Big Night, Big City

Year 2005. Friday night. Tato Martins decides it’s a good night to take one of his father’s cars. His father—a rich bastard from Miraverde—has three: a Jaguar XKR, a BMW 7 Series, and a classic Porsche 911. Gems. But he almost never touches them. He’s always in the company car: a black, bulletproof Range Rover, gleaming like a luxury coffin. The man is a big shot in the real estate world. Sells land. Builds gated communities. Scrapes the sky with glass towers. Plants concrete where there used to be cows. Makes money like it’s breathing. Doesn’t even break a sweat.

Tato’s been stealing one of those cars since he was thirteen. Sometimes the Porsche, sometimes the Jaguar. Sometimes he can’t decide, so he plays eeny, meeny, miny, moe. He never strays too far from the fancy neighborhoods. But now that he’s fifteen and a freshman in high school, he wants to explore more of the city. Leave the posh areas behind. Neighborhoods like his: La Reina. A place ripped straight out of a catalogue of excess: wide streets, straight and spotless like operating rooms. The asphalt is perfect, black and shiny, not a single fucking pothole. The houses… well, more like fortresses. Tall walls, electric gates, gardens with statues. All surrounded by decorative plants worth more than what some people make in a month, blinking alarms, and the occasional purebred dog lying in the sun—cleaner and better fed than plenty of broke souls in the big city.

And then there’s the silence. An expensive silence. As costly as the square footage. Nobody walks. Why would they? Here, everyone rolls out of their house on wheels. Walking is for the rabble. For those who enter the neighborhood with a uniform, a work pass, and their eyes lowered. Nannies pushing strollers. Grim-faced gardeners. Women in white uniforms, all Monday-morning faces. Pool cleaners who skim leaves. Delivery guys who drop off boxes. Maintenance workers who fix what doesn’t need fixing. Men in overalls who work like they’re invisible. La Reina isn’t a neighborhood. It’s a declaration of power. A bubble. An oasis filled with cameras, motion detectors, and that faint, almost elegant scent of cleaner, cedar, and freshly printed cash.

That night, Tato—just another rich teen, zero worries, zero goals, zero guilt—calls his friend Joaquín. Joaquín Almeida y Figueredo. A kid with a heavy last name and zero talent for hiding it. His father is what they call a man of the world in private clubs: plays golf, spends weekends on a yacht, and talks politics like he knows what the country needs. All from a leather armchair, a fifty-year-old whiskey in hand, his legs crossed like he owns the universe. He’s never worked a day in his life. Doesn’t need to. His father—Joaquín’s grandfather—had the brilliant idea of dying and leaving behind so many millions it’s exhausting to count.

The Almeida y Figueredo clan is one of the richest families in the city. And that, sometimes, gets under Tato’s father’s skin. A self-made bastard. Shark-hungry, bulldozer-souled. Owner of one of the biggest real estate development firms in the country. A winner. He always wins. He’s always ready to win. Lives to win. His entire life is a productivity chart. He measures everything. Hates laziness, slacking off, mediocrity, inefficiency. His secret dream is to be king. Or a dictator. Or Big Brother himself. Absolute power. Absolute power and fresh-squeezed orange juice for breakfast. But of course, he doesn’t say it out loud. Not outside his fortress. Talking against democracy isn’t good for business.

One day, after Joaquín strutted out of the house, crossing the living room like a true Almeida y Figueredo—head held high, rich-kid swagger inherited straight from his dad—Tato’s father stepped into his son’s room. Closed the door. Didn’t even sit down.

“Those Almeida y Figueredo pricks have it easy. But their day will come. You know what pisses me off the most, son? That there are people with money who didn’t sweat for it. If I were a dictator, king, or emperor, I’d have already seized everything they own.”

“But I’m going to inherit too when you die,” Tato said, unfazed. “So what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, son. Because you won’t be a bum. You’re going to carry on my legacy.”

“Your legacy?”

“Of course. You’ll take the company higher. To the clouds. To the moon. To space, if necessary.”

“And what if I want to be a singer? Or maybe a painter?”

“A singer? A painter? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you an idiot? Don’t come at me with that kind of bullshit. Because I swear, if you pull that crap, you won’t see a single cent of my money. Not one goddamn penny.”

“It was a joke. Don’t get so worked up. Just a little joke.”

And it was. Yeah, of course it was a joke. He didn’t want to be a singer or a painter. But he didn’t want to build towers or gated communities—or, thanks to divine corruption, slap together shitty public housing and overcharge the state for it. He didn’t know what the hell he wanted. Still doesn’t. Though sometimes, the thought of being a pimp crosses his mind. Or better yet, running a brothel. A top-tier brothel. With high-class whores. Champagne, velvet, marble everywhere. Him there, owner of the joint, smiling like Hugh Hefner but looking like George Clooney. Yeah, he dreams about that. Sometimes. He’s not sure why. But hell, it’s not a serious dream. Nothing solid. He’s fifteen, for fuck’s sake. The only thing he knows for sure is that he wants to have a good time. Before the responsibilities kick in. Before the legacy shit sticks to him like tar.

Anyway, back to business. Joaquín answers his phone. A Motorola V3.

“Yo, what’s up, asshole?”

“Let’s go for a drive around the lake,” Tato says.

“A drive around the lake? If this is your way of telling me you’re a fag, forget it. Count me out of your perversions.”

“Don’t talk shit.”

“What car are you taking this time?”

“The Porsche. Going full Risky Business. Only difference is, I’m hotter than Tom Cruise. Although, being honest here, that chump isn’t hot at all. He’s trash. Or tell me—do you think he’s good-looking?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, moron? I only look at chicks. Male beauty means nothing to me.”

“But you did say you wanted Brad Pitt’s abs in Fight Club. Don’t act like you don’t check out male beauty.”

“I wasn’t checking out beauty! Just his abs because I want to… fuck it, man, this conversation is getting way too gay!”

“Yeah, sure. And you know why? Because you’re a goddamn pillow-biter.”

“Me? You’re the one who brought up Tom Cruise. You’re the only one batting for the pink team here. Confirmed. Everybody knows it.”

Tato bursts out laughing. He likes Joaquín. They get each other. They talk like equals. Two rich kids. Really rich. From southeast Miraverde. Ah, beautiful Miraverde. A city full of millionaires. And, of course, full of poor people too. Real poor people. Poor by blood, by breed. But far away, where their existence doesn’t ruin the view. And in the middle, as it should be, the middle class. The middle class is the wall. The barrier. The caution tape that keeps the stench of poverty from reaching the pool. The poor in the dark basement. The rich partying on the rooftop. And the middle class, right there, holding the whole structure together. With their savings. With their mortgages. With their pathetic faith in progress.

Tato hangs up. Grabs the Porsche keys. Heads out to the Almeida y Figueredo house.