Night Prayers

by Santiago Gamboa

  “Do you feel better?” I asked the prosecutor. “You must think your city is cleaner now.”

  Teresa squeezed my arm.

  “If only our problems were limited to lost and stupid young people,” he said, “although I know I mustn’t judge anyone who has taken his own life.”

  “Doesn’t that seem to you sufficient demonstration of innocence?” I said.

  He turned and lit a cigarette in a somewhat theatrical manner. “Not really,” he said. “To be honest, his death doesn’t demonstrate anything.”

  “The pills weren’t his,” I insisted. “Someone put them in his case and you know it. Everybody knows it!”

  Teresa glared at me again. The prosecutor seemed to lose patience.

  “Eleven million tourists come here every year,” he said. “Many to have sex and take drugs, others to traffic, and some, simply, on vacation. There are bound to be victims.”

  Saying this, he got in his car. But immediately he lowered the window and said:

  “I forgot to give my condolences to his sister, please convey them to her from me. And please, let her decide quickly if she wants to repatriate him or bury him here. In this heat, bodies decompose.”

  “I’ll tell her, don’t worry,” I said. “For now I trust in the quality of your cold chambers.”

  4

  When we got home, Teresa opened a bottle of gin and suggested we go out on the terrace and look at the river, the flow of the traffic, the clouds. Night had already fallen. Juana still couldn’t say anything. Around her eyes a purplish ring had settled, as if her eyelids were raw.

  The Chao Phraya reflected the hallucinatory lights of the city, its iridescence. Teresa sat down next to me and we drank in silence, one glass after another. When Manuelito Sayeq fell asleep Juana came out again. I put a lot of ice in a glass and offered her a drink.

  “I’d like a double, Consul, thank you.”

  “It’s the only thing we can do,” I said. “My condolences.”

  She thanked me for looking for her and bringing her here from Tehran, allowing her to get to him, even though it was too late.

  “I can’t help thinking,” Juana said. “If only we’d come yesterday …”

  That was nagging at me too: if only the Consular Department had given a rapid answer, if only I’d taken the decision to travel earlier, if only the Thai legal authorities hadn’t brought the trial forward. If only, if only …

  “If only I’d written an e-mail or a Facebook message, or called him on his cell phone,” Juana said, “he’d be alive, it’s all so …”

  She started crying again. Teresa hugged her.

  “Don’t think anymore, Juana,” I said, “nothing’s going to bring him back. You will have him in your son.”

  “I have to decide what to do with the body,” Juana said, “but to be honest it doesn’t really matter. He isn’t there.”

  “Are you going to call your family?” I asked.

  “I haven’t thought about it,” Juana said. “I suppose they’ll want to bury him in Bogotá. Manuel would prefer not to go back, but the truth is, none of that matters anymore.”

  I filled the glasses again and again, until we had to go down to the 7-11 for another bottle. We drank until dawn.

  Teresa and Juana went off to their rooms at six and I remained on the couch, near the window, watching the skyscrapers emerge from the darkness into the clear light of morning.

  Before going to sleep I grabbed my toiletry bag, took out my toothbrush, and went to the bathroom. I opened the door slowly, so as not to make a noise, and noticed that there was someone inside. It was Juana. She was naked, and was looking at herself in the mirror. I froze. I had never seen a body like that, with strange, enormous tattoos: Japanese ideograms, suns, Buddhist eyes, yins and yangs, and on her belly a genuine painting, what was it? my God, I recognized it: The Great Wave of Kanagawa by Hokusai! I felt an irrational force pushing me towards her, but I restrained myself. Lower down on her right thigh, she had a version of The Raft of the Medusa by Géricault, and on the left a painting that I identified, not then but a few days later, as The Ninth Wave, by the Russian Ivan Aivazovsky, a painting about which the poet Fernando Denis wrote some revealing verses:

  It is already almost night in a painting by Ivan Aivazovsky,

  the ninth wave,

  beneath the magnanimous sky of the world,

  beneath the insane light that gives horror and beauty and tarnishes the dream

  that cries out in its colors.

  Three shipwrecks plus an incredible number of religious or mystic signs. Added to these were scars and circular burns that seemed to convey some message. I looked at her without moving a muscle, without breathing, to avoid her noticing my presence. She was very beautiful. She had the same expression of weariness that I had seen in the prison and was swaying her head from side to side, as if in time to a lullaby. Then she started to move to the sides and slowly caressed her hips, her stomach, her breasts. She raised her hand to her pubis, tracing circles, slowly at first, but then a little faster and finally frenetically. I felt my body collapse, but made an effort and supported myself. Suddenly she grabbed the tube of toothpaste and penetrated herself with it, moving her fingers very quickly. Seconds later she shuddered, but her weary expression did not fade, not even at that moment.

  She struck me as the most beautiful woman in the world, and I knew I loved her. From a distant and impossible place, I loved her.

  Then I withdrew without making a noise and went to sleep, feeling excited, guilty, and sad.

