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That sounds too gay.” He puts on some music – Sarah Brightman singing Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina. He scrolls through the computer screen on the dashboard, and settles on Los Bukis – a band of 1970s Mexican crooners.
“My parents’ house is very beautiful – it’s full of amazing things which we conserve,” he says. The brown-hued walls are lined with family photos, stiff-looking portraits of his five siblings, and a huge oil painting of Julián Slim, Mr Slim’s father.
It is little wonder that the country is referred to as “Slimlandia”.
But the King of Slimlandia limits his roaming to a tiny corner of the realm.
Slim Senior taught the young Carlos the values of book-keeping, teaching him how to read financial sheets and keep records.
It is something that Mr Slim has kept with him all his life.
A framed poem written by José Helú is on a wall, which Mr Slim says was written on his deathbed, found grasped in his hand after he had passed away.
It is a beautiful poem, stirring verses telling the importance of being surrounded by your family.
The Lomas de Chapultepec area, in the western hills of the city, was built in the 1930s and designed to house Mexico City’s elite in elegant mansions among tree-lined boulevards. Driving from the office, he points to the house he has lived in for the past 38 years – three miles from where he was born.
We sweep through the streets, while Mr Slim on speaker-phone dictates a letter in heavily accented English to the film director George Lucas via his secretary, Silvia.
“It was great to see you so unexpectedly the other day,” he says.
“You should come to Mexico, and we can spend some time together.” Then, correcting himself: “No, change that. Yes, I say, but play me something you like – something Mexican.
You have to be brave to take on the traffic in Mexico City.