IN SPITE OF the tremendous shock we got last night, today I was full of life and felt great . . . apart from stomach cramps. A call from the company I had to visit changed my schedule completely. The marketing manager was expecting me in Trujillo, a city some five hundred kilometres north of Lima. I had to take a plane to get there.
‘The manager will see you at two o’clock,’ his secretary told me.
I barely had time to get to the airport, catch the plane, and arrive in time for my appointment.
I wanted to take Rafa with me, but he was finding it hard to get up. I dug him in the ribs several times, and after a lengthy shower, we sped to the airport in a taxi. The taxi-driver looked scared, and must have thought I was mad when I told him I was in a real hurry. Time for him obviously meant something different.
‘I don’t care if there are other cars in front of us. Drive on the pavement if you have to. Don’t worry about the police. Everything is covered . . . so just get on with it!’
At the airport we had to join a long queue. I thought we’d never get there in time, but eventually we found a flight and I relaxed.
After we had taken off, a really pretty air stewardess came to offer us lunch, which neither Rafa nor I could stomach.
‘Do you mind if we take some photos in the plane?’ I asked Rafa.
‘Are you a photographer then?’ the stewardess wanted to know, as she passed by with her trolley to take away the food neither of us had touched.
‘Yes.’
She smiled at him shyly.
‘She fancies you,’ I whispered in Rafa’s ear.
‘How do you know?’
He seemed upset. It’s normal for Rafa to attract women. He is a very handsome guy, although he’s on the timid side.
‘Female intuition.’
‘Does it bother you?’
Why on earth should it have bothered me? I’m not exactly a jealous woman. On the contrary, I see it as a compliment if a woman is attracted to a man who is with me. And besides, how can I ask a man to be faithful to me when I sleep with anyone I want? I felt like telling him what had happened with Roberto the afternoon I arrived in Lima. But I had too much respect for him. I did not know how he would take it – I was afraid what his reaction might be. I can understand that not everyone is prepared to accept my philosophy of life.
‘Not at all! I’m not a jealous woman, you know that,’ was all I said to him.
After almost an hour’s flight, we arrived in Trujillo. Rafa and the stewardess exchanged phone numbers because, according to her, she was looking for a professional photographer for her nephew’s first communion.
The first thing we saw at the airport were signs saying there was an outbreak of cholera in the city. Wherever I go it seems this plague follows me, but according to my tropical diseases expert, it does not affect Europeans because we are not malnourished and our gastric juices kill off the cholera bacteria. It is still better, though, not to drink tap water or put ice in drinks.
We went directly to my appointment, which didn’t go as well as I had hoped. Afterwards, to try to calm my nerves, we visited the city. From the surrounding countryside, I discovered that Trujillo is situated in the middle of a desert covered in fields of asparagus. Most of the crop is exported to Spain. Faced with these fertile dunes I suddenly felt angry and sad. I knew that my meeting with the Prinsa marketing manager meant my visit to Peru was almost at an end. I had got the interview I wanted, and there was no point staying on much longer. Rafa did not know this yet. I was afraid to tell him. Always my same problem: putting off things I don’t like doing. Obviously, I’m not in love with him, but I feel very tenderly towards him.
‘Is there anyone there? I’m here! Please, someone get me out of here! I’m choking to death.’
In the midst of the most complete darkness, I was searching for a light to guide me. My whole body was aching, especially my legs. I could not make any sound. My jaw was locked open.
‘Somebody help me!’
I could not move. I had lost all sensation in my limbs. It felt as though I had been buried in a coffin. But I was not dead.
Perhaps this was a kidnapping, and they had put me in a hole like the ETA people do. Why? This could not be real. I have nothing to do with the Basque problem. Anyway, what the fuck was this? I was in Peru, not Spain. I had just met with the marketing director of Prinsa Ltd. So what was going on? Could it be Shining Path?
‘I’m a French citizen, resident in Spain.’
I try to remember: Guzmán is in jail, all the other Shining Path leaders have been caught too, it’s been some time since there have been any other attacks. So it couldn’t be them. It did not make sense. Perhaps it was those kids from the hills who were keeping me hostage. But it couldn’t be that, either. If my memory served me right, we had escaped from there unharmed. So this must be a punishment from God for all the many sins I have committed in my life. But I haven’t ever hurt anyone. All I was after was a bit of pleasure.
‘Get me out of here! If I calm down, will someone come? Somebody reply, I can’t take any more!’
I felt as though I were running out of air. I began to feel claustrophobic and sick. I must have been drugged, because I felt very dizzy. I wanted to scratch my nose, but I couldn’t even lift my little finger. I tried moving my eyes, but I was like a blind old horse.
