Portillo let me read or write, or even doze off, on the condition that I always answer the phone in goodĢ0 time. My job was to listen to them, take down their information, make sure the policy was valid, and connect them to my counterparts in Europe. He would call me very early, at six or seven in the morning, so I could give him a report on what had happened the pre-ġ0 vious night, which was pretty much pointless, because nothing ever happened, or almost nothing: maybe some call or other from Rome or Paris, simple cases from people who weren’t really sick but who wanted to make the most of the medical insurance they had bought inġ5 Santiago. What I remember most about himĥ is his voice, so high-pitched, like a teenager’s-a common enough tone among Chileans but, for me, a disconcerting one to hear from a Spaniard. Portillo was a good boss, a generous guy I rarely saw him, sometimes only on the twenty-ninth, when I waited, with some stupendous circles under my eyes, to pick up my paycheck. LITERARY NARRATIVE: This passage is from the short story “Long Distance” by Alejandro Zambra.
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