Night Prayers

by Santiago Gamboa

  Then he took out his handkerchief and dried his eyes.

  I sought out her classmates, the friends who had known her. It was a long and difficult process, since I didn’t even know their names. It’s incredible how little we know of the people we love. Little by little, I tracked down some of them, but nobody knew anything. They told me vague things, that she had gone on a journey, that she was doing fieldwork. None of them thought it possible that she had gotten involved with the guerrillas, who were very discredited in the university. I said that one night to Father and he moved his head, as if to dismiss the thought, and said, I knew, I knew that, but thanks anyway, Manuel.

  Father ended up lodging an official registration of her disappearance with the help of the NGO Caritas. From that day on, he devoted himself to studying disappearances in Colombia in the hope of finding some clue, some lead that would show him the path to follow. He also devoted himself to aguardiente for a while, but the pain from his ulcer soon put a stop to that. He and Mother didn’t talk much, at least not in front of me.

  The worst thing about such situations is that life goes on.

  A year passed, then another year. Father aged about ten years and Mother started taking control of things at home. The bank, knowing what had happened and seeing what bad shape he was in, told him he could take early retirement, and he thought about it seriously. But he preferred to carry on working. At home, the memory of Juana was just too strong and too sad.

  I finished my philosophy degree and started a doctorate, and that’s when I studied aesthetics with Gustavo Chirolla. It was the best course I ever took. But although Gustavo was fond of me I never dared to talk to him about anything personal or try to be his friend. My fellow students were on friendly terms with him, they even went to his house, he was very open, a great guy. I was dying to do that but I never dared. I don’t know why, Consul. What had happened with Juana made me feel distant, and also guilty, very guilty. Because of everything I had lost, I wasn’t like the others. Without her, life wasn’t worthwhile. Mine, at least. I decided to wait a little while to see if a miracle would happen.

  With time, the suffering turned into something secret, a little fire that united my father and me, even though we almost never mentioned it. I knew that it was there, nothing more.

  But early one morning, I was woken by some kind of light, and I sat up in bed.

  Juana was alive.

  I could feel her presence, as if a wind filled with words had burst into the room, and in that magma, in that invisible net, there was her voice. I heard it. It was a voice surrounded by many voices, cries surrounded by many cries. I heard it. She was alive and I had to start looking for her again. Almost three years had passed.

  Of course, I didn’t say anything to Father.

  I decided to begin with Tania, the woman who’d initiated me into sex, and with whom I hadn’t spoken since. It took me two weeks to find her, but in the end I did. She wasn’t studying anymore, she never completed her course in systems engineering, and was now working in the IT department of the El Tiempo publishing group. On my way there, I remembered her Spanish boyfriend. The newspaper had been bought by Spaniards and I put two and two together. In the course of looking for her, I’d discovered that her real name wasn’t Tania but María Claudia. Tania was her student name, a very common name in her generation, I suppose because of Che Guevara’s girlfriend.

  She received me in an office with a view of the hills, and I told her what had happened. Every now and again we heard the planes taking off from the runways of the airport. To persuade her to help me, I showed her the list of offices that we had scoured in the search for my sister, the civil and legal actions I’d started with my father. She was touched by all that, and decided to speak out.

  Listen, I liked Juana very much, she helped me in lots of things and was always great to me. You can’t even imagine what I owe her. That’s why I’m going to start by telling you something you may not like, but it’s important that you know.

  I looked at her nervously, swallowed, and said, tell me, please, whatever it is.

  Juana was working for a former Miss Colombia who ran a modeling agency, she said, and after clearing her throat added: but it was more than just modeling, what the girls did was go out with men who had money. It was actually an escort agency, you know what that means?

  Yes, I said. High-class prostitution.

  I think Juana’s disappearance has more to do with that than with anything political, Tania went on. I didn’t know her that well either. Look, this is the telephone number of the agency. That’s all I know.

  Now she was the one who was a little nervous.

