I arrived just before 10 in the morning, a chic time to see the gringos. I found the consulate in a run-down building. The line of visa applicants was gathering on the steps leading to the second floor and a pair of city policemen were busy cramming all the people together. Everybody seemed on edge; at least thirty people were pushing and shoving each other. A few were protesting the slowness of the line and others were waiting silently like obedient lambs.
I’ve always been good at tricking dumb people. I went up to the entrance with the pretext that I was carrying official correspondence. Once face-to-face with the policeman guarding the access to that sacrosanct consular delegation, I slipped him five pesos with the agility of a pickpocket. The policeman was confused and embarrassed, but he looked at me proudly and then indicated with a laconic head gesture that I should proceed. Next up was a second policeman who was seated behind a little table beside a rectangular wooden arch that served to detect metal objects: guns, knives, etc. The guy asked me the reason for my visit. I answered that I had come to apply for a tourist visa. He stared at me without batting an eyelid, holding the stolid expression of a Gurkha sentinel.
“Go ahead,” he said, indicating the metal detector.
I passed below that investigator of bad intentions without sounding off any alarm. Immediately, I went up to an American Marine wearing a spotless uniform who was asking for IDs from behind a glass window.
I handed him my ID. My pulse deviated from its normal rate and started to gallop nervously. The Marine, a handsome young man, shot me an emotionless glance with his deep-set blue eyes.
“Take a number and wait your turn,” he said in correct Spanish. My pulse raced like an astronaut’s; it must have been about a hundred beats per minute. I discovered a vast carpeted waiting room, in which there were various rows of armchairs. All of the seats were filled and a number of people were standing. I obtained a number from a ticket machine: thirty-eight. I found a space to stand at the back of the waiting room near the windows through which the warm morning sun penetrated.
The visitors exchanged notes quietly, as if in a convent. The murmurs were an unmistakable sign that they were wetting their pants out of fear, and with reason. The three interviewers, two men and one woman, protected behind a wide desk, announced the numbers. They were at number fourteen. The two men were clearly American and the woman, young and attractive, looked Bolivian. I studied them thoroughly, as my fate was now in their hands. The one in the middle, who looked like the boss, was a well-built guy weighing about 220 pounds with a bull’s neck and the thick head of an American football player. His round and tough-looking face was the prototype of the uncouth, kindhearted American. He was dressed appropriately, with a tweed jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. Everything about him gave off the impression of clinical asepsis. He didn’t smile easily and maintained a certain distance as he conversed with the interviewees. He looked over the documents they gave him without much conviction and, depending on the case, either returned them or put them into a pile on a nearby desk. The second man was a non-Hispanic black, of pure African stock. Standing about 6'3", he had the body of an athlete. His shirtsleeves left exposed his long, wiry arms, which he waved around parsimoniously. His enormous hands shuffled through applicants’ papers like two mas- sive crabs. He appeared to be a “shut up and obey” kind of official. Without being very friendly, his demeanor was polite. He had the face of a middle-class educated black man, eager to make a career as a public servant. He didn’t speak much Spanish and whenever he couldn’t think of the right word, he’d say it in English. I decided it would be better to talk to him than the burly white guy, who seemed shrewd and tricky. The woman, who looked slight and fragile, initially seemed the most reasonable, but as the minutes passed I noticed her inflexibility with the people she interrogated. In short, the most prudent strategy was to try to come across the black man and then to ingratiate myself with a little gab and some lies.
I endured the languid passing of time. Half an hour later they called number twenty-five and I was finally able to sit down in the back. My pulse was still off-kilter and I felt increasingly apprehensive. I began to notice intermittent wails coming from the other side of the room. Applicants for visas who didn’t have their papers in order were sent to a confessional booth, where they tried to explain everything to the consul himself, who had the final say in the matter. About one in every three people was sent over to chat with the big boss. If he had any doubts about you, ciao—you were out on the streets. The consul wasn’t physically impressive—he was chubby, seemed good-natured, and laughed often—however, upon finding the slightest defect in someone’s papers, he became as rough and stubborn as a mule. He listened to my fellow countrymen’s whimpering with the smug smile of a friendly policeman, but later, with the severity of a public prosecutor, he denied them tickets to paradise.
