A Time to Talk, released on February 12

Come on, Dolores!

After the phone call of The Chemist, I have no option but accepting that the armored mini convoy pick me up at the agreed site. When the parade of sunglasses and cartridge belts embedded in black jackets arrives, I prepare to jump into the 4x4. Passers-by looked astonished at that showoff of power; more than one thought that I was being kidnapped or arrested, but that was a mere distraction to facilitate my encounter with the comrade and confident, the tough Dolores.
We were heading for the Alto Hatillo neighborhood and further, to the house of one of those comrades that fill pockets with gold by merely breathing, because they are very productive. I was going to the heliport of the house accompanied with the escorts. I got into the chopper with my backpack that, in my case, is a synonym of leisure and vacation. The chopper's blades that cut the air with their characteristic noise reminded me of this magnificent alliance of the ruling proletarians with the moneyed mafias that rule over them, which, in turn, are ruled by those of the chaotic and wild community that has received the funny name of Bolivarian Revolution.

We flight over Tacagua cove (near Caracas) and watch the misery that plunges over the Caracas-La Guaira highway; a misery that spills like the waste water it produces and that, just like it moves the foundations of the bridge in the highway, makes the support bases of the (Bolivarian) "process" shudder; poor people who were already furious and have accumulated their anger potentiated by disappointment.

We finally land in Turiamo (a coastal town in central Aragua state) and other escorts pick me up as if I was an important figure. They do not know who I am, because for the espionage services my name is only another one on the list; they are so busy rummaging in the comrades' lives to avoid betrayal that we, the others, are obvious and are considered boring. They believe that danger is inside and not in scribblers with an uncertain number of readers.

I come to the edge of the lake, in front of the Presidential House, and see a motorbike in the distance driven by a Valkyrie heading straight toward me. As she approaches, I see the unmistakable light-brown skin of Dolores who is on a motorbike that looks like a prisoner of her long, memorable, and beautiful legs. When she sees me, she stands up straight, in double time, with her shoulders back and her chest out, and her seductive insolence. She was not topless, but she should have been, and her small bathing suit only hid sins but never the sinners. I had to assume the intellectual stance required by the ambience of escorts and officers, socialist and greedy busybodies.

FIGUREHEADS. Dolores, still wet, is generous with the obligatory kisses and when she approaches, I can smell her musk of Amazon that is in season.

-You are worried about the stability of an eventual opposition government, she suddenly says, while we walk toward the house where the interview will take place. I have the key.

-What is that magic key? I ask.

-A decree. The first decree of the opposition government should guarantee all figureheads that they will not be persecuted and that they can keep the money of the people they represent. You do not imagine how you could attain stability and, at the same time, leave breathless the hierarchs that used you.

-I assume you are joking, I replay.

Absolutely not. You have to do nothing but think about some of those that have seen oil wells pouring to the controlling figureheads' pockets; think about the possibility that they go unpunished and rich, without a trial... leaving the people they represent ruined and sued.

-Why are you suggesting this if this damages you?

-Not everybody- the untamed comrade answers, while the silk sugary sticks to the meanders of her wet body. Some of us have been given bonuses, done businesses, influenced and earned money, but within normal revolutionary parameters: a few million dollars, but without figureheads.

The truth is that I believe that everything is just a big joke, but still, it is an enlightened notion that leaves me thinking... And when I look at Dolores' sarcastic face, I say to myself: who knows, perhaps she is one of the figureheads. She looks at me -You are mistaken if you think what I believe you are thinking, but I am not going to clarify it.

PRIMARY AND SECONDARY. Dolores assures that the government is more concerned about the primary election than what it appears to be. In this kind of events, she states, numbers tend to be rather low, but what really gets the government down is the political fact of opposition unity and that, in any case, there will be more actual votes than in any internal consultation conducted by the (ruling) United Socialist Party of Venezuela (PSUV).

-The beaten Hugo, and the smashed party and FAN, as well as a determined opposition may constitute an explosive recipe-, Dolores sadly assures, while the kind service brings the bloody maries we ordered to "prepare the stomach" before the soup we are having for lunch, which is famous among the grass roots.

-Dolores- I say looking at her inscrutable eyes-, many opposition members have the unbeatable desire to win, and many of you, like you, for instance, know that it would be good for the country that the opposition wins. You alone cannot get rid of the controlling mafias, unless they lose the election, you get rid of the riffraff, make a purge and they become belated democrats.

-Yes, it is true; but some do not accept it, namely the group of those who have no destination, who do not have asylum in Havana or Minsk. Those are the maladjusted.

-But they are paralyzed, because they are only a few.

-Yes, but they also are strong and are going to jump like hungry wolves against those that you chose, Dolores says sadly.

-The opposition will resist, I say in a Ricaurte sort of way.

-It depends on the chosen individual, on courage, on many things; it depends...

OVER AND OUT. Dolores, The Chemist, who has pronounced no word, and I go to have lunch. The "sancocho" (soup) tastes very good, like the one that only the military that have been a long time in the garrison, without fighting any war and besieged by the Cubans that are spying them, know to prepare. The Chemist assures that Diosdado (Cabello) has staged a mute "coup d'état", because he is controlling everything: the party and the Armed Forces. We argue that Diosdado without Chávez is nil and he answers: "Chávez without Diosdado is also nil; imagine how big his power is that without having gone to Havana, he controls the box of machetes." The comrade insists: the man has delayed appointing a vice president until the opposition primaries took place to know which name he will write down for the unavoidable succession and whom he will chose to "break your candidate's neck."

While I am flying back over Caracas' and Vargas (state) misery, I think that the primary election is making him crazy; really crazy.

Twitter @carlosblancog

www.tiempodepalabra.com

Translated by Álix Hernández