Santiago Gamboa - Necropolis

I thought of Ferenck Oslovski, trapped deep in a well. That was how it had been in the hall, although now we were about to leave, and, of course, we did not have the slightest idea of what awaited us in the lobby and the other floors. Outside, a war was raging, and it had finally reached us, in spite of all our words and theories about words. Even language had its limits. The barricade of language. Our refuge was as exposed as the rest of the city and our luxurious bedrooms might even now be in flames. I thought of my notes, but saw that I had them in the notebook and felt relieved. The check from Eve Studios was in my billfold. The rest might as well blow up.

With the return of the light, things became clear. Nobody had died, fortunately, but many were wounded. The most serious was a Norwegian poet, Sven Tellegar, who had suffered a heart attack; he was already under observation in the hotel’s infirmary. Others had been hit, there were bruises and a few broken bones, but nothing really serious.

Rashid and I went out together and found out that three mortars had fallen in a cluster and hit floors nine and ten. A team of firefighters were at work in the left wing. I thought of Sabina Vedovelli’s elegant suite, now reduced to rubble. I ought to take an interest in her fate, we had a contract and I would hate to have to give it back.

The management asked us to go down to the gym, like the previous night, but I decided to slip away. Rashid went out onto the street, saying that he was going with his family to Tira, his Arab town. The moment had come, and he knew how to get out. We hugged. I told him that I would go to see him before I went back to Rome, and he thanked me, but we both knew it was impossible.

On my way back to the coffee shop, I found Jessica in one of the wide corridors on the first floor. She was standing there looking at a tapestry on the wall, as calmly as if she were in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. The tapestry depicted the destruction of Jerusalem as described in the prophecies of Jeremiah. The city in flames, gray creatures escaping from the smoke and destruction, an old man looking on with sorrow. I greeted her and she looked at me gravely; she had been crying, but I considered it impertinent to ask her the reason. There were reasons to spare. I’m surprised to see you here, I said, and she replied: I came to look for somebody who’s already gone and could have said goodbye. Walter de la Salle? I ventured to ask. No, she said, he died many years ago, in the ashes of his house. You don’t need to keep looking for him, that’s the truth.

Then I asked her: was the person you were hoping to meet the guest in Room 1209? She shot me an angry look and just when I thought she was going to either burst into tears or hit me she said, yes, he was a kindred soul, a friend pure and simple, somebody who experienced what happened at the Ministry from a distance and decided to write a book about it; I met him in Miami, or rather, he came looking for me. He was the one who investigated and finally tracked down José, who had changed his name and had been invisible for years. I don’t know how he tracked him down to this conference, but he decided to come and see him, and talk to him; as I was nearby, he suggested we meet here. He registered in the hotel under a false name, he didn’t want to attract attention. His name is Mario Zambrano, although he signs his work Mario Simonides, he’s a writer and journalist of Latin origin. It’s a pity you never met him, he’s a lot like you.

And don’t you think he’s coming back? I said. No, said Jessica. Mario is like José: always with his jacket on and a knapsack over his shoulder, ready to disappear, I know he won’t come back. He spoke to José after his talk, told him I was here and wanted to see him. That day, I had to go straight back to Tel Aviv, but Mario told him I would come back when he wanted; José asked me to leave him a message to confirm that, and that was what I did. Then he killed himself.

Why did he kill himself? I asked. Jessica looked at her nails, scratched her forearms hard, and said, I’ll tell you what I think: he killed himself because he didn’t want to show his face, he wasn’t capable of looking me in the eyes after what he had done, all the lies he had told; he killed himself out of cowardice. We’re all of us cowards. Even Mario. All those who leave are cowards.

The ground shook and there was another violent explosion. Pieces of stucco fell from the ceiling. Jessica sought protection in my arms. A cascade of earth and rubble rained all around us. From outside came the clear sound of a siren. So I asked her, what do you mean when you say José hurt you? Jessica did not look at me, but clung tighter to me. Again she was crying. She took two steps back and looked around, as if trying to find a way out, so I said, I’m sorry, Jessica, I don’t have a right to ask you these questions.

A smaller explosion shook a column, and as it fell it shattered. We had to either get out of there or take shelter in the basement.

Then Jessica said in a low voice, almost in my ear: José raped me on three occasions, I want you to know. I’ve never told anyone, but I think we’re going to die here. He did it three times, three long and painful times, you know what that means for a woman? I took her hand and said, I can imagine, Jessica, now let’s go, nobody’s going to die today.

Wait, she said, wait a moment. Things weren’t so simple. He raped me on three occasions, but there were other times when I consented, I was young, I felt terribly jealous, I loved and hated him at the same time. Those years are over and José is dead, Walter is also dead, and I’m dead too, anyway, that’s all over; I’ve survived a world that doesn’t exist anymore and has no place in this one; nothing of what we were then can be understood by anyone today, nobody believes in what we believed in; the things that were important to us provoke laughter or curiosity, do you understand? We’re dead, we’re all dead.

Two more explosions blew out the large windows of the terrace and a splinter lodged itself in my forearm. We ran to the door and found several hotel employees there. Among them was Momo, who said, come with me, sir, I can get you out of here, there’s an airfield just outside the city and a Hercules plane to evacuate you, but we have to go now. I asked him to stay with Jessica and went down to the basement.

When I got there, I looked around at the various groups, but could not see Egiswanda. At the far end, on a bench, was Marta. I rushed to her and said, where were you? are you O.K.? She said yes, indifferently. She was worried about her laptop and wanted to go up to my room. I told her that was absurd, her newspaper would give her another one when she get back, but she said, I’m not going back, I’ve decided to stay, I was thinking of using your room until the end of the conference, if you don’t mind, it’s in your name, right? I looked her up and down. Are you crazy? I’m not crazy, she said, nothing too serious will happen to this building and I already brought all my things, my best clothes, my most daring underwear, do you forgive me for not coming to hear you this morning?

Another explosion shook the building, so I grabbed her hands and said: let’s look for Egiswanda and get out of here, Momo’s waiting outside to take us to a plane we can leave on, but she said: I’m staying, please don’t insist. Her attitude exasperated me and I said, where’s the sense in staying? you’ll be in grave danger in return for very little; as far as I know, you haven’t written a single line so far, about the conference or anything else, so what reason do you have to stay, apart from Amos, who’s married and has a life he has no intention of giving up? I don’t understand.