The geography questions were more needling. All told, more generic.
The purpose was sneaky. The circumlocutions, subtle.
Why the sadist spent two weeks every year in a place like Rimini or Santo Domingo (or, even worse, Cortina D’Ampezzo) and every year in the same hotel and at the same time, seeing the same people, bars, night clubs, picnics and trails (“...eggshells, cheese-smeared pieces of paper”) – obviously as far as his arm and leg would allow him – whether he sat back fascinated by the moon and the sound of the waves, by the taste of afternoon pizza, by the praise of nature (“I am not talking about tropical forests, because, even if you were able to defend yourself from snakes, a mosquito could make you sleep to death – but how pretty the mountains are, with all those chalets”). If the sadist had discovered this soul for his seasonal reflections, then the bad looks and pandemic danger (contagious, to boot) of his rap sheet would not have allowed the general of the Narcos such devotion as a military man owes to his commanding officers. In short, the sadist wouldn’t have been a character allowed to walk around in public.
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