Santiago Gamboa - Necropolis

We made a new series of twelve movies to illustrate the theory of left-wing porn, and they were very successful, although, as often happens, we were soon attacked by those envious of us, who said that our esthetic approach was opportunistic, that we were jumping on the bandwagon of the new currents then transforming European socialism, and other nonsense like that. As often happens, instead of damaging us these diatribes gave our work a stronger impetus and helped to spread it. Some even started working in the opposite direction to ours, for example, a Danish production company introduced “center-right porn,” although the concept wasn’t very clear, because in the end it was all just routine humping and geysers of sperm, with no real significance.

In spite of its difficult beginnings, my story actually has a happy ending, which, of course, is something our screenwriter Kim hates, being an advocate of open and slightly incomprehensible endings, à la Bergman. Our company is one of the biggest in Europe and the movies we make are sold in America, Africa, Asia, and the former Soviet Union. The latest, The Clitoris and Its Forms, has sold 680,000 copies on DVD. A real hit.

I haven’t mentioned the books I’ve written, because that probably isn’t the part of my life you wanted to hear about, and it’s the least important anyway. Lives are like cities: if they’re too neat and tidy they don’t have a story. The best stories come out of misfortune and destruction.

I have told you mine.

During Edgar Miret Supervielle’s lecture, I kept peering anxiously around at the audience, hoping to recognize the guest from Room 1209—looking, in fact, in order to confirm my theories or, rather, my vague conjectures, for Walter. But the auditorium was poorly lit, the ICBM favoring subdued lighting to concentrate the audience’s attention on the speaker, and I did not see anyone who looked like him. In response to the applause, Supervielle made a series of athletic bows at the front of the proscenium, bending almost double as he did so. Marta Joonsdottir announced to me that she was going to her date with the doctor: she had no wish to arrive late. Then she gave me an imploring look and said, I have rather a big favor to ask of you, which is that when I get back I’d like. . to sleep in your room, can I? I left my cell phone there and I can’t get back to my hotel. I told her she could, and added: remember, I owe you one.

Things were a bit chaotic on the way out, with people pushing and shoving to get from the hall to the corridor. Many lingered in small groups to pass comment on the lecture, stopping the others from advancing. I was making my way through the crush when I heard a familiar voice saying, my distinguished compatriot, what a pleasure to see you, come, let’s have an aperitif together. It was Kaplan. Reluctantly, I said yes. What I really wanted at that moment was to keep an eye on the people heading for the lobbies and staircases, but as I was unable to think of an excuse, my reflexes still being slow, I accepted.

In the first-floor bar, Kaplan ordered two whiskeys and said, what a tragic thing about that preacher, my God, who knows what sins he must have committed in his life, and what pangs of remorse he must have felt! Well, he certainly paid for those sins with his life. Kaplan sipped at his drink and asked me if I had left Colombia for political reasons, but I said, no, I left because I needed a change of scenery and wanted to know the world, but the world just seems to be getting bigger and bigger, and I still don’t really know it, that’s why I keep moving, and that’s the only reason I’ve stayed away. . It’s an excellent reason, my friend, and how long do you think it will be before you go back? I don’t know, I said, sometimes I think what I’m looking for is a way out, but that has nothing to do with the world or even with our distant country, to be honest, I don’t really understand it myself.

There was a rumbling in the distance, and the floor shook slightly. Soon afterwards sirens sounded, and Kaplan said, they’re pounding Talpiot, what a shame, it’s one of the most beautiful parts of the city, the writer S. Y. Agnon, the uncle of the novelist Amos Oz, used to live there, on Joseph Klausner Street. So many trees in the area, pines, eucalyptus. I hope they don’t destroy it. I spent some time there, in Bet Hataava. The houses have been evacuated and they’re putting up a strong resistance, with Patriots to destroy the enemy missiles in the air, mobile hospitals, chains of evacuation, oh yes, it’s a real war all right. We both fell silent for a while. Then I said: why hold a conference here, in the middle of this chaos, with people dying on the outskirts of the city? Kaplan downed his whiskey in one. Oh, my friend, I’d say the opposite, I think right now this is the one place in the world where an event like this has any meaning.

There was another silence, then I said, don’t forget you still owe me the end of your story. Kaplan ordered two more whiskeys and said, that’s right, my God, so much time has passed, I can speak about it now as if it had happened to someone else, the pain and anger have worn off; it’s like when you walk away from a fire and stop feeling the heat.

I told you last time that my family had decided to fight back, well, after our warnings the paras counterattacked, setting fire to my brother’s house, and killing the guard, who was only twenty-two; one of our agents called New York and they said to us, you have to respond, and we have a number of suggestions. One was to kill one of the politicians linked to the paras, but I said we weren’t murderers, no, let’s bring them down, I said, let the shit hit the fan, I want everyone to know what they’re doing and raise a fuss about it. It’ll be more difficult, they said, but we’ll try. They followed these people, tapped their phones, and finally managed to catch some very interesting conversations: one of the politicians, for example, demanding the head of a mayor with the words, “get rid of that Communist for me”; another call where a paramilitary phoned a governor and said, “I need eighty million pesos, I’ll send for them tomorrow,” and the governor replied, “Yes, chief, I have them ready here, send for them whenever you like.” My agents informed the press and there was a big scandal, the men were arrested and forced to give up their seats in parliament, now they would have to face the law and see if they could bribe and threaten ordinary judges, but that wasn’t our problem anymore, it was the country’s. Of course, they told the press it was all a set-up orchestrated by their political enemies. One day I sent their lawyer the following message: “Tell your client, yes, we Jews do all have the same sense of humor.” We found out that they had asked the paras to kill us, but by that time we had already left.

He finished his account with a burst of laughter and ordered another drink. Then he said, let’s change the subject, friend, shall I tell you what most impressed me about Maturana’s story? It was that, in the end, the famous savior that everyone believed in was just a wimp! A real wimp, to screw up a business like that through pride! I put my glass down and stood up, pretending that I was expecting an urgent call. Thanks for the aperitif and your stories, Señor Kaplan, the next time it’s on me. He gave me his hand and said, it’s obvious you’re a writer, oh, by the way, if you have any of your books here I’d like to read one, do you have any? I was thinking about his request when he himself said, if you have a spare one leave it in reception in my name, I’m in Room 1211. I stopped dead, 1211? He was next door to 1209! I went back to him and said, excuse me, but have you noticed anything strange about the room next to yours, number 1209? But Kaplan said, I haven’t even seen the person staying there, has something happened? don’t frighten me. Nothing special, I’m right underneath, in 1109, and I heard noises, that’s all. My friend, this city is full of noises. That’s because of all the spirits hovering in the air.