LITMIR.BIZ

      10

      It was Odina who got pregnant and gave birth and, as my parents didn’t have a visa to go to the US, my brother, the Puerto Potty and their kid came down as soon as possible so they could meet their grandchild. Odina had put on about a hundred kilos and still insisted on calling me “sistah”. The child looked just like her; they named him Simón. They slept in my brother’s old bedroom and the baby slept in mine. The walls had been painted blue and on the bedside table there was a basket filled with little blue organza bags containing blue sweets, with “Baby boy” written on the wrapper. A souvenir of your visit to see the baby. I saw them the first day and then I disappeared. I told them I had two flights back to back, and a long stopover in Seattle. Nobody seemed to be listening.

      I had never been to Seattle. I had never flown anywhere in the United States other than Miami. But I knew the country off by heart, thanks to the Pato Banton song Go Pato. Sometimes I used to recite the names of the states when I was in the shower. When I got to the apartment I called the airline and asked if they needed any reserve staff. We’re full, they told me. I shut myself away in my bedroom: 54, 53, 52, 51… There were cracks in the ceiling. Milagros had a French boyfriend. The Captain had been calling me a lot lately, we had gone out once, without much success. The Captain was from one of the provinces, and I didn’t like people from there because they spoke slowly and way too formally. But those were hard times, so I called him: we arranged to meet at a little Italian place, in the city centre.

      The Latin American style is one of cliché, he said to me halfway through dinner, after I’d told him the story of my brother, the wedding with cameras on the tables, the white fairy lights and perfumes in the toilet and the “Baby boy”. I thought it was quite a clever observation and I thought that my future child wouldn’t have it too bad, with 1) a decent set of neurons, and 2) a tolerance for heights. That night we stayed at his, an apartment in El Laguito, with a panoramic window overlooking the bay. It was very beautiful, but it was still here.

      The Captain was genuinely in awe of my ass; it’s more beautiful than I imagined, he said.

      But I didn’t get pregnant. Not that time, or any of the following times. I went to the gynaecologist to ask if there was something wrong with me. I was fine, it had to be him. It was going to be hard to ask him, the man thought I was on the pill.

      Have you got any children? I asked him one evening, smoking a cigarette, looking out at the bay. The lighthouse had already come on, the rotating beam passed over us like brushstrokes on a mural. I enjoyed that moment. I hoped he wouldn’t answer, but it was too late. The Captain didn’t have children. Would you like to, one day…? Halfway through the question I already regretted it. Years ago, said the Captain, I had a vasectomy for medical reasons. Medical reasons! I felt betrayed, taken for a fool. The Captain looked at me, baffled. I put my clothes on and left.

      I walked along the boardwalk, first around the edge of the bay, then the sea, then the sea walls, then a heap of rubble on a deserted beach. There, I sat down and cried. The evening was red, it was the most beautiful sky I had seen in years. From the Captain’s window it must have been just spectacular. I found a payphone and called him. He didn’t answer. I tried again, nothing. I hailed a taxi and went home.

      The beak of the illuminated sign for the fried chicken place had burnt out and was dark.

      And it started raining again: in a town near the Magdalena river even the dogs drowned. In a hamlet close to the Ciénaga de la Virgen, four children and a teacher died. They were trapped inside a Social Welfare centre that got swept away by the current. On the radio, they were talking about the Submarine Outfall again: a Dutch company was going to start building it. The national government tendered the work out to foreign companies because the national ones had already stolen the money three times. But the Dutch didn’t steal.

      Johnny sent me an email: I miss you, baby. And another one, in English this time: I miss u, beibi.

      I thought of going to see Gustavo. The last time had been about six months earlier, a bright, sunny day, and it went like this:

      I sat down at the worktable and the smell of fish made me feel sick. I suggested we go for a walk to get a change of air. As we walked, he told me that Olga had gone: her sister had come to get her from Venezuela. I couldn’t believe that anyone would choose to go to Venezuela. Even a slut like Olga could surely aspire to something better than going to Venezuela. She’d be better off here. We walked along the beach for hours, and finally sat down in a canoe that was falling to pieces and filled with crabs. I was thirsty. I asked about Willy. He died, said Gustavo. Of what? He shrugged. And Brígida? She died. Liar. I don’t know about Brígida, he said after a while. What about Willy? Or him.

      This time I had brought him an umbrella and a small arsenal of vices: cigarettes, beer, rum, some weed. He rolled a cigarette and poured a couple of rums. He was wearing long trousers; I couldn’t remember ever seeing him in long trousers. He was going bald. He was getting old. The rain stops me from working, he complained, gesturing at the churning waves. Me too, I said, looking up at the clouds. Gustavo’s pool was filled with stagnant water; there were dead fish floating on the surface. The larger creatures must have been lurking somewhere in the depths. The tarpaulin was ripped in various places and water was streaming through it. The driest place was the double wooden seat, although it was also damp. Water and wood are not good friends, I said to Gustavo. We sat down.

      Tell me a story.

      I’ve already told you all of them.

      Tell me a story with me in it.

      Gustavo sighed heavily and shook his head. It’s a sad story.

      I don’t mind.

      I curled up next to him. I laid my head on his scrawny, smelly lap. He began stroking my hair.

      Once upon a time, there was a sweet, noble princess who had only one flaw: she couldn’t tell the difference between what was good and bad, beautiful and hideous, diabolical and heavenly, perverse and pure…

      I fell asleep.