by Tom Epperson
“Have you told Caroline?”
Roberto gives a tight smile. “No. Not yet.”
“What are you going to tell her? Wait, I know. You’re going to lie like a son of a bitch.”
Roberto laughs.
“Okay, Willie. Now tell me what I need to know about Tulcán.”
“Homero del Basto. The minister of mines and energy. He’s the key guy.”
“I saw he was in Tulcán last week. At a gold mine.”
“He’s still in Tulcán, and gold has nothing to do with it. Do you know what coltan is?”
“Some kind of metal they mine in the Congo. They use it in cellphones, right?”
“Cellphones, laptops, video games, all kinds of electronics. And you’re right, most of it comes from the Congo. But there’s a problem with coltan mining: it makes a hell of a mess. They’re cutting down the jungle and polluting the rivers and when the workers get hungry, they shoot a gorilla, which makes the Save the Gorillas people mad. They’ve also got a war going on that’s killed six million people, and the security situation’s terrible. And so there’s a worldwide hunt on for more sources of coltan.”
“And they’ve found it in Tulcán.”
“A massive fucking shitload of it,” he says in English. “In the southeast, along the Otavalo River. It’s been selling for as much as $200 a kilo. That’s why greedy bastards like del Basto are there.”
“But is Tulcán really any better than the Congo? In terms of security?”
“No, and that’s the point. The military’s been looking for an excuse to go into Tulcán for years, and now it has it. The Sri Lanka option is being imposed to make Tulcán safe for coltan mining. Keep an eye on your president. He’s going to be making an announcement in the next few weeks about the discovery of coltan, and he’s going to declare the southeast part of the province a ‘national security reserve.’ Which means it will be under the permanent control of the military. He’s going to say his reasons are to prevent illegal mining operations and to protect the environment and the local people, but of course by that time most of the local people will be either dead or refugees. Rights will be auctioned off to transnational mining companies, and the Otavalo Valley will become their private little playground.”
They’re still walking along the brick street. Willie pauses at a shop selling jewelry. One of the polydactyl cats is stretched out on the top of a glass display case, drowsing blissfully and soaking up the sun. Willie peers in at the jewelry.
“It’s Helen’s birthday Thursday, and I still haven’t gotten her anything. She loves birthdays and birthday presents. The pressure’s building. I’m starting to panic.”
Now they walk on. Roberto looks at Willie thoughtfully.
“Why are you telling me this, Willie?”
“You want the cynical answer, or the more or less true answer?”
“Both.”
“The cynical answer is your country’s our best friend in South America, but you drive us crazy sometimes. For instance, one American president after another has tried to push a free trade agreement between you and us through Congress but it’s been blocked by the liberals because you guys have the nasty habit of killing your labor leaders. Though the situation seems to have improved under Dávila.”
“That’s because there are so few labor leaders left to kill.”
“Maybe. But right now we’re very close to an agreement. But we can kiss it good-bye,” he says in English, “if the shit hits the fan in Tulcán.”
“And the more or less true answer?”
“Some of us in the government don’t like mass murder. Even if it’s being done by our friends.”
“I’m going to need a guide. Someone who knows the Otavalo Valley.”
“Let me work on it. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.”
Willie checks his Concord watch.
“I better head back.”
They walk back down the sloping street.
“I’ve always wondered about your watch,” says Roberto.
Willie laughs, and looks at it. Big and black. Covered with diamonds.
“It’s some watch, huh?”
“It’s never really seemed to fit you.”
“Why not?”
Roberto shrugs. “Memo Soto was wearing a watch like that when I interviewed him. It seemed to fit him.”
“Yeah, I suppose it’s a little extravagant. But I’ve always had a thing for watches. When I was only four years old, I pestered the shit out of my parents till they bought me a Mickey Mouse watch.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You know, I remember Memo Soto’s watch.”
“You met him?”
“Yeah. Except he was dead already. He’d been shot about fifty times.”
“I thought that happened before you came here.”
“I’ve been here twice. The guy had balls, I’ll say that for him. Said he wouldn’t be taken alive and he wasn’t.”
“And you were in on it?”
He nods. “I was on one of the Black Hawks. Zooming in over the mountains. It was exciting as hell, I’ll tell you that.”
“Is it true you used his cellphone to track him down?”
“No, that was just a cover story. One of his own guys gave him up. They’d known each other since they were kids. He started feeling the heat, so he cut a deal with us. Last I heard, he was living the good life in Miami Beach. A beer in one hand and a tit in the other.” Willie laughs. He throws his empty soft drink bottle in a trash can. “Guys like Soto. Their biggest threats are their friends, not their enemies.”
They’re on the stone path that leads down to the cable car station. Roberto’s not quite ready to go.
“I think I’ll catch the next one, Willie.”
“Okay, sure.”
They stand there in the windy sunlight and look at each other.
“I feel kind of guilty,” Willie says.
“About what?”
“If I’d kept my mouth shut, you’d be flying out of here tomorrow. Instead of heading into that shithole.”
“I’ll be fine,” Roberto says, and they shake hands. “Thanks for everything. And please keep an eye on my father.”