  When I woke, there was news. The lawyer called to say that the Ministry would take charge of Juana’s stay until she decided what to do with the body, as a courtesy. They didn’t want a scandal.

  He also said that the head of the Narcotics Squad had informed him of two cases similar to Manuel’s, with French and Indonesian people involved. Not at the Regency Inn, but at other hotels in the same area.

  “It should help us get to the truth,” the lawyer said, “and allow us to file a lawsuit against the state in order to at least obtain some compensation.”

  And he added:

  “Tell Miss Manrique, and tell her also that I’m well-placed to handle that lawsuit. I know lots of people.”

  I really wanted to insult him, but it was Juana who had to decide, so I passed on the lawyer’s words to her. She looked through the window for a moment and said:

  “I’d be interested in hearing the conditions. I’d also like to speak with the prosecutor and accept the Ministry’s hospitality while I resolve the matter.”

  Two days later Juana moved to a government apartment with Manuelito Sayeq. Teresa and I walked her to the door and I carried her suitcases. She had spoken with her family in Bogotá (she didn’t go into details, and I didn’t ask) and they had decided to bring Manuel back.

  When we said goodbye she gave me a long hug, and said in my ear:

  “I realized you were in the bathroom the other night, Consul. I felt the way you looked at me, how intensely you looked at me. I heard you breathing, standing there quietly, and I liked it.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Your tattoos … They’re beautiful.”

  “Another day I’ll show them to you properly and tell you the reason for each one, although I suppose you can already imagine. Thank you for everything.”

  I said goodbye and told her I’d call her when I got to Delhi, that I’d be in touch to help her. When they came for her, she gave me another nervous, rapid hug. I wanted to ask her what she was planning to do next, where she was hoping to go, but didn’t dare. It had become very clear that Juana wanted to handle her affairs alone and not rely on other people, even when those people claimed to help her. I was also aware of something unusual about her behavior, but was unable to decipher what it was. Then she put the child into the official car, a black Toyota Crown, and I watched them drive away. I waved goodbye, sadly, until the car was swallowed up by the traffic at the end
of the avenue.

  Had she spoken with her parents? What words had she used to tell (perhaps explain) that difficult story? She realized that the decision wasn’t only down to her. Maybe she had decided to go back to Colombia, at least for a time. After all, it was her country.

  That same day I had to fly back to Delhi. Teresa drove me to the airport.

  “Will you come back here, now that everything is resolved?” she asked.

  “I’d like to see you again,” I said.

  “We’ll talk over the phone, we’ll write,” she said. “I’m with you on this. In any case, I’ll keep an eye on Juana, I think we can be friends.”

  “Thanks for everything,” I said. “Without you I wouldn’t have been able to get anywhere in this affair.”

  Teresa looked at me sadly. “But it turned out badly.”

  I gave her a hug and walked toward Immigration. When I turned to wave to her one last time, I saw that she was gone.

  5

  A week later, I spoke with Teresa again. I told her I hadn’t been able to get in touch with Juana, who wasn’t returning my calls, and was no longer living in the government apartment. When I didn’t get an answer, I went looking for her and the doorman told me she had left three days earlier. Trying to find out more, I spoke with the lawyer, who said he had not heard from her, but had news about the case. A lieutenant had been arrested and, in order to avoid beheading, had confessed various crimes, including the framing of Manuel. Not that it mattered anymore.

  It seemed strange that Juana should have disappeared. I wrote her an e-mail but didn’t get any reply.

  6

  A month later, the government of Thailand wrote to the Foreign Ministry in Bogotá, expressing its condolences for the death of Manuel Manrique.

  Because I had dealt with the matter, the Consular Department sent me a copy marked FYI.

  The note emphasized how important it was to fight the international drug networks, “responsible for tragic situations that ruin the lives of good and innocent people.”

  Bogotá answered, thanking them for the letter and promising to bring forward steps for the speedy opening of an embassy in Bangkok.

  7

  Sometime later, from my office in Delhi, I wrote Juana an e-mail, without much hope of a reply, asking her where she was and how she was feeling. To my surprise, she replied immediately. “I’m in Paris, Consul, call me at this number.” Surprised, my heart thumping, I dialed the number on my cell phone. Within a few seconds, I heard her voice at the end of the line. She told me Manuel’s body had been flown back to Bogotá and was now in the Jardines de Paz. It had hit her mother hard and she had needed medical attention, but her father had taken it well. The important news, she said, was that she had been in contact with the Thai prosecutor again, because she had decided to write a book about her brother’s case and file a lawsuit at the court in the Hague with a French lawyer who was a friend and associate of the lawyer in Bangkok.

  “You won’t believe what’s going on, Consul,” she said. “The prosecutor told the Ministry of Justice and the Royal Palace what I was intending to do, and you know what? They’re offering me two million dollars in reparation provided I drop my suit.”

  I was silent for a moment, then asked, and are you going to accept?

  Of course not, she said. For Manuel and for my son Manuelito, for the memories and the pain and so that my child, who is the continuation of my brother, can live a different life, in a different world. No, Consul, I didn’t accept the two million.

