARRIO, EDUARDO BARRO, MARIANO MARCELO BARROS,
JOSE MATÍAS BASCARAN, FERNANDO BASERGA, JAIME BASTE-
RRA, MANUEL BAYALA, CECILIA BAZÁN, CELESTE BECK,
JAVIER BEGUÉ, DAVID PAUL BELANGER, EMMANUEL BELAUS, AN-
TONIO BELÁUSTEGUI, ALICIA IRENE BELINCO, EMILIO BELLOCQ,
FRANCO NICOLAS BELLOMO, HERNÁN "PULGA" BENEDETTO, IG-
NACIO BENGOLEA, KIKE BENITEZ, OSCAR BENITEZ, ELÍAS SEBAS-
TIÁN BENÍTEZ, ARTURO SAMUEL BENITEZ CAMACHO, MACARE-
NA BENITEZ CAMOZZI, NATALIA BENSI, ARIEL BER, OCTAVIO BE-
RETTONI, DANIEL BERGERO, ALICIA OFELIA BERNAL,
VICTORIA BERNASCHINA, JONATHAN BERNIA, HUGO BERRA,
EZEQUIEL BERRUTTI, HERNÁN BERTAGNI, STELLA BERTETTA, NI-

#256
COLAS ESTEBAN BERTINO, LUCAS BERTOLINI, GERMAN BERTO-
LO, BARBARA BERTONI, PAULA BERTRAN, CARLOS BETANCOURT,
DANIEL BETANCOURT, TALIA BIASEVICH, JUAN FRANCISCO BI-
N A G H I , M A R Í A F R A N C I S C A B I S K U P O V I C M A RT Í N E Z ,
EDUARDO BLAKE, ARNALDO GABRIEL BLANCO, DANIEL BLANCO,
N O E L I A C O N S TA N Z A B L A N C O , S I LV A N A B L A N C O ,
SEBASTIÁN BLANCO ADELSFLÜGEL, WALTER FABIAN BOCCHINI,
GUSTAVO GABRIEL BOERI, ALICIA BOGGIA, GERMÁN ARIEL BOG-
GIO, CALI BOHL, MR BOLARDO, BARBARA ORNELLA BONAIUTO,
MAGDALENA BONIFACINO, SILVINA BONIFATI, NURIA BONTEMPO
LUNA, SANTIAGO BORAU, LUCIANO BORGHESI, JULIÁN BORRO-
NE, MAURO BOSQUE, PAMELA BOTTA ETTER, EMI BOURLOT, RU-
BEN BOUVET, HUGO BOYER, JAVIER BOYER, ANDREA BRACCO,
MARTINA BRACERAS FEIJOO, CHRISTIAN BRANCA, FRAN Y
BLANQUI BRANDONI, GABRIEL BRERENSTEIN, ENRIQUE
ALCIDES BRIGGILER, JILL BRINSDON, ANA MARISA BRITEZ, PA-
BLO BRNIN CRISTOFANO, MARÍA PILAR BROCOS FERNÁNDEZ,
KAREN BRUCK, MARTIN BRUDER, LIA JEUDITH BRUK,
CAROLINA BRUNO, GUSTAVO BRUNO, MATIAS BRUNO,
SUSANA BRUNO, CAROLINA BRUZZONE, GUADALUPE
MILENA BUCAREY AGUIRRE, FEDERICO ROQUE BUCCIARELLI,
ELIZABETH LUJÁN BULACIO, AGUSTIN BULETTI, MARCOS BULLE-
RI, MARIANO BULOS, BETTINA BUSTOS, FEDERICO BUSTOS,
JUAN BUSTOS, FERNANDO BUTTI, CHRISTIAN BUTUS, MAXI CA-
BANNE, FEDERICO CABARCOS, JULIA MARIA CABRERA,
MARTIN CACCHIOTTI, MARY CAINZOS, NICOLAS CALABRESE,
MARIELA A. CALABRETTA, VICTORIA CALABRETTA, AGUSTINA CA-
LIARI, ORLANDO DANIEL CALLEALTA, CHIQUI CALOPEZ,
DAMIAN CALVO, GABRIEL ALEJANDRO CÁMARA, ANTONIO CAM-
BRÓN, CAMI CAMILA, MAXIMILIANO CAMINO, ROCIO CAMINO,
JORGE CAMINOS, ADRIAN CAMPOS LIBERATO, VIRGINIA CAM-
POY, RICARDO DAMIAN CANDELA, ERICA CANEPA, ALEJANDRO
EDUARDO CANILLAS, FERNANDO LUCIO CANIZO, DANIEL CAN-
TON, DIEGO CANULLI, DIANA CAROLINA CAÑAVERAL LONDOÑO,
CARLA CAPOCCI, MARCELO ARTURO CAPPIELLO, CATERINA CA-
PRA GIMÉNEZ, ALBERTO CAPRIATA, CAROLINA CAPRIN DAL SAS-
SO, MINU CAPRIO, MARITA CAPURRO, FEDE PATRICIO CAPURRO
OJEDA, MARTIN CAPUTTO, AL EJAN DR A CARBALLES,
HORACIO CARBALLO, KARINA CARDACI, MANUEL CARDENAS,

#257
CAMILA CÁRDENAS BOWLES, ALEJO CARDOSO, GUSTAVO CAR-
DOZO, MILAGROS CARDOZO, LUCAS CAREGGIO, MARCO CARE-
LLA PICO, IGNACIO CARIDE (NAZO), ADRIÁN ES CARNEVALE, LEI-
LA CAROZZI, FRANCISCO CARPINELLI, JUAN AGUST ́ ́ IN CARRAN-
ZA, ANDRÉS CARRATELLI, GUSTAVO CARRATELLI, MARCELA ALE-
JANDRA CARRILLO, NATALIA CARRIZO, NADIA CARTI,
ALEJANDRO CASAL, SEBASTIAN CASALANGUIDA, CLAUDIA AN-
DREA CASALI, DANIEL CASALINI, NESTOR MIGUEL CASANOVAS,
GONZALO CASAS, LETICIA CASI, IGNACIO CASINELLI,
SANTIAGO CASTARÉS PILIP, JAVIER CASTILLO, MARTIN CASTON-
JAUREGUI, LUCAS ARIEL CASTRO, JULIÁN CATTANEO,