I heard a noise. Footsteps, voices. I felt so bad I no longer knew whether it was my imagination or if somebody really was approaching me.
‘I’m here!’
I listened intently. It seemed as though they had heard me. But what was happening? I heard a tremendous crash, and felt myself being buffeted on all sides. An earthquake? I decided I knew what it must be. I was buried under the ruins of a building that had collapsed in an earthquake.
‘Help!’
They must know there were survivors. They must have a rescue team with dogs, because in Peru an earthquake is a normal occurrence.
I tried to calm my fears. But all at once I felt more terrified than ever: what if I have been left paralysed? I could scarcely feel my body. I started to pray:
‘Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy Will be done, on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses . . .’
Light! At last I could see it. My prayer has been answered. The light was hurting my eyes, but finally I could see someone. Someone?
It was Roberto, my fat little pachyderm.
‘Roberto! I’m over here! Help me, please! I’m so happy to see you! What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?’
Roberto was coming towards me in a menacing way that I was trying to decipher. He seized my head and lowered it to his open trouser flies. I did not even have time to sigh.
‘Take that, take that, you shitty inflatable doll!’ he shouted, sticking his syphilitic penis into my rubber mouth.
I woke up with a temperature and still feeling terrified in my bed at the Pardo Hotel. I had one question: did I have the Stockholm Syndrome for my sex-shop kidnapper?
The nightmare stayed with me most of the morning, and the fever as well. I had to concentrate, because there were lots of things I had to deal with today. Amongst them were: to find a flight back to Spain and to buy a postcard of Machu Picchu for Granny, as I had promised.
At Iberia they did the impossible: they found me a seat for the evening flight the next day. So I had twenty-four hours left in Peru. In the city centre I found an old street vendor who was selling all kinds of books and postcards. He was very friendly, and I really liked the way he left his maize-paper cigarette drooping from his lip without every taking a drag from it. It was about to burn his mouth, but he did not seem in the least bit concerned. When I asked him about Machu Picchu, he brought out tons of images of the famous mountain: in colour, black and white, with views from every angle and inscriptions in every language. I felt sure I would find exactly what I was looking for. It seemed as if he had been collecting them since the day he was born, because some of the postcards were yellowing and smelt like books that have spent years untouched in some imposing library. I chose a colour postcard, paid him double the asking price because I felt so sorry for the poor man, and besides, what he was charging in soles was next to nothing – and, pleased with what I had bought, I extracted myself from the man’s thanks and deep bows (as complicated as a Japanese diplomat’s), and returned to my hotel.
Dear Granny,
I’m sending you the small postcard as promised, but I have to confess I didn’t see Machu Picchu. I didn’t have the time. I’ve had my most important meeting, so now I’m heading back to Spain tomorrow evening. I’ll call you as soon as I get home. Huge kisses. Your little girl.
I left the postcard at reception, insisting they send it as soon as possible. Eva told me not to worry. She said it would arrive safely, but could not guarantee how long it would take.
After that I rang Rafa, who was doing the morning aerobics programme from the beach that he helps film for Peruvian TV. We agreed to meet at the Mojito bar at midday. He left really early this morning, with an innocent kiss on the lips and a question as to how I was feeling. I had a few hours to work out how I was going to tell him I was leaving the next day.
I took my temperature again: 37.7. It had gone down a little, but I still didn’t feel well, so I lay down for a while.
What on earth was I going to say to Rafa? How was he going to take it? Would he reproach me for not telling him sooner, and finding he was left with a kiss on both cheeks and no possibility of seeing me again? I spent the whole morning thinking it over, then when it was almost lunchtime I got up and put on some more make-up, to hide the dark lines under my eyes. I looked terrible, of course. I chose a jacket and ran out of the hotel.
The Mojito was full of beautiful people and the Lima jet set. It’s the in place to have lunch and a drink. The restaurant is on two floors. Down below there are apple green tables and chairs, then there’s a wooden staircase, just like the ones you see in Westerns, from the top of which a lascivious dancer in a cancan skirt, wearing impossible plumes on her head, scowls at all the cowboys leaning on the bar. The second floor of the Mojito only opens in the evening for customers. I looked around for Rafa, and found him drinking a Corona beer, Mexican style. He was chewing at the slice of lemon, and absentmindedly staring at the marks his teeth had left in the skin.
‘You don’t look too good, boss!’ he said, standing up and bringing over a chair for me.
‘I think the trip to Trujillo wasn’t a good idea,’ I said, avoiding his eyes.
I signalled to a waiter.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else?’
