“Where are you from?”
“Los Estados Unidos.”
“Oh, really? You must be rich then.”
“Ha, not really. Not everyone from there has money. Nor do we have this much rain. Most of my state happens to be desert.”
“Then you must have lots of snakes.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Almost nine months.”
“You’re basically from here, then. No wonder why your Spanish is so good.”
“Thank you, but I have studied it for a long time. I should hope that it is good.” Red tail lights in front of the taxi blurred across the windshield as the lunch-time traffic heading toward the center slowed down into a digestive halt. The ticking of pesos on the taximetro decelerated at an equal rate.
“So do you go out to party much?”
“Depends.”
“You should totally go to Corner 67. It is the best place in the city.”
“I think my friend invited me there last weekend for a capoeira performance. Where is it?”
“Down on the 33, behind Pintuco.”
“I like to go out on weekend trips so don’t make it to the discos all that often.”
“Right. So when are you leaving?”
“July. Sadly enough.”
“And when are you coming back?”
“Who knows. Depends on my money.”
“Do you have a lot of friends there?”
“Yeah, it is my home. But I also have a lot here.”
“Are the women very beautiful in your country?”
“Of course there are some. But percentage-wise, more here. And women here take better care of themselves going to get their nails done and wearing make-up and all. You should appreciate it.”
“You must be intelligent.”
“How do I answer that question? I like to study, and the more one studies the more they learn how little they actually know.”
“Then you are a teacher or something.”
“Actually a professor at the Facultad Nacional de Salud Publica at the Antioquia.”
“Man, that place has a lot of guerrillas.”
“Just last week they had to stop classes because the student leader groups were threatened by the guerrillas.”
“Yeah. They have so much money that they pay their people to go study there. Get specializations and stuff.”
“In what? What fields would help the guerrillas?”
“Oh, anything really.” The big shopping center to the left was full of umbrellas competing for head room and yellow taxis lined up waiting to take home purchased wares. It gave me the urge to ask him to stop early so I could wander through the stores smelling like chemically dyed fabrics with their invigorating music wooing the adrenaline rush you get when buying new things for yourself.
“You must like to eat a lot of fruit.”
“Ha. That’s a silly question. I do indeed, I love all the tropical fruits you have here.” For the first time since getting into the back seat the driver adjusts the rear-view mirror so our eyes can meet, and for extra measures he turns around to give me the look-over.
“Yup, you do have an apple face.” What does that mean? In shape or color or texture or some double meaning I don’t understand? Maybe I started sweating a lot more than I realized during the meeting and my skin got shiny like the waxed surface of imported apples.
“Is all of your family there? They must be mad at you for coming so far away.”
“I don’t have any family here. But they don’t mind, I will only be here a year and nowadays it is normal for young people to live in other countries. In fact, in order to get a good job you have to have international experience.”
“Do you want to get married? Or do you want to be independent forever?”
“Actually I do. I have a boyfriend and maybe we will get married in a few years. I would like that…”
“Where is he from?”
“He is from there.”
“But where does he live?”
“Here right now. He is a teacher of economics.”
“Oh. How fortunate you are! You have everything figured out.”
“Almost, I guess.”
“Do you like children?”
“Yes, a lot. What about you?”
“No, I don’t. I’m psychotic.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t like anyone, I have psychotic tendencies.” He paused as we entered the first large roundabout entering the strip of alternating stores selling motorcycles and interior garments. What a perfect combination. The two items that someone thinks is the best way to attract the opposite sex. “I was abused as a child. My mother used to hit me. She would take a long pole and hit the parts on my body that were bony. Here on my elbow I have a scar.” His right arm sticks out from the seat ahead above the middle console with the sleeve raised to show me what looks like a perfectly normal elbow. I notice that he has one of those thick leather watches on, a black band with square, black face. The hands are too small for me to be able to read the time. It must be around 2:30. “It made me hate people. I used to abuse other children because my mind was so ruined. I had indulgent tendencies and didn’t know how to make good decisions. Being abused affected me until I was old, like 22 or so.”
“And now?”
“I started listening to 710. On the radio.” A finger points to the dark, quiet radio. The only sound we aren’t making is that of tires trying to find ground under puddles and the squeaking of the clutch as he shifts gears. “The Señor saved me. I found the word of God. Every morning there is a program that has changed my life.”
“Who talks? I mean, what is the program about?”
