Multiple Choice Read Online Free Page B
Author: Alejandro Zambra
parents for candy.
(7)Â Â Today youâll find people saying they didnât know about the disappearances, or the torture, or the murders. Of course they knew. My buddy knew, I knew, everyone did. How could we not? I remember years ago, we were in Rome, in a real swanky hotel, and this exiled guy comes over to us holding hands with a thin little redhead. I didnât much like the guyâI thought he was pretty dense and uppityâbut my buddy ended up making friends with him, and later on they did some business together.
(8)Â Â My friend didnât discriminate against anyone. He could do business with any kind of person, he didnât care about race or creed or anything political. He didnât go around asking for favors. My buddy worked his whole life.
(9)  Never, in forty-nine years of marriage, did he fool around on Tutú. He didnât even fuck that secretary, Vania, who drove him crazy flashing her panties at him all the time. I remember he told me, pretty desperate, that if he went to bed with Vania he wouldnât be able to look Father Carlos in the eye. Later we found out Father Carlos was a bigger lady-killer than any of us.
(10)  I want to repeat this, because it goes to show the kind of moral stature my friend had: He never once fooled around on Tutúâhe didnât even go to whores. He just didnât like them. To each his own, I guess.
(11)Â Â He didnât just donate to Legionaries of ChristâI think my friend was like a drug addict with donations. He was always helping out his neighbors, the guy was just sick with solidarity. And at the end of the year, he gave every one of his employees a gift basket that was nothing to sneeze at.
(12)Â Â Whatever they may say of him, itâs easy enough to bad-mouth him now that heâs dead. But I would like you all to know that my friend isnât all that dead, because he still has me, come what may. Iâll always defend him. Always, buddyâalways.
A)Â Â None
B)Â Â All
C)Â Â 4
D)Â Â 9 and 10
E)Â Â 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11
64.
(1)Â Â They ask my name and I answer: Manuel Contreras. They ask me if I am Manuel Contreras. I say yes. They ask if Iâm Manuel Contrerasâs son. I reply that I am Manuel Contreras.
(2)Â Â Once, I took the phone book and tore out the page with my name, our name. I counted twenty-two Manuel Contrerases in Santiago. I donât know what I was looking for: company for my misery, maybe. But then I stuck the page into the paper shredder. Having common first and last names hasnât done me any good.
(3)Â Â How does it feel to be the son of one of the biggest criminals in Chilean history? What do you feel when you think about your father, sentenced to more than three hundred years in jail? Can you sense the hate of the families your father destroyed?
(4)Â Â I canât answer these questions, the ones people always ask. With rage, but also with genuine curiosity. I guess it makes people curious.
(5)Â Â It makes me curious too. What does it feel like
not
to be the son of one of the biggest criminals in Chileâs history? What does it feel like to think about how your father never killed anyone, never tortured anyone?
(6)Â Â I must say that my father is innocent. I should say it. I have to say it. Iâm obliged to say it. My father will kill me if I donât say he is innocent. The children of murderers cannot kill the father.
(7)Â Â I decided not to have children. I had my father to worry about. Heâs sick. His declining health is a public matter; itâs been in all the papers.
(8)Â Â When my father dies, then I can have a life and a son. Heâll be Manuel Contrerasâs son. But I wonât name him Manuel. Iâll tell his mother to pick a different name. I donât want to be Manuel Contrerasâs father.
(9)Â Â Iâve had enough just being Manuel
(7)Â Â Today youâll find people saying they didnât know about the disappearances, or the torture, or the murders. Of course they knew. My buddy knew, I knew, everyone did. How could we not? I remember years ago, we were in Rome, in a real swanky hotel, and this exiled guy comes over to us holding hands with a thin little redhead. I didnât much like the guyâI thought he was pretty dense and uppityâbut my buddy ended up making friends with him, and later on they did some business together.
(8)Â Â My friend didnât discriminate against anyone. He could do business with any kind of person, he didnât care about race or creed or anything political. He didnât go around asking for favors. My buddy worked his whole life.
(9)  Never, in forty-nine years of marriage, did he fool around on Tutú. He didnât even fuck that secretary, Vania, who drove him crazy flashing her panties at him all the time. I remember he told me, pretty desperate, that if he went to bed with Vania he wouldnât be able to look Father Carlos in the eye. Later we found out Father Carlos was a bigger lady-killer than any of us.
(10)  I want to repeat this, because it goes to show the kind of moral stature my friend had: He never once fooled around on Tutúâhe didnât even go to whores. He just didnât like them. To each his own, I guess.
(11)Â Â He didnât just donate to Legionaries of ChristâI think my friend was like a drug addict with donations. He was always helping out his neighbors, the guy was just sick with solidarity. And at the end of the year, he gave every one of his employees a gift basket that was nothing to sneeze at.
(12)Â Â Whatever they may say of him, itâs easy enough to bad-mouth him now that heâs dead. But I would like you all to know that my friend isnât all that dead, because he still has me, come what may. Iâll always defend him. Always, buddyâalways.
A)Â Â None
B)Â Â All
C)Â Â 4
D)Â Â 9 and 10
E)Â Â 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11
64.
(1)Â Â They ask my name and I answer: Manuel Contreras. They ask me if I am Manuel Contreras. I say yes. They ask if Iâm Manuel Contrerasâs son. I reply that I am Manuel Contreras.
(2)Â Â Once, I took the phone book and tore out the page with my name, our name. I counted twenty-two Manuel Contrerases in Santiago. I donât know what I was looking for: company for my misery, maybe. But then I stuck the page into the paper shredder. Having common first and last names hasnât done me any good.
(3)Â Â How does it feel to be the son of one of the biggest criminals in Chilean history? What do you feel when you think about your father, sentenced to more than three hundred years in jail? Can you sense the hate of the families your father destroyed?
(4)Â Â I canât answer these questions, the ones people always ask. With rage, but also with genuine curiosity. I guess it makes people curious.
(5)Â Â It makes me curious too. What does it feel like
not
to be the son of one of the biggest criminals in Chileâs history? What does it feel like to think about how your father never killed anyone, never tortured anyone?
(6)Â Â I must say that my father is innocent. I should say it. I have to say it. Iâm obliged to say it. My father will kill me if I donât say he is innocent. The children of murderers cannot kill the father.
(7)Â Â I decided not to have children. I had my father to worry about. Heâs sick. His declining health is a public matter; itâs been in all the papers.
(8)Â Â When my father dies, then I can have a life and a son. Heâll be Manuel Contrerasâs son. But I wonât name him Manuel. Iâll tell his mother to pick a different name. I donât want to be Manuel Contrerasâs father.
(9)Â Â Iâve had enough just being Manuel
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