Breakfast in Bogota

by Helen Young

  He sat down beside her. Felisa flicked through the pages of the sketchbook. It was full of buildings, but full of life too, as though La Merced hadn’t really existed until then.

  ‘And this is three days’ work?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m too slow?’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ he said, looking at her.

  She was an artist. Perhaps not the best person for the draughtsman job, but one who fully felt the work she engaged in. It was like when he watched her talk about Gaitán. The way her eyes lit up with feeling; with life. He’d thought to ask her about the commission for the city, but she wouldn’t be right for it, he realised now, seeing how unrestrained and fluid her style was. Osorio wouldn’t like that. She should be in art school or somewhere less forced. Maybe he could help her with that.

  ‘Camilo is coming today,’ she said, returning to her study of the building. ‘He has something for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She smiled. ‘His article about you, Luke. For the paper. He’s very excited about it.’

  ‘Have you read it?’ Luke reddened.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘He shared the news with me Saturday night.’

  Saturday night – she had been with Camilo then. And he had been with Rocío.

  ‘Perhaps I have something to share with you,’ he said. ‘You can tell Camilo if you like.’

  It was her turn to blush.

  ‘There’s a new project I’m commissioned for and I need sketches done, of the city.’

  ‘Of Bogotá?’

  ‘It’s tied to the Pan-American Conference next year.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have the skills,’ she said, resuming her work. ‘You should ask Señor Blanco.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s an idiot.’

  Felisa laughed.

  ‘It’s very important, Felisa. Listen, can you leave the site tomorrow? I’ve an appointment at the mayor’s office to look over the plans and the draughtsman should be there.’

  ‘Caicedo’s office?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I can do that.’

  *

  When they arrived back at his office, Camilo was waiting for them.

  ‘It’s here,’ Camilo said. ‘Hot off the press!’

  They crowded around the table where Camilo laid the fresh paper flat. What Camilo had pitched as a column was actually its centre spread and the lead feature for the day. He angled it to face Luke.

  ‘What do you think? Don’t look so embarrassed, Luke!’ He turned to Felisa. ‘Doesn’t he look embarrassed?’

  ‘It’s just more than I imagined.’ Luke swallowed hard. Camilo’s enthusiasm was infectious. Photographs of his earlier projects glared up at him in stark black and white. The evidence of a life once lived.

  ‘This place looks like here,’ Telma said, placing a manicured finger on the image of Heliotrope, 1930.

  They all gazed down at the aerial view of his earliest project. The Arts and Crafts houses with their pinstripe cladding were more uniform than those of La Merced. He was twenty-two when he’d been given that commission and not long out of design school. He’d worked under a man named Hassberg. Hassberg liked order and Luke worked hard to make sure he had it. It was his first taste of what money could and couldn’t buy. In contrast, here, everything had to be bolder, everything grander. The oil company had deep pockets, whereas they’d barely pushed a profit on Heliotrope after the last lot was sold. Luke looked at the image of his earlier project. It was so conservative, so safe.

  ‘And this is in Madrid?’ Felisa asked, singling out another structure. Centro Inglés, 1934. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘That is quite different,’ he said, swallowing. At the time, it had meant everything, catapulting him into another league. He was written about after that. His name jostled alongside Eames, Lloyd Wright and Mies on the pages of the leading architecture and design magazines. Catherine had raved about it. ‘I’ve never loved you more than I do now,’ she’d said, devouring him with kisses, ‘never, ever, more than now.’

  ‘There’s nothing like it here, not yet,’ Luke said, looking at Felisa.

  ‘Imagine.’ She leaned in for a closer look. Her hair brushed against his hand in what was a perfect moment.

