PART I
You
Lalo
The bus route down from the Medellín airport doesn’t make you nauseous like it used to, not like when you were last driven on it twenty years ago, an eight-year-old girl on her way to Heathrow. Now you’re twenty-eight and the road is still one sharp curved turn after another, past restaurants with names like Sancho Paisa and trashy nightclubs like Oh My Sweet Jesus. Grinning statues of machete-wielding farmers, Texaco gas station stars. PANADERÍA signs on every corner, scraggly half-dead grass on the side of the highway. And down there in the valley below is the city—your city—its far-off lights lurking like tiny star clusters from a distant galaxy, awaiting your arrival.
When you get off the bus at the Sandiego mall, a girl in a collared shirt heaves your suitcase into the front seat of a cab, paying no mind to your apologetic warning of Careful, it’s very heavy. You overtip her out of nervousness and she bows her head: —Thank you, miss. The taxi driver gets lost and keeps refusing to go down the street you insist is correct, based on the directions saved on your phone. —I really think it’s this way, you say, as he turns the steering wheel in the opposite direction of where you’re pointing.
By the time the driver has managed to lurch your suitcase onto the pavement, a man has come out of the building. He stands at an awkward distance, arms crossed, like he doesn’t want to get too close. You pay the taxi driver in exact change and he says, —Thank you, beautiful.
When the taxi finally drives off it feels like the man has been standing there an uncomfortably long time. His head is shaved close to the scalp and he’s wearing a long-sleeved white shirt that hangs past his wrists and white exercise sweatpants with a black line running down the sides. Even his tennis shoes are white: a clean white, like they’ve just been purchased. He could be an assistant football coach, or a sports-shoe salesman.
—…Matty? you say.
But the man shakes his head. —He’s not here, he says. He should be back soon. But he told us you were coming. Don’t worry, he left very specific instructions.
—Instructions, you say.
—That’s correct.
A shudder jolts through your torso but you’re able to restrain yourself: hopefully it looks more like a twitch, rather than a violent spasm. An unexpectedly chill breeze makes you grateful for your tights, impulsively purchased at the last minute from Terminal 3’s Boots pharmacy. One of the few memories you have left of Medellín (cradled close to your body, carefully, like you’re carrying a basket of eggs) is the temperate weather. Welcome to the City of Eternal Spring—that’s what the pilot said on the loudspeaker. But you don’t recall Medellín being this cool in the evening.
The man reaches for your suitcase. —This is embarrassing, he says, but I didn’t grab my keys. We’ll have to knock hard and hope somebody’s listening.
His shirtsleeve has risen up his arm. On the back of his hand, you see what looks like scar tissue: puckered wrinkled holes, lumpy like the bark of a tree.
—No problem, you say. Totally fine. (Apparently you’ve turned into a US cheerleader, all optimistic pep talk.)
—Or I’ll tell you what, he says. Are you hungry? Do you want to go get a drink? Let’s take the suitcase and come right back.
—Um, you say. You look down the road. An old woman has come out of a building and is placing a fat garbage bag by a tree. It all seems domestic enough. Sure, you say. Why not.
Your suitcase makes a terrible rasping sound every time it goes over a crack in the pavement. He walks quickly despite dragging your suitcase along and doesn’t seem bothered when it sways dangerously after going over a ledge. Following him down the street, like a duckling trailing after its mother, you tell him about airport security. When you’d sent your suitcase through the conveyor belt, the lady looking at the X-ray screen had furrowed her brow. She’d leaned to the left, Tower of Pisa style, and tried to catch your eye.
Did you pack boxes in here? she’d asked. Dozens of them? Making a rectangular shape with her hands.
—Books, you tell the man now as he pauses by the traffic lights. I brought too many books with me. I’m sorry it’s so heavy.
—I’d never expect a woman’s suitcase to not be, he says. Watch out, here come the motos.
An army of helmeted figures on motorcycles buzz by, an angry swarm. You take a step back, swallowing hard. You hope you’re not standing inappropriately close to him. He has a strong smell of BO, a musky scent you never encounter in London, not even in the sweatiest, swampiest hours on the Tube. Why is being back in Colombia a reminder that you have a physical body, that it’s an actual thing existing in space?
—Those motos sound like insects, you say. From a monster movie.
He makes a face as though what you’ve said is very strange and he needs to struggle to understand it.
—If you ever get lost, he says, tell the taxi driver to take you to the Anthill headquarters. Tell him Circular, and then these numbers…
—I know, you say. I have the address. (You don’t add How else would I have got here?)
—Or, he says, just tell them, “The Anthill headquarters, please.” If you’re anywhere near this neighbourhood they’ll know exactly what you mean.
You nod, refraining from thanking him, the most tepid of feminist victories.
—I don’t mean to be condescending, he says, suitcase wobbling wildly as he steps off the pavement. I just want you to be safe. Mattías would kill me if I didn’t protect you. Like, literally kill me.
He makes a gesture across his stomach, velociraptor-claw style. On your face: the slowest of smiles.
—Would he, now, you say, and the feeling of gratitude spreading through your stomach is like something warm getting spilled.
The restaurant is comida pacífica, food from the coast. He orders you a portion of fried fish, which seems a bit heavy for this time of night, but since no one has brought you a menu it feels fussy to request one. For himself, he orders a plate with all the sides (plantain, cabbage, coconut rice) but nothing else.
—I don’t eat animals, he says, moving his knife and fork out of the way as the waitress sets down a basket full of popcorn. But I ordered you ocean fish. Not river. Whenever you can, get ocean.
—Aren’t we a bit far from the ocean?
—Not at all. He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth. The owners of this place, their family lives in Chocó. They ship it here direct in special ice containers. Trust me, whenever you can, avoid fish from the river. No tilapia or carp ever; it’s bad for the environment. Have you ever been to the Pacific coast?