One day I asked him if he had known Malraux and he said yes: when he was very young, in Hong Kong, he’d had to accompany him during an official visit, when Malraux was minister of culture. That was when he had dedicated his book to him. And he added: an arrogant, unscrupulous man. He would have given anything to be richer, more famous, and more powerful than he was, but deep down he never stopped being a parvenu. He actually despised him, and the only reason he kept that book was to remember the irritation such people aroused in him. Who did he admire? I asked, and he said: Céline, a writer who had the courage to say what all of France thought, and who kept saying it right to the end, when saying it earned him a prison sentence. Or Jules Barbey D’Aurevilly, accused of being a pornographer and a monarchist in a country where everybody is a monarchist and a pornographer. He liked Jarrès and Pierre Loüys. Jean Genet too, except when he campaigned for noble causes, and he said, angrily: I can’t stand writers who support noble causes! They’re opportunists who thrive on other people’s blood, hypocrites. When the streets are running with blood, the only sensible advice is that of Baron Rothschild: to buy property. Among contemporaries he admired Houellebecq, because in him he recognized that same spirit unconstrained by conservative morality. France had always had writers like that, according to him, because that crudeness and coldness was part of the Gallic chromosome. He took as an example the language itself, and said: French, which people think is a pretty, sonorous language, is one of the hardest and most hostile. You just have to look at its cruel expressions for referring to cruel things: elle s’est fait violer! (“She had herself raped” instead of “she was raped.”) It’s a language of brute peasants! Only the wicked and the homicidal can get beauty from it, people like Rimbaud or Baudelaire, or like the Marquis de Sade, who was confined to a dungeon and who, according to a very bad film, wrote with his own shit, which is quite ridiculous, of course.
As I climbed the steep, dark, gloomy streets of Upper Chapinero, I would ask myself, what will Monsieur Echenoz tell me about today? Then I started to do my classwork with him. He would tell me to reach him this or that book, and read it to him. Sometimes he himself looked at the index. Of course he couldn’t read aloud, because he didn’t have enough air in his lungs, but I could, and in this way we advanced. I would write and he would read. He would make comments, help me with my writing. He was very strict about words. He always said that ideas were an illusion of language and that’s why in writing you had to be hypnotic, precise, and direct. That’s the one truth, he would say: that which is well expressed, which convinces through its form. I took note of this and then read over what I’d written and realized the number of extraordinary things I was learning with him.
One night, about one in the morning, he had such a strong fit of coughing and choking that I had to call an ambulance. They gave him oxygen and took him away. I wanted to go with him, but one of his sons had arrived and they wouldn’t let me get in the ambulance. I thought he was going to die and I felt really anxious. They kept him in the Andes Medical Center for three weeks; I spent them keeping my eye on my cell phone in the hope that they would call and say: you can come back, Monsieur Echenoz is home again.
It was then, during those days of waiting, that the story broke in the press of eleven young men from Soacha, first presented as “disappeared,” and then reported as killed while fighting the army near Ocaña in Santander province. It was a great scandal, do you remember? Uribe went on television and said they weren’t disappeared but criminals, who had fallen in combat against the army. The family said they hadn’t been guerrillas, just unemployed young men. Uribe defended the army, but people started to protest, to go out on the street. Cases came to light in other parts of the country and there were more testimonies and accusations. The army put on a brave face: the safety of the citizens rests on our shoulders and our blood, the army is tireless in its task of building peace, these lies are being spread by terrorists and their accomplices, decent people have nothing to fear, we are an honest, humane army, our weapons are the basis of a new society, free from the scourge of violence, long live the state of law, long live President Uribe.
As was to be expected, Mother brought up the subject at dinner, saying, what’s the problem? why all this fuss over a bunch of dope fiends? Father refused to take part in the discussion, in the hope that it would die out by itself, but I couldn’t just bite my tongue, so I said, since when have we been on the side of the murderers? what’s happened to this family? when are you going to realize what’s going on in this country? and Mother lost her temper and retorted, what’s going on in this country isn’t what those terrorists at the National say, they only know what’s going on in the country that belongs to FARC and ELN, not in ours; the president, who is actually the president and not just some journalist, already explained what happened on television, and so did the attorney general, and they already know that those guys really were fighting the army, and you know how it is, those who live by the sword die by the sword, and I said, those poor guys were murdered, that’s social cleansing, like the paramilitaries do in other regions, social cleansing done by the army to earn rewards, it’s a State crime and Uribe is covering it up, and then Father got into the discussion and said, oh, Juanita, stop talking bullshit, how can it be a State crime when the army faces up to bandits, on the contrary, it’d be a crime if they didn’t defend us, Juanita, what they tell you at the university is really very twisted, you saw the president speaking, you saw the attorney general confirming that they had died while fighting, do you think they’re lying? do you think the president and the attorney general, the two highest authorities in the land, are lying? no, Juanita, let’s not exaggerate either, but I said to both of them, yes, they are lying, those boys were murdered, I believe the mothers, and then Mother said, oh, yes? and what would you have the mothers say about those lazy bums? they should have brought them up better.
