Three Messages and a Warning (23 page)

Thursday, April 14.

THE PRESIDENT NO LONGER HAS FUR ON HIS TONGUE

The presidency communicated yesterday that the tumor that had invaded the mouth of the president was successfully removed. “Because it was a high-risk operation,” continued the newscaster, “we decided not to televise it.”

The tumor, known scientifically as a bezoar worm, is normally found in the stomach. Its characteristics include the uncontrollable growth of hair and nails in the cancerous mass, and a strong odor due to the particles of food trapped in it.

The doctors were unable to explain the growth’s appearance inside the mouth cavity. We asked this newspaper’s psychic, the great Mento.

“The president is a special person, having spent many years perfecting the technique of speaking without the ideas passing through the brain,” he told us before entering into a ninety-minute trance. “Perhaps because of this, now the president does not need food to pass through his stomach.”

Heriberto Néstor continued with his lecture:

“Politics is the vanguard of fiction,” he said while pretending to read some notes that were in reality an endless game of tic tac toe. “The greatest narrative innovations, the best stylistic developments and the almost instantaneous access to the mass media have made it the most noble of all genres.”

“Besides entertaining and moving us,” he continued, while trying to peek between the skirt pleats of a student sitting in front of him, “politics as a literary genre has managed to change the economy of passion. The most precious product of our society generates utility thanks to the surplus value of suffering, and allows us to redeem our sins by means of the suffering of our democratic representatives.”

The question and answer session was especially boring. Heriberto Néstor was telling himself he was losing his charm when he left the lecture hall surrounded by fiftysomething maestras. He just wanted to go home and read one of the comics he’d bought. Before, he’d never had a lecture from which he hadn’t left in the arm of a young chick from the university. He needed to look for more controversial themes: if Néstor had learned anything it was that there was nothing like counterculture and scandal to get regular sex.

Friday, May 15.

“My daughter has magical powers,” the president said with great seriousness, “and it’s a public fact since I assumed control of the nation. The immoral accusations made against me are the product of ignorance.” At that moment, a tear scurried across the made-up cheek of our head of state.

“The sensibilities are distinct,” he continued, “and extraordinary persons cannot hope that their conduct will be understood by the masses. The relationship I have with my daughter is intimate and strong. In consulting her, I always have the welfare of the nation in mind, and these sessions have solved economic problems before.”

The photos of the president and his daughter totally absorbed in what appeared to be sexual play were sold to all the media in accordance with the freedom of information law.

BREAKING NEWS: The president had a nervous breakdown five minutes ago. The causes are unknown. Don’t change the channel and we’ll keep you informed.

Claudia Pelufo entered the ladies’ room. Something she ate hadn’t sat with her well, but any sort of commentary on the food in a five-star restaurant could provoke a lawsuit against the customer. She entered the bathroom and heard a male voice coming out of one of the stalls. Claudia Pelufo had never gotten used to the presence of transsexuals in ladies’ rooms. She heard a second voice, female. Claudia Pelufo tried to listen to the conversation.

“It’s the original, it’s unique,” said the male voice. “You know you can confide in me.”

“Can I touch it?” answered the woman.

“First you have to pay.”

Curiosity killed the cat, thought Claudia.

“I don’t have a better amulet than this one,” continued the transsexual. “It’s not every day you can buy a bezoar worm of a living president. They didn’t say it on the air, but the tumor developed an eye. In addition to the tumor, I am going to sell you the third eye of a national hero.”

They started laughing, and something fell on the floor. Claudia Pelufo crouched down to see under the door. She leaned in to see two pairs of legs and an object in a bag. The tumor was a ball of hair. In the center of this mass, an eye was fixed on Claudia Pelufo. She felt a charge of pleasure run down her spinal column and lodge between her legs. She held back a moan and exited quickly. Blushing, she sat at the table with her husband.

The bathroom door opened and a smiling woman came out, walking quickly.

“Look,” Claudia Pelufo said to her husband. “Here we have a happy woman.”

Saturday, June 16.

In the fourth week of national grief over the constant danger of death lurking over our president, his situation does not appear to have improved. How can we forget the touching images that the surgical camera grabbed while traveling through the moist and pulsing intestines of our dear president? It’s no surprise that in a recent survey he was considered the greatest chief of state Mexico has ever had, beating Luis Donaldo Colosio in the polls for the first time. They have installed TV monitors in all the government offices so as not to deprive the employees of their right to complete information. The political body of our nation convulses with the rhythm of the peristaltic movements and ventricle drumming of our beloved president.

