For a couple of weeks, I tried to go on with my life as usual, only that "usual" no longer existed for me; I was without her and, on top of that, Hugo, the idiot, had turned me into a paranoid person who saw conspiracies everywhere.

Everyone, to me, was a member of the Order.

So, all of a sudden, I decided to devote myself fully to work, without conspiracies and without her.

After the small storm that was Hugo's invasion at the deepest point of my breakup grief, I gathered the strength to set aside everything that wasn't my job and my obsession with selling and selling and selling.

My job wasn't easy; but honestly, it was very simple. I sold self-learning courses and encyclopedias. It was a huge problem to sell them; but the commission was, proportionally, high and the job had its advantages: I could schedule appointments from the office on Mondays and Tuesdays and be out in the field on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, going from one appointment to another; I could ask the director for a client portfolio from almost any part of the country and go on business trips, either with work friends or alone, to sell here and there; and it was super easy to sell in the provinces, people were less stingy than in Mexico City.

One day, in particular, I was very excited because I had a meeting with an army general at Los Pinos. I had managed to get into the very antechamber of the Presidential Residence and was determined to leave with a big sale.

It was quite the show getting into his office.

I had passed so many security filters that I was sure even Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible couldn't have met the general without the appointment that gave me the green light at every step.

"The general will be here shortly," said a beautiful girl, the secretary; who, besides being beautiful, was also a soldier.

"Thank you."

I was left alone in the office.

There was a huge painting, covering the entire wall, of the Temple of Kukulcan.

I lost myself in the painting for a few minutes, I don't know how many, but my mind traveled directly there.

"Incredible, isn't it?"

"Good afternoon, General. I'm sorry, I didn't notice when you came in."

"It's amazing how these architectural structures can exist, isn't it?"

"Yes, General. And to think that there are others, unexplained, all over the globe. And from different eras."

The general smiled and turned to me, extending his hand.

"General Saturnino Rodríguez."

"Octavio/"

"Octavio, please sit down."

I took a seat and he started changing his clothes in front of me, on the other side of his desk. He had arrived in civilian clothes and in less than a minute he was in camouflage.

"Look, Octavio, I gave you this meeting for one reason only: I want you to explain to me, how the hell did you get my information? Nobody, absolutely nobody, outside of here has my contact information."

Fuck, things were really getting crazy...

Our director, Rogelio, gave us the prospect lists sparingly, handing out only 15 potential clients per week on Mondays. If you were late, tough luck, no client lists for that week. If you ran out, tough luck again, no new data until the following Monday. When a potential client turned us down, we had to tell them we were offering super exclusive courses, programs, and diplomas, and that, to avoid missing out with their rejection, they should give us a referral of someone they knew who might be interested in an encyclopedia of classical music, or art history, or some english course and, evidently, that information could be open or confidential; meaning we wouldn't go around saying who referred them to us.

But the general was a different case; he came from the high-paying client list.

Roger gave us the clients and next to the names were home, work, and cell phone numbers; along with all that, the peso sign and the amount they supposedly earned per month, ranging from $15,000 to $75,000. Not that this amount was much, which for me it was, but because, no matter how much more the prospects earned, that was the cap in the database. And, although I didn't know where Rogelio got the list from, many of my colleagues speculated it came from American Express, where he surely bought the data for three pesos from someone there, probably the clerks who transcribe credit card applications.

But we didn't know for sure.

There were many myths in the company about his client list.

Anyway, one afternoon, after a perfect week of fifteen appointments and fifteen sales, Roger rewarded me with 33 names from that special high-paying list. Many feared these potential clients, as people who earn well usually don't look for courses or encyclopedias because they tend to be the best educated or the most knowledgeable; but there was the occasional hidden gem in that list, like the police commander who bought from Susana two of each program, course, and collection to build the command center's library. "No, miss, it's just that these fucking cops are real illiterates, damn it. I want them to have no excuses and to start reading when they're not out fighting crime," Susana said the commander told her while he signed the check.

