Revulsion: Thomas Bernhard in San Salvador by Horacio Castellanos Moya (translated by Lee Klein).
Title: Revulsion: Thomas Bernhard in San Salvador.
Author: Horacio Castellanos Moya (translated by Lee Klein).
Genre: Fiction, social criticism, politics, satire.
Country: El Salvador.
Language: Spanish.
Publication Date: 1997.
Summary: An expatriate professor, Vega, returns from exile in Canada to El Salvador for his mother's funeral. A sensitive idealist and an aggrieved motor mouth, he sits at a bar with the author from five to seven in the evening, telling his tale and ranting against everything his country has to offer.
My rating: 7.5/10.
My review:
♥ Since I saw you at my mother's wake, I said to myself, Moya is the only person I am going to talk to, no other friends from school showed up at the funeral, no one else thought of me, none of the people who call themselves my friends showed up when my old mother died, only you, Moya, but maybe it's for the best, because none of my school friends were really my friends, none of them I saw after school ended, it's better that they didn't show up, better that none of my old companions showed up at my mother's wake, except you, Moya, because I hate wakes, I hate to receive condolences, I don't know what to say, it bothers me when these strangers come up to hug you and act like intimate acquaintances only because your mother has died, it'd be better if they didn't show up. I hate to have to be nice to people I don't know, and the majority of people who give you sympathy, the majority who help at the wake, are people you don't know, you'll never see them again in your life, Moya, but you have to put on a good face, a contrite and a grateful face, a face that's truly grateful for these complete strangers who have come to your mother's wake to extend their condolences, as though in times like these what you most need is to be kind to strangers, said Vega.
♥ I've been away from this country for eighteen years, and for eighteen years I haven't missed any of this, because I was precisely fleeing from this country, it seemed the cruelest and most inhuman thing that I was destined to be born in this place considering all the possible places in the world, I never could accept that of the hundreds of countries I could have been destined to be born in, I was born in the worst country of all, the stupidest, the most criminal, I could never accept it, Moya, which is why I went to Montreal well before the war began, I didn't leave as an exile, not in search of better economic conditions, I left because I never accepted the macabre joke of being destined to be born in this place, said Vega. After I arrived in Montreal, thousands of sinister idiots born in this country arrived, fleeing from the war, searching for better economic conditions, but I was in Montreal well before them, Moya, because I ran from neither war nor poverty, I didn't flee for the sake of politics, I simply left because I never accepted the idiocy of being Salvadoran, Moya, it always seemed to me the worst kind of idiocy to believe you cared about being Salvadoran, which is why I left, and I neither interfered with nor helped those guys who called themselves compatriots, I had nothing to do with them, I didn't want to remember anything about this nasty country, I left precisely to have nothing to do with them, which is why I always avoided them, they seemed to me a plague with their solidarity committees and all their stupidities. I never thought about returning. Moya, it always seemed like the worst nightmare to return to San Salvador, I always feared that the moment would come when I had to return to this country, and I avoided it by any means necessary, I avoided it at all costs, the possibility of returning to this country, and not being able to leave again was always my worst nightmare, I swear, Moya, this nightmare couldn't let me sleep for years, until they gave me my Canadian passport, until they converted me into a Canadian citizen, until then this horrible nightmare ruined me, said Vega. I mustered the courage to come because of this, Moya, because my Canadian passport is my guarantee, if I didn't have this Canadian passport I would have never been motivated to come, it never would have occurred to me to get on a plane if it weren't for my Canadian passport. Even so, I came because my mother died, Moya, the death of my mother is the only reason I felt obliged to return to this filthy pit, if my mother hadn't died I would never have returned, even when I was thinking that my mother would eventually die, Moya, it never occurred to me that I needed to come back. My brother had said he would arrange everything, he would sell my mother's belongings and wire my share of the inheritance to my bank account in Montreal, said Vega. I had no intention of coming even for my mother's wake, Moya, she knew it, every time she came to Montreal to visit me I repeated that I didn't plan to return if she died, that I wanted nothing to do with this filthy pit of corruption, and my mother always told me not to be such an ingrate, that when she died I had to return to attend her wake, she told me this so often, she insisted to such an extent, it weighed on me so negatively, that now I'm here. My mother won, Moya, she made me return; she's dead now, sure, but she won: after eighteen years I'm here, I returned for nothing other than to confirm that I did quite well by leaving, that the best that could have happened was to distance myself from this misery, that this county isn't worth it, this county is a hallucination, Moya, it only exists because of its crimes, as such it was smart to distance myself from this country, to hang nationality, to not want to know about anything about this place, it's the best that could have happened to me, said Vega.