PEDRO CAYO, GUILLERMO CAYULI, EMMANUEL CAZALA,
LAURA CECCONI, GULLERMINA CECHA, CAROLINA CENA, ANA
CLARA CERINO, FRANCISCO CERNADAS, OMAR CEROI,
PEDRO CERUTTI, FEDERICO MARTIN CHAB, JULIO CHACOFF, VA-
NESA CHACON, MARTIN CHAIA, ALESSANDRA CHAMI, GUILLER-
MO CHANTIRI MANZUR, PANDA CHAPARRO, NICOLAS CHARBO-
NIER, AGUSTINA CHAVARRÍA, ROBERTO CHÁVEZ ACHA, LILIANA
ELOISA CHÁVEZ CUREÑO, ALFREDO DANIEL CHERARA,
PATRICIA CHIAZZARO, DARIO CHIOLI, DELFINA CHISPKI ROMA-
GIALLI, MABEL CHORUBCZYK, JOSEFIN CHOW, DANIELA
INÉS CIANFRINI, DANIEL ALEJANDRO CINICOLA, CELIA CINTAS,
MARIANA PAULA CIRO, SIMON CIUBOTARIU, ANDREA CIVELLI,
MAURO ESTEBAN CIVELLI, JUAN PABLO CLEMENTE, GONZALO (EL
TIO CLIFF) CLIFTON GOLDNEY, MIGUEL ARY COARASA RAMON,
LUCILA COCCIA, FERNANDO COCUZZA, MATIAS CODINA, HER-
NÁN COLAZO, EMILIA COLÓ, PAULA COLOMBERO, CARLA CO-
LOMBO, DIEGO COLOMBO, MARIA MAGDALENA COLOMBO, NI-
COLÁS COLOMBO, IGNACIO COLUSSI, JORGE LUIS CONDE ES-
PERT, CECILIA CONDITI, LUISINA CONTIGIANI, FAMILIA CONTRE-
RAS, GABY CONTT, MARIANO COPETTI, ANDREA MARCELA CO-
RINGRATO, YANINA CORIZZO, MÓNICA COROMINAS, ROSINA CO-
RRADO, GABRIELA CORREA MARINELLI, MAXIMILIANO CORTINA,
CAMILA COSTA, FEDERICO COSTA, ADRIAN COURONNE,
CLAUDIO CRAPANZANO, VALERIA CRAVERO, FEDERICO CREO,
LORE CRESPO, GABRIEL EDUARDO CRIBIOLI, FEDERICO CRIS-
CUOLO, VANESA CRISTALDO, NICOLÁS CUADROS, NATALIA BEA-
TRIZ CUBILLOS FUENTES, MANUEL CURIMAN, MATUAS CVECZIL-
BERG, CLAUDIO RODRIGO D ́ IORIO, ALVARO D'ELIA, ELO V DAMI G,

#258
JOEL DASET, RODRIGO DAVID, GERMAN DAVOLIO, MARIA
LAURA DE ANTONI, MARTIN DE CESARE, VICKY Y PABLO DE CHA-
BAS, LAURA DE CRISTÓFANO, MARTÍN DE DIOS, GONZALO DE LA
CANAL, MARTA AURORA DE LEO, AYELÉN ELIZABETH DE MORA-
LES, TOMAS DE NEVARES, PABLO EZEQUIEL DE SOUSA GUE-
RREIRO, LEANDRO DEAMBROGIO, LAURII Y ESTEBAN DEL ABAS-
TO, AGUSTINA DEL BELLO, MARIANA MARISA DEL CAUCE, JUAN
CARLOS Y NORMA DEL LONGO, SABINA DEL LONGO, GONZALO
EXEQUIEL DELEO, VERONICA ROSICLER DELESMA, CECILIA DE-
LETTO, HECTOR DELGADO, DANA DELUCA ASFUR, DARIO CAR-
LOS DELUCHI, ANA DEMARCHI, VERONICA DEMARCO, FRANCIS-
CO MANUEL DERICO, SUSANA FRANCISCA DESANTO, BLAS DES-
CALZO, JAVIER DESCOINS, LU VERO DESORIA, JUAN IGNACIO DE-
VOTO, MARIA MARCELA DI CARO, JUAN RICARDO DI COSTA, LU-
CAS DI CUNZOLO, MATÍAS DI FONZO, CAROLINA DI LORENZO,
ADRIANA DI MEO, PABLO DI NOTO, DIEGO DI PIETRO, GASTON DI
PIETRO, HEBER DI PRINZIO, VIVIANA DI STÉFANO, GABRIEL DI
TRAPANI, CLAUDIA NATIVIDAD DIAZ, MAURO DIAZ, SANDRITA DIAZ,
DIEGO DIAZ, DANIEL DÍAZ ARROYO, NANCY DÍAZ CABAÑAS, AN-
DRÉS IGNACIO DÍAZ CORTÉS, DARÍO JAVIER DÍAZ LEGUIZAMÓN,
MOISÉS ANDRÉS DÍAZ MEDINA, JAIRO ALEXANDER DIAZ MO-
RENO, ANDRES DIBARBOURE, MARCOS DIBO, JOAQUÍN DIFONSO
ZEOLI, PABLO DANI MARTU DIFRIERI SALINAS, TOMÁS
AUGUSTO DIP, GEORGINA DOMINGUEZ, CANDELARIA DORSO,
HERNAN DOS SANTOS, GISELA DOS SANTOS CLARO, MARIA ALE-
JANDRA DOTTA, GUSTAVO JAVIER DOTTORI, MAXIMILIANO DRA-
GONETTI, CRISTIAN DRASCKLER, ANDRES DRZAZGA,
VICTOR DUCASSOU, ALFREDO DUCCA, KARINE DUPAS DE MEDI-
NA, LEA MILENA EBI CONDOMI, MARIANO ECHALAR, ALEJANDRO
PAULO ECHEVERRIA, JOSU ECHEVERRIA, NICOLAS ECHEVERRIA,
MATIAS EILENBERGER, SERGIO EIRAS, LEANDRO EKMAN,
MILENE ENGELKE, GABRIEL ALBERTO ESAIN, GUILLERMO ESCO-
LAR, SOFIA ESCUDERO, JUAN MARTIN ESPAÑON, MARIA
EUGENIA ESPINDOLA, ARTURO HERNAN ESPINOZA SILVA, VICTO-
RIA ESQUIVEL, MARIANA ESTRIN, ELVIRA ETCHEGOYEN,
