Santiago Gamboa - Night Prayers

The following week Monsieur Echenoz returned home, so I went to look after him. What joy to walk up the little streets, cross the park, and climb the steps that led to his big old house. It was only then that I realized to what extent he had become part of my life, my little life, the thread of a story that I could continue. He was very frail, his skin wizened and covered with purplish veins around his nose. He was very pleased to see me and, as had been the case before his attack, I noticed that he was waiting anxiously for the other nurse to go so that he could be alone with me.

I told him about what I had seen in Soacha and said that I wanted to do something, and he said, they murdered those boys and while they’re putting together a story they come out and deny it, presenting details that deflect attention, and in the end there will be another scandal to distract people, but those women must keep going out on the street and you must support them, he said to me, and then, with a sly look, he added: you could try something else, do it from within. I looked at him in surprise, from within? Yes, he said. You’re young and pretty, you could get close to whoever you want and find out whatever you want. It may be difficult, but not impossible. Try to reach as high as you can, you may be able to help them from there. I already told you once: there is nothing a woman can’t get. Sex is the most powerful weapon on earth. I’m eighty-three years old and it’s the only thing I miss, the only reason I’d like to be young again. Anyone who tells you the opposite is either a dreamer or a fool who confuses real life with ideas and suppositions about how life should be. Infiltrate the world of those criminals and destroy them from within, if you really do hate them. It’s a world of men, of brute, unscrupulous males. If you manage to get close to it, they’ll eat out of your hand. Remember that a silly young American woman, using nothing but her mouth, almost brought down the most powerful president in the world, don’t you see? and I’ll tell you something: charge them a lot and don’t have any scruples. Destroy them and get what you can from them, when it comes down to it money is the one thing that gives us freedom in this wretched world. They’re going to tell you that you’re a prostitute but you won’t listen to them. Let them talk and shout. They’re going to tell you that you’re evil, a witch, let them bark. Never take your eyes off your goals. Your family will criticize you, forget them. Mothers tell their daughters: marry well, choose well, but that basically means “sell yourself well.” It’s the worst kind of prostitution, for a single client, and the payment is a lie called “respectability.” Don’t enter that world of insects, Juana, because you’re strong and intelligent, and you can have a destiny of your own. If you choose freedom you’ll be a truly lethal weapon. Destroy them.

In the mornings, walking down toward Seventh to go to the university and have breakfast, I would repeat to myself his stories and advice, and as I advanced, shivering with the wind you get at seven in the morning and already smelling the acid smell of the exhausts, I’d think that in spite of his cynicism and his distaste for life, Monsieur Echenoz was right: the world wasn’t made for harmony and kindness, but quite the contrary, for confrontation. The world is a boxing ring, a battlefield. And you don’t go to battlefields with smiles and soft words, no, sir, you go armed to the teeth. Seeing it any other way struck me as childish and stupid.

I remember that day, walking along Fiftieth and Seventh, I stopped at a breakfast eatery, asked for scrambled eggs with onion, coffee with milk, and orange juice, and started looking around at the recently awakened city: people cleaning their cars, beggars, a woman in uniform washing down the entrance to a pharmacy, the assistants from a cell phone store lighting cigarettes outside the door, people huddled together, shivering with cold, at the bus stop on the corner, and a black cloud over everything, bringing that wind that seems so damp. I took out a notebook and wrote: “Life is a fucking battlefield and you have to be armed to the teeth.” I read the sentence about a hundred times. Then I tore off the sheet, rolled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash can.

I set off again for the university.

Time went by. One afternoon my cell phone rang. It was the daughter of Monsieur Echenoz. I have some news for you, she said, Father died yesterday. How? It was in his sleep, the doctors say he didn’t feel a thing, he was wrapped in blankets, he seemed asleep. I was happy for him. He was already on the other side, far from this life that he had known and analyzed like nobody else. I asked about the funeral arrangements, they gave me the information, and I dropped by the undertaker’s briefly to say hello to his children. I wanted to see him one last time but the box was closed. It was better that way, since I was left with the image of his eyes filled with anger, and his words that, even though subdued by his emphysema, had been pure fire. Instead of praying, I sat down to one side and, in a little book, started to write down what I remembered of him, his cynical phrases, his judgments and opinions. I wanted at least some of his ideas to survive, and that was why I proposed to live them.

