Breakfast in Bogota

by Helen Young

  ‘Smashed through.’

  ‘I prefer to think of it as it was.’

  ‘And I’ve just reminded you otherwise.’ Camilo leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Outside, it had just started to rain again. He hoped the men would find the doctor. He wanted the foreman to live. His death would be so meaningless, but when had death ever been anything else? Luke watched the workmen climb down from their scaffolds and drag rough covers over the timbers at ground level.

  ‘You know what’s funny?’ Luke said. ‘I find the climate reminds me of home.’

  Camilo followed the direction of his gaze. ‘And the houses too, no doubt.’

  5

  When Camilo left his office, promising to return the next day, Luke had shaken his hand. Once to thank him for saving the foreman’s life and again to get a feel for the man. Camilo had appeared at the right time. He wasn’t altogether unlikable, as previous newsmen he’d run into were. It felt good to be reminded of his earlier projects. If he could keep things light, give the journalist what he wanted, glory in a little of what had been, they’d both come out of it unscathed. Yes, he could do all that, he thought.

  ‘It’s tonight you’re at the Hotel Granada and there’s still dirt under your nails,’ said Telma.

  ‘Tonight?’ He hadn’t heard her come in.

  ‘The Chairman’s Dinner?’

  On top of everything he’d forgotten all about it.

  ‘What did you think of him, Telma?’

  ‘The boy?’

  ‘Camilo, yes.’

  ‘Cachaco.’ She tidied the desk. ‘You know, in the way he talks.’

  ‘He sounds like you.’

  ‘Of course not.’ She lifted the tray. Cachaco was a word they used in Bogotá to describe a fancy, formal, old-fashioned way of speaking; of being.

  ‘He’s coming again tomorrow,’ Luke said, rising. He considered the pile of post. He really should take a look before he left.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Telma. ‘There isn’t a draughtsman in there you’ll like anyway.’

  *

  That evening, Luke left his apartment with ample time to reach the Granada. There was something he had to do before the dinner.

  He made it to La Casa de la Risa as the old man was drawing down the shutter. As he ran across the square, ignoring the pain in his leg, he noticed that the smashed-up streetcar had gone. The cantina owner looked surprised to see him. He remembers me, Luke thought with some hope. But now that he was in front of him, the Spanish word for lost had completely slipped his mind. Perder meant to lose the game, didn’t it? What about an object? What kind of loss was that?

  ‘Fotografía?’ he asked, pointing to the black interior of the bar.

  The old man ignored him and went back to the shutter.

  ‘Señor, por favor,’ Luke said, putting a hand out to stop him. ‘You know me.’

  The man shook himself free.

  ‘The photograph of the girl,’ he tried in English. ‘Please.’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘I was here, just yesterday?’ Luke pointed to where the streetcar had been.

  ‘Somewhere else, perhaps,’ the man said, looking across the square to this other place both of them knew did not exist.

  ‘Look,’ Luke said, but he didn’t know how else to continue; what else he could say? It was obvious he wasn’t communicating properly. ‘Look here,’ he said again, taking out his wallet.

  ‘Oh, oh!’ the man said, grinning. ‘The dead boy.’ His mouth held barely any teeth.

  ‘That’s right, I was here then. I comforted your daughter.’

  ‘My daughter? Yes.’ He laughed again. ‘Let’s see.’ He reached inside the front pocket of his apron and brought out a small wedge of papers, receipts, bills mostly. From the pile he drew out a blank sheet and pinched it open. It was the photograph. ‘Pretty girl, this,’ he said, turning the image of Catherine in the air. His other hand came to rest palm-up before Luke.

  Luke handed over a fistful of notes. Any notes, he hadn’t seen and didn’t care.

  ‘Bye-bye, beautiful,’ the man said, passing him the image.

  It was her. The photograph was limp. Hot even, where it had sat close to the old man’s body, and there was a deep crease across Catherine’s face. He tried to ignore this and studied the contents of the scene instead, as though the position of the sitter might have changed. The cove and the rock were still there, and the tide flowing in just so, so that the next wave would catch at her ankles and she’d run into his open arms at any minute. But his eyes were drawn back to the crease. It made it impossible to tell who the sitter was now, unless you already knew, unless you had been there.