JULIETA EZQUER, MARIANA FABI, JUAN MARTÍN FAISAL, JENNIF-
FER FALQUEZ GARCÍA, GABRIEL FARCHI, LLUÍS FARRÉ ESTRADA,
MARÍA LAURA FARRO, LEONARDO FASCIANI, LEONARDO FAUSTI-
NOS MORALES, JIMENA FEBRES MASTRÁNGELO, ISMAEL A. FE-

#259
LICIANI, DANIEL FELMAN, ROMINA FELMAN, MARCIO ARIEL FENO-
LIO, FLORENCIA FENOUIL, LUCIANO FEO, CAMI Y FER,
GALLEGO FERNANDEZ, GLADYS FERNANDEZ, GUIDO FERNAN-
DEZ, GUSTAVO WILSON FERNANDEZ, NICOLAS M. FERNANDEZ,
RODRIGO FERNANDEZ, KARINA FERNANDEZ, ALEJANDRA
PAULA FERNÁNDEZ, ÁNGELES FERNÁNDEZ, CARMEN
BEATRIZ FERNÁNDEZ, CAROLINA FERNÁNDEZ, IVÁN FERNÁNDEZ,
MARGARITA FERNÁNDEZ, PAOLA NAZARENA FERNÁNDEZ, ANA
GABRIELA FERNÁNDEZ GARZA, FAMILIA FERNANDEZ LANGER,
MARTINYMAGA FERNÁNDEZ SOLANOT, MARIBEL SOLEDAD FE-
ROLA, MARIANO FERRANDO, JOHANA FERRARO, MIGUEL FE-
RRER DYVINETZ, AMALIA FERRERA, PABLO FERRETE, NORA FE-
RRI, SEBASTIAN MARIANO FERRO, FLORENCIA FILANDINO,
INES FILGUEIRA, JAVIER FILIPPA, ESTEBAN FINKELBERG, MARIA
FLORENCIA FIORENTINO, GUILLERMO FIORENZA, NATALIA FIORI,
GRISELDA FIRMAPAZ, NICOLÁS FLANDORFFER NALLAR,
ZULMA FLORENTIN, LUIS MARÍA FLORES, NATALIA FLORES,
TAIO FLYNN, AGUSTIN FONTANA, DOLORES FONTENLA MIRÓ,
FACU FORMICA, FLORENCIA FORNASA, JUAN PABLO FRANCIA,
DANIEL FRANCOLINO, JAVIER FRANK, MARÍA CELESTE FRASCA-
ROLI, JULIA DANIELA FRATTINI, CRISTIAN OSCAR FRYDRICH, PA-
TRICIA ELENA FUENTES, RODRIGO FUENTES, JUAN PABLO GA-
BIASSI, GABRIEL GÓMEZ GABY, AYELEN MARÍA GAITAN,
MARIELA GAL, CASANDRA GALANTE, LUCIO NICOLÁS GALANTE
MALDONADO, ROBERTO GALEANO MONTI, BRUNO GALEOTTI,
MARÍA LUCILA GALETTO, MACARENA GALIÑANES, MARIA VICTO-
RIA GALLÁRRETA, LEANDRO GALLAY, AARÓN GALLI,
ALEJANDRO GALLUCCI, DANIELA GALLUZZO, FLORENCIA GAL-
MARINI, ANALIA VERÓNICA GAMARRA, JOSE EDUARDO GARAY,
GUSTAVO GARAYALDE, SALOMÉ GARAZI, PÍA GARBARINO, GE-
RRY GARBULSKY, AGUSTIN ANTONIO GARCIA, FERNANDO GAR-
CIA, FLOR GARCIA, LAURA MARÍA GARCIA, MARCELA GARCIA,
NONI GARCIA, SOFIA GARCIA, ARIEL DAVID GARCÍA, MA.
CECILIA GARCÍA, SABINA GARCÍA, MARÍA SOLEDAD GARCÍA AR-
TAL, JOSÉ GARCÍA HERZ, PABLO ENRIQUE GARCIA MIRAMON,
MARCOS ARIEL GARCIA MOROX, MAURICIO GARCÍA REY, ANA
MARIA GARELLA, JAVIER GARIBALDI, PABLO GARRIDO ANTÓN,
EDUARDO GARRO CREVILLENY, MATIAS GASSMAN, NELLA GATI-
CA, GUIDO GATTÁS, GISELA GAUNA, PABLO GAUTO, DIEGO, CARO,

#260
FLOR, JUAN Y ABRIL GAZZANO CHIOCCHIO, AGUSTINA GELSO,
OCTAVIO GENCARELLI, PABLO SEBASTIAN GERONIMO, ANA MA-
R I A G I A C H E T T I , A N A B E L L A PA U L A G I A C H E T T I , A N A
VERONICA GIACOMELLI, FEDERICO GIAROLI, JORGE
ESTEBAN GIAVENO, PABLO JAVIER GIGENA, DANIEL Y YAMILA GI-
GLIOTTI, ROCÍO GIL, JUAN J GIL JUNCAL, PABLO GIMENEZ, VALE-
RIA GIMENEZ, SOFI GIMÉNEZ, NELSON GIMENEZ OTAZU, FER-
NANDO GIORDANO, DANIEL GIRALDI, MATIAS GIRAUDO,
TOMAS GIRIBONE, NANCY GLASSMANN, ROCÍO DEL LUJÁN GO-
DOY, JUAN GOICOCHEA, FERNANDO GOLDBERG,
GABRIEL GOLDBERG, JUAN IGNACIO GOLLARE, FEDERICO GO-
MEZ, POLO GOMEZ, CRUZ GÓMEZ, DANIELA VALERIA GÓMEZ,
PANTU GÓMEZ OMIL, MARIA GOMEZ SOLER, PABLO MARTIN GO-
MIS, ULISES GONZALES, €UGENIS GONZALEZ, ADRIANA GONZA-
LEZ, ANDREA ALEJANDRA GONZALEZ, GONZALO GERMAN GON-
ZALEZ, GUADALUPE GONZALEZ, LUIS GONZALEZ,
MARCELO GONZALEZ, PABLO LEONARDO NICOLAS GONZALEZ,
RODRIGO GONZALEZ, SANTIAGO GONZALEZ, VERÓNICA GONZA-
LEZ, ALVARO GONZÁLEZ, CLAUDIO GONZÁLEZ, JOR GONZÁLEZ,
MARÍA DE LAS MERCEDES GONZÁLEZ, DIEGO GONZALEZ CA-
