Then I called Teresa at the Mexican embassy and told her everything. She was pleased to hear my voice, and offered to help:
“Don’t worry, I’ll try to go to the next hearing with the lawyer, do you think you’ll be able to come?”
“I’m working on it, but without a green light from the Ministry I can’t move. You know how it is.”
After three days the travel authorization from the Consular Department still hadn’t arrived, so I decided to ask for leave and pay for the tickets myself. When I told Juana what was happening she looked worried and a tear ran down her cheek. She gave Manuelito Sayeq a big hug, lifted him up, and sang something into his ear. The child didn’t cry much, he seemed very peaceful, unlike the two of us. That same night we got on the plane. The child was asleep.
I explained to her how vital it was that Manuel plead guilty and she understood that without having to think too much about it.
“It’s crazy not to have done it from the start,” she said, “but don’t worry, Consul, I’ll talk to him and persuade him.”
Teresa was waiting for us at the airport, at two in the morning. Oh, those night flights. She gave me a big hug, and I introduced her to Juana and little Manuel Sayeq.
“I wasn’t able to speak with the lawyer yesterday,” Teresa said. “I did go to the court, but they wouldn’t let me in. To be honest, I’m not really sure what’s going on.”
We got to the apartment in the middle of the night — Teresa had offered to put us up and I’d accepted — and we arranged the guest room for the boy. I would sleep on the couch. It was almost four but nobody seemed very sleepy, so Teresa suggested we have a drink.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said.
She brought out a bottle of Herradura and we started drinking with a certain desperation, as if it were the antidote to a dangerous bite. Then I opted to withdraw and listen to Teresa and Juana asking each other questions, telling stories, getting to know each other.
A Colombian sociologist of thirty-one (how old was she, actually?) with a life of loss, flight, hate, an unconventional, tragic adventure, which hadn’t made her resentful but quite the contrary, someone full of life, a strong, hopeful woman, capable of withstanding any hurricane, and next to her Teresa, forty-something, divorced, the mother of two daughters, a comfortable life, and more conventional except for the slightly unconventional aspect of her liking for strong liquor, a diplomat, living a privileged existence in a Southeast Asian country, with a lot of nostalgia and at the same time the desire (perhaps) to meet someone (isn’t that what everyone wants? what we all want?), always thinking of the future.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep, not knowing what time it was, and when I woke I was lying on the couch, with clean sheets (smelling fresh, of lavender), and a nice pair of pajamas that weren’t mine! (Teresa explained that they hadn’t been able to open my case and hadn’t wanted to wake me, so she’d gotten out a pair belonging to her father, who had left them behind after a recent visit.)
Dawn was breaking.
2. INTER-NETA’S MONOLOGUES
Today, Death paid me a visit.
Before, my life was a feast at which all hearts opened, and all wines flowed from glass to glass, from mouth to mouth.
One of those nights, I felt Death on my knees and found him bitter. I cursed him.
“Oh, Death, come and take away the thought of Death,” I read in an old book.
“When me they fly I am the wings,” he replied, from another poem.
I summoned all my strength. I planted myself in front of him and rejected his terrifying fury. Then I escaped.
Death had a thousand faces. All the faces.
Sometimes it was a young poet gazing at the twilight, in the port of Aden.
Death is here, and oh so punctual.
Lord, your guest is waiting for you in the drawing room.
Entrust my most precious treasures to the witches, to the spirits of poverty, to hate. I have succeeded in banishing any human hope from my soul.
As I already said: today Death paid me a visit. Death, the Grim Reaper.
Death who never rests from his labors, from his sleeplessness. Who loves us and passes between us like a wind, a venticello, a slow, dense music, a dark cloud.
I called to my executioners to raise their rifles, I summoned all the plagues to drown me in their sand or their blood.
Unhappiness was my god. My one, beloved god.
Then I lay down on the dusty soil of Harar and saw the young poet again.
He was writing letters, looking southward. Every now and again he sank his hand into the red earth and let it run between his fingers.
We played with madness (were we fantasizing?) until the afternoon gave my mouth the terrifying smile of the idiot.
But I recovered my appetite, and went back to the parties, to the wine. Death was still there, I could not ignore him.
Everything is merely proof that I can still dream.
3
Dawn was breaking.
It was almost six in the morning, and Teresa and Juana were still asleep. I sat down in the living room to wait for them, thinking that a confession by Manuel would set things in the right direction. The waiting would be difficult, as would the procedure for the pardon (if the pardon came), but others had done it. They were both young, they would bear it.
I opened my e-mail and found a message from Gustavo:
What happened to Manuel Manrique? Did you find his sister? You never told me.
I answered, saying that I had found her.
She’s an incredible woman, I’ll tell you all about it. She’s here with me. She’s asleep now in the next room. We’re in Bangkok and in a few hours she and Manuel are going to meet. The trial has already started. I hope he’ll be able to serve his sentence in Colombia. It’ll have to be negotiated with the ministry. Thanks for everything, a hug.
E.
Around eight I managed to speak with the lawyer. He was surprised I was already in Bangkok, and said he would make arrangements for Manuel’s sister and me to visit Bangkwang.
“I won’t be able to go with you,” he said, “I have a meeting with the prosecutor that’s key to the trial. It’s a big problem.”
I told him I would try to persuade Manuel to plead guilty, and asked him if he thought it would still have an effect.
“Well,” the lawyer said, “if he makes a confession the trial will end with a sentence that may be a long one, but at least it’ll get Article 27 off our backs. The important thing is that he do it in a solemn way, even a bit theatrically. It’d be very important to plan it for Monday’s hearing. I can ask to be heard first and announce it. That would go down well. It may even make them reduce the sentence by a few years. Do you think you can persuade him?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure. His sister will talk to him.”
“That’s excellent news,” he said. “In that case, go to Bangkwang around ten this morning, I myself will call the warden and tell him to expect you at that hour. And then come to my office in the afternoon. We have things to discuss.”
“All right,” I said.
When I hung up, Teresa came out of the bathroom, already dressed. She called her office and said that she would be busy until the afternoon, that they should transfer only urgent calls to her. She called the driver to come and pick her up. Juana was in the kitchen: anxious, hopeful. With a touch of fear for what she had to face.
We had a breakfast of bacon and eggs, orange juice, and coffee. The heat kept rising. Soon afterwards Manuelito Sayeq started crying. By 8:45 we were ready. The car from the Mexican embassy was waiting for us outside the door.