"One must be aware from the beginning that he will not go far," says Jakarta's protagonist, who recalls the fifth year of school, when a wrinkled nun imparted geography to him-or almost: She named cities, Jakarta, and The students answered countries, Indonesia: "It was a way of ignoring the rest of the agenda, forgetting our names and getting used to dealing with the disappointment of knowing that there is a world out there that we are only going to memorize political divisions." Although the steps of the narrator sketch the demarcation from the subsoil to the surface and its walk takes us through its multiple labyrinths bifurcations, this city never ends up being known at all. The Charco stands out from a mythology where the struggles and interactions of a population composed of natives, albinos and invaders, prefigures a violent and violent present, given to nothing and chance, at the mercy of pandemics and political structures made with that Gatopardiana mobility that erects the banner of progress as an instrument of collective hypnosis. The narrator splits between two times: one in which he accompanies Clara and another that emerges from his memories where his childhood is paraded, the images of a pandemic that forced him to be part of a brigade hunting rat and the moment in the That, when the plague is over, he meets Clara walking along the beach. As the novel progresses the protagonism does not seem to have the city or characters such as albino Kovac, chief of the brigade, Pájara Helguera and his sample of lagas, Zermeño and his repertoire of cobbles or Morgan, who used deep sadness as a form of Keep noise at bay. Nor does the ball game have a central role for the population in its role as a decadent hinge. The relief is not in the enigmatic pink stone of Clara nor in the figure of chance that paradoxically decants a future always predictable for the inhabitants of the Charco. As we enter the prose of Rodrigo Márquez Tizano, we notice that the true protagonist of the book is the language: that is released from its bonds, bursts through a firm and unwavering prose that strikes against solemnity in all its forms and from the absurd Weave a self-portrait that is the same with our time and geography as any other because the matter with which the author works is nothing less than time.