Would he take me, I wondered, if he went back to the USA? I don’t think he could have. His family had told him to come home to manage an estate they owned near Kalipuerto, but it didn’t take them long to realize, in the confusion of his homecoming, that their son was no good at anything, not even at playing the guitar.
As soon as we got to the hall, he would grab my hair with both hands and press his face into that nest of infinite fragrances, kiss the nape of my neck where it made a knot with my cervical bone, the apex of my broad back, my muscles and my freckles; I’d go so far as to fake a flurry of shivers. He couldn’t pull away, he stayed there, shipwrecked on the nape of my neck, there in the middle of the living room, while I meditated on the state of the toenails on my left foot. After a while, I’d get impatient and scratch my ears with both hands, a sign that I wanted to move on to other things, then I’d relax my back muscles, my freckles advancing in waves over my firm flesh and poor Leopoldo would find himself exiled from the conjunction of my harmonies.
I turned to face his confusion, his eyes, his bruised purple lips. He took three steps back, stumbling over his guitar with no consideration whatever for the instrument. And, not for the first time, the guitar turned against him, filling his soul with poison and pain and he furiously hurled it away from him. But what did that leave him? Music played softly, the world outside quivered with the last vibrations of the afternoon. Poor Leopoldo was considering coming back over to me, burying his face in my breast so I’d cradle his head in my arms, so long, so tender, but he hesitated, managed to shuffle three paces and tripped again, this time over his indecision and his pain. He roused himself from this inertia with a groan, collapsed on to the nearest beanbag and, quick as a flash, he skinned up a Bacillus14 of respectable size, took three long tokes and instinctively a smile opened like a wound in his face. Then he summoned me, making little faces, and I, contrite and faithful, I went over to inhale the twistedness of life.
By now, smoking La Pasionaria15 produced in me a passion for everything and an inability to grasp anything, an obliteration of any notion of choice, a blurring of my concentration to the point where I hardly remembered how to use a spoon. A general hilarity, a heightened ability to communicate, cracks and tar and burning in my throat, a white pain, a tightness and an emptiness in my heart, an inability to relax, prolonged indigestion, ‘X’s and ‘Z’s of shooting pains in my belly, lack of appetite followed by fits of gluttony – though every mouthful of food simply made the bellyful of indigestion bigger and all you could do was collapse on the floor again and writhe – a hypersensitivity to trivial things, a splintering, a flaking of the brain, pincers squeezing the bulb and the seat, bloody cobwebs in the eyes, outbreaks and eruptions on the skin, a constant haze of dreams.
But, oh, how to describe the daisies that blossomed within me, the fantastical flitting of fireflies I felt as I walked over and sparked up my ticket for this trip, slowly, slowly, so that I would be more receptive, more sensitive to his caresses, suddenly discovering the good life; I found it difficult to hold in the oily smoke, but I let it slide down my throat, let it fall and wreak havoc inside me, squirming with pleasure and displeasure as I passed him the Bombshell. He took three quick tokes and passed it back, flecked with saliva, and I ran my tongue around the ring of his spittle, the connection between us, sucked hard on it again, burning gall, an off-beat drum. His eyelids drooped a few millimetres now. He gestured for me to give back the Barramundi, we did a blowback, the blazing tip in his mouth, while I thought about the dark jungle and the cursed sea of Chocó. I shifted closer to him, let him grab me by the throat so he could blow thin wisps of smoke into my nostrils, which left me disoriented, a jet of smoke straight to the brain that suddenly exhumed memories of escapades and parades, of a whole afternoon spent shut up in a wardrobe reading Dickens to my parents’ astonishment, the music of lost footsteps, of rustling pages, the feeling I was inhaling a pungent, fiery greenness producing mustard in my brain and as I looked up, thrashing and shuddering, the wonderful certainty that each memory unearthed by the smoke was gone forever and in its place an empty space, and I needed another blowback so that the smoke could fill the space. I didn’t care. I lost Pickwick, but I gained ‘Play with Fire’.
