Happy Families_ Stories - Carlos Fuentes [2]
THE SON. Abel Pagán did not finish his studies in economics at the Autonomous University of Mexico because he thought he was smarter than his instructors. The boy’s agile, curious mind searched for and found the obscure fact that would leave his professors astounded. He spoke with self-assurance of the “harmonies” of Bastiat and the GDP in the Republic of Congo, but if they asked him to locate that country on the map or to make the leap from the forgotten Bastiat to the very well-remembered Adam Smith, Abel was lost. He had learned the superfluous at the expense of the necessary. This made him feel at once superior to his professors and misunderstood by them. He left school and returned home, but his father told him he could stay only if he found work, this house wasn’t for slackers, and he, Pastor Pagán, hadn’t been lucky enough to go to college. Abel responded that it was true, one bum was enough. His father slapped him, his mother cried, and Abel sailed away on the ship of his dignity. He went out to find a job. He longed for freedom. He wanted to return home in triumph. The prodigal son. He confused freedom with revenge. He applied to the firm where his father worked. The office of Leonardo Barroso. Abel told himself he would show that he, the son, could handle the position that had destroyed his father. “Do I care about Barrosos? Little authoritarian bosses? Tin-hat desk dictators? Let them act tough with me!” He didn’t have to wink. They received him with smiles, which he returned. He didn’t realize that fangs lie halfway between smiles and grimaces. Big fangs. They took him on without further negotiations. Not even how easy it was perked up his antennae. They needled him, as if they were afraid that Abel was spying for his father, which meant he had to prove he was his father’s enemy, and this led him to rail against Pastor Pagán, his weakness and his laziness, his lack of gratitude toward the Barrosos, who had given him work for over twenty years. The son’s attitude seemed to please the company. The fact is they gave him a job as assistant floorwalker in one of the firm’s stores, where his occupation consisted of walking among possible buyers and impossible sellers, watching them all to make sure that one didn’t steal the merchandise and the other didn’t take little breaks. Abel was the elegant civilian gendarme of the store. He became bored. He began to long for his university days, the protection of the family, their savings destined for his education. He felt uncomfortable, unappreciated. His own filial insolence, his own love of easy living, his ingratitude, appeared to him like habitual, ungraspable ghosts. He felt that the carpets in the store were clearly wearing out under his useless walking back and forth. He made friends. The best salespeople received commissions and appeared in the weekly celebratory bulletin. Abel Pagán never appeared in the bulletin. His bad reputation spread. “Be more accommodating with people, Abel.” “I can’t help it, Señor. I’ve always been rude to stupid people.” “Listen, Abel, you saw that Pepe was in the bulletin this week.” “How little