Breakfast in Bogota

by Helen Young

  ‘Take this spot, there’s more light,’ Luke said, clearing a side table and positioning it in front of the window.

  Felisa followed and placed her tools on top. ‘Thank you.’ She pulled a spare chair over to the desk and sat down but didn’t pick her brush up right away.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled, laying a hand on his. ‘Did you know there’s been more violence outside of the city this week?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the north. Twelve men killed in a skirmish with the landowners.’ She sighed. ‘If only Gaitán were president now. If only we didn’t have to wait another three years.’

  He nodded. ‘And he’ll be able to bring the two sides together?’

  ‘Of course – as long as they do as he says.’

  ‘Without compromise.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate him,’ she said, throwing a pencil at him. ‘Or me.’

  ‘I suppose he wouldn’t change the city either?’ Luke picked it up and handed it back to her.

  ‘He would… probably find another way,’ she said.

  Telma came into the room with a tray and they broke apart. She put it on his desk. ‘This will be one of the last times I do this.’

  Luke looked at Felisa and they both tried not to laugh.

  *

  Inside the red folder that Martin had given him were instructions for the areas of the city designated for redevelopment. It was as the deputy, and Osorio before him, had said. The historic centre would be modernised. The redevelopment would run across at least three blocks, sandwiching Plaza de Bolívar between them. The entire document had been translated into English for his benefit. Luke took paper and pencils of his own and, seated at his desk, began the rough outline of a new city centre that would fill the space left behind by the clearance. He had to get it right. It wasn’t like before the war, when he’d ridden a tide of praise, slipping easily from one project to the next. If this failed, that would be it. No more chances. They were relying on him. He worked carefully, to give the minister what he wanted, dressing it in something Felisa would be proud of too.

  The three of them worked on into the afternoon without disturbances. By late afternoon, Luke had achieved a rough skyline, close to what he wanted. It had to be both residential and commercial, but it needed a third thing too, something that was almost impossible to maintain – a sense of the new. He looked at the sketch again, tidied up the corners and held it up to the light. Stark skyscrapers and low-level commercial buildings ran linear through a new centre. The buildings opened up the skyline and the streets below were wider than they were now. Creativity in space, he thought, his mind turning just then to one of his earliest projects – Madrid’s Centro Inglés. There, he’d come up with the idea of introducing thousands of panes of glass inside cantilevered steel frames that as good as gave the building back to the clouds. At the time, it was a huge success. And the skyline here is so beautiful, he thought.

  20

  To finish the drafts, Luke moved Felisa and Telma into his apartment. They went on like this for weeks, Señora Rojas fuelling the proceedings with a constant supply of fresh-bought bread and fried empanadas. Luke was getting fat. Well, not fat exactly but ‘healthier looking’, Señora Rojas told him. He didn’t care. He felt stronger and his clothing held his shape better. The question of his ‘wholeness’, as Luke considered it, was a personal one because only he knew how incomplete he’d felt before Felisa came into his life. He enjoyed her company daily and saw Camilo just as much. The journalist made sure of that. Felisa had told him of the project as Luke said she should, but on the proviso that he wouldn’t write about it. At the apartment, Luke had sworn him to secrecy too. There’d be an exclusive interview in it for him once it was all signed off and construction begun. When Camilo wasn’t off reporting some new rural horror, he’d taken to working there too, turning the apartment into a newsroom of sorts. He took a keen interest in what they were doing. He shared his working life with theirs. Luke would listen as Camilo read the latest news stories to the three women before packing up the transcripts to be couriered away to the editor. He read without sympathy and sometimes, despite his fondness for him, Luke wished he wouldn’t. Señora Rojas was quiet and withdrawn on more than one occasion and when Camilo noticed this, he exaggerated the brutality of the stories. ‘Enough!’ Felisa would shriek until a single look from Camilo returned her to silence. What power his young friend held then. At night, Felisa was always the last to leave when Camilo wasn’t there. Otherwise they hid their feelings around him. She asked Luke to do that, saying it wasn’t right to change how things were for Telma or Camilo. That it was theirs alone. He’d gone along with it. It wouldn’t be for much longer, he thought. He’d signed the contract for the new office. They were due to move in the new year, close to the mayor’s office on a street that wouldn’t be touched by the development. Close, as he had been with La Merced.

