Trafalgar - By Angelica Gorodischer Page 0,2

isn’t very far away, to have a single induction screen checked, and I took the opportunity to sell the surplus.” He lit another cigarette. “They were comic books. Don’t make that face—if it hadn’t been for the comic books, I wouldn’t have had to shave my mustache.”

Marcos brought him another double coffee before he could order it. That Marcos is a marvel: if you drink nothing but dry sherry, well chilled, like me; or orange juice—not strained—with gin, like Salustiano, the youngest of the Carreras; or seven double coffees in a row like Trafalgar Medrano, you can be sure that Marcos will be there to remember it even if it’s been ten years since you went to the Burgundy.

“This time I didn’t go to Seskundrea, it wouldn’t do for the luxury to become a custom and then I’d have to think up something else, but I was taking aspirin to Belanius III, where aspirin has hallucinogenic effects. Must be a matter of climate or metabolism.”

“I’m telling you, you’ll end up in the slammer.”

“Unlikely. I convinced the police chief on Belanius III to try Excedrin. Imagine that!”

I tried, but I was unable to do so. The police chief of Belanius III abusing himself with Excedrin lies beyond the limits of my modest imagination. And then again, I didn’t make a great effort, because I was intrigued by the bit about the woman who probably wasn’t one and by the thing about the mess.

“Belanius III is not that close to Veroboar, but once I was there I decided to try with more magazines and a few books, just a few so as not to frighten them. Of course, now I was going to stay a while and I wasn’t going to offer them to the first monkey who might appear so he might sell them and keep my cut, forget it. I parked the clunker, put my clothes and the merchandise in a suitcase, and took a bus headed for Verov, the capital.”

“And customs?”

He looked at me condescendingly: “On civilized worlds there aren’t customs, old man. They’re cleverer than we are.”

He finished the second coffee and looked toward the bar but Marcos was waiting on another table.

“I was determined to talk to someone strategically situated who could tell me where and how to organize the sale. For a commission.”

“So, on civilized worlds there aren’t customs, but there are bribes.”

“Bah, more or less civilized. Don’t be so picky: everyone has their weaknesses. There, for example, I had a big surprise: Veroboar is an aristomatriarchy.”

“A what?”

“Just that. A thousand women—I assume they’re women; young—I assume they’re young; gorgeous.”

“You assume they’re gorgeous.”

“They are. That you can see from a mile away. Rich. You can see that from a mile away, too. They alone hold in one fist all of Veroboar. And what a fist. You can’t even sneeze without their permission. I’d been in the hotel two minutes when I received a note on letterhead with seals in which I was summoned to the Governor’s office. At 31 hours, 75 minutes on the dot. Which means I had half an hour to bathe, shave, and dress.”

Marcos arrived with the third double coffee.

“And unfortunately,” said Trafalgar, “save in the homes of The Thousand, although I did not have time to see them, on Veroboar there are no sophisticated grooming devices like those on Sechus or on Vexvise or on Forendo Lhda. Did I ever tell you that on Drenekuta V they travel in oxcarts but they have high-relief television and these cubicles of compressed air that shave you, give you a peel, massage you, make you up—because on Drenekuta men use makeup and curl their hair and paint their nails—and dress you in seven seconds?”

“No, I don’t think so. One day you told me about some mute guys that danced instead of talking or something like that.”

“Please. Anandaha-A. What a lousy world. I could never sell them anything.”

“And did you arrive in time?”

“Where?”

He drank half the cup of coffee.

“At the Governor’s office, where else?”

“A magnificent Governor. Blonde, green eyes, very tall, with a pair of legs that if you saw them, you’d have an attack.”

He’s telling me about splendid women. I married one thirty-seven years ago. I don’t know if Trafalgar Medrano is married or not. I will only add that my wife’s name is Leticia and go on.

“And two hard little apples that you could see through her blouse and some round hips.” He paused. “She was a viper. She wasted no spit on ceremony.