American Visa (7 page)

“I heard they hire private detectives to check every last detail. They even stick their noses into bank and City Hall records.”

“And now what will you do?” Gardenia asked.

“I have no idea. All I know is I won't go back to Oruro. Anything but that.”

“Maybe it was all a false alarm,” Antelo remarked. “Just go on back to the consulate.”

“I need to leave now. I have a plane ticket and I've got a few pesos put away for my first week in Florida.”

“How old are you?” Antelo asked.

“Forty.”

“I don't get what the big deal is. It's not easy to find work at your age. In a country as dynamic as America, forty is like seventy here.”

“It's all because of our damned and blessed cocaine,” Don Antonio said. “They think we're all potential drug traffickers.”

“It's our curse and our mainstay,” Antelo said.

“Che Guevara called it the atomic bomb of the third world,” Don Antonio added. “No need to worry, Alvarez. If you can get me a hot chocolate from Café Verona, I'll let you in on a secret that I save for only my closest friends.”

“The hot chocolate is yours,” I affirmed.

“Listen up: A few months ago, a run-of-the-mill tramp claiming to be a hairstylist arrived from Tarija. She said her dream was to open a hair salon for wealthy Latinos in Washington, but that was just a gimmick to reel in richer clients. During the interview she showed the consul her goods and promised him a good time, but being a Quaker and all, the gringo didn't bite. He denied her the visa and the poor thing walked around looking battered, like a lamb awaiting slaughter. But when I bumped into her a few days later, I'd never seen her so happy. She flashed me her passport bearing the royal stamp from the American consulate, begged me not to rat on her, and then spilled the beans. Some shady travel agency had fixed her visa problems for cash. Supposedly, it was all done legally through their connections at the consulate. So this hairstylist left town and is surely mooching off horny Latinos in the States. She was a real babe, filled out and well-fed. Hadn't read a single book in her life, but she was still smart as hell.”

“She probably married a gringo,” Gardenia interjected in a voice like Marlene Dietrich's.

“Do you know where that agency is?” I asked.

“In a building behind the Cultural Center. I think it's called Andean Tourism, something like that. Go on, they'll take care of your problem.”

“As if the United States were paradise,” Gardenia protested.

“I hope you aren't freaked out by gays, Señor Alvarez,” Don Antonio jeered.

“To each his own,” I replied.

“Good man. People from Oruro are cool,” Antelo remarked placidly.

“The people in Oruro are selfless and exploited. Their thankless destiny is to dream about pie-in-the-sky public works projects,” Don Antonio said. “In colonial times, the Spaniards ran off with the silver from Oruro's mines to finance their absurd wars in Flanders. During the Republic, the cream of Bolivian society used Oruro's silver and gold to travel and live the good life in Paris. Since the 1952 revolution, union bosses and the fat cat owners have made a killing off the mines.”

“But Don Antonio, you were a member of the party that enjoyed the spoils of power for almost thirty years,” Antelo said.

“I was an idealist,” Don Antonio asserted. “I naïvely believed in the revolutionary program.”

“You were a slacker and you blew your money playing cards,” Antelo said pointedly. “If you'd saved all the money you raked in from the revolution, you'd be retired in Mexico right now.”

“Do you get a pension?” I asked, intrigued.

“I'm a retired diplomat, but I forgot to apply for my pension.”

“What do you live on?”

“I live off my friends, which now include you, and from the weekly sale of books from my exquisite library. Every two or three days, Antelo and sometimes Gardenia here sell one of the classics from my collection. That's how I pay the hotel from time to time. I don't eat much, just three lunches a week in a cheap restaurant. But I do eat chocolate cake religiously; without my chocolate, I would be in the cemetery with the rest of my family by now. Gardenia takes me along to his wild orgies every now and then. I never get a piece of the action, but I always eat a lot while I'm there. Also, the salesman slips me a slab of fine cheese each week.”

“Which author is getting the axe today?” Gardenia asked.

“Next up is Turgenev, the great nihilist.”

When Don Antonio noticed that Antelo had gone back to his room, he announced: “I'll bet you anything he went to dust off the old photographs from his soccer days. He'll want to show them to you, Alvarez, along with his newspaper scrapbook. Tell me something: Do you think an ex-goalie can become a famous politician?”

“He was an awful goalie. Maybe he'll make it as a politician.”

“Don't be surprised if he's appointed Customs Director,” Gardenia said.

“He's got connections and he's about as righteous as John Dillinger. He's a solid guy, but you can't expect miracles from him. It would be great news if they sent him to Santa Cruz because he'd land us all sinecures. I'd pray for his soul for the rest of my days,” Don Antonio said.

“The poor guy looks like such a freak,” Gardenia commented. “He walks with his legs bowed, like he's always looking for a ball in the air.” He laughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

Antelo hadn't given me enough time to slip away to my room. He returned just then with a bulging folder tucked under his arm.

“It's that time, Alvarez, my friend. You'll have to swallow the whole story, from his days as a child prodigy to his Olympic lap bidding goodbye to the fans at Siles Stadium. A nightmare,” Don Antonio whispered.

Antelo invited me to sit on a patch of grass growing reluctantly in the middle of the shrub-enclosed patio. Don Antonio hadn't exaggerated. I heard about Antelo's long, painful career, from the first time he kicked a soccer ball in a sandy lot of a small town in Santa Cruz, to his last save against a dark-skinned fellow named Gadea, who tried to get tricky and weave with the ball inside the penalty box. His photo collection was staggering. I also had to put up with his running commentary. His voice droned on like that of a congressman reading an endless, rambling speech before his colleagues. He made me drowsy and almost put me to sleep.