“Ideas are not made to be thought, but to be lived,” said Malraux. And Monsieur Echenoz was right: if the world was cynical and cruel, it was best to be cynical and cruel. My kindness and my love would, from now on, be hidden behind a thick iron door, and they would be only for Manuel. Reality was the place where Manuel and I had to survive, a lonely, arid steppe, a rocky desert, infested with vipers and scorpions, in which we had to search for water or weaker animals to feed ourselves on, and above all weapons; weapons to avoid others getting first to the valley, or the plain, the promised place where we could be happy.

Starting the following week, I began looking for other work and, after a series of interviews, I was again hired to look after an elderly man. I was pleased. I liked old people. It would be hard to find another Monsieur Echenoz, but I was willing to take advantage of whatever there was. This one had also had an operation. He had a horrible scar on his side. When I arrived, an old woman gave me the drugs I had to administer to him, showed me the kitchen, the towels, how the house was laid out, and then went to sleep in another room. I had to bathe him. The old man sat down in a tub of hot water and asked me to scrub his skin and clean the scar. It was disgusting, but I did it. Then I helped him out of the bath and walked him to his bed. He lay there on the blankets, naked, and asked me to bring him something, pointing to a drawer. I didn’t quite understand. I opened the drawer and found a whole lot of creams. I brought them over to him and he asked me to spread them on him. Then he pointed to another drawer and as I was about to open it he came up behind me. Inside the drawer was a black plastic dildo, and I realized that the old man, in the middle of his wrinkled and bruised body, had an erection. I ran out and hailed a taxi. I felt humiliated. When I got home, I washed my hands for hours and felt like cutting them off, like a salamander that gets rid of a limb to escape danger and it then regenerates, as good as new.

I remembered Monsieur Echenoz and I told myself, enough of this crap, now the war starts.

I knew of some girls from the industrial design department who went out with guys and charged them, so I approached them, determined to gain their trust, until they suggested going with them to a party given by some male students from Los Andes, the same age as us. There were four of them and by the time we arrived they were drunk and stoned. They gave us drinks, pills, coke. They had a bit of everything. On a trip to the bathroom I asked one of the girls how it worked, and she said, we charge them 300,000 pesos to suck them and fuck them, but it’s okay, with what they’ve taken I don’t think they’ll be able to get it up anyway, so enjoy the party and don’t forget to ask for the money as soon as you go in the bedroom, before taking your clothes off; otherwise, they’ll fall asleep and forget about the money. The only rule is not to kiss them and not to agree to swapping. We already told them that. We left the bathroom and I sat down in the living room. These rich kids were studying philosophy and letters. I heard them talking about Wittgenstein and Clément Rosset, but they were so drunk that they got everything wrong, and besides, I told myself, what could these idiots know or understand of Rosset’s tragic ideas? Everything was luxurious and I felt inhibited, but Monsieur Echenoz’s words gave me strength. Suddenly, the owner of the apartment said, okay, guys, let’s get down to business with the girls, I’m already horny, and the others said yes and put on vallenatos and pulled us up and forced us to dance, a dance that really drove me crazy because what it consisted of was the guy putting his hand under your skirt as soon as you took the first step, which I found disgusting, and I said to him, listen, honey, you’re going to have to be a little more friendly if you don’t want to be jerking yourself off tonight, and he said, hold your horses, what’s the matter? I’m paying, aren’t I? but I said, you haven’t paid me yet and my cell phone has eleven missed calls, so if you want I can go, then he said, hey, wait, don’t fly off the handle, who are you? I mean, what’s your name? and I said, Daisy, like Donald Duck’s girlfriend, but I’m no bimbo, got that? if you want to, we can go to the bedroom but pay me first, and the guy said, what a girl, yes, madame, anything else? and I said, yes, pull your pants down, I’m going to suck your cock, close your eyes and think about your professor of logic, or Paris Hilton or Ricky Martin, that’s up to you, and he said, hey, what a generous girl, and can I think about you? but I said, no way.