  Did you also work as an escort?

  I’ll be honest with you, she said, after all, you and I know each other. At that time I was in financial difficulty, I’d just broken up with a real son of a bitch, a slacker, an alcoholic, a junkie, and I had a three-year-old child. I was on the fucking street, I didn’t know what to do. Your sister threw me a lifeline, it was legal, she introduced me to the former Miss Colombia and I started working and earning good money. Soon afterwards I met a Spanish executive with a good position who became my boyfriend and is still my boyfriend. He helped me to get out, but I owe it all to Juana. Call this number and tell them it’s from me. I’ll talk to them today to make sure they see you and help you, all right? And please, when you find her tell her I’m dying to see her.

  I left with a strange mixture of emotions. I couldn’t believe that Juana had gotten herself involved in that world, but at the same time I was overcome with joy. She was alive, or might be. My intuition had been correct.

  But after I’d taken a few steps, a shadow fell over me, bringing with it some terrible words, terrible because they had no answer: she would never have abandoned me! I couldn’t imagine a situation that would have stopped her getting in touch with me. Apart from death, of course. But I had a lead, and in such cases a lead is worth everything. The following day I would go and see this mysterious former Miss Colombia.

  Juana always said: I’m working so that we can escape, so that we can get out of this wretched city and go somewhere where nobody will find us, so you must believe blindly in me.

  There was a light at the end of the tunnel.

  Maybe desperation was part of it, and I just had to wait. But three years had passed.

  The following day I called the telephone number, introduced myself as Tania’s friend, and a voice gave me an appointment for six in the evening. I left the university early, feeling nervous. It was on 78th, just below Eleventh. As I was walking to the bus stop, it struck me that on a day like this I would have liked to have a friend, someone I could tell the hopes and fears I felt. It was difficult always being alone. Although I wasn’t alone, I told myself: my sister is somewhere and I’m going to find her.

  The building was in the process of being refurbished, although the workers appeared to be taking a break. On the first floor, with an entrance from the street, there was a drugstore that also sold stationery. I walked as far as the lobby and found a doorman dozing over an issue of El Espectador. I asked him about the modeling agency and he pointed out a plaque next to the entry phones: School of Modeling, third floor.

  The elevator isn’t working, he added, grouchily. You’re going to have to use the stairs.

  I walked up the three floors feeling a bit intimidated, filled with doubts, afraid of what I was about to hear. The door was opened by a woman who didn’t look like a model and who turned out to be the school secretary. She smiled and said, yes, yes, the director is waiting for you, sit here a moment, we’ll be with you shortly.

  On the table there were copies of the magazine TV y Novelas with pages missing, and cards advertising a plastic surgery clinic selling various comprehensive beauty “combos” in a three-in-one offer: lips, breasts, and hips, or breasts, bottom, and thighs. The offer had expired the previous September.

  The secretary came back and said, follow me, and she admitted me to a l
arge office piled high with fashion magazines. A woman who looked familiar was sitting behind the desk. She was probably around fifty, maybe slightly less. You could see the effort she made to keep herself young, the gym and the operations, the diets and implants, the dyed hair.

  When she smiled, her name almost came back to me. She gave me her hand and invited me to sit down, a soda? she said, I have Colombiana Light, which is really good. I said yes. Then we sat for a while in silence until she said: Tania tells me you’re looking for Juana and that you already know what she was doing with us. I nodded. Tania thinks you may be able to help me, I said. I took my folder from my backpack with the list of places where we had been looking and the missing persons report.

  The former Miss Colombia let me read to the end, listening attentively, and then said, look, I’m going to tell you something, what happened to Juana has nothing to do with that, she hasn’t disappeared, and she certainly isn’t dead, let me explain. What we do here is absolutely confidential, we never give out details of what our models do, but in this case, because it’s such a delicate matter, I’m going to break the rules. I want you to know that it’s the girls themselves who ask that no information be given to family members or friends, real or supposed, let alone to clients. Those are the rules of the game. Oh, would you mind waiting a second, please, I forgot to take my pill.

