Enough’s enough, Victor decided. Buicks and Chevrolets glide silently from one end of the continent to the other, from north to south. Victor decided to let everything go and take to the streets, as if he were going on strike. A long, shiny American limousine cruises by: »Tu castigo es verme«.

If I were an American capitalist I’d buy myself a car that was twelve metres long and three metres wide, a Chevrolet, white with red leather seats, a convertible whose roof would always be open so you could see inside. I’d have it all decked out with a fountain, music and coloured headlights, with green plants and blonde women; I’d have a black driver at the wheel and a footman (mestizo) in livery at every door, and I’d lie down in a silk hammock. On each side of the car there’d be written in gold letters: »Seeing me is your punishment«; and in this car I’d go touring the world of poverty.

Victor decided by himself to let everything go, as if he were going on strike, because he suddenly realised he had remained a child, if not ...
(Catherine Nichols)