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in Chicago. He knows a lot of people. Earns eight dollars an hour selling telephone books.”
    â€œA fortune!” I exclaimed.
    â€œYou’ve gotta have experience to work there.”
    I looked at my godfather for the last time. He resembled a withered scarecrow: bony, yellow, with a bitter face and the unmistakable veneer of a hardened drinker. I shook his hand, left the shop, and hailed a taxi at Plaza Sucre. The driver was already taking a few passengers to the Finance Ministry and said he would leave me close to the consulate at the corner of Ayacucho and Potosí.
    I arrived just before 10 in the morning, a chic time to see the gringos. I found the consulate in a run-down building. The line of visa applicants was gathering on the steps leading to the second floor and a pair of city policemen were busy cramming all the people together. Everybody seemed on edge; at least thirty people were pushing and shoving each other. A few were protesting the slowness of the line and others were waiting silently like obedient lambs.
    I’ve always been good at tricking dumb people. I went up to the entrance with the pretext that I was carrying official correspondence. Once face-to-face with the policeman guarding the access to that sacrosanct consular delegation, I slipped him five pesos with the agility of a pickpocket. The policeman was confused and embarrassed, but he looked at me proudly and then indicated with a laconic head gesture that I should proceed. Next up was a second policeman who was seated behind a little table beside a rectangular wooden arch that served to detect metal objects: guns, knives, etc. The guy asked me the reason for my visit. I answered that I had come to apply for a tourist visa. He stared at me without batting an eyelid, holding the stolid expression of a Gurkha sentinel.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said, indicating the metal detector.
    I passed below that investigator of bad intentions without sounding off any alarm. Immediately, I went up to an American Marine wearing a spotless uniform who was asking for IDs from behind a glass window.
    I handed him my ID. My pulse deviated from its normal rate and started to gallop nervously. The Marine, a handsome young man, shot me an emotionless glance with his deep-set blue eyes.
    â€œTake a number and wait your turn,” he said in correct Spanish. My pulse raced like an astronaut’s; it must have been about a hundred beats per minute. I discovered a vast carpeted waiting room, in which there were various rows of armchairs. All of the seats were filled and a number of people were standing. I obtained a number from a ticket machine: thirty-eight. I found a space to stand at the back of the waiting room near the windows through which the warm morning sun penetrated.
    The visitors exchanged notes quietly, as if in a convent. The murmurs were an unmistakable sign that they were wetting their pants out of fear, and with reason. The three interviewers, two men and one woman, protected behind a wide desk, announced the numbers. They were at number fourteen. The two men were clearly American and the woman, young and attractive, looked Bolivian. I studied them thoroughly, as my fate was now in their hands. The one in the middle, who looked like the boss, was a well-built guy weighing about 220 pounds with a bull’s neck and the thick head of an American football player. His round and tough-looking face was the prototype of the uncouth, kindhearted American. He was dressed appropriately, with a tweed jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. Everything about him gave off the impression of clinical asepsis. He didn’t smile easily and maintained a certain distance as he conversed with the interviewees. He looked over the documents they gave him without much conviction and, depending on the case, either returned them or put them into a pile on a nearby desk. The second man was a non-Hispanic black, of pure African stock. Standing about 6'3", he had the