  Luke looked up. The old man was just standing there, waiting for something else. Luke remembered the jacket he’d also left in the cantina. Yes, the man wanted a second note in exchange for that – but he’d only come for the photograph, hadn’t he, and that was ruined. He looked at the man but didn’t speak. Let him understand that I’m not going to pay him anything else, Luke thought. How long had she sat there, so close to his body? He could take a few more of those teeth, but the idea of it was more delicious than the act itself. Nothing violent could really be said to have happened. Not now. Not to anyone. Only to an image of what had been.

  ‘Gracias, señor,’ he said and walked away.

  Luke limped the four blocks from Plaza de Bolívar to Santander Park and the Hotel Granada. Furious at himself for giving in to her again, he forced himself onwards with increasing speed. It was true that Catherine was his again but he did have to get back to the living. He should get back to them. He was sweating by the time he reached the corner of the park.

  You couldn’t miss the Granada. It took up a whole street junction, laid out in a frothy Victorian style he was done with. It was so unashamedly European and so different to everything around it. Walking, he’d passed many low terracotta-roofed dwellings that were much friendlier-looking, much warmer. He passed alongside the tree-lined park in front of the hotel, emptied and pleasant at this time of day. He didn’t think anything of the group of young men chatting amongst themselves against its railings until a few of them ran to catch him up.

  ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want it,’ he said, walking faster.

  One of the men stepped in front of him.

  ‘What?’ he asked, turning to find the rest of the group behind him. ‘Don’t try me.’

  ‘Lotería?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Buy a ticket,’ the man said, pulling out a roll of paper from somewhere inside of his jacket. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, fumbling about inside his trouser pocket for coins. He pulled out a centavo. ‘Uno billete, then.’

  ‘No change,’ the man replied. ‘That buys you a sheet.’ He pocketed the coin and tore off a strip.

  ‘Gracias,’ Luke said, taking it. He didn’t want the tickets but knew he had to have them. There had to be an exchange. This wasn’t robbery. ‘All right then, we done?’

  The smallest of the group whistled through his teeth for them to move on. The roll was put away and Luke’s path cleared. He walked on, clutching the strip of four he’d just bought. When he reached the safety of the Granada he looked back, but the group had abandoned the park. The doorman was grinning at him.

  ‘Just take them,’ Luke said, handing him the strip.

  *

  The main salon of the Hotel Granada was filled with executive types. He’d expected that and tried to calm his mood. The shift from the outside, the local city, to this one of privilege was disarming. At the height of his career, his had been the face everyone expected to see. One year, there had been a whole season of parties, of dinners, of girls that he’d thought he’d enjoy again here. But no, he wasn’t enjoying it. He couldn’t.

  Deeper inside the space, he could hear the orchestra tuning up. He had been to the hotel before and knew some of the Anglo-Colombian Oil executives by face but not by name. They bored him. The men
had one foot in the past, talking only of the first war. Most of them had been hiding out here then. Karl had told him that. A few of the men looked up from their drinks in recognition. ‘Cowards,’ he said, smiling back.

  ‘Vosey!’

  Karl Draper arrived at his side in a fug of cigar smoke.

  ‘Mr Draper, I’m late, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nonsense, I know your game. Too busy with all those pretty girls over in Las Cruces, hey?’

  ‘There was an accident.’

  ‘I’ve got a good doctor.’ Karl reached up and touched his sleeve. ‘Discreet.’

  ‘With the foreman, on site.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about work, Vosey.’ Karl threw him off and collared a passing waiter. ‘Get this man a drink. Whisky, I’d say.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ The man bowed his head and made as if to disappear.

  ‘Isn’t there anything else?’

  Karl raised his eyebrows. ‘You won’t get a beer, Vosey. Not unless you know a good working man’s club.’

  ‘Whisky’s fine.’

  ‘Remember, Vosey, the Americans are here and they want to meet the man responsible for this little building project of ours.’

  ‘Then I look forward to it.’