“God’s love. It has changed my life. I am going to tell you a story. When I was 23 I was driving my taxi late at night at one of the barrios up top there. I had a beautiful young girl in the back seat. She got in at a corner bar where she had been drinking with her friends. She was so beautiful. So we started driving away, and I asked her where to. I didn’t hear anything so looked back and she was fast asleep on the back seat. Now this was before I had found the Señor, and I was full of bad things. I kept driving until I reached a forest. It was all dark around and just trees, nobody else. I pulled off the road and stopped the car. She was still sleeping so beautifully, didn’t even wake up when we stopped. So I went around and got into the back seat next to her. I reached over and slowly started unbuttoning her shirt.” I can see his eyebrows raising in the rearview mirror, the only discernable part of his expression besides a forehead and black tufts of hair sticking up. “I slowly unbuttoned her shirt, and then stuck my hand down. Touched her breast. Then I moved down to her waist. She was so beautiful. Moved my hand down into her pants. But I didn’t do anything. Right then, I heard this voice. Coming from the left window. It spoke my name, it knew who I was. It said, “What are you doing? Don’t do that.” We were out in the middle of the woods, you know, so there wasn’t anyone around. But I got out of the car and walked around, trying to find where the voice had come from. Nobody was there, of course, so I got back into the car and started unbuttoning her shirt more. The voice spoke to me again, and that second time I got scared. It was the voice of an angel and it was saving me. So just as I had unbuttoned her shirt I buttoned it back up again, arranged her comfortably in the back seat, and drove away. That voice saved me from all of the bad things. I drove back to the neighborhood where I picked her up. Didn’t stop where the men she was with were still drinking.”
“And she didn’t wake up through any of this?”
“No, she had drunk a lot. So I went passed the bar and stopped a few blocks up when I saw a young boy in the street. I asked him if he knew the girl passed out on my back seat, and he told me her name and that she lived a few blocks up. He came with me and I brought her home to her parents. I didn’t do anything. But I am sure that it was an angel that saved me. And the next morning, when I got into my taxi to work, I found 710, and have been listening to the program every morning since then. That was about ten years ago, and it has helped me to resist so many temptations.” By this time we had both been so engrossed in the story, me by horror and he probably by vicarious excitement of his past life, that we missed the usual turn to get home.
“Turn here at the right, quick.”
“Sure, sure. We will turn right here onto San Juan, and then onto 73, right? We’ll be right there. I am going to tell you another story. One night I was working at 3 am, driving through a barrio that is very dangerous. Up ahead, like where that silver car just changed lanes, I see this girl standing on the street with her hand out like this.” His fingers again stick out beyond the seat where I can see them, pointing in a more sensual version of how a woman would flag down a taxi late at night. “I pull over because it is dangerous for me and her and I wonder what a 9-year old girl is doing in the street at that time. She gets in and I ask her where to take her. ‘Where to, she repeats. Wherever we are going.’ I looked over and asked ‘what do you mean where we are going?’ And she tells me that I might want her, starting to take off her shirt and pulls down her pants to here.” I slightly bend forward so I can see his hands drawing a line across his legs right above the knees.
“She didn’t have tits, hair, nothing. She was nine years old! She said that I could have her if I wanted. I asked her how much she wanted, and she said however much I would give her. Now, she totally repulsed me, a girl that young made me feel sick because she was so undeveloped it wouldn’t be any fun. I told her that she wasn’t my type, I liked older, more voluptuous women. And then took her back to where she got in. Gave her 4.000. Now, I was curious because she said that she had a sister with a baby, and that was why she needed the money. I wanted to see if she was telling the truth. So I drove around the block a few times, and then came back. I caught a glimpse of her running up some steep steps into a house with a bag in her hand. I could tell that she had bought a bag of milk, some toast, and a small package of disposable diapers. Should I keep going over San Juan?” So revolted by the story, more by the fact that he had let her undress next to him than that there was a 9-year old working as a prostitute, that it took a few seconds for the relief to sink in that I was almost home.
“Yes, just a few blocks more.”
“I didn’t do anything. I could have had her. But I was able to resist with the help of the Señor I now have the strength to resist these things. For ten years I haven’t been touched by the same desires as before. My only weakness is women with money. When I see a car like this,” he points to a shiny blue SUV lumbering onto a curb to park, “with a woman driving, I lose the control He gives me. I don’t know why. Women with money just turn me on. They are so beautiful.”
“Turn to the right, this is the block. Now pull over at the black gate, perfect.” I reach into my purse and accidentally pull out a 1000 note rather than the 10000. They look so similar, one with a peachy background and coral lettering, the other beige with burgundy. And all folded up to fit into a wallet, it was an honest mistake. “Thank you.”
As I hand him the bill he looks into the rear-view mirror again and states, “I made you nervous, didn’t I.” After quickly pulling out the change he turns around with it in his hand, saying “But see, you are more than beautiful, so you didn’t have to worry.”
“Yeah right,” I respond, and step into a puddle slamming the door shut behind me.
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