Necropolis

by Santiago Gamboa

  I left the lecture hall trying to digest what I had heard and saw that there were other activities going on in the side rooms. In one, the poet from Benin and president of the Circle of African Poets, Joseph Olalababa Jay, was speaking; at the end of the corridor, in an adjoining hall, the round table Concentric Circles of Modernity was in progress, chaired by Professor Aparajit Chattoppadhyay from Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi. But I kept going. What with the ravages of the previous night’s alcohol and Maturana’s words, my head was overloaded; better to look for a place to be alone, in silence, so I went down to one of the inner gardens of the hotel.

  It was like stepping back in time.

  The path that wound past the bushes was of sandstone, like many of the buildings in this part of the city. I sat down on a bench and watched a robin peck at a puddle of water, then a dragonfly. I remembered my days in the mountains, my long, long soliloquies with the stones, the dragonflies, and the robins. There was a certain language in things, a language that had spoken to me in those days. Now I tried to hear it again, but my ears were as hard as stone. Standing by one of the ornamental fountains was a short man with a gray beard. As I passed him, he turned and said, are you the writer? His accent sounded familiar so I asked, Kaplan? Yes, he said, I’m Kaplan, pleased to meet you, it’s nice to find a fellow countryman in such a remote place, come, let’s walk together for a while, I think there are orchids along that path.

  The war that is destroying this place has deep roots, he said, so unlike our sad war. I told him that I had been outside the country for a long time and that I had been ill, but Kaplan replied, it isn’t necessary to keep up to date, it’s the same war that’s been going on for forty years, or is it fifty? Things never change: boundless ambition, rivers of blood, hatred, ignorance; I wanted to know if he had been a direct victim, and he said, come, let’s carry on as far as that fountain and I’ll tell you the story.

  My family is from the city of Armenia, in the department of Quindío. We’re Jews. For a hundred years we’ve been in the clothing and wholesale fabric business, and we’ve done well, with branches in Medellín, Pereira, Cali, and Bogotá. Kaplan’s Tailors, maybe you’ve seen some of our advertisements. Three hundred employees and a seven-story building in Armenia. A hundred stores throughout the country. The work of four generations, because the first Kaplan arrived in Colombia in 1894, from Polish Galicia; he escaped to avoid military service and got on a ship he was told was going to America. South America, as it turned out. Seven years later, he went back to Poland to fetch his wife, and with her he opened his first tailor’s shop. Three generations have passed since then, we’re Colombians. The problem started in the middle of the year 2001. The paramilitaries of Quindío started sending us messages: we had to pay them a large sum of money every month in return for protection; we said no, no thanks, we’re peaceful people, we provide work and progress, we don’t have enemies. We told them we didn’t think it was right to give money to murderers. We’re Jews and we can’t deal with murderers. A family meeting was called, us three brothers and our brother-in-law, and we confirmed our decision; there will be consequences, we said, but we just have to keep firm; they asked for money again and again we said no. What they were asking us for we spent on bodyguards and bulletproof cars. A couple of months went by until they put a bomb in one of our stores in Pereira, an assistant was killed, and three loaders were seriously wounded. That night they called again and said, you see? you need protection, but we refused. The following month, they attacked my brother Azriel on the highway to Medellín, fortunately he was in a bulletproof car with three bodyguards. One of the paras died, and that was the start of the war. The family met again and we said, we need to be stronger, redouble our security, buy weapons, be prepared. Our brother-in-law went farther: I have contacts in Israel, they can help us, but I said: let’s wait.

