Night Prayers Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © by Santiago Gamboa

  c/o Guillermo Schavelzon & Asoc., Agenzia Literaria

  www.schavelzon.com

  First publication 2016 by Europa Editions

  Translation by Howard Curtis

  Original Title: Plegarias nocturnas

  Translation copyright © 2015 by Europa Editions

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco

  www.mekkanografici.com

  Cover photo © Alexis Mire

  ISBN 9781609453220

  This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s “PEN Translates!” programme, supported by Arts Council England. English PEN exists to promote literature and our understanding of it, to uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, to campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and to promote the friendly co-operation of writers and the free exchange of ideas.

  www.englishpen.org

  Santiago Gamboa

  NIGHT PRAYERS

  Translated from the Spanish

  by Howard Curtis

  To Analía and Alejandro, walking to Farfa

  Do not utter my name when you learn that I have died,

  from the dark earth it would come through your voice.

  —ROQUE DALTON

  What remained in the end, however the world or life changed,

  was the immutable fact of a universe abandoned by God.

  —LOU ANDREAS SALOMÉ

  PART I

  1

  All cities have a fairly definite smell, but for most of the day the smell of Bangkok is covered by a dense blanket of smog that conceals it, making it hard to perceive. When it finally appears, well after darkness has fallen—when the city is quiet, when it has at last calmed down—it’s a tangible substance that floats in the air, moves along the winding streets, and penetrates the remotest alleyways. It may come from the canals of stagnant water, where it’s quite common to see people cooking or washing clothes; from the dried fish stands in Chinatown, the satay and fried food in Patpong and Silom Road, or even the live animals that wait in wicker cages in Chatuchak Market; or it may simply come from the vapors of the Chao Phraya, the brown river that crosses the city, invading it like an insidious illness.

  Today it’s pouring rain. The waters of the river heave and ripple, as if about to engulf the sampans and canoes that dare to navigate it. That’s what I see through the window of my room on the fourteenth floor of the Shangri-La Tower at the Hotel Oriental. Shangri-La: the name means “paradise” but to me it suggests something else, “solitude,” maybe, or just “waiting.” Night has already fallen, and I’m drinking gin, my face glued to the window, looking out at a landscape distorted by rain: the Chao Phraya, the lights of Bangkok, the blue skyscrapers, the storm clouds streaked with lightning, the incredible metropolis.

  When I switch on the air-conditioning, the grille gives off a strong smell, a mixture of damp and rust. What time is it? Almost eight. I’ll go down soon, have dinner, then get through a few more gins. In spite of my age (I’ve just turned forty-five) I still believe in chance, the throw of the dice involved in going out into the night to look for a drink in a foreign city, an adventure we are less and less suited to with time, which is why, as the years go by, some prefer a bottle by the couch in front of the TV. But not me. I prefer to wander the city, refusing to sleep without having tried that first.

  But what am I doing here, apart from launching these thoughts into the rotten air? Waiting, waiting, waiting. Or rather: remembering. I’ve made an appointment with memory.

  I came to Bangkok intending to remember. To look again at what I lived through in this city a few years ago, but in another light. Sometimes, time is a question of light. With the passing of the years, while some forms become strangely opaque, others acquire brilliance. They are the same, yet they appear more vivid, and sometimes, just sometimes, we are able to grasp them. I’m not sure why. It may be no more than a wish, it may merely be words, but that’s precisely what I’m looking for: words. I want to reconstruct a story in order to tell it.

  Something—I don’t know what, of course: perhaps an impulse, a creative élan, or simply an old sadness, I can’t be more specific—made me feel that I had to go over all this in writing: the events that brought me to Bangkok that first time, and their consequences. An old story trapped inside a city, which opens up onto others. At that time (the period I’m trying to remember) everything was different and I was another person. Not better or worse, only different and a little younger.

  Let’s see now. Where to begin?

  2

  I’ll begin with the worst of it, Consul. The worst thing of all: my childhood. Although at this stage, to be honest, I don’t even know what the worst is.

  I was born in Bogotá, in a lower-middle-class family, a family that was, as they say in the financial section of the newspapers, economically unsound and showing a marked downward trend. A family much affected by the crisis, down there at the bottom of all the indices and statistics, at the mercy of neoliberalism and the market economy. We also fitted the statistics in being a family of four. I was the second of two children, after an elder sister named Juana. We lived in the Santa Ana district, not up in the hills, where the rich live, but between Seventh and Ninth, which at that time was a mixture of middle-class people on the way down and what’s called the “upper working class,” in other words, the quintessence of pretention, frustration, and resentment. I don’t know, maybe I’m being unfair, but that’s how I remember it.

  Mine wasn’t a happy family, and, as in Tolstoy’s novel, it was unhappy in its own way, although now that I think about it the only original thing was how all that frustration and resentment manifested itself. Anyway, that was where I was born. In an ugly old two-story house, similar to all the others in the neighborhood. Not far from an open sewer.