“Don’t worry, Roberto, I will. I’ll be calling you about the guide.”
“Okay.”
Willie walks off down the path. He calls back over his shoulder in English, “Downhill’s better than uphill, that’s for damn sure!”
Roberto laughs and waves. Now he moves over to the stone wall that flanks the path. He leans his elbows on it and gazes out upon the valley. He doesn’t believe in anything of a spiritual or transcendent nature most of the time but occasionally, like right now, he does. Because what he is looking at is so unspeakably beautiful. Luminous clouds extend to the horizon; they are shot through with great shafts of light. A ragged line of white birds floats past, shining in the light, bound from one unknown to another unknown. And the city, the city of his birth, of every one of his thirty-three years, he can see it all, this city of seven million, in a single sweeping look. Lying there as though resting in the giant hand of God.
He feels something brush past his legs. He looks down, and sees one of the polydactyl cats. A gray and white one, begging for attention. Roberto reaches down and pets it and scratches it behind the ears. For luck.
* * *
He calls Daniel, and leaves another message.
“Daniel, I really need to talk to you, it’s important. Quit fucking around and call me.”
He’s driving back to his apartment. He’s supposed to meet Iván there but Roberto’s running late. He talked to Iván earlier this morning. He sounded excited. He can’t wait to get out of his parents’ place and plans to move in as soon as Roberto’s left. It seems strange to think another person will be living in his apartment tomorrow, cooking in his kitchen and showering in his shower and maybe if he gets lucky, making love to a girl in his bed.
A National Police helicopter buzzes overhead, crossing the street
he’s on at an angle. He’s been driving through an upper-class neighborhood that with no transition has given way to an Army base on both sides of the street. He’s always thought it an unusual location for an Army base but everyone in the city seems to accept it. Through a chain-link fence he sees soldiers climbing into trucks. He wonders if they’re going where he’s going.
As usual he’s constantly checking his mirrors and keeping an eye on any car or motorcycle that gets close to him. He doesn’t think anyone’s been following him this morning but he can’t be sure. He operates under the assumption that all phone calls are being listened in on, all emails and text messages intercepted, all movements monitored when he leaves his apartment. For all Roberto knows, yesterday people were grinning and giggling as they watched his and Caroline’s passionate interaction on Skype. But no matter how careful he is, he can never be certain he hasn’t screwed up in some disastrous way. Unless he curls up in a corner of his apartment twenty-four hours a day and sucks on his thumb.
His cell rings and he’s hoping it’s Daniel but it’s only eager Iván, impatiently waiting for him in the lobby.
“Ten minutes, Iván. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
* * *
Osaka is the best Japanese restaurant in the city, and Roberto and his father have been eating here for years. They’re sitting at a table next to the front window. Sunlight angles in and lights up the colorful food: white and orange and green and yellow rolls of various kinds, pink ginger, green wasabi, dark-green seaweed, golden glasses of tamarind juice.
“Try the salmon roll, Roberto, it’s excellent,” his father says. He’s eating hungrily and smiling; he seems to have recovered his customary sunny equanimity.
“It is good,” Roberto says of the salmon roll.
“What time does your plane leave tomorrow?”
“Ten fifteen.”
“You fly through Caracas?”
“Yes.”
“You know, something you said Saturday night has stuck with me. You said you’re always doing the same stories over and over, like a cat chasing its tail. I think there’s no other way to look at this move except as a good thing. You can spread your wings, see the world. I’ve always thought this country was too small a stage for someone with your talent.”
Roberto doubts he’s ever had such a thought but all he says is “Thanks, Dad. I’m thinking about it the same way you are.”
He takes a drink of his tamarind juice; one thing he’s going to miss about his country, it has the most marvelous juices.
“I’m concerned about Grandmother,” he says. “When I saw her on Sunday, it was like she was in a fog. At one point she seemed to think I was you.”
His father sighs. “I’m afraid she’s slowly descending into dementia. She seems to be heading for exactly the kind of ending that I know she fears the most. But what am I supposed to do? Tell her I’m giving her a vitamin shot and instead give her a lethal injection? If an animal gets sick, you can put it out of its misery. But not a human being.”
Yoshio Fujita, the owner and chef of Osaka, comes to the table. He’s a slight man with a somber face and kind eyes.
“How is everything, doctor?” he asks.
“Splendid, Yoshio, as usual.”
A waiter following Yoshio places another plate of food down on the table.
“Please, with my compliments,” says Yoshio. “Very special whitefish.”
Roberto and his father thank him. His father is one of Yoshio’s favorite customers, and he’s always giving him things.
Horns are blowing out front, there’s a terrible traffic jam. Yoshio looks out at it, shaking his head.
“People should calm down,” he says. “Not be in such a big hurry.”
His father joins Yoshio in frowning at the street.
“I agree, Yoshio. What’s life for if not to enjoy it?”
“Japanese people,” Yoshio says. “Earthquake and tsunami was warning to them from God not to be so materialistic. I have a T-shirt twenty-nine-years old, why do I need new one?”
