Multiple Choice

(A) To suggest a possible work opportunity for Chilean students who perform well academically but are poor (there aren’t many, but they do exist): they could take tests for students who are lazy and rich.

(B) To expose security problems in the administration of the university entrance exams, and to promote a business venture related to biometric readings, or some other system for definitively verifying the identities of students

(C) To promote an expensive law firm. And to entertain.

(D) To legitimate the experience of a generation that could be summed up as “a bunch of cheaters.” And to entertain.

(E) To erase the wounds of the past.

74. Which of Mr. Segovia’s following statements is, in your opinion, true?

(A) You weren’t educated, you were trained.

(B) You weren’t educated, you were trained.

(C) You weren’t educated, you were trained.

(D) You weren’t educated, you were trained.

(E) You weren’t educated, you were trained.

TEXT #2

I suppose we were happy on my wedding day, though it’s hard for me to imagine it now; I can’t fathom how during such a bitter time any sort of happiness was possible. This was September 2000, fourteen years ago, which is a lot of time: 168 months, more than five thousand days.

The party was memorable, that’s for sure, especially after that soulless, torturous ceremony in our apartment. We’d done a thorough cleaning the night before, but I think our relatives still whispered about us as they left, because there’s no denying that those threadbare armchairs and the wine-stained walls and carpeting didn’t give the impression of a place that was fit for a wedding.

The bride — of course I remember her name, though I think eventually I’ll forget it, someday I will even forget her name — looked lovely, but my parents just couldn’t understand why she would wear a black dress. I wore a gray suit so shiny and shabby that an uncle of the bride’s said I looked more like an office gofer than a groom. It was a classist and stupid comment, but it was also true, because that was precisely the suit I’d worn when I worked as an office gofer. I still associate it, more than with the wedding, with those endless days I spent walking around downtown or waiting in line at some bank, with humiliatingly short hair and a cornflower blue tie that could never be loosened enough.

Luckily, the official from the civil registrar left straightaway, and after the champagne and modest hors d’oeuvres — I remember with shame that the potato chips were all crushed — we had a long lunch, and we even had time to take a nap and change clothes before our friends began to arrive, bringing, as we’d requested, generous alcoholic contributions instead of gifts. There was so much booze that pretty soon we were sure we wouldn’t be able to drink it all, and because we were high that seemed like a problem. We debated the issue for a long time, although (since we were high) maybe it wasn’t really that long.

Then Farra carried in an enormous, empty twenty-five-liter drum he had in his house for some reason, and we started to fill it up, dumping bottles in haphazardly while we half-danced, half-shouted. It was a risky bet, but the concoction — that’s what we called it, we thought the word was funny — turned out to be delectable. How I would love to go back to the year 2000 and record the exact combination that led to that unexpected and delicious drink. I’d like to know exactly how many bottles or boxes of red and how many of white went in, what was the dosage of pisco, of vodka, of whiskey, tequila, gin, whatever. I remember there was also Campari, and anise, mint, and gold liqueurs, some scoops of ice cream, and even some powdered juice in that unrepeatable jug.

The next thing I remember is that we woke up sprawled in the living room, not just the bride and me but a ton of other people, some of whom I’d never even met, though I don’t know if they were crashing the party or were distant cousins of the bride, who had — I discovered then — an astonishing number of distant cousins. It was maybe ten in the morning. We were all having trouble stringing words together, but I wanted to try out the ultramodern coffeemaker my sister had given us, so I brewed several liters of coffee and little by little we shook off our sleep. I went to the big bathroom — the small one was covered in vomit — and I saw my friend Maite sleeping in the tub, lolling in an unlikely position, though she looked pretty comfortable, her right cheek pressed against the ceramic as if it were an enviable feather pillow. I woke her up and offered her a cup of coffee, but she opted for a beer instead to keep the hangover at bay.

Later, at around one in the afternoon, Farra switched on a camera he’d brought with him to film the party but had only just remembered. I was flopped in a corner of the room, drinking my zillionth coffee while the bride dozed against my chest. “Tell me, how does it feel?” Farra questioned me, in the tone of an overenthusiastic small-town reporter.