THE POLITICIAN
Andrew McIntyre
He was a politician, they said, a friend of the Governor, and a few weeks earlier he tried to shoot a priest. He tried to shoot the priest because he said priests were the enemies of the Revolution, and as a politician it was his duty to make sure the Revolution continued its progress. So he tried to kill the priest. He fired six times, but he missed. He couldn’t understand how he managed to miss at that range. And then they jumped on him before he got a chance to reload. The people. They beat him up and they were going to lynch him, but he was rescued by the police before they could string him up. It was a bad sign. The people no longer believed in the Revolution when they started defending the priests again. He’d exhorted them to think again, to leave him alone, even to help him kill the priest, then someone hit him from behind and the next thing he knew he was in the police car. It was a very bad sign. Times were bad. What was it coming to? The Revolution. Very bad. He took a long swallow from the mug of Tequila, and another. Then he lay back in the armchair, loosened his tie, and fell asleep.
We could hear his snores in the corridor where we were talking to Manuel about bringing the weed. We arrived at the appointed time, as Manuel instructed, and now Manuel kept looking back towards the living room where the politician was sleeping. We’ve got to be careful with the politician there, he said, If he sees you you’re in trouble. But he’s out for the count, said Pestanas, It’s all right, can’t you see? Manuel frowned, Ok, come on then. You can try some but I warned you. He can be a sonofabitch, and he hates gringos. It’s all right, it’s all right, insisted Pestanas, Come on.
We entered the room. It was spacious and cool. Books lined the shelves, and there was a large record collection. A couple of pictures on the wall with random lines and color. Some statement that made sense in the 1920s. Manuel rolled a cigar, and he lit it. He took a few quick drags, coughing, passing it to Pestanas. Pestanas offered it after a couple of tokes. It was very strong, and we were stoned almost immediately. We’ll take it, I said, As much as you’ve got. 1500 pesos? asked Pestanas. I nodded, Sure, whatever, it’s good stuff. Oaxacan, said Pestanas, Very fresh. The agreement concluded, we sat back, finishing the joint.
The politician was still asleep, although he occasionally stirred. His tie was lopsided and his dark suit was crumpled and stained. He had greased his hair, but now it was lank and disheveled, hanging over his eyes. Saliva dribbled down his chin onto his collar. Manuel stared, Ever since the priest, he’s been like this, drunk all day and all night. I don’t know what’s happened to him. Guy’s fucking crazy, said Pestanas, Fucking out of his mind. Manuel laughed. He pointed at the ceiling, You see those holes? I looked up. There were two large dents like elephantâs footprints, where chunks of plaster had fallen away. The rest of the ceiling unblemished. Yes, I replied. The politician did that. How? I asked. Manuel grinned, He tried to shoot himself last year. Twice. He missed once and the second time he just grazed his head. He had to wear a huge bandage for ages. The guy couldn’t hit an office block at point blank. Fucking crazy bastard. Why’d he do it? I asked. Manuel gestured to the room, This apartment, it’s haunted. We’re going to move as soon as we can. I hate this place. It affected him. Even I get depressed here. There’s a ghost. He motioned to the politician slumped in the armchair.
I noticed the empty bottle at his feet. He doesn’t smoke weed? Oh, he smokes all right, said Manuel, He just doesn’t like gringos. He’ll bust you if he can. The man’s a shit. But he’s got connections. That’s the only way he gets by. The Governor owes him. For what? Manuel shrugged his shoulders, No-one knows. He’s a sonofabitch, said Pestanas lighting a cigarette, I hate his guts. Manuel was rolling another cigar, Here, you’d better take it now, before he wakes up, ok. I reached over the table for the bag. At that precise moment, the politician woke up. He frowned, scrutinizing me with a bloodshot eye. What’s this fucking gringo doing here? he growled, coughing violently. Phlegm bubbled in his throat. He sat up slowly, looking around dazed. Manuel had lit the joint and he was handing it to Pestanas. I’ll bust your sorry gringo ass, continued the politician glaring at me, reaching for a cigarette in his jacket pocket, his eyes bloodshot, yet unnaturally bright, You’ll see. I’ll get you. He’s drunk, he doesn’t mean it, grinned Manuel. Pestanas was silent. I mean it, you sonofabitch, I’ll get the gringo bastards. The politician rose and staggered to the toilet. We could hear him retching and coughing. You’d better get out of here now, said Manuel, He’ll forget, don’t worry. He’ll get drunk again, and he’ll forget. But you’d better get going. Yes, I said standing up, Thanks for everything. I handed him the 1500 pesos. In the corridor, I could hear the politician throwing up. It’s a pity the bastard can’t shoot straighter, said Pestanas, The sonofabitch. What kind of guy can’t even shoot himself?
