The Faint-hearted Bolshevik Read Online Free

into my work and forgot about Sonsoles until that night. I’ve often found that leaving everything until the last minute is the most effective way of working. Things get done where there’s no choice but to do them, and since there’s no choice but to do them, they get done one after the other, quickly and without thought. When the god Yahweh told Adam he’d have to slave away to avoid dying of hunger and that He’d put a stop to any more raids on the fruit trees, He didn’t think he was screwing Adam over because he was incapable of wielding a hoe, or because wielding a hoe would be an unsustainable effort for him. He knew he was screwing him over because His creature Adam was a bum who would spend the whole time he was hoeing thinking what a hardship it was. The bad thing about working isn’t the work per se, but the thought that you’re working. Just thinking is fine, just working is less good, but thinking and working at the same time is worse than shooting yourself in the head. That’s why the wisest of the Greeks jerked off with both hands while that idiot Plato used his to write down everything he saw.

That night I left the Bank early, early meaning nine o’clock p.m. There were still another ten or fifteen cocksuckers just like me at work on my floor, except they had nothing to do once they left the office and so they would stay there until they were kicked out. One day I’ll tell you about how things are run at the damn office, which is sort of like an ant-hill but even more frantic. You either have to laugh or cry, depending on how you feel that day and how fucking angry you are at being a member of the cocksucking ant brigade.
    As I picked up my car I remembered I’d have to take it to the garage to have a nose job the next day. I immediately set off in the direction of the Paseo del Prado. I parked where I used to when I used to hang around that area, just where the Ritz Hotel keeps its garbage cans. Although there’s always someone shooting up in the phone booth, the hotel staff are more or less alert. I don’t think they’d do anything at all if they saw someone robbing a car, except wishing it was over as soon as possible, but although junkies aren’t at all worried about having an audience, thieves, on the other hand, feel more at ease when no-one’s watching. These are the types of things one should be aware of. Since I wear decent clothes and earn a good salary and own things that can be stolen, I try to understand the habits of the have-nots. I know it sounds better to say you really care about the underprivileged and ethnic minorities and that you wouldn’t mind sharing what you have with them, but it would be like a kick in the balls to anyone if such a person relieved you of belongings you weren’t planning to share as yet.
    I went into the phone booth, careful not to step on the syringes, and I didn’t hold the phone too close to my ear. The mouthpiece stank of cigarettes and it wasn’t easy to hold it close to your mouth even if you wanted to. I put in two hundred pesetas, dialled Sonsoles’ number, and prepared myself to make the most of whoever might answer the phone.
    “Yes,” muttered an older woman. The weaker flank. Plan A.
    “Good evening. Is this the home of Don Armando López-Díaz?”
    “Yes. Who is calling?”
    “I’m calling from the IRS.”
    “From where?”
    “From the Inland Revenue Service. Is Señor López-Díaz there?”
    “Yes. One moment, please.”
    Though Sonsoles’ mother had covered the mouthpiece with her hand, I heard a series of whispers slipping through her fingers that ended in a gruff, manly
ahem
.
    “Armando López-Díaz. To whom am I speaking?”
    “Eduardo Gutiérrez, tax inspector. I am so sorry to be calling so late, Señor López-Díaz. We call in the evening because it’s easier to reach tax-payers at home.”
    “Is something wrong? I declare all my earnings scrupulously.”
    Armando López-Díaz’s voice quivered slightly as he