Night Prayers

by Santiago Gamboa

  Then I found out that the hosts were two friends from the university, both homosexuals, one from Sociology, the one who’d opened the door, and the other from History, a professor, a guy of about forty who not only didn’t have tattoos or earrings or anything like that, but in addition was fat, not obese, just reasonably fat, and quite calm and relaxed, who’d seen it all before, all the fights and debates.

  What I liked most was his home.

  An apartment on Sixth and Fourth full of books and antiques, some pre-Columbian and some brought back from Asia and the South Pacific. The first thing I did when I came in, before greeting the other guests, was to look through the library. Heidegger, Deleuze, Virilio, Flesh and Stone: The Body and the City in Western Civilization by Richard Sennett, the works of Lacan in French, the works of Michel Foucault in French, Chomsky, the Mahabharata, an edition of Gaddafi’s Green Book, three biographies of Mao, Del Poder y la Gramática by Malcolm Deas, The Intellectuals and the Masses by John Carey, the biography of Che by Paco Ignacio Taibo II, The Idea of Justice by Amartya Sen, the collected poems of Rubén Darío, the collected poems of León de Greiff in three volumes, the complete works of Mayakovsky, Rimbaud in French, Baudelaire in French, books that later, as time passed, I sought out and bought, and of course read, you can’t imagine, Consul, how important it was for me, going to that party, especially after Daniela’s fiasco.

  In the dining room, around a huge pitcher of pisco sour, there was another group from Philosophy, some postgrads, some from other universities. That was where I met your friend Gustavo Chirolla. I was struck by the way he argued, with his coastal accent and his enormous affection and respect for those who argued with him. That night they talked about various subjects and I stood listening in a corner, hypnotized by what they were saying, I can’t remember it in detail but I’m sure they talked about politics, that was the great topic in those horrible days, local politics, everybody felt concerned, everybody thought they had to make their position clear, do you remember, Consul? it was an implicit duty, we were like Cubans, and out of that emerged loves and hates, something that ended when Uribe went and Colombia became a normal country again, or rather, went back to being a shitty country but a normal one, and people went back to the old grayness and lobotomy, which by comparison seemed like a sign of balance and even of progress.

  They talked of all that and also of very specific things, Leibniz, social structures, the new critical thinking. I was dazzled listening to them, especially Gustavo. This man knows about everything, I told myself, and at one point, very shyly, I asked him where he taught, and that was when he told me a couple of things about his work and his classes at the Xavierian University. I told him about my interest in philosophy and in the National University, and he said that he recommended it to me, that we were sure to see each other there.

  For some time now I had liked philosophy. It was the only thing that might have an answer for my failed existence, that frustration that only disappeared with painting, books, or movies. Art and its human stories helped me to understand that I was not alone, but studying literature struck me as unnecessary, and the cinema was a utopia. Juana wanted me to make a movie, but I said to her, for that you have to be a millionaire or the son of millionaires, don’t kid yourself. Kubrick had a rich uncle who paid for his first film, don’t you remember? And if we find a producer, which is highly unlikely, we’d have to forget about making art. You can’t make the movie you want if the money isn’t yours.

  She believed in me blindly and said that she didn’t mind spending her life working to pay for it. I let her fantasize, but I knew it was impossible, among other things because the movie I carry inside me is so tough that nobody would go to see it.

  There remained philosophy: Anaxagoras, Epictetus, Peter Abelard, Saint Anselm, Scottus Eriugena, Emmanuel Kant. They had thought about everything. How to explain that profound sense of rejection? the certainty that something in life was wrong, profoundly wrong? what to call that feeling of insubstantiality, of emptiness? These were the answers I was looking for.

  Hearing those people confirmed me in my decision to study at the National, although the truth was, I didn’t really have much choice. Los Andes was out of reach, as was the Xavierian.

  Plus, I’d be close to Juana.

  At midnight, after a few whiskeys and a joint, a woman named Tania came up to me and asked me to dance. She whispered in my ear: are you Juana’s brother? I didn’t know you were so young and handsome. We danced for a while, she clung to me as soon as we took the first step, kissed me on the mouth, sucked my ear, and said, well, darling, shall we fuck? I’d heard people say that kind of thing in movies, so I said, nervously, yes, of course.

  We went to one of the bedrooms on the second floor and without needing any words she opened my fly and started sucking my cock. She had a piercing in her tongue and she rubbed it hard against my glans. Then she took off her clothes, sat down on a hassock, and moved her thong aside. We fucked and it was really great, she made me feel as if it wasn’t the first time. She had experience, she moved well, and she knew how to guide me. Thanks to that, I didn’t come in the first thirty seconds, but by the time we had finished I was another person. She got upset because she couldn’t find her bra, then she wanted to light a cigarette and the lighter didn’t work. In the end she found her clothes, dressed with her back to me, and then snorted a line of coke through each nostril. I asked her for her phone number, but she didn’t even reply. Suddenly she looked at me, as if surprised to see me still there, and said, are you planning to sleep here or what? Then something happened that made the atmosphere even tenser than it already was: bending to look for her huge Dr. Martens boots, she let out a loud and unmistakable fart. Not vaginal wind, but a classic fart. A fart that resounded through the room, and really annoyed her, although she didn’t even say “sorry” or “it just came out.” I asked her for her phone number again, but she said:

  Look, there’s no point our seeing each other again. I have a boyfriend, a really great Spanish guy who’s traveling right now. I’m thirty-two years old, I’m not going to get involved with a child.

