by Helen Young
‘As you’ve seen, my secretary’s in charge and she’s gone for the day.’ Luke rose. He took the key to his office from the drawer. ‘Let’s go.’
*
‘I thought I was asking the questions.’ Camilo pushed his bowl aside and sat back. The cantina was hot and busy. Luke lowered his spoon. Camilo had taken him somewhere new, although it was an old place, by the looks of the patched-together interior. They’d left the building works on foot and headed down Seventh Avenue and into the city, past the solid stone prison scheduled to become the national museum, the bullring that dominated one corner of Independence Park, and the Hotel Granada, walking straight through to the bustling old town district of La Candelaria. Luke would return tomorrow night, he thought, to meet with the elder Osorio and Karl at the Teatro Colón, but Camilo didn’t need to know about that. Today, he was pleased to have a chance at a head start.
‘It’s good to talk to someone not connected with the building project,’ Luke said. ‘I haven’t always gone in for the suburbs. I mean, I started there but I moved on. But you know that – if it doesn’t sound too vain to admit it.’
‘So, you’ve come full circle?’ Camilo grinned and called the waitress over. ‘Another coffee?’
Luke nodded.
‘Say, have you been to the bullring?’
‘Not here, I went in Spain,’ Luke said, thinking back. He had been terrified at the time, not by the animals that sometimes broke free into the stalls, but by the wild crowd that frothed at the mouth in their blood-red rage. It made beasts of all of them.
‘I always hated it,’ Camilo said. ‘My uncle used to make me go, although few children were ever invited.’
‘I hated it too,’ Luke said. ‘But why do you ask?’
‘It’s my litmus test,’ Camilo said, regarding him. ‘You can tell a lot about a man by how far he is willing to benefit from suffering.’
‘Then I hope I passed the test,’ Luke said.
‘You did,’ Camilo said, smiling. ‘Tell me something else about you, the man. For the article.’
‘I live for my work.’ Luke looked at the notebook on the table in front, its text pinched and small.
‘The war,’ Camilo said, pen in hand. ‘You weren’t building then. What did you do?’
The coffee arrived and Luke picked up his cup. He would have to say something about that. ‘I was at the Ministry of Economic Warfare. I never left London. I wanted to.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘An order.’
‘From a commanding officer?’
‘Actually, a woman.’
Camilo smiled. ‘And is this woman still giving orders?’
‘No, she’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry, please forgive my intrusion.’
Luke swallowed. ‘Back at my office, you said the people should rise up. How do you think they’ll do that?’
‘You’re interested to know?’
‘Yes, I find I am.’
Camilo put his pen down. ‘Nothing like your European war, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He took a cigarette from the pack in his bag and lit it. ‘There are other ways.’
‘Such as?’
‘Gaitán.’
‘The liberal leader?’
‘Yes.’ Camilo leaned in. ‘He’s a man of change – he brings a fresh wind with him,’ he smiled. ‘Where he blows, people follow.’
‘A man of the people.’
‘The pueblo’s jefe único, you know that phrase? He used to be the mayor too, so he knows how this city really runs. If he’s elected to the presidency, it’ll see an end to the old code and way of rule. An affliction the Republic thinks it’s been suffering from for years.’
‘Does it? The people are pinched, that’s clear. The workers on site are paid well enough but they insist on jobs for their relatives too.’ Luke sighed. ‘Sometimes people turn up and I have no idea who they are.’
‘Yes, they all want to work on the American project. They’re idiots! Forgive me; it’s just that it won’t change anything. Your European war cast a long shadow. People like my uncle hardly noticed a change but the poor are still reeling from the rise in prices and it’s getting worse. They’re getting worse. Failed harvests, grain in short supply, the rich getting richer. They think Gaitán will save them.’
‘How?’
‘Like a hero in a fairy tale, of course. He wants to take from the rich and give to the poor.’
‘El Robin Hood?’
‘Yes, that’s good, but with teeth. The man orates like a lion. He doesn’t ask for change, he demands it. You should hear him speak.’
