Marching Powder

by Rusty Young

  I ordered another bottle of the same wine to have with our main courses. We toasted to freedom and then set about eating our filet mignons. Jaime was already tipsy and when the waiter went to refill his glass, he covered it with his hand.

  ‘If you can’t drink any more, I’ll drink the rest myself,’ I teased him. He grabbed the bottle from the waiter and poured himself a glass, spilling some on the white tablecloth.

  These Bolivians love to get drunk, but they really can’t drink much, I thought. Perhaps I could get my escort paralytic and give him the slip?

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Thomas,’ I told myself. I couldn’t possibly. It wasn’t worth the risk. My lawyers had already paid the judge and I would be free within a few weeks. They had promised that I would be out by Christmas at the latest. The money I had could last a few months, and if I was allowed out on prison leave occasionally, there was no reason to be stupid and risk getting more charges laid against me, which could mean five more years in prison.

  With the next glass, we toasted the Republic of Bolivia and after that, Jaime wasn’t following the conversation at all. He stopped eating and his head rolled to the side slightly as though he was about to fall asleep. Every now and then he would sit upright suddenly, raise his glass to Bolivia, take a sip of wine and then drift off again. As I ate my steak, I watched him closely. This time, when thoughts of escaping came to me again, I didn’t stop them.

  It certainly wouldn’t be hard to trick him. He was already drunk. Another half a bottle of wine and he wouldn’t know what was happening. But where would I go? I had no passport and knew no one in the city, apart from the prisoners in San Pedro. True, the money I had in my wallet would last several days, if not weeks, in such a cheap country. I could hide in a shabby hotel somewhere and they would never find me. However, if I wanted to move anywhere, I would run into trouble. My photo would be in the paper the next day, so I would never get very far travelling by public transport. It would also be dangerous in a private car, because there are military and police checkpoints on every road and I had no ID to show. I knew people who sold fake Bolivian IDs, but that would take time. And even if I could find a way to travel around safely, which country would I go to and how would I survive there? How could I get back to England without a proper passport? Even if I did get back, who was to say that England wouldn’t send me straight back to Bolivia? It probably had an extradition treaty or something similar.

  I couldn’t do it, I decided. If I was going to make a break, it would have to be planned and timed perfectly, because if the police captured me, they would probably beat me to death. And if the guards didn’t kill me, the inmates certainly would, because if anyone escaped while on prison leave, the privilege would be taken away forever. So, it was a stupid idea. I only had to hold out a few more weeks. I took another big sip of wine and tried not to think about the fact that I was still a prisoner. I should just try to enjoy myself.

  For dessert I ordered tiramisu and when we had finished that, there was still half a bottle of wine left. Jaime shook his head when I offered him more. Although I was a bit drunk myself, I wasn’t going to waste expensive imported wine. Besides, there was plenty of time and I was in no hurry to leave. I carefully filled my glass to two-thirds and took my time enjoying each sip. Then I began to look around the restaurant again, taking in even the smallest details, as I did in airports. I had decided not to escape, but I still wanted to remember the look and location of every single object. There was a chance that it might be some time before I got the opportunity to be in a place like this again, but the memories would last me ages, if I created them properly.

  Neither of us said anything for a long time and I was lost in my own thoughts until the drinks waiter came over and poured the remaining wine.

  ‘Anything more?’ he asked.

  I shook my head, and five minutes later the head waiter presented me with the bill. The hotel guests had begun to drift into the restaurant for dinner and it seemed that they wanted us to leave. I drank the remaining wine, paid the cashier and we made our way shakily out of the restaurant, quite drunk. It was still light outside and far too early to go to a bar, but there was another thing I missed doing in prison: going to the movies.