Now I could whisper, ‘Hold me,’ and Leopoldo would immediately obey and, with all the smoke inside me, I felt my brain turn a thousand somersaults, an urge to grasp his hard flesh, to seize it triumphantly and use it to rip open my twisted, slick entrails. Leopoldo let slip some strange word in English and I kissed him hard on the mouth, which was bitter and heavy with moisture. But I quickly corrected myself: ‘No, gentle lightness. I renounce my revulsion. All things are mine, and all things please me.’ Then I coiled my silken tongue around the stiff, greasy pores of his tongue, so thick and long, then, bang, I’d squeeze his cock criminally hard as it throbbed against me, and if he started to scream, I’d squeeze harder and he’d go quiet and my edges grew rounded as I plunged head first on to this body, my breath warm on his mountain, the sap from my hair raining down on his face; I’d taste it on my tongue, smacking my lips, and unbutton his exclusive designer flies.
And then bells rang out, the birds hopped to a different branch. Visitors. Leopoldo swore in English, but I didn’t care. Visitors were always a distraction. I relinquished this body and went down the stairs. It might be someone bringing new records. I did a little dance, singing praises, and opened the door to find two gringos and Roberto Ross, thirteen, the youngest junkie in Colombia.
They tramped upstairs, all greetings and salutations, and since Leopoldo made no move to get up and welcome them (he was still thinking about my sails and my rigging), I redoubled my enthusiasm and Roberto was thinking, ‘Always so cheerful, always so eager.’
They did a little dance – this could be the last time – as though to distract our attention from their true purpose, to make us think – at least for the three bitter high-kicks of the chorus – that they’d come with good intentions just to dig the music. But they quickly revealed their true purpose, took out two good metres of nose candy carefully wrapped in wax paper, and once again I saw the vision of the South Pole, the ship filled with corpses, and my temperature plummeted so sharply the whole house was suddenly cold.
Roberto made some comment about the sudden chill but I didn’t listen; I went over to the window with the pink curtain, stared out at the grey dusk drawing in, at the children playing blind man’s buff around a street lamp, the mango leaves falling: a horrible thought had made me turn away, I was afraid the music had frozen, the record player or the tape recorder were broken, that inside us was an eternal sickness dooming us to spend the rest of ours lives humming half-forgotten songs. The nostalgia of pain. Ugh. I shook off the dark abyss of my mood, shot myself a smile, ready for anything.
By now, Leopoldo had got up and was in a friendlier mood. Robertico couldn’t stop smiling as he cut the coke, eyes on stalks, shuddering with singular joy as he tenderly chopped each grain, being an expert at wielding a Gillette.
‘You’ve never used that in a fight?’
‘Jesus! Never,’ he said, looking astonished. ‘This blade I only use for peace. Isn’t that right, bro?’
Both of the gringos nodded, completely spellbound by the little show Robertico was putting on: he flicked a small rock of cocaine from one end of the mirror to the other, chopped it, then, bang, on to one shoulder and, flexing his bicep, flipped it back on to the glass like the ringmaster of a flea circus, all the while murmuring to himself, ‘Nice cocaine, nice cocaine, nobly fry our little brain, through the straw we snort the grain, don’t complain, don’t complain,’ and, still smiling, he split the heap of coke into two, then three, then four perfectly equal lines all pointing towards the master of the house.
Leopoldo Brook took out the $20 bill he kept for such occasions. Elbowing everyone out o
f the way, he bent over the mirror and effortlessly hoovered up his lines. Then he gazed at us, utterly fulfilled, while Roberto Ross coughed and stifled a laugh.
‘Bang up, isn’t it?’ he said, not looking at Leopoldo. ‘Shame it doesn’t last when you snort it. One day, you’ll figure out the right way.’
