by Robert Power
I decide to operate on my time rather than English or Colombian and get to the square at six-fifteen. It is dark already, but the water from the fountain catches the moonlight and illuminates the solitary bench as if it were a film set. A young couple are seated there, deep in an embrace. There is no one else in sight. So there are some things even multi-nationals cannot ensure. Or maybe Mary has booked the bench for seven. I stand for a while and watch the occasional car rattle by. Old Fords and Cadillacs, bumpers hanging loose, dents and scratches, all hand-painted in yellows and blues. The square slopes to one corner, where I am attracted to the only window that is lit up. I, like the lovers on the bench, have time on my side, so I take a leisurely walk towards it. Peering through the window I see row after row of numbered postcards. There is the tinkling of a bell as a very old man leaves the shop. He is excited and animated. He is holding something in his hand, clasping it to his chest, like a letter from a paramour. He casts a look my way, chuckles to himself. I watch him walk away across the square, a bounce in his step.
The door to the shop is slightly ajar so I go inside. The fluorescent bulb and the brightness of all the postcards on display lighten my spirits. The only other person in the shop is the proprietor, who sits behind a battered old table reading a book. He glances above his glasses, barely acknowledges me and then gets back to his reading. The postcards on the wall depict a range of subjects: men and women in national costumes are caught in wooden poses on the side of a hill; golden amulets and rings from the national museum vie for attention with farm animals and famous footballers. All are bright and gaudily coloured like children’s cartoons. As I note down a few numbers to take back for souvenirs, the church clock in the square chimes the half-hour. The man stands up from the table, reaches to the shelf and turns on the radio. There is a fanfare over the wavelengths followed by frantic and excited commentary. My ears prick up as I catch the words ‘Ascavar’, ‘narcotico’ and ‘militia’. After a few minutes the fanfare is repeated, signalling the end of the news broadcast, and the man turns off the set.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, before he settles back down to his book. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes, I do.’
He looks to be in his early fifties, with thick peppery hair and striking brown eyes. He is dressed in a fresh white shirt with a paisley patterned scarf. I suddenly realize just how much I am taking in my surroundings, noticing what is going on around me: the moonlight on the fountain in the square; the spring in the old man’s step as he left the shop; the pattern of a scarf.
‘Would you be so kind as to tell me what the news bulletin said?’ I ask.
‘Ah the news … The news, my friend, is the death of another of Colombia’s bully-boys. Carlos Ascavar is with us no more.’ He finishes with a flourish of his hand, the matador despatching the bull.
‘How did it end?’
‘He was shot! Who shot him is neither here nor there. More to the point, we are shot of him.’
A car circles the square at great speed, beeping its horn, and then departs.
‘To Ascavar’s demise?’ I ponder aloud.
‘Maybe, or maybe a wedding, or just for fun. It is not so very important in the scheme of things. Here, we are used to these changes. There will be other Ascavars, other presidents, new mayors and judges. One man is just one man. Whether a president or a king, a pauper or a thief. He comes, he goes. He does good, he does bad. Don’t you agree?’
Do I? I put my hand to my mouth, considering. The shopkeeper waits for a reply and then, when I say nothing, he decides to continue.
‘The world will go on around us. We can only try to make our own small contribution. Did you see that old man who left the shop just before you came in?’
‘Yes, I did, he looked very happy.’
‘Happy, he was.’
The shopkeeper looks at me for a moment, as if about to divulge a great secret. He seems to weigh me up, to determine if I am worthy of his confidence. Behind him the shelves are filled with old manuscripts stacked higgledy-piggledy against each other. Amongst them are ornaments and bric-a-brac covered in varying layers of dust. I spot a pocket watch, a rusted padlock, a full-sailed model ship with tiny men on the mast awaiting orders from the bridge.
‘I will tell you this, not to boast but merely to illustrate my point. That elderly gentleman, who goes by the name of Dr Augusto Marquez-Gomas, is happy because I have made his dream come true. Let me tell you a little about him. For almost sixty years he has been the physician to this neighbourhood. He brought me and my six sisters into the world. He is the most respected man hereabouts. Aside from medicine he has two great passions. Bullfights and picture postcards. He has the finest postcard collection of Spanish matadors in all of Colombia. For the last fifteen years he and I have been searching for the final card for his collection. Last week in Villa Camelo I found it amongst a chest of papers being sold in the market square. How my heart leapt when I saw it. Luis Perez Ortega, at the bullring on the hillside near Competa. He is shown executing the costadillo pass, suerte de varas. The watermark was perfect and the stamp was intact. He cried when I first showed him the postcard. So the news, my friend, is not that Ascavar is dead, but that Dr Augusto Marquez-Gomas has completed his postcard set of famous Spanish bullfighters. My happiness is for the good doctor, not for those who wish Ascavar dead.’
We both turn and crane our necks at the swish of new tyres, the hum of a finely tuned engine. The Mercedes has darkened windows, so it is impossible to make out the passengers. The car circles the square twice and then comes to a halt on the north side, by the fountain. The lovers look up from each other, observe the car, then stand up from the bench and prepare to leave. The boy straightens the girl’s hair, kisses her gently on the nape of the neck, and then the two walk off towards the labyrinth of alleyways leading to the barrio where they live. The shopkeeper stands beside me as we watch the two lovers disappear.