♥ I've never seen politicians so ignorant, so savagely ignorant, so obviously illiterate, Moya, it's clear to anyone with the least bit of education that their ability to read has especially atrophied, once they open their mouths to speak you can tell it's been a long time since they exerted their ability to read, as such the worst thing that could happen to a politician would be to have to read aloud in public; I assure you that in this country there's no need to have a debate between candidates, it would be tremendous, Moya, it would be enough to ask the candidates to read whatever text aloud in public, I swear that only the smallest possible fraction of them would pass the test of reading aloud fluently in public. They bend over backward to appear on television, Moya, it's horrible, if you turn on the television at breakfast, on every channel there's an idiot asking the same idiotic questions to politicians who only respond with idiocies. It's only good for killing you a little bit, Moya, for forcing you to vomit your breakfast, for ruining your day. Television is already a plague; sure, in Montreal I don't have a television, but here at my brother's house, where I've stayed until this morning, they've forced me to watch television while eating meals; you wouldn't believe it, Moya, the television is in front of the dining table, it's horrible, you can't eat normally, you can't have any sort of normal meal, because the television's on ready to disturb your nerves. Which is why I've had to watch against my will and listen to these politicians reeking of the blood of the hundred thousand people they sent to their deaths thanks to their big ideas; these dismal types with their hands on the future of this country produce in me a tremendous revulsion, Moya, it doesn't matter if they're right-wing or left-wing, they're equally vomitous, equally corrupt, equally thieving, you can see in their faces how anxious they are to rob what they can; few of them really care, Moya, you only have to turn on the television to see in their ugly mugs how anxious they are to plunder whatever they can from everyone, these crooks in suits and ties that once had their feast of blood, their orgy of crimes, they dedicate themselves now to a feast, an orgy, of plundering, said Vega. ..And the worst are these miserable politicians on the left, Moya, those who were once guerrillas, the so-called comandantes, those are the ones who produce in me the worst revulsion, I never thought they'd be such fakes, such lowlifes, so vile; they're truly revolting subjects, after sending so may people to death, after slaughtering so many innocent people, after tiring of repeating their idiocies they referred to as their ideals, now they act like voracious rats changed out of guerrilla military uniforms into suits and ties, they're rats that changed their spiels about justice for whatever crumbs fell from the tables of the rich, rats that only wanted to take control of the state so they could plunder it, truly revolting rats, Moya, it's a shame to think about all those imbeciles who died thanks to these rats, I feel sorry thinking about those thousands of imbeciles who were killed for following orders from those rats: those tens of thousands of imbeciles who enthusiastically went to their death following orders from those rats that now only think about acquiring the most possible money so they can seem like the rich they once fought, said Vega.
♥ There's nothing more detestable to me than sports, Moya, nothing seems more boring and stupid than sports, most of all the National Soccer League, I don't understand how my brother could give a damn about twenty-two undernourished morons running after a ball, only someone like my brother could almost have a heart attack about the stumbling of twenty-two undernourished men running after a ball and making a show of their mental deficiency, only someone like my brother could have passionate ideas about locksmithing and a team of undernourished morons that calls itself the Alliance, said Vega.