  The waiter returned and Luke took a glass. The foreman would live, he’d learned, but would be bedridden for weeks. Camilo Osorio, on the other hand, was returning tomorrow. He was looking forward to their next exchange. Luke lifted the drink to his lips. The liquid burned his throat but there was a kind of clarity after the searing. He’d always looked for that.

  ‘Now,’ said Karl. ‘See that man there?’

  Luke followed his gaze to a tall, immaculately dressed man, smoking alone beside the windows that overlooked the park.

  ‘That’s Gabriel Osorio, he works for the foreign ministry.’

  ‘Osorio?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’ said Luke, letting the coincidence pass.

  ‘Well, he’s got his fingers in enough American pies to feed the country twice over. He’s heading up the Pan-American delegation next year. What’s more,’ Karl whispered, ‘he’s shown a special interest in the project. Probably some work in it for you after all this. There’s more of this shithole needs pulling down and he knows it. Come and see me tomorrow.’

  ‘And what’s in it for you, Karl?’

  Karl’s eyes narrowed. ‘Bold, Luke. I like that. Osorio won’t, though.’

  *

  At dinner, Luke was seated next to Karl’s wife and a senior member of the board; a man who spoke too quietly to be heard. The chairman was two or three tables over with Gabriel Osorio, conspiring above the smoke from his cigar along with the other executives. Luke looked past them. He wanted another drink.

  ‘You won’t get him that way,’ Mrs Draper said, clicking her fingers sharply above the music. A young waiter came over.

  ‘Mine’s a French 75,’ she said. ‘You know that one?’

  ‘Yes, madam, and you?’ he asked, facing Luke. The boy looked tired.

  ‘Another whisky, please.’

  The waiter left and Luke watched as the remaining guests went to their seats. A waltz was begun so they might have something to listen to while they ate, he thought, amused at the idea. Dinner was French; fresh lake-caught trout smothered in brown butter followed by calf’s liver with parsley. Luke asked for water while the waiter kept up a vigil beside Mrs Draper’s wine glass.

  ‘You’re a quiet man,’ Mrs Draper said, leaning across Luke to his neighbour. ‘I like quiet men.’

  ‘Mrs Draper,’ Luke said, smiling and removing her hand from his lap where it had fallen, ‘how long did you say you’ve been in the country? I can’t remember what you told me the last time we dined together.’

  ‘You men never listen!’ she giggled. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I told you. I come and go.’

  ‘I think that’s what you said then.’ Luke smiled. You couldn’t let your guard down around a woman like Mrs Draper, but she wasn’t the worst of them.

  ‘I come and go at his bidding,’ she said, pointing at Karl across the room. ‘And are you settled now, Mr Vosey?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘When we first met you had a wonderfully expectant look about you.’ She leaned in closer. ‘Like a young buck hunting for something, or someone.’ She smiled.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh yes, it amused me greatly, but that’s gone now. You’re as tired as the rest of us. Too many late nights spent with my Karl, hey?’

  ‘That must be it,’ Luke said, trying to get the waiter’s attention.

  It was after the main course that both seats beside him became free and he felt momentarily unshackled from responsibility. Luke leaned back and closed his eyes. The orchestra played on. Around him the room felt generally satiated, chatting above the gentle rhythm. It suited the mood lent him by the alcohol and his thoughts turned to Rocío then. Did anyone take her out, he wondered. Perhaps when he got free of this, he would. She really deserved better than what she got.

  ‘Has she bored you to death yet?’

  Luke opened his eyes and sat up. It was the tall man from the foreign ministry.

  ‘Señor Draper’s wife, I mean,’ he said, sitting down beside him.

  ‘The answer might cost me my job,’ Luke replied.

  ‘Gabriel Osorio,’ he said, holding out a packet of cigarettes. ‘And you’re the architect.’ Luke nodded and took one. ‘My friends call me El Lobo.’

  ‘The wolf?’ Luke asked, leaning in.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled, lighting both cigarettes. ‘And Vosey, that’s French.’

  ‘English.’

  ‘It’s a good name for an architect. Le Corbusier is French.’

