Capítulo 1463: Chapter 692: Enduring Old Man
As ti slipped into September, the entire nation of xico was already imrsed in a frenzy of celebration.
For xicans, Independence Day carries a significance far beyond other holidays.
It marks the beginning of their liberation from colonial shackles, the declaration of national independence, a pride and passion etched in their bones and blood.
In xico City, this celebration reached its peak.
The streets, from Paseo de la Reforma to Constitution Plaza, were already flooded with green, white, and red national flags.
Huge flags hung down the facades of skyscrapers, and strings of small triangular flags rustled in the breeze, linking every lamp post.
The storefront windows facing the street were ticulously decorated with patriotic thes, and the supermarkets were filled with special Independence Day rchandise.
In the evening, people spontaneously gathered in the streets, their faces painted with the national flag, wearing broad-brimd sombreros or traditional ethnic headdresses, waving small flags, singing and dancing along with street bands.
The air was filled with the scent of roasted corn, the greasy aroma of fried pork skins, the sweet stickiness of sugary syrup, and an omnipresent, restless, and jubilant hormonal atmosphere.
The laughter of children, the playful banter of couples, the blaring trumpets and songs of mariachi bands, the shouts of vendors selling souvenirs… all these sounds mixed together, forming a colossal wave of noise that seed to nearly overturn the city.
It was a joy that ca from the heart.
The night before Independence Day, September 15, 1995.
A military airport in xico City.
A Boeing VC-25A, without any visible markings, landed silently on the runway, taxiing to a designated area.
The level of security at the airport was far beyond usual.
In addition to the ubiquitous xican soldiers and military police, there were so special security personnel dressed in black suits, wearing earpieces, with sharp gazes, scattered around.
The airplane door opened, and the stair car quickly docked.
George Walker Bush appeared.
He deliberately avoided wearing the iconic flight jacket or casual wear, opting instead for a formal suit with a tie.
However, his face looked unusually haggard, with deep eye bags, a tense mouth, each step down the stairs seed heavy and stiff.
Casare, who had been waiting at the foot of the stairs, imdiately stepped forward.
Still with his round appearance, wearing a suit that seed perpetually one size too big, his face piled with overly enthusiastic smiles, resembling a Maitreya Buddha.
“Mr. President,” Casare offered his pudgy hand, “Welco to xico City, it’s been a hard journey.”
“Mr. Casare.”
There were no red carpets, no honor guards, no children presenting flowers, and no swarming journalists.
This was an absolutely secret, low-profile reception.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Little Bush and his extrely streamlined entourage were swiftly led to a waiting motorcade.
The motorcade consisted of five black Chevrolets with deeply tinted windows, also Arican vehicles, but the drivers and security personnel in the escort cars were all xicans.
Little Bush was invited to the back of the middle car.
Casare deftly opened the door and sat beside him.
With a “bang,” the car door shut.
The motorcade imdiately started without sirens or flashing lights, silently leaving the military airport, rging onto the road leading to the city center.
The atmosphere inside the car was oppressively suffocating.
Little Bush stubbornly turned his head towards the window, watching the rapidly passing scenery outside.
Casare sat beside him with a smiling face, showing no intention of initiating a conversation, occasionally observing the Arican president who was masking his dejection with forced composure with the corner of his eyes.
The motorcade first passed through the industrial zone and relatively remote suburban areas around the airport.
But soon, the scenery began to change.
The closer they got to the city center, the stronger the festive atmosphere beca.
The roads beca congested, and although their motorcade had a dedicated lane, they could still feel the surging crowd and noise waves around them.
The streets were filled with bustling people, shoulder to shoulder.
People held national flags, waved glow sticks, sang, danced, their faces beaming with pure and unrestrained smiles.
“A unified, powerful, brand new xico! Glory belongs to xico! Glory belongs to Victor!”
The crowd erupted in louder cheers whenever an image of Victor appeared.
“¡Viva México!” (Long live xico!)
“¡Viva Víctor!” (Long live Victor!)
The waves of sound, though muted by the excellent soundproofing of the car windows, still faintly reached Little Bush’s ears, pounding like tides.
On lampposts, building walls, even so speeding car bodies, simple and powerful slogans were posted:
“¡Unión, Fuerza, Orden!” (Unity, Strength, Order!)
“¡El Futuro es Nuestro!” (The future is ours!)
“¡Bienvenido Texas a Casa!” (Welco Texas ho!)
These slogans stung Little Bush’s eyes.
He saw young couples kissing passionately by the roadside, a group of laughing and playing students passing by;
All this stood in absurd contrast to his current mood, and to the nation he represented, which was bleeding, losing an important part.
A sense of imnse absurdity enveloped him.
Is this really the xico that was once viewed by the United States as its backyard, filled with poverty, drugs, and corruption?
The play of light and shadow from the car window flickered on Little Bush’s face.
When his Old Dad was the Director of the CIA, xico was not like this!
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