Night Prayers

by Santiago Gamboa

  9

  The next day, the prosecutor arrived punctually at seven in the morning, in a brand-new black Toyota Crown with smoked windows. Drizzle was falling, and it was hot. We left the center slowly, negotiating a noisy wall of cars, tuk-tuks, bicycles, and buses. Asian cities are always like that, colorful and chaotic: signs above the streets occupying the visual space, banners on both sides of the avenues. At that hour the smell was different: exhaust fumes, overheated tires, fried spicy meat, boiled coconut. Each time we stopped at a traffic light, the vendors came to the window to wave their offerings: fake watches, bags of cardamom, Montblanc pens for ten dollars, leather jackets by Armani or some other brand name.

  The traffic was heavy, but it flowed.

  “It used to be much worse,” the prosecutor said. “Ten years ago there was a jam that lasted for eleven days. We had to lift the cars out by helicopter. We built overpasses and this is what came after. As you can see, the bottle is filling up again and they’ll have to do something. If we didn’t have so many of the underclass coming to the city, things would be better.”

  The air-conditioning was going full blast. One of the vents, the one above my leg, was dripping. At last we got onto a fast-moving lane and, with the siren on, we were able to advance. The city was left behind, and the landscape filled with poor farmhouses, plane trees, paddy fields, and palms. From time to time, we’d see an artificial lake with lotus flowers. After a while, the driver turned onto a main road that seemed to move away from the country and go back to the city, until we hit a suburb, and finally came to a wall of concrete and stone. On top, it had barbed wire and watchtowers.

  This was Bangkwang Prison.

  “There’s an old legend,” the prosecutor said. “Before, when all this area was wilder, chimpanzees used to come and climb the walls. They liked to walk between the security cables and get into the watchtowers. Some even went down into the cells. The guards discovered it was fun to shoot them, and the prisoners would keep them and eat them. They were full of protein. Then they stopped coming. Now everybody misses them, and they say the ghosts of the chimpanzees run about the roofs. We’re a superstitious country. How about yours? I’ve seen that you don’t have the death penalty, but that there are more executions than there are here, how can that be? You’ll have to explain it to me.”

  Fortunately the questions were rhetorical, since he continued speaking, gesticulating, explaining.

  It was already nearly nine and the thermometer was still rising. The fact is, I would have given my life for an iced gin (even at that hour). The prosecutor parked to one side of the gate, and, after saluting the guards, we went up to the offices. There he introduced me to the warden, a man with a face full of scars and warts who shook my hand without looking at me.

  He knows why I’m here, I thought, he must have received hundreds of diplomats asking for the same thing.

  He made no attempt to be polite, and deep down I was pleased. If anything annoyed me about my job, it was unnecessary smiles and feigned interest. Then he led us along a corridor without air conditioning, from where you could already hear the sounds of the prisoners. Heat rose in a kind of thick steam.

  “Please sit here,” he said when we came to a kind of classroom. “We’ll bring him.”

  I waited, beating my fingers on a table perforated by termites. Then came the sound of a barred door opening, the jangling of keys.

  I saw him come in, dragging his feet, his ankles chained together. It was true that he was thin. Gustavo had given a good description: he was indeed like a figure out of El Greco.

  As he approached, I noticed he was very nervous, although he said nothing until the guard let go of his arm. We introduced ourselves, and he looked at me with surprise.

  “The writer?”

  I nodded, feeling rather uncomfortable.

  “I haven’t read your books,” he said, “but let me say something that may surprise you. This isn’t going to be a crime story, it’s going to be a love story. I’ll explain why later.”

  He seemed to sway, looked around nervously, and continued:

  “They told me I have to plead guilty, or they’ll give me the death penalty, is that right? When am I going to get out of here? You have come to get me out, haven’t you?”

  I nodded. Then I looked at the prosecutor.

  “Leave us alone, please.”

  “I don’t understand your language,” he replied irritably. “Nobody here understands it, it’s the same as being alone.”

  “His feet are chained, he’s not going anywhere.”

  “Good for him,” he said. “You have ten minutes.”

  He lit a cigarette and walked reluctantly to the end of the cellblock. Then he made a noise—I don’t know if it was a word, I wasn’t listening—and the others too moved away.

