Señor Vivo and the Coca Lord

by Louis de Bernières

  But it was also a superstitious country, a country where it was possible to believe every religion all at once, where devout Catholics could pray to Oxala, practise santeria, and attend spiritualist seances with a clear conscience. One simply selected from one’s gamut of beliefs whichever one was appropriate for whichever occasion.

  And so clairvoyants and mediums were hired to give detailed descriptions of the new journalistic superstar to portrait painters, and some members of the Vivo societies with natural psychic powers and artistic inclinations even painted his portrait themselves. There was a general consensus that he was a white man with a beard and long brown hair with the gentle eyes of a doe and the hint of a nimbus about his head. There developed a fashion for portraying him with a scarlet heart in his breast that bled for his country, and so he became a kind of crossbreed between Jesus Christ and the Blessed Virgin. The proliferation of these societies caused a boom in commissions for the artistic world, and an unprecedented increase in the circulation of La Prensa, which helped towards rebuilding its offices in bombproof British granite and bullet-proof glass. There was such a demand that when a society for expatriates in Paris was inaugurated, La Prensa even contemplated opening an office there to receive enquiries and requests for back issues.

  As was to be entirely expected, a fair number of the members of these societies were the kind of young women who in general find their vocations in cloisters. That is to say, they nourished their powerful but sublimated libidos upon fantasies about a distant, unattainable, and idealised man who would haunt their dreams and give them actual verbal messages during their seraphic raptures. For these women who knew that they were too base to pursue their divinity in the flesh there existed an admirable substitute in the postal service. There were others, however, who like the Mary Magdalen of unbiblical myth yearned for him with such hyperbolical ardour that they reported to their friends that they were able to reach stupendous orgasms without even touching themselves. For these it became their unrelenting intention to offer themselves to him in the flesh and, if possible, to bear his child. The phenomenal efforts of concentrated visualisation that these women performed gave rise to numerous and bizarre psychic effects, such as that reported by a virgin of Antiochia, Leticia Aragon, who had purportedly nearly suffocated in a shower of white feathers.

  Dionisio opened his first fan-letter, and found inside it a dog-eared photograph of a plump mulatta who was offering him her favours gratis in return for a lock of his hair and travelling expenses. He read it several times with disbelief, and began to compose in his head a tactful refusal. When he got home he found Anica waiting on the doorstep, and he showed her the letter. She read it, torn between jealousy and amusement, and then told him that she had come round because she had had the idea that it would be good to take a shower together.

  They undressed in indecent haste and ran into the bathroom, where Anica removed the gekko from the wall ‘so that it does not get soap in its eyes’ and put it higher up on the tiles. She turned on the shower and they jostled for space beneath its thin stream of water. The shower was Jerez’ single successful improvisation, and was made of two hoses which were stuck respectively onto the hot and cold taps and fed up to a saucepan which had had holes punched in the bottom and was then fixed to the wall with a twisted coathanger. The water supply was subject to sudden variations in both pressure and temperature, so that it was often necessary to leap out of the tub in order not to be either scalded or frozen.

  They drew the plastic curtain around the shower, and Dionisio noticed that Anica had forgotten to remove her earring, but he did not inform her of the omission because he was reluctant to delay the proceedings. Voluptuously he soaped her all over until every bit of her was covered with such froth that she took on the appearance of being feathered with down. He took her breasts reverently, one in either hand, and massaged them upwards with conscientious circling motions so that her nipples were teased and began to shrink and harden into buds. He massaged her backside, her stomach, and then her long legs, working upwards with the maximum of tantalisation towards her thighs. He worked the soapsuds salaciously into her fine gingery hairs and rolled his hand with the firmest and gentlest of pressures so that she closed her eyes and moaned and clutched his shoulder as if she were entering a trance.