  With those words she left the room, through which a sharp, foul-smelling wind was already blowing.

  I felt very sick and didn’t know what to do.

  She left me alone in that stinking room that suddenly seemed like the saddest, most squalid place in the world. I searched for my clothes and got dressed. Then I opened the window and breathed in the clean night air. From some star or from the mountains there came a voice that said: get used to losing everything. I was puzzled. It sounded like a phrase of Edgar’s, the kind he invented without it coming from his guts, for the pure pleasure of combining sounds. Then I thought it sounded more like Paulo Coelho and I decided to erase it.

  I walked downstairs and went back to the party.

  Seeing me, Juana came up to me, well? did you like it? I told her it had been great, and so as not to hurt me she said, Tania wanted to fuck you as soon as she saw you. She’s the one you have to thank. I hugged her and said, let’s dance, let’s forget this, teach me some more steps.

  12

  I woke up at nine, somewhat the worse for wear after that mixture of drinks the night before, but a couple of aspirins with Alka-Seltzer and a furtive swig of gin revived me.

  I ran down and took a taxi opposite the hotel, with the lawyer’s address in my hand, but very soon fell into the paralyzing hydra of the traffic, the great ill of Asian cities. Or of modern cities. You go so slowly that the road fills with intruders.

  My head heated up again and the pain returned.

  I got to the address with two minutes to spare. Teresa was waiting for me on the street outside the building.

  “Thanks for coming and for being punctual,” I said, giving her a kiss. “How do you feel?”

  “A bit rough, to be honest,” she said with a smile, “but it’ll soon pass. It’s been a while since I had Cuba Libres and tequila one after the other. It was wo
rth it.”

  I did mention that I’d give my life to postpone the appointment and have a Bloody Mary, which at that hour of the morning has the virtue of grabbing hold of your body, messing it up, and putting it back together again without any of the pieces missing.

  The lawyer was an elderly man of about seventy. His venerable appearance seemed like a good sign.

  “Sit down, welcome.”

  He made a gesture with his hand and a second later a servant appeared with a tray. Cold water, an orange-colored soda, tea, and coffee. Biscuits and pistachios. I missed something more aggressive in terms of alcohol content. I grabbed a coffee and a glass of water. Teresa did the same.

  “Good,” the man said, “I don’t suppose you’ll be upset to know that this morning, first thing, I myself called the prosecutor and asked for a copy of the report on your compatriot Manuel Manrique. You should know that the prosecutor was my pupil at university and has great respect for me. There’s nothing illegal about that. I told him that I’d be dealing with the case and that you’d be coming to see me later.”

  That struck me as an excellent omen. I told him that I was grateful, that I had a mandate from the Ministry to hire him as of now. We were convinced of Manrique’s innocence. I suggested trying to find previous cases in which the accused had been the victim of an injustice.

  “Don’t worry, Consul,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll tell you something: you’re not on the wrong track in any way. This very day I’ll begin to put together a solid number of cases. In addition, and this too is, let’s say, somewhat privileged information, I know that the police are hot on the heels of a network of amphetamine traffickers from Burma. It may even be that between now and the trial we’ll have some good news.”

  I told him I had to go back to Delhi that weekend, but it was only Wednesday. In any event I would be dealing with the case and would be coming frequently.

  We signed documents, he gave me his particulars, and, just as I was about to get up, he gently held me back by the arm.

  “Go and see the young man,” he said, “it’ll do him good. I’ll make sure they respect him in Bangkwang and don’t mistreat him, but it’s good that you see him regularly. These little things make all the difference. The prison warden is merely a functionary who wants to do well by his country. This kingdom may appear small but it’s big, Consul. The eyes of the king cannot reach into all corners.”

  “I’ll go see him tomorrow,” I said. “Today I have to ask the prosecutor for authorization.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the lawyer said. “I’ll make sure that nobody stops you going in. Go tomorrow about ten, I’ll arrange everything.”

  We left after reading, sealing, and signing an interminable series of documents that the lawyer would send by courier to the embassy in Delhi just a few minutes later. Then he let me use his telephone and I called Olympia. I asked her to make sure that as soon as the documents arrived they were passed on to Bogotá by diplomatic baggage.

  By the time we left, it was almost noon, and we saw a sign on the other side of the avenue: Lobster’s Bar, Wine & Cocktails.

  I said to Teresa, “Let me buy you a soda, or whatever you like. It’s just midnight in Colombia and I’m dying for a Bloody Mary.”

  But Teresa said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Consul, and what time do you think it is in Mexico?”

