Nick Miroff is a man of mystery. His colleagues at the Washington Post, where he has been a staff reporter for the past twelve years, know so very little about his private life and interests that they often jump out of high rise windows in frustrated despair. Who is the man in the lime green jumpsuit that comes to his desk every Thursday afternoon with a roll of duct tape? What does he keep in the brass urn on his desk, labeled "Himmelfahrt"? Why is his Rolodex completely blank? How does he come to have a Rolodex on his desk in the first place? And when does he find time for cordwaining?
Rumors are rife that while working in Mexico City he learned the true identity of Fidel Castro's beard groomer and used that information to sink the Graf Spee in Montevideo Harbor. Miroff himself neither affirms nor denies the story.
Of humble birth, Miroff worked his way up from penury to poverty by selling earmuffs door to door in the Aleutian Islands. Intrigued by the lingering influence of colonial Spain among the native kelpies, he stowed away on a passing freighter to begin life anew as a student and scholar of Latin American studies at the University of California in Santa Cruz. His doctrinal thesis on the square tortillas of Patagonia is considered a landmark in the field of gastronomy.
He cultivates witches' butter in his spare time.
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"No está jugando con una baraja llena de cartas."
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