  ‘French-Swiss I believe.’

  ‘Detail,’ said Gabriel, waving cigarette smoke between them.

  ‘Is Osorio a common name?’

  ‘Common?’

  ‘I know another Osorio, that’s all,’ Luke said. ‘Camilo, a newspaperman.’

  ‘My brother’s boy,’ he nodded, blowing fresh smoke. ‘A mere pup.’

  The orchestra stopped playing. Both men turned to watch. A clarinettist came on and blew a simple tune that was soon picked up by a man on maracas and percussion at his back. Unlike the food, the cocktails and the waltzing, it was familiar. Not to Luke, but to this place. Wasn’t it called cumbia? It was the music he’d been listening to on the wireless. The music by Burmúdez or some other orchestra that was popular with the men on site. They whistled the tunes while they worked. He smiled, watching the few European couples who had been waltzing stop and try to change tack. None of them could.

  ‘You see,’ said Gabriel, rising and not taking his eyes from the clarinet player, ‘we’re pleased you’re building the little English village.’ He placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder. ‘Unlike this, it shows progress.’

  6

  The next morning, Luke was bleary-eyed. He could still taste the alchemy of Mrs Draper’s lipstick mixed in with the cocktails. She’d insisted on kissing him goodnight, full on the lips, just as her husband rounded the corner of the lobby. There, Karl had met Luke’s apologetic stare with an encouraging smile.

  Luke dressed slowly in front of the open window of his bedroom, taking large gulps of mountain air. He’d expected to feel more breathless as soon as he’d arrived in the city. In the boardroom on the Strand, Karl had said the altitude could make even a brisk walk feel like a marathon. Was he a marathon runner? He wasn’t, he’d assured Karl then, laughing at the idea. Only after a night of drinking did he feel the effects of the altitude on his breathing. It had been the same that time before, when Luke had just arrived and Karl had taken him straight from the airport to his club.

  Today, Camilo Osorio was due back for his interview. Karl was coming too, to talk about some commission tied to the Pan-American Conference next year. There was also the project to sign off on before the weekend. It was progressing but as a child might,
in constant need of nurturing. He was optimistic about the draughtsman vacancy – there was bound to be someone in need of work; he just hadn’t found him yet. He’d get that organised today as well. He needed them to start on the designs for the fireplaces and fittings. There were at least a hundred fireplaces to be drawn up and committed to wood by local craftsmen. He had no idea of timescales for that. It was worrying to think that the internal work might go on indefinitely. Camilo’s interview and Karl’s commission were ways forward, he thought, but the idea that part of the building work might be held up threatened to change that. Nobody knew where that fool Palacio had run off to. Luke swung the end of his tie into place and drew the silk towards his throat. He was reminded of Rocío’s hands doing the same last night but in reverse, or was it this morning? He’d gone to her in the end. She was becoming a habit.

  He left the apartment and headed down Seventh Avenue, which still laid claim to a few grand colonial houses. Once their sprawl of rooms and balconies had suited them, sitting very much outside of the city, but now, as they were slowly consumed by its girth, they looked out of place. He liked seeing what had been there before set against what was now. They reminded him of Spain, of the rural haciendas there. It gave him a strange feeling of home, even though he’d only spent weekends outside of Madrid when he’d worked there. Perhaps it was the friends he’d made and the skins of wine they’d drunk together? Nevertheless, it was a good memory to have held onto. Luke left them behind and passed through the national park. It was beautifully landscaped but in a juvenile state, having only been planted out some ten years previously. At its heart was a four-sided clock which told a quarter past nine from each face. Ahead of him, through the fronds of young palms, he could make out the building works of La Merced leaning towards the side of the mountain. There was his contribution. In the early Andean light, he almost thought he could see its terracotta rooftiles glisten, like some sacred site within a city he was still eager to know. He’d always been aware of the gradient of the streets he worked on, although from this perspective he could see just how much they were building upwards, claiming the lower steps of the incline for the city. It meant everything had to be stabilised, calculated with mathematical precision, should any of the foundations choose to lean too far into the mountain, or worse still, away from it.