I was seated beside a woman in her twenties who was accompanied by her father. The girl was a bundle of nerves. She continually rubbed her hands together, wiped her nose as if she had a severe cold, and took her glasses off and put them back on every three seconds. Her father, a man in his fifties, was trying in vain to calm her. It was useless. The girl, staring straight ahead as if surveying a scaffold, seemed not to hear anything.
Her father said to her, “With the shares from the beer company, there won’t be any problems. It’s a lot of money and I have twenty thousand dollars right here with me. Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, we have the deeds to our houses here with us. Calm down, you’re even starting to make me nervous.”
The girl’s mouth was dry and she was on the verge of crying. The Americans were strict when it came to your assets: proof of properties, current tax records, and checking accounts. I had everything I needed, but my documents were all forged. My only hope was that the consular officials would fall for the fraud. It wasn’t impossible, I just needed the luck of a gypsy.
At 11:30 on that fateful morning, a suffocating heat prevailed. So many people and so much anxiety seemed to raise the temperature. The three consular employees drank coffee, chatted, and paced around, sweating, seeming ever less friendly. With the hours’ passing, they began to look embittered and tired.
“Thirty-one,” announced the female interviewer.
The young woman at my side stood up and hesitantly lugged her pile of deeds and documents that would have sufficed to liberate a Jew from the hands of the SS. She stopped before the big-headed man with the tweed jacket and handed him her papers, then turned around to look at her father for encouragement. Her father smiled at her. The girl and the guy in tweed conversed for a few minutes, with the former responding timidly to the latter’s interrogations. The torture didn’t last long; the executioner seemed to be sick of interviewing. He had decided to shorten the questioning. The girl left gracefully and returned to her seat, looking satisfied. Her father happily kissed her on the cheek and asked, “What did he tell you?”
“He told me to come back in three days; they’re going to verify everything.”
“Did you show him the shares from the beer company?”
“Yeah, that impressed him. I don’t think there’ll be any problems. He tried to confuse me, but I didn’t let him.”
The color had returned to the girl’s face. She said goodbye to me with a hint of a smile.
Verify the documents, I thought. What the hell is that about? Trembling, I moved forward to the first row and settled into an empty armchair. That bit about the verifications was like a knife through my heart. If they try to verify them, I’m screwed.
Number thirty-five stepped up. He was assigned to Magic Johnson’s kid brother, who was sweating a river, as though he were in a Turkish bath. On my right side, a modestly elegant woman, discreetly perfumed, waited stiffly while reading a magazine. From time to time she raised her head and looked around disdainfully at her surroundings.
“Excuse me, señora, but I couldn’t hear,” I said. “The documents— don’t they check them?”
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bsp; She replied in a hoarse, mannish voice, “It’s necessary. A lot of people forge them. Imagine all the people who want to leave the country and how easy it is to falsify documents. Everything and everybody is corrupt these days. Years of political chaos have led to our ruin, to a moral catastrophe. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course,” I hastened to answer.
“Is this your first time applying for a visa?”
“Yes. I’m going to visit my son.”
“The first time is somewhat difficult. They have the idea stuck in their heads that all the people who travel as tourists are going to stay on to work.”
“I would never do that,” I said. “I’m old. Besides, I love my country.”
She looked at me as if I’d uttered an insult. “You’re lucky!” she said sarcastically. “I can’t live in Bolivia. I can’t get used to it. It’s swarming with Indians! Aren’t you scared of them?”
“I’ve never thought of it.”
“Bolivia has the highest birthrate in Latin America. In five years, the Indians will be living in places like Calacoto—in our neighborhoods.”
“For you, then, it’s a good thing they won’t make it to . . .”