The giant of a gringo – a lanky lardass with a pot belly and goofball eyes – produced a disposable syringe, some cotton wool and a spoon, all the gear immaculate, and Roberto picked up the mirror and with great precision tipped most of the coke into the spoon. I laughed; everyone turned to look and I laughed harder – I don’t know what I was laughing at, maybe at Leopoldo, who was standing plastered against the wall, utterly calm and serene. They lit a candle and were now holding the spoon over the hottest part of the flame and it wouldn’t be long before it started boiling.
Looking at Roberto Ross, at his hideous acne-encrusted skin, I got to thinking about Misery Guts Ricardo and that was enough to make me spiral into terrible sadness (outside the kids were playing blind man’s buff), but I thought, ‘No, I don’t have time to sort out my problems now. That would mean abandoning my boys and they need me to be happy, my poor, handsome, motherless boys,’ so to show willing I asked stupidly, ‘Is it ready?’ and Roberto Ross said yes, scratching his spots, scratching his head, rolling his eyes slowly to reveal pure-white eyeballs shot through with sickly brownish veins.
I asked the fat guy for the syringe and he handed it to me and I said decisively, ‘Right then, who’s first?’
‘Me,’ said the other guy, who was half bald with hair like thatch. ‘It’s my gear.’
‘Roll up your sleeve, then,’ I commanded, sucking some of the liquid from the spoon into the syringe. The gringo squeezed his left arm with his other hand, but Roberto, ever efficient, had brought a clean cloth from the kitchen and now tied it carefully round the arm, which he gently held up to my face. I could see blue rivers and mountain ranges, powerful veins.
‘Okay, all set, Jim,’ said Robertico, his mouth watering. ‘Total trip.’ Then, to me: ‘Go on, stick him.’
I made a Nazi nurse face and inched the needle closer, sharp and glittering. I made two jabs and punctured, broke the skin, sliding it slowly into the patient little maggot, then pushed the plunger gently while Robertico said, ‘Gently, gently,’ and Jim said, ‘More, more,’ and I was thinking, ‘You like that, papito?’ Suddenly a bleating sound like a goat from behind me made me hesitate and the gringo whined. I pulled out the needle and turned to look. It was Leopoldo taking another hit. The gringo slumped to the floor, hugging his pleasure and his pinprick, and as the next song came on he started bouncing around, happily singing, ‘Heartbreaker! Painmaker!’
‘Help me with the other guy,’ I ordered Roberto Ross and, high on life, he said, ‘She’s a hard worker, our little girl.’
The fat guy had practically no veins, I found myself lost on a pale barren plain. Robertico laughed: ‘Better off shooting it into the muscle. It goes straight in, it feels amazing.’ And I said, ‘This is going to hurt, papito.’
But the fat guy shot me a scornful look and showed me his arm, which had no veins, but lots of track marks.
‘Naughty boy,’ said Robertico and I said, ‘Okay then, get ready.’ With his finger he pointed to the spot where he wanted me to stick the needle and I thought, ‘What if I stuck it through his nail?’ But he moved his finger out of my reach, tensed his arm as much as he could and I jabbed but couldn’t find an in. He didn’t complain, he stayed calm, staring at the yellowing liquid oozing from the hole.
‘She hit the muscle,’ said Roberto Ross.
The fat guy didn’t say a word. He knitted his brows and I spiked him again and this time I felt the needle sink into soft, supple flesh.
‘That’s the way,’ said Roberto like some master of ceremonies.
‘Oww … slowly,’ said the fat guy and we all laughed as his eyes started to dance.
Robertico Ross said he’d sort himself out. He whistled softly, a song I later found out was a bolero called ‘Si te contaran’, a curious counterpoint to ‘It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll’, which was blaring from the speakers.
And as he injected the liquid, he said, ‘Such a fucking shame there are still people who snort this shit when the effect lasts, like, two hours if you shoot it. You should see the state of their nostrils. I’ve known coke fiends who’ve had to have a gold septum inserted.’ He moaned a little as he pulled out the needle. It looked to me like his spots were suppurating.
