American Visa (13 page)

Next, I took off down Mercado Street and then, without thinking, out of pure boredom, stopped in front of a bookstore window. A fastidious bookseller was busy decorating the shelves, arranging in the shape of a fan several copies of a recently published book by an author named Mabel Plata. The book cover bore a seagull flying above choppy waters. I entered the bookstore and started flipping through some magazines. Their collection of publications ranged from
National
Geographic
to issues of
Hustler
featuring bimbos striking raunchy poses, sometimes alone and other times beside heavily tattooed men. On the last page of one of the magazines, the amateur models had provided their addresses for receiving any sentimental correspondence. Though not aesthetically pleasing, the pictures were provocative.

I lost myself amidst gigantic shelves holding hundreds of books, ranging from children's stories to thick volumes on medicine, and a gamut of novels and short stories in between. I was never a fan of literature that talks about literature. I always liked noir novels about detectives and hoods that have clear beginnings and endings. Guys like Raymond Chandler and Chester Himes can change my life for a few hours, freeing me to see the world through the eyes of Philip Marlowe or Grave Digger Jones. Just then I stumbled across one of Himes's books,
The Heat's On.

The first few lines had me hooked. I spaced out completely as the escapades of Coffin Ed Johnson and Grave Digger Jones lifted me away to the alleys of Harlem. Apparently, anybody who knows Harlem can tell you how hard it is to get out of that neighborhood. I didn't even notice that the bookstore employees had cleared the shelves, moved the furniture from one side of the room to another, and adorned the tables with placemats, where only minutes before there had sat enormous piles of books. They set out plates, glasses, flower pots, and pictures of Mabel Plata, a haggard-looking woman with protruding cheekbones and a sad, deep-set face. A waiter sporting an immaculate white jacket and black gloves was ceremoniously arranging bottles of Chilean champagne, as a plump balding man with a Nietzschean moustache barked out orders impatiently. I figured he was the owner of the bookstore and the organizer of Mabel Plata's book launch. I was just the party crasher.

I thought it would be prudent to make my exit, but not before taking Himes with me, hidden under my shirt and behind my belt. I hadn't stolen a book in twenty years, and I didn't want to lose the habit. I tried slipping away, but the street exit was roped off. The balding man approached me, Cuban cigar in hand, and then grabbed me by the arm with a big shot's self-assurance.

“This way,” he said. “You're here just in time. I like punctual people. I'm hoping the rest of La Paz's bigwigs get here soon. Where do I know you from?”

“A long time ago I owned a used bookstore in Oruro.”

“And . . . it tanked.”

“How did you guess?”

“Books are a bad business in this country. Not a lot of people read and the few who do, they read about politics hoping that it'll be of use to them. What are you doing these days?”

“I don't make a good living. I'm planning to emigrate.”

“To Australia?”

“South Africa. The white people are leaving because they're afraid the blacks will eat them alive now that they have the same rights.”

“Do you like black people?” he asked inquisitively.

“I have a thing for black women. You've never seen a black lady lying naked on white sheets?”

“In Brazil, but I don't remember the color of the sheets,” he said, laughing.

“The sheets must be white. It's the most erotic thing you'll ever see.”

“I'm Salomón Urquiola. I own this place,” he declared, holding out his hand, then averred, “thank God there aren't too many blacks in this country.”

“That's why our soccer players aren't any good. They don't know how to move their hips,” I replied.

Salomón Urquiola handed me a cigar and lit it for me. He seemed puzzled by my identity. He couldn't place me; he directed quick, polite glances in my direction. He was wearing a dark gray suit. His footwear, a pair of copper loafers that looked like they'd been run over by a steamroller, clashed with his brown socks.