  I was about to get in a taxi, but Jaime told me the cinemas were within walking distance. It was further than he made it sound but I was glad that we went on foot – just being free in the streets was a pleasure I hadn’t experienced in a long time. The thing I liked most was that no one really paid me any attention. The ‘Prisoner’ sign on my forehead had obviously disappeared completely, because most of the people on the street didn’t look at me twice. They seemed to be just doing their own thing. It may sound strange, but being completely ignored made me feel more like a normal member of society.

  When we reached the cinema strip, I thought the area looked familiar. Then I remembered that I had seen it from Colonel Lanza’s four-wheel drive on the way to his house. We were on the main road called the Prado, just up from the large roundabout intersection that marks the Plaza del Estudiante.

  I looked at all the posters and decided on an American action film that was about to start. There were two types of tickets you could buy, depending on whether you wanted to sit upstairs or downstairs. I couldn’t believe how cheap it was, even for the first-class galería tickets, but I understood why when we sat down and the movie started. It was impossible to get comfortable on the hard wooden seats, and the sound was so bad that I could hardly understand what was being said, even though it was supposed to be in English. The Bolivians obviously didn’t mind, since they were reading the subtitles.

  After a while I managed to get settled and gradually, with the alcohol still in my system, I got sucked into the plot. It wasn’t the most amazing movie I have ever seen, but I eventually became so absorbed in it that it didn’t matter. For two hours I was so completely taken in that when we came out of the cinema, I hardly recognised where we were. The street had completely changed. Darkness had fallen and the city was starting to come alive.

  There were so many more cars, honking and blocking up the roads. There were more people on the sidewalks: groups of young students wandering up and down the Prado and others gathered in small bunches in the strip that divides the traffic. To them, it was probably just an ordinary Saturday night – the girls were dressed up, everyone had started drinking and people were more relaxed – but to me, it was completely magical. It had been so long since I had felt the sense of anticipation that a Saturday night can evoke and a small wave of excitement came over me. I was going out on the town.

  I knew exactly which club I wanted to go to, but it didn’t start filling up until late. In the meantime, I didn’t know the best place to be. It wasn’t important, though, as long as I could have a drink and there were people to look at. The taxi driver took us back up towards the prison to a small bar called La Luna. The place was almost empty; the only people there were a few Argentinean artesanos, who tried to sell me handmade necklaces and some marijuana. However, the music was good, so I ordered a jug of beer and we sat at the bar. The bargirl kept playing a catchy song by Manu Chau that I had heard on the radio. I liked it because I could now recognise many of the words in Spanish and knew that they were singing something about Bolivia.

  ‘Boliviano clandestino. Mano negra ilegal.’

  We sat there drinking slowly until it was late enough to catch a taxi to Forum.

  There was a queue outside the gate and when it was our turn to go through, the two muscly bouncers looked Jaime up and down in disgust. It was obvious they didn’t like his cheap clothes. Forum was the number-one nightspot for foreigners and wealthy Bolivians. Anyone who was anyone in La Paz went there on Saturday night. Overseas DJs played the latest music, and the drinks were the same price as in Europe and America, if not higher. A nice cocktail could cost the same as the average weekly wage in Bolivia. Still, the women there were beautiful and all the clients had been to the United States and spoke English,
so I was determined to get in.

  I pleaded with the slightly friendlier-looking bouncer, telling him that I was a foreigner visiting Bolivia on business. I only had one weekend and had heard that this club was the best in the country. He shook his head. Then I asked him whether they accepted credit cards and let it slip that Jaime was actually my police bodyguard. Jaime played his part perfectly, too: he nodded that it was true and nervously flashed his police ID, all the while looking around to assess the security risk and consulting his new watch. Suddenly, the bouncer seemed more interested and started speaking quickly in Spanish. I was just about to ask him to repeat what he had said when I realised that he had an earphone and was talking into a small microphone pinned to his shirt. When he got a reply, his attitude changed completely.

  ‘Siga señor, por favor.’ He motioned for us go in and patted me on the back as I passed through. We didn’t even have to pay.

