Adios Muchachos Read Online Free PDF

always considered herself to be a revolutionary, her patriotism and convictions were heavily compromised in 1991, when Hermán left her.
    From that day, Margarita and Alicia lost many of the privileges that had flowed to them through Hermán. He had, it was true, left them the house in the exclusive Miramar district: two floors, five bedrooms, garden, backyard, trees, a garage, and the old Triumph they had brought back from England (although it had never been repaired since the engine had burned out two years earlier).
    And so it was that when Alicia did not have a steady client to occupy her attention for a couple of days, she would bring out her bicycle and go hunting. If the hunting was slow she would pedal seven days a week, from ten to twelve and four to six.
    Her technique was unique, and it worked.
    The proof in the pudding was that just a few months after getting started she had already received four firm proposals for stable relationships abroad: Panama, Argentina, Germany, and Italy. The Panamanian was very rich and good-looking, but he was a despot with the word “Mafia” written all over him. The German was even wealthier, but much too old and a bit too crotchety even for Alicia’s broad margin of tolerance. The Argentine was a typical rich kid, a little crazy, with a huge inheritance and a big business, but immature and far too demanding. Of the four, Alicia would have chosen the Italian, but he did not have enough money, was much too fat, and was just a bit of a dummy.
    The pedaling had to go on.

Chapter
Seven

    An array of appliances was scattered around a room that looked as if it had been hit by an earthquake. Several electric fans, an electric range, a refrigerator, a couple of guitars, two bicycles, and a motor-bike were all strewn about.
    Margarita, wearing an apron and rubber gloves, picked her way through the stuff, raising her legs like a great wading bird. She paused, briefly studying the label on a large air conditioner. “This one’s a Westinghouse. I can let you have it for a thousand.”
    A mulatto in his late forties, wearing a floral-patterned shirt, a gold chain around his neck, and a straw version of a Tyrolean hat (feathers and all), with a big black cigar clamped between his teeth, threw his hands up as if asking for clemency.
    “And you can have this other one for eight hundred.”
    “This is murder, Margarita. You’re really putting us up against the wall.”
    “Yeah, sweetheart,” added a young blond man with a nice build, “give us a break. We’re going to take both of them off your hands.”
    Margarita, confident in her knowledge of the market, replied in her friendliest tone, “No way, sweetie! One thousand eight hundred for both of them is a bargain; so take it or leave it.”
    Hearing the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel, Margarita peeked out of one of the windows to see who was coming. “Shit! It’s Alicia with a guest, and I haven’t prepared a goddamn thing …”
    She rushed into the living room, picked up a guitar, and put it in the closet. Then she opened a drawer and took out the usual group of pictures, with one of the nudes of Alicia that she carefully laid out casually on the little round table in the corner. She checked the stock in the bar, holding the amber bottles up against the light to verify that they were not empty, and hurried into the kitchen.
    Opening the refrigerator, she removed a few beers and put them up in the freezer along with a couple of glasses. She took a few jumbo shrimp out of the cold and set them to defrost in the microwave. Lastly, she opened a small plastic jar, poured the contents into a saucepan, and set the range to a low simmer. Finishing her preparations, she ran over to the window again, peering anxiously out onto the driveway and muttering something under her breath.
    When she returned to the two men, the mulatto was just finishing his last count of the money. “OK, here’s your thousand eight. What’ll you take for