The building was in the process of being refurbished, although the workers appeared to be taking a break. On the first floor, with an entrance from the street, there was a drugstore that also sold stationery. I walked as far as the lobby and found a doorman dozing over an issue of El Espectador. I asked him about the modeling agency and he pointed out a plaque next to the entry phones: School of Modeling, third floor.
The elevator isn’t working, he added, grouchily. You’re going to have to use the stairs.
I walked up the three floors feeling a bit intimidated, filled with doubts, afraid of what I was about to hear. The door was opened by a woman who didn’t look like a model and who turned out to be the school secretary. She smiled and said, yes, yes, the director is waiting for you, sit here a moment, we’ll be with you shortly.
On the table there were copies of the magazine TV y Novelas with pages missing, and cards advertising a plastic surgery clinic selling various comprehensive beauty “combos” in a three-in-one offer: lips, breasts, and hips, or breasts, bottom, and thighs. The offer had expired the previous September.
The secretary came back and said, follow me, and she admitted me to a large office piled high with fashion magazines. A woman who looked familiar was sitting behind the desk. She was probably around fifty, maybe slightly less. You could see the effort she made to keep herself young, the gym and the operations, the diets and implants, the dyed hair.
When she smiled, her name almost came back to me. She gave me her hand and invited me to sit down, a soda? she said, I have Colombiana Light, which is really good. I said yes. Then we sat for a while in silence until she said: Tania tells me you’re looking for Juana and that you already know what she was doing with us. I nodded. Tania thinks you may be able to help me, I said. I took my folder from my backpack with the list of places where we had been looking and the missing persons report.
The former Miss Colombia let me read to the end, listening attentively, and then said, look, I’m going to tell you something, what happened to Juana has nothing to do with that, she hasn’t disappeared, and she certainly isn’t dead, let me explain. What we do here is absolutely confidential, we never give out details of what our models do, but in this case, because it’s such a delicate matter, I’m going to break the rules. I want you to know that it’s the girls themselves who ask that no information be given to family members or friends, real or supposed, let alone to clients. Those are the rules of the game. Oh, would you mind waiting a second, please, I forgot to take my pill.
She stood up and went into the adjoining bathroom. I started leafing through a magazine, trying to contain my emotions, Juana was alive! I didn’t care about the circumstances, any situation, however disastrous or degrading, was redeemable, my God, my heart was almost coming out of my chest, one of my arms started shaking, and I wanted the woman to take her time coming back.
Suddenly I heard a loud sniff from behind the bathroom door; five seconds later, a second one, even louder. Then the woman came back to her desk.
Sorry about that. Now then, before anything else I want to make it clear to you that what I’m going to tell you you mustn’t repeat anywhere, let alone in front of a judge or anything like that. The reason I’m telling you this is because I want to help you and your family, but in a confidential way, without it leaving these four walls, do you understand what I’m saying?
She looked me in the eyes. Her own eyes were beautiful. One of the few things in her body that didn’t appear altered. I told her she needn’t worry. This was a totally personal search. If Juana’s disappearance had nothing to do with politics there’d be no need for legal action. That seemed to reassure her.
Well, what I can tell you is this: she went to Japan to work. Three years ago.
Japan? I was stunned, incredulous. Japan? You mean she went there to…?
Yes, to work as an escort. She’s making tons of money. At that time I had a good contact, a Colombian woman who received them and put them in the best houses. Everything is very select there. I can tell you my associate was called Maribel, I don’t know her surname, and to tell the truth I haven’t heard from her in more than two years. I think she was detained by immigration, and I don’t know what happened, if they sent her back here or if she’s in prison over there. Apparently her papers weren’t in order. Since that time I haven’t heard from Juana. Look, I can give you this: a copy of your sister’s ticket and travel itinerary. She left from Quito, not from Bogotá. I never knew why and I didn’t ask. I’d already talked to her about the possibility of Japan, and one afternoon she called me up and said she was interested. She asked me to get her a ticket, leaving from Quito, and told me it was critical she didn’t give me any explanation. Here’s the photocopy.
From Quito to São Paulo. From there to Dubai. From there to Bangkok and then to Tokyo. I was puzzled. I didn’t know you could do that route. I asked, why such a long way around?
To avoid visas, darling. You don’t go through the United States or through Europe, you see? A Schengen visa is very difficult to get, and as for the United States, forget it. This way you pass under the radar, if you see what I mean.
I thanked her and put the paper in my pocket. And when did you last hear of her?
The last time was when Maribel wrote to me from Tokyo saying she had arrived and that they were finding a place for her. That was a week after the flight, November 3, 2008. Up until then, I was responsible. From that point on, everyone makes their own life and doesn’t owe anyone an explanation, because we’re talking about adults here, free, independent adults, right? That was the last I heard. A month later I tried to talk to Maribel about another girl who wanted to go, but she took a long time to reply and then, three months later, she wrote and told me she was having legal problems and had to stop. I never heard any more after that.
I looked again at the photocopy of the ticket, and read my sister’s name about ten times. The letters danced in front of my eyes, I couldn’t believe it. At last I had something concrete. The former Miss Colombia stood up and went back to the bathroom. Again I heard two sniffs. Then she came out and said:
It’s possible your sister was arrested along with Maribel. That’s where you could start looking.
I asked her again if she had any contact information for Maribel in Colombia, but she said no. She didn’t even know her last name. Well, I said, you’ve been an enormous help, do I owe you anything? No, come on, said the former Miss Colombia. Go find your sister and when you’re with her tell her I miss her and she should give me a call.
When we said goodbye she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I went back out on the street, feeling strange. Japan, Quito, what the hell did it all mean? I took the copy of the ticket from my pocket and made two photocopies in the stationery store. On the way home, I read it again at least a hundred times. At the traffic light on Eleventh, a couple looked at me in alarm from their car and I hid my face. I was crying.
When I got home, I locked myself in my room.
I switched on my computer and started searching: Japan, escorts, Colombian women in Japan. There were lots of names and telephone numbers, and I didn’t know what to do. I looked for the Colombian embassy in Japan and the Japanese embassy in Colombia. I copied down all the numbers, a very long list. Also the codes and the time difference. It was eight in the evening in Bogotá, nine the following morning in Tokyo. The timing was right, I was sure to get through. But I didn’t have any money. My heart was still pounding. When I went down to the living room I saw Father on the couch, with his head thrown back and a newspaper open on his lap. He was asleep. As soon as I took one step, he opened his eyes, are you going out at this hour? Yes, I said, and I need money. He looked at me in surprise. How much? About ten thousand pesos, I said. He pointed to his jacket and said, take it from my wallet. With the money in my hand I said goodbye. Thanks, Dad, I won’t be back late. He didn’t reply, but as soon as I opened the door I heard him from the living room, it isn’t to buy drugs, is it?