“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.
“Welcome, sir, how can I help you?” said a young man with rotten teeth, with MP3 earbuds in his ears.
I looked at him for a moment without knowing what to say.
“I’d like to see the rooms, how much does a night cost?”
“Twenty-five dollars, wait, I’ll give you a key,” he said.
The smell of his decaying teeth knocked me out. I looked at the board where the keys were, 301 was free.
“I’d like 301.”
“Oh, that one? Very well, take it, sir. Don’t forget to hand it in before you go out. How many nights would that be?”
Already on my way to the elevator, I said, without looking at him: I’d like to see it first, then we’ll see.
It was the room where they had arrested Manuel Manrique. I didn’t think I’d find anything, I just wanted to take a look. Room 301 was the last room in a corridor that ended in a window, looking out on a rough, damp courtyard, with plants that clung to the wall and climbed the pipes.
I opened the door, thinking that the police must have recorded everything many times. I was greeted by the same damp smell as in the lobby, but more concentrated. The air conditioner started up, filling the space with the gas from its condenser. That happens with old machines. The bed was small but decent, and next to it was a wardrobe of laminated wood. The carpet seemed in a better state than the one on the stairs. The window was at the same level as a curved overpass. At night, the lights of the cars must filter in through the blinds.
I imagined Manuel sitting on that bed, the room receiving the intermittent flashing of the car lights projected on the wall. Maybe eating a chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke. The image of someone who wants something to happen, or who is protecting himself from something lying in wait for him. The smell of the room seemed to suggest: here he suffered in silence, in solitude. It struck me that in the middle of the night a place like that must have been populated by demons, at that cold hour when the birds call sadly to the sun. How long did Manuel spend here? I’d have to ask him. There were yellowish tiles on the bathroom floor. A mosquito was fluttering around the shower curtain, which was blackened and broken. I put my head in, but there was nothing. A mirror. The washbowl faucet was dripping.
I went back to the corridor, the elevator. I descended to the lobby. I handed back the key and went out on the street, realizing that I was sweating. It was an oppressive place, or maybe it was me, or the story. I walked to the intersection with an avenue, hailed a taxi, and went back to the hotel.
When I opened my e-mail, there was already a reply from Colombia: “Send budget to authorize funds. Write detailed report on the situation.”
I called the Mexican embassy to talk with the counselor there, Teresa Acosta. I’d been told she could help me, and sure enough, she gave me an appointment for that same afternoon.
The offices were in the Thai Way Tower, not very far from my hotel, an unusual granite and glass building in the business district, North Sathorn Road, the face of Asian capitalism, the most conspicuous, most strident face of modernity.
“We haven’t had any cases of prisoners,” Teresa said, “but I’ve known of many, especially Australians and Brits. The best option is for the defendant to plead guilty and beg the king for clemency. That’s what they’d interpret as a proper show of respect for their legal system. Diplomacy is important. Sometimes, you can arrange for the defendant to serve his sentence in his own country. The hard part is doing all that without having an embassy. I’ll be honest with you. They’ll listen, but they won’t pay you the same attention, because they aren’t obliged to.”
She gave me the telephone number of the lawyer. I called him from her office, and on Teresa’s recommendation, he agreed to see me the following day. In addition, Teresa offered to go with me, a gesture I greatly appreciated.
She was a friendly, attractive woman, who looked good for her age: about forty, or maybe slightly more. I liked her, she struck me as a generous person. I suggested we go down on the street and have a drink while I heard her advice on what to do. She accepted, and we went to a bar near her office.