  When he had finished he gave her the soap and she performed the same operations for him, except with greater delicacy and tentativeness. When she had finished they took the hose out of the saucepan and sprayed each other with it so that the suds flew all over the bathroom and gently subsided into puddles. Then Anica grabbed the cold-water hose and sprayed Dionisio on the polla so that he shouted and struggled to get it away from her. Then they held each other tight, and she felt his little bird jumping and twitching against her. She stuck her tongue in his ear and said, ‘You wait until I rub you all over with olive oil and cocoa butter.’

  In the bedroom he went down on his knees and kissed her where she stood, his tongue working with the rhythm and mischief of a master-dancer of Vallenato. His tongue travelled relentlessly up her body and announced itself to her rosebuds, until once more they were standing locked in a kiss with his polla working back and forth in its true home so that she said, ‘Querido, la Cama.’

  They sank sideways onto the bed and she drew him in and encompassed him so that he uttered that insuppressible groan of surprise that he always did and always failed to remember that he did.

  They made love very slowly at first, but then became carried away until afterwards they lay together slippery with perspiration, and entwined. He said, ‘Sometimes it seems as though I lose consciousness, when it is as good as that, and afterwards I feel cheated because I cannot remember it properly.’

  She stroked his chest and laughed. ‘Did you know,’ she said, ‘that in the days of the conquistadors they used to call it “the little death”? If that is a little death, just imagine what a big death would be like.’

  18 El Jerarca And His Excellency The President Fail To Arrive At An Historic Compromise

  HIS EXCELLENCY WAS infuriated right from the start. It was supposed to be an informal meeting in complete secrecy in order to establish what could be achieved in reaching an accommodation between the cartels and the government. His Excellency had in mind a contribution to the treasury of a few billions, in return for a blind eye, and possibly even a change in the law. Perhaps it could be made legal to grow coca, but not to process it, for example, so that that could be done in another country; that would bring down the wrath of the USA on that country and not this one. He thought that Paraguay had a policy a little like that, and of course, if coca cultivation were legal, then it would be possible to tax it. Yes indeed, His Excellency had been looking forward to his fruitful secret negotiations.

  But what do I see when I am looking out of my window for Pablo Ecobandodo’s discreet limousine? I see a huge horsebox draw up outside the gates of the presidential palace, and I see the tailramp dropped. Then Ecobandodo arrives in a pink Chevrolet, with a huge cigar in his mouth and a campesino sombrero with a hatband full of diamonds and emeralds. Then suddenly there are hundreds of press reporters and photographers, with flashbulbs popping and their frantic jostling, and Ecobandodo tells them that His Not Very Excellency President Craphead Veracruz has invited him, Pablo Ecobandodo, to the palace so that he, Pablo Ecobandodo, can tell the president what’s what and who is the bigshot around here.

  And then that crowd turn up with placards that say ‘Viva El Jerarca’ and ‘Ecobandodo for President’ and ‘El Jerarca for Perpetual Dictator’ and ‘Ecobandodo El Supremo’, and it turns out later that the crowd, every member of it, got given a thousand pesos each for doing it and hadn’t got a clue what it was all about, but there were four thousand people out there all clamouring for Pablo Ecobandodo that they had never heard of before.

  And it gets on the radio and the TV, and the CIA are so damn quick off the draw that two hours later there is a furious cable with the expletives delete
d from the President of the United States demanding an explanation and threatening sanctions and hinting at other ‘measures which may seem to us to be necessary’, so that I have to send a cable back with an explanation that sounds like something almost daft enough to be a CIA report itself. It is an appalling humiliation.