  For now, they’d developed a system for working, Felisa choosing to sit cross-legged on the floor, while Luke took the table, picking over plans as she handed the finished drafts up to him. Today, Camilo’s notebooks lay sprawled at the far end of the table where he’d left them. Telma was absent too. She’d taken the day off for a communion.

  ‘The last one,’ Felisa said.

  She rose and handed the draft to him. His housekeeper was out of the room and so she stayed close, running a hand through his hair. She had passed him an artist’s impression of a street scene with a curved building at its centre. Felisa called it the Frigate, saying it resembled the bird in flight. She was right: raised off the ground on concrete pillars, it would look airborne from the right angle when it was built.

  ‘It’s very clever,’ he said.

  Felisa left his side. He tried to return to what he had been working on before, the tree-lined avenue that would run the full length of the development. He could still feel the ghost of her fingertips. She was in the kitchen now. He ran his fingers through his hair. Felisa was discussing lunch with Señora Rojas to celebrate Camilo’s promotion to senior reporter. Camilo had gone out to track down a bottle of champagne. For now, Luke was alone with the two women. For now, there was enough space for all of them. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Camilo,’ Felisa said, running to answer it.

  He’d been very quick.

  ‘Is this the right place?’

  It was Karl. Felisa moved to one side so he could enter.

  ‘This is Señorita Mejía,’ Luke said.

  Karl had been drinking. Felisa nodded but didn’t hang around for introductions.

  ‘New housekeeper?’ Karl’s face was flushed and excited.

  ‘Our draughtswoman for the project.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Karl said, poking Luke in the ribs. He found his way across the room and dropped down into a chair.

  ‘We’re about to have lunch.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. Can’t stop,’ Karl said, drawing out a cigar and struggling to light it. ‘Come for these plans you’ve been promising.’

  ‘They’re not due yet,’ Luke said. He went over and helped Karl with the lighter. ‘I’ll deliver them to the mayor’s office myself.’

  ‘I insist,’ Karl said. ‘Told Osorio I’d come personally. Speeds things up. Also,’ he added, puffing away, ‘he wants me to invite you to some New Year’s soirée he’s got going at his place.’

  With his free hand, Karl felt about in his pockets. He brought out the invitation and handed it to Luke.

  ‘At the hacienda?’

  ‘Yup.’

  There was a second knock at the door and Luke went over to open it. It was Camilo this time, grinning from ear to ear. He held up two bottles. ‘Champagne,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘I went across town to my uncle’s in the end. He wasn’t there but he won’t notice.’

  ‘He’s very particular, I’d say,’ said Karl.

  ‘Señor Draper. I didn’t see you there.’ Camilo handed the b
ottles to Luke and came forward to greet Karl formally. He sat down on the edge of the sofa and crossed his arms. ‘You could always join us.’

  ‘You’re too late.’ Karl leaned forward and stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. ‘Luke here already invited me.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ Luke asked.

  ‘We’ve met. At your uncle’s, right, boy?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Camilo said.

  ‘What’s the celebration, then?’ Karl asked.

  ‘Camilo’s promotion, actually,’ Felisa said, coming back into the room.

  ‘Congratulations! Promotion to what?’

  ‘It was the article on Señor Vosey that did it.’ She placed her arms around Camilo’s shoulders. ‘Now he’s a senior reporter.’

  ‘Enough,’ Camilo said, freeing himself.

  ‘Got a copy for me?’ Karl asked.

  ‘I do, actually.’ Luke put the bottles down and took a newspaper off the top of a tall pile.

  ‘Jesus, Vosey, did you buy every copy in town?’

  ‘Camilo did,’ Felisa said.

  Camilo picked up one of the bottles. ‘Let’s open this, shall we?’

  He called into the kitchen for glasses and Felisa returned with five of varying shapes and sizes. Señora Rojas came too. Luke took the bottle from Camilo and popped the cork.

