At Night We Walk in Circles. Daniel Alarcon

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       Copyright

      Fourth Estate

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.4thestate.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate in 2013

      First published in the United States by Riverhead Books in 2013

      Copyright © Daniel Alarcón 2013

      Daniel Alarcón asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      Some of this work has been previously published in The New Yorker, in slightly different form, as ‘The Idiot President’.

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

      This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780007517398

      Ebook Edition © October 2013 ISBN: 9780007517428

      Version: 2015-05-22

       Dedication

       FOR CAROLINA, LEÓN, AND ELISEO

       Epigraph

      The spectacle’s externality with respect to the acting subject is demonstrated by the fact that the individual’s own gestures are no longer his own, but rather those of someone else who represents them to him. The spectator feels at home nowhere, for the spectacle is everywhere.

      —GUY DEBORD, The Society of the Spectacle

      BÉRENGER: [who also stops feeling the invisible walls, greatly surprised] Why, what do you mean?

      [The ARCHITECT returns to his files.]

      In any case, I’m glad my memory is real and I can feel it with my fingers. I’m as young as I was a hundred years ago. I can fall in love again … [Calling to the wings on the right:] Mademoiselle, oh, Mademoiselle, will you marry me?

      —EUGÈNE IONESCO, The Killer