I was so angry that the following Sunday I went with two fellow students to Soacha and we took part in a demonstration on behalf of the disappeared; I saw powerless women carrying pictures of their sons, raising banners, and weeping and shouting the names of those young men, some of whom had been brought back to them in bags, but not all; some said that their sons still hadn’t come back, not even dead, and my fellow students and I started shouting, and I felt grief and infinite pity, because what these poor mothers were asking for, that is, justice and truth, seemed such a crazy idea, a princely whim, because, as my parents said, who was going to question what the president and the attorney general both said, but I thought, anyone seeing these women walking, so dignified in their grief, anyone seeing how some collapse and fall on the ground and the others stop the procession and lift them up, anyone seeing that can only believe in them, and so I grabbed the arm of one of them and started to call out the name of her son, a boy who could have been my age or Manuel’s, I started to shout and she clung to me and we walked, and I noticed that she smelled of oil and onion and fresh coriander, and I thought, before coming to demonstrate these women left food ready for their other children and made the beds and washed clothes, and I felt something similar to the day I started at the National, and I thought again, this is my country! not the country of the hypocrites, not the country of those who close their eyes or the country of the murderers, and I was so moved that I started to cry and it was the woman who consoled me, saying, why are you crying, girl? and I said, I’m crying for all this, for what they did to you, because there are things that can never be made up for, and I’m crying with anger over the lies and the cynicism, and she passed her hand over my head and said, calm down, girl, keep walking, and I was able to do so, but at each step I told myself, it’s important to know and important to take revenge, there must be something I can do.
The following week Monsieur Echenoz returned home, so I went to look after him. What joy to walk up the little streets, cross the park, and climb the steps that led to his big old house. It was only then that I realized to what extent h
e had become part of my life, my little life, the thread of a story that I could continue. He was very frail, his skin wizened and covered with purplish veins around his nose. He was very pleased to see me and, as had been the case before his attack, I noticed that he was waiting anxiously for the other nurse to go so that he could be alone with me.
I told him about what I had seen in Soacha and said that I wanted to do something, and he said, they murdered those boys and while they’re putting together a story they come out and deny it, presenting details that deflect attention, and in the end there will be another scandal to distract people, but those women must keep going out on the street and you must support them, he said to me, and then, with a sly look, he added: you could try something else, do it from within. I looked at him in surprise, from within? Yes, he said. You’re young and pretty, you could get close to whoever you want and find out whatever you want. It may be difficult, but not impossible. Try to reach as high as you can, you may be able to help them from there. I already told you once: there is nothing a woman can’t get. Sex is the most powerful weapon on earth. I’m eighty-three years old and it’s the only thing I miss, the only reason I’d like to be young again. Anyone who tells you the opposite is either a dreamer or a fool who confuses real life with ideas and suppositions about how life should be. Infiltrate the world of those criminals and destroy them from within, if you really do hate them. It’s a world of men, of brute, unscrupulous males. If you manage to get close to it, they’ll eat out of your hand. Remember that a silly young American woman, using nothing but her mouth, almost brought down the most powerful president in the world, don’t you see? and I’ll tell you something: charge them a lot and don’t have any scruples. Destroy them and get what you can from them, when it comes down to it money is the one thing that gives us freedom in this wretched world. They’re going to tell you that you’re a prostitute but you won’t listen to them. Let them talk and shout. They’re going to tell you that you’re evil, a witch, let them bark. Never take your eyes off your goals. Your family will criticize you, forget them. Mothers tell their daughters: marry well, choose well, but that basically means “sell yourself well.” It’s the worst kind of prostitution, for a single client, and the payment is a lie called “respectability.” Don’t enter that world of insects, Juana, because you’re strong and intelligent, and you can have a destiny of your own. If you choose freedom you’ll be a truly lethal weapon. Destroy them.