  Mother made bouquets in a florist’s on Fifteenth that specialized in senior citizens’ parties, local festivals, and masses. Father worked in the national current accounts section of the Usaquén Park branch of the Colombian Industrial Bank, and in spite of breaking his back for ten hours a day earned just enough to pay his monthly bills. He was a model employee, but with so much pent-up resentment that I think if he’d had the opportunity to torture—anonymously—any of his colleagues or customers, and of course his boss, without there being any consequences (like in one of those virtual experiments that universities do into the cruelty or cold-bloodedness of the average person), he’d have gone about it with genuine brutality, releasing great spurts of blood, sending megawatts of electricity into nervous systems, pulling out nails with a penknife, burning testicles with a cattle prod, crushing bones. He’d have been responsible for a real massacre if the city had suddenly gone crazy and descended into chaos, sending us back to the Stone Age for a time. I can imagine him shattering the skulls of colleagues with a stone hammer, decapitating his customers with obsidian knives, jumping from one desk to another, his body covered in skins, his hair long and dirty, emitting grunts. But he had to swallow this impulse and keep his head down. He had to smile and be docile, in his cheap striped tie and his shiny suit.

  The managers took advantage of him, humiliated him gratuitously. “Always look on the bright side,” he must have thought, gritting his teeth. Father had a real awareness of his class an
d believed it was his duty to wait patiently. Better times were around the corner. Times of revenge and justice. A happier era. In the meantime, they moved his desk to the most uncomfortable spot, gave him a chair that wobbled, placed him at the one counter window where the terminal didn’t work so that he’d have to do everything by hand. But the managers never invited him to the office on the second floor where they had cable TV. He pretended not to notice, or not to care. How inconsiderate of them, he said to Mother once, sending me to Carrefour to buy a bottle of Tres Esquinas for the Barcelona game, and then not even inviting me to sit down with them! “How inconsiderate,” that was all. He didn’t think he could express any other kind of anger. He had to keep supporting his family and it was best not to take risks.

  Life wasn’t easy for him, and the worst of it was that Mother despised him for that very reason, although at home he was quite the opposite, bossy and tyrannical, as if to say, I’m the king of this little world! here everyone does what I say! and Mother, who was a traditional wife even though she never lost the opportunity to humiliate him in front of his friends, would say to him, yes, of course, go sit down and watch the game and I’ll bring you your food.

  The frustrations of work had to be paid for at home. That’s how it happens in poor families or unhappy families. And that was our way of being unhappy.

  Mother always said we had to be grateful for the effort and the great sacrifice he made for all of us. And maybe she was right. But how could I accept that? Father never sat down on the floor to play with me, never took me affectionately by the hand, never did anything to make me happy or arouse any kind of emotion in me. And you know why? It’s an old story, one that never changes. He only had eyes for Juana, my older sister. His heart couldn’t stretch to more, and I was left out. It was a small heart, a dry heart, because, to tell the truth, Father didn’t have many reasons to be brimming over with love. On the contrary: his life was a dusty expanse of scrubland, and there was nobody to support him. What love did he get, and from whom? Very little, almost none. Mother despised him silently, and he didn’t really have anywhere else to replenish his stocks; my grandmother was dead and he didn’t have any brothers or sisters. His father had been in a vegetative state for years … Did he ever have a girl on the side? I doubt it. Because of him, I’ve always believed that love emerges only when you get it from others, that it exists by contagion. It doesn’t come about spontaneously, but through another person.

  That’s what happened to me. I spent my first years alone, a little ghost in a house where love was in short supply. It’s what I thought the world and life were like, although from time to time I witnessed amorous scenes of which I wasn’t the protagonist. The first time that someone came down to my eye level and gave me a hug, it was already too late. My world was irredeemably contaminated. I must have been about seven, maybe slightly older. And it wasn’t my parents, but my sister.

  Juana picked me up from the floor. She lived up there on her throne, a spoiled only daughter, but one day she decided to look at me. She saw me and I saw her, and we liked each other, and she gave me what I hadn’t had from anybody up until then, in other words, understanding, or rather something more intimate: a mirror that fell from on high and reflected my soul back to me. Thanks to her, I survived childhood, although I can assure you it was very long. Long and painful. But how was that moment? How did it come about that Juana acknowledged me?

  I think I was almost eight when, one morning, I started to feel pain and fever. My liver had become inflamed thanks to an unusual form of viral hepatitis that’s quite rare in Colombia and could have killed me. By the time they took me to the hospital, I was burning with fever. I remember the hurried departure, racing through the streets in the middle of the night wrapped in blankets at an hour when everything seems terrifying. Because of my grandfather, who had been a lieutenant colonel, we had access to the military hospital. They even gave me a private room, and I swear to you, that’s where I felt really free for the first time in my life. Through the window, I could see the lights of the city as evening fell. The sunset was like the end of the world, with those purple-colored dusks you get in Bogotá, which is an ugly city with a beautiful sky, something I’ve never quite understood.