I could tell he suspected something. He was very nervous, and kept picking at the label on the beer bottle, tearing at strips until it was all off.
‘The menu and another Corona, please,’ I asked the waiter.
I lit a cigarette, and found myself trembling. Rafa noticed, but didn’t say anything.
We ordered some cheese enchiladas, burritos – no hot sauce for me – and a bottle of the house red wine. Not exactly a Peruvian meal!
‘I don’t know if you should drink a lot of alcohol.’
‘I’ll only drink a little. I think I’m not feeling well because yesterday was so exhausting. I’m feeling upset and worried because of those posters we saw about cholera in Trujillo. I feel nauseous, but I’m still hungry: that’s a good sign, isn’t it?’
I could not convince him. We ate lunch in almost complete silence, with Rafa occasionally shooting me meaningful glances, and telling me in a desultory way about that morning’s work, the photos he had taken of me, and cursing the waiter for bringing us the food so slowly.
After the meal, I told Rafa I wanted to go back to the hotel. I wanted to be alone, and if my temperature did not go down, I was determined to call a doctor. He nodded in agreement, and as I was about to climb into a taxi, dropped a small yellow packet into my bag.
‘Promise me you’ll follow the instructions written on it.’
This took me by surprise, but I didn’t feel well enough to react and ask what he meant. I nodded in my turn, and shut the cab door. When we pulled up at a traffic light, I glanced back and saw Rafa standing there looking sad. He was waving goodbye. I did not know why, but I felt sure I would never see him again. He knew it as well.
The doctor came to see me yesterday and diagnosed gastroenteritis. He also advised that when I got back to Spain I should visit the hospital to check I didn’t have salmonella. I slept all afternoon, then tried to phone Rafa on his mobile, but it was out of service the whole time. I got up several times during the night, either to go to the toilet or because I was sweating and delirious. I remembered my encounter with Roberto and the nightmare I had had the previous night. The atmosphere in my bedroom became very stifling again, and I felt I was being buried. The whole room had a smell of rotten eggs, which I eventually realized was the effect of all my belching and retching.
This morning, though, I felt a lot better. My fever had gone as quickly as it had arrived, and I was looking forward to having breakfast and packing. I tried Rafa’s number once more, but without success. Either he was angry with me, or he knew I was leaving and wanted to spare himself any dramatic goodbye scenes. I don’t hold it against him. I spent the whole day working on reports about the clients I had visited, so that I didn’t have to think too much.
A taxi was waiting for me at the hotel door, and I said goodbye to Eva, whom I had got on with right from the start. I’ll miss her. I could not hide my feelings, and felt like crying. In the taxi I let myself go, and as the taxi-driver peered at me anxiously in his rear-view mirror, I wept and tried to dry my nose on a bit of toilet paper I found in my bag. Whenever I run out of Kleenex, I always make sure I have some toilet paper with me so I can dry any unexpected tears, or wipe my forehead and nostrils if they are greasy.
As I was looking for my ticket and passport at the Iberia check-in desk, I came across the small rectangular package Rafa had given me. It was very strange – it had a red seal with the initials R.M. I recognized Rafa’s handwriting. The instruction was: ‘Only to be opened on the flight.’ I felt the package to try to work out what was inside. It was very hard. I decided to open it on the plane as instructed, though I was dying to find out what it was. I had promised.
There was quite a lot of turbulence on the flight, much more than on the way to Peru. It always happens just when the stewardesses are serving the meal. It’s as though it were on purpose. I clung onto my glass of juice, which was sliding from left to right and then back again, like in a spiritualist session.
All of a sudden the red seat-belt light went on, and my heart started beating furiously. I dislike travelling by plane more and more. I needed to calm down with a cigarette, but I knew this would only infuriate the stewardesses and the other passengers, and that I would only be able to manage a couple of puffs. What I wouldn’t give for them anyway! It was at that moment that I remembered Rafa’s little package, so I took it out of my bag as carefully as someone holding a diamond worth a million dollars.
When I opened it, I discovered a tiny, beautiful box with a piece of paper folded inside it. It had a very short but unforgettable message on it:
Dear boss,
The treasure of love comes in small packages.
RAFA
Rafa, why was that all you wrote? I can’t get enough of your words; is that all you had to say to me? I read the lines over and over again, and realized what a profound message the little box contained. The tears I started to cry were completely different from the ones I had shed in the taxi on the way to the airport. This time I was sobbing and sighing in a warm rush that was like a raging torrent. I could not remember ever having cried over a man like that in my life before. But was I really crying for him, or for those moments of happiness that are always unique and can never be repeated?