♥ It's horrible, Moya, hair-raising if you think about it; a family that in its free moments at home doesn't do anything except watch television, said Vega, not a single book exists there, my brother doesn't have a single book in his house, not even a reproduction of a painting, not even a recording of serious music, nothing that has anything to do with art or good taste can be found in this house, nothing that has anything to do with cultivating the spirit, nothing that has anything to do with the development of intelligence, it's incredible, on the walls they hang only diplomas and stupid family photos, and on their bookshelves, instead of books, there are only those idiotic little trinkets that they search out whenever there's a sale of knockoff jewelry, said Vega. Really I don't know how I could have lasted fifteen days at that place, Moya, I don't know how I could have lasted fifteen nights in a row in a house where three televisions simultaneously droned, where not a single record exists with minimally decent music, Moya, it's abominable the musical taste of these two, it's abominable their total absence of taste in everything having to do with art or any manifestation of the spirit, said Vega, they only listen to revolting music, tacky, sentimental music interpreted by singers warbling out of tune from beginning to end, and still my brother had the gall to ask me why I wasn't going to return to live in this country, it's incredible, Moya, that the possibility that I could return to live in this country even occurred to him at any point. I almost vomited, Moya, I almost vomited from revulsion when he said that, since I'm an art history professor and nowhere in this country do they teach art history, maybe I would have many opportunities to teach art history here, he said this to me, Moya, he said it seriously, that if I stayed in San Salvador I would probably become a highly coveted professor because there would be no competition in teaching art history, all the jobs would be mine: the universities would fight over me to be their top art-history professor, and maybe in a few months I would be able to establish my own art-history academy and then, why not, in a little while I could found my own university specializing in art. This is what he said to me, Moya, without laughing, I assure you that he wasn't making fun of me; he was talking seriously, lamenting that in the business of keys and locks there already exists sufficient competition, unlike in art history where the road is wide open for me.
♥ I only need some medication, but the doctor figured he's encountered a gold mine that day, his eyes shone like you can't imagine, Moya, the most unbridled greed sparkled in his eyes; he couldn't hide his enthusiasm at having encountered a sucker to exploit in the most merciless way, it's incredible, a doctor here in a white coat with his hands recently washed is evil incarnate.
♥ ..knowing that my brother had two boys who are nine and seven years old, two boys more irritating than any children I have ever known in my life, because for my brother's sons I am not just any adult, for my brother's sons I am Uncle Eddie, what an honor, Moya, my brother's sons call me Uncle Eddie, there's no way to stop these stupid, irritating, pernicious boys from calling me Uncle Eddie, it hasn't helped at all that I've repeated time and time again that my name is Edgardo, that they should call me Edgardo because that is my name; it hasn't helped that I ignore them, that I pretend not to have heard when these boys call me Uncle Eddie, they'll never understand that my name is Edgardo, that it's Edgardo and not Uncle Eddie is beyond the reach of their stupid, pernicious little heads that only understand the language of television series, said Vega. Never in my adult life has anyone called me Eddie, Moya, much less Uncle Eddie; if there's anything I detest with intensity it's this horrible custom of diminutives, only vile imbeciles would refer to each other with diminutives, only a vile imbecile would call me Eddie instead of Edgardgo, which is what I said to my mother many years ago soon after adolescence, when I had just finished my courses at the school of the Marist Brothers, that's where I knew you, said Vega, and it cost my mother the world to stop calling me Eddie, she understood that my name was Edgardo once I moved to Montreal and two years passed before I said a word to her, I didn't have any communication with her.
♥ A revolting port, Moya; calling a port La Libertad is more than a joke, calling a ramshackle pier about to crumble into the water La Libertad clearly illustrates these people's concept of liberty, Moya, it's a depressing port, a really horrible place, which is what I said to my brother, how could he consider it a good time to visit a place so depressing, so brutally hot, where the sun beats down with vicious brutality, where the inhabitants typically have the expression of someone who's always brutalized by the heat and sun, said Vega.