BRERA, RAFAEL GONZÁLEZ DE QUEVEDO, LEYDI GONZÁLEZ
MONTOYA, TOMAS GONZALEZ NIEVAS, EMILIANA GORDILLO
FERNÁNDEZ, CHRISTIAN GOZZI, HERNAN GRABARNIK,
SOLEDAD GRANITO, MARIANA GRANJA, LYDIA NOEMÍ GRAÑA,
MARIA VALERIA GRAVENHORST, VERONICA GRAY, ROXANA GRA-
ZIANO, JULIANA GRICHENER, CARLOS GRIMBERG,
EDUARDO GRINBERG, SERGIO GRISETTI, BEATRIZ GRIZY,
MARA GROSVALD, TEDY GUADA, MARIELA LUCILA GUARASCI,
FLIA. GUARNERA AGNONE, CECILIA GUERRERO, DAIANA GUEVA-
RA NÚÑEZ, DAVID GUIJARRO, SOLEDAD GUILLERMO, MAXIMILI-
ANO EDUARDO GUTIERREZ, GIGI GUTIÉRREZ, JAIME GUTIÉRREZ
ALFARO, MAIJO GUYON, JUAN GUZMAN, FACUNDO GUZMAN,
ALEJANDRO GUZMAN, RICARDO GUZMAN, LUCIANO GUZZETTI,
MARTIN GVOZDENOVICH, HEIDI HAEDO, SONIA IRENE HANINE,
LUCAS R HARDOY, LUCIANA HAUSSMANN, NURIA
FLORENCIA HENRIETTA MARSELLA, VIRGINIA HENRY,
CARLOS HEREDIA, HEBE HEREDIA, FERNANDO HEREDIA BUI,
JAIME HERRERA, LILIANA HERRERA, LUIS EDUARDO HERRERA,
PATRICIO IGNACIO HIDALGO GOROSTEGUI, DANIEL HIGA, VLADI-

#261
MIR MASAYA HIGA, CLAUDIO HINOJOSA, ALFREDO HODES, CLAU-
DIA HOLZMAN, GRACIELA HUENCHUNAO, FACUNDO HUMPH-
REYS, ALAN REGINALD HYNES, LEONARDO IANNELLO, FEDE IAN-
NONE, MARIA FLORENCIA IBALVORDE, GONZALO IBAÑEZ, VANINA
ANABEL IFRAN, AYELEN IGLESIAS, FEDERICO LEANDRO IGLESIAS,
IGNACIO ULISES IMBROGNO, CATALINA INDAVERE, VALENTÍN IN-
GIGNOLI, JOSE MARIA INVERNIZZI, KEVIN INVERNOZ,
RAFAEL IRAVEDRA, ANGELA ANTONIA IRIARTE, CARLA IS, JUAN
FERNANDO ISIDRO, LAUTARO NAHUEL ISIDRO VAZQUEZ,
MARISA ISRAELIT, FERNANDO ITURRIOZ, CYNTHIA ITZKOV,
JULIA IURLINA, PABLO IWAN GLAZER, HERNAN JACU,
PAMELA JAIMES, VALERIA JANTUS, WILFREDO SALOMÓN JARA-
MILLO LLANOS, GONZALO JARQUE, LILIANA JAUNSARAS, ESTE-
BAN JAUREGUI, JUAN CARLOS JIBAJA GELABERT, KARINA JOA-
QUÍN, LEO JORGE, LUCIANA JUANEU, ANA LUISA JUAREZ,
HUGO JUDCOVSKI, MARGOT KARATAS, FABIAN KASVIN,
LUCIANA KATO, EDGARDO KAWIOR, ANA PAULA KECZELI MESZA-
ROS, JULIA KENNY, KARY KESSEL, FERNANDO KIJEL, MARILINA
YANET KLAUSNER, IVÁN KOCH, EZEQUIEL KOILE, NADIA KOLBO,
KARDO KOSTA, CAROLINA KUHNE, DARÍO KULLOCK,
GUSTAVO KUMABE, FRANCO ISMAEL KURYGA, AYELEN LABOUR,
MYLÈNE LABOYE, JUAN PABLO LACROZE, VALENTINA LAHITEAU,
SILVIA MARIA LAMEIRO, SILVIA ANDREA LAMPERTI, WALTER LA-
NOSA, EDUARDO LANUS, FEDERICO FAUSTO LANZI, MIGUEL LAN-
ZILOTTA, NADINE ISABEL LAPORTE, MAIRA ALEJANDRA LAPOU-
BLE, JOAQUIN LARDONE PFISTER, LEON ADRIEL LARREA, LUIS
ENRIQUE LASCALEA, MATÍAS LASTRA, ROMINA LATRECCHIANA,
MARIANO LAUFER, JOAQUÍN TARIFA LAURA CARRIL, ROMINA LA-
VAGNINO, LUCAS LAVIUZZA, DIEGO MARTIN LEAL, ABRIL LECH,
MARIANO LEDESMA, MARTIN Y EVITA LEDESMA, LUCAS
MARIEL LEDESMA GRILLO, ANTONIO LEE, MARIANA LEGARRETA,
BAUTISTA LEIS DAVENIA, CHRISTIAN LEIVA, DIEGO ERNESTO LEI-
VA, ESTELA LEIVA, MANUEL AGUSTÍN LEIVA, ADRIANA LEMA, LU-
CIANA LEMMI, JOSÉ LUIS LENCINAS, JAVIER LENTINO, LU Y LEO,
CARLOS LEON, LEONARDO LEPRI, JUAN GABRIEL LERA,
ADRIAN LEVIS, PABLO LEWIN, CRISTIAN LEZCANO, ELENA LIBE-
RATORI, JAVIER LIGUORI, EDEBORA Y CARLOS LIN, LUCIANA LI-
NARES, MARIO LIPOVETZKY, INÉS LISSARRAGUE, JUAN LITVA-
CHKES, PABLO LIUZZO, NICOLAS LLANOS, MARTIN LO GIALLO,

#262
NATALIA LOBATO, MARCELO LOCANE, SEBASTIAN LONGSTAFF,
GERMAN LONGUET, EDGARDO LOPEZ, ALEJANDRA NATALIA LO-
PEZ, ARI LOPEZ, CECI LOPEZ, DIEGO ADRIÁN LOPEZ, EVELYN LO-
PEZ, MAXIMILIANO LOPEZ, ALBERTO OSVALDO LÓPEZ, DAVID
FERNANDO LÓPEZ, IRENE LÓPEZ, DIAMELA LÓPEZ CAURELL,