  And that Ecobandodo who is fat enough to weigh as much as eight people jammed into a lift, he gets up in the horsebox, and out he rides on a white horse caparisoned in a bridle and saddle and garra so rich that it could have paid off the national debt in one fell swoop. And the poor horse is staggering beneath the weight and looks like it is going to fall over, and then Ecobandodo actually rides it across the fresh gravel of the palace courtyard with all his tame pressmen in tow taking sycophantic pictures and scribbling down quotes, and the fat shit is actually throwing bundles of thousand-peso notes and sachets of coca amongst the crowd that overwhelms the palace guard who are last seen on their hands and knees in full ceremonial dress cramming the money into their polished helmets with the horsetail plumes just like the ones at Buckingham Palace, and they are even cramming it down their high boots and into the little boxes on the back of their Sam Brownes, and it turns out that one of the soldiers had his little box full of contraceptives which he empties out on the gravel to make space for the money, and the newspapers print a full-page photograph of him doing it and invite the readers to send in the best caption, and the winner gets a free holiday for two in Punta del Este, paid for by Pablo Ecobandodo who will personally hand over the tickets at a gala presentation.

  And the fat exhibitionist, he rides the white horse up the palace steps and into the Great Hall of The Republic, and the horse is so weighed down that it has to shit on the red carpet and leave a great steaming pile right here in the palace; a stain that will be a perpetual reproach to His Excellency every time that I have to step over it.

  And he gets off his horse, who visibly sighs with relief, and he puts his cigar out on the bust of Simon Bolivar and throws the stub into the indoor fishpond where some unfortunate carp gulps it down and then reappears on the surface in its death throes two hours later.

  And he is surrounded by hoods with weapons plainly bulging out of every cranny of their gaudy clothes, and he comes up and says, ‘I suppose that you are His Excellency President Veracretino The Ridiculous, and I have just come to spit on your carpet, see, I have spat on it, and tell you that you don’t mess with me, now or ever, or I will see you eat shit, OK?’ And all his bodyguards laugh, and there is one there who has gold teeth and the worst taste shoes I have ever seen, and he gets out his penis and pisses in the fishpond in a great golden arc, and says, ‘That will cost you two thousand pesos for the privilege.’

  The man gets back up on his horse and rides away down the steps into the sunlight, because for once it is not raining, and he waves to the crowd and has his picture taken, and after he has gone my little wife comes up to me and she says, ‘Daddikins, you know when I worked in that club in Panama? I recognise that man. He came in once and made me do it with someone on a table right in front of all the customers at gunpoint, and then he makes me put fruit up it and pretend to make love with a bottle, and he passes the bottle round all the customers afterwards and makes each one take a swig and eat the fruit.’ And my poor darling she is trembling at the memory, and I put my arm around her and say, ‘Don’t fret, my little schoolgirl, because Daddikins is going to get that man,’ and she gives me some Turkish Delight and says, ‘Let’s hex him tomorrow,’ and I say, ‘You are a clever little girl.’

  And from now on it’s war, and I have already informed the Chief of Police and the Chiefs of Staff that henceforth it’s our secret policy to shoot to kill, because we don’t want those reprobates and criminals buying their way out of justice any more, and, I am pleased to say, it looks as if the stains of the horseshit will come out quite easily with a bit more work, and the cat that is supposed to be my own daughter ate the fish while no one was looking and has suffered no ill effects, thanks be to God.

  19 Fortuity

  ‘OK BOYS, I have had enough. That ungrateful bastard Vivo, he takes all that money, and then he still writes those letters and gets everyone worked up and people start up their Vivo societies and start pressuring the police and the mayors, and they write letters to the president and all that goddamn mierda, and it turns out he is son to that filth Montes Sosa who had my cousin shot in Cesar. We are going to take him out once and for all, chicos, and here is just how, OK? You take this little present, OK, and it is magnetic, and you stick it right under the driving-seat of that car of his, right? This baby is a special baby, chicos, it explodes straight up like that “Boom” and it will blow him apart starting with his asshole and his goddamn cojones, OK? So you stick it under there and you pull out this pin, yes? And quarter of an hour after that car makes its first move when he is out of town it tears a hole in his backside, except his backside is not big enough for the hole this baby blows. And you make damn sure he really is going out of town before you pull that pin, boys, because if that baby goes off in town you are in trouble, and it grieves me only a little if you get that Moreno girl as well this time boys because her daddy must have told him something or we would have got him last time, and we can always get our guns somewhere else, boys, can we not? Now listen, chicos, you follow that Vivo and keep a good distance, because I want a first-hand report about when that baby blows him through the roof of that antique, understand?’

