That was the moment, Consul, when I decided to go to Japan and look for her.
The next question, obviously, was, how to get there? Of course the decision was connected to another one, the decision to leave home forever. I couldn’t turn to Father, because if I did I’d have to tell him everything and hurt him even more. I felt that now was the moment, that, as they say in romantic stories, fate was knocking at my door. Knock, knock. The hour had come for me to go. Deciding to do so made me euphoric and I started with the most complicated thing. I took out Juana’s plane ticket, went on a website offering cheap flights, eDreams, and checked the fares. The journey from Bogotá—Juana’s was from Quito—would cost seven thousand dollars. In other words, to find her, I would need at least twice that. About fifteen thousand dollars, thirty million pesos, which was in the realm of fantasy, even for Father.
Where could I get hold of that kind of money? I fell asleep making calculations. Working and saving, it would take at least two years. Out of the question. Sell something? I had nothing of value. Rob? I couldn’t think whom. A sliver of an idea crossed my mind: Father worked in a bank, couldn’t I rob it? After all, Brecht taught us that it’s a worse crime to create a bank than to rob it. But these were idle thoughts, it would be like planting a dagger in Father’s heart, and he’d already been hurt enough.
What to do, then?
I spent a week thinking and nothing occurred to me. Everything that came to mind was impossible or ridiculous. I actually imagined I was robbing a supermarket like the Pomona on Seventh, not far from my house, but I calculated that I would have to rob it at least three times to get the full amount together. It was impossible for someone like me to get hold of that much money.
After a while I hit on an idea that was also fairly desperate, but was the only one that didn’t seem impossible.
The former Miss Colombia.
Maybe she could think of a way for me to make that journey. Without asking for an appointment I went to the modeling agency. The secretary said, oh, you’re back! Obviously you like it, and winked. I wasn’t too sure what she was referring to, but she announced me and the former Miss Colombia received me in the same office, looking rather more of a mess than the first time, maybe due to the fact that there were a half-empty bottle of aguardiente and a plastic cup on the desk. When she saw me, she smiled and said:
How did it go with Juana? did you find her?
I said no, I’d barely started. I told her I’d called the Colombian embassy in Tokyo and that they had no record of her. Nor had she been arrested. I don’t know why I felt the need to tell her all that.
The former Miss Colombia looked at me with interest and offered me a drop of aguardiente. I accepted. Then she went to the bathroom and came back ten seconds later, rubbing her gums with one finger.
So what are you planning to do, darling? she said.
I’m convinced Juana is there and I want to go and find her, I said. I’ve already made up my mind, but I have a problem: the money. The journey costs fifteen thousand dollars and I don’t have it. That’s why I came here. Maybe you can think of a way to finance me, make me a loan, something like that.
The former Miss Colombia didn’t say no immediately, but moved her head up and down.
Okay, okay, she said. It’s difficult, and it is a lot of money, but let me see. Write your cell phone number on this piece of paper, and if I think of something I’ll make sure they call you, and you’ll come, all right?
I thanked her and went out on the street. That she hadn’t said no, or laughed in my face, seemed to me already a success. She was the only person who could help me. Now I just had to wait.
And that was what I did: I waited and waited, nervously watching the display screen of my cell phone. Five or six days went by, I can’t remember exactly, until at last it rang.
Manuel Manrique? a voice asked. You have an appointment at the modeling agency on Friday night at seven. I said I’d be there on time.
Three nervous, frantic days passed. When you’re waiting, time is heavy, impossible to get hold of. I don’t know anything about time.
By 6:40 on Friday evening I was at the door of the building, looking insistently at my watch. I smoked a cigarette, then another. 6:49. I went in slowly and walked up to the third floor. The secretary was more jovial than usual. How delightful of you to come back and see us, she said loudly; but as she said the last words drool ran from her mouth. Very strange.
This time the former Miss Colombia had a bottle of vodka and a cooler. With her was a man who also looked familiar, an old TV heartthrob whose name I couldn’t remember.
