by Rachel Dann
‘…Whereas there are people in here who got away with it loads of times,’ Naomi continues, oblivious to the inner torment and suspicion she has sparked off in me. ‘People who kept going back and forth – Bolivia, Colombia, Venezuela. Made their money and paid off their mortgages. They still got caught though, in the end.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘Meanwhile others were involved right from the top – not mules like us, but the people running the mules. Years of surveillance and planning before they get caught and put in this place.’ She scowls, scuffing her foot against the concrete step in front of us. ‘Although, to be fair, most of them aren’t in this place – most of the bosses are in the men’s prison, just biding their time until they can get out and carry on.’ Naomi doesn’t try to hide the bitterness in her voice. She turns back to Ariana. ‘Is Marta in there with you? She wasn’t at singing this morning, and she never misses it. I’m worried about her.’
Ariana disappears back into the room, which, after peering my head around the door I realise to be a combined kitchen, bakery and storeroom. Sacks of flour and rice line the walls, and a group of women stand around a table in the middle, wearing the same blue aprons, rolling out and kneading dough. Others pass back and forth carrying pots of water, tubs of tomatoes, whole lettuces, and heavy-looking, sealed cardboard boxes. The overall atmosphere is one of focused, contented hard work. I get a sudden flashback to my brief stint in the kitchen at Burger King in my first year of university. I stuck it out as long as I could, but in the summer it got to over forty degrees out the back, and the sight and smell of the burgers plopping out of the never-ending rotation grill dripping grease and fat eventually became too much for me. I feel a flush of admiration for these women, barely chatting and all totally absorbed in their tasks, which I do not know whether they are even getting paid for. Watching them, I find it utterly impossible to imagine they are all drug traffickers, thieves, or worse…
Ariana reappears with a small, middle-aged woman beside her. Something about her immediately does not seem to fit in here. Her dark hair is highlighted gold and styled into gentle waves. Under her apron she’s wearing a dark-green polo neck, a little silver crucifix pendant visible at the front. As we exchange the customary cheek-kiss I notice she’s wearing a full face of make-up, including perfectly applied lip liner, which for some reason reminds me so poignantly of my mum that I have to swallow back a lump in my throat. I really must phone her.
‘Marta…’ Naomi’s tone is much softer, none of the boisterous camaraderie she displayed with Ariana. She makes a small gesture to me and leads Marta by the arm to a space a few feet away, just out of earshot. I watch them talk, or rather, I watch Naomi talk, leaning down solicitously to her friend and speaking with wide eyes and emphatic gestures, seemingly giving some kind of pep talk. I remember the no-nonsense way she marched me through the prison earlier. Marta doesn’t seem to be replying much, but I see her nodding and occasionally reaching up to touch the little cross around her neck. I get the impression she is either about to burst into tears, or shout at Naomi to leave her alone.
Finally, Naomi seems to have finished and is rubbing Marta briskly on the arms while nodding her head insistently, their faces inches apart. She seems to be saying ‘Okay? OKAY?’ Marta is nodding furiously and dabbing at her eyes, then she reaches up and envelops Naomi in the longest hug I’ve ever seen. When Naomi finally disentangles herself and bounds back over to me, Marta turns and walks down the corridor away from us, without saying goodbye, her apron still on.
‘What was all that about?’ I’m relieved Naomi is back at my side, as Ariana went back to work several minutes ago and I was starting to feel the eyes of several of the women in the kitchen boring into me. Every time I looked up I would see them glance away, but not before I noticed a large woman with a tattoo of what looked like a killer whale on her arm mutter something to the girl next to her, then let out a throaty laugh. I realise my newfound bravado about being inside the prison definitely only applies when Naomi is within a three-foot radius of me.
‘That’s Marta,’ Naomi explains unnecessarily. ‘She’s going to be here until she’s past sixty.’
We stand and watch the small, neat woman walking slowly away from us.
‘What did she do?’
‘Do? Marta? She is one of the few people here who literally did nothing.’ Naomi starts to steer me away from the doorway and prying eyes, in the same motherly way she just handled Marta. ‘Come on, you need to get out of here soon before they start looking for you.’