  We had two Bloody Marys each, to which she added a Singha beer. I looked at her in silence, but she hastened to say:

  “Don’t make that face, my rule is not to drink before twelve o’clock, and look, we’re past that. Some people wait until two in the afternoon, but there are times when that’s simply not realistic. Right, I’m off to the embassy, let’s talk later. Call me.”

  She got in a taxi and disappeared into the traffic.

  I hailed another and went back to Suan Plu Soi 6, Sathorn Road. I had the impression, or rather the intuition, that the Regency Inn Hotel still had something to tell me. Again I walked around before making up my mind to enter; if someone saw me, I thought, they might alert the true criminals (“but this isn’t going to be a crime story”).

  This time, the young man I had seen before wasn’t at the reception desk. Instead, there was a woman my age, so I asked her if I could see room 301, which was still free. She handed over the keys. As I went in, I saw myself reflected in the closet mirror. I sat for a while on the bed, without thinking of anything specific. There was nothing new, only the dense air. This was all so unfair. Something dark seemed to be making its way through the air, without seeing reason, without listening to the words of a young man who had already known, before arriving here, what it was to suffer and be very alone.

  I went back to my hotel and locked myself in my room. I wanted to read, to think, even to forget. To prepare myself for the following encounter. The next day I would go early to Bangkwang.

  The time had come to start listening to him.

  13

  INTER-NETA’S MONOLOGUES

  On days like these, dear internauts, I feel the need to do something intimate, to expose another small corner of my mind to your eyes. I’m going to talk to you about the liquid of purity and madness. The most important creation of the soul in alcoholic terms. Can anyone guess? You’re not even warm. Because it’s a drink that’s served very cold.

  Like so many things in the world and in life, gin was invented in the seventeenth century (some say 1550, who is right?) by a distinguished member of the medical profession, the Dutchman Franciscus Sylvius de le Boë, and as he was a physician its original use—as you can imagine—was very different than the one we give it today: it was a diuretic. It helped us take a leak. De le Boë’s ambitious idea was to relieve constipation and stomachaches according to some, gallstones and liver complaints according to others, with a mixture of distilled barley, rye, and corn, and in order to increase its potency he added berries of juniper (French: genièvre; Dutch: genever) to the brew.

  Did Shakespeare drink it? If De le Boë did indeed invent it in 1550, then old Will would have been in time. It’s highly unlikely that he never suffered from constipation or needed to provoke urination.

  John Cheever wrote: “A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey’s gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind.”

  When the recipe crossed the English Channel and reached the British Isles, at the time of William of Orange—who was Dutch, like Rembrandt and van Gogh and Rip Van Winkle and Heineken beer—the legend was born that the name genever came from Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur of the Round Table, an intelligent woman generous with her private parts, who cuckolded the king with Lancelot of the Lake. (I would have done the same, with a name like that!)

  By the way, do you know why the Swiss don’t drink whiskey?

  Because they have a lake of gin (Lake Geneva, get it?).

  Before then, the English used to get plastered—what a crude word that is, how much more refined is se soûlaient la gueule—on pear liqueurs and French wines, but the closing of trade with France led to authorization being given for the distilling of grains native to the British Isles. When it comes to binges and benders, you have to be independent.

  Gin was a “smash hit.” Two and a half million gallons in 1690, five million in 1727, and twenty-one million ten years later. With a population of six and a half million, that makes, let’s see, three and a half gallons a head per year! Not bad. Alarmed, in 1736 Parliament passed the Gin Act, levying high taxes on sales, thus restoring order and saying: “We’re Protestants! We have to defer gratification!”

  The English say, with their English sense of humor: “There’s always someone trying to stop us from getting drunk,” but the producers continued bottling the stuff secretly and consumption increased. Bernard Shaw would say much later: “Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life.”

  In 1742, there were twelve thousand arrests. F
aced with this landslide of prisoners—drunks sleeping it off in prison cells—Parliament lowered the taxes. Life is short and drink is long and plentiful. The producers went back to making legal gin, of excellent quality. The first to have a registered name, in 1749, was Booth’s, the oldest distillery in England.

  As Frank Sinatra says: “Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.”

  It was normal to drink it without ice. Sometimes with a little sugar. Lord Byron said that gin and water was the origin of his inspiration. In a grim period it was recognized as the drink (not bitter but sweet) of the lower classes. Charles Dickens, being a puritan, denounced the “gin palaces.” Prime Minister Gladstone tried to limit its sale to certain bars and lost his seat. “I was buried under a torrent of gin,” he said.

  The favorite son of gin is the dry martini, which takes us to the other side of the Atlantic.

  Humphrey Bogart’s last words were: “I should never have switched from Scotch to martinis.” They were his doom, as they were for many elegant drunks with their tuxedos and their cigarette cases. A martini in the hand was a symbol of success in the country where success matters. We are in the United States, friends.

  Someone once said that the martini was the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet. Is that possible? At the Tehran conference of 1943, President Roosevelt gave it to Stalin to try. Stalin looked at the glass, drank it cautiously, looked at his advisers, then licked his mustache and asked for more. Later, Nikita Khrushchev would say that the martini was the true “lethal weapon” of the United States.