"General, I'm very sorry, but I don't have an exact way to explain how I got your information. A computerized system provides us with data from only 75 people in each state in the Republic —a lie— and, as I told you on the call, only those 75 individuals, like yourself, have the right to choose two materials or courses from the company; we cover the more expensive one, provided you invest in the smaller one, which can be the cheapest work from the entire company or even a children's material —the standard response we always gave—. The only thing we ask, as I mentioned over the phone, is that you decide whether to acquire your courses or not before we say goodbye in this very meeting."

The general started to laugh.

"Alright, dumbass, you're going to tell me right now how you got my information or I'll have you arrested. You're in the Presidential Residence and, in a very strange way, you have a phone number that not even my wife has."

"Look, General, I want to be super transparent with you: I don't know exactly how we have that number that not even your wife has; but, with absolute certainty, I can tell you that if I had to bet, and by what you tell me, maybe I'm betting my freedom, I would swear that the data comes from commercial agreements we have with different institutions or, more specifically, with the federal, state, and municipal governments. In fact, while we're here —I said as I approached and lowered my voice like sharing a secret— your data was probably leaked through an agreement we have with the government where our draw grants 60% of the benefits to public officials from all agencies, including the army and armed forces, and as long as we do it that way, we get tax incentives that benefit us in many ways."

God...

I was dying of nerves, one more question and sweat would start pouring down my forehead.

The general, without noticing my extreme nervousness, or maybe ignoring it, started laughing loudly.

"Fucking government, fucking officials."
He extended his hand again to restart our meeting, or so I thought, and placing his left hand over our hands, he intermittently pressed with his thumb and I removed my hand, completely freaked out. I had been tested and I had failed.

"Alright, so what books do you sell?"

We talked for an hour. An exact hour. He made me suffer like few times I had suffered before: "I already know that, I'm very cultured, don't you have anything on architecture? On the occult?"

He asked for all sorts of crazy things. In the end, I showed him our encyclopedia of classical music: four volumes in luxurious binding with gold inlay and two racks with 72 compact discs featuring the best pieces, the best performances by the greatest composers of universal classical music. He showed absolute interest; anyone would have thought that he would buy from me, but he didn't give in. The general didn't want any other material, so the two-for-one deal was worthless; I gave him the figure of $15,840, arguing that this was the list price, and when he leaned back in his chair, I told him not to worry, that since this was the only material he was interested in, instead of sending him a course he neither wanted nor liked, I would give him a substantial discount on the price of the collection, and that, instead of those fifteen eight hundred, I would leave it at $8,800 over three, six, or twelve months. No. He didn't want it. I dropped to $7,700. No. I went as low as I could: $7,040 with no interest and deferring his first payment by an extra month. No. And the negotiation had become a matter for both of us; while we negotiated, he would ask me about pyramids and obelisks and energy points around the world and all sorts of nonsense to distract and throw me off the negotiation, but as I was an excellent closer, I always returned to my line, picked up the point again, lowered, negotiated, and countered objections until he finally said:

"I'm not going to buy from you. I'm sorry."

And he stood up as if to say goodbye.

I remained seated, arguing that I wasn't selling him anything and that if the negotiation had taken us so long, it was because he hadn't made up his mind.

He told me he liked the collection and that the price seemed fair; but he had a planned santería initiation trip to Cuba, and that would involve an expense he preferred to make instead of buying the artwork.

The general was surprised that I didn't bite on his crazy initiation trip.

"General, a trip to Cuba doesn't compete, as you mention, with the collection at all. You'll remember the trip for the rest of your life; and you'll have this artwork forever; you can even pass it down as an inheritance. But beyond all the benefits and the investment that both the trip and the classical music collection represent, let's agree that if you can take an initiation trip to Cuba, you can easily acquire a piece that you like and want. Right?"

The general sat back down (Boom, sales signal).

"Very well, Octavio. Without a doubt, you're an excellent seller —ugh, whenever they compliment you on being an excellent seller, they're going to turn you down—. But no, I'm not taking it, not even if you give me an additional discount."

Ding, ding, ding!

That was a buying alarm!

That's my cue.