  Luke skimmed the text. His heart raced the whole time and he wondered if they could hear it, if they knew it meant something else to him than it did to them. Not since before the war had anything good been written about him. He was afraid to find anything that might cast him in a negative light, convinced that there must be something small that would find him out here. Then he imagined he’d found it. There was a short paragraph that spoke of his time in the war: During the European conflict, Señor Vosey’s expertise was required by the British government at the Ministry of Economic Warfare. He ceased work as an architect during this tumultuous time. Putting his creativity aside, he downed tools to take up his country’s cause. His sacrifice, during this period of conflict, has been our gain.

  Camilo, he realised, was watching him.

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘You did, Luke. Don’t you remember?’

  Telma rose. ‘I think fresh coffee and almojábana are in order. Señorita Mejía, will you help me?’

  The two women pulled on their coats and left. Luke and Camilo listened to them arguing on the stairs over which bakery sold the best cheese rolls.

  ‘Did I get it right?’ Camilo asked after silence had been restored.

  ‘Close enough.’

  Camilo nodded. ‘There wasn’t much I could edit out.’ He produced a cigarette and lit it. ‘It’s a good piece though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Camilo, thank you.’ Luke closed the newspaper and folded it.

  ‘It was a good distraction, Luke. You are a good distraction.’

  ‘Me? From what?’

  ‘The country tearing itself apart.’ Camilo dropped down into Telma’s chair. He looked tired. ‘Last week, I was sent down to Fusa – Fusagasugá, to give it its proper name. Two hours by road from Bogotá. One half of the town against the other, but all of them joined in hatred against a local landowner; a man named Robledo. The people grew tired of the way he threw his money around, using the local police to control them, to threaten them. Killing off anyone rising to Gaitán’s tune, you see? It’s the same everywhere but here. The people in this city don’t know how good they have it. The real poverty, the real crime, doesn’t reach them here.’

  ‘So the people of Fusa fought back?’

  ‘Not quite. This Robledo was dragged from his house in the middle of the night and, in front of his family, stripped naked and tied to a mule. The poor creature was kicked and lashed by the townspeople. Worse things were done to Robledo.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Unchristian things, and with his wife and child looking on. Eventually, I guess the mule had enough. He took off with Robledo still attached, right through the town and out the other side to cries of “Go back to the arse of hell!” The funny thing is that when the town woke the next day, the mule was back, but without its cargo.’

  ‘But what happened to him? To Robledo?’

  ‘He was found eventually, cut up, wandering naked across the savannah, sent raving mad by sun exposure and by what the people had done to him.’ Camilo inhaled deeply. ‘But he was lucky.’ He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on Luke’s desk. ‘Not so the main ringleaders; they should have killed him. They’ll pay for that mistake.’

  17

  Luke arranged to meet Felisa at ten the following day outside the Palacio Liévano on the main square. He arrived early, wandering into the centre of the square, past the fountains and statue of Simón Bolívar. He was restless, excited even. Across the street was La Casa de la Risa. The cantina’s shutter was up. He tried to pick out movement inside the dark interior but couldn’t. He hadn’t returned since Camilo had said it was a socialist meeting place and wouldn’t, now this thing with Osorio was coming into being. El Lobo was the kind of person with eyes
in every cantina.

  A couple of days after the dinner at Osorio’s, he’d asked Telma to arrange a meeting with the mayor but had been set up with the deputy instead, a man named Jorge Martin.

  ‘You’re early, Luke.’

  He turned to find Felisa standing before him.

  ‘We both are,’ he said, smiling.

  Felisa pulled her jacket straight. It looked like it had started life too big for her but had been made to fit.

  ‘I borrowed this,’ she said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come,’ he said, thinking he’d put her to too much trouble.

  Felisa looked hurt.

  ‘The bother, I mean. You shouldn’t have.’ He swallowed. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked.

  They made their way back across the square towards the palacio in silence. The deputy mayor’s office was on the first floor. In the cramped waiting room, the two of them took up position on a low sofa. Sitting there put him on edge, this feeling of early submission. The receptionist, a woman with a head of golden hair, wouldn’t take her eyes off Felisa. From her expression, it was obvious that she saw herself as superior.

