The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way by Charles Bukowski

Author:Charles Bukowski
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: City Lights Publishers

Politics and Love

Paul Caval was dubbed by his enemies as “the playboy butcher.” He had overthrown that South American nation with, as he said, “Seven bullets. One which missed and a half dozen which found their proper places in the proper bodies.” He also said, “You either make history or history makes you. I liken myself to the Maker.” He was short, he was fat, he had little chubby fists, and he had a habit of laughing at the oddest times. That habit had often gotten him into trouble. Now, he made the trouble. The people weren’t behind him but the Army was, and since the Army was the people with the guns as opposed to the larger group of people without guns, that margin was sufficient.

Now Paul Caval was behind his desk, he was fairly drunk, and he said, “Come on, Mr. Brodsky, join me in another drink! What the hell, you’ve arrived at one of the Thresholds of History!”

“I’d rather not, Mr. President.”

“We tend to dislike Americans, Mr. Brodsky, they have bad manners. In my country, one never refuses a drink.”

“Well, it is an excellent wine,” said the interviewer, Mark Brodsky from the magazine World View. Paul Caval had never been interviewed before and he already had one hour of Paul Caval on tape. And none of it was dull; it was erratic, maybe insane, but not dull at all. The man was a monster power with a grand stage presence. The interview would make both of them famous.

Paul’s wife, Monica, who had sat with them through the interview, got up and did the honors, pouring Mark Brodsky a new drink. She was a handsome young woman, although she did look a little stark as if she had seen too many things too fast. She complimented Paul Caval. They were rather like a pair in a circus cage controlling the lions and the tigers together, doing it all with an offhand grace.

“Thank you, Mrs. Caval,” Mark Brodsky said. Then he looked at Paul Caval. “Now you were saying that a true democracy can’t work because the vote of the average man is the vote of an idiot. . . .”

At that moment the tape recorder clicked off.

“Pardon me,” Mark said, taking out the tape and replacing it with a new one.

Paul Caval drained his drink and Monica got up and refilled his glass. She moved with short steps under her long bright red gown but under that gown was a figure that any Miss World might accept. She refilled her own drink and sat back down.

Then the tape recorder was going again.

“Now,” said Mark Brodsky, “what do you consider. . . .”

Paul Caval belched.

“I’m tired of talking about that crap.”

He took a drain of his drink. Just a half-glass.

“By the way, American, have you met my wife?”

My, he’s really getting drunk, thought Mark. Caval must have drunk at least two bottles.

“Yes, sir, I’ve met Monica, she’s very charming. . . .”

“No, Mr. Brodsky, I meant my first wife, Andrea.

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