  It was distressing not knowing where the next blow would come from, like protecting yourself from a mosquito in the dark. We spoke to the police but they couldn’t do anything; they said they’d increase their patrols, tap our phones, have people followed. They didn’t do a thing and one day the attack came. A car bomb on the building in Armenia; it destroyed the first three floors and left nine people dead, innocent people who were just passing by. We met again and took the decision: part of the family would go to New York and Tel Aviv, and we brothers would stay in Armenia and fight. Reason was on our side, we thought, God would have to help us. I made inquiries and found out the names of some politicians who were friends of the paras. I summoned them to a restaurant and said to them, why are the paras treating us like this? don’t we pay taxes and create work? don’t we deserve respect? But the politicians said: you’re businessmen, hardworking and honest, you should support them; the paras are defending the businessmen and the hardworking families of this country. I said: we don’t need that kind of protection, we have to respect our history, haven’t you ever heard of the Holocaust? we can’t negotiate with murderers, we’re Jews. The politicians looked at us gravely and said, we’ll study the case and pass it on, of course all that comes at a price, but you can pay it, you’re wealthy; I said: aren’t you elected by the people? you already have salaries, that’s your income, why should I pay you? They looked at me in surprise and their expressions gradually began to decompose; first a soft laugh, then a noisy peal of laughter that distorted their faces, turned their cheeks red, inflamed their eyes. One of them said, you’re funny, you know, do all Jews have such a good sense of humor? You really are very funny, said another, wiping away his tears of laughter. They took a few seconds to recover their composure. Good, said the one who seemed to be their leader, now seriously, the day after tomorrow we’ll tell you how much our mediation is worth and then you can decide, but I can tell you right now that it’s advisable to accept because this country is becoming very unsafe, with all those guerrillas everywhere, cooperate with the country in which you’ve made money, show some solidarity. The other politicians stood up saying, yes, it’s highly advisable, give that to Colombia, be patriots even though you’re foreigners, don’t be such bastards. Before they went out, they threw a piece of paper on the table. We’ve left you the check, to accustom you to being friendly: a bottle of Buchanan’s and some meat snacks, you kept us waiting a long time; and six Absolut with tonic because the fat man is well-bred and only drinks vodka, not much for you, Mr. Kaplan. But I stood up and left without paying.

  A week later, they asked for thirty million pesos. I didn’t even gather the family but said, we won’t pay a single peso, you have salaries, the State pays you. Oh, you’re a foreigner, you don’t understand, but I interrupted and said, no, señor, I’m not a foreigner, and I do understand, I’m not going to pay you a single peso, you or your bosses. The politicians said, oh, then you’ll have to face the consequences, and I replied, that’s what we plan to do, but you’ll also have to take the consequences. I was filled with rage, I had to pray to calm down; then I called my brother-in-law in Tel Aviv, and told him the moment had come; no problem, Moisés, he replied, I’ll send somebody. Six people arrived from Israel, bought weapons, and followed the trail from the last messenger all the way up to one of the bosses of Armenia. They grabbed him one night when he was out painting the town red with some girls from Cali, they took him out naked and left him lying in the center with a note that said: Beware of the Kaplans, get out of town, you have three days. I thought it would be the last thing I did in the country, when it was over I would go to New York, where I had quite a bit of capital invested. We put the business in the hands of administrators. Colombia was expelling us. We had to get our help from Israel, can you imagine? The one thing worse than losing your country is losing your dignity, and I said, we’re going to see this fight through to the end! Four days later, our people grabbed two of the politicians and said, you have a week to leave the Congress and the Senate, whether you like it or not, if not we’ll bring you down like rotten fruit.

  Two days later, we gathered th
em together. They weren’t so proud now, they wanted to know if we were declaring war on them, but I said: you already declared it, being strong with the weak and weak with the strong. Another asked if the group that had threatened them was ours, and I said, you don’t deserve a reply, they’re soldiers of God, aren’t you believers? A third one tried to reconcile us: Señor Kaplan, we understand your case and we could intercede without charging you, but you have to assure us of your goodwill; I replied: we don’t want your understanding or your clemency, you had the chance and missed it . . . Get out of here, you sons of bitches!

  That evening, my brother and I left the country. I felt angry and very sad. God willing I can go back some day, I dream of the mountains of Quindío, the smell of the coffee plantations and the wet earth. From that moment I devoted myself first to reading biographies, and then to writing them.