  She stood up and went into the adjoining bathroom. I started leafing through a magazine, trying to contain my emotions, Juana was alive! I didn’t care about the circumstances, any situation, however disastrous or degrading, was redeemable, my God, my heart was almost coming out of my chest, one of my arms started shaking, and I wanted the woman to take her time coming back.

  Suddenly I heard a loud sniff from behind the bathroom door; five seconds later, a second one, even louder. Then the woman came back to her desk.

  Sorry about that. Now then, before anything else I want to make it clear to you that what I’m going to tell you you mustn’t repeat anywhere, let alone in front of a judge or anything like that. The reason I’m telling you this is because I want to help you and your family, but in a confidential way, without it leaving these four walls, do you understand what I’m saying?

  She looked me in the eyes. Her own eyes were beautiful. One of the few things in her body that didn’t appear altered. I told her she needn’t worry. This was a totally personal search. If Juana’s disappearance had nothing to do with politics there’d be no need for legal action. That seemed to reassure her.

  Well, what I can tell you is this: she went to Japan to work. Three years ago.

  Japan? I was stunned, incredulous. Japan? You mean she went there to … ?

  Yes, to work as an escort. She’s making tons of money. At that time I had a good contact, a Colombian woman who received them and put them in the best houses. Everything is very select there. I can tell you my associate was called Maribel, I don’t know her surname, and to tell the truth I haven’t heard from her in more than two years. I think she was detained by immigration, and I don’t know what happened, if they sent her back here or if she’s in prison over there. Apparently her papers weren’t in order. Since that time I haven’t heard from Juana. Look, I can give you this: a copy of your sister’s ticket and travel itinerary. She left from Quito, not from Bogotá. I never knew why and I didn’t ask. I’d already talked to her about the possibility of Japan, and one afternoon she called me up and said she was interested. She asked me to get her a ticket, leaving from Quito, and told me it was critical she didn’t give me any explanation. Here’s the photocopy.

  From Quito to São Paulo. From there to Dubai. From there to Bangkok and then to Tokyo. I was puzzled. I didn’t know you could do that route. I asked, why such a long way around?

  To avoid visas, darling. You don’t go through the United States or through Europe, you see? A Schengen visa is very difficult to get, and as for the United States, forget it. This way you pass under the radar, if you see what I mean.

  I thanked her and put the paper in my pocket. And when did you last hear of her?

  The last time was when Maribel wrote to me from Tokyo saying she had arrived and that they were finding a place for her. That was a week after the flight, November 3, 2008. Up until then, I was responsible. From that point on, everyone makes their own life and doesn’t owe anyone an explanation, because we’re talking about adults here, free, independent adults, right? That was the last I heard. A month later I tried to talk to Maribel about another girl who wanted to go, but she took a long time to reply and then, three months later, she wrote and told me she was having legal problems and had to stop. I never heard any more after that.

  I looked again at the photocopy of the ticket, and read my sister’s name about ten times. The letters danced in front of my eyes, I couldn’t believe it. At last I had something concrete. The former Miss Colombia stood up and went back to the bathroom. Again I heard two sniffs. Then she came out and said:

  It’s possible your sister was arrested along with Maribel. That’s where you could start looking.

  I asked her again if she had any contact information for Maribel in Colombia, but she said no. She didn’t even know her last name. Well, I said, you’ve been an enormous help, do I owe you anything? No, come on, said the former Miss Colombia. Go find your sister and when you’re with her tell her I miss her and she should give me a call.

  When we said goodbye she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  I went back out on the street, feeling strange. Japan, Quito, what the hell did it all mean? I took the copy of the ticket from my pocket and made two photocopies in the stationery store. On the way home, I read it again at least a hundred times. At the traffic light on Eleventh, a couple looked at me in alarm from their car and I hid my face. I was crying.