  Anica and Dionisio planned to go canoeing. As usual she came round and banged on the shutters, but Dionisio had known she was coming because from his own room he could see when she turned off her lights or closed her windows. So as usual he ran downstairs and told her through the door that he was not going to buy any encyclopaedias, and she said, ‘Let me in, shithead.’ He opened the door and pounced on her, pinning her against the wall and kissing her, standing on tiptoe because she was taller than he was. As usual she made faces and said, ‘I know too many people around here; que diran?’ And he said, ‘Are you ashamed to be seen with me?’

  ‘There is a man out there, querido, and he wanted to talk with me. I gave good morning, and he said “Have a good weekend, are you doing anything special?”’

  ‘I think he fancies you. What did you say?’

  ‘I said we are going to Iragun to take a boat on the river, and he said, “You had better be quick or you won’t get a boat,” so I said, “Why?” and he said they often hire them all out first thing. I think we had better hurry, querido.’

  When they came out of the house the man was still there. Anica smiled at him, and Dionisio said, ‘I hear you have been flirting with my woman,’ so he smiled and said, ‘Anyone would want to flirt with a girl like that.’ Dionisio said ‘You are right, hombre,’ and Anica looked embarrassed.

  They set off out of town, and after a few kilometres she said, ‘Querido, I think I left my mochila behind.’

  ‘You nearly did; I put it under my seat.’

  She tried to reach round under the seat and check that it was there, but she could not feel it, so she said, ‘Are you sure it is there?’ This sowed a doubt in his mind, even though he was absolutely sure, so after a while of insisting that it was there he stopped the car and lifted up the front seat. It was difficult to lift because of the pull of the magnet on the metal bars of the seat-frame, but he just made a mental note to oil the swivels. When he drove off the bomb was left lying in the road, and the gangsters in the car behind were absolutely staggered and dismayed. ‘Mierda maricon, I told you that man was a brujo. How did he do that?’

  ‘Listen, that thing is going to go off soon. What do we do?’ They got out and threw it over the edge of the road so that it bounced down the mountainside and came to rest against a boulder. The only damage it did when it went off was to seal up the burrow of a family of rats, who had to spend the rest of the morning digging themselves out.

  ‘Did you notice,’ she said, ‘that when we stopped to look for my bag, the car behind
us stopped?’

  ‘He had a problem with the engine, I think. He was looking under the bonnet. It is these modern cars, they are all rubbish because they only design them to last three years, so then you have to buy another one. That is big business. Everyone should have an old car like mine, then there would be no problems.’

  She laughed at him. ‘Even if your car broke down every day you would still think it was the best car in the world.’

  ‘Well, it is, Bugsita, it is.’

  That day Dionisio told her about his ambitions in life. ‘I want a house, somewhere at the same altitude as Medellin, for example. There must be a huge pond full of fish, and the garden must be overgrown like a jungle so that I always get surprises in it. I will have a room full of recording equipment so that when I compose something I do not forget it straight away, and I would have a workshop with lathes and a hole in the ground so that I can work underneath the car. I would have the biggest double bed in the world, and I want a very old motorcycle, and I want a library where the termites cannot get in. Most of all I want very many cats.’

  Anica was puzzled and amused. ‘I do not know if that is to want too much or too little.’

  ‘What do you want, querida?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ She imitated the simpering whine of Miss Venezuela of the year before, who had uttered the immortal words which she now repeated: ‘I want only to be happy and successful.’ Then they talked to a horse who had poked his head over a fence, and he said, ‘Undoubtedly I will have a beautiful grey horse also.’ It occurred to him that this would be a good time to ask her to marry him, because he wanted her more than all those other things put together. But his courage failed him.