‘I’d like to. Have you?’
‘Many times, parades too.’ Camilo leaned in. ‘In ’45, thousands of people followed him through the streets by torchlight. That was something. The city covered with flags. They say the man’s a genius. That night, Bogotá came to a standstill because he asked it to. That night, everything changed. It pushed me into journalism. His followers have organised a lecture tonight but there’s another two days from now.’ Camilo tapped the table. ‘If you want to see the true mood of the people, come then.’
Luke paid for lunch and walked with Camilo as far as the newspaper offices on the corner of Jiménez. He watched the reporter disappear into the dark interior and crossed the street, before looking back and up for the headlines on the public board. The twelve o’clock news told nothing exciting: a fugitive on a crime spree finally brought to justice followed by tomorrow’s weather; rain, again. Over lunch, news about Gabriel Osorio had been less forthcoming. Camilo had, in truth, revealed little. For his part, Luke had kept quiet about their meeting.
When Luke arrived back at his apartment, Señora Rojas had already set the table for one. The smell of cooked meat, not unlike that which he’d had for lunch, drifted out from the kitchen to meet him. That smell mingled with thoughts of Camilo in his head, and before long he was back in the cantina and thinking about the interview and what he’d let slip about the war office. What had he revealed? That he hadn’t fought in Europe as this world expected he had. He’d mentioned her too. Catherine. Luke went into the bedroom and sat down. He loosened the tie around his neck and dropped his head, letting it find the palms of his hands. He hadn’t revealed her name, though, had he? That he held safe within himself. Someone he loved had died, though, Camilo understood that much. Would he print it? The bachelor architect building to conquer his grief, or The Englishman designing English homes for a wife he’ll never have? How tragic, Luke thought, sitting upright.
‘The bedlinen is drying, señor. It’s hanging in the maid’s room.’
‘Thank you, Señora Rojas,’ Luke called back. He rose and went to the kitchen. ‘What you’ve prepared smells very nice.’
‘Ajiaco,’ she said – so it would be the same as his lunch.
‘I’ll wash first,’ Luke called.
‘I’ll be back in the morning,’ she said, coming into the sitting room for her coat.
Luke waited until she had left before returning to the bedroom. He fell backwards onto the bed. He thought about what he had abandoned, letting everything he’d kept hidden earlier flood in. He closed his eyes. Catherine on that rock with the waves foaming around her, licking at her ankles and spraying her cardigan with water that at that moment seemed to have become airborne just so it could touch her. That look on her face when it caught her unawares and he, a spectator, drinking the whole thing up as though it were a special show just for him. Luke opened his eyes and, breathless, reached down, loosening his trousers to touch the part of him that had once belonged to her. He closed his eyes. This time, she didn’t get up from her rock and come to him, waiting behind the camera. She stayed there, willing the next wave to strike, knowing it would. She wore the strangest smile, he thought, seeing her now in his mind’s eye. He watched, and from somewhere imagined she watched him back. She didn’t turn to see, wasn’t aware, even, of what lay in store as each wave hit, growing in strength and threatenin
g to throw her off. He felt the full force of each one against her back, losing himself inside the space between them on that deserted beach. He wanted her to remain there, perched – willing her to devour him with that strange, strange smile as she was being devoured by those waves. Then the old feeling returned, guilt stumbling along to wreck his pleasure. As the water rose around her, he realised, even now, he couldn’t watch her drown. He had to warn her. Luke cried out and realised he’d done so for real, guttural and with intent. He blinked, returning to the room. There was a hollow feeling that something had been lost, or something discarded and left behind, like an empty shell, kicked about the sands. Luke opened his eyes. Señora Rojas stood in the door frame holding a pile of clean sheets.
‘Dios bendito!’ she said, staring at him. ‘Extras, I forgot to give you.’
‘Señora, I…’ Luke buttoned up his trousers and sat up, compelled to move, to be anywhere that would distance himself from the bed and what secrets it had revealed to his housekeeper.