“What do you think?” Antelo asked once he had finished.

“Someone ought to write your biography,” I said. “The fans would eat up every detail of a story that fascinating.”

“See?” he said, turning to Don Antonio. “I'll dictate and you'll write.”

“Really, thanks for the invitation,” Don Antonio said, “but writing about soccer would be pure torture for me. I would rather be the owner's confessor.”

“Confessor?” I asked.

“Once in a while, the owner of this sacrosanct hotel asks me to read him poems by Tamayo, Santos Chocano, and Borges. In Buenos Aires, he took a liking to poetry. He claims to have been a friend of Victoria Ocampo's, but I don't believe it. At each get-together he treats me to a hot chocolate and gives me ten pesos. He has also ordered the manager to go easy on collecting my rent.”

“We could make money off my biography,” Antelo said.

“We'll get rich working for Customs,” Gardenia interjected. “You'd better not forget about us when you make it big.”

“I'm not that kind of guy,” Antelo protested. “I swear I'll take you to Santa Cruz with me, Gardenia, just so you can carry on your debauchery there.”

“The biography I'd like to write is Gardenia's,” Don Antonio said. “By day, a naïve-looking kid who passes for an altar boy; by night, an erotic Lolita with fewer inhibitions than Emperor Caligula.”

Gardenia tossed his head back, let out a roar, and shot me the glance of a naughty geisha.

“Alvarez, you'll be in for quite a surprise when you see him at night. A Venetian carnival mask couldn't do a better job. The men she tricks don't realize their mistake until it's too late. After knocking back two drinks, our baby Gardenia is more mouthwatering than Tadzio in Thomas Mann's
Death in Venice
. Have you read it?”

“I saw the movie,” I said.

“It's beautifully told with a refined German's lean, elegant prose.”

“And how would you know Gardenia is
mouthwatering
?” Antelo inquired. “If
you
know, you'd think everyone would.”

Don Antonio chuckled. “I might be a salt statue from the waist down, but my imagination is a cyclone.”

“Have you ever written a book?” I asked.

“A long time ago, I started a harrowing story about my confinement in the National Stadium in Santiago, Chile, where I was imprisoned by General Pinochet for six months. I never finished it. If only I had some peace and quiet and a typewriter.”

“You had one until just recently,” Antelo said.

“I sold it at half-price. That's one of my biggest faults. I sell everything that lands in my lap.”

“He can't help himself,” Gardenia said.

“I admit it's nothing to be proud of,” Don Antonio lamented. “It boils down to laziness. I rely only on my talent.”

“Talent is not enough. You need to work harder,” Antelo said.

“Too late for me,” Don Antonio replied. “What I ought to write now is my epitaph.”

I glanced at my watch: 3 in the afternoon. I jotted down the address of the travel agency and said goodbye to those characters.

^*
The
Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionario
(Revolutionary Leftist Movement) was the ruling political
party at the time of the original writing of this book in 1993. It has been one of Bolivia's largest parties since
the 1970s.

Chapter 4

T
he taxi dropped me off
in front of the Cultural Center. Luckily, a mild breeze was cooling off the dry, sunny afternoon. A line of stores wound like an accordion around the base of the building. I walked hurriedly to the other side of that enormous structure and asked the bellboy for the Andean Tourism Agency.

“Eleventh floor, left-hand side,” the doorman indicated with an expression of such disgust that he seemed to be suffering from ulcers.

The eleventh floor was jammed with law firms and notary offices, but I managed to find Andean Tourism at the end of one of the hallways. I was greeted by the unpleasant stare of a secretary who was wearing sunglasses and had her hair done up in an Afro. With a quick, haughty upturn of her nose, she showed me to an ugly plastic chair. Aside from the secretary, nearly everything in that tiny office was made of plastic. A mountain of tourist brochures, tickets, and pencils stood on top of the desk. The lady periodically glanced up at me, distracted. Her expressionless eyes seemed to be waiting for me to initiate conversation.

“I'm here to apply for a tourist visa to the United States,” I said.

“Who gave you our address?” she asked with affected disinterest.

“A hairdresser friend of mine from Tarija who lives in Washington.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That you know all the secrets to writing a strong application. She said you're well connected in the U.S. consulate and she spoke highly of your professionalism and your attention to detail.”

“Does she still live in Washington?”

“Sure does. She's raking it in with that hair salon business of hers.”

“So, you'd like to travel as a tourist?”

“For a few months at most. My son lives in Florida.”

She stared me down for a few seconds without saying a word. “Now and then we give good friends of ours a hand with their visa applications. What's your last name?”

“Alvarez, from Oruro.”

“Do you have a valid passport?”

“Yes, plus a round-trip ticket.”

She stood up and tapped her knuckles against a door, the upper half of which was made of frosted glass framed in aluminum. When she opened it, I caught a glimpse of a fat man chatting on the phone. Seated in a swivel chair behind a desk, he looked like a businessman up to his ears in work. She whispered to him, came back out from his office, and declared: “Wait just a moment.”

Before long, the fat man commanded her over the intercom to let me proceed.

“Eduardo Ballón, at your service.”

The fat guy lit a cigar while I shook his soft, flaccid hand. His papers were scattered all over the place. The way he obsessively organized and reshuffled them suggested that he wanted to appear stressed out. He was in his shirtsleeves and his belly had just about busted through his trouser buttons: the fat rose up through his chest, gathering in his neck and jowls. His diminutive mouth looked out of place in the middle of his pear-shaped face. His distinctive nose stuck out like a pig's snout, casting a shadow over his tiny eyes.