♥ The worst was when my brother proposed we take a dip, he said it like that, we should take a dip now that the tide was low, jumping into the sea would reanimate me, the force of the waves would do me good, there's nothing more healthy than bathing in the sea under the sun; he would lend me a bathing suit, it would cheer me up, is how he said it. It's incredible, Moya, that my brother thought that I could be ridiculed in this way, said Vega, that I could feel pleasure going out almost nude under the brutal sun and cover myself with dirty sand and salt water, that I would enthusiastically go out and roll around in the waves and the filthy sand. I've never seen more horrible beaches than those in this county, Moya, I've never seen dirtier sand than on these beaches, and the port of La Libertad without a single doubt has the most abominable beaches with sand so filthy, one would need to be exceptionally shameless to roll around in it, only the most shameless could feel some pleasure rolling around in the filthy sand of these abominable beaches, which is what I said to my brother, that for nothing in the world would I go out and brutalize myself under this sun, and cover myself in filthy sand, stay there sticky with the malodorous water of this abominable beach, said Vega. Now I'm calm because I won't have any more of these outings, Moya, my brother won't have the audacity to invite me on an outing again, to invite me to return to those places that Salvadorans living abroad miss with a feeling that reveals their congenital stupidity..
♥ ..Latin American folk music I find especially detestable, Moya, especially repugnant, I've always hated Latin American folk music, there's nothing worse than weepy music from the Andes interpreted by guys dressed in Andean ponchos, guys who consider themselves champions of good causes because they interpret this weepy music disguised in Andean ponchos, they're actually deceitful people disguising themselves as genuine Latin Americans, they sweet talk imbeciles who feel as if they're involved in a good cause by listening to this weepy music. I know very well these deceitful people dedicated to profiting from this detestable and weepy Latin American folk music, I know very well this ilk because in Montreal they band together in such a revolting way, Moya, for decades the Latin American has been identified with this detestable music made fashionable by Chilean communists who were expelled by Pinochet. I fled from leftist Salvadorans with as much repugnancy as I did from the Chilean communists guilty of popularizing this weepy, detestable music, Moya. The worst thing that could ever happen to me would be to come from Montreal to San Salvador to hear that detestable music interpreted by guys disguising themselves as Latin Americans, which is what I said to Tolín, said Vega. Once was enough to cure me of any interest in this so-called artistic event that they present at this bar, the vile rock group was enough.
♥ I don't know what you're doing here, Moya, if you're dedicating yourself to literature, as you say, you ought to look elsewhere. This country is nowhere, I can assure you as someone who was born here, I regularly receive the world's leading art periodicals, I read with care the sections on culture and art in the world's leading newspapers and magazines, which is why I can assure you that this country is nothing, at least artistically, no one knows anything about it, it interests no one, no one born here matters in the world of art because the world of art is not the world of politics or crime, said Vega. You've got to get yourself out of here, Moya, set sail, relocate to a country that exists, it's the only way you'll write something worthwhile, instead of your famished little stories they publish and applaud your for, that's good for nothing, Moya, pure provincial groveling, you need to write something worth it, and here you won't do it, I'm sure. ..It's an illiterate culture, Moya, a culture that denies itself the written word, without any vocation of record or historical memory, without any perception of the past, it's a "gadfly culture" whose only horizon is the present, the immediate, a culture with the memory of a gadfly, crashing every two seconds against the same window glass because after two seconds it's already forgotten that the glass existed. It is a miserable culture, Moya, for which the written word doesn't have the least importance, it jumped from the most atrocious illiteracy to fascinate itself with the stupidity of television, a fatal jump, Moya, this culture, jumping over the written word, cleanly and simply sailing above the centuries in which humanity developed thanks to the written word, said Vega. But the truth is, Moya, beyond this cultural musery, since I feel affection for you, I'll tell you what you should value if you really want to be a writer: if you really have talent, the will, and the discipline required to create a work of art, I say this to you seriously, Moya, with your famished little stories you're not going to go anywhere, it's not possible at your age to continue publishing your famished little stories that go absolutely unnoticed, that no one knows or reads, your famished little stories don't exist, Moya, only for your neighborhood friends. Those famished little stories about sex and violence aren't worth it, I say this to you with affection, Moya, you'd be better off staying in journalism or in another discipline; but at your age, to be publishing these famished stories is a pity, said Vega, no matter how much sex and violence you put into them, there's no way these famished little stories will transcend. Don't waste your time, Moya, this isn't a country of writers, it's impossible for this country to produce writers of quality; it's not possible for writers who are worth it to emerge in this country where no one is interested in literature, art, or any manifestation of the spirit.