As we cross the rest of the corridor towards the prison exit, Naomi tells me matter-of-factly that Marta used to live in Spain, and had been back in Quito visiting her adult children when some men broke into her house and held her whole family at gunpoint, insisting she carry a large quantity of cocaine back to Spain with her the following day.
‘What do you mean – some men? Who the hell were they? How did they know she lived in Spain? How could they get away with…’
Naomi is shrugging. ‘She never told us much more than that. There must have been a connection somewhere, somehow. But Marta only ever gave us her brief, dignified version of things. And she doesn’t seem the sort to lie, does she?’
‘No.’ I realise my legs are trembling.
‘Her family has done a lot. She’s seen a number of lawyers. But any advance in her case is going to take a long time. It seems like they were powerful people, the fuckers that got her in this situation. That changes everything.’
We’ve nearly reached the main exit now, and I see grumpy raincoat man look over at us, frown at his watch, then start to plod across the damp courtyard towards us.
I suddenly remember the printed-out translation I brought with me, now crumpled and slightly damp in the depths of my handbag. Even so, I take it out to show Naomi, feeling inexplicably shy.
‘Oh my God, you’re actually doing this for real, aren’t you?’ she cries, holding up the wodge of paper and spinning around on the spot. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to me.’
She stops to scowl at the guard, who has left his glum vigil at the prison door to step closer to us, sternly holding up a hand and indicating to Naomi not to go any further.
‘Yes, yes, keep your raincoat on, I’m not going to escape,’ Naomi taunts him in Spanish. ‘Looks like this is where our paths must divide,’ she says drily, then hugs me. ‘Thank you, Kirsty,’ she mutters into my hair. ‘Seriously. For coming today, for all you’re doing for me. Don’t let that stupid boyfriend get you down. And please come back to see me any time you need to talk.’ She pulls away and her bright-blue eyes flash into mine, suddenly appearing childlike again. ‘Or just come back and see me anyway.’
I promise I will, and to bring more chocolate as well. As I turn to leave, Naomi thrusts a crumpled envelope into my hands. ‘That’s for Gabi, give her my love – I hope she’ll send a photo once the baby’s born.’ I shove the letter into my pocket away from the guard’s invading eyes, then impulsively hug her again.
I step over the prison threshold into the rain-soaked streets to go and meet my father, and wish, for a strange, fleeting moment, I could stay inside.
Chapter Fourteen
The journey from the prison to Dad’s fancy hotel makes my hazardous trip to the embassy the other day seem like a gentle stroll in the countryside. I have to change buses in the bustling central terminal, fighting my way through noisy families, groups of tourists dragging heavy backpacks, and street vendors wielding piles of newspapers and bulging bags of fruit. A woman with a screaming child strapped to her back and a whole branch of fresh bananas in her arms plants herself firmly in my path, virtually ordering me to purchase one. Seeing my bus lumber to a stop just behind her, I dodge past her and make a run for it.
Heart pounding with adrenaline and nerves, I manage to climb aboard just as the bus lurches haphazardly out of the terminal and slots itself in among the oncoming traffic. There are no seats left so I’m crammed alongside six or
seven other people in the tiny amount of standing room at the back, clinging on to the greasy handrail each time the bus grinds to a stop. Ignoring the elbows and handbags jabbing into my ribs, I press my nose to the window and stare out at the bustling city around us. The sky is cloudless and azure blue again as if the rainstorm had never happened, and I can virtually see the puddles on the pavement sizzling and drying up before my eyes in the humidity.
By the time I arrive at the Royal Colonial Suites hotel, my clothes are sticking to me and I’m panting from the midday heat and altitude. I stare up at the elaborate building in awe, wondering at my father, who appears to have spared no expense on his holiday with Dorice. An impeccably suited security guard opens the hotel’s outer door for me and I gaze around the spacious courtyard, taking in neatly laid breakfast tables with immaculate waiters dotting between them, interspersed with palm trees strung with coloured fairy lights ready to burst alight in the evening.