  ‘To our dear senior reporter!’ Felisa said.

  They raised their glasses and drank.

  ‘Tastes like it belongs to Osorio,’ Karl said.

  Luke put his down and went over to the plans on the table. He worked them together into a pile and rolled up the stack, Felisa’s Frigate on top. He secured the bundle with a couple of loops of string.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Karl.

  ‘Good work, Vosey.’ Karl stood, finishing his drink in one.

  ‘Shall I call you a car, Karl?’

  ‘Got one, haven’t I. Waiting outside.’ Karl took the roll and headed for the door. ‘I’ll tell Osorio you’re thrilled about the invitation.’

  After he had left, Felisa went over to the door to check it was closed.

  ‘What’s this?’ Camilo asked. He picked up the invitation that Luke had left on the chair. ‘What fortune! Please say you’re going, Luke.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t get on?’

  ‘I’m family, aren’t I? I don’t have a choice. And if you’re there, it’ll make it completely bearable.’

  Luke took the card from him. ‘I don’t think I can refuse.’

  ‘Is it a celebration for your birthday?’ said Señora Rojas, winking at Luke.

  ‘You know perfectly well that it isn’t,’ Luke said. He hadn’t wanted it mentioned. He would be forty in two days.

  ‘Ah!’ Felisa cried. ‘Your birthday! Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘To avoid this. It makes me feel old.’

  ‘He’s ancient, Felisa, you heard. Best not to mention it.’ Camilo grinned at him.

  ‘He doesn’t look old,’ she said. ‘We should take Señor Vosey away, Milo, out of the city.’ Her eyes were big and Camilo’s too, although they’d only had a glass apiece.

  He sighed. ‘And where would we go?’

  ‘Guatavita, of course,’ Camilo provided.

  ‘Yes, Guatavita,’ Felisa said. ‘It’s the week before Christmas. We can leave offerings.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Luke looked at them. They were waiting, expectant as children, for him to answer. ‘Señora Rojas, is Guatavita a nice place to visit?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said, poking her head back into the room. ‘And the girl is right, it’s a spiritual place.’

  ‘There, it’s decided,’ Felisa said, gaining in confidence. ‘We’ve finished the drafts and Camilo is a senior journalist, and it’s your birthday.’ She touched Luke’s sleeve.

  ‘Perhaps he would rather we went without him,’ Camilo said, ‘and left him here, in peace.’

  Luke looked at him. Something unspoken passed between the two men.

  ‘All right,’ he said, emptying his glass and turning to Felisa. ‘I’ll come, if that’s what you want.’

  21

  Estación de la Sabana, the city’s main train station, was a forty-minute walk from his apartment. Luke didn’t mind it. He planned on travelling light, taking a beat-up leather bag containing only a change of shirt and trousers to last the week. He also had the straw hat he’d purchased for ten centavos, far more than he should have, determined to put it to use on this, his first trip outside of the city. Without questioning it, he’d also packed the photo of Catherine on the Rocks – the one of her taken all those years ago on that beach. He’d started thinking of it by that name, because in some small way it offered distance, as though she were nothing but a pretty face locked in a painting of sorts. Thoughts of Felisa swam closer to shore now. He was taking the photograph with him to get rid of it. Felisa had mentioned a sacrifice of sorts and in a moment lacking total clarity, he’d decided to bring it with him for the purpose of exorcising himself of her.

  Over yesterday’s lunch, the three of them had made a rough plan. They’d agreed to take the eight-thirty train out of the city the next day – ‘There’s no time like now,’ Felisa had insisted, as though her urgency to leave was greater than theirs. Camilo, Luke noticed, went along with practically anything she said. And so it was set, their adventure would begin on the last Saturday before Christmas. Felisa had explained the journey. They would take the north-eastern line, stopping at Puente Aranda, Chapinero and Usaquén on the outskirts of the city, then on to Ramel Samper, San Antonio, La Caro, Briceño and Tocancipá before reaching their destination, Gachancipá. She counted the stations out on her fingers. From there, they’d take a bus, Felisa had shown, weaving her hand along the tablecloth to show how the road cut alongside the mountains to Sesquilé, and then between the peaks, keeping to the low road that would lead them to Guatavita. Six and a half hours, if they were lucky.