  ‘Will he be long?’ Luke asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ the receptionist replied.

  Felisa smiled at him. She was nervous as well, he could tell.

  The deputy’s door burst open.

  ‘Señor, Mr Luke Vosey,’ the man said, his small hand outstretched.

  Luke rose and Felisa did too.

  ‘And your secretary?’

  ‘Señorita Mejía is our draughtswoman.’

  ‘Mejía, of course, and I’m Jorge Martin. There, we are all present. Shall we begin?’

  He led them back to his office where they sat down before a large desk. It was one of the only pieces of furniture in the room.

  ‘The mayor has informed me that you need access to the files – to the initial report drawn up by the board?’

  ‘Yes.’ Luke cleared his throat. ‘I’m to leave with the proposals for the new centre.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Martin said, looking at Felisa. ‘Our idea for a new Bogotá starts today. Exciting, no?’

  Felisa didn’t answer.

  ‘We’re all excited,’ Martin said for her. He leaned back in his chair and studied them both. The silence was long and awkward until the receptionist came in with a thick file. She handed it to Martin. ‘Thank you, Ingrid.’

  Luke watched her leave.

  ‘She’s German,’ Martin said. ‘Or at least, her father was.’ He shrugged and opened the file. ‘Here it all is.’ He turned over the first sheet.

  ‘Scheduled for clearance…’ he read, ‘The House of Juan Flόrez Ocariz, the College of San Bartolomé, the church of Santa Clara, my goodness, the Palacio Liévano – the very bricks beneath our feet!’

  ‘I’m aware of this,’ Luke said.

  ‘And the people who live alongside?’ Felisa asked. ‘Surely not their homes too?’

  Martin looked at her. ‘Señorita Mejía has decided to join us.’

  Perhaps, Luke thought, I should have told her something. She had only come because he had asked.

  ‘Mejía is a very old name,’ said Martin. ‘Did you know that some of the first to step foot here carried it all the way from Spain?’

  ‘I don’t see what…’

  ‘And do you think they lived side by side with the natives when they did? Lived in their huts, ate their food?’

  She opened her mouth to speak but Martin was faster.

  ‘They improved the land and the people, using whatever means at their disposal. Whatever means. There,’ he said, sliding the report across to Luke, ‘everything you need to make your plans.’

  ‘Shall I send a message to the mayor when it’s done?’

  ‘Through Ingrid is fine,’ Martin said, rising. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Señorita Mejía.’

  They found their way back out through the maze of rooms, taking the stairs in silence. When they were out on the square again, Luke stopped her.

  ‘You can’t speak like that, Felisa. If you question the deputy, it’s like you’re questioning the mayor, and through the mayor, like you’re questioning…’

  ‘Who? Who, Luke?’

  ‘Me. Like you’re questioning me, Felisa.’

  ‘You didn’t say they meant to destroy the city. That you meant to.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Men like that… those people he spoke about… those people are me.’

  ‘No one wants to destroy anything,’ he said. That bit was partly true. ‘A lot of good can come…’

  ‘Luke,’ she said, ‘don’t you see? They’re filling their own pockets. There’s no way they’re going to help anyone but themselves.’

  ‘You have no idea what’s possible, Felisa. Can’t you trust me? I thought you wanted something better,’ he said.

  ‘What do you know!’ She turned and walked away from him. People were staring. A few boys sniggered. Luke went after her. He was thinking of the people, and, yes, of his career and hers. She had no idea how important this was. No, he wasn’t sure she quite understood at all. Felisa was practically running now and had almost reached the corner of the square.

  ‘If you don’t want the job,’ he shouted, almost catching her up outside the cathedral. ‘I’ll find someone else.’

  Felisa stopped. When he reached her, he was out of breath, but she looked worse.

  ‘Wanting is not the same as needing,’ she said, looking up at him.

  There were real tears in her eyes now and his heart sank. He’d have said anything to stop her walking away, but he hadn’t acted kindly and she hated him for it.