They poured me a drink. She was the one who spoke first.
I’ve been thinking over what you told me about Tokyo, but the truth is, what we might be interested in is Bangkok. I told her that my sister’s journey had taken her through Bangkok.
She and the man looked at each other for a moment and nodded. Then he spoke.
We’d be prepared to pay for your entire journey, to give you the fifteen thousand dollars, but you have to bring us back a small case some friends of ours in Bangkok are sending us.
And what’s in this case? I said, although, Consul, you’d have had to be an idiot not to realize that it was something to do with drugs. I knew where I was and who they were, but my need was great and required me to take risks. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Some pills, the kind that people take in discos, the man said. It’s no problem, my friends there will help you to pack them. We’ve already done it lots of times and nothing ever happens.
It was my only chance and I thought I’d be able to get away from them. Or that I’d come back with her. When I was with Juana, we’d find a way to get out of this. So I said yes.
I accept. What do I have to do?
A relatively simple process started. I had to go to 100th Street to get a passport. Then decide on a date. The Holy Week holidays would be ideal in order not to arouse suspicion. They agreed. That was less than a month away. They gave me half a million pesos for the preparations: a suitcase, vacation clothes, things for the journey, a diary, a camera, I had to make my journey credible. They asked for my address in Bogotá and my parents’ names. That bothered me, since I knew that if I didn’t do what they wanted they would go looking for them. But that would be after Juana, and with her the problems of the world would cease to exist. Together we could face anything, so I gave them the dates, the names, I told them where my father worked, the telephone number of his office.
They checked it in front of me, calling him, telling him it was a special offer of a trip to Cartagena de Indias, to which he, of course, answered no and told them to go to hell and hung up on them, insulting them for calling him and bothering him during working hours, which was very much like him, of course, a trip to Cartagena de Indias? what an idea.
I couldn’t keep the things at home, so I left them at the modeling agency.
One Thursday, I arrived after five in the evening to leave a digital camera that I had gotten hold of, secondhand, at the Lago shopping mall, and the secretary opened the door to me, smiling from ear to ear. She was more cheerful than usual and said, come in, darling, can I help you?
I explained it to her and she came with me to the office of the former Miss Colombia, who wasn’t there. I bent down to open the suitcase and put in the camera and a memory stick.
When I turned around, I saw that she was lifting her skirt and showing me her shaved pubis; the strange thing is that she was laughing and at the same time drooling, a strange expression, either of stupidity or anal dilation, so I said to her, are you all right?, and she said, oh, darling, don’t you think I’m pretty or what? look how sexy I am, and she reached out her hand and said, here, take this and she came up to me and gave me a red pill, take it, handsome, and just see how good you feel.
I put it under my tongue without swallowing it and straightened up, but she threw herself on me and tried to kiss me, and in the struggle I ended up swallowing
the damned pill; a minute later I felt a tickling in my blood, a great calm, and a desire for lots of things, as if my body and my skin couldn’t cope, and then the woman led me over to a couch, pulled down my trousers, and started to suck my cock. A mountain of sugar dissolved in my veins, and I lost all notion of time. Suddenly she turned, put herself on all fours, kneeling on the couch, and said, will you fuck me, darling? I stopped seeing her, there was nothing in front of me but a spiral of colors, like fireworks.
I regained consciousness on the street, walking to Seventh with the sun behind me, in the middle of a violent sunset that brought out the outlines of the hills and turned them into masses of color, like paintings by Rothko; I walked along, feeling strong, and told myself, all this is about to change, for the first time my life is going to be truly mine.
When I got to Eleventh I had a hallucination: Juana was sitting in the branches of a willow tree, next to a shop selling cell phones. With her hand, she said to me, come, Manuel, come, and she whispered, I’m waiting for you, you’ll find me if you follow the signs I left, a path of shiny leaves in the wood, a symbolic wood, like the one in Baudelaire, you’ll see, it’ll be easy, and when we’re together we’ll go to another planet, the one you’re going to create with your imagination for the two of us, so that both of us can be happy.
