‘Are you going to sleep?’ Ricardo asked.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Come in and tell me about planes.’
It was cold, the wood of the bed creaked with every single movement of their bodies, and also it was a little girl’s bed, too narrow and short for these games, so Elaine ended up pulling off the bedspread with one tug and spreading it out on top of the carpet, beside her felt slippers. There, on the woollen bedspread, freezing to death, they had a quick and to-the-point encounter. Elaine thought her breasts seemed smaller in Ricardo Laverde’s hands, but she didn’t tell him that. She put her nightgown back on to go out to the bathroom, and there, sitting on the toilet, thought she’d give Ricardo time to go back to his own room. She also thought she’d enjoyed being with him, that she’d do it again if the occasion arose, and that what had just happened must be forbidden in the statutes of the Peace Corps. She washed in the bidet, looked in the mirror and smiled, turned off the bathroom light before opening the door, and returning to her bedroom in the dark, walking slowly so she wouldn’t trip, she found that Ricardo had not left, but had rather remade the bed and was waiting for her there, lying on his side, resting on his elbow, leaning his head on his hand like the leading man of some terrible Hollywood movie.
‘I want to sleep alone,’ said Elaine.
‘I don’t want to sleep, I want to talk,’ he said.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘And what shall we talk about?’
‘Whatever you want, Elena Fritts. You suggest a topic and I’ll follow.’
They talked about everything except themselves. They were naked and Ricardo let his hand wander over Elaine’s belly, his fingers through her straight hair, and they talked of intentions and projects, convinced, as only new lovers can be, that saying what you wanted was the same as saying who you were. Elaine talked about her mission in the world, about youth as a weapon of progress, of the obligation to confront worldly powers. And she asked Ricardo questions: Did he like being Colombian? Would he like to live in another part of the world? Did he hate the United States? Had he read any of the New Journalists? But it took another seven couplings over the next two weeks before Elaine dared to ask the question that had intrigued her since the first day: ‘What happened to your father’s face?’ ‘How prudent the señorita is,’ said Ricardo. ‘It’s never taken anybody so long to ask me that question.’ They were going up to Monserrate in the cable car when Elaine asked: Ricardo had waited for her to come out of the CEUCA and told her it was time for some tourism, that a person couldn’t come to Colombia just to work, that she should stop behaving like such a Protestant, for the love of God. And now Elaine was holding onto Ricardo (her head glued to his chest, her hands clenched around his elbows) every time a gust of wind shook the cabin on its cable and the tourists all gasped at the same time. And over the course of the afternoon, suspended in the air or sitting in the pews of the church, wandering in circles around the gardens of the sanctuary or seeing Bogotá from an altitude of 3,000 metres, Elaine began to listen to the story of an aerial exhibition in a year as distant as 1938, she heard talk of pilots and acrobatics and of an accident and the half a hundred dead the accident left. And when she woke up the next morning a package was waiting for her next to her recently served breakfast. Elaine tore off the wrapping paper and found a magazine in Spanish with a leather bookmark stuck between the pages. She started to think the bookmark was the gift, but then she opened the magazine and saw the surname of her hosts and a note from Ricardo: So you’ll understand.