Martha Garcés was happy. She’d never felt that way around all the people she lived among. You could see it in in the metro, looking in the eyes of all the other passengers without fear of being misinterpreted. All had the same thing on their mind: the well-being of the president. The Secretary of Cults and Religions had made a desperate call to the nation: every three days, conduct mass rites of the most popular religions and belief systems of the entire world, hoping that one would have a positive effect and cure the ill health of the president.

Of particular interest to Martha Garcés had been the doctrine of the Enneagram. She had enjoyed the shamanistic operation that had been performed on the president. A few bells rang over the loudspeaker of the metro car. Martha Garcés waited a few moments to see the reactions of the other passengers. They all kneeled, facing the same direction. Martha copied them. It was rather difficult to determine the correct direction of
Mecca.

Sunday, July 17.

National time-out day.

Monday, August 18.

“Good morning, Mexico! We start the week with excellent news. Last night, the president recovered his consciousness. His closest aides commented that in addition to feeling strong, he was in good spirits. Before going in front of the cameras, the president, always careful about his appearance, asked to be left alone with his makeup artist. When he came before the cameras, the president intoned our traditional anthem: ‘The King.’ We’ll be back with exclusive images after this commercial break.”

Carla D’Alessio communicated for years with the spirit of the deceased Gina Montes and could not hide her desperation in front of the altar in which the monitor incessantly repeated the classic opening of the program Gina made famous. Although everyone had seen the president’s song, the experts said there had been no improvement. Gina Montes couldn’t communicate with her for some time. Life did not smile on Carla D’Alessio.

She waited a few seconds so that Gina’s words flooded her head and took possession of her. She took the knapsack stuffed with cotton balls holding beads of sweat of the president. Her friend, a nurse in the Santa Fe Hospital, had gotten them. Carla sold them with pendants of the Virgin of Guadalupe outside the Basilica. She turned to see the beautiful body of Gina while moving rhythmically in the monitor, conjured through time thanks to the electricity. She sighed and walked to the door. She still had to pay for the operation by means of which her name changed from Carlos to Carla.

Tuesday, August 19.

“I want a son before I die,” said the president, agonized, to the doctors surrounding him. The president had been unable to get an erection for three years, which made it somewhat complicated to obtain a semen sample the natural way. The president had four daughters and not a single son. It was hoped that advances in genetics would enable the conception of a baby boy by the First Lady, who was ready to spend the coming months in bed rest, as the pregnancy would be high-risk.

“If this is the final sacrifice I can make,” she said with tears in her eyes, “I will do it happily, for him and for our country.”

The Congress for the Reconstruction of the Nation assembled by the Opposition had been a hit with the media. Pedro Negrete felt something was missing. The opposition parties prepared an emergency plan in case the president passed away. The nihilists asserted that the president was not sick, that it was all a lie. The pessimist faction said the sale of the president’s organs was financing the fiscal deficit. There wasn’t a single fact that could be proven.

The executive-privilege dining trucks discharged a succulent dinner. The president, moved by the concern of his rivals, had paid for a performance of Circus Atayde to liven up the closing of the Congress.

Valentin Allende came closer and said: “We are going to be delayed in political questions; in Europe and North America you still can’t talk of making public the lives of the presidents as an electoral strategy, the future was in religions, for which . . .” Valentin interrupted his discourse, looked in the eyes of Pedro Negrete and asked: “You’re still worried about Sandra, right?”

Pedro Negrete nodded his head. Sandra Pelayo had been his right hand during the last three years, and his lover for the last two. Sandra had said to him that she was sick of arguing and achieving nothing. This night she had returned to the capital, where she put herself on the list of candidates that were going to try to obtain the presidential ejaculate.

Wednesday, September 20.

The nation is in mourning. The president has died. Long live the president. In the next hour we will have interviews, commentaries and a profile of the life of our deceased president. The team of geneticists assures us that they will make the greatest effort to make the president the first dead man to conceive a child.

The specialists are preparing to conduct the autopsy. They seek mystic-religious, psychological, extraterrestrial and physiological causes of death. All the specialists have signed exclusive contracts with this station for the live broadcast of the operations. You’ll only have the compete information if you stay tuned. The president has died. Long live the president.