Fermín smiled at me serenely and patted me on the back. He offered me a Sugus, peeled one for himself—lemon flavored—and sucked it with satisfaction. “Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen here. Skirmishes, pantomimes, and hypocrisy en masse for a while, that’s for certain, but nothing serious. If we’re unlucky, some idiot might go too far, but whoever holds the reins won’t let anything get out of hand. It wouldn’t be worth it. There’ll be a fair amount of hullabaloo, but most of it will come to nothing. Records will be broken in the Olympic sport of coat turning, and we’ll see heroes emerging from under the sofa. The usual stuff in these cases. It’s going to be like a long constipation. It won’t be easy, but slowly the turd will come out, or at least the bit that hasn’t yet metabolized. And in the end, it won’t get too nasty, you’ll see. For the simple reason that it wouldn’t benefit anyone. After all, this is a market stall of different interests, dressed up more or less successfully for popular consumption. Setting aside the puppet shows, the only thing that matters is who will be ruling, who will have the keys to the cash register, and how they’re going to split up other people’s money among themselves. On their way to the booty they’ll spruce everything up, which is badly needed. New scoundrels will appear, new leaders, and a whole choir of innocents with no memory will come out into the streets, ready to believe whatever they want or need to believe. They’ll follow whichever Pied Piper flatters them most and promises them some shoddy paradise. This is what it is, Julianito, with its highs and lows, and it’s only as good as it gets, which is better than nothing. There are those who see it coming and go far away, like our Alicia, and there are those of us who stay with our feet stuck in the mud, because anyhow we don’t have anywhere better to go. But don’t worry about the circus. We’ve now come to the clown acts, and the trapeze artists will take a while to arrive. It’s probably the best thing that could have happened to us all. As far as I’m concerned, and I am not that much concerned, I’m happy with it.”

“And how do you know Alicia has gone so far away?”

Fermín smiled mischievously. “Touché.”

“What have you not told me?”

Fermín grabbed my arm and led me to a corner. “Another day. Today is a day of national mourning.”

“But—”

He left me before I could respond and went back to the congregation, which was still reeling at the death of the man who had been head of state for the last four decades.

“Are you going to propose a toast?” asked Don Anacleto.

Fermín shook his head. “I don’t toast anyone’s death,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going home to see Bernarda, and, God willing, try to get her as knocked up as science will allow. I suggest that, logistics permitting, you all do the same. And if not, then read a good book, like the one by our dear friend here, Professor Alburquerque. Tomorrow will be another day.”