♥ They assigned me a middle seat between one of these men in a sombrero and some chubby woman in an apron, said Vega, a man in a sombrero who compulsively picked his nose, smearing his snot wherever he could, and this chubby woman who sweated profusely, wiping her sweat with her apron or with a towel that she carried rolled around her neck. During takeoff they maintained their distance: Fuckface in the sombrero enraptured by his snot and Fatty squeezing out her towel. It was the only moment of tranquility I had on the flight, the only moment of peace and quiet, Moya, because once we were in the air, with the plane at cruising altitude and the stewardesses serving the first round of drinks, my companions in the seats on either side started talking to me at almost the same time, shouting more than talking, first with me and later between themselves and then again with me; they practically drenched me in saliva, Moya, jabbing me with their elbows, in a sort of hysterical confession about what had happened to them during their last few years in Washington, a hysterical confession of incidents in the lives of two Salvadoran immigrants in Washington, the adventures of Fuckface in the sombrero, who didn't stop compulsively picking his nose, and Fatty, who occasionally rubbed me with her nasty towel soaked with her no less filthy sweat. It was horrible, Moya, because the more they spoke, the more their enthusiasm grew, and the more intensely they excused their putrid odors, ceaselessly relating to me incidents and adventures I didn't have the least interest in hearing, said Vega. It was a macabre preamble of what waited for me once I arrived in San Salvador, a hair-raising voyage in which Fuckface in the sombrero vociferously told me he was headed to a tiny little town called Polorós, he'd worked as a gardener in Washington and it had been three years since he had returned to El Salvador, meanwhile Fatty replied that she was from Osicala, that she worked as a maid in Washington and hadn't returned to El Salvador in five years. The worst was when they were served the first drink, Moya, never have I seen people so easily lose their grip, I've never seen people go so crazy without warning after one drink: they started to spit on the floor of the cabin, not stopping their shouting, spitting and accompanying their shouts with the most obscene gestures, with the most obscene laughter; meanwhile Fuckface in the sombrero shamelessly smeared his boogers even on the little window and Fatty brandished her towel like an assault weapon. There was a moment in which I thought my nerves would explode, said Vega, and so I stood up to go to the bathroom; then I discovered that scenes similar to the one occurring in my row were taking place in most parts of the cabin.
♥ She left in a huge rush, and I took refuge in the extra cargo compartment next to the bathroom entrance, with my nerves on end, ranting against the fact that my mother had died the day before and I was obliged to return to a country I detested above all else, a country inhabited by drooling freaks with criminal features accustomed to urinating in the sinks of airplanes in flight, inhabited by sweating fat women gone mad who waited for the least provocation to throw up all over their neighbors in airplanes in flight.
♥ The tropics are horrific, Moya, they convert men into putrid beings who live by their most basic instincts, like those people against whom I was forced to rub up against leaving the terminal area to look for a taxi. No experience is more abhorrent than leaving the Comalapa Airport, Moya, no experience has made me hate these tropics with such intensity as the departure from the terminal area of the Comalapa Airport: it's not just the multitudes, Moya, it's the shock of passing from a bearable climate inside the airport to this blistering, brutal hell of the tropical coast, the withering breath of heat that transformed me in an instant to a sweaty animal.