  The prisoner looked at me insistently. “Have you come to get me out? Will I leave here with you?”

  “I wish that were possible,” I said. “The charge against you is a serious one. They’re going to ask for the death penalty, and there’s not much you can do, except plead guilty. If you do that, they’ll give you thirty years and then you can apply for a pardon or the king’s mercy. That can take eight or nine years. This afternoon I’m going to hire the best lawyer in Bangkok, but I know from the prosecutor that acquittal is impossible. There’s a bag of pills as evidence. I’m going to consult with Bogotá so that the Ministry can ask officially for your sentence to be served in Colombia, but that takes time, and there’s nothing we can do if it’s a death sentence. Do you understand? Once it’s been pronounced it can be carried out at any moment. The lawyer and the prisoner are informed two hours in advance.”

  “Are you telling me to plead guilty?” he said, shaking his head, clearly upset. “The first time I saw that damned bag of pills was when the police showed up. I don’t know where it came from. I was doing something else, Consul, not that.”

  “I believe you, but that’s not the problem. We’re going to investigate to see if we can find out what happened. It may be they’ll catch someone. In any case, until the day of the hearing there’s nothing to be done.”

  Manuel looked at me without blinking and I asked him a question. The dumbest and saddest of questions.

  “Are they treating you well?”

  He didn’t answer in words. His face clouded over and his eyes filled with tears.

  “Do you want me to call someone in Colombia?” I said.

  He moved his head, saying, no, no … A scared, staccato no. I put a hand on his forearm and said, what about your family?

  “I don’t have anyone,” he said. “It’s best if everything stays here.”

  His fear seemed to go back a long way, even before Bangkwang and the bag of pills. A fear that had become part of his bloodstream, his cells. In his expression, I recognized what Gustavo had said: it was as if he had questions dammed up inside him and was afraid to bring them out into the light, to give them reality.

  “I’m a friend of Gustavo Chirolla,” I said.

  A light shone deep inside. He took a deep breath and said, “Old Tavo! Such a good teacher. A pity I didn’t often dare talk to him.”

  Our time was almost up, and the prosecutor was starting to get impatient. He gave me a sign, a click of the fingers.

  “I’ll be staying here and going over the case with the lawyer,” I said to Manuel. “It’s going to be all right. I’ll be back in three days. You can send for me if anything happens. I’ll be here for you.”

  He sank back into himself, like an animal retreating to the far end of its cave. The same curt expression as at the beginning. He moved a few steps forward and turned, without saying anything. I waved goodbye, but the prosecutor came between us and pushed me outside.

  “Let’s go,” he said, “I have to be in my office by noon.”

  Back at the hotel, I sat down to put my ideas in order. He’s innocent, there’s no doubt about it. What could he have meant by those words of his? “Let me sa
y something that may surprise you. This isn’t going to be a crime story, it’s going to be a love story. I’ll explain why later.”

  A love story? What kind of love can there be in all this?

  I sent the Consular Department an e-mail, saying that I needed funds to hire a lawyer because of the complexity of the situation. I also asked for legal advice and precedents. It was just after noon. I left my jacket and tie on the chair in my room, put on something more comfortable, and went out again.

  Hotel Regency Inn, Room 301. Suan Plu Soi 6, Sathorn Road, Thungmahamek, Silom.

  It was a fairly ordinary street. If you replaced the signs in the Thai language with ones in Spanish, it could have been in Bogotá, Lima, or Mexico City. A car missing a wheel at the side of the street. A bakery. On the corner, a pharmacy with a wooden counter painted blue. A wall with old faded signs and posters. Maybe advertising, maybe electoral propaganda.

  The hotel was at number six, an old building, dirty, but with pretentions. The Regency Inn sign hung from the second floor, although the “n” in “Regency” had fallen off. Its three-star status seemed a bit excessive, although I hadn’t yet gone in. I preferred to wait a while. Wait for what? I had no idea, but I killed time in the bakery. I walked past twice, looking furtively inside. In the end I made up my mind and went in. A dark, damp lobby. Carpets with cigarette burns. A smell of cigarette butts and stale air.

  “Welcome, sir, how can I help you?” said a young man with rotten teeth, with MP3 earbuds in his ears.

  I looked at him for a moment without knowing what to say.