His father nods along. Wearing the perfectly cut gray suit he got three months ago in London.
“Businessmen come to me, they say, ‘Yoshio, why not open up Osaka restaurants in other cities? I’ll give you the money, we’ll all become rich, hundreds of Osakas all over world!’ But I have plenty of problems with only one Osaka, hundreds of Osakas will drive me crazy.”
His father laughs. “Just promise me you’ll keep this Osaka going, Yoshio, no matter the problems.”
Yoshio smiles. “I promise, doctor. Enjoy whitefish.” Now he bows a little and withdraws.
“Clara said she stopped by your apartment yesterday,” his father says.
Roberto is glad his mouth is full of food, so he doesn’t have to immediately respond. He wonders why she told him that. Probably to cover her tracks on the off chance she’d been observed by some nosy someone going to his apartment. She’s very smart that way.
“Yes,” he says, “it was good to see her. I’m going to miss her.”
“She’ll miss you too, Roberto, believe me. I think you have no idea how grateful she is to you. For your help with her book, and also for the way you treated her in the beginning. When everyone else was taking your mother’s side. But you gave her a chance. Which is all Clara ever needs.”
He is still starry-eyed in love with her. Roberto’s almost positive he’s been faithful to her, which is not necessarily in his nature. Thank god, Roberto thinks, that he didn’t sleep with her. This lunch would have been unbearable otherwise.
“I showed her some of the old photographs Mother gave me.” He feels the need to sketch in a few details about what he and Clara did in his apartment. “She seemed fascinated with them.”
“Yes, she mentioned that. Your uncle Adrián and his cat—she loved that story. You and I are lucky, Roberto, we’re members of a real family, we know where we came from, we have uncles and aunts and cousins and grandparents whose lives we can look back on with pride and sadness and amusement and love. Clara has none of that. She came from a place where they didn’t love their children and treat them like treasures, they abused and terrorized them. It’s a wonder Clara was able to escape from all that. I know she envies what you and I and . . . and your mother . . . have had.” He pensively fingers his glass of juice. “She wants us to have a child. What do you think of that?”
Roberto’s taken aback. Although having a child is an obvious possible consequence of marriage, for some reason it’s never occurred to him it might happen with his father and Clara.
“Do you want a child?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But maybe I’m too old. I’m worried I’d be more like a grandfather than a father.”
“Dad, you’re not too old. You should do it if that’s what you want.”
“You wouldn’t mind having a little brother or sister?”
“No, I think it would be cool.”
His father is quiet for a moment as he thinks it over—and it is on the tip of Roberto’s tongue to say something like this: “Any child would be unbelievably lucky to have you as his father. Just like I’ve been unbelievably lucky. Your love and approval have never been absent from my life for a second, I’ve always known your strength was never far away. Once when I was a shy little kid afraid of his own shadow, you told me I should walk like I belonged on the earth, not like an uninvited guest. I’ve never forgotten that, there are so many things you’ve taught me I have never forgotten.”
But Roberto is silent, and the moment passes.
“Have you called your mother?” his father asks. “Does she know your plans?”
“No, I thought I’d wait till I got to Saint Lucia. She’d just freak out if I told her now. She’d be calling me every hour to see if I was all right. You know how she is.”
“Oh yes.” He laughs. “I know quite well how she is.”
Roberto’s cellphone rings.
“I’m sorry, I need to answer this.” His f
ather nods, and Roberto says, “Hello.”
“You know a club called Blonde? In the Pink Zone?”
It’s Willie.
“Yes.”
“Can you meet someone there in an hour?”
“Yes.”
“Good-bye, Roberto. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
He walks into Blonde. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and it’s nearly empty. A young couple are sitting at a table, cozily talking over cocktails. A guy about Roberto’s age is sitting at the bar drinking a beer. Thinking the guy may be his contact, Roberto sits down on a stool near him. But he’s busy with his smartphone and doesn’t act like he’s waiting for anyone.
Behind the bar are larger than life pictures of tall blonde gringo girls wearing bikinis. An American rap song is pounding out of the sound system: Nasty girl, I want to do you all night long! Roberto came here with Caroline about a year ago because it was the hot new place and Caroline likes to check out such things. It was wall-to-wall people that night. They lasted barely twenty minutes before fighting their way to the exit and escaping.
The bartender, looking as though he could not be more bored, comes over and asks what Roberto wants.
“Get my friend a beer! A Brava!”
The guy next to Roberto is leaning toward him and grinning with his hand stuck out.
“Hello, Roberto,” he says, “I’m Javier.”
Roberto shakes hands with him.
“Good to meet you, Javier.”
“Hey man, it’s my pleasure. I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Thank you.”
Javier speaks the somewhat Italian-sounding Spanish of Argentina. Now he looks around the room with apparent admiration. “This is quite a place, huh?”
“Yeah. Have you been here before?”
“No, this is the first time. I’m meeting a friend here later, he suggested it.” He looks up at the frieze of blondes. “I’m in love with every one of those girls.”
The bartender sets Roberto’s beer down. Javier insists on paying for it.
“Thanks,” says Roberto. “Let’s grab a table.”