Santiago Gamboa - Night Prayers

In the dining room, around a huge pitcher of pisco sour, there was another group from Philosophy, some postgrads, some from other universities. That was where I met your friend Gustavo Chirolla. I was struck by the way he argued, with his coastal accent and his enormous affection and respect for those who argued with him. That night they talked about various subjects and I stood listening in a corner, hypnotized by what they were saying, I can’t remember it in detail but I’m sure they talked about politics, that was the great topic in those horrible days, local politics, everybody felt concerned, everybody thought they had to make their position clear, do you remember, Consul? it was an implicit duty, we were like Cubans, and out of that emerged loves and hates, something that ended when Uribe went and Colombia became a normal country again, or rather, went back to being a shitty country but a normal one, and people went back to the old grayness and lobotomy, which by comparison seemed like a sign of balance and even of progress.

They talked of all that and also of very specific things, Leibniz, social structures, the new critical thinking. I was dazzled listening to them, especially Gustavo. This man knows about everything, I told myself, and at one point, very shyly, I asked him where he taught, and that was when he told me a couple of things about his work and his classes at the Xavierian University. I told him about my interest in philosophy and in the National University, and he said that he recommended it to me, that we were sure to see each other there.

For some time now I had liked philosophy. It was the only thing that might have an answer for my failed existence, that frustration that only disappeared with painting, books, or movies. Art and its human stories helped me to understand that I was not alone, but studying literature struck me as unnecessary, and the cinema was a utopia. Juana wanted me to make a movie, but I said to her, for that you have to be a millionaire or the son of millionaires, don’t kid yourself. Kubrick had a rich uncle who paid for his first film, don’t you remember? And if we find a producer, which is highly unlikely, we’d have to forget about making art. You can’t make the movie you want if the money isn’t yours.

She believed in me blindly and said that she didn’t mind spending her life working to pay for it. I let her fantasize, but I knew it was impossible, among other things because the movie I carry inside me is so tough that nobody would go to see it.

There remained philosophy: Anaxagoras, Epictetus, Peter Abelard, Saint Anselm, Scottus Eriugena, Emmanuel Kant. They had thought about everything. How to explain that profound sense of rejection? the certainty that something in life was wrong, profoundly wrong? what to call that feeling of insubstantiality, of emptiness? These were the answers I was looking for.

Hearing those people confirmed me in my decision to study at the National, although the truth was, I didn’t really have much choice. Los Andes was out of reach, as was the Xavierian.

Plus, I’d be close to Juana.

At midnight, after a few whiskeys and a joint, a woman named Tania came up to me and asked me to dance. She whispered in my ear: are you Juana’s brother? I didn’t know you were so young and handsome. We danced for a while, she clung to me as soon as we took the first step, kissed me on the mouth, sucked my ear, and said, well, darling, shall we fuck? I’d heard people say that kind of thing in movies, so I said, nervously, yes, of course.

We went to one of the bedrooms on the second floor and without needing any words she opened my fly and started sucking my cock. She had a piercing in her tongue and she rubbed it hard against my glans. Then she took off her clothes, sat down on a hassock, and moved her thong aside. We fucked and it was really great, she made me feel as if it wasn’t the first time. She had experience, she moved well, and she knew how to guide me. Thanks to that, I didn’t come in the first thirty seconds, but by the time we had finished I was another person. She got upset because she couldn’t find her bra, then she wanted to light a cigarette and the lighter didn’t work. In the end she found her clothes, dressed with her back to me, and then snorted a line of coke through each nostril. I asked her for her phone number, but she didn’t even reply. Suddenly she looked at me, as if surprised to see me still there, and said, are you planning to sleep here or what? Then something happened that made the atmosphere even tenser than it already was: bending to look for her huge Dr. Martens boots, she let out a loud and unmistakable fart. Not vaginal wind, but a classic fart. A fart that resounded through the room, and really annoyed her, although she didn’t even say “sorry” or “it just came out.” I asked her for her phone number again, but she said:

Look, there’s no point our seeing each other again. I have a boyfriend, a really great Spanish guy who’s traveling right now. I’m thirty-two years old, I’m not going to get involved with a child.

With those words she left the room, through which a sharp, foul-smelling wind was already blowing.

I felt very sick and didn’t know what to do.

She left me alone in that stinking room that suddenly seemed like the saddest, most squalid place in the world. I searched for my clothes and got dressed. Then I opened the window and breathed in the clean night air. From some star or from the mountains there came a voice that said: get used to losing everything. I was puzzled. It sounded like a phrase of Edgar’s, the kind he invented without it coming from his guts, for the pure pleasure of combining sounds. Then I thought it sounded more like Paulo Coelho and I decided to erase it.

I walked downstairs and went back to the party.

Seeing me, Juana came up to me, well? did you like it? I told her it had been great, and so as not to hurt me she said, Tania wanted to fuck you as soon as she saw you. She’s the one you have to thank. I hugged her and said, let’s dance, let’s forget this, teach me some more steps.

I woke up at nine, somewhat the worse for wear after that mixture of drinks the night before, but a couple of aspirins with Alka-Seltzer and a furtive swig of gin revived me.

I ran down and took a taxi opposite the hotel, with the lawyer’s address in my hand, but very soon fell into the paralyzing hydra of the traffic, the great ill of Asian cities. Or of modern cities. You go so slowly that the road fills with intruders.

My head heated up again and the pain returned.

I got to the address with two minutes to spare. Teresa was waiting for me on the street outside the building.

“Thanks for coming and for being punctual,” I said, giving her a kiss. “How do you feel?”

“A bit rough, to be honest,” she said with a smile, “but it’ll soon pass. It’s been a while since I had Cuba Libres and tequila one after the other. It was worth it.”

I did mention that I’d give my life to postpone the appointment and have a Bloody Mary, which at that hour of the morning has the virtue of grabbing hold of your body, messing it up, and putting it back together again without any of the pieces missing.

The lawyer was an elderly man of about seventy. His venerable appearance seemed like a good sign.

“Sit down, welcome.”

He made a gesture with his hand and a second later a servant appeared with a tray. Cold water, an orange-colored soda, tea, and coffee. Biscuits and pistachios. I missed something more aggressive in terms of alcohol content. I grabbed a coffee and a glass of water. Teresa did the same.

“Good,” the man said, “I don’t suppose you’ll be upset to know that this morning, first thing, I myself called the prosecutor and asked for a copy of the report on your compatriot Manuel Manrique. You should know that the prosecutor was my pupil at university and has great respect for me. There’s nothing illegal about that. I told him that I’d be dealing with the case and that you’d be coming to see me later.”