RODRIGO LOPEZ PALACIOS, JUAN LIHUEN LOPEZ STAGNARO,
LUCIANA LORENZANI, MARIELA LORENZONI, NICANOR LORETI,
CECILIA LOYOLA, MARIA GABRIELA LOYOLA ANAYA, NADIA
PAOLA LUCADEI, FER FREITES LUCAS ROJAS, HILARIO Y
AITOR LUCIA, DANIELA GISELE LUNA, CRISTIAN LUNA MONTIEL,
RAFAEL LUNA VICTORIA, VALERIA LUNGARINI, JESICA MACERI,
NAYELI MACHORRO GAYOSSO, CECILIA V. MACÍAS, JOSE MACIAS
CERROLAZA, ANDREW MACSAD, FRANCISCO MADEO ALONSO,
VIRGINIA MADEO ALONSO, ADRIÁN MADEO ALONSO,
MARIANO MADEO ALONSO, OSMAR MADSEN, ANALIA MAGDALE-
NA, GUSTAVO HERNAN MAGHETTI, NICOLAS MAIARU,
KARINA MAIDANA, SOLE MAIDANA, DIEGO NICOLAS MAIOLO, ALE-
JANDRO MALDONADO, MÓNICA MALET, ALICIA MALIK,
EDUARDO MALLIA, CHARLY MALTAGLIATTI, JOSÉ LUIS MALVERDE
SAHD, LEANDRO MAMBELLI, RASTEL MAN, MARIANA MANONI,
MATÍAS E. MANOUKIAN, ALEJANDRA MANSILLA, FERNANDA MAN-
SILLA, PABLO DANIEL MANSILLA, VERO MARCET, LORENA MAR-
CIANESI, JULIETA ROCÍO MAREK, JORGE ANDRES MARETICH,
HORACIO JORGE MARGENAT, LUIS MARI, MARIO MARIANI,
DANTE MARIANI, JULIO MARIANI, JORGE MARINCIONI,
AGUSTINA MARQUEZ, CAROLINA MARQUEZ, ARMANDO
YAEL MARROQUIN AYALA, GIULIANA MARSILI, ANDRES MARTEL,
GABRIELA MARTI, ANA MARTIN, LIA MARTIN, RODOLFO MARTIN,
MARÍA LAURA MARTIN, JULIÁN MARTÍN, ALEJANDRO MARTIN
SOUTO, DANIEL MARTINEZ, JULIAN JOSE MARTINEZ,
MECHI MARTINEZ, ALEJANDRO MARTÍNEZ, MELISA MARTÍNEZ,
CAMILA MARTÍNEZ OBAID, BELEN MARZIALETTI, OSVALDO EMA-
NUEL MARZO, XAVIER MAS DE XAXÀS FAUS, ANTONI MAS GAR-
CÍA, LUCAS MAXIMILIANO MATEO, LAURA CASTILLO MATIAS BAL-
MACEDA, MATÍAS XAVIER MATSUMOTO, CINTIA ELIZABETHT MA-
TURANA, CECILIA MAY, LUCIANA MAYER, GUADALUPE MAYORGA,
GONZALO MAZARS, GABRIEL MAZZA IORIO, PABLO MAZZEI, MA-
RÍA ALEJANDRA MAZZINI, ALBERTO AUGUSTO MAZZUCCHELLI,
ERNESTO GABRIEL MELILLO, LEANDRO MELO, CHARLIE MÉNDEZ,

#263
ERNESTO MENDIOLA MONTES DE OCA, SILVIA MENDONÇA,
LEANDRO MENDOZA, ANDREA MENDOZA GHINAUDO,
NATALIA MENNICHELLI, EMANUEL MEONIZ, PABLO MERA,
ELIAS MERCADO GRINBERG, LAURA MERCAU, DIEGO MERNES,
LAURA MESA, NICOLAS MIGUELEZ, CARINA MIGUEZ, LAURA, SO-
FÍA, OLIVIA Y MARIANO MILLAN, PAZ MILLET, MARIANELA MILLET
QUAGLIARDI, EMANUEL MILLOR, CESAR MINETTI, GABRIELA MI-
NOLDO, FABIÁN IGNACIO MIQUEO, RUBEN ARMANDO MIRABELLI,
RITA MABEL MIRACOLA, JONATHAN GARCIA MIRIAM PINZON, NA-
DIA MIRRA, ALBERTO MOLINA HERRERA, MARTÍN GASTÓN MOLI-
NERO, EDUARDO ARIEL MONDINO, FLORENCIA MONSALVO, CECI-
LIA MONTALBINI, TOMÁS EMILIO MONTECINOS SOTO,
LUCAS MONTENEGRO, POCHI MONTENEGRO, SARA MON-
TENEGRO, GABRIELA MONTERO, MARCOS MONTERO,
NICOLAS MONTERO, VERÓNICA MONTERO, PEDRO MONTEZ,
GUZMÁN MONTGOMERY, FABIAN MONTOYA, IGNACIO MOONEY,
MATIAS MORALES, DANIEL MORALES, MARINA MORALES, TATIA-
NA MORENO, VICTORIA MORENO, FEDERICO MORGANTI, MARCE-
LO MORILLO, ROBERTO CÉSAR MORINI, LORENA MORO, MIRYAM
CRISTINA MORTADA, ÁNGELES MÓRTOLA, EOVALDO HUGO MÓR-
TOLA, BERNY MOSCHCOVICH, MELANY EVELIN MOSQUERA, MA-
RIA CRISTINA MOURELLE DE CARDOZO, VALERIA MULLI, PATRI-
CIA MULVIHILL, BELÉN MUÑOZ, FACUNDO MUÑOZ, FLORENCIA
AYLEN MUÑOZ, NORMA MUÑOZ, RICARDO MURAS, GABRIEL MU-
RERI, RAFAEL MURO, JUANI MUZZIO, FRANCISCO JAVIER NABAIS,
YAMILA NABHEN, LEONARDO NAFTAL, ANGELICA NAKA, RUBEN
DANIEL NAKAMURA, ENZO LUCA NARICE LENTINI, JUAN
PABLO NASSO, VIOLETA ARACELI NAVAS JIMÉNEZ, MAURO NE-
MEC, ARI NEMIROVSKY, JESSY NEMIROVSKY, MATI NEMI-
