Santiago Gamboa - Night Prayers

This was Bangkwang Prison.

“There’s an old legend,” the prosecutor said. “Before, when all this area was wilder, chimpanzees used to come and climb the walls. They liked to walk between the security cables and get into the watchtowers. Some even went down into the cells. The guards discovered it was fun to shoot them, and the prisoners would keep them and eat them. They were full of protein. Then they stopped coming. Now everybody misses them, and they say the ghosts of the chimpanzees run about the roofs. We’re a superstitious country. How about yours? I’ve seen that you don’t have the death penalty, but that there are more executions than there are here, how can that be? You’ll have to explain it to me.”

Fortunately the questions were rhetorical, since he continued speaking, gesticulating, explaining.

It was already nearly nine and the thermometer was still rising. The fact is, I would have given my life for an iced gin (even at that hour). The prosecutor parked to one side of the gate, and, after saluting the guards, we went up to the offices. There he introduced me to the warden, a man with a face full of scars and warts who shook my hand without looking at me.

He knows why I’m here, I thought, he must have received hundreds of diplomats asking for the same thing.

He made no attempt to be polite, and deep down I was pleased. If anything annoyed me about my job, it was unnecessary smiles and feigned interest. Then he led us along a corridor without air conditioning, from where you could already hear the sounds of the prisoners. Heat rose in a kind of thick steam.

“Please sit here,” he said when we came to a kind of classroom. “We’ll bring him.”

I waited, beating my fingers on a table perforated by termites. Then came the sound of a barred door opening, the jangling of keys.

I saw him come in, dragging his feet, his ankles chained together. It was true that he was thin. Gustavo had given a good description: he was indeed like a figure out of El Greco.

As he approached, I noticed he was very nervous, although he said nothing until the guard let go of his arm. We introduced ourselves, and he looked at me with surprise.

“The writer?”

I nodded, feeling rather uncomfortable.

“I haven’t read your books,” he said, “but let me say something that may surprise you. This isn’t going to be a crime story, it’s going to be a love story. I’ll explain why later.”

He seemed to sway, looked around nervously, and continued:

“They told me I have to plead guilty, or they’ll give me the death penalty, is that right? When am I going to get out of here? You have come to get me out, haven’t you?”

I nodded. Then I looked at the prosecutor.

“Leave us alone, please.”

“I don’t understand your language,” he replied irritably. “Nobody here understands it, it’s the same as being alone.”

“His feet are chained, he’s not going anywhere.”

“Good for him,” he said. “You have ten minutes.”

He lit a cigarette and walked reluctantly to the end of the cellblock. Then he made a noise — I don’t know if it was a word, I wasn’t listening — and the others too moved away.

The prisoner looked at me insistently. “Have you come to get me out? Will I leave here with you?”

“I wish that were possible,” I said. “The charge against you is a serious one. They’re going to ask for the death penalty, and there’s not much you can do, except plead guilty. If you do that, they’ll give you thirty years and then you can apply for a pardon or the king’s mercy. That can take eight or nine years. This afternoon I’m going to hire the best lawyer in Bangkok, but I know from the prosecutor that acquittal is impossible. There’s a bag of pills as evidence. I’m going to consult with Bogotá so that the Ministry can ask officially for your sentence to be served in Colombia, but that takes time, and there’s nothing we can do if it’s a death sentence. Do you understand? Once it’s been pronounced it can be carried out at any moment. The lawyer and the prisoner are informed two hours in advance.”

“Are you telling me to plead guilty?” he said, shaking his head, clearly upset. “The first time I saw that damned bag of pills was when the police showed up. I don’t know where it came from. I was doing something else, Consul, not that.”

“I believe you, but that’s not the problem. We’re going to investigate to see if we can find out what happened. It may be they’ll catch someone. In any case, until the day of the hearing there’s nothing to be done.”

Manuel looked at me without blinking and I asked him a question. The dumbest and saddest of questions.

“Are they treating you well?”

He didn’t answer in words. His face clouded over and his eyes filled with tears.

“Do you want me to call someone in Colombia?” I said.

He moved his head, saying, no, no… A scared, staccato no. I put a hand on his forearm and said, what about your family?

“I don’t have anyone,” he said. “It’s best if everything stays here.”

His fear seemed to go back a long way, even before Bangkwang and the bag of pills. A fear that had become part of his bloodstream, his cells. In his expression, I recognized what Gustavo had said: it was as if he had questions dammed up inside him and was afraid to bring them out into the light, to give them reality.

“I’m a friend of Gustavo Chirolla,” I said.

A light shone deep inside. He took a deep breath and said, “Old Tavo! Such a good teacher. A pity I didn’t often dare talk to him.”

Our time was almost up, and the prosecutor was starting to get impatient. He gave me a sign, a click of the fingers.

“I’ll be staying here and going over the case with the lawyer,” I said to Manuel. “It’s going to be all right. I’ll be back in three days. You can send for me if anything happens. I’ll be here for you.”

He sank back into himself, like an animal retreating to the far end of its cave. The same curt expression as at the beginning. He moved a few steps forward and turned, without saying anything. I waved goodbye, but the prosecutor came between us and pushed me outside.

“Let’s go,” he said, “I have to be in my office by noon.”

Back at the hotel, I sat down to put my ideas in order. He’s innocent, there’s no doubt about it. What could he have meant by those words of his? “Let me say something that may surprise you. This isn’t going to be a crime story, it’s going to be a love story. I’ll explain why later.”

A love story? What kind of love can there be in all this?

I sent the Consular Department an e-mail, saying that I needed funds to hire a lawyer because of the complexity of the situation. I also asked for legal advice and precedents. It was just after noon. I left my jacket and tie on the chair in my room, put on something more comfortable, and went out again.

Hotel Regency Inn, Room 301. Suan Plu Soi 6, Sathorn Road, Thungmahamek, Silom.

It was a fairly ordinary street. If you replaced the signs in the Thai language with ones in Spanish, it could have been in Bogotá, Lima, or Mexico City. A car missing a wheel at the side of the street. A bakery. On the corner, a pharmacy with a wooden counter painted blue. A wall with old faded signs and posters. Maybe advertising, maybe electoral propaganda.

The hotel was at number six, an old building, dirty, but with pretentions. The Regency Inn sign hung from the second floor, although the “n” in “Regency” had fallen off. Its three-star status seemed a bit excessive, although I hadn’t yet gone in. I preferred to wait a while. Wait for what? I had no idea, but I killed time in the bakery. I walked past twice, looking furtively inside. In the end I made up my mind and went in. A dark, damp lobby. Carpets with cigarette burns. A smell of cigarette butts and stale air.