Marching Powder

by Rusty Young

  ‘I told you,’ she put her hand on my knee and kissed my cheek again. She knew.

  The strongest part of the effect began wearing off after half an hour. I was still high, but I wanted more. I had two more puntitos when the bag came around again, which brought me back up, although not like the first time. A third set kept me high, but after that it reached a plateau.

  When I did more after that, my leg started shaking and I couldn’t stop it. My nose also started sweating and I could feel my heart racing.

  ‘That’s just nerves,’ Ricardo said to me in English when he saw me observing my knees as if they weren’t part of my own body. ‘It’s perfectly normal. Have some more rum if you feel nervous.’

  ‘No, I feel great. Thanks for this. It’s amazing.’

  ‘What did you expect, my friend? That’s San Pedro vintage you’re trying there.’

  ‘Well, then. I think maybe I should get thrown in prison more often.’

  Ricardo laughed. ‘But remember it’s your first time, inglés, so take it easy. You really don’t need too much coke if it’s pure.’

  It was probably good advice, but I didn’t follow it. I didn’t want to take it easy. I wanted more cocaine and more to drink with it. Everyone did. We partied until ten o’clock the next day. The Bolivians had been right: it definitely was the longest night of the year.

  11

  JACK

  The first night I tried coke was also the first night I met Jack the Mexican. This, I later discovered, was no coincidence. Jack had a nose custom-built for cocaine: for sniffing it out, then sniffing it up. As soon as anyone opened a bag of it in the prison, he would magically appear.

  On this occasion, he had actually been invited, although he turned up late. The celebrations were already well under way when he sat down beside me. At first, I was a little afraid of him; although he was skinny, he was also very tall – about six foot three – and even sitting down at the table, he towered over me. It was night time, but he was wearing a huge pair of sunglasses so that you couldn’t see his eyes and he was talking at me in Spanish at a hundred miles an hour. He kept leaning towards me so suddenly that several times I thought he was going to hit me.

  ‘¿Habla inglés?’ I asked very cautiously, when he finally paused for breath.

  ‘Of course. Why didn’t you say before?’

  But even when he switched to speaking English, I couldn’t understand much because his massive nose was blocked and the way he spoke sounded like a trumpet. I still thought he was going to hit me.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. Although Jack looked dangerous when you first met him, he was as soft as they come. People assumed that he was tough because of his height, but deep down, he was extremely shy and anyone could push him around, even tiny guys, and he never fought back. In fact, he was embarrassed about being so tall because it made him stand out and, he thought, made him easier to pick on. Once, when he got sent to the punishment section of the prison, known as La Muralla, Jack was beaten up by a skinny Bolivian prisoner and forced to hand over all his warm clothes. Afterwards he was too embarrassed to ask any of his friends to help get them back.

  The talking thing was a front also. If you met Jack when he was partying, you would think he was the funniest guy in the world with loads of self-confidence, because he had hundreds of stories to tell and he only ever stopped talking to smoke his pipe or take cocaine. But when he wasn’t on drugs, it was hard to get so much as a word out of him.

  Jack took some getting used to, but when you knew him well, he was like a big puppy dog that needed lots of affection; once you had won him over, you could make him run around in circles and chase his tail, or fetch an imaginary stick you hadn’t actually thrown. He became one of my best friends in San Pedro, but I was forever playing with him and tricking him into doing things he didn’t want to do.

  One time, about a year after I arrived at San Pedro, Jack came to my room crying. It was about nine in the morning and I could tell that he was coming down badly.

  ‘Do you mind if I come in? I need to talk to someone.’

  ‘Of course. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m fucked up, Thomas. That’s what wrong. I’m totally screwed in the head.’

  Jack wasn’t suited to prison life at all; he wasn’t tough enough. He came from a wealthy family and I don’t think he had worked a day in his life. He certainly never lifted a finger in San Pedro. His cell was always a mess, because there was no one to tidy it for him. He started complaining that no one in the prison liked him. In fact, that no one had ever liked him his whole life. Not even his own father. He began telling me in detail about his family problems, which were mainly to do with his father, a tough businessman who had made it from nothing and was disappointed that his son hadn’t turned out the same.

  ‘You’re a failure, son. Look at you. You can’t even deal drugs properly,’ the father had remarked on his first, and only, visit to San Pedro. After that, he pretended he no longer had a son and Jack’s mother had to send him money secretly.

  ‘But I like you,’ I said.

  Jack looked up at me suspiciously, ‘You do? Really? You’re not just saying that because I’m crying?’

  ‘Hey. I didn’t even know you were crying,’ I lied. ‘How can I see anything when you wear those stupid sunglasses all the time.’ I pretended to be angry with him and it worked. He took his glasses off slowly and looked at me, embarrassed. It was the first time I had ever seen his eyes. The whites were all bloodshot, but the irises were a beautiful green and his tears made them look translucent.

  ‘Hey. You’ve got nice eyes.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘They’re not contact lenses, are they?’

  ‘No.’ Jack sat up straighter in his chair and lifted his head. ‘They’re natural.’

  ‘Well, you should take those glasses off more often, then. You might get a girlfriend.’