  When I got home, I locked myself in my room.

  I switched on my computer and started searching: Japan, escorts, Colombian women in Japan. There were lots of names and telephone numbers, and I didn’t know what to do. I looked for the Colombian embassy in Japan and the Japanese embassy in Colombia. I copied down all the numbers, a very long list. Also the codes and the time difference. It was eight in the evening in Bogotá, nine the following morning in Tokyo. The timing was right, I was sure to get through. But I didn’t have any money. My heart was still pounding. When I went down to the living room I saw Father on the couch, with his head thrown back and a newspaper open on his lap. He was asleep. As soon as I took one step, he opened his eyes, are you going out at this hour? Yes, I said, and I need money. He looked at me in surprise. How much? About ten thousand pesos, I said. He pointed to his jacket and said, take it from my wallet. With the money in my hand I said goodbye. Thanks, Dad, I won’t be back late. He didn’t reply, but as soon as I opened the door I heard him from the living room, it isn’t to buy drugs, is it?

  No, Dad. It isn’t for that. I swear.

  That’s good, son. Take care.

  I took a bus to the Church of Lourdes, because I’d seen a few call shops in the vicinity. I found one on Eleventh and asked how much it cost to call Tokyo. Seven hundred pesos for a minute. Hell, that’s expensive, I thought. I could only talk for about fifteen minutes. I went to one of the booths, dialed the number of the Colombian embassy, and waited. When the ringing started, my heart began pounding, and a drop of sweat ran down my back. Six rings, seven. They finally answered, and I explained that I was calling from Bogotá, that I had a sister who was lost in Japan, and gave the name and her identity card number. I was about to repeat it when a voice said, please hang on, I’ll put you through to the consulate; there was an internal switchboard noise, followed by some music by Vivaldi. I looked at the digital counter, three minutes and forty-six seconds, and then they answered at last, and I quickly explained that I was calling from Bogotá and that my sister was lost in Tokyo, and the name, and then the official said, can you repeat that, please? one moment, and left me waiting, and I looked at the counter, seven minutes and fifty seconds, my heart was st
opping me from breathing, and then the man came back and said, no, there’s no record of anyone with that name, so I asked, what if she’s in prison? and they said, oh, one moment, and again Vivaldi, ten minutes and five seconds, more Vivaldi, twelve minutes and fifty seconds; the voice returned and said, no, there’s nobody registered under that name, all right, thanks, I said, and hung up, fourteen minutes and forty-eight seconds. I paid the ten thousand pesos and went out with my head about to burst.

  I went up to Seventh and started walking back, looking at the expanse of the hills, the darker areas between the lights of the buildings and the lampposts, and I was filled with reproaches, questions, guilt: why didn’t you tell me? did you think I was going to judge you? do you think I’d have tried to stop you? It’s possible, it’s possible, where are you at this precise moment, while I’m walking along a horrible avenue filled with buses and vulgar people rushing along the sidewalks?

  I got home at eleven. I didn’t want to meet Father in the living room, let alone Mother, so I made a few detours. I was grateful that he hadn’t asked me what the money was for. Ever since Juana had disappeared, he had become more generous toward me. Mother, on the other hand, continued with her suspicions and her silences, and those horrible ironic remarks of hers, a way of dealing with problems that consisted of not discussing them at the time, pretending they didn’t exist, and then bringing them out in front of other people and ridiculing Father. What most bothered me about her was her apparent insensitivity toward what had happened to Juana. I say apparent, Consul, because I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt, after all it was her eldest child, but the truth is, she didn’t give a damn, I’d even say she was pleased. That’s how she was, resentful and evil.

  In my room, I went on the Internet and started to look at images of Tokyo: it seemed to me a strange, unreal city. Then I looked out at the night from my window. In Japan it was already the following day, which meant that Juana was in the future. She ran away to the future, I thought. She’s intelligent.