  He approached an orchid, sniffed it and said: hmm, it’s the smell of the country we’ve just been talking about. I moved my nose closer but could not smell anything. Then I asked him: and what happened to the politicians? He looked at me slyly and said, well, that’s another story, I’ll tell it the next time we meet, which I hope will be very soon. He walked to the gate of the garden, stopped, turned, and said: of course you know that tomorrow I give my talk, did you see it on the program? I hadn’t seen it, but I said, of course, Señor Kaplan, are you going to tell your story? No, he said. I’m going to tell a similar story.

  On returning to the coffee shop, I saw Marta. Although she was talking on her cell phone, I assume to her newspaper, because she was taking notes, she signaled to me to come over. She hung up and said, hi, speak of the devil, I was just talking about you to the arts editor and we’re in luck, he doesn’t know you but he’s agreed to an article about you, his idea is for a long article that illustrates the current situation of midrange writers, the moderately successful ones compared with the bestsellers, what do you think? it would come out in the Saturday supplement as one of the items connected with the ICBM.

  I thought about it, then said, are you sure that’s a literary subject? publishers would have much more to say on the subject, they’re the ones who classify their authors depending on their sales, why don’t you ask Ebenezer Lottmann, from Tiberias? I think that would make for a better article. She sat there for a moment, staring out at something in the garden, and said: O.K., I suggest another, the situation of the writer in Latin America, how about that? Oh, that’s been done to death, I said, but she retorted, you don’t think that in Iceland we spend our lives reading Latin American novels, do you? you may think it’s been done to death, but I have to think of my readers. I was not very convinced, so I said, and what does your editor think about that? She looked at me very gravely, looked through her notes and said: for him any subject is fine, provided it reflects the current situation of the committed writer. As I listened to her, I remembered the Icelandic writer Arnaldur Indridason, the author of Jar City, and asked her whether in Iceland, mystery novelists were committed to the depiction of reality? She nodded but did not speak. I prefer not to say anything in order not to influence you, what’s your opinion? I have opinions on what happens around me and I suppose that shows through in what I write, I said. Marta hesitated, wondering whether or not to take out her recorder, finally decided against it, and said, no, wait . . . I know! It’ll be better if I do a article in a literary style, a piece of “new journalism” about the impossibility of interviewing a writer in the middle of a city under siege, how about that? It depends, I said, what’s the cause of that impossibility? is it the war or is it you? I don’t know, I hope to answer with the article. Do you want to start now? I said, and she said, not really, or maybe yes, but as an exercise, in fact we’ve already started, let me take a few notes.

  I turned my attention to the garden and, right at the end, beyond a stone wall, the image of some distant buildings reminded me of what was happening outside. In all this time I had not heard any explosions, but I assumed that even in wars people do not shoot all the time. I went to one of the balconies and looked at the city—the cube-like sandstone houses, the acacias and jacarandas, the wall, the minarets, the sky filled with crescent moons and towers—through the evening mist.

  On the other side of the garden, between the bushes, I saw José Maturana. He was waving his arms in the middle of a group of people. It stuck me that it was going to be very difficult for the next speaker. I noticed that Marta was also watching him and thought: now there’s a good subject for her newspaper. I told her that and she asked, do you think it’s all true? I don’t see any reason to doubt it, it’s a story that may seem unusual to us, but in Miami, in those neighborhoods that are like a jungle, it may be the most normal thing in the world, a life like any other. She studied him for a few moments and said, there’s something about the way he moves that confuses me, but I still don’t know what it is; as I listened to him I had the feeling it must all been have a dream, but I don’t know, don’t pay any attention to me. I looked again, but Maturana had already gone. Don’t you think his scars and tattoos are real? the proof of his story is on his body . . . Marta had already stopped listening to me, she was now taking notes, with great concentration, so I went back to the garden in search of dragonflies and robins.