Once the ropes were withdrawn, the guests, sporting their best party outfits, started to file in. They all greeted Salomón Urquiola in an orderly fashion as they entered. An older man with a fancy walking stick and wearing an English coat and an imported Borsalino felt hat strolled into the bookstore. His face rang a bell: Last name Mezquita, he was a famous right-wing man of letters who had been chummy with all the military dictators. A rather artless teller of Andean folk tales and legends, he was a writer of tepid prose but an excellent businessman. Successive military governments had used him to write longwinded newspaper articles extolling their virtues. Salomón Urquiola greeted him with a hug and some sweet talk to show what an incredible honor it was to receive such a distinguished guest. The guy thanked him and then cast a Napoleonic gaze out at the rest of the crowd. Once he determined there was no one else worth greeting, he became aloof like a celebrity trying to escape notice. As he made his way toward the back wall, the entire room broke out in applause. The guest of honor had arrived, the skinny lady in all the pictures. An indigenous-looking girl was escorting her by the arm. Mabel Plata was tired, but she mustered enough energy to acknowledge the crowd with a smile. She flashed a set of decrepit yellow-orange teeth as she extended a languid, pale hand to the owner.

“Dearest Mabel,” Urquiola said in greeting.

“All those hills,” Mabel Plata whined. “I don't know how I'd manage without Andresita.”

Andresita, a peasant girl, was unable to repress the look of irritation on her face. At the end of the day, carrying an exhausted poetess on her back up and down La Paz's sheer streets was no joke.

Salomón Urquiola extinguished his cigar and raised his left arm. The chatting died down, the murmurs ceased, and he began. “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished scholars. We are very pleased to be here today for the reading of Mabel's latest book of poetry. In light of the crisis affecting every level of society in this country, these are difficult times for the publishing business. But this book is destined to be the next big hit. We have all anxiously waited to hear what topic our beloved poetess will choose this time. Years ago it was
The Lost Love
, and next
Tremendous Solitude
, to be followed by that harrowing and magnificent story about alcoholism, and then that daring and painful confession about eroticism between two people of the same sex, reminiscent of Anaïs Nin, and now the sea . . . Yes, the sea that was taken from us by the treacherous Brits and the crooked Chilean bourgeoisie. The sea, so near and yet so far, the romantic and deep-blue sea that we all miss. It's a difficult topic for even the loftiest of pens, a challenge that Señorita Plata has bravely taken head-on. Out of this challenge a book of poems has sprung that is sure to make your eyes well with tears, while at the same time infusing you with the hope that we will one day soon return to our imprisoned Pacific coast. I must confess that I read it all in a single night, spellbound, as Mabel's magical pen whipped me away to the empty beaches of the Atacama Desert, which may not have received a drop of rain in three hundred years but are still filled with the tears shed by our immortal soldiers.”

Salomón Urquiola capped his speech like an orator from colonial days, spreading his arms wide and gazing heavenward. He wiped away an invisible tear and immediately lit another cigar. A round of applause crowned his performance. Next, Señorita Mabel Plata released herself from the protective hand of her Indian servant and slowly, as if dragging a heavy chain, walked over to the podium. Standing with arms akimbo, she waited until it was so quiet that a fly's buzzing could be heard.

“My dear, lovely friends, I am truly grateful for such heartfelt words from the people's publisher, the most humane bookseller in our country. He said it well—a challenge it certainly was. The mere act of traveling to the beaches that were once ours in the distant past meant, for me, entering a hostile and ghost-riddled universe. My great-great-grandfather, Antonio de las Mercedes Plata, died in combat near Mejillones. To see the ocean, to be able to touch it, to rock in its waves, to gaze at the ships, to glimpse the tiny fishing barges, and to breathe the marine air was a truly sad and unsettling experience. Staring at the unruly ocean that used to belong to us, but that we lost thanks to our backstabbing mining oligarchy, shook the very foundations of my poetic sensibilities. I started writing in a hostel that faced the water and, like someone possessed, didn't put my pen down until the last sentence. Then a couple of Peruvian hooligans stole the pen from me on the flight back.”

“Ahhh,” the crowd groaned knowingly.

“I didn't stop writing until I ran out of energy and was on the verge of fainting. I didn't eat or sleep for three days and three nights. When I returned to my senses and freed myself from the lyrical demon that had possessed me, I fainted right in front of my Andresita and made her cry like Mary Magdalene. I had lost eleven pounds and only gained the weight back by eating seafood. So much seafood!”

