by Helen Young
‘You found your draughtsman yet?’ Karl asked, leaning over the velvet cushion that divided them.
‘Almost.’
‘Almost? So, not yet.’ He shuffled closer. ‘For Christ’s sake, Vosey, how do you suppose we’re going to convince Osorio the other project should come our way if we can’t get this done?’
‘We’re on schedule, thanks to the extra hands.’
‘That may be,’ Karl said, raising his voice above the orchestra. ‘But you should know that Osorio sets his own schedules.’
‘Forgive me, but Osorio wasn’t in the plan until last week.’
‘Osorio’s always been in the plan,’ Karl spat, half mindful of the volume.
When had that been, Luke thought? The lights dimmed. They’d have to have it out afterwards. He wasn’t going to be kept in the dark. He turned to the front. The stage was lit and the curtains parted, revealing a Venetian street scene, although it was very hard to think of Venice then.
At the close of act two, at the point when Iago and Othello sang vengeance upon Desdemona, Luke became aware of a third person within the box, one he hadn’t heard arrive. Karl, who breathed heavily, had succumbed to sleep early on. Luke tensed, conscious of a shift in the air behind him, as though it had been forced to find new channels around the space. He looked down at his feet and, in the gloom, caught the tip of a shined black shoe, like a little dart, placed close to the back of his own chair. He straightened and looked forward with renewed focus, as though his ability to concentrate might return him to his previous state of anonymity. Iago and Othello were on their knees when they stopped singing and the curtain went down.
‘Are you enjoying the show, Señor Vosey?’
Luke turned as the house lights rose to find Gabriel Osorio seated behind him.
*
The theatre emptied in search of refreshments. Gabriel Osorio had risen too and gone to find them a waitress. Luke leaned across to Karl and woke him.
‘Still not here, hey?’ Karl said, looking lazily about the space.
‘I’ve ordered champagne,’ Osorio replied, slipping back into his seat.
‘Oh, I see.’ Karl pulled himself straight. ‘Hello, Osorio.’
‘Unless you’d prefer something else?’
‘No, no.’ Karl reached inside his pocket and brought out his cigar case. He placed one between his teeth. ‘Either of you two?’
Osorio waved his hand to the negative.
Luke shook his head. ‘Perhaps we should talk now?’ he suggested. He didn’t want to wait until afterwards. He didn’t want to see Desdemona killed without knowing.
‘We are talking,’ Osorio said, smiling at him.
The champagne arrived and the waitress poured. Osorio handed a glass to Luke. ‘Tell me, how is the building project in La Merced progressing?’
Karl tried to catch his eye.
‘It appears I’ve lost the only draughtsman in Colombia.’
‘Really?’
‘There aren’t any others, I’ve looked. Not here in Bogotá or anywhere else, it seems.’ Luke raised his glass to the men and drank. There was an acridity to the champagne that extended beyond the glass.
‘Then we’ll fly one in,’ Osorio replied, as though it were fact. ‘And this other business? No doubt Karl has informed you?’
Luke caught Karl’s eye.
‘I see he has,’ Osorio continued. ‘Good. I need an architect I can put to work on this city. One who inspires greatness.’
‘Before this Pan-American business?’ Luke asked.
Osorio reached across and refilled Luke’s glass. ‘That’s it! But we’re not miracle makers, Señor Vosey. The delegation – the USA and our neighbours – arrives this January. That’s only four months away.’
‘But the contracts are ready?’ Karl said, reaching over for the bottle.
‘They are,’ Osorio continued. ‘We want to build a city of the future. The project in La Merced got you here but you must see, even that is tied up in difficulty.’
‘How so?’ Luke swallowed.
‘Well, you’ve workers who just disappear. You admitted that yourself. Perhaps who just arrive without warning, too?’
Luke swallowed. ‘Something like that.’
‘This new project will allow you free rein; a steady workforce. We want an end to the tenements close to here and the cathedral. In fact, this city is riddled with them. They’re nothing but pockets of the past.’
