Tomás Gonzáles - In the Beginning Was the Sea

And indeed it turned out to be Julito, because the little man got to his feet with great solemnity as J. approached the table and introduced himself.

“Julio Alberto Gutiérrez,” he said, offering his hand, “your humble servant and friend.”

He was a thin, wiry man of about forty, with pale eyes. From his tone of voice as he asked the fat woman for another glass, J. realized that he probably owned the stall and that the woman chopping plantain was his wife or maybe his lover. Julito poured a large glass of aguardiente , which J. accepted.

“My friend Jesús here tells me you need a boat,” he said.

“If you’ll excuse me, señores ,” said Jesús, getting up to leave. As he passed, he stopped to ask the woman at the counter about the health of some relative and she said there was no improvement. “Not good, not good,” said Jesús.

“We’re trying to get to a finca in Severá,” said J.

“How many are you?”

J. said there were two of them and told him about the trunk, the suitcases and the sewing machine.

“ Salud! ” said Julito knocking back his glass of aguardiente .

J. drained half of his.

Julito was drunk. With pompous pride, he explained at great length that, in addition to the fritanguerías , he owned three motorboats and that, aside from the fat woman who was now mashing the plantain slices with a flat stone, he had three other “wives”; though he was drunk, he insisted, he was also a gentleman and J., likewise, was a gentleman. Without waiting for J. to drink what remained from their last toast, he poured more aguardiente , raised a full glass and with a quick “ Salud! ” downed it in one. Then he went back to telling J. his life story: six years ago, he boasted, he had been living in a hovel without a peso to his name whereas now he had three boats, a house, four “wives” and this fritanguería .

“How much is it likely to cost, the trip?” asked J., wary now as Julito was beginning to repeat himself.

“When d’you want to go?”

“The day before yesterday…”

“Too late to set off today. We can leave first thing tomorrow if you like.”

“That would be fine,” said J.

Julito initially quoted a price of three hundred pesos, but after a little bargaining J. managed to get him to agree to two hundred and fifty. They settled on a time and then drank another toast. When J. got up to leave, Julito staggered to his feet and hugged him.

THE SEWING MACHINE was damaged. After ranting at the porter, Elena headed off to the shipping office to complain, where she was roundly greeted by a slob who insisted this was just one of those things that could have happened to anyone. Elena flew into a rage and curtly informed him that his company was shit. The man — who was not so much rude as insignificant — immediately agreed:

“You’re right, the company is shit.”

Elena threatened to complain to the head office in Medellín.

“They’re even more shit there than we are, seño ,” said the man.

“Those bastards will regret crossing me,” said Elena as she left.

“Sure, seño , sure.”

By the time J. arrived back at the plaza, his bones were liquefied by the aguardiente . On his way back, he had stopped by a seedy bar and ordered a double which he washed down with soda water.

Elena, petite, bronzed and wearing a white miniskirt, was standing next to their luggage.

“What happened?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. Without looking at him, she explained about the Singer being dropped. Her sharp white teeth glittered. “If the thing is broken, then toss it out,” he said.

Eyes shining from the aguardiente , J. took Elena’s chin between thumb and forefinger, bent down and, brushing his bearded cheek against hers, whispered soothing words and kissed her ear.

Elena choked back her anger and asked about the boat; the incident with the sewing machine was a personal matter that she would deal with later.

“It’s all arranged,” he said, “We leave at six tomorrow morning.”

Needing to find a hotel, they approached one of the numerous men with handcarts milling around the buses and asked for a recommendation.

“The best,” Elena insisted.

“Well, now… best, best… there is no best really. If you like, I can take you to the Internacional .”

Stripped to the waist, a red bayetilla knotted round his head and his chocolate-coloured torso slick with sweat, the man began to load their luggage onto his cart.

“And be careful with the sewing machine, hermano ,” said Elena.

The hotel was muggy and dimly lit. At the reception desk, they were greeted by a tall, overweight woman who had rolls of flab hanging from her arms and wore a low-cut dress that revealed a deep cleft between her breasts. On the desk were a tiny bell and the hotel register. The large ceiling fan turned slowly. The hotel reeked of cat piss, though there was no sign of a cat. In front of the woman was a small plastic fan aimed directly at her sallow pendulous breasts.

“How many nights?”

“We leave tomorrow morning.”

“Sign here. I’ll need your ID cards. Amanda!”

She dabbed at the folds of her neck with a small blue handkerchief.

The creature known as Amanda appeared dressed in a man’s sleeveless vest and a pair of tight white trousers. Though not particularly broad, Amanda’s tanned shoulders were taut and powerfully muscular; the twin curves of a bra looked like two rocks beneath the vest, and a pronounced bulge squeezed into the tight trousers — clearly the genitals — protruded from this slim, strange body.

“Room eight!” yelled the fat woman.

Somewhere out on a patio, a parrot cackled. The luggage was next to the reception desk.

“They’ll be safe there,” said the woman.

Room eight was at the far end of a long corridor. As they passed, they saw the patio where a parrot with tattered tail feathers prowled up and down a perch embedded in the wall, racing from one side to the other in what seemed like panic.

Room eight comprised two clean, rudimentary beds with headboards painted with flowers and a nightstand with a water jug. A ceiling fan dangled from two pieces of wire. Amanda flicked the switch and the fan began to sway slowly, bathing the room in warm, stale air. Sweat trickled down the back of J.’s neck.

“This fucking heat.”

At 4 a.m. they were woken by a loud racket from the kitchen: taps turned on and off, saucepans dropped, the fat woman yelling at Amanda, the static drone of a radio being tuned and the parrot cackling.

They showered in a large bathroom with mildewed walls and discarded slivers of soap in every corner.

At a quarter to six, Julito arrived at the jetty. He gave a perfunctory greeting that had none of the obsequiousness of the previous day and then he and his assistant set to work preparing for the trip.

The air was cool, the sky cloudless; small rainbows formed in the oily ripples around the outboard motors; a smell of petrol mingled with sewage drifted up from the water; there was not a breath of wind.

The two men worked quickly and surely, loading the luggage onto the boat, lashing it securely and covering everything with a thick sheet of transparent plastic. They worked in silence. When Elena worried aloud that the sewing machine might get wet, Julito did not answer.

Once the luggage was safely stowed, the assistant standing in the stern held a hand out to Elena, “Climb aboard, seño .” She sat down on the pier and let herself drop into the boat, which pitched violently, making her lose her balance. The assistant had to grab her around the waist to stop her toppling into the water. He was swift and agile; in a single movement he managed to catch her, set her upright and peek into her blouse. “Fuck,” he thought, “she’s not wearing a bra.” Once Elena had regained her balance, he slipped his arm from around her waist and took her by the elbow.