The audience laughed earnestly. Once Mabel's imploring voice had faded into an inaudible whisper, they broke out in fervent applause. The right-wing writer, who seemed to be suffering from an excess of militaritis, whispered behind me, “Mabel's servant doesn't just cry like Mary Magdalene. She gets it on like her too.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” said an ageless lady who had wrapped her neck in a fox fur collar that smelled like urine.

“Lesbians have every right to love each other, ma'am. We've got to respect the feelings of others.”

“People talk just because they're jealous,” the fur lady interjected.

Once Mabel Plata had left the pulpit, several waiters appeared balancing trays that held sandwiches and empanadas. It occurred to me that if I stuffed myself with sandwiches, I would have a free dinner. But I hadn't taken into account how much our scholars can eat. The cheese puffs were gone in a flash, and I didn't get a single glass of champagne. A host of hands snatched up every last glass as if they were going for a rebound under a basketball rim. While I anxiously awaited the second round, I observed how the poetess, seated behind a desk, went about signing the books that the guests had bought. She showered them with angelic smiles while her companion, Andresita, curled up at her side, observed the buyers with an air of pity. Mabel Plata looked like she was flying high; money inspired her.

I finally caught sight of a food tray and, without hesitating, walked toward the waiter. I arrived in time to fill myself up with bread, jam, and caviar and make off with a glass of sweet white wine with a hint of resin. I sidled away from the distinguished revelers and tried to get my hands on all the booze I could. At such a high altitude, white wine is like poison, and within fifteen minutes I started to feel a throbbing pain in the back of my neck. While she babbled at her admirers, Miss Plata downed a bottle of red wine all by herself. The wine made her even more melancholy, and she started to shower each girl with kisses, caressing their hair with her dry veiny hands, which looked like knots. Everyone was delighted with her affectionate behavior, especially the bookstore owner, who was counting on the event to boost the sales of
Fresh Encounter with the Lost Sea.

With all the guests packed together, you could feel the temperature rise. I felt distressed and started to experience the early symptoms of claustrophobia—anxiety and a racing heart. I cleared a path for myself through the guests and took a rest in the section with all the dictionaries and tourist guides. I was hoping the get-together would end sooner rather than later; that way I would be able to leave without arousing any suspicions. The Himes book was probably going to slip down to my private parts when I tried wriggling through the crowd again, and the store employees were bound to notice. They knew that the guests, for all their spiffy dress and high-society pedigrees, were always ready to rip off a good book.

I was trying to figure out the most subtle way to vanish from that place when I saw her enter the store. Tall and thin, her fine features looked like they had been carved by a virtuoso diamond cutter. Amidst that gray, insipid mob, she was like a mirage. She was about twenty-three years old with dark-brown hair, pearl-colored skin, and greenish eyes. She wasn't beautiful like a Hollywood actress, and physically she wasn't close to perfect in the classical sense. Still, there was something about her that made guys like me hold their breath; she made you feel like you were standing before someone from another planet. Mabel Plata lost her train of thought and sat there motionless when she saw her. The young woman walked up and planted a kiss on her cheek. The blood rushed to Mabel's face.

“What a wonderful surprise!” she managed to stutter.

“I wouldn't have missed it for anything,” the new arrival replied.

Mabel Plata wrote an ethereal dedication on the first page of one of the books that Andresita handed her. Smiling, the young woman read the words that the poetess had scribbled and returned her kindness with another kiss on the cheek. Mabel Plata was transformed into a stalactite.

As soon as that exhilarating encounter was over, the young woman walked around, book in hand, greeting the people she knew. She was wearing an exquisite blue suit, black shoes, and, draped over her white blouse, a pearl necklace for which a mobster would have gunned down the entire crowd. My eyes followed her. I sensed that I would probably dream about her that night. After exchanging pleasantries, she ambled around the place by herself, leafing through magazines and pocket-sized books. She stopped about ten feet away from me. I was nailed to the floor like a tree, and not just because I could feel the aroma of her enchanting perfume: The slightest movement of my hips was going to send Himes crashing down my pants leg. Instinctively, like vultures eyeing a feast, the store employees wouldn't let me out of their sight. I smiled with the ease of an Englishman about to get strung up by a mob of irate Hindus. She took a cigarette out of a gold case and said, “Want one?”