  “Really?”

  “I asked for four,” she said. “And I assure you they’ll give it to me.”

  At that moment the line went dead, and although I kept trying I couldn’t get through again.

  8

  A few days later I called Teresa and told her about Juana. She thought it strange that Juana had left Bangkok without saying goodbye. Then, my curiosity aroused, I called the prosecutor’s office (I’d had his card since our first encounter) and, much to my surprise, he himself answered. I asked him about the new bandits who must be sleeping in Bangkwang, but suddenly he cut me off and said, why are you calling me?

  I told him that I had learned some details in the case of young Manrique and expressed my gratitude for the way in which the Ministry was handling it.

  “What are you talking about?” he cut in again. “That file’s been closed since the repatriation of the body and the official note of condolence. The Ministry hasn’t reopened it, or heard from anybody, or had any contact with the lawyers or the family members. The case is closed. What details are you referring to?”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I think I’ve been ill-informed.”

  I immediately called the lawyer and asked him about the supposed lawsuit and the offer of two million dollars.

  After a silence, he said:

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Consul. The last time I spoke with her you were present … Compensation? For heaven’s sake, don’t make me laugh. You Westerners will never understand anything.”

  After a somewhat contemptuous guffaw he said:

  “Excuse me, do you have any other questions?”

  “No, thank you for your time.”

  I called Juana’s Paris number, but there was no answer. I checked on the Internet what district it corresponded to, but didn’t learn much: it was the number of a public telephone in a shopping mall in La Défense.

  I searched for her in vain through the Colombian Consulate in Paris, and wrote to her again but never got a reply.

  My curiosity aroused, I dialed her parents’ number in Bogotá. It was the only other thing I could think of. The only thing I hadn’t yet done. As the phone started ringing at the other end, I felt my lip trembling slightly. I already feared what I was quite likely to hear. At last a woman’s voice answered. It turned out to be the mother. I introduced myself as the consul who had handled the administrative part of her son’s case. She thanked me and called her husband (“Come, it’s about Manuel, come on!”). The father’s voice sounded older than I had imagined: he said the family would be eternally grateful for everything that had been done, and that he had already written a letter to the Ministry. I said I wanted to personally express my condolences to him and to Manuel’s mother and sister, but he replied:

  “We’re very grateful, Consul, although you ought to know that unfortunately his sister also abandoned us.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said, “I’m very sorry.”

  There was a silence. I could have sworn he was wiping away a tear.

  “She disappeared four years ago, Consul, you know, this country is dangerous. There are families nothing ever happens to, and others like ours. Things have gone badly for us.”

  I hung up after more condolences and sat there thinking about shipwrecks, about Géricault, Aivazovsky, and Hokusai.

  About Juana.

  Once again she had disappeared.

  9

  INTER-NETA’S FINAL MONOLOGUE

  They are going around saying that I am the mistress of silence: that I am the prostitute, the fancy woman, the lover. The whore of silence. But what can I do if every time I think, I prefer to keep quiet, to imagine empty spaces, to smile at nothingness. I am about to do it one more time, like my Sleeping Beauty: to go to a place where the grim heartbeat of the world, the mechanism of this weary planet, can’t be heard, to escape to where the air and life are silent matter. I want to absent myself, to leave.

  And how is the poem of silence, how can it be?

  Oh, it will be a construction of words like zephyrs, a surface made of clouds, a volcano of signs. How do I know?

  For a start I have to choose a poem in which to hide myself, a poem whose words will serve as a screen to block the light, its verses like cliffs protecting my little island from disaster and the sadness of the world. I have already lost almost everything. I’m not brave: just a fragile grain of sand.

  One day passes, two days, thr
ee, and I have decided.

  I will hide myself in a poem by Roque Dalton, murdered by his own comrades, his own friends! It’s one of the greatest demonstrations of idiocy in history. Oh, the dreams and the words, how they kill. Roque was free and ethereal, as I wish to be. As was somebody I loved very much and who is no longer with us. So now I leave them, perhaps forever.

  I take my leave with my poem-home, my poem-world:

  LATE AT NIGHT

  When you learn that I have died do not utter my name

  because death and repose would be delayed.

  Your voice, which is the bell of the five senses,

  would be the dim lighthouse sought by my fog.

  When you learn that I have died utter strange syllables.

  Say flower, be, tear, bread, storm.

  Do not let your lips find my eleven letters.

  I am tired, I have loved, I have earned silence.

  Do not utter my name when you learn that I have died,

  from the dark earth it would come through your voice.

  Do not utter my name, do not utter my name.

  When you learn that I have died do not utter my name.

  EPILOGUE

  I have already filled six notebooks. I’ve listened, imagined, walked around Bangkok, and revisited a few places. I have fantasized, remembered, and written.

  Tomorrow I shall leave without having really seen anybody (Teresa hasn’t lived here for some time now). Nothing except the sound of old words that at the time nobody listened to. Well, only me. Now I have to organize them, reconstruct the story, and try, once again, to give them a meaning.