  At the end of the entrance passage, we came to two large, wooden doors, which were opened for us by an attendant. Almost immediately I was deafened by the electronic music and had to blink because of all the flashing lights overhead. Inside, the club was amazing. We were in a huge, open room that was split into two levels; the ground level had two bars with the dance floor in the centre and the upstairs section had a balcony that looked down over the dance floor. Both levels were packed with partygoers. Some danced salsa, while others jumped around to the European music. The clients in the exclusive upstairs section held on to the railing as they danced and watched everyone below. Around the dance floor small groups sat at tiny, black tables drinking rounds from bottles of imported alcohol, and along the outer walls there were more people seated in small booths.

  I stood there taking all this in until a waiter offered to lead us to a table, where he asked us what we would like to drink. I ordered two Heinekens and had to pay up front. He came back almost immediately with the beers and the change, which I said he could keep. I always give the best tip of the evening on the first round to get better service. I looked around the club again. The atmosphere was alive but the place was almost too full and, to be honest, I felt a little anxious at first. The lights and the music and the bare skin all seemed to dissolve into my mind. Pretty girls looked me up and down. Some of them smiled. I tried to smile back without giving too much away, but it had been a while since I had played these games and I couldn’t relax properly. I drank beer after beer and then switched to stronger drinks.

  Surprisingly, Jaime was almost keeping up with me one for one. Given the price of the drinks, I knew that my money wouldn’t last very long, so I went to the bathroom to have a line of the stuff I had brought from San Pedro. This time, my escort didn’t follow me. Over the course of the afternoon, we seemed to have established a friendship, or perhaps he was just too drunk to care. I was drunk too, so the effect of the coke was even stronger than usual. I immediately felt in control. In fact, as I strode out of the bathroom, I was no longer an officially imprisoned man. I was wide awake and ready to meet the world.

  A pretty girl dancing with her friend caught my eye. She was too beautiful for me, but I was high and feeling extremely confident so I called her over to where we were sitting. She whispered something to the friend, who shook her head and kept dancing, and the girl came on her own. Man, she was pretty, but she wasn’t Bolivian. That much was obvious. I was talking a lot and asking a lot of questions and we hit it off straight away. Her name was Yasheeda and it turned out that she was from Israel. She was in La Paz for a week travelling with a group of friends after completing her national military service. Within a few minutes she asked me if I knew where we could get some cocaine. She had heard that Bolivia had the best in the world but didn’t know where to get it. Her guidebook warned that it was too dangerous to buy it off the street, since the dealers often work with the police. ‘Wait here, then, I’ll see what I can do.’ I went to the bar, bought her a drink and when I came back, I handed her the small envelope under the table. ‘Wow! Thanks. That was quick! You’re amazing! I’ll be back in a minute.’

  When Yasheeda returned from the bathroom, she was smiling. ‘That stuff is strong!’ she whispered, hugging me and slipping the package into my hand. ‘Do you want another drink?’ I asked. ‘No way. I can’t sit still. I have to move.’ She grabbed my hand and we went out onto the dance floor together. I danced around her, and the shimmering lights above flowed into my eyes and I was drunk with life and with being alive and having blood in my veins and a beautiful girl in front of me. Man, she was pretty. And she seemed to like me, too.

  16

  YASHEEDA

  Yasheeda had a magnificent air of untouchability, as if she knew that everyone in the room wanted her but no one could have her. But I had to try. It was now or never. I moved in to dance closer to her and touch her body. She let me hold her closely every now and then, but whenever we were too close she looked away over my shoulder so there was no chance to kiss her.

  Maybe I have the wrong impression, I thought. Maybe she’s just a friendly sort of girl. Or maybe she just wanted some coke.

  I had to find out, though, so I pulled her in close and kissed her on the cheek. She laughed and broke away from me, twisting around the dance floor. She was still smiling at me, so when she came close again I kissed her lightly on the lips but this time she stopped dancing and went back to the table without saying a word.