‘Maria and Jesus. They come to the square every evening. They will marry in the spring. My name is Pedro Maldovar,’ he says, extending a hand.
‘And mine is Anthony Malloy,’ I reply, as we shake hands. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’
We talk a little longer and he shows me some old postcards from various Colombian cities. I buy the ones I had selected from the wall and an older more expensive one of Medellin, just for the memory. As he packages them up the clock strikes seven and I say my goodbyes.
The moon is hiding behind a cloud, so the bench is no longer lit up. As I make my way across the square towards the fountain I hear a sobbing rising above the gushing of the water. The sobbing turns to a howl. There, at the base of the fountain, is a tiny boy, scratching at his own face and screeching like a banshee, his back stacked ten foot high with scraps of cardboard. As I walk closer he gets up and scuttles away to the opposite side of the square. He is filthy and shoeless, his clothes are rags and his long hair hangs around his face in matted clumps. He scurries across the cobbles of the square. His ungainly load, tied to his middle, gives him the appearance of a dung beetle. He settles down on the curb of the square and moans to himself. I can’t help wondering if this is a performance for my benefit to elicit sympathy and dollars. Before I have time to consider the matter further the door of the Mercedes opens. As I expected, it is Mary who steps from the car and makes her way across to the empty bench. She’s obviously been watching my progress from the shop and she beckons me to join her.
There’s a slight chill in the air, reminding me of the altitude. Thin skeins of blue-black cloud race across the sky, scything through the moon. The square feels as if it is at the centre of a whirlpool. I sit down next to her, not too close.
‘An open-air assembly of religious fanatics?’
‘No,’ she smiles, ‘not this time. Just you and I.’
Brighton seems a long, long time ago.
‘Have you heard the news about Ascavar?’ she asks.
Across the square I notice Senor Maldovar is shutting up sho
p for the night. The light is out and he is locking the front door. I watch as he exits the bottom corner of the square, smiling, obviously satisfied with his day’s work. Maybe he’s thinking of the old doctor.
‘Yes, I heard all about it. The man in the shop over there gave me the details.’
‘I want to apologise for Mr Ascavar’s excesses. For the stress he put you under yesterday. But it is, or rather was, his way. He had a rather grand opinion of himself. I think you may have witnessed that.’
‘Just a touch,’ I say, the images of the animal trophies and Ascavar on his throne coming to mind.
‘You will, I am sure,’ she continues, choosing her words carefully, ‘be aware of the complexity of our work.’
She looks me in the eye to see if I am in tune with what she is trying to explain. I am to a point.
But what will all this mean? Am I to be handed over to another master (or mistress) in the same way that Soylam and the countless thousands of others are? A commodity with a use-by date. Forever indebted, a literal slave to misfortune. Or will I be free to pick up my life? And for Caitlin to get a second chance?
‘You’ll have to explain some more,’ I say, rubbing my forehead to clear my mind.
‘There are a great many issues at stake here and some very intricate negotiations,’ says Mary, speaking slowly, deliberately. ‘They’ve involved individuals and organisations at the very highest levels. But please, do not confuse strategy with conspiracy. People find the latter so much more palatable. If only it were so simple. No, much planning has gone into our endeavours. Planning that is both flexible and, without seeming too mercenary, opportunistic.’
Again, she glances at me to be sure I am not surprised at her revelations. A sudden breeze picks up, sending a spray of fountain water through the air.
‘This doesn’t surprise me, but why kill Ascavar just now?’
‘It was overdue. We’d had a board meeting, so to speak, without him. Some of our North American members were keen to appease the public back home and to show who was in control. Besides, he was becoming decidedly unpredictable and uncontrollable. In the type of projects in which we are engaged, we cannot afford mavericks.’
‘And the opium?’
‘Ah, the opium. That is all taken care of, safely on its way to the slopes of the Andes. You did the job we asked of you and you deserve an explanation. It’s not rocket science, more like political science. The heroin producers in Afghanistan and South-East Asia have been getting too powerful for too long and we needed to shift the balance. Cocaine was becoming less attractive to our Colombian colleagues, so what better solution than to pollinate across the continents. You could even call it redistribution of wealth. And a shuffling and balancing of power. Taliban, Marxists Idealists, War Lords, Drug Barons. We can’t have any one faction getting too powerful. Not to mention the calming effect of good-quality heroin on the mean streets of the USA. Coke was making everyone a bit too edgy, a bit overactive. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that, yourself.’
She casts me a sideways look; the type a headmistress gives to the head boy.
‘Very complex indeed. If I were to draw you a map of all those involved, you’d be astonished.’
‘I’m astonished enough already.’
The car begins to move slowly around the fountain. Who else is behind those blackened windows? It comes to a stop. Is this a sign for Mary to bring the interview to a conclusion? The thought suddenly springs to mind that maybe it’s a sign to bring me to a conclusion. The fear must have registered in my expression.