  It was getting toward evening and the delegates were chatting and laughing, some drinking coffee, and others already warming their engines with white wine or beer. I caught the fact that the round table Tendencies in Autofictional Narrative, chaired by the Congolese Theophilus Obenga, professor at the Sorbonne, had been a great success. I saw him on the way to the bar and heard him say: “Life is above all a narrative, the truths of reality create very clear links of language, which are then stored in the memory and are transformed into experience.” I looked for José Maturana again, but he was not there. Marta, holding a cup of coffee, said to me: I have to get straight down to writing but I don’t want to miss dinner, they say there’ll be a few words by the honorary president of the ICBM, would it disturb you if I work in your room? Of course not, it’s Room 1109, here’s the key.

  When I was alone, I looked around the throng and spotted Supervielle, so I went up to him and asked him about the afternoon’s debate. It was really good, friend, weren’t you there? I said no and he started to tell me about it: you know, there’s a sentence in Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground, which says: “Man is a fickle creature of doubtful reputation, and perhaps, like a chess player, he is more interested in the process of reaching his objective than in the objective itself,” I don’t know if you remember it . . . I shook my head and Supervielle continued: that’s what we were discussing, my friend, that simple yet profound way of reading experience, what drives a person to make one decision and not another at a specific moment? to get off a train, get on a boat, cross the street? What there is at the end of a life is irrelevant, it isn’t the result that makes a life exceptional, but the path trodden, am I being excessively obscure? There are great lives that don’t get anywhere, but what does it matter? That’s not a paradox. I’m reminded of a text by a twelfth-century Persian poet, The Conference of the Birds, I assume you don’t know it? I did know it, but I preferred not to contradict him. Anyway, it’s all about Simorgh, King of the Birds; everyone’s looking for him, everyone would like to find him because they believe that when they do they will be better and happier. A group of birds decides to leave for the mountain where the king has his home. They meet with many obstacles along the way and many turn back or die; only a group of thirty noble birds reaches the summit where Simorgh lives, but when they get there they realize that the throne is empty, the King of the Birds doesn’t live there but within each one of them, he has their face, his soul is that of a bird wearied by flight, the flight of a bird searching for Simorgh. The story I’m going to tell in my talk is about chess and that kind of life, that’s why I don’t want to go deeper into this, I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, I assume you’ll be there? Of course, Monsieur Supervielle, it will
be an honor.

  I drank two more coffees as I walked up and down the corridors, hoping that José Maturana would appear, I wanted to congratulate him on his story that morning, about which, of course, I had already made a few notes. To tell the truth, it had overwhelmed me.

  Not meeting anybody, I realized I was in one of those pockets of time that are typical of conferences, moments when nothing is happening, so I decided to go up to my room to rest and see what Marta was doing. I knocked at the door several times but nobody opened. Had she left? was she asleep? I asked the cleaner to open it for me. Just as I was about to lie down on the bed, I heard the bathroom door open and Marta came out, stark naked, wrapped in nothing but a cloud of steam. She had a nice body, with smooth white skin, pear-shaped breasts, a shaved pubic area, and a piercing in her vagina, a silver ring through one of her labia.

  I thought you’d gone, I said, I knocked but you didn’t hear me, wait a minute, I’ll go out so you can get dressed in peace. Marta walked past me and bent over her heaped clothes. Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me if you see me, does it bother you? I shook my head. She sat down and lit a cigarette. I asked her about the article, have you written it yet? No, she replied, to tell the truth, I only had a few notes, and I don’t know what it was, but they suddenly seemed empty and meaningless, or rather: they didn’t have the force I think a true story should have.

  She took the towel from her hair and went and hung it on the handle of the bathroom door. Her breasts bobbed up and down as she passed me and I found myself with an erection, which I managed to conceal. From the bathroom she said, and what do you think about this war? I did not reply immediately, not sure of what to say, but she went straight on: or are you one of those pacifists? So I said: it’s just one more war, although it could well be a metaphor for all wars, the frustration, the discord, the hatred, the separation; but that’s just words, whereas bullets are quite real, they pierce the skin and damage organs, they puncture and maim. The most absurd wars are those that aren’t even of any benefit to those who win them, although that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when it’s necessary to fight them. Even knowing full well that nobody will win. There’s a perverse logic, a human destiny, that leads to war, and individuals can do nothing to stop it.