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.
That was my first night. I realized I could do it without being fussy and so I carried on, almost always with rich kids from Los Andes or the Xavierian, or young executives celebrating birthdays or throwing parties; sometimes in apartments and other times in motels. I learned to despise all those daddy’s boys, living off the country. My contempt was turning into hate. Every time I charged them more, and seeing them pay I felt strong. Monsieur Echenoz was reincarnated in me and I was happy. One day, taking advantage of everyone being out of it at a party, I stole a laptop and an iPad. I didn’t care and then, when the guy called and asked, I told him he was crazy, it must have been some other whore, I hadn’t been the only whore there that night. I switched it on to delete what was on it and found a collection of sexual photographs of boys and girls; little vaginas being violently penetrated, girls performing fellatio, boys being sodomized. I called the guy back and said to him, I have your computer but there’s a problem, baby, I’m with the Secret Service. The guys started to stammer. No, I said, I’m lying, I’m not with the Secret Service but I have a really good joke for you: I’m one of the whores from the party and you’re in deep shit because I found the photos. He asked me not to report him, and said he’d give me anything. I asked him for twenty-five million pesos in cash. He was an executive in quite a big insurance company. He told me that was too much money and that I was crazy. All right, I said, the price has just gone up to fifty million, otherwise I myself will hand this over to your bosses and to the police. I advised him to ask for a loan, there were banks that gave fast credit in urgent cases, and this was one of those. Very urgent. Fifty million. I made three copies on hard disk with everything he had on it including his personal details. I arranged to meet him at the Unicentro mall, opposite the entrance to the movie houses. I told him that if anything happened to me everything would go to the police. The guy handed over the money, nothing’s going to happen to you, it’s all here! I told him to put his cell phone in the bag, I didn’t want him to call me again. He was puzzled. Hey, what about my sim card? Get another, I said. Then I went into the bookstore and bought the diaries of Luis Buñuel as a gift for Manuel, and a novel by Martin Amis called Money. I was nervous. It was the first time I had committed a crime. But I told myself, if that son of a bitch reports me, I’ll kill him. What to do with the money? I’d prepared a hiding place at home, in the ceiling of the bathroom. It would have been suspicious to put it in my account. I went home and hid it really well. Then I went to the post office and sent the three copies of the disk in three envelopes: one to the Colombian Welfare Service, another to the director of his insurance company, and a third to his home address, in his wife’s name. I fulfilled my promise to him by not sending it to the police. In case of doubt I kept another copy. I felt real pleasure imagining the guy confronted with the truth, having to explain things to his bosses and his wife. I know that life in general is quite horrible, but you mustn’t go too far either. Of course, I erased what was on the iPad, recharged it, and gave it to Manuel as a gift.