  ‘You think so?’ I could tell that he was already starting to cheer up.

  ‘Sure. All the Bolivian men have brown eyes. You’ll look like an exotic foreigner to the women with those green contacts.’

  ‘But they’re not contacts. I already told you. You don’t listen, Thomas.’

  ‘Prove it. Take them out and show me.’

  Jack’s hands made a movement towards his eyes and then stopped. ‘I can’t. How can I if they’re real?’

  ‘No. I saw you move. You were about to take them out.’

  ‘I promise you, they’re real.’

  I nodded. ‘Uh huh. Yeah. Real contacts.’ Poor Jack. He was like a kid. It was never hard to trick him. Sometimes I felt bad doing it to him – he was vulnerable and it was almost too easy – but it was always very funny, so I couldn’t help myself. ‘That’s OK. Don’t be embarrassed. They still look good on you.’

  ‘No. They’re my real eyes, Thomas. That’s their natural colour, I promise you.’ He started getting really frustrated.

  ‘A promise isn’t good enough. You expect me to believe that a Mexican can have green eyes? How are you going to prove it?’

  Jack thought about this for quite a while. ‘I can’t. It’s impossible.’ He looked down sadly. ‘The girls will never believe me either. I can’t exactly take my eyeballs out.’ Then, suddenly, he had an idea. ‘Wait! Yes. I can prove it. I’ve got photos from when I was younger.’ And with that, he bounded out of my room to find his photo album.

  ‘That won’t prove a thing,’ I called after him, just to keep him confused. ‘You could easily have had contacts since you were a kid.’

  Jack was like that; one minute coming down and crying, the next minute running around completely absorbed in something different. He would probably puzzle over that problem for the rest of the day, but at least he’d forgotten how sad he had been feeling.

  Jack’s main problem was that he smoked base, which made him paranoid. There was only one other inmate in Alamos who smoked more base than Jack: an inmate who went by the name of C�
�mara Lenta. I didn’t know his proper name, because almost no one in San Pedro was known by his correct name. The foreigners were always referred to by their nationalities; I was always inglés, Jack was called méjico. The Bolivians usually had nicknames based on the town they came from. This meant you could see someone every day for several years and only realise when he’d left prison that there was little chance you would ever meet him again. What were the chances of tracking down someone named Cochabamba in the city of Cochabamba, population one million?

  Cámara Lenta’s nickname meant ‘slow motion’. He lived on the ground floor in my section, but I only saw him twice during my whole time at San Pedro. The reason for this was that he smoked so much base he had become too afraid to leave his room.

  It was rumoured that several ghosts flew about our section at night, although I had never seen any. There was also a surprising correlation between those inmates who claimed to have seen the ghosts and those who smoked loads of base. Because of these ghosts, inmates like Jack and Cámara Lenta rarely emerged from their rooms after dark, except in an absolute emergency, or in Jack’s case if there was free coke on offer. Jack had an ensuite bathroom, one of only two in Alamos, so he rarely needed to go out. Cámara Lenta wasn’t so fortunate; although he kept buckets in his cell to piss in, he had to leave his room in order to empty them from time to time.

  On my way downstairs one evening, I encountered Cámara Lenta several metres from the bathroom door. He was hunched over with his head forward and back arched, carrying his two urine buckets, one in each hand. I assumed that he was resting, since he didn’t appear to be moving. I went into the bathroom and came out five minutes later to find him in exactly the same position. He appeared to have progressed only a few steps closer to the bathroom.

  I yelled out, ‘Hey there! Are you OK? Hey, hombre.’ There was no reaction. ‘Do you need any help?’ Still he didn’t move. I clapped my hands, thinking he might have been a bit deaf.

  Finally, there was a gradual, although delayed, reaction. Very slowly and precisely, Camára Lenta moved his eyes towards me. Then he cautiously twisted his head in my direction. All the while his body remained motionless and his expression remained unchanged. Using a series of eye movements up towards the ceiling, around the corridors and in the direction of the stairs, he indicated that it wasn’t safe to talk here, or to make any sudden movement, in case the ghosts saw you. If you wanted to survive in this prison, you had to creep around everywhere in slow motion.

  12

  THE GOVERNOR

  My lawyers made contact with the judge. Unfortunately, he had said the case would definitely have to go to trial, but for ten thousand dollars I could be found innocent. I agreed to pay the money, although it would take a few weeks to get that amount together. My lawyers said that would be acceptable and they issued me with another bill. They promised to have me out by Christmas.

  With the frequent visits from my lawyers, my new room, my new friends, a new stereo system and these small parties we were having, everyone knew that I now had money. And no one was shy about asking me for a loan. Other inmates asked to borrow ten bolivianos here and there, and the police were always asking for a colaboración for their wives, who were sick in hospital, or for their children, who couldn’t afford school books. None of the money was ever for them personally. I don’t know whether that meant the payments were technically not bribes or whether they thought it made them seem like nicer people. The amounts weren’t large, but they asked every time I saw them. I didn’t feel that I could refuse them until Ricardo gave me an invaluable piece of advice: ‘Don’t waste time with these small guys. You’ve got to control the head and the tail will follow automatically.’

