The Last Congress

He zigzags down from the car of history like a great hero, a prominent personality of the party and his time.
He has the red star emblazoned on his forehead and the sickle and hammer tattooed on his right arm.

He climbs the steep stairs leading to the congress hall with difficulty, panting and wheezing like a steam locomotive being sent to the scrapyard, climbing toward a steep mountain peak.
He exhales hot steam and black coke smoke from his lungs, swaying from all his joints; he has trusted people who support him so he doesn’t fall like a bowling pin.

When he enters the hall, he is greeted with extraordinary enthusiasm.
He sweats as he climbs to the podium, leaning on the palms of his hands. He wears a white tie with diagonal stripes, a mechanical watch with a black leather strap, and a badge with the revolution’s emblem on his chest.
When he begins to speak, he coughs loudly, like hammer blows, rasps, farts, whistles like a referee’s whistle, spits green phlegm from his mouth, snot from his nose, and sprays saliva on everyone; the comrade sitting closest looks slightly worried, glancing left and right, while wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

At the end of his speech, everyone claps frenetically and cheers for minutes without interruption, as if they are in a trance. On their serene faces, you can read emotion and warmth, and in their souls, the red flag and the doves of peace flutter.

They have great confidence in everything he says; the things he speaks about represent the absolute truth.
If you want to meet him, take tram 3. You board it from North Station and head towards Eternity Cemetery.

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