‘I have three grown sons, Señor Vosey.’ She walked forward and handed him the sheets. ‘Please close the door if you wish to be alone.’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodnight.’
Luke followed her from the bedroom and watched her leave. When he heard her steps in the hall fade to nothing, he went over and drew the chain across the door.
8
Luke rose around five the next morning, refreshed and at first thinking only of the two Osorios. Until recently, he hadn’t known any Osorios. Now, he could claim knowledge of a pair. Then there was Señora Rojas – poor Señora Rojas – how much had she seen? Christ, add it to her list of peculiarities, he thought, stumbling to the kitchen for coffee.
His housekeeper was already there. Luke went back to his room for his robe. He joined her again and worked up the courage to search her face for any semblance of disgust – something that might show they existed now on very different sides of decency. Señora Rojas looked the same as she always did, head down, busy over a jug of coffee boiling away on the stove.
‘Good morning, señor.’
‘Mrs Rojas, I…’ Luke began.
‘Señora, please, I’m not an Englishwoman,’ she snapped.
So, I am not forgiven, he thought.
‘You didn’t touch the ajiaco,’ she said, handing him a cup of coffee and smiling. ‘Never mind, you can have it tonight.’
‘Tonight I’ve a business appointment,’ Luke said, sipping the sweet, dark liquid.
‘Yes, this came for you.’ She passed Luke a folded card.
He left the room and opened it over by the sitting room window where there was more light.
I’m counting on you tonight. Dreary opera! Karl.
‘Who delivered this?’
‘A boy,’ she said, poking her head into the room. ‘There is something else, señor.’
‘Yes, Señora Rojas?’
She was buttoning up her coat. ‘Will you come to mass with me? It might do you good.’ She looked nervous. ‘It might help, with your loneliness.’
If that’s what it would take to absolve his soul. ‘Of course, Señora Rojas.’
After breakfast, he dressed, and they left the apartment together. He followed his housekeeper down the street. He’d never been outside with her before. Out here, she looked different. Not closed in by his Englishness. She knew where she was going, for one, but it was more than that. Out here, he was strange, and she was not – as though any question he asked of her out here would have a different answer to what she’d give inside of the apartment. Had he thought of her as his? No, not exactly – it was more that she hadn’t existed whole for him until now.
They crossed Seventh and then Fourteenth Avenue where the spiral of a modern church loomed up before them. Together, they slipped inside the silent building. Mass had already begun and so they found a pew towards the rear. At his side, Señora Rojas bowed her head to hear the creed. Luke had never been a religious man. There wasn’t space for God in architecture, but he did have a way of filling buildings after they were built, as this fat priest was doing now. Señora Rojas tugged on his sleeve.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘How he singles out those in need.’
The priest had a man about his own age on his feet. He had his head in his hands and the woman seated at his side was crying, sobbing in fact. From joy or holy fear, Luke couldn’t say. It was like theatre. He thought of the opera tonight and wondered what role he’d be expected to play then.
After the service, they walked back to the apartment in silence. It was a happy sort of silence. He was glad to have come. He vowed to treat her better, thinking he meant Señora Rojas, but then extending this to every person he’d tried to wall in in some way. But he couldn’t get the image of the woman in tears out of his head. It had jarred with his expectation of what the mass should have been. He had seen her again after the service, on the other side of the street, half-running to where she needed to be. There were moments in this city like that, where tragedy was easy to find, but easier to forget when it belonged to someone else.
*
A little before seven that evening, Luke left the apartment and went on foot to the theatre. He arrived to find the orchestra smoking and laughing on the front steps. The theatre was neoclassical in an Italian way – a lot like the elder Osorio, he thought. This was just the sort of place he imagined finding him. It was a style completely out of keeping with its surroundings. There were many good examples of the older, Spanish-style dwellings here – big inner-city estates two, three storeys high and built around central courtyards you wouldn’t guess existed behind unassuming doors at street level. Then there was the theatre and its kind. Even the Andes, he thought, appearing at the end of every street junction like the ghost of a god he could not shake, were keeping watch over this imposter. Luke navigated his way past the group of musicians and entered the theatre. The ticket hall was dimly lit, but from here he could make out a small atrium and the beginnings of a grand staircase that must, he thought, lead to the upper tiers. There was a young woman manning the desk behind an iron grille.