  I had to get the boss of the whole prison – the governor – on side. I did that, and more; we actually became good friends. Every now and then he would call me to his office to practise his English. He spoke with a terrible accent but he had mastered one expression, which he repeated to me every time we met: ‘Life is expensive.’

  I couldn’t disagree. Everything cost money and life was expensive, especially for those around the governor. Whenever I visited, I would take him money to help out with various expenses: the petrol for his wife’s car, the household electricity bill and school uniforms for his children.

  The governor required a higher bribe than the other officers, but because it wasn’t every day, it was far cheaper in the end. In return, I was given certain privileges: I could do whatever I wanted, and if ever I got in trouble with the lower-ranking police or needed something, I could call the governor in his office or visit him in the administration block on very short notice.

  It was during one of these initial visits that the governor suggested I help other inmates to learn English. There was already an education program in place, but it didn’t work efficiently because the teachers, who came from outside, went on strike when they weren’t paid.

  ‘They are too expensive,’ the governor told me confidentially.

  That’s how I got my very first job at San Pedro. Well, it wasn’t a proper job because I didn’t get paid, but it was something to occupy my time. It also made me feel good to do something positive for the other inmates. The classes were slow because it was the first time I had ever taught anything and my Spanish was very basic, but I had a lot of fun explaining everything with gestures and by drawing pictures on the blackboard. I also took some Spanish and Chemistry classes, managing to come first in some of the tests.

  The close friendship I had with the governor created a lot of jealousy among the other inmates. Anyone who had money could bribe the governor, but not everyone could go and visit him or call him whenever they wanted. I didn’t mind the jealousy, though. With such a powerful ally, I was now fully protected; the prisoners steered clear of me and the guards also left me alone. What I never expected was that, many months later, the governor would come to rely on me for more than money and friendship.

  By the time the following incident occurred, I was well established in the prison, but I still rarely left my cell at night. That was when all the borrachos and serious base-smokers really let loose, looking for fights and stirring up trouble.

  This particular night I had just finished smoking a joint and was turning the light off to watch television when there was a knock at my door. I was too stoned to answer it, so I turned the sound off using the remote control and kept perfectly still. Whoever it was knocked again.

  Everyone in the section knew my rule: I never opened the door unless the visitor announced his name, so I guessed it would probably be Jack, or someone like him who couldn’t sleep, trying to trick me into letting him in. But if it was Jack, there was no way I was opening that door because then I might be tempted to take some coke. He always did that to me, right when I wanted to go to bed.

  ‘Just one line, Thomas,’ he would insist. ‘Then I’ll let you rest.’ And he never went away until I agreed. But my time in San Pedro prison had taught me that there is no such thing as just one line of cocaine if you can get your hands on more. And the last thing I needed that night was him keeping me up until dawn again.

  However, when there was another round of more insistent knocking, I realised it wasn’t Jack. It was way too loud. Jack would always knock really fast like there was a major emergency, but also extremely softly because he was paranoid about anyone knowing he was there. Sometimes he knocked so quietly that even I couldn’t hear him and then he would get angry when he had to wait for ten paranoid minutes, tapping the door lightly with his fingers, until I realised there was someone there.

  But if it wasn’t Jack, who was it? Whoever it was knew that I was there and definitely wasn’t going away.

  ‘Who is it?’ I finally called out from my bed.

  ‘It’s me,’ replied a female voice.

  ‘And me, too,’ came another female voice.

  That could only mean trouble. The section gates had been locked, which meant that my visitors had to be wives from the s
ection. The only reason the wives visited other prisoners without their husbands was if they were having problems at home. The fact that there wasn’t one but two women at my door meant that it was probably even bigger trouble. I didn’t like it at all.

  ‘Who?’ I demanded again and got the same response, although this time I thought I heard laughter. It certainly didn’t sound like they were upset. ‘Yes, but what are your names?’

  ‘Marcela …’

  ‘And Maria-Teresa,’ they giggled. I didn’t know them, and my first thought was that someone was playing a trick on me.

  Putting the packet of ganja in my pocket, I opened the door to be confronted by two young, attractive Bolivian women I had never seen before. The taller one was wearing red lipstick, a thick pullover of the same colour and chunky, gold-coloured earrings. The shorter one, who wore less makeup, was far prettier. She had on a full-length overcoat and I knew there was something hidden underneath because only one of her hands was showing through the sleeves.

  ‘Hola, Thomas. ¿Cómo estás?’ they chanted in unison. I could have sworn I didn’t know them, but they were acting as though we were old friends. They both kissed me on the cheek and brushed passed me into my room without being asked. They didn’t even bother looking around; they just sat down at the table as if they had been there many times before. I looked at them more closely. Maybe I was too stoned, but I was sure I hadn’t met them before. I didn’t know what to say, though, just in case I had.

  ‘We brought you a little present, didn’t we, Maria?’ said Marcela, the taller one, producing a bottle of whisky from beneath her overcoat. Maria-Teresa took the bottle and held it up to me and pouted like a little girl.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to get some glasses for us?’ she asked, pretending to be upset. I went into the kitchen and did as I was told, all the while trying to work out what was going on.