"Traitor!" I said, "You're a traitor!" I showed him a clipping from a Cuban daily paper: there he was, in a pitcher's uniform, playing baseball. I remember that he laughed; we both laughed. I don't remember whether he said anything. The conversation then bounced like a ping-pong ball from one subject to another, one country to another, one nostalgic reminiscence to another; there was talk of his experiences in the revolution, and there were jokes: "What do you suppose is wrong with my hand?" he asked. "It's under a curse," I said. "Under a curse? Why do you say that?" "It's obvious. You shook hands with Frondizi and Frondizi fell; you shook hands with Janio Quadros and he fell. I'm lucky that I have no place to fall from," I said, feigning worry. And he laughed, knitting his eyebrows.
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