  ‘There isn’t anyone else,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think. Felisa,’ Luke took her hand. ‘If it’s not us, then they’ll get someone else. Would you rather that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Luke, please.’

  ‘I can’t do it without you.’

  Her face softened. ‘Luke, you have to let go of my hand.’

  He did. Things would be all right. He’d show her that.

  ‘Gaitán is staging a huge public meeting in two weeks’ time,’ she said, wiping her face.

  ‘Yes, I’ve read about it, it’ll take place here, won’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Camilo is working, you see. He’s covering it. Will you come with me instead? I’d like you to hear him. Then, you might understand.’

  18

  On the day of the public address, Luke agreed to meet Felisa on the corner of Plaza de Bolívar a little before five in the afternoon. He left his apartment at four and walked down Seventh Avenue. When he reached the commercial centre, the crowd that had been mounting along the route filled the road as well as the pavement. It looked as if most of the city had turned out for this one. Gaitán’s loyal followers – calling themselves the Gaitanistas – were dressed in black as though heading to a funeral and not an address. Gaitán had asked them to do that. He’d written it down in Jornada the week before. Luke had read that issue and was also wearing black. He wasn’t going to indulge Gaitán but at the last minute he’d changed his mind to please Felisa. She was already there when he arrived.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘It is, yes.’

  ‘Come.’ She laced her fingers through his and led him across the square.

  What struck him was the silence. The only noise the shuffling of feet; the unchecked coughing of children and the elderly. It was the second request he’d read about; the silence. And these people are never quiet, Luke thought. The city usually droned like an enraged hive and here they all were, subdued. This Gaitán, it seemed, could make them do anything. Felisa led him through the crowd towards the centre, past the cathedral, draped in workmen’s sheets. The two of them squeezed in alongside men and women carrying homemade banners of black fabric mounted onto bamboo poles. An old man at his side prodded Luke in the ribs and gestured for him to take his b
anner and hold it higher than the rest. Luke let go of Felisa’s hand and did as he was asked. She smiled in approval when he sent it skyward. They pressed on slowly into the square with the old man at their side. Hundreds of Gaitán’s supporters had accompanied Luke down Seventh Avenue, marching out of step like the civilian army they were. Now, the number had exploded. He looked out across the heads of thousands of others, waiting for Gaitán to appear. At their backs was a makeshift scaffold. Some men had chosen to climb this and sat now on the different levels the platform afforded. The whole structure appeared flimsy, as if it might collapse on top of them.

  ‘It’ll start soon,’ Felisa said.

  He lowered the sign and handed it back to the man. As soon as he was free, Felisa sought out his hand again. Hadn’t she said Camilo was here, somewhere? Luke looked around him as though the journalist might appear. All eyes were turned towards the municipal building. Luke recognised it from the mayor’s plans. It was one of the structures to be cleared under Osorio’s commission. The blueprints for its destruction were safely back in his apartment.

  ‘All of this will be lost,’ she said, moving closer.

  ‘I know.’

  He could feel the warmth of her, her arm pressed against his. He thought about saying he’d go back across town to tear Osorio’s plans in two, if only she’d go with him.

  Felisa let go of his hand. ‘The Pan-American Conference will be there,’ she said, pointing behind them. ‘At the Capitolio, where the Senate and House meet.’

  ‘And Gaitán?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not him. He hasn’t been invited. Can you imagine? All of the world flying in and the door slammed in his face.’

  ‘So that’s why we’re here today? He’s hosting his own conference.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Felisa said, grinning.

  ‘There!’ someone shouted.

  Luke turned to see a man step out onto the balcony before them. It was Gaitán. It had to be. He wasn’t a delicate looking man, not like Osorio or any of the other dignitaries Luke had met. He recognised the full head of dark hair and large, powerful features he’d seen depicted in the press. He has the face of a native, Luke thought. He understood then why Osorio and his lot hated him. His appearance would have been enough. Gaitán lifted his hands.