I knew that if I offered one more discount, I would close the deal; the problem was that I had already reached the bottom price, the lowest I could go.

"Thank you, General. I want to say that your words honor me, and I'm grateful to you for giving me your time. I'll take my leave, and I regret having wasted your time," —I stood up, and began to put away my promotional materials.

The general looked at me incredulously, with a face that seemed to say, "Are you really going to give up?" And no. Not at all. I turned to him with a puppy-dog expression. Poker face. And just as I stretched out my hand in a gesture of farewell, I pushed:

"General, if you had a magic wand and could set the exact price you would like to pay for my collection, what price would you set, being 100% willing to take it, considering, of course, the exclusive information on the life and work of the great masters of music, the four luxury volumes, and the 72 compact discs? What would be the most fair and viable price for us both, for you and for my company?"

Dazed and in zombie mode, he said:

"$5,500."

"General, if I can get it to that price, will you buy it from me?"
Exhausted, the general accepted only if I guaranteed by contract that this would be the final price of the purchase.

"I don't want any surprises, okay?"

I agreed, also very tired. And, to add a touch of realism to the whole thing, I called my director, and before he could say anything, I greeted him very formally, letting him know I was closing a client and asking for an extraordinary discount for a general of the Mexican Army.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Director, it's an exceptional case and in gratitude for his service," —the general smiled—. "It would be the classical music collection at five thousand five hundred."

"HEY, NO! DON'T LET HIM HAVE IT SO CHEAP, TELL HIM THAT..."

I hung up.

I knew that deal would wipe out my entire commission; I went back to the sale; I preferred to undercut than walk away empty-handed after all this time. I filled out the contract and, as he signed it, he pressed the tip of his pen three times over his signature, forming a triangle with three dots, so clearly that it seemed like a message for me.

I held a focused gaze on the general's hazel eyes and managed a slight smile, neither too ostentatious nor too brief.

My soul, on the other hand, screamed, "Goal!"

The general took out his checkbook, looked me in the eyes, and with a gesture that was hard to decipher, filled out the check.

I was stunned.

He tore it from the checkbook.

He held it in his hand.

And he looked at me intently.

I can swear he was waiting for me to try to take it.

I didn't. Of course, I didn't.

He smiled.

"Do you have 10 more minutes?"

"Yes, of course, General."

That's when the strangest part began.

He started asking me again about pyramids, obelisks, and the architecture of ancient and contemporary cities. About Atlantis and Lemuria. He made comments about santería and the different initiations they have according to the preparation and powers they supposedly acquire. We talked about governments and other ridiculous things that had never come up in a business meeting; but we didn't talk like a casual chat between two people with shared interests; he asked me, seemingly moving from level to level, like a conversation in a question and answer format designed to determine the extent to which I ranked on some scale. In ten minutes.

Fortunately, all the topics were of interest to me, and although I wasn't an expert, I had well-structured thoughts about everything he asked.

It wasn't a conversation, I repeat; it was a questionnaire.

In the end, it seemed that, after chatting about classical music, I earned a good score on his exam. But I wasn't even close to passing it.

He leaned closer and offered me his hand with that handshake I thought characterized him.

"Octavio, it's been a tremendous pleasure meeting you."

"Me too, General. I want to tell you that..."

"Are you seriously not a Brother?"

His question was a knock-out.

I fell silent.

Impossible.

Never before had anyone silenced me in a business meeting.

Immediately, I thought of Hugo.

Damn Hugo.

"I am from the Order," he said to me.

I felt, instantly, the pressure drop all at once.

I felt as if a cold curtain unveiled over my body from head to toe.

I also felt the cold sweat beading on my forehead.

I wasn't afraid. I was certain that what Hugo had told me was true. I now knew it wasn't just one of his existential fantasies.

"No, General"—he frowned as he looked at me, scrutinizing me. He sharpened his gaze—. "But I understand that there's an alert about me," I said.

What the hell! What the hell had I done! How could I dare say such nonsense! He approached me and said softly, with a mysterious whisper that, truth be told, was terrifying:

"Be careful, little bastard; because once you enter, you don't leave unless it's feet first." I looked at him in panic.