I spot my father sitting in the shade of one of the palm trees near the hotel entrance, engrossed in what could be a guidebook on the table in front of him. He looks like a typical middle-aged British holidaymaker – faded orange T-shirt mismatched with khaki combat shorts, unfashionable brown leather sandals fastened on the end of excruciatingly white legs. I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of affection for him, closely followed by a flash of nerves after his parting comments to me last night. Our first evening spent together in Quito could have got off to a better start…
‘Hi, Dad.’ I pull back the cushioned wicker chair opposite him and sit down. ‘I’m so sorry about the time – something came up last night, an emergency with a prisoner I’ve been helping, then I had to catch two buses…’
Dad is already waving away my rambling apology. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been enjoying the sunshine and doing some research.’ He indicates the guidebook. ‘And in fact, I think I should be the one apologising to you…’ He looks away awkwardly, and I follow his gaze across the courtyard to where a waiter in a bow tie is going from table to table, topping up coffees. ‘About last night… I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sorry. If I’m honest, since we arrived things have been a bit…’ He trails off, and glances over at the hotel entrance, as if expecting us to be interrupted at any moment. Then his expression changes and it’s as if he visibly decides to put aside whatever he was about to say. ‘Never mind that. Have some coffee… So, is this the same prisoner Liza was talking about last night?’
‘She was?’
‘Yes.’ Dad slides a basket of croissants across the table to me, ‘When you were helping Roberto clear the table. She just told me briefly that you’d actually been to visit one of the prisons?’ As he speaks he starts to gather the guidebook and papers on the table in front of him together, folding them carefully inside a plastic wallet. Is he actually listening? Was that an invitation to tell him more about what I’ve been doing? I take a deep breath and decide it was.
‘Well… as Liza maybe mentioned, there’s this British girl in the prison,’ I begin carefully, wondering how much to tell Dad. The memory of that failed dinner out, years ago, looms in my mind again. I’d accepted his invitation, optimistically thinking he wanted to congratulate me on my promotion at Home from Home, but instead he levelled all sorts of awkward questions at me about my career path. What if by telling him all this now, I’m just opening myself up again for more criticism? Not that, since then, he’s ever shown an interest in my work again.
This is a new start, I remind myself. You invited him out here for a reason… now it’s up to you to make it work.
‘Her name’s Naomi,’ I continue. ‘She’s only a few years older than me. I visited her last week, along with a volunteer who works for Liza and Roberto’s charity. And, this might sound crazy, but… we got along really well.’ I pause, remembering Naomi’s kindness to me this morning, a lump forming unexpectedly in my throat. She had seemed genuinely overjoyed with my visit – and not just because of the Twix bars – but actually it was me who had left feeling like a different person. I feel a flush of embarrassment for pouring out my problems to her, but at the same time I know in my heart she didn’t mind. Sitting on the roof sharing an illicit cigarette with her had felt just like a chat with any friend from back home, even though we had been on the roof of a prison in Quito rather than in a coffee shop or bar.
I realise my father is leaning forward, waiting for me to finish with an expression of actual interest on his face. ‘So… I went back to visit her today. Last night after you left, she phoned up because—’
I don’t get to finish my sentence as a shrill voice suddenly pierces the air behind us, making both of us jump.
‘Well, that’s sorted that out. That will teach them to put us in a room with a… Oh! Hello, Kirsty!’
Dorice wafts towards us in some kind of green kaftan contraption looped around her slim shoulders, and tight denim shorts displaying – I think absently – exasperatingly toned legs for someone of her age. ‘Thank you for coming to meet us, I’m so looking forward to this outing.’
Do I notice a flash of something like annoyance cross Dad’s face as Dorice approaches? It’s gone too quickly for me to be sure, then Dorice is leaning over to kiss him before enveloping me in a kaftan-cloaked hug.