“Chicago, Illinois. I live there with my husband, who’s a doctor. I’m from Cochabamba.”
“Cochabamba’s a nice place, but overpopulated,” I said.
“That’s because of the land reform. Now the crooks who grow coca own the land. What irony, those so-called revolutionaries . . . And you, do you have everything together?”
“Together?”
“In order?”
“I have the deed to my house and a copy of my bank statement.”
“They look closely at those things,” the doña said. “I think they even hire detectives to do background checks at City Hall and the banks. The gringos don’t sleep.”
“Detectives? That’s got to be an exaggeration.” My heart stopped beating for an instant. I coughed and rubbed my chest, the source of my body’s lifeblood.
“Is something wrong?”
“The ups and downs in this city; Oruro is flat.”
The black man with praying mantis arms called out, “Thirty-six.” A nun with a rosary and a Bible stepped forward. The black man greeted her with a smile that revealed his white shiny teeth.
“What number do you have?” I asked.
“Forty-four. I hope they make it to me. I want to take a flight the day after tomorrow. My issue is a simple passport renewal. I’m a U.S. resident, but I still keep my Bolivian passport, even after fifteen years in the U.S. How about that?”
“Congratulations. You’re brave.”
“It’s a kind of insurance to be a resident. I can enter and leave the States legally, whenever I want.”
“Thirty-seven,” the young woman announced. This was the worst thing that could have happened to me. The brawny man was going to interview me. I was sure to have a rough go of it. His facial expressions were sinister. He was biting his bottom lip, looking for a victim. I was the victim.
I would have sold my soul to the Devil for that visa, but there was no time for ceremony. The burly official was arguing with a young man wearing blue jeans and a loose-fitting jacket. “You should speak with the consul, maybe he’ll understand,” he said.
“This is my acceptance letter from the university,” grumbled the boy. “Why should I see the consul?”
“Step aside. It’s a matter for the consul.”
In the confessional booth the Imperial Inquisitor waited impassively, like a statue.
“Thirty-eight,” the bigheaded man called out.
Nobody stood up! Paralyzed with fear, I couldn’t budge, or even think.
“Thirty-eight,” he repeated.
My legs started to tremble uncontrollably. An acute stinging sensation in my crotch made me wince. My loins felt like they were on fire. The bigheaded man unceremoniously retired my number and announced thirty-nine.
Fifteen minutes passed before I could feel my legs again. I asked the American Marine for my ID and left the consulate.
I was a coward, a stinking coward. Worst of all, I knew I’d never return to the consulate.
“Detectives!” I stuttered out loud. “Now what?”
I urgently needed a drink, something strong that would hit me immediately. I scoured Potosí Street and found a bar on the first floor of a hotel. The place was tiny, but charming. It was wood-paneled, which gave it an intimate, distinguished appearance. A coffee machine operated by a young boy with affected, womanish mannerisms stood on top of the bar counter. I found a seat beside the window facing the street. A dark-skinned girl who smiled easily, wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, waited to take my order.
“One cognac,” I requested.
“French?”
“Better if it’s French,” I said.
It had been a long time since I’d drunk one. Its price was prohibitive, especially given my current circumstances, but I was a ruined petit bourgeois who longed for the past. My nerves could only be calmed with fancy sedatives. I asked for a pack of cigarettes. It was a silent bar, nearly enveloped in shadows. The customers gave the impression that they were waiting for the go-ahead from some hidden director to begin conversing. The quiet in the bar allowed me to meditate on my situation.
My quest for a visa had become a fiasco. Neither my forged documents nor my bank accounts were of any use. I didn’t have the balls to face the interviewers. It was all the fault of that lady who told me that they hire detectives to examine the documents. If that were true, they would surely return the documents to me with a bloody “no” and not allow me to appeal. If they deny you the visa once, they’ve denied it to you forever. If, on the contrary, the assertion of that Illinois resident was false, then I’d shot myself in the foot like a fool.
