Word: julio
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...gathered here, an animated crowd already for into the afternoon's cocktails. Five men sat shoulder-to-shoulder on a wooden bench, each either laughing or grinning in a euphoric state of intoxication. In the center, towering above all with his broad square shoulders and stout chest was Don Julio, the policeman of the village. The word "Don," a vestige of Spanish gentility, perfectly fitted the pride that glowed in his roughly handsome, mustachioed face as he talked in a rush of Spanish I could scarcely make out. His green uniform and the epaulets on his shoulders indicated that...
...Julio was more educated than most of the villagers, and so he, and, by deference, the others, did not hesitate to welcome me as a visitor to their small town. "Hola, amigo, venga y toma con nosotros!" Come and drink with us! he cried and beckoned to the woman in the corner to bring me a glass and a pitcher of chicha. "Norteamericano, no?" he asked, looking knowingly at the men beside him, peasants who obviously felt a bit uncomfortable in my presence. I told them a little about my background, about my work in Cochabamba...
...Julio dominated the conversation. He would begin answering my questions even before they were half-stated, unable to wait longer lest I say something that might cast a shadow on the life of this, his pueblo. "No," he said proudly, "we have no trouble with leftists here. We are good people in Morochata, no Communists or atheists." Another glass for our guest, he signaled to the woman when he noticed I had emptied the pitcher. A second, and then a third glass more, despite all of my protestations as I felt myself going a bit dizzy. The room was beginning...
...Julio began arguing with the chicha woman, who criticized the government for the rapidly-increasing cost of living. "It is very difficult to make money on chicha now," she said. "It is so expensive to make." Don Julio seemed outraged, and launched into a long defense of the government. I decided to take my leave. They wanted me to stay for more, but no, I told them, I really couldn't. I had to meet with el padre. I went into my pocket for money, but, of course, they wouldn't let me pay. I thanked them and tottered...
...deal in illusion but not be dismissed as an illusionist is the nearly unsolvable problem of a writer like Julio Cortazar. For him the short story is the perfect form - a fine dazzle, then a quick curtain and nothing left but spots on the retina. But an entire collection of Cortazar's glittering tricky fiction invites the reader's eye to outguess the magician's hand. The mood that results is a profitless mixture of admiration and something not unlike contempt...