ROVSKY, CARO NEMIROVSKY, FEDERICO MARTIN NERVI, MARÍA
EUGENIA NIETO, LAURA NOCEDA, HORACIO A. NORRY, CESAR
CLAUDIO NOVOA IGLESIAS, LAURA NUGUER, CRISTIAN NUÑEZ,
LEONEL MILTON NUÑEZ, LINA NUÑEZ, ANTONIO IVÁN NÚÑEZ, SIL-
VANA OJEDA, ALEJO OLCESE, NICOLÁS OLESKER, LEONEL OL-
GUIN, MARIA EUGENIA OLHA, JULIETA ELISABET OLHASSO, LU-
CIANA ANDREA OLIVETO, GUILLERMO FEDERICO OLMEDO,
EMILIA OLMOS, FABRIZIO MARTIN OLMOS, LAURA OLMOS, MAR-
CELA CELESTE OLMOS, SONIA ONORATO, SHUNKO ORDÓÑEZ ,
RAMIRO ORDÓÑEZ LATRECCHIANA, MARTIN ORECCHIA, ALE-

#264
JANDRA ORESKOVIC, DANIELA ORLANDO, LIAT ORON,
MELISA ORTEGA, MARIA INES ORTELLI, IÑAKI ORTIZ, JORGE OR-
TIZ, RODRIGO NICOLÁS ORTIZ, MILAGROS ORTIZ MACHAIN, PA-
BLO OSTROVSKY, CARLOS OUBIÑA, AGUSTÍN JAVIER OVIEDO,
NATALIA PABLINOVICH, CAROLINA PADILLA CASTRO, EDITH PA-
DRÓN, DIEGO PAEL, ESTEBAN PAGANINI, CHUPAPESO PALEKAS,
FABIO PALIOFF, MARINA LUCIA PALOMARE, NATALIA PANASIUK,
NATALIA PANETTA, FERNANDO PAPA, GUILLERMINA PARADA,
CRISTINA PARAREDA, ANA PARODI, LOURDES ALEXANDRA PARO-
DI DE CARABAJAL, LIBERTINO PARONZINI, KARINA PARONZINI,
J O A Q U Í N PA R O N Z I N I , M A R Í A E U G E N I A PA S Q U A L I N O ,
GUILLERMO PASTOR, DAVID PATILLA SÁNCHEZ, ANA PAVLOV,
GABRIELA PEDRANTI, LUIS PEDREIRA, LORENA PEINADO,
JUAN PEIRANO, EMILIANO PELIZZARI, FRANCO PENELLI, GUI-
LLERMO PENSOTTI, KARINA PENTITO, JUAN JAVIER PEÑA PLAZA,
FREDDY PEÑAFIEL, PABLO AGUSTÍN PEÑAMARIA, ALAN PERALTA,
GISSE PERALTA, MARIA ROSA PERALTA, LAUTARO PERAZZO,
FRANCO PEREDO, CAROLINA PEREIRA, DIEGO RENÉ PEREIRA
CÁCERES, EZEQUIEL PEREMARTI, EATEBAN PEREYRA,
JAVIER PEREYRA, JUAN IGNACIO PEREYRA CUNEO, EZEQUIEL
FRANCISCO PEREYRO, CAMILA PEREZ, CHRISTIAN GASTON PE-
REZ, JUAN PELI PEREZ, LUCIO SERGIO PEREZ, MALISA PEREZ,
PABLO OMAR PEREZ, RODRIGO PEREZ, LEONARDO PÉREZ, MAI-
TÉ PEREZ BUDAY, PAULA PÉREZ GIANOLINI, JULIÁN PEREZ LIN-
DO, GONZALO PEREZ MARC, MARÍA LAURA PÉREZ MENTA,
CONSTANZA PEREZ RICAUD, PABLO PERL, MARIANO
EZEQUIEL PERNA ESCUDERO, ERIC NICOLAS PERNIA, STE PER-
NIGOTTI, NICO PERNIGOTTI, PABLO ANDRES PESAO,
MARIANA PETRANTONIO, SEBASTIÁN PETRE, LILIANA
MARGARITA PETROLI, ALEJANDRO PETTA, LORENA PICCINI, IG-
NACIO NICOLÁS PICCININI, PATRICIA PICCIONE , HORACIO PICE-
DA, ANDRES PICERNO, FLORENCIA PICH, GUSTAVO PICOTTO,
SERGIO PIDUTTI, MARIA TERESA PIETRAS, MATIAS PINA, LAURA
NOELIA PINCHIROLI, EDUARDO PINO, BARBI PINOCHI,
ALBERTO PIÑA, HERNAN PIRSCH, PAULETTE PISANO,
CAROLINA PIZZANI, PABLO PIZZATTI, DIEGO POKORSKI, SEBAS-
TIAN POLIAK, AGUSTIN DAVID POLZINETTI, SEBASTIAN PONCE,
MARIA CLARA PONCE MORA, GABRIELA PONTHOT, BRIAN PORTI-
LLO ROCA, EZEQUIEL POSSE, RODRIGO PRADO, MARTIN PRANDI,

#265
SOFÍA PREDIGER, ALEX PRESA, CYNTHIA PRESSMAN,
TERESITA PREVITERA, GONZALO PRINZI, JUDITH PROETTO, DA-
RÍO PRUNELLO, MELISA ANDREA PUCCINELLI, PAULINA PUGLIE-
SE, JOSE MIGUEL PUJOL, MARIEL ALEJANDRA PUJOL, PEDRO
MARIO PUJOLS BURGOS, MAURICIO PULIDO LÓPEZ,
CECILIA PUNTI, VEROJUAN PUPPASESANO, AMARIS Q. E.,
LUIS QUEROL, FACU Y MILY QUILPATAY, LEONARD DE
JESÚS QUINDE ALLIERI, DANIEL QUINTERO, JORGE QUINTEROS,
GABRIELA QUIROGA, JUAN MANUEL QUIROGA, DENISE
MELISA RABAR, MAXIMILIANO DANIEL RADAKOFF, LEANDRO RAI-
MONDI, LETICIA RAMELLA, DIEGO FERNANDO RAMIREZ, MARIA
MICAELA RAMIREZ, ARI RAMÍREZ, LUZ RAMÍREZ, TOMÁS AGUS-
TÍN RAMÍREZ, OLIVER RAMIREZ LIZARBE, MARÍA DE LA PAZ RAT-
TÍN, IGNACIO RAVENA, CARLOS REAL, JIMENA RECALDE, MANUEL
