“Today I went about arranging the matter of my pension. And why was he finally fired, without pension, despite his salary rank. It would recall –yes, that’s how it began –our mundane work at the office maybe it would tell why he was slipping, neglecting his responsibilities, why he sent countless nonsensical memos. I decided to read it, despite the windy road, the stench of vomit, and a certain natural feeling of respect for the private life of my deceased friend. Two hundred pesos, an old newspaper, lottery ticket stubs, a one-way ticket –just one way?–, and the cheap binder with calendar pages and marble patterned dividers. I opened Filiberto’s binder, taken the day before along with his other belongings from the Müller Inn. It wasn’t until we got to Tierra Colorada that the sun brought the heat, with a breakfast of eggs and sausage. We left Acapulco with the breeze still blowing. The driver told us to arrange them quickly in the back and cover everything with tarps so as not to startle the passengers, and see if we could do all this without cursing the trip. When I arrived early to oversee the shipment of the casket, Filiberto was under a pile of coconuts. On the contrary, that night she organized a dance on the cramped deck, while Filiberto waited, very pale in his casket, for the morning bus to leave the station, traveling amidst crates and bundles on this first night of his new life. But now at 40, and as worn out as he seemed, to try such a long stretch at midnight!? Frau Müller wouldn’t let him, such an elderly guest, stay up late at the inn. Sure, we knew that in his youth, he’d been a good swimmer. Even though he’d been fired from his job at the agency, Filiberto couldn’t resist the bureaucrat’s temptation to go, just like any other year, to the German inn, eat sauerkraut sweetened by the sweat of a tropical kitchen, dance on Easter Sunday on the Quebrada, and feel ‘well liked’ in the dark ethereal anonymity of la playa de los Hornos. Not long ago Filiberto drowned in Acapulco.
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