In the mornings, walking down toward Seventh to go to the university and have breakfast, I would repeat to myself his stories and advice, and as I advanced, shivering with the wind you get at seven in the morning and already smelling the acid smell of the exhausts, I’d think that in spite of his cynicism and his distaste for life, Monsieur Echenoz was right: the world wasn’t made for harmony and kindness, but quite the contrary, for confrontation. The world is a boxing ring, a battlefield. And you don’t go to battlefields with smiles and soft words, no, sir, you go armed to the teeth. Seeing it any other way struck me as childish and stupid.
I remember that day, walking along Fiftieth and Seventh, I stopped at a breakfast eatery, asked for scrambled eggs with onion, coffee with milk, and orange juice, and started looking around at the recently awakened city: people cleaning their cars, beggars, a woman in uniform washing down the entrance to a pharmacy, the assistants from a cell phone store lighting cigarettes outside the door, people huddled together, shivering with cold, at the bus stop on the corner, and a black cloud over everything, bringing that wind that seems so damp. I took out a notebook and wrote: “Life is a fucking battlefield and you have to be armed to the teeth.” I read the sentence about a hundred times. Then I tore off the sheet, rolled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash can.
I set off again for the university.
Time went by. One afternoon my cell phone rang. It was the daughter of Monsieur Echenoz. I have some news for you, she said, Father died yesterday. How? It was in his sleep, the doctors say he didn’t feel a thing, he was wrapped in blankets, he seemed asleep. I was happy for him. He was already on the other side, far from this life that he had known and analyzed like nobody else. I asked about the funeral arrangements, they gave me the information, and I dropped by the undertaker’s briefly to say hello to his children. I wanted to see him one last time but the box was closed. It was better that way, since I was left with the image of his eyes filled with anger, and his words that, even though subdued by his emphysema, had been pure fire. Instead of praying, I sat down to one side and, in a little book, started to write down what I remembered of him, his cynical phrases, his judgments and opinions. I wanted at least some of his ideas to survive, and that was why I proposed to live them.
“Ideas are not made to be thought, but to be lived,” said Malraux. And Monsieur Echenoz was right: if the world was cynical and cruel, it was best to be cynical and cruel. My kindness and my love would, from now on, be hidden behind a thick iron door, and they would be only for Manuel. Reality was the place where Manuel and I had to survive, a lonely, arid steppe, a rocky desert, infested with vipers and scorpions, in which we had to search for water or weaker animals to feed ourselves on, and above all weapons; weapons to avoid others getting first to the valley, or the plain, the promised place where we could be happy.
Starting the following week, I began looking for other work and, after a series of interviews, I was again hired to look after an elderly man. I was pleased. I liked old people. It would be hard to find another Monsieur Echenoz, but I was willing to take advantage of whatever there was. This one had also had an operation. He had a horrible scar on his side. When I arrived, an old woman gave me the drugs I had to administer to him, showed me the kitchen, the towels, how the house was laid out, and then went to sleep in another room. I had to bathe him. The old man sat down in a tub of hot water and asked me to scrub his skin and clean the scar. It was disgusting, but I did it. Then I helped him out of the bath and walked him to his bed. He lay there on the blankets, naked, and asked me to bring him something, pointing to a drawer. I didn’t quite understand. I opened the drawer and found a whole lot of creams. I brought them over to him and he asked me to spread them on him. Then he pointed to another drawer and as I was about to open it he came up behind me. Inside the drawer was a black plastic dildo, and I realized that the old man, in the middle of his wrinkled and bruised body, had an erection. I ran out and hailed a taxi. I felt humiliated. When I got home, I washed my hands for hours and felt like cutting them off, like a salamander that gets rid of a limb to escape danger and it then regenerates, as good as new.
I remembered Monsieur Echenoz and I told myself, enough of this crap, now the war starts.