The people in the auditorium were returning to their seats. The mood felt heavy and oppressive somehow. Osorio was offering a commission, so why wasn’t he more excited? Offering – perhaps that was it? It felt more like a command.
‘A clean slate?’ Luke asked. ‘You want to start again, is that it?’
‘Yes, like your Victorian slums – wiped off the map so a better city could rise in their place.’
‘And those who live there? What about the people?’
‘The people?’ Osorio asked. ‘We’re doing it for the people.’
Luke looked over the balcony at the orchestra who had returned and were limbering up. In the half-light, the tips of their bows and elbows flitted unconnectedly, like tiresome insects above the pit.
‘Then there’s the question of your name,’ Karl said, drawing out the words. ‘Your time in London wasn’t so fine, if I have it right.’
Luke laughed. ‘Are you going to wipe out the past?’
‘You can do that yourself,’ Osorio said. ‘Let the dead have their history. Why not live again here? Be the architect you were before.’ He leaned forward. ‘There’s always more than one side to every story, Señor Vosey. Which one would you prefer to see in print?’
Luke set his champagne down. ‘I thought you didn’t talk to your nephew.’
‘Careful, Vosey.’
‘It’s all right, Karl. Señor Vosey needs time to think it through.’ He filled Luke’s glass. ‘I will admit one thing, even though it pains me to do it, because it seems you need reassurance, shall we say? It’s true, the tie between my nephew and myself has been severed. To my regret, he no longer looks upon me as his uncle. But you have a young man’s spirit, like he does. Don’t waste it – put it to good use. It would be my greatest joy if you would join us on this project.’
The lights were fading and the theatre was silent. Osorio and Karl were waiting, not for the performance, but for him. Luke picked up his glass and sipped. He had to say yes. He wanted to say it. Let them make a success of him when he had failed to do it himself. Principles were exhausting to maintain, God only knows he’d tried. Let me only be a success now, he thought. Let me agree to this.
‘Yes,’ Luke heard himself say. ‘All right, but I’ll finish La Merced myself. I’ll find my own draughtsman.’
The three men went on to a small private bar after the opera. A nameless place, dark and ugly and as far removed from the Teatro Colón as it was possible to get. He’d gone to take a piss and read above the basin: ‘If you don’t fear God, fear syphilis’ on a public health poster half disintegrated by stringent ammonia. After the drinking was done, Luke left them on the edge of Las Cruces, drowning in the chicha they had ended the night on. For a man who only drank champagne, Osorio’s enthusiasm for this fermented corn drink was unheard of, but he’d drunk it too; bowl after bowl for courage. As they’d left, Osorio and Karl had embraced him in turn before retreating into the back of a chauffeured car. Its sudden appearance seemed mythic, set against everything that had come before. Gabriel Osorio was capable of conjuring up anything, Luke thought as he swayed on the roadside, insisting he would be fine. He promised Karl he wouldn’t get murdered and could find his own way home. He had something else in mind and he wasn’t afraid, neither of God nor the alternative. When he was free of them, he turned and walked the single block it took to reach the familiar boarding house. The female inhabitants were awake when he knocked and asked if he could step inside. Luke had some trouble persuading the woman on the door it was Rocío he’d come to se
e, and no, he wouldn’t like to visit one of the newer girls. The old woman left him in the hallway beneath the glare of a single lamp and went ahead of him up the stairs. He stayed behind and it occurred to him he might be refused. He heard her creaking about above his head along the distance it took to reach Rocío’s room at the end of the hall. He’d made the same journey enough times now to know. The first time he’d waited in this hall he’d had the photograph of Catherine. He’d asked if there was a woman like her and bingo, he’d found one. But it was all wrong. To think, he’d gone looking for Catherine to try and satisfy that old need and found her likeness here. What would she have said? He heard laughter from upstairs. Catherine. She was laughing at him, even here. He put his hands to his ears. I should leave, he thought. It isn’t fair. She’ll think she means more to me than she does.