ANGEL "QLITO" REDONDO, MARÍA PAULA REINA, JOSE REVORE-
DO, MARIANA VICTORIA REYES VASQUEZ, CAMI REYNAL, CARLOS
F. RIAL, MAURO RIANO, HERNAN RIBERO CAZZASA, ASTOR RI-
CARDI, JUAN PABLO RICCA, FLORENCIA V. RICCI, DANIEL
ADRIÁN RIESGO, MAXIMILIANO IRENEO RIGO, CAROLINA RIMOLDI,
ALMA DANIELA RIOS, ANITA RIOS, CAMILO RÍOS, STELLITA RIVAS,
CAROLINA RIVAS AMARO, MARIANO RIVEIRO, PAOLITA RIVERO,
V I C T O R E . R O B I N S O N , I VA N A R O B L E S , F E R N A N D O
EMMANUEL ROBLES, LUIS ROCA SÁIZ, MARINA ROCHETEAU,
ALMA RODRIGUES PODESTA, EZEQUIEL RODRIGUEZ,
FABIANA RODRIGUEZ, GREGORIO RODRIGUEZ, JOAQUIN RODRI-
GUEZ, JOAQUIN RODRIGUEZ, JUAN RODRIGUEZ, LAURA RODRI-
GUEZ, MARIANO RODRIGUEZ, MARIO RODRIGUEZ, PABLO RO-
DRIGUEZ, ANDRÉS RODRÍGUEZ, MARTÍN MIGUEL RODRÍGUEZ,
SILVINA A RODRIGUEZ MELCON, JUANI Y SANTI RODRÍGUEZ
MERLO, GRACIELA RODRÍGUEZ TOUCEDA, KAREN ROESCHLIN,
GISELA ROJAS, FERNANDO ROJO, MATHEUS KUAHARA ROKURO,
JORGE ROLDAN, MARIANA ROLON, JUAN JOSÉ ROMA,
ELIANA ROMAGIALLI, EUGENIA ROMÁN, JULIETA ROMANO, DALI-
LA ROMAO, DANIEL ALBERTO ROMERO, ESTEBAN JUAN ROMERO,
JUAN PABLO ROMERO, MARCELA ROMERO, VANIA ROMERO,
FERNANDA CAROLINA ROMERO ALFONSO, FLORENCIA ROMIO,
VALENTINO RONDINA, JESÚS ROPERO AMOR, WALTER
OSCAR ROSELLO, SEBASTIAN ROSENFELD, RON ROSENZVAIG,
EIAL ROSENZVIT, GUILLEM ROSSELLÓ , ANALIA ROSSI,

#266
ANABELLA ROSSO, GERMAN ROSSO, FERNANDO PEDRO ROTA,
ALFREDO ROTTOLI, ALICIA BEATRIZ ROTUNDO, EDUARDO RUBIN,
EDUARDO ANDRÉS RUIGÓMEZ, GUSTAVO RUIZ, SOFI RUIZ, SER-
GIO RUNITZKY, FRANCISCO RUSCONI, MARIANA P. RUSSO, ABI-
GAIL RUSSO, KATHLEEN RYAN, MARTÍN ZÁRATE SABRINA RUSSO,
DANIEL SACCHERO, EMILIANO SACCOL, CLECIA SAYUMI SAGA,
PILAR SAGASTUME, JONATHAN SAIEGH, SEIDY SALAS VÍQUEZ,
FABIANA SALCOVICH, FEDERICO SALDIVIA, SILVINA SALGADO,
KARINA GISELLE SALINA, KEVIN ANTONIO SALINAS PINEDA, JOSE
CLAUDIO SALIS NEYEM, CHRISTIAN LEONARDO SALOMON CHA-
CON, FABIO SALTARELLI, FACUNDO SALTO, MARIA VICTORIA SAL-
VAT, FEDERICO SAMBUCETTI, SU SANA, CLAUDIO SANCHEZ, JO-
NATHAN SANTIAGO SANCHEZ, NADIA SANCHEZ, OSCAR ALEJAN-
DRO SANCHEZ, LUCIA Y GUILLERMO SÁNCHEZ KRIGUN, GRACIE-
LA SANCIBIERI, FAMILIA SANCIO ROTEMBERG, GUILLERMO SAN-
SO, LUISA SANTA, JULIETA SANTANGELO, NATALIA SANTILLI, MA-
RÍA PÍA SANTORO, EMILCE SANTOS, GABRIELA SANTOS, ALFON-
SINA SANZ FALCO, PAULO SAPIEGA, SELMA SARAVIA LUNA, VIO-
LETA SARTORI, SILVINA SAVINO, DAVID SAVINO, OCTAVIO SAVINO,
FRANCESCA SAVINO, BRUNO SBAIZ, LORICE SCALISE,
MARIANA SCALISE, JUAN PABLO SCARAFIA, GABRIELA SCHAF-
FER, LUCIA SCHEMBARI, BARBARA SCHERER, ANA SCHOO, ES-
TEBAN SCHROTER, JONATHAN SEFCHOVICH, ANDREA SEGUNDO,
ROSANA SEIRA, MARIA SOL SELENIS, GILDA SELIS, JUAN
IGNACIO SEMPIO, DYLAN SENDYK, SEBASTIÁN SENTENACH, DIE-
GO SEVENANTS, GUSTAVO FABIÁN SICA, FLORENCIA SICHEL,
JORGE ALFREDO SICHEL, IVÁN CÉSAR SIERRA, LILIANA SIERRO,
ALEJANDRO ISMAEL SILVA, SERGIO OSCAR SILVERII, CARLA SO-
LANGE SIMONE, FRANCO SINISI, ANALIA SIRICA, SUSANA SISTO,
PABLO SMIRIGLIA, PAUL SMITH RIVAS, LETICIA SOCIAS,
MARILINA SOCOLOVSKY, NICOLÁS SOIFER, FEDERICO SOLA, RA-
MIRO SOLA, EUGENIO SOLA LEYVA, MANU Y SANTI SOLARI, CLA-
RA SOLARI GUTIERREZ, TOBÍAS SOLÉ, MARIA DE LAS
MERCEDES SOLIS, DAVID SOLÍS SÁNCHEZ, GONZALO SOPA,
NORA SORACI, CARLA SORATTI, GUSTAVO SORGENTI, MARIA SO-
RIA, SOLEDAD SORIA, IRENE SOROKIN, DIEGO LUCIANO SOSA,