I knew of some girls from the industrial design department who went out with guys and charged them, so I approached them, determined to gain their trust, until they suggested going with them to a party given by some male students from Los Andes, the same age as us. There were four of them and by the time we arrived they were drunk and stoned. They gave us drinks, pills, coke. They had a bit of everything. On a trip to the bathroom I asked one of the girls how it worked, and she said, we charge them 300,000 pesos to suck them and fuck them, but it’s okay, with what they’ve taken I don’t think they’ll be able to get it up anyway, so enjoy the party and don’t forget to ask for the money as soon as you go in the bedroom, before taking your clothes off; otherwise, they’ll fall asleep and forget about the money. The only rule is not to kiss them and not to agree to swapping. We already told them that. We left the bathroom and I sat down in the living room. These rich kids were studying philosophy and letters. I heard them talking about Wittgenstein and Clément Rosset, but they were so drunk that they got everything wrong, and besides, I told myself, what could these idiots know or understand of Rosset’s tragic ideas? Everything was luxurious and I felt inhibited, but Monsieur Echenoz’s words gave me strength. Suddenly, the owner of the apartment said, okay, guys, let’s get down to business with the girls, I’m already horny
, and the others said yes and put on vallenatos and pulled us up and forced us to dance, a dance that really drove me crazy because what it consisted of was the guy putting his hand under your skirt as soon as you took the first step, which I found disgusting, and I said to him, listen, honey, you’re going to have to be a little more friendly if you don’t want to be jerking yourself off tonight, and he said, hold your horses, what’s the matter? I’m paying, aren’t I? but I said, you haven’t paid me yet and my cell phone has eleven missed calls, so if you want I can go, then he said, hey, wait, don’t fly off the handle, who are you? I mean, what’s your name? and I said, Daisy, like Donald Duck’s girlfriend, but I’m no bimbo, got that? if you want to, we can go to the bedroom but pay me first, and the guy said, what a girl, yes, madame, anything else? and I said, yes, pull your pants down, I’m going to suck your cock, close your eyes and think about your professor of logic, or Paris Hilton or Ricky Martin, that’s up to you, and he said, hey, what a generous girl, and can I think about you? but I said, no way.
That was my first night. I realized I could do it without being fussy and so I carried on, almost always with rich kids from Los Andes or the Xavierian, or young executives celebrating birthdays or throwing parties; sometimes in apartments and other times in motels. I learned to despise all those daddy’s boys, living off the country. My contempt was turning into hate. Every time I charged them more, and seeing them pay I felt strong. Monsieur Echenoz was reincarnated in me and I was happy. One day, taking advantage of everyone being out of it at a party, I stole a laptop and an iPad. I didn’t care and then, when the guy called and asked, I told him he was crazy, it must have been some other whore, I hadn’t been the only whore there that night. I switched it on to delete what was on it and found a collection of sexual photographs of boys and girls; little vaginas being violently penetrated, girls performing fellatio, boys being sodomized. I called the guy back and said to him, I have your computer but there’s a problem, baby, I’m with the Secret Service. The guys started to stammer. No, I said, I’m lying, I’m not with the Secret Service but I have a really good joke for you: I’m one of the whores from the party and you’re in deep shit because I found the photos. He asked me not to report him, and said he’d give me anything. I asked him for twenty-five million pesos in cash. He was an executive in quite a big insurance company. He told me that was too much money and that I was crazy. All right, I said, the price has just gone up to fifty million, otherwise I myself will hand this over to your bosses and to the police. I advised him to ask for a loan, there were banks that gave fast credit in urgent cases, and this was one of those. Very urgent. Fifty million. I made three copies on hard disk with everything he had on it including his personal details. I arranged to meet him at the Unicentro mall, opposite the entrance to the movie houses. I told him that if anything happened to me everything would go to the police. The guy handed over the money, nothing’s going to happen to you, it’s all here! I told him to put his cell phone in the bag, I didn’t want him to call me again. He was puzzled. Hey, what about my sim card? Get another, I said. Then I went into the bookstore and bought the diaries of Luis Buñuel as a gift for Manuel, and a novel by Martin Amis called Money. I was nervous. It was the first time I had committed a crime. But I told myself, if that son of a bitch reports me, I’ll kill him. What to do with the money? I’d prepared a hiding place at home, in the ceiling of the bathroom. It would have been suspicious to put it in my account. I went home and hid it really well. Then I went to the post office and sent the three copies of the disk in three envelopes: one to the Colombian Welfare Service, another to the director of his insurance company, and a third to his home address, in his wife’s name. I fulfilled my promise to him by not sending it to the police. In case of doubt I kept another copy. I felt real pleasure imagining the guy confronted with the truth, having to explain things to his bosses and his wife. I know that life in general is quite horrible, but you mustn’t go too far either. Of course, I erased what was on the iPad, recharged it, and gave it to Manuel as a gift.
Night Prayers Page 21