‘Go up. She’s waiting.’ The old woman had reappeared. ‘You OK, mister?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, pushing himself away from the wall and staggering towards her.
9
Rocío’s eyes were brown. Miel actually, like honey. He’d spent the night at the boarding house. Some attachment was forming, he could tell. It would be easy to blame the chicha but it was his fault. He should stick to the normal times if he wanted to keep his distance. He had made it back across town to his apartment without being murdered, though. He must remember to tell Karl that. Tonight meant the other Osorio; Camilo. Tonight meant the lecture and hearing Gaitán speak. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that now, though.
Luke stood over the small enamel sink in his apartment and drew the razor up his jaw. He winced and pulled back, lifting his chin to the mirror in time to see a thick drop of blood form and then fall into the basin below. Last night, once Rocío had understood he hadn’t come with the photograph, she’d seemed relieved. Encouraging him forward, she had guided his path across the floor of her bedroom, and he remembered moving cautiously then, uncertain of all that lay there, chemises and other soft things; the two women blurring to one. Luke dabbed at his chin with a towel. Last night. When he’d had the courage to look, he was relieved to see it was only Rocío, kneeling in the moonlight, he saw.
Luke finished the rest of his face and washed away the blood from the sink. He placed a corner of tissue over the broken skin and went into the bedroom to dress. Señora Rojas hadn’t been this morning and it was good he was alone. He needed time to think. To go over again what had happened in the theatre. A new commission. It was wonderful to have something to line up after La Merced and then down the line, perhaps a whole new career in the Americas? Why not? There had to be a contract, though. Something concrete to say Karl would finish with him. Karl, who worked for Anglo-Colombian Oil but was mixed up in this new deal too. Parts of what had been sold to him didn’t make sense but there’d be plenty of time for detail, he was sure of that. Luke took a fresh shirt from the closet and pulled it on. It was the promise of a clean start that had blindsided him. The idea that what he’d started in Europe before the war could be finished here. Europe – which had been purged by fire and falling hell, as he had. Better not to think of that. Something modern would do it. He longed for it. Structures dotting the horizon as far as the Andes – sweeping vistas of concrete and glass, uniform and functional, with bright living spaces for all, communal zones and gardens. Yes, something that was harder to burn through. Luke pulled on his jacket and found his keys, drawing up plans in his mind’s eye that could easily translate to ink. The draughtsman, though. The one he didn’t have. First, La Merced had to be put to bed, if it was to be finished by Christmas. To do that he needed to find the best match from out of the pile mounting on his desk. Luke finished dressing. On his way out of the apartment, he drew the crumpled photograph of Catherine out from his pocket and left it on the table. He’d leave her behind too.
*
‘There’s someone in your office.’ Telma came around her desk towards him as soon as he arrived. ‘I’m sorry, señor, he insisted.’
‘Who did?’
Telma gestured towards the glass window of his door. ‘Ask him! He’s come from Señor Osorio.’
Luke turned the handle and went in.
‘Mr Vosey,’ the man said. ‘I’m your new draughtsman.’
‘Telma,’ Luke said. ‘Bring coffee, please.’
She left, closing the door behind her. Luke went around his desk and sat down. The man was slight in the extreme. No wonder he’d slipped past Telma.
‘What experience do you have?’ Luke asked.
‘Señor Osorio already interviewed me.’
‘Well, you’ll be working for me.’ He thought he’d been clear with Osorio in the theatre: he would find his own man.
‘Perhaps you can tell me what hasn’t been done.’ The man leaned forward. ‘I hear things are behind.’
‘Where were you last?’
‘New York, Gooch & Gooch.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not American, though? Didn’t fight for them in the war?’
‘Correct on both accounts.’
The door swung open and Telma entered. She placed cups on the desk and gathered up the spread of unopened job applications. ‘We won’t need these.’ She sighed, taking up the pile and letting her gaze rest too long on the stranger.
‘Leave them, Telma.’
Luke waited for her to leave.
‘And your name?’