♥ And as he traveled the forty kilometers separating San Salvador from Comapala Airport, the way that the wind entered the window allowed me to compose myself and attain a certain peace of mind; I had a hint of as certain definition that in these fifteen days I have been able to fully confirm: the Salvadoran is the cuilio everyone carries inside him. My taxi driver was the perfect example: he intended to draw from me as much information as he possibly could, asking malicious questions that made me afraid that he was weighing whether it was worth it to assault me or not, said Vega. At the least opportunity, a cop will show his vocation for petty thievery, true petty thieves work as cops, only in this country do they use the word cuilio to denote a petty thief working as a policeman, but in this case a taxi driver snoop was asking me all these questions about my life in order to determine if I were a favorable victim upon whom it would be worth exercising his vocation for petty thievery. All taxi drivers are cuilios, Moya, especially that one who drove me to San Salvador and asked suspicious questions about my life.
♥ It was repulsive, Moya, once again he told me his delirious sexual adventures with all the prostitutes in all the brothels in San Salvador. But what truly preoccupied me, Moya, were the four guys at the next table, they were the most sinister people I've ever seen in my life, Moya, four psychopaths with crime and torture stamped on their faces drinking beer at the next table, these were guys you really need to be careful of, so bloodthirsty it seemed that to turn to look at them for just a second constitutes a tremendous risk, said Vega. I warned El Negroid to lower his voice, that these lovely guys to the side were already watching him with creepy grins. I feared a tragedy, Moya, these psychopaths evidently carried fragmentation grenades they anxiously hoped to throw under the tale for a trio of guys like us, I was sure at this instant that these criminals stroked fragmentation grenades that at any moment they would throw under our table, because for these psychopath ex-soldiers, ex-guerrillas, fragmentation grenades have become their favorite toys, not a day passes in which one of these so-called demobilized guys doesn't throw a frag grenade at a group of people bothering him, truthfully these criminal ex-soldiers and ex-guerrillas really carry fragmentation grenades hoping for the least opportunity to throw them at guys like El Negroid who wouldn't stop shouting about his most unusual sexual adventures, said Vega. I warned him time and time again to lower his voice, Moya, and he calmed down for a second, whirling to look at these psychopaths about to throw fragmentation grenades at us the way they do every day in bars and dance halls, and in the streets, where they settle their differences with grenades, like kids, where these so-called demobilized guys have fun with their fragmentation grenades, throwing them while laughing at imbeciles like El Negroid, said Vega. Luckily we rushed out of the bar for a discotheque called Rococó, in the second stage of what my brother and his friends denoted "partying."
♥ I hate unpunctual people, Moya, there's nothing worse than unpunctuality, it's impossible to have any sort of dealings with late people, nothing more noxious and irritating than people who are not on time. I you hadn't come at five this evening on the dot, Moya, I assure you I wouldn't have waited for you, although I love being at this place between five and seven in he evening to drink my two whiskeys, but even if I had to sacrifice that moment of calm, I wouldn't have waited for you, because the fact that you were late would have been enough to completely disrupt the possibility of having a constructive chat, Moya, your lateness would have totally changed my perception of you, I would have immediately placed you in the category of the most undesirable people, in the category of unpunctual people, said Vega.
♥ The issue was that after two minutes had passed and I began to relax thanks to the silence of the parking lot and the panoramic view of the city one has from there, suddenly I suffered an intense anxiety attack, as though I were about to be assaulted, I suffered a shocking attack of anxiety that forced me to get up and head out in search of the thugs who might be preparing to attack me, said Vega, a shocking anxiety attack as though the danger were a few steps away, stalking me, ready to transform itself into thugs plotting to make my brother's car their own, this latest Toyota Corolla model that my brother cared for more than himself. It was a sudden panic, Moya, an absolute panic, paralyzing, because thugs in this country kill even without a motive, for the pure pleasure of the crime, they kill even if you don't resist, even if you give them all they ask for, every day they kill without any other reason than the pleasure of killing, said Vega.
♥ What taste the people of this country have for living in fear, Moya, such a morbid taste for living terrorized lives, what a perverted taste for the terror of the war turned into the terror of delinquency these people have, a pathological, morbid vice to make terror their permanent way of life.