‘Everything is fine,’ Mary says calmly. ‘You can go soon. You’ve got an open-ended business ticket in your pocket. No one expects you back in London for another week or so. Take a holiday. You deserve it.’
I am listening to her, but another sound has caught my attention. It is the muttering and jabbering of the small boy. He is back in the square, walking around the perimeter, mumbling to himself and dragging a half-filled sack in his wake.
‘And Caitlin? When will I see her?’
‘Caitlin is fine and in good care. You will appreciate she has been through a lot. Not just these last weeks, but during her time in service. We will need to debrief her. You take that holiday and we’ll make sure you see her safe and well on your return.’
I can’t help the disbelief showing on my face.
‘Trust me,’ says Mary with a smile. ‘I am a doctor!’
The little boy has fallen silent and sits at the base of the fountain, staring up at the cascading water.
‘And my work? Can I trust you with my work? There’s so much more to do, so much more to think about. My one-use needle may be great for immunisation, but I’ve listened to the drug users. They need needles, even though mine is not the one. We can work to get a good cheap disposable needle. One they will want and use. We need to listen to them.’
‘Be confident, we’re on your side. Let me assure you of that. Our aim is to keep the world a safe and healthy place. Someone will peddle the drugs. Someone will blow up politicians. It all works better when we can have some say in the means and the ends. It may look strange on the surface, but the good guys and the bad guys are all mixed up. Look at Ascavar with his zoo. Environmentalists have been amazed at his breeding programs. His efforts will not go to waste. As they all say, there’s a little good in the worst of us and a little bad in the best. You couldn’t be in better hands.’
The car engine starts up again. Mary gets up to leave.
‘Taneffe will be back in touch when you return to London and you can put all your efforts, and I mean all your efforts, into your science. I will say goodbye and thank you,’ she says, shaking my hand. ‘Take that holiday and good luck for the future.’
She walks around the fountain, ignoring the boy as she passes. Someone from inside the car opens the door for her and she steps into the back seat. The door closes and the car moves off slowly, speeding up as it turns left at the end of the square.
When the car is gone from sight I turn to the small boy who is whimpering in a huddle not ten yards from where I sit. I walk over to him, feeling for some notes in my pocket.
‘Buenas noches,’ I say, an expression I can manage in a dozen languages.
He looks vaguely in my direction, but his eyes are dark and dull. He is even tinier and more wretched close up. He could be any age. My guess would be eleven or twelve. I hold out a few notes. His expression is unchanged. He stares back up at the fountain and through the fall of the water to the moon and the clouds.
‘For you,’ I say, proffering the money.
He stares hard at me and then lets out a howl, like an injured animal. It’s then I see the injection marks on his arms. He grabs the notes from my outstretched hand, jumps to his feet and runs away across the square. He settles down in another corner, engaged once more in conversation with his own special demons.
17
Homecoming
As we cruise towards the terminal building at Heathrow Airport the rain is lashing down.
Once, on a rare spring London day, a Texan stopped me in Gordon Square. He wanted to know when it would rain and where was the fog? I told him London was in the middle of a dry spell, and that I was from Melbourne. Not even the prospect of blue plaques and Bloomsbury scandals could cheer him up. He walked away dejected, his illusions shattered. How happy he would be if he had landed from Houston today, I think, as I sit in the taxi on the way back from the airport.
Looking out at the grey, flat landscape, I realize I’m nearly home and that Caitlin is waiting for me. My journey is nearly over and for the first time in my adult life I’ve gotten off an aeroplane sober. I’m not sure which is the biggest achievement: my sobriety; or my safe passage through the underworld. As the taxi snakes its way through the commuter traffic on the West Way, I reread the message that was pushed under my hotel room on my last night in Bogotá. It told me Caitlin was well and being looked after. She would be waiting in London and wanted to see me. In the
cloak-and-dagger style I was now accustomed to, I was to call a particular phone number when I arrived home and then all the necessary arrangements would be made. Enclosed was what appeared to be a copy of a note in Caitlin’s handwriting:
‘Thanks for everything. I was treated okay during my time away and I have been given a chance to rest and recuperate. You might be alarmed at the way I look. No need to be, as I am fine inside. I am a bit worn out, but I am okay. I’d love nothing more than to see you when you get back to London. I’ll be here when you return. Things happen to us that we could never expect. Love, Caitlin.’
‘Where have you been, then?’ asks the taxi driver as we grind to a halt in gridlocked traffic outside the British Library on Euston Road.
‘Good question.’
Caitlin turns over in the unfamiliar bed. Everything is new. Too many noises, lights, smells surround her. She keeps the heavy curtains drawn to soften the lines, dull the colours. She opens her eyes, then closes her eyes. Opens her eyes, then closes her eyes. The new room is there, the new room is gone. New room here, new room gone. New room here.
I open the door to my flat, kick the mail out of the way, drop my bags in the hallway, find the piece of paper from my pocket, pick up the phone and dial.
‘This is Anthony Malloy,’ I say urgently when the phone is answered. ‘I’m in my flat in London.’