‘What’s tonight’s performance?’ he asked.
‘Otelo,’ she said, unable to stifle the yawn she’d begun before speaking.
‘The moor.’
‘No, Verdi. You have tickets?’
‘Yes,’ he smiled.
‘Come back at eight. It starts then.’
He’d agreed to meet Karl and Osorio at seven thirty. He thanked her and checked his watch. It was just past seven. He stepped back out onto the cool street, colder now the sun had completely set. The musicians had departed so he took a seat where they had. A man passing turned his head to stare right at him, unembarrassed. Luke would never get used to the false celebrity that came with being European here. Maybe hanging around theatres before showtime was something only the workers did, and to smoke. He hadn’t arrived in a fancy car, or with a woman in furs. He didn’t have any cigarettes. He opened the front of his suit jacket and leaned back on his forearms, content to wait it out.
Karl arrived first, a little after eight. ‘Vosey! Up here,’ he shouted, standing high on the theatre steps behind him. ‘What are you doing down there? There’s a bar, you know.’
Luke rose, taking care to stretch out his bad leg. He dusted himself down.
‘Where’s Osorio?’
Karl shrugged. ‘I keep no diary for the man. Let’s go in – it starts soon.’
Luke followed Karl back into the box office and through the doors of the atrium. The attendant was there, free from her metal box. Karl handed her the tickets and went ahead.
‘Otelo, the moor,’ she said, smiling at Luke.
‘Shakespeare,’ Luke said, pretending to yawn.
‘Vosey! Vosey, this way.’
Luke took the stairs two at a time to catch him up. At the top, before he was swallowed by the crowd, he turned to catch sight of the girl again but something the architect had employed in the curve of the
step concealed everything below. Upstairs, he thought of Europe and the opera houses he’d visited there; Naples’s San Carlo and the Staatsoper in Vienna before it was firebombed by the allies. Karl was at the bar, puffing away on a cigar. He’d already found himself a drink.
‘That’s for you,’ he said, indicating another beside him. ‘Always with the ladies, hey?’ He grinned. ‘Hey?’
It was embarrassing, Karl acting like a drunken uncle whenever they were together. Luke picked up his glass.
‘Good health.’
‘Health? Damned opera always gives me indigestion.’
Karl sank three more whiskies in the time it took Luke to drink one. He needed a clear head. The saloon, he noticed, was stuffed with society women, soft and undefined, along with overfed dignitaries, but not one of them was Gabriel Osorio, who, he thought, would have stood out, lithe and alert, from the pack. It was the same dull crowd as the Chairman’s Dinner and Luke wondered if Osorio, who had slipped into his life then, would try to do the same tonight. A bell rang, signalling the performance was about to begin, but nobody moved. It was at the second ding that the room slowly emptied towards the upper tiers. Luke had taken control of their tickets and led an unsteady Karl through the crowd and up a second, smaller flight of stairs to a narrower corridor. Theirs was a palco, a box. He opened the slim door and invited Karl to enter, stepping through after him.
‘Take the front,’ said Karl, gesturing at the seats there. There was another empty row behind these.
‘Is anyone else joining us?’ Luke asked. ‘Besides Osorio?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Karl shuffled in next to Luke and dropped down into one of the free chairs. ‘Can’t do business in the stalls, Vosey.’
Luke took the one beside him. He leaned over the balcony and looked down into the auditorium at the people fussing below and then over at the orchestra beyond. The palcos on this level extended the full width of the theatre and those within sight looked full to capacity. Theirs was the only one with seats to spare.