♥ But I hardly paid attention, Moya, only realizing that in every phrase they included the word cerote, said Vega. Never have I seen people with more excrement in their mouths than in this country, Moya, not in vain is cerote the most repeated word in their language, they don't have any other word in their mouths; their vocabulary is limited to this word cerote and its derivatives: ceretísimo, cerotear, cerotada. It's incredible, Moya, when you look at it from a distance, this word designating a piece of excrement, it's vulgar and revolting, signifying a piece of human excrement that's expelled all at once, this most vile word, signifying a turd, is the one my brother and El Negroid had stuck in their mouths, said Vega. I particularly detest that when I met that negroid Juancho he called me cerote with familiarity, I especially detested that a negroid hardware-store owner I had just met was repeatedly calling me cerote, he called me cerote as if I were a piece of human excrement expelled all at once. It's horrible, Moya, only in this country could something like this happen, only here do people think of themselves as pieces of human excrement expelled all at once, which then makes it seem perfectly acceptable for my brother and his negroid hardware-store owner friend to repeatedly, affectionately and familiarly, call me cerote after they were buzzed by the diarrhea-inducing beer they compulsively drink, driving us to a brothel to complete the third stage of what they called "partying," said Vega.
♥ Sexual commerce is the most revolting thing that exists, Moya, there is nothing as repugnant as carnal commerce; something like sex that is in itself vicious and prone to misunderstandings reaches abominable depths when mixed with commerce, a practice that consumes the spiritual faculties in the most extreme way. But for my bother and El Negroid it's precisely this spiritual void that makes it so joyful and fun, said Vega.
♥ This was the worst thing that could have happened to me in my life, misplacing my Canadian passport in a filthy brothel in San Salvador. Terror overwhelmed me, Moya, terror pure and shocking: I saw myself trapped in this city forever, unable to return to Montreal; I saw myself converted again into a Salvadoran with no other option than to vegetate in this pit, said Vega. I had kept my Canadian passport in the pocket of my shirt, I was completely sure, but now it wasn't there. I had pulled it out, Moya, my Canadian passport had fallen out with some brusque movement, I hadn't noticed the moment it had fallen out. ..Which is when my brother said we should look inside the car before we headed for the discotheque and the bar. I felt the whole world falling down on me, Moya, Canada doesn't have an ambassador or a consulate in El Salvador. I would have to travel to Guatemala and endure lengthy procedures, and my stay here would become interminable. Cold sweat ran down my spine just thinking about it, Moya. We leapt toward the car to look inside, to beat the carpets and look beneath the seats. ..And there it was, Moya, my brother's hand holding my Canadian passport, my brother's stupid smile beside the hand holding my Canadian passport that had fallen from my pocket. I hadn't noticed when I entered the car to flee the asphyxiating discotheque and the negroid hardware guy making me dizzy with verbosity about his extraordinary sexual adventures, said Vega. I snatched my Canadian passport without saying a word, without so much as turning to look at them, I ran toward a taxi stationed a few meters ahead. I left that place like I was pursued by the devil, Moya. And there was no way to calm myself down until I entered the guest room in my brother's house and got into bed absolutely assured that my Canadian passport was securely tucked under my pillow, said Vega. It was the worst scare of my life, Moya. During the ride in the taxi, I clasped my Canadian passport, leafing through it, confirming that I was the one in the photo: Thomas Bernhard, Canadian citizen born thirty-eight years ago in a filthy town called San Salvador. Because this I haven't told you, Moya, I didn't just change my nationality, I changed my name, said Vega. I am not called Edgardo Vega there, Moya, an otherwise horrible name that only evokes for me the execrable neighborhood La Vega, where they assaulted me when I was an adolescent, an old neighborhood that might not even still exist. My name is Thomas Bernhard, Moya, said Vega, it's a name I took from an Austrian writer I admire and who surely neither you nor the other simulators in this infamous place would recognize.