In a nameless, homogenised suburb, every house has a room reserved for the president. No one knows when or why this came to be. It is simply how things are, and no one appears to question or contradict this spatial disposition. The room is kept ordered and clean, and nobody is allowed to use it. It is solely for him, the president. But what if he never comes? Everything is kept vague, so vague that we begin to wonder if even the narrator can be trusted... Compared to Kafka and Calvino, Ricardo Romero brings us a novel that narrates eeriness, perhaps a metaphor, from the point of view of a shy boy who seems to be very good at lying about the truth. Following in the steps of Julio Cortázar and of a certain literary tradition of sinister rooms –where Dr Jekyll became Mr Hyde, for instance–, The President’s Room is a mysterious tale based on the metaphysical hypothesis that each house is never just one single home.