American Visa Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t stop looking at me, as if he had before him one of those abstract paintings that, you can’t tell for sure, might be turned upside down.
    â€œAre you going to leave me like this with wet hair? I’ll catch a cold.”
    He started to cut my hair with a razor. His hand wasn’t very steady. Each time he passed close to one of my ears, a chill ran down my spine.
    â€œBefore he died, my father told me that if I ever needed anything, I should come to see you,” I said.
    Don Ambrosio turned slightly pale and held his breath. He was certain that he was going to be hit up for money.
    â€œI need a haircut just like the one in the photo.” I pointed to my chosen model in the magazine.
    â€œThis guy has wavy hair, but yours is straight like an Indian’s,” Don Ambrosio said.
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œYou don’t have the head for that haircut,” one of the barbers remarked. “That guy’s head is square-shaped and yours is like a rugby ball.”
    â€œBesides, godson,” Don Ambrosio said, “this guy looks like a fruit. Why would you want to look like him?”
    â€œI have to go to the American consulate to apply for a visa.”
    â€œAhhh!” all three exclaimed at once.
    â€œI’d go for a crew cut,” the pot-bellied man suggested, “with the part down the middle, but not like a tango dancer’s—disguised, without making it obvious.”
    â€œI like the haircut in the picture,” I stressed.
    â€œIf you want it, there’s no fighting it,” my godfather said. “I’ll leave you looking just like him. Of course, this guy in the picture is twenty years younger than you and he’s tanned like a swimsuit model, while you, godson, look like you’ve just spent the night on the train from Chile.”
    â€œThe beard too,” I said seriously, “but not the moustache.”
    â€œNow I see what’s going on with you,” Don Ambrosio said. “Those damned gringos have got you scared.”
    â€œIt’s not easy to get a visa. You have to go there looking sharp,” I declared.
    â€œElegant suit, shiny hair,” chimed in one of the other barbers, who looked slightly bigger than a dwarf.
    My godfather continued with the razor, now and then comparing my head with the picture and turning it from side to side.
    â€œWhat did you teach?”
    â€œEnglish.”
    â€œThe teachers here are just as screwed as the miners.”
    â€œIn a serious country, it’s an honor to be a teacher.”
    â€œHonor doesn’t mean anything here anymore. What matters is money. It doesn’t matter if you earn it selling cocaine or renting out your rear end. The issue is getting a piece of the pie.”
    â€œThis was once a country of decent people.”
    â€œThe new money isn’t clean, that’s for sure. Is that why you’re going?”
    â€œI’m leaving because I’m washed up and I want to see my son and raise him so that he doesn’t end up looking like me.”
    â€œYour father, he was a great man,” Don Ambrosio said. “A poor but impeccable man. He didn’t owe a cent to anybody and never refused to do a favor. You don’t find people like that around here anymore.”
    I was starting to look more and more like Humphrey Bogart from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre . Don Ambrosio was removing locks of my hair furiously, like a sheep shearer.
    â€œMy father used to say you were the best basketball coach that Bolivian Railway ever had,” I said.
    Don Ambrosio stopped cutting my hair. He smiled, obviously pleased. “Those were good times. Oruro was once a promising city: theater, good cafés, excellent brothels, and Slavs everywhere. The brothels were lounges with pianos, and the hookers used to wear long dresses. The money flowed back then. British pounds!”
    The haircut I saw taking shape didn’t bear the least