Five days later, I left my home forever.
I said goodbye to Father, who was in the dining room underlining and analyzing the newspaper, which he did every morning before going to work. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, goodbye, Dad, look after yourself. He looked at me for a moment, a little surprised, but didn’t say anything; then I waved goodbye to Mother, who barely responded, just lifted her chin slightly.
By ten, I was at the airport. The flight to São Paulo wasn’t leaving until past noon. The former Miss Colombia and her friend went with me as far as Immigration. In the Juan Valdez Café, before boarding, the man gave me an envelope with five thousand dollars, which I put in my jacket. I already had a list with the telephone numbers and names I had to contact, and in any case, they said, someone would be waiting for me at the airport. In Bangkok I would spend a couple of days making those contacts. Once that was done, and everything was ready, I would go to Tokyo for a week to look for my sister. Then I would go back to Bangkok to pick up the merchandise and make the return journey to Colombia. They agreed that, in that way, I would arouse less suspicion. It was a simple plan.
My secret plan was different: once I found Juana in Japan, I’d get lost. Nothing else mattered to me anymore.
They went with me to the international departures entrance and said goodbye with big hugs, as if they were my parents. I was trembling slightly as I walked to Immigration.
I was leaving Bogotá, leaving Colombia. I couldn’t believe it.
The Immigration officer asked me a routine question, where are you traveling to? São Paulo, I replied, showing my boarding pass. He stamped my passport. I passed through baggage check, where they searched me a couple of times. I went into the duty-free shop. Then I sat down in the departure lounge and looked at the other passengers, the hustle and bustle, the rush.
When I got on the plane everything was new. They gave me a window seat, just behind the wing. Was I nervous? Yes, a little. The movie of my whole life passed through my mind, the way they say it happens when you’re about to die. Next to me sat a young Brazilian girl with an iPod. She smelled good and was very beautiful. When she leaned forward she revealed the top half of her tanned ass. She asked me if I was going to Brazil on vacation. A few moments later, the plane started moving and taxied to the runway. It gathered speed and I sank into my seat. I felt a strange pleasure and a second later saw my hated city from above.
Poor, wretched Bogotá, I thought, I’m never going to see you again.
The plane did a number of turns until I lost sight of it. I felt something strange running down my cheeks. I was crying again.
I crossed the world. I flew over the Amazon and the Atlantic. I passed over Africa and reached the Persian Gulf. Then Asia Minor, India, and finally, the Malay Peninsula and my first destination, Thailand.
At Bangkok airport I was absolutely determined to get away from the former Miss Colombia and her partner, so once I’d collected my baggage, I slipped away through the crowd, hailed a taxi, and went to a hotel that I had chosen over the Internet with that in mind. It wasn’t the one they had booked for me and I thought that this way I could evade them. To avoid upsets, I stayed in my room after registering. The plan was not to go out until three days had passed, during which time I would wait before carrying on to Tokyo.
I’m not naive, I knew they would look for me and raise the alarm. The only thing I could do was remain hidden, not move, and each day would be a small triumph. The first one was like that. There were no strange movements. That night, I went down and ate in the cafeteria and didn’t see anything threatening, although the service people looked at me with strange expressions. Twelve thousand miles from my city, everything was bound to be strange, I told myself. The second day was the same, and I ventured outside. To be on the safe side, I took the money, the passport, and the ticket with me. If they came to my room they could keep everything, nothing that was in the case mattered to me. I went down to the river and crossed it in a canoe. I saw the skyline of the city in the sunset and it struck me as sad. The river was sad too, as if it was carrying along with it something that never get completely clean, as if it was running through a membrane that was about to burst painfully.
