Delirium by Laura Restrepo Read Free Book Online Page A

waistband and two back pockets, blown up like a balloon for maximum comfort, nice and roomy in the legs so your balls can peek out and get a breath of fresh air.
    And maybe it’s true that things have lives of their own, because my rubber thongs were nowhere to be found and I insisted on taking them, why not, since things had gone this far already and at Agustina’s insistence I was even saddled with pajamas, which I never wore, but since we couldn’t find the thongs anywhere, I had to give up, Thank goodness, she said, thank goodness you lost those horrible thongs that made you look like an old spinster basking in the sun on her patio, But what will I walk around in, then?, Why you’ll walk barefoot, Aguilar, don’t even think about strutting around that resort in plaid shorts, lace-up shoes, and socks, although everyone there must dress that way, Las Palmeras Fashion.
    Pretending to be a vacationer, Agustina started to shout things out like a cheerleader, prancing around the room with my trunks on, and making fun of my trip, nearly doubling over with laughter, With a B-B-B, with an A-A-A, with a B, with an A, with an L-L-S, let’s all put on our thongs and head down to the pool, yaaaaay!, playtime at Las Palmeras under the supervision of specially trained staff, divide yourselves into groups by age, and hey, you old folks over there, cheer up, enter the raffle for a portable Walkman, do you remember, Aguilar, that’s what it said in that pamphlet they handed us at the Supercenter once, a portable Walkman?, Think positive, friends, don’t forget to pick up your personalized T-shirt with our I Love Las Palmeras logo, Yes sirree, sure as can be, Las Palmeras is the B-E-S-T! And she would have kept bouncing and shouting if I hadn’t stopped her, That’s enough, Agustina, stop clowning around, my resort may be tacky but Purina doesn’t pay me enough for a suite at the Waldorf, Well, tacky as it may be, I would’ve liked to go, too, Agustina retorted, sounding gloomy again, and I said to myself, Let’s not head down this path again because it’ll be the same old story, so I left her alone for a while and walked down to Don Octavio’s barber shop.
    That evening I took her to the movies and then out for fondue at one of those vaguely Swiss chalets downtown; she decided that we should see Pasolini’s
Decameron
again, and although we’d already seen it many times, we were happy, that I can say for sure. It was a quiet night and we were happy because Agustina, now that she’d gotten used to the idea of being left alone, took up her favorite sport again, which is amusing herself at my expense, this time making fun of the haircut I’d gotten from Don Octavio, a barber who shears you nearly bald so that you won’t have to come back for at least three months, according to him. You look like Chiras the Chicken, Agustina told me, And who is Chiras the Chicken?, If you want to know all you have to do is look in the mirror, yes sir, Aguilar, that’s quite a hairdo.
    Since she already knows
The Decameron
by heart, Agustina paid no attention to it, instead spending the whole movie mocking my cropped head, and since she was still going strong when we stepped out into the cold, she began to play at covering my head with her scarf, supposedly so that I wouldn’t catch cold, Let me take care of you, Aguilar, baldness is the Achilles’ heel of senior citizens, and as we walked from the center of the city along Seventh Road at midnight, in other words at precisely the happy hour for muggings and stabbings, she fixed me a turban à la Greta Garbo, Bugs Bunny ears with the two ends of the scarf, and a Palestinian head covering à la Yasir Arafat, while I, tense and vigilant, watched every shape that moved on the lonely street, a couple of figures crouched over a fire on the corner of Jiménez de Quesada, sleeping in cardboard shelters in the doorway of San Francisco, a boy stoned out of his mind who followed us for a while and