As far as I was concerned, things couldn’t get any worse. The girl brought me the cognac and I lit a cigarette. Returning to Oruro would be impossible. The Slav I used to work for had hired another guy to sell his merchandise. Finding a new gig for my daily sustenance would be like asking a blind man to catch a fly with two fingers. My buddies since childhood had bidden me farewell with parties that cost a fortune; even the girl I’d been dating, a cashier at a local shoe store, treated me to a glamorous dinner in the hotel beside the bus terminal, followed by an under-the-covers workout till dawn. When I left she shed tears like Mary Magdalene and said she’d write me once a week. I paid off my outstanding debt to my landlady for the use of two rooms and her kitchen. I even went to the cemetery and paid my respects to friends and relatives in the other world. I’d kissed Oruro goodbye forever. Return? Looking like what? A defeated man with his tail stuck between his legs? No way. Either I would travel to the United States or I would commit suicide. I had no other choice. The idea of killing myself was not new to me. In reality, I’d thought it over an infinite number of times ever since Antonia abandoned me and left me alone in the world. I probably would’ve done it already if it hadn’t been for my son, perhaps the only link I had to this earth that has treated me so badly. I wanted to see him grow big and strong like a gringo, without complexes or fears. When he left, he told me he’d never return.
The cognac shook me up a bit, but it didn’t calm my nerves. I asked for a second drink and downed it. The bill was enough to cover two lunches. The American visa was costing me like a good whore. The mere idea of a trip to the U.S. had buried that chronic depression that had plagued my entire adult existence, that sense of impotence that made anything I did seem futile. I had come once again to be trapped in a tangle of doubt and indecisiveness. I went out onto the street and rambled from one place to another with no particular destination in mind. The sun shone magnificently and the temperature was mild. If everything had gone well, this would have been a blessed day. But it had gone to hell! My luck was like a coin that I always flipped onto the wrong side. I didn’t have any solutions. I couldn’t change my karma.
My return trip was a true excur
sion. I walked up Sagárnaga Street, past the hardware and textile shops. Here, face-to-face, but without flags or weapons, Arab and Jewish merchants look each other in the eyes. They are old leftovers from the waves of migrations that reached Bolivia before the Second World War. Their hardware stores look old and somber. They’ve never been refurbished, not even with a second coat of paint. Vendors in the middle stretch of the street offer tourists, mostly foreigners, a series of attractions that include ancient silverware, wood carvings modeled after Aymara figures, alpaca sweaters, and ponchos. Medicinal herbs are sold alongside symbols of indigenous witchcraft, such as llama fetuses, which you’re supposed to bury for good luck before breaking ground on the construction of a new house. Further up the street, hunched-over porters with bulky bags of merchandise slung over their shoulders weave between barrels containing fruit for sale. Everything is perfectly laid out.
I arrived exhausted at Illampu. The cognac and the steep climb had caused my heart to race, forcing me to slow down. I leaned against a flimsy adobe wall that barely supported a tavern catering to lowlifes and prostitutes. A terrible stench of cheap liquor emanated from inside. A beggar covered in dirty rags sang the official anthem of La Paz. His face, deformed by the venomous concoctions served in nearby dives, was bruised and covered with scars. I took my time and avoided the fruit barrels propped up on the sidewalks. Thank God Illampu is flat, a rarity in this mountainous metropolis.
In the Hotel California lobby, the manager drowsily played a game of chess with a fat and content-looking guest, who, with his dashing Borsalino felt hat, appeared to be from Beni. He was probably a wealthy rancher, one of those who catches a plane just to count his livestock grazing on the vast haciendas on the eastern plains. Having sold off a percentage of their herd, they return each week with money bursting out of their ears to spend a little winter vacation here in the high Andes. The redhead looked at me playfully, as if he were trying to guess my mood. I picked up the key to my room and delved deeply into that sea of passageways, hoping to stumble upon the second patio. This time, I made it there without getting too dizzy.
American Visa Page 4