Elaine devoted herself to understanding. She asked questions and Ricardo answered them. His father’s burnt face, Ricardo explained over the course of several conversations, that map of skin darker and rougher and more jagged than the desert of Villa de Leyva, had formed part of the landscape that surrounded him his whole life; but not even as a child, when one asks everything and assumes nothing, did Ricardo Laverde take an interest in the causes of what he saw, the difference between his father’s face and everyone else’s. Although it was also possible (Laverde said) that his family hadn’t even given him time to feel that curiosity, for the tale of the accident at Santa Ana had floated among them ever since it happened and never evaporated, being repeated in the most diverse situations and thanks to the widest range of narrators, and Laverde remembered versions heard at Christmas novenas, versions from Friday-afternoon tea parties and others on Sundays at the football stadium, versions on the way to bed in the evening and others on the way to school in the mornings. They talked about the accident, yes, and they did so in every tone of voice and with all sorts of intentions, to demonstrate that planes were dangerous, unpredictable things like rabid dogs (according to his father), or that planes were like Greek gods, always putting people in their place and never tolerating men’s arrogance (according to his grandfather). And many years later he, Ricardo Laverde, would tell of the accident as well, adorning and adulterating it until he realized that it wasn’t necessary. At school, for example, telling the origins of his father’s burnt face was the best way to capture his classmates’ attention. ‘I tried with my grandfather’s war exploits,’ said Laverde. ‘Then I realized no one wants to hear heroic stories, but everyone likes to be told about someone else’s misery.’ And that’s what he would remember, the faces of his classmates when he told them about the accident at Santa Ana and then showed them pictures of his father and his scarred face so they’d see he wasn’t lying.
‘Now I’m sure,’ said Laverde. ‘If nowadays I want to be a pilot, if there’s nothing else that interests me in the world, it’s Santa Ana’s fault. If I end up killing myself in a plane, it’ll be Santa Ana’s fault.’
That story is to blame, said Laverde. It was that story’s fault that he’d accepted his grandfather’s first invitations. It was that story’s fault that he’d started to go to the runways of the Guaymaral Aeroclub to fly with the heroic veteran and to feel alive, more alive than ever. He walked between the Canadian Sabres and managed to get to sit in the cockpits (his surname opened them all), and then managed (again his surname) to get the best flying instructors at the Aeroclub to devote more hours than they’d been paid for to him: the story of Santa Ana was to blame for all that. He would never feel so much like a dauphin as he’d felt during those times, would never again know what it’s like to have a little inherited power. ‘I’ve made good use of it, Elena, I swear,’ he said. ‘I’ve learned well, been a good student.’ His grandfather always said he had the makings of a good pilot. His instructors were veterans too: mostly of the war with Peru, but some who’d flown in Korea and been decorated by the gringos, or at least that’s what was said. And they all agreed that this boy was good, that he had a rare instinct and golden hands and, what was most important, that the planes respected him. And the planes were never wrong.
‘And so that’s how it’s been till now,’ said Laverde. ‘It kills my father, but I’m now the boss of my own life, with one hundred flying hours you become boss of your own life. He spends his days guessing the future, but it’s other people’s future, Elena, my father doesn’t know what’s in mine, and his formulas and statistics can’t tell him either. I’ve wasted a lot of time trying to find out, and only now, in the last few days, have I come to understand the relationship between my life and my dad’s face, between the accident at Santa Ana and this person you see before you, who is going to do great things in life, a grandson of a hero. I’m going to get out of this mediocre life, Elena Fritts. I’m not afraid, I’m going to restore the name Laverde to its rightful place in aviation history. I’m going to be better than Captain Abadía and my family’s going to be proud of me. I’m going to leave this mediocre life and get out of this house where we suffer every time another family invites us for dinner because we’ll have to invite them over in return. I’m going to stop counting centavos as my mother does every morning. I’m not going to have to offer a bed to a gringo so my family will have enough to eat, sorry, no offence, I didn’t mean to offend you. What do you want,
Elena Fritts, I’m the grandson of a hero, I’m made for better things. Great things, that’s how it is, I say it and I mean it. No matter whether people like it or not.’
They were on their way down in the cable car, the same way they’d gone up. The sun was setting, and the sky over Bogotá had turned into a gigantic violet blanket. Below them, in the fading light, the pilgrims who’d walked up and were walking down looked like coloured drawing pins on the stone steps. ‘What strange light this city has,’ said Elaine Fritts. ‘You close your eyes for a second and it’s already night by the time you open them.’ A gust of wind shook the cabin, but this time the tourists didn’t cry out. It was cold. The wind sighed as it blew through the cabin. Elaine, her arm around Ricardo Laverde, leaning on the horizontal bar that protected the window, found herself suddenly in the dark. The heads of the other passengers were vague silhouettes against the background of the sky, black on black. Ricardo’s breathing reached her in waves, a smell of tobacco and clean water, and there, floating over the eastern hills, watching the city light itself up for the night, Elaine wished the cabin would never reach the bottom. She thought, perhaps for the first time, that a person like her could live in a country like this. In more than one sense, she thought, this country was still just starting, barely discovering its place in the world, and she wanted to be part of that discovery.