  “I’d like to see the rooms, how much does a night cost?”

  “Twenty-five dollars, wait, I’ll give you a key,” he said.

  The smell of his decaying teeth knocked me out. I looked at the board where the keys were, 301 was free.

  “I’d like 301.”

  “Oh, that one? Very well, take it, sir. Don’t forget to hand it in before you go out. How many nights would that be?”

  Already on my way to the elevator, I said, without looking at him: I’d like to see it first, then we’ll see.

  It was the room where they had arrested Manuel Manrique. I didn’t think I’d find anything, I just wanted to take a look. Room 301 was the last room in a corridor that ended in a window, looking out on a rough, damp courtyard, with plants that clung to the wall and climbed the pipes.

  I opened the door, thinking that the police must have recorded everything many times. I was greeted by the same damp smell as in the lobby, but more concentrated. The air conditioner started up, filling the space with the gas from its condenser. That happens with old machines. The bed was small but decent, and next to it was a wardrobe of laminated wood. The carpet seemed in a better state than the one on the stairs. The window was at the same level as a curved overpass. At night, the lights of the cars must filter in through the blinds.

  I imagined Manuel sitting on that bed, the room receiving the intermittent flashing of the car lights projected on the wall. Maybe eating a chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke. The image of someone who wants something to happen, or who is protecting himself from something lying in wait for him. The smell of the room seemed to suggest: here he suffered in silence, in solitude. It struck me that in the middle of the night a place like that must have been populated by demons, at that cold hour when the birds call sadly to the sun. How long did Manuel spend here? I’d have to ask him. There were yellowish tiles on the bathroom floor. A mosquito was fluttering around the shower curtain, which was blackened and broken. I put my head in, but there was nothing. A mirror. The washbowl faucet was dripping.

  I went back to the corridor, the elevator. I descended to the lobby. I handed back the key and went out on the street, realizing that I was sweating. It was an oppressive place, or maybe it was me, or the story. I walked to the intersection with an avenue, hailed a taxi, and went back to the hotel.

  When I opened my e-mail, there was already a reply from Colombia: “Send budget to authorize funds. Write detailed report on the situation.”

  I called the Mexican embassy to talk with the counselor there, Teresa Acosta. I’d been told she could help me, and sure enough, she gave me an appointment for that same afternoon.

  The offices were in the Thai Way Tower, not very far from my hotel, an unusual granite and glass building in the business district, North Sathorn Road, the face of Asian capitalism, the most conspicuous, most strident face of modernity.

  “We haven’t had any cases of prisoners,” Teresa said, “but I’ve known of many, especially Australians and Brits. The best option is for the defendant to plead guilty and beg the king for clemency. That’s what they’d interpret as a proper show of respect for their legal system. Diplomacy is important. Sometimes, you can arrange for the defendant to serve his sentence in his own country. The hard part is doing all that without having an embassy. I’ll be honest with you. They’ll listen, but they won’t pay you the same attention, because they aren’t obliged to.”

  She gave me the telephone number of the lawyer. I called him from her office, and on Teresa’s recommendation, he agreed to see me the following day. In addition, Teresa offered to go with me, a gesture I greatly appreciated.

  She was a friendly, attractive woman, who looked good for her age: about forty, or maybe slightly more. I liked her, she struck me as a generous person. I suggested we go down on the street and have a drink while I heard her advice on what to do. She accepted, and we went to a bar near her office.

  She had been in Bangkok for three years, she was a career diplomat. The problems of her compatriots mostly revolved around robberies and the usual tricks played on tourists. Only once had there been a minor case involving possession of a small quantity of drugs, and it had resulted merely in provisional detention. That was how she knew the lawyer, who helped them with everything.

  I told her Manuel’s story and she listened to me with a surprised expression.

  “A young philosopher?” she said. “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard! There have been cases of people accused of things in order to keep the police or even the press quiet and give breathing space to those who are really involved. It’s a delicate matter. You’ll have to handle it with kid gloves.”

  We kept ordering gin and Cuba Libres until we felt pleasantly drunk and a tad hungry. She suggested we have dinner in a place typical of her neighborhood, Sukhumvit, which turned out to be a very lively area full of restaurants and bars, with tables out on the street and neon signs.