When night fell I had dinner in a restaurant that had a terrace over the Chao Phraya. I kept looking at it, hypnotized by that desolation. I should have listened to what it was telling me, but I couldn’t understand it. I got back to the hotel at eleven that night and lay down to sleep, thinking that the following day, very early, I would go to the airport. At six in the morning someone knocked at the door. I was scared and stayed in bed, hoping they would go away, which was highly unlikely. They knocked more loudly and I got up and looked through the peephole. They were police officers and that calmed me down. I opened the door and asked what was going on, but instead of answering they pushed me with my face against the wall. Then they handcuffed me and took me out into the corridor.
They brought me here and the rest you know. They found those pills in my case, but they weren’t mine, I didn’t put them there. I was trying to escape and they caught me, and that was the punishment. The police know that. I haven’t committed any crime.
15
Manuel stopped speaking and sat there in silence, in the darkest corner of his cell. I supposed it was the first time he had spoken so much, the first time he had told his life story in such an extensive and desperate way. It was clear to me that he wanted to save himself. That was the deep meaning of his story: a cry for help. Then he said:
“Consul, the reason I told you all this is because I want to ask you something. Find her for me. Go to Tokyo and bring back Juana. That may seem a lot to ask, but it’s my last request. Think of it as the final wish of a condemned man.”
I was silent for a moment, looking at him. In spite of everything, he still believed in something. He was barely twenty-seven years old, that must have been it. We soon forget our youth and what it entails. I noted down a few names. This wasn’t really my role, I was thinking, but I’d once written: “When you know the right thing to do, the hard thing is not to do it.” That phrase had acquired a new meaning, its eloquence was showing me the way, there in the hot, dirty air of Bangkwang.
I said yes, I would go and find her, but in return he had to plead guilty to save his life.
“If you find her, my life is hers,” Manuel said. “I’ll do whatever Juana says.”
When I left, it was pouring rain. Another of those tropical downpours that arrive suddenly and obscure the air. I refused the tea offered me by one of the prison trusties and walked back to my taxi. The driver was asleep in the backseat.
We returned to the city beneath column
s of water and roaring clouds. The paddy fields glittered, illuminated by a slanting sun that came from another part of the sky. I went straight to see the lawyer, thanked him for arranging my visit, and again asked him to take personal charge of the case. As he spoke, I saw that he had an open book on the table. It was The History of Rome by Jules Michelet, in an English translation. Once again he had surprised me.
Noticing that I was looking at the book, he said:
“You know what I’ve always thought? It’s curious that your culture, Western culture, comes from that crazy empire, with its Caligulas and its Heliogabaluses. It’s no surprise that you’re living through such an incomprehensible era today.”
I looked at him with approval. I thought to say something but preferred to keep silent, now was not the time to start a historical discussion.
“The day after tomorrow I’m going back to Delhi,” I said. “I’ll call you frequently, and keep in contact. It’s important to know the date of the hearing in time. My compatriot is ready to plead guilty, but I’d prefer things to be cleared up before that, I hope the police can get at the truth. He’s innocent, I have no doubt of that.”
The old lawyer looked at me in silence. “It’s good that he’s innocent,” he said, “that’ll make things easier. The truth always comes out in the end. Don’t worry, Consul. You can go knowing I’ll be taking up the reins of the case and keeping you informed.”
From there I called Teresa, I wanted to say goodbye. We arranged to meet at seven that evening in the bar of the Blue Elephant. Then I went down onto the street and walked aimlessly until I reached a place called Paradise Tower. It was a shopping mall. On one of its avenues there was a little bar that looked out on a park and there I sat down and watched the people. The rain had stopped. I ordered a double gin with lemon and ice. A second later, a young girl sat down beside me. She was wearing white hot pants that looked like cream against her skin. The color of her nails and heels didn’t match. She asked me what my name was, where I was from, if I was alone, and if I’d buy her a drink. I told her she could order whatever she liked, but that I wasn’t looking for company. She ordered a Singha beer and moved slowly away, looking back at me.
Night Prayers Page 13