The deputy director of Peace Corps Colombia was a small, thin, distant man with thick-framed glasses like Henry Kissinger’s and a knitted tie. He received Elaine in his shirtsleeves, which would not have been odd if the man hadn’t been wearing a short-sleeved shirt as if he were in the unbearable heat of Barranquilla or Girardot instead of freezing to death up on this plateau. He used so much brilliantine in his black hair that the light from the neon strip lighting could produce the illusion of premature greying at his temples or white roots in his parting as straight as that of any military officer. She couldn’t tell if he was North American or local, or an American son of locals, or a local son of Americans; there were no clues, no posters on the walls or music playing anywhere or books on the shelves that might allow someone to guess at his life, his origins. He spoke perfect English, but his surname – the long surname that looked up at Elaine from the desk, carved in a brass sign that looked solid – was Latin American or at least Spanish, Elaine didn’t know if there was any difference. The interview was routine: all the Peace Corps volunteers had passed or would pass through this dark office, sit in this uncomfortable chair where Elaine now half-rose to smooth her long aquamarine skirt with her hands. Here, before the lean and aloof Mr Valenzuela, all those who’d been trained in the CEUCA sat sooner or later and listened to a short speech on how the training was approaching its end, how the volunteers would soon be travelling to the places where they would fulfil their mission, speeches on generosity and responsibility and the opportunity to make a difference. They listened to the words permanent site placement and then immediately the same question: ‘Do you have any preference?’ And the volunteers pronounced recently acquired names of unknown content: Bolívar, Valledupar, Magdalena, Guajira. Or Quindío (which they’d pronounce Kwindio). Or Cauca (pronounced Coka). Then they’d be transferred to a place near their final destination, a sort of intermediate stop where they’d spend three weeks at the side of a volunteer with more experience. Field training, it was called. All this was decided in a half-hour interview.
‘So, what’s it gonna be?’ said Valenzuela. ‘Cartagena is out, so’s Santa Marta. They’re already full. Everyone wants to go there, to be on the Caribbean.’
‘I don’t want to go to a city,’ said Elaine Fritts.
‘No?’
‘I think I can learn more in the countryside. The spirit of a people is in its campesinos.’
‘The spirit,’ said Valenzuela.
‘And a person can help more,’ said Elaine.
‘Well, that too. Let’s see, tropical or temperate?’
‘Wherever I can be more helpful.’
‘Help is needed all over, miss. This country is still only half-baked. Think about what you know as well, the things you do well.’
‘Things I know?’
‘Of course. You’re not going to go plant potatoes if you’ve never even seen a photo of a hoe.’ Valenzuela opened a brown folder that had been beneath his hand the whole time, turned a page, looked up. ‘George Washington University, journalism major, right?’
Elaine nodded. ‘But I have seen hoes,’ she said. ‘And I learn fast.’
Valenzuela grimaced with impatience.
‘Well, you’ve got three weeks,’ he said. ‘That, or become a burden and make a fool of yourself.’
‘I’m not going to be a burden,’ said Elaine. ‘I . . .’
Valenzuela shuffled some papers, took out a new folder. ‘Look, in three days I’m meeting with the regional leaders. I’ll find out there who needs what, and I’ll find out where you can do your field training. But what I know for sure is that there’s a place near La Dorada, do you know where I mean? The Magdalena Valley, Miss Fritts. It’s far away, but it’s not another world. In this place it’s not quite as hot as in La Dorada, because it’s a little way up the mountain. You go by train from Bogotá, it’s easy to get to and get back from, you’ll have noticed that the buses here are a public menace. Anyway, it’s a good place and not much in demand. It’d help to know how to ride a horse. It’d help to have a strong stomach. There’s a lot of work to be done with the people from Acción Comunal, community development, you know, literacy, nutrition, things like that. It’s just three weeks. If you don’t like it, it won’t be too late to change your mind.’