  At first I thought I had offended her but she waved to me to come over and I sat down next to her. ‘Do you want another line?’ I put my hand on her knee.

  ‘You’re not trying to seduce me, are you? It won’t work,’ she said provocatively.

  ‘Not at all. I thought you were trying to seduce me. Would you like another line?’ I asked again. She liked this play; the only way to approach confident girls is with confidence.

  ‘I don’t know if I should. I don’t want to do anything I might regret,’ she said, grabbing my hand again and dragging me towards the bathrooms.

  ‘I promise you, you won’t regret a thing,’ I whispered in her ear.

  I had forgotten the excitement of these chases; saying one thing and meaning another; with everything working on touch and smell and some innate sense; the knowledge that every move is critical but not wanting to think about it too much – in case you got it wrong; the sense that there was nothing more important in the world than this moment and being able to touch this other person. This girl who was striding in front of me to the bathroom like a proud and playful kitten.

  We both went into the men’s toilets and quickly shut the cubicle door. There were four guys in the bathroom, but they didn’t say anything. They hardly even looked up – this sort of thing was normal in South American nightclubs. Occasionally, the police did raids on places, but usually there was a tip-off beforehand so that the management could clear the bathrooms. I made two lines of unequal size and quickly sniffed the smaller one. I handed Yasheeda the rolled-up note, hoping she hadn’t seen what I had done. There was hardly enough space for two people standing in the cubicle and it was almost impossible for our bodies not to be touching. As she leaned forward to take her line, I rested my hand on the exposed part of her back and shoulders and stroked her skin gently. When she stood back up, with the note still in hand, her face had changed.

  Something about the excitement of the confined space, the danger of the situation and maybe the drug had transformed her expression so that I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I never expected that she would, at that moment, come for me, pressing herself against me and seeking out my mouth with hers. I leaned back against the cubicle wall as the cocaine rush shot through the floating drunkenness and I felt like I was somewhere out of my body watching the whole situation as she kissed me. Then someone banged on the door, telling us to hurry up.

  We returned to the bar and Yasheeda went straight over to her friend, who had stopped dancing and was now sitting at a table on her own, looking extremely bored.

  ‘This is Sharon.’ Yashee
da introduced us and we shook hands, but it seemed the friend was angry and wanted to leave. It was already past three o’clock, so Jaime and I should have been leaving too, but I didn’t care. I would deal with the major later. I felt really close to Yasheeda and wanted to be with her, but the night looked like it would come to a sudden end unless I could entertain her friend somehow.

  I went to the bar where Jaime was slumped over on a stool and bought Sharon a cocktail. I was down to my last bolivianos, but hopefully it would keep her happy and give me more time with Yasheeda. I also dragged Jaime back to the table, hoping that he could keep her friend occupied. There was little chance of that, though, since Sharon spoke only the most basic Spanish and my escort was so drunk that he could hardly focus. He needed to wake up, so I offered him the envelope of coke but he suddenly became nervous and refused to take it. ‘No consumo. Nunca consumo.’

  I knew this was all an act, though – hardly anyone in Bolivia ever admits to taking drugs, but a lot of people do it behind closed doors. How could you not take cocaine in a country where a gram is cheaper than a beer? Jaime eventually accepted the packet, saying it wasn’t for him but for a friend he knew who took it, and went off to the bathroom. After that, he became more talkative and Yasheeda’s friend played along politely, even though she was clearly bored by the standard list of questions he asked: ‘Where are you from? You are very beautiful. Do you have a boyfriend?’ She was rolling her eyes but he continued, oblivious. ‘You are very pretty. What language do you speak in your country? Do you like La Paz?’

  The nightclub was closing at four o’clock and I knew I had to go back to prison. There was nothing I could do about it, so I kissed Yasheeda again, though not as wildly as before. We stared into each other’s eyes and I was so riveted by her that I only wished I could go somewhere private to spend more time with her.