  ‘Everyone is leaving,’ Camilo had added. The city would be empty by Sunday. Luke didn’t know whether he’d meant everyone was leaving for elsewhere or with them. What kind of a place was this Guatavita? It had all come about so fast and in the fresh morning light seemed rash now. How might it look to Karl, to Osorio? Karl had taken the plans for the city centre. There wasn’t time now to call at the mayor’s office to check whether he’d delivered them. He’d have to trust him, and he did trust him, didn’t he? I need to get away, Luke thought. There had been no let-up between La Merced and the new project. Until now, the furthest he’d managed was Osorio’s hacienda. These things; these things stopped him thinking about Felisa. A whole week away with her – away from the project and her politics. They’d be alone, almost. Did Camilo suspect them? Camilo was a journalist and journalists were good at detail. I will have to learn to mind myself, Luke thought.

  La Sabana station was big and imposing and looked a lot like Europe, Luke thought, taking in the tall columns that ran the length of its main concourse. He was early but there was already a crowd gathered at the ticket desk and luggage stacking up beside porters, official or otherwise. He spotted Camilo almost immediately, leaning against one of the pillars. Luke went over.

  ‘What time did you get here?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ Camilo laughed, nervously. ‘Last night, perhaps?’

  ‘And Felisa – is she here, too?’ Luke looked around as casually as he could.

  Camilo shook his head.

  ‘There’s time,’ Luke checked his watch. It was ten past now. There was an awkward silence in which he struggled for something to say. ‘I never said thank you, properly, for the article.’

  ‘You didn’t need to,’ Camilo said plainly. ‘They promoted me because of it.’

  ‘Congratulations again, then.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve booked us seats already.’ Camilo’s face broke into a grin. He lifted his arm, waving their tickets above his head. ‘She’s here!’

  Luke turned to see Felisa coming towards them.

/>   ‘Have you seen the line of people?’ she asked, coming up beside him. She snatched the tickets from Camilo. ‘Tickets already? This is very out of character, Milo.’

  ‘Queue if you like, Felisa; Luke and I are leaving.’ He picked up Luke’s bag as well as his own. ‘It’s Platform 1 when you’re ready. Come on, Luke.’ Camilo walked off in the direction of the trains.

  ‘Very out of character,’ she said, when they were alone.

  ‘Shall I take your bag?’ Luke asked her, noticing she’d packed as lightly as he had.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Felisa said. ‘We should hurry.’

  They found Camilo on the train. He had secured them a private compartment and Luke wondered how much it was down to his uncle’s connections, as opposed to his increase in salary. The carriage was old-fashioned and ornate. Luke, in his weekend clothes, felt underdressed.

  ‘Don’t expect the same treatment on the way back,’ Camilo said. ‘I could only afford one way.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Luke said.

  ‘Already I feel less… absorbed,’ Felisa said, stretching out along one side of the car.

  Camilo smiled at Luke.

  ‘You’ve no idea what awaits you, Luke. Camilo,’ she said, turning to him, ‘you haven’t been to Guatavita either.’

  ‘Why would I go to Guatavita?’ Camilo asked. ‘I’ve had no need to.’

  He had that look again. Luke hoped he wouldn’t sulk the entire week.

  ‘Luke,’ she said, making the K sound softer than it was. ‘Guatavita was special to the Muisca people.’

  ‘El Dorado,’ Camilo cut in.

  ‘In Chibcha it means high peak, or end of the fertile fields,’ she continued. ‘Their king, the Zipa, would be painted in gold and then rowed out to the centre of the lake by his subjects. He would jump in to wash it from his body and then, before returning to shore, he threw offerings of solid gold to the goddess, Chia.’ Felisa looked at him. ‘As he had offered himself.’

  ‘You realise it’s long gone,’ Camilo said.