MARÍA ALICIA SOSA, JOSÉ SOTELO, ALEJANDRA SOTO,
BÁRBARA SOTO, GUSTAVO SOTO MIÑO, LETICIA SOUST,
LETICIA SOUTO, ANDREA SPINELLI, VERO SPOLTORE,

#267
HERNÁN STÁBILE, DANIELA STAGNARO, MATIAS ANDRES STEI-
MAN, GABRIEL EDUARDO STEINBERG, LUIS STENERI,
DÉBORA STIPETIC, YESICA STIRNEMANN, LAURA STOKLE, CHU-
PAPESO STORNIOLO, PATRICIO STRACCIA, MARIANO
JOSÉ STURMER, LISANDRO SUAREZ, MONICA SUEDIA,
JULIÁN SUEVO, NICOLÁS SURACI, JOSE SUTTON, AXEL SUVALSKI,
MAURO SVARIATI, BRENDA SZNYCER, GUILLERMO TALA, SEBAS-
TIAN TALLON, LUCILA TALLONE, PEDRO TAMONE, JUAN FRANCIS-
C O TA P I A , A N A B E L L A TA R D I N I , G U S TAV O TA R D I O L I ,
FRANCISCO TEDESCO, NORBERTO ARNOLDO TEGLIO,
JULISSA TEMOCHE, INES TENENBERG, MATIAS TEODORI, AMY
SOFIA TERZI, VIVIANA TESEI, JAVI TESTA, TAMARA TEVEZ, ANTO-
NIO THWAITES, LUIS PABLO TIBALDO, GUSTAVO TISMINETZKY,
MANUEL TISMINETZKY, BETTINA Y HÉCTOR TOBAL,
SANTIAGO TOBIN, LUCILA MARÍA CELESTE TOLARI, IGNACIO TO-
LEDO, MARTINA Y JUAN PEDRO TOMAGHELLI, LUIS TOMAS, CLA-
RA TOMBESI, MARCELO TONDA, DEBBORA TORLO, ESTEBAN TO-
RRENS, CLAUDIA TORRES, JAIR TORRES, MILAGROS TORRES,
NATALIA SOLEDAD TORRES, ROCÍO TORRES, TORRES TORRES,
PA B L O T O R R E S L A C A L , FA C U N D O T O R R E S P O S S E ,
MICAELA TORTOLINI, ESTEBAN TOURRETTE, MARIANA TRAJTEN-
BERG, JUAN P. TRAVI, MARIANO IGNACIO TREACY, ALLEN TRENCH
MEWES, ROMINA TRIBÓ, JUAN MANUEL TRILLO,
FERNANDO TRINCHERO, CAROLINA TRIPI, DANIEL TRÜCK, MAGA-
LI CRISTINA TRUSZKO, LAURA TULLIO, JOAQUIN URRESTI, MAR-
CELO USBERTO, BRUNO VAIN, FLAVIA VALDÉS, EMMANUEL VAL-
DEZ, GLORIA VALDEZ, MABEL VALDEZ, FRIDA ANDREA VALER
ALEMAN, EZEQUIEL VALLEJO, MARIANO VALLES, LUCIA GABRIE-
LA VALLESPIR ARCAYA, VICTORIA VAN OPPEN, RITA VANNI,
PILAR VAQUERA, JAZMÍN VARELA DIAZ, JUAN CRUZ VARELA DIAZ,
MARIANA VARELA DIAZ, DIEGO VARELA SORIA, JOAQUÍN VARGAS
N., ADÁN GERARDO VARGAS VERA, MABEL VARTANIAN,
SILVINA VELAZQUEZ, JORGE VENCATO, SILVANA MONICA VENTU-
RINO, CARLA VERA, ADOLFO VERCELLONE, MARILINA VERDUN,
ALVARO VERGÉS, FRANCO VERRI, NICOLÁS FRANCISCO VERRUA,
IVAN VIANA, DEBORA ARIAS Y VICTOR ROJAS, GENARO VIEYRA,
ALFONSO VIGLIERO, TEODORO VIGLIERO, NORA VIGNOLO, GER-
MÁN GREGORIO VILAS, HERNAN VILAS, JOSÉ DANIEL ANTONIO VI-
LATA, LILIANA VILCHE, MIGUEL VILDERMAN, LUCIANO VILDOZA,

#268
ROCÍO DEL CIELO VILLA FERNÁNDEZ, MATIAS VILLA LARREGINA,
MARÍA JOSÉ VILLAFAÑE BARRAZA, EDGAR IVÁN VILLAFUERTE
ALCÁZAR, PABLO VILLALBA, MARCELO VILLAMONTE, JUAN CAR-
LOS VILLANUEVA, CELINA DOLORES VILLARREAL VINCZE, RO-
DRIGO VIRGOLINI, GUSTAVO JOSÉ VISNOVSKY, JUAN VIVAS,
MAIK VOIGT, JUAN MANUEL VOLPE, MATÍAS VULETICH,
F E D E R I C O W E B E R , M A RT Í N W E L L E R , F E D E W I E N E R ,
SEBASTIAN WILHELM, PABLO WOLANIUK, JAVIER WOOLEY, WI-
LLIAM WRIGHT, MAXI Y CAVI, YAE Y NICO, ROSI Y SAMY, SOLE YA-
BOR, PABLO YACIUK, AGUSTÍN NICOLÁS YÁÑEZ, MIGUEL
ÁNGEL YATZUBA, LEANDRO YOO, DIEGO YTSMA, GUILERMO ZA-
BALLO, LIONEL ZAGUIR, KHALID ZALMAY, GABRIEL ZAMPINI, DIE-
GO ZANCARINI, AMADEO FERNANDO ZANOTTI, ARIADNA MARCE-
LA ZARRAGA, MARTIN ALI ZARZA, KARIN ZAVALA, SELVA ZEBA-
LLOS, NICOLAS ZELANTE, ALEJANDRA D. ZIDAR, GABRIELA
CLAUDIA ZIGALER, VERÓNICA ZIVICH, DANTE MANUEL ZLATE,
IVÁN ZONTA, NACHO Y MECHI ZUBIARRAIN, AGUSTÍN ZUDAIRE,
PEDRO ZUDAIRE, NORA EVELINA ZUNINO AND GIODI ZUPIN.

#269
 "is 1st edition was finished
printing at Galt, Buenos Aires, in
October 2020.