  “Do you like fish?” she said as we sat down on the terrace of a place called Bo Lan. “Because if you do, you can try this, look.”

  She pointed to the menu: red snapper in turmeric curry with coconut milk, a Renaissance dish that’s called geng guwa pla dtaeng in Thai. We ordered it, and as we drank our aperitifs I thought of the great Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, who died in the airport of this city as he was changing planes and who actually wrote a novel called The Birds of Bangkok. I mentioned it to Teresa.

  “I know the book,” she said. “There’s an episode where Pepe Carvalho has dinner in a Chinese restaurant called the Shangri La, eats duck, and then goes to the Atami massage parlor, which if I’m not mistaken still exists. You can go there later, if you like. The women are supposed to be stunning.”

  “It isn’t Vázquez Montalbán’s best novel,” I said. “There’s something very eighties Spain about it, the way it depicts Asia as a ridiculously exotic place. The characters talk like in Tintin: ‘Velly nice city, we visit?’”

  The food was delicious, and we drank more alcohol, including the Mekong, a cocktail mentioned by Vázquez Montalbán (it was through reading him that I’d discovered the Singapore Sling and Lagavulin whisky). After the check, Teresa invited me to have one last drink on the terrace of her apartment.

  “I’ll offer you a tour of Bangkok in one minute,” she said.

  She lived on the top floor of a huge building, from which, sure enough, there was a 360-degree vie
w of the city: the metallic purple lights of the skyscrapers, the black silhouette of the river, the congested roads in the distance, the luminous profile of a never-ending metropolis.

  Her apartment was a pleasant deux pièces with antiques, designer objects, and an original José Luis Cuevas on the wall, Portrait of a Woman. We continued talking.

  “My husband and I separated rather abruptly,” she said, “but there are people who get married at the point at which we parted. I loved him a lot. I still do.”

  Her elder daughter was completing a doctorate in human rights and lived in Aguascalientes. The younger one was about to graduate in political science from the Sorbonne. She was a career civil servant but she liked literature and, of course, kept under lock and key a few poems of her own that she wouldn’t have shown anybody for anything in the world. She talked to me about Bonifaz Nuño, Octavio Paz, Gerardo Deniz. I told her I had read Gatuperio and she could hardly believe her eyes. “You know Deniz? You’re kidding! He’s hardly known outside Mexico!”

  When a conversation turns to literature, there’s no end to it, so we refilled our glasses. I tried to sum up for her what I admired about Mexico. A sea of letters that comes and goes in the Gulf, that rocks and sways through the jungles of Chiapas and the deserts of Sonora, Ciudad Juárez and the north. Mexico was the country of Colombian writers. That struck her as amusing. Others say the opposite, that people go to Mexico to die.

  “It’s the same thing,” I said, quite merry by now. “Where we live, we die, don’t we?”

  She asked about Octavio Paz in Delhi. I told her that from a literary point of view India was Pazian or Octavian, I’m not sure of the word, Paztec? Octavian? Octopazian? We laughed.

  The residence of the Mexican embassy is a tourist attraction, I told her, I was shown it by your colleague Conrado Tostado, the cultural attaché, the same person who gave me your telephone number, of course. It’s on Prithviraj Road. The nim tree is still there, where Paz married Marie José in 1964, a year before I was born, and she cried out, ’64? then we’re the same age, that’s something to be celebrated, before you go you have to try a tequila, and she took out a colored bottle, pulled the cork, and said, wait and see, this is really fantastic stuff from Mexico, and she showed me the label, José Cuervo, Special Family Reserve, it’s like brandy, better even, and I added: if we talk about the development of the human spirit, the most influential personalities of the twentieth century are Johnnie Walker, Smirnoff, the Bacardis, and José Cuervo, don’t you think it’s strange that there are no women? and she said, there is a Japanese woman, Banana Split! she cried, laughing drunkenly, letting drops fall from her mouth, but I said, that doesn’t count because it doesn’t have alcohol, and she said, then you just have to pour a little in, right? and what about Bloody Mary? and I said, we’re forgetting the most obvious, Margarita! and a very important lady, Veuve Clicquot! then she stood up and said, look, listen to this, but only one, I swear, and she put on José Alfredo Jiménez.