‘You ever do anything about those spots?’
‘Nah, you get spots when you’re my age,’ he explained.
Maybe the story of Roberto Ross summed up the vortex of the times. He’d first tried drugs on a one-year visit to the USA, courtesy of a scholarship from the American Field Service. Back in Cali, he suddenly found himself very popular because he was always talking about acid and later shunned because he sold the stuff. People blamed him for the madness and death of his twelve-year-old girlfriend Margarita Bilbao, but no one could ever pin anything on him. To deal with the terrible depression he got coming down from cocaine, he started shooting up. He was the self-professed prophet of the bad example, not the corrupter, but the victim. He’d acquired a certain status in the last wave of gringo junkies and delinquents. He had contacts and could even spot plain-clothes cops. He was doing well. ‘I’ve never had any regrets about what I might have been if I hadn’t turned out the way I did,’ he said. ‘These days there’s not a lot of people who put up with me; I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t put up with myself. I figure change will come at some point. Not because I decide, but because my metabolism will change. Right, I’ve gotta go, I’ve got some business going down.’
Leopoldo Brook offered me a hit and I happily accepted. Get hooked on snorting blow and you’ll find yourself with a bad taxi habit. Feet and buses are no good any more for dealing with distances and emergencies. But you’ll also find yourself twisting on the dance floor and not caring what anyone says, surefooted, head high, an air of sophistication filling your chest, your every sense heightened; you’ll feel a devouring passion, a serenity as instantaneous as it is illusory, your heart hammering like a horse that’s bolted, an all-consuming anguish that – you believe – is worthy only of the great and the unforgettable. Suffering dignifies us, so let’s have another hit. And another and another till we explode.
‘What’s going down today?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay, let’s have a hit.’
Then the terrifying comedown: 10mg Valium to steady our souls, and if we couldn’t shake off the dreams of that sky-blue drug, we’d do another line of coke and if there’s no coke, cut up cheap Ritalin and stuff it in every hole in our heads and dance to get the drug pumping through our bodies, rather than sitting around frying our brains, and if it was time to sleep and we couldn’t sleep, then a little Mandrax – mequelone – Apacil, Nembutal, a fistful of diazepam: you felt a terrible panic when you found out it was true what they said, this shit affected the brain, fried your neurones, that it was irreversible, a one-way trip, but you might as well do it because you’re already done for. Then you stop feeling panicked, you just feel angry at these puny brain cells that are incapable of reproducing, the only ones, the genuine article, because they’re not made for you to fuck with or wear out through experience or knowledge.
It goes without saying that by now I was starting to look like Mariángela. Not the dark circles under the eyes – those I had already – but that way she had of always dancing solo, always furious, glaring around so no one dared come near, keeping at bay these new friends who were older than me and not very chatty.
This was when I began to notice the terrible progression of decline or decay. At first, I was surprised to find people weren’t dancing much any more, or not
dancing at all. Then they stopped talking too. My dancing, my constant need to move, my singing (I’d started to memorize lyrics) had always been an act of defiance, now it was an affront. Just like Mariángela, I started to stammer at critical moments.
When we were out together we never talked, because we realized we were gradually becoming the same person. We had the same graceful walk, the same tactic of leading a guy on only to shoot him down in flames when he came over to dance or chat; the same tic of running our fingers through our hair to calm ourselves. Later I started sniffing my hand; she copied me and when I caught her doing it, she turned away, but still she didn’t take her hand from her nose, she breathed in long spasms and confessed, ‘It smells like when I was a little girl and I used to go bowling.’ More than once people told me something really weird was happening to her, more than once I saw people staring at us in disbelief, trying to size up our individual Furies when there was no point since our Furies were the same. They sized us up, but always from a safe distance.
Liveforever Page 9