  I’d hunker down under the blankets and think, I want this to be the last thing I see, I want to disappear now and forever, and I’d pray to God, I don’t want to get out of this hospital, I don’t want to go home or to school or to my neighborhood ever again, there isn’t a single place in the world I’d like to go back to, and I’d drift into a peaceful sleep, protected by that childish hope, oh, what joy I felt! But I’d always wake up again to a rainy morning. And then my parents would arrive, and with them the horror, the frozen looks, the resentment that showed itself in everything, even in the way they breathed; the feeling of being trapped in a state of anxiety that wasn’t mine. I’d sink back into my illness, look for protection in the fever and the pains and the dizziness I felt from the pills, and ask that it never abandon me. I just had to be strong, to bear up, because at a specific time, at the end of the afternoon, they would both go. Mother could have stayed and slept there but luckily she never did. The very first night she had apologized to the head nurse—because she thought she had to—saying that she had chores to do at home, and another child, a daughter, to look after, to which the nurse replied, don’t worry, señora, that’s why we’re here, we’ll take good care of him and spoil him, he’s such a good little boy, so quiet.

  Those nights in the hospital, lying in my adjustable bed and watching the lights of the city come on, were probably the happiest period of my childhood, although also the saddest. There’s a strange joy in that memory in spite of the fact that today, when I talk about it, I feel a kind of pity. I don’t know, Consul. If only I’d died.

  One Saturday, Juana came with them. At first, although curious, she held back a little, but as she moved closer I noticed that she was staring at me, and suddenly she touched my forehead with her hand, a very light caress, and that was when the miracle happened. All at once Mother’s agitated voice—she’d been looking constantly at her watch and talking about an appointment at the Wella hair salon that she couldn’t miss—faded away, and Father, who was looking out at the city through the window, also seemed to disappear.

  I don’t know how she did it, but somehow Juana managed to turn that hospital room into a capsule. Only her, standing there in silence, and me. Nobody else in the world, and that, just that, was what I saw: that Juana’s eyes were two caves through which you could gain access to a planet where we could live and perhaps be happy.

  Then I had a vision.

  A huge fire was spreading across the city from the mountains. In the midst of the spluttering concrete and the explosions, the screams and the collapsing buildings, beautiful tongues of fire appeared at my window, formed wild shapes, changed color, and vanished into the air. I didn’t fantasize about the end of the world, but I felt strong. I heard the screams coming from the streets and stopped to listen to them. What a surprise! They weren’t cries of pain but laughter. A resounding burst of laughter, as if there was something pleasurable in all that destruction. That’s what that hateful city is like: capable of confusing us with pleasure when it’s actually torturing us, a pleasure you can’t imagine anywhere else, but since it’s the only one we know there everybody believes that’s how life is, that’s what pleasure and happiness are like.

  Poor people.

  I saw the flames rise, heard them echoing ever more loudly against the roof, and my heart was pounding, will all this stop now? is this the end? Then I looked at Juana and started to fall into the sleep of illness and pills, but taking with me her eyes and maybe also something of her soul. I wanted that moment to last. I prayed again. But the sky was empty, nobody heard my prayers, Consul, and a few days later I had to return home, to that neighborhood of broken streets, and to my school, which was like a boil on the surface of the hills. Home was the center of my unease, somethin
g in it weighed on my mind. What was it? Only Juana was able to understand it, and that was what united us. It was what we had discovered: we were part of something dark and sad that neither of us could change. The smell of cheap lotion, the floor polish, the aroma of raincoats and jackets, whatever. The intense smell of a humiliated family that thought it deserved a second chance but never got it. Only one thing had changed: I had a trench now, somewhere I could be relatively safe. My bedroom, Juana’s bedroom, and the little corridor between them. When I got back from the hospital, that was my refuge.

  Every morning the hell started again. At about six, we’d stand on the corner of the street, waiting for the school bus. I’d see the other children and feel profound contempt for them, and at the same time pity. They were happy. They chattered away nineteen to the dozen, talked over each other, laughed. Some sang, and clapped when the wheel of the bus hit a puddle and sprayed the pitted sidewalks; what sad happiness, Consul. There are some kinds of happiness that make your flesh crawl, don’t you think?

  At school I wasn’t a bad student. I didn’t like calling the teachers’ attention to myself, so I made a personal decision to be a gray pupil, an invisible pupil. One more among many. It was a stupid matter of keeping up appearances, like so many other stupid matters I had to put up with during those years. Even now, in my nightmares, I return to my childhood and realize that period of pain hasn’t finished. It’s a wound that grows and opens with time.

  The teachers were horrible women with torn pantyhose, varicose veins, warts, greasy hair, and sad clothes. It’s because of them that I’ve always believed evil is ugly, even though that’s not its exclusive property. These women, whose resentment, whose hatred for their mediocre lives, could be felt from miles away, were the people who were supposed to educate us! My God, what could these monsters, who exercised power over children in order to alleviate their own miserable existences, convey to us of beauty? Why did they have to be so revolting, with their mustaches and their stooped shoulders, rather than lively and beautiful? The explanation was obvious: they were there to take their revenge. Our youth and our liveliness and maybe our dreams were an insult to them, a cruel mirror of their own debasement, the poison that inflamed their brains and their spleen. And it was these devils who were supposed to teach us the value of life, love, and friendship!