Elaine thought of Ricardo Laverde. Suddenly, having Ricardo a few hours away by train seemed like a good idea. She thought of the name of the place, La Dorada, and translated it in her head: The Golden One.
‘La Dorada,’ said Elaine Fritts, ‘sounds good.’
‘First the other place, then La Dorada.’
‘Yes, that place too. Thanks.’
‘OK,’ said Valenzuela. He opened a metal drawer and took out a piece of paper. ‘Look, before I forget. This is for you to fill in and return to the secretary.’
It was a questionnaire, or rather a carbon copy of a questionnaire. The heading was just one question, typed in capital letters: What are some of the things which you have found different about your home in Bogotá? Below the question were several subheadings separated by generous spaces, ostensibly to be filled in by the volunteers with as much detail as possible. Elaine answered the questionnaire in a motel in Chapinero, lying on her stomach on an unmade bed that smelled of sex, using a telephone directory to support the page and covering her bum with the sheet to protect it from Ricardo’s hand, its risqué roving, its obscene incursions. Under the subheading Physical Discomforts and Inconveniences, she wrote: ‘The men of the household never lift the seat when they use the toilet.’ Ricardo told her she was a spoilt, fussy girl. Under Restrictions on Guests’ Freedom she wrote: ‘The door is barred at nine, and I always have to wake up my señora.’ Ricardo told her she was too much of a night-owl. Under Communication Problems she wrote: ‘I don’t understand why they speak so formally with their children, calling them usted instead of tú.’ Ricardo told her she still had a lot to learn. Under Behaviour of Family Members she wrote: ‘The son likes to bite my nipples when he comes.’ Ricardo didn’t say anything.
The whole family accompanied her to catch the train at Sabana Station. It was a large solemn building with fluted columns and a carved stone condor on the high point of the façade, wings extended as if it were about to take off in flight and carry away the attic in its talons. Doña Gloria had given Elaine a bouquet of white roses, and now, as she crossed the foyer with her suitcase in one hand and her handbag across her chest, the flowers had turned into a hateful nuisance, a sort of duster that crashed against other travellers leaving a trail of sad petals on the stone floor, and the thorns stabbed Elaine every time she tried to get a better grip on
the stems and protect them from the hostility of the environment. The father, for his part, had waited until they arrived at the platform before presenting his gift, and now, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of people and the cries of the shoeshine boys and the importuning of beggars, he explained that it was a book by a journalist that had come out a couple of years ago but was still selling, that the guy was uncouth but the book, from what he’d heard, wasn’t bad. Elaine tore off the wrapping paper, saw a design of nine blue frames with trimmed corners, and inside the frames saw bells, suns, Phrygian caps, floral sketches, moons with women’s faces, skulls and crossbones and dancing demons, and it all seemed a bit absurd and gratuitous, and the title, Cien años de soledad, exaggerated and melodramatic. Don Julio put a long fingernail over the E of the last word, which was backwards. ‘I didn’t notice till I’d already bought it,’ he apologized. ‘If you want we can try to exchange it.’ Elaine said it didn’t matter, that she wasn’t going to get on the train with nothing to read because of a silly typo. And days later, in a letter to her grandparents, she wrote: ‘Send me something to read, please, I get bored at night. The only thing I have here is a book the señor gave me as a going-away present, and I’ve tried to read it, I swear I’ve tried, but the Spanish is very difficult and everybody has the same name. It’s the most tedious thing I’ve read in a long time, and there’s even a typo on the cover. It’s incredible, it’s in its fourteenth printing and they haven’t corrected it. When I think of you reading the latest Graham Greene, it doesn’t seem fair.’
The Sound of Things Falling Page 14
