By Luisa Valenzuela

Translated by Narisa Tappitake

Above

I am accustomed to the tremendous pleasure of saying no to everyone. To say yes is easy, it makes you nice, you’ll receive many smiles and then, go ahead and do what you please. On the other hand to say no gives an edifying, uplifting omnipotence that reaches beyond the highest balconies , not just to those that are found on plaza level. Thus, I have ordered the doors to be opened in the plaza, to teach humility to those who come to hear me. So everything has its place: the people on the bottom, the Earth on top of them, on top of the Earth the date palms and other grasses and me, above all of this saying no whenever the occasion arises, which is many times in the course of the day. They applaud me from the trenches below and I send my blessing from above; sometimes a pigeon carries it and drops something crudely onto the head of one of the people- one of the civilians. This is important to keep in mind: the people are my public, and should witness the incredible evolution of our intentions (sometimes attentions) and with luck receive in special opportunities our gift in the from of pigeon droppings.

They are the chosen ones

We limit ourselves when we speak, making the gesture of the Eurcarist and the pigeons are entrusted with the decision of who will be the chosen ones of the day. Those who receive the mark on their head (this does bring luck) are annointed ministers, those who boast the bird droppings on their lapel will be guardians of the Order (by order of merit) and have the white slip to punish those who seem suspect, evil or dejected. But you must keep in mind that this is not a job without danger: when a pigeon leaves his consecrated gift on the punished, the roles are reversed and the ancient guardian of the Order becomes the victim.

From my balcony I am so amused by these spectacles that I ordered the trenches running in the plaza from east to west be constructed without roofs. There everyone is pigeon-holed so that the lucidity of the gardens is not disturbed and when they fight, not too much dust is stirred up. Good citizens, I say to myself, having decided to defend their intentions as I have done, they have earned the installation of latrines in the tunnels to be used when my speeches last longer than eight hours.

Sometimes I discuss with my prime minister the possibility that such long speeches are counterproductive. Certainly, in this manner the people are entertained and think less or nothing at all, but certainly, the people don’t work and this has me quite worried. The country has been stagnated , it must be recognized and although my prime minister says that it is only a slump, a pause necessary for restoration, sometimes I have my doubts. But when the boys in the plaza shout come on, come on, we adore you, then I think yes, I must keep them drawn to the warmth of my words.

Already I have made some rather sly additions in the balcony; they installed a soft chair which is very high, so that when gazed at from below I always seem to be standing, and an extremely well concealed urinal for my most dire emergencies. My prime minister (whom we shall refer to as Pancho from now on) suggested that the urinal empty into the plaza but I was opposed to the idea. His theory -that the people should receive everything that comes from my earnest speeches- is most certain, but for now I prefer to advance prudently. So I am quite discrete.

During my longest speeches my greatest enemy is sleep and sometimes I drift off in the middle of a sentence. Those below awaiting my gift and cheer me on, yet, I am unaware of their shouting. Upon waking I say something in the way of consolation:

The torrent of my words will never run dry; it is an inexhaustible source with which I nourish the people and will continue to nourish until the last moment of my life that is for them. Like cormorant that tears his very own crop to feed his children, I shall offer my own torn throat as food for the benefit of my people, my children.

Moved so much that after words of like this, the crowd erupts in the trenches with the enthusiasm of a swarming anthill. On account of this very thing, I dismissed the proposal for clear plastic to cover the tunnels now that the rainy season is approaching. Pancho says it is a good idea. But I suspect that Pancho is concealing something under his poncho. Because although the loudspeakers can certainly be installed inside the tunnels and I myself would be able to see the people despite the plastic, it would be impossible for me to hear their exclamations and these same outcries of inspiration drive me to continue on in my proceedings, the only thing that has the capability to inspire my words . So we will have none of that plastic; I want direct contact, to be hand in hand with my people.

I am told that below they have been organized to perfection: they have installed soup kitchens, first aid stations and other necessary services. I am also told that certain brazen couples fornicate while I speak but I don’t care to believe it. Although the wave of children has swelled, there are times in which I look at these problems of overpopulation and environmental pollution, and I can no longer just think. Tomorrow I shall give an official sermon about the Divine Law and chastity. If they don’t listen to me , at least they fear HIM.

Below

The citizens go through moments of terror, it is true, especially now with the arrival of the rainy season and since the government has not provided any shelter for the tunnels. The strongest believers proceed to the third tunnel toward the north where a priest has improvised a small altar and will impart benediction f or a donation to the small Virgin Mother. The priests don’t miss a thing, the atheists think in their precarious postitions, while praying themselves that in the final moment the government will realize the need to take some measure to shelter them from the torrential rains.

Like the centipedes many legs, the rumors of conspiracy run rampant. However, is not the time for raising up the masses and the leaders know it: the Leader has begun a marathon of speeches and no ones wants to miss a word or lose their place inside the tunnels. The soldiers distribute the provisions; the trucks of corn have arrived and in the kitchen they prepare savory dishes: humita, mute, tortillas, locro, tamales.

Some pessimists (there are always dissenters) say that soon the harvest of corn will run out and since no one has farmed since the Leader began speaking, they will be left without food. They make the usual mistake: thinking that the city people constitute the country’s entire population. Well, what are the indians for? the group of optimists asks. The indians will surely continue to work the land even though no one is there force them, tilling, sowing and harvesting. It’s in their blood. Moreover, they won’t let the poor city people die of hunger just for being part of an enthralled audience.

On the other hand, thanks to the general hunger and a certain gluttony, the same people have dissolved the random hierarchization of the pigeons. The ministers chosen by pigeons are a thing of the past; there are no more pigeons in the plaza: they have all been cooked. Now they are studying the option of raising edible rats to supplement the nutritional value of the vats of locro.

This is discussed while the Leader rests or meets with the prime minister, because when the Leader speaks there is a grave silence in the tunnels, to the point that fear of the arrival of the rains is postponed for another time. Even with the sky darkening they will not abandon their places for a few rain drops. The Leader speaks every time with more warmth, eventually his words will evaporate the rain . With the first downpour they realize that this is a vain hope and when the severe storms break loose (the first lasted for three months) the people in the tunnel discover the existence of primordial mud which quickly reaches their knees. The Leader speaks blundering, like those in the mud as they try to get their balance. There are many deserters. Little by little the tunnels are emptied into the plaza and then the plaza spills the people out onto the nearby streets. There is no other choice, even for those who don’t want to abandon the warm voice of the Leader and the easy life provided by the tunnels.

Luckily the Leader can’t see the cowardly retreat of the people because thick sheets of rain impede his vision. But as all advantages in this world have their counterparts, the people cannot see the Leader either; and so, some remain swimming in the mud and others slowly leave with an unforgettable feeling of guilt, not knowing that the balcony has been empty for quite a while, and the loud speakers are only broadcasting old recorded messages while the Leader, in his massive bed, gargles with salt water trying to cure a hoarseness that is beginning to be cronic.