‘No problem. I was just telling Dad I was running a bit late this morning because I was visiting a girl in the prison…’ I flick a glance at my father, wondering whether there will be an opportunity to finish telling him about this morning. But he’s already got to his feet,
‘Um, okay. Anyway…’ I turn back to Dorice, swallowing back a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘I’m just going to pop to the loo, then how about we head off to the Basilica? That’s the big cathedral not far from here – it has wonderful views of the city. Then we could get some lunch near there, and maybe take a bus tour if we have time…’
Dorice is nodding briskly.
‘That sounds lovely, Kirsty. Now, the ladies is just up there, by reception, on the right…’ She indicates the main hotel building, and pats me on the arm.
I feel a flash of relief. Maybes she’s all right, after all, I think as I head up the steps into the main building.
Then something, something makes me stop on the bottom step, and glance back out of the corner of my eye to their table.
Dorice has turned towards my father, her face contorted into a look of complete rage.
Almost falling off the step in surprise, I hold on to the brass railing next to me and allow myself to lean as far back as possible without falling over, straining to hear.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to spend this whole week trailing around after you two!’ she hisses, her face twisted like a gargoyle, lip curling and eyes flashing in anger. ‘I need to be WORKING! There is no wildlife to photograph in Quito. There is nothing for me in Quito, except—’
My father interrupts her, but infuriatingly all I can hear is the low rumble of his voice, and I can just make out the movement of his arms as the rest of him is obliterated by the fronds of a large palm tree.
‘I don’t CARE about Kirsty!’ Dorice screams in return, her voice carrying over the courtyard towards the other breakfasters who turn and glance uneasily in her direction. I think Dad notices this as suddenly he comes into view, stepping forwards, gesturing for her to sit down.
‘We came here on the understanding that I was going to work,’ Dorice is hissing now, barely audible, looking at my father with an expression of pure venom. ‘I did not come here to spend every day in Quito with YOUR DAUGHTER.’
There’s Dad’s voice again, quieter, placatory, imploring.
‘Fine. One day – just ONE – then I’m taking the early-morning flight to the Galápagos. You can either come with me, or not.’
Looking down, I realise the knuckles of my hand on the railing have turned white, and my legs are shaking. I press myself back against the wall, breathing deeply, trying to supress the surge of fury that has risen up
my throat like bile. How dare she speak to him like that? Is this what Dad had just been trying to tell me when he started saying things have been weird since they arrived? I remember Dad’s email when he told me they were coming here… he’d said something strange about having to ‘negotiate’ with Dorice how much time they’ll spend in Quito with me…
I hurry to the bathroom, then fix an obliging smile on my face. So Dorice wants to play it this way? Filled with defiance, I trot back down the steps and take my father’s arm. Ignoring his startled expression, I gather up the guidebook and papers and stuff them in my handbag then say purposefully, ‘Right, I hope you’re ready. We’re going on a tour of the old town!’
***
The cathedral looms above us, its twin gothic spires glinting in the sweltering afternoon sunshine. I tilt my head back to take in its magnificence, the pointed arches running along its length and the intricate detail of the many pinnacles reaching up to culminate in a simple cross, outlined against the blue sky. The taxi Dorice insisted on catching has deposited us on the steeply sloping ground at its feet, in a small square of grass populated only by some wilting trees, a few other groups of sweating tourists, and a peacefully sleeping drunk. Two hundred yards away at the cathedral doorway I can make out groups of women in the impossibly hot-looking colourful Quichua shawls, selling candles and roses to tourists as they enter. A few feet away from the salespeople, huddled on the floor in plainer clothing, are two shapeless figures, only distinguishable as human beings when they raise their hands to each passing tourist in supplication. As we slowly climb the grassy hill towards them, I realise they are an elderly couple, white hair poking out from underneath their traditional Quichua black bowler-style hats. Several tourists stoop to press some coins into their hands, but many more walk straight past them as they pass through the doorway to the church.
‘So… here we are!’ I grin, spreading my arms wide, feeling slightly ridiculous. The silence between my father and Dorice lasted the length of the taxi journey and now extends excruciatingly into the hot air around us, threatening to suffocate me.