"I'm a member, although for the moment I don't frequent them much; in fact, I'm in what we call 'in dreams.' That's when one of us steps back a bit. We all do it sometimes, but somehow, we come back. We have to."

He returned to his chair, on the other side of the desk.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts and put myself together. The light in the room seemed to return, as if a magical darkness had surrounded us during that scene.

Sitting down, he smiled at me.

He took the check and tore it in half. At that point, nothing surprised me anymore. I was just a simple spectator. I was on autopilot. He handed me one of the halves of the check and said:

"I'll see you next Friday at noon. Let's see if you can earn the other half."

I left feeling dazed.

On my way home, I could only think about what Hugo had been telling me that night.

Since my meeting with the general, everyone felt suspicious to me again.

They were recruiting me...

They were recruiting me!

An insidious smile spread across my lips.

After spending all these weeks locked away in the worst kind of loneliness, the kind of being alone without desiring it, they wanted me. The most powerful secret society wanted me... but why? With the breakup, I had been left with nothing. I mean, I had the apartment, the furniture, and a heart that, while still beating, was nonetheless shattered—more from failure than heartbreak; everything else had been taken by her.

I walked back to the Constituyentes metro, then went directly to Barranca del Muerto, where I got off to walk to Avenida Insurgentes. Right where Avenida Miguel Ángel de Quevedo began, I took a minibus that took me to Taxqueña and Escuela Naval; after walking a couple of blocks, I arrived at my apartment. I walked with the music blasting in my headphones and my thoughts racing, taking me beyond my own imagination.

What was happening to me was outside the realm of any anecdote or pretense.

I reached my apartment. I placed my briefcase on the living room couch, took out my computer, sat on the sofa in front of the chair, and spent hours searching online for information about that secret society. I was amazed at how accessible the information was; in other times, it could have condemned so many people to prison, even to death.

Just as I made my biggest discovery on the subject, my phone rang.

It was Hugo.

"Are you going to open the door for me, Octavio?"

I closed the computer, stood up, opened the door, and found him at the threshold with a drunken smile.

"Why didn't you ring the bell?"

"I have extra minutes on my plan, and I want to use them so they don't go to waste."

We drank and talked.

"So, this general talked to you about the alert."

"No. He talked to me about the Order. He said he was one of them."

"Oh, really?"

"No, dude. I made that up to have something to talk about. Yes, idiot, but he told me he wasn't active anymore, although he was still part of it in some way. In dreams."

"In dreams."

"Exactly."

"How?"

"Well, like I just told you. He started treating me in a very strange way."

He laughed, victorious.

"See? I told you."

"But, you know, it didn't seem like he was aware of your damn alert about me."

"He is, for sure."

"..."

"..."

We drank.

"And how are you with everything else?"

"Well, at work, very well. I can't stop selling."

"You've always sold without stopping."

"Yes! I've tripled my sales, you know: lucky in games, unlucky in love."

"Octavio, you've never been unlucky in love."

"Yes, I have —the truth is that the topic bothered me at that moment—. But anyway, I'm not interested in talking about women."

"That's rare."

"I know."

"And what do you want to talk about?"

"Well, at this moment, I'd prefer that you tell me what you want to say, right?"

"Pfff, dude... I wish I could tell you so many things..." —he said.

I was about to tell him about my latest discovery before he showed up; but, for no apparent reason, I decided not to do it.

We drank until dawn and suddenly, after semi-veiled, semi-revealed secret stories brought on by the alcohol, he got up, thanked me, went to the door, and left. I was so tired and drunk that I didn't object. I finished my drink. I opened my laptop and noted down the address I had found in my search. The next day, I would show up there, at the very offices of the Order.

I got up, leaving everything in disarray in the living room. I liked leaving everything scattered with the certainty that no one would complain.

I entered my room and took everything out of my pockets, placing it on the dresser. A piece of paper caught my attention. The check. I looked at it with an alcoholic and, at the same time, childlike interest. I opened that tattered half. "What a bastard, my general..."