‘Alfonso Blanco.’
‘Señor Blanco,’ Luke said, raising his cup. ‘Seeing as you’re already here, we’ll have a trial period. One week.’
‘But Señor Osorio said…’
‘A trial period, and then we’ll see.’
Luke drank his coffee. Alfonso Blanco picked up his own cup. Something flashed in his eyes, Luke saw, and in that moment, he thought the draughtsman meant to smash it. Instead, he took a measured sip.
‘Burnt, I think,’ he said, placing it down. ‘I’ll start now, if you don’t mind.’
*
On the tram ride south to meet Camilo, Luke was still reeling from his encounter with the draughtsman. Alfonso Blanco wasn’t a likeable man, but, after a couple of false starts, he had completed a half-finished workable sketch of one of the fireplaces and a series of outlines for the exterior reliefs. Nothing original, but he was good at picking up where the previous draughtsman had left off. He’d stopped wondering altogether what had happened to Palacio. He had someone now, even if it was Blanco. Luke had him set up in the room below his, cramped in alongside the new foreman, mainly to keep him out of Telma’s way.
Luke had agreed to meet Camilo at six sharp at an area known as Tres Esquinas – one of the main stops south on the tramline. He was looking forward to it and wondered if he saw something of himself, as he had been long ago, in the principled young man. Long, long ago something of himself had torn his father’s heart in two. He’d refused the family farm. He’d had Camilo’s energy then to fight the old man, and fight they did, with his mother looking on. It took the strength of his younger brother, William, once he’d reached them from the lower field, to tear them apart. Luke had lost a tooth. He’d kept it for years afterwards out of respect for that first trial of his principles.
Luke left the site early, when the day was still bright, and boarded the first car he saw at Centenary Park. The tram slid smoothly through the city, old and new building styles blurring into one as though throwing up all future possibilities of what they might be. As he got further from La Merced, he felt strengthened by all that he passed, buoyed by the knowledge that soon he’d have a hand in shaping it. At an intersection, another tram, quite different to his own, passed his. Inside, tired men clung tight to its sides as though they might be bucked off at the next turn. He watched three local women who’d stopped outside a shop, their heads thrown back, sharing some punchline. The possibilities seemed open and endless. As the vehicle turned onto Plaza de Bolívar, a wide Ford Sedan shot out of a side street, sending the tram driv
er straight for his rosary. Luke gripped the rail above his head. It would be good to remain guarded in some respects, though. He didn’t have to tell Camilo about his uncle’s plans.
The journalist was waiting for him on the pavement. He looked tired.
‘What’s keeping you up?’ Luke asked, smiling.
‘You.’
‘Surely not?’
Camilo shrugged. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ He crossed the road and Luke followed. ‘I’m sorry, the venue’s changed,’ he said, stopping in front of a different tram stop. ‘Power cut in this part of town. Somebody didn’t pay the bill; at least not to the right people.’
They didn’t have to wait long for a tram to take them back into town, pushing on behind a group of men. Luke found money for the two of them, feeling his pockets for more coins in case they might return.
They stayed on until Seventh. About halfway down the main thoroughfare, Camilo jumped off and Luke followed. The journalist led him down one side street after another, slowing his pace until the two men were level.
‘How are things progressing?’ Camilo asked.
‘Good, good. I’ve just hired a new man.’
‘For the draughtsman role?’
‘Word travels fast on the news desk.’
‘Actually, your secretary,’ Camilo said.
‘My education is progressing, you’ll be pleased to hear. I went to mass yesterday.’
‘I didn’t know you were devout.’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘You want me to write about it in the article, to endear you to the populace?’
‘Not exactly. You see, the priest was a little crazy, intense, I mean. I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘A religious fanatic?’
‘Reduced one man and his wife to tears.’
Camilo nodded. ‘Listen,’ he touched Luke’s arm and the two men stopped. ‘The church is powerful here. If you went back there tomorrow or any day after that, I bet you any money you wouldn’t find that man, or his wife, again.’