The roof of the house was one of the places where we felt free. Watching the planes cross the sky made us nervous because we knew that one day we too would leave, what kinds of things happened up there, inside those little moving lights, what questions were those who were traveling in them asking themselves? where were they going? We would invent stories for the passengers: one who’s going to study a long way away, who’s just wiped away his tears because his girlfriend, at the last moment, told him that in spite of their passionate farewell she didn’t think she’d wait for him, a poor boy who was thinking, as in the poem by Neruda, how threatening the names of the months are, and suddenly Juana would interrupt me, listen, Manuel, do you think a lot about sex? have you lost your virginity? and I’d say, come on, Juana, who am I going to lose my virginity with if I don’t have any girlfriends, and she’d say, okay, I’m going to find you a really pretty girl who’ll guide you, or do you also like guys, eh? I’d like that even better, a gay brother, we could share boyfriends! but I said, I don’t think so, at least not for now, I’ll let you know if there’s any change.
9
The next day, the prosecutor arrived punctually at seven in the morning, in a brand-new black Toyota Crown with smoked windows. Drizzle was falling, and it was hot. We left the center slowly, negotiating a noisy wall of cars, tuk-tuks, bicycles, and buses. Asian cities are always like that, colorful and chaotic: signs above the streets occupying the visual space, banners on both sides of the avenues. At that hour the smell was different: exhaust fumes, overheated tires, fried spicy meat, boiled coconut. Each time we stopped at a traffic light, the vendors came to the window to wave their offerings: fake watches, bags of cardamom, Montblanc pens for ten dollars, leather jackets by Armani or some other brand name.
The traffic was heavy, but it flowed.
“It used to be much worse,” the prosecutor said. “Ten years ago there was a jam that lasted for eleven days. We had to lift the cars out by helicopter. We built overpasses and this is what came after. As you can see, the bottle is filling up again and they’ll have to do something. If we didn’t have so many of the underclass coming to the city, things would be better.”
The air-conditioning was going full blast. One of the vents, the one above my leg, was dripping. At last we got onto a fast-moving lane and, with the siren on, we were able to advance. The city was left behind, and the landscape filled with poor farmhouses, plane trees, paddy fields, and palms. From time to time, we’d see an artificial lake with lotus flowers. After a while, the driver turned onto a main road that seemed to move away from the country and go back to the city, until we hit a suburb, and finally came to a wall of concrete and stone. On top, it had barbed wire and watchtowers.
This was Bangkwang Prison.
“There’s an old legend,” the prosecutor said. “Before, when all this area was wilder, chimpanzees used to come and climb the walls. They liked to walk between the security cables and get into the watchtowers. Some even went down into the cells. The guards discovered it was fun to shoot them, and the prisoners would keep them and eat them. They were full of protein. Then they stopped coming. Now everybody misses them, and they say the ghosts of the chimpanzees run about the roofs. We’re a superstitious country. How about yours? I’ve seen that you don’t have the death penalty, but that there are more executions than there are here, how can that be? You’ll have to explain it to me.”
Fortunately the questions were rhetorical, since he continued speaking, gesticulating, explaining.
It was already nearly nine and the thermometer was still rising. The fact is, I would have given my life for an iced gin (even at that hour). The prosecutor parked to one side of the gate, and, after saluting the guards, we went up to the offices. There he introduced me to the warden, a man with a face full of scars and warts who shook my hand without looking at me.
He knows why I’m here, I thought, he must have received hundreds of diplomats asking for the same thing.
He made no attempt to be polite, and deep down I was pleased. If anything annoyed me about my job, it was unnecessary smiles and feigned interest. Then he led us along a corridor without air conditioning, from where you could already hear the sounds of the prisoners. Heat rose in a kind of thick steam.
“Please sit here,” he said when we came to a kind of classroom. “We’ll bring him.”
I waited, beating my fingers on a table perforated by termites. Then came the sound of a barred door opening, the jangling of keys.
I saw him come in, dragging his feet, his ankles chained together. It was true that he was thin. Gustavo had given a good description: he was indeed like a figure out of El Greco.
As he approached, I noticed he was very nervous, although he said nothing until the guard let go of his arm. We introduced ourselves, and he looked at me with surprise.
“The writer?”
I nodded, feeling rather uncomfortable.
“I haven’t read your books,” he said, “but let me say something that may surprise you. This isn’t going to be a crime story, it’s going to be a love story. I’ll explain why later.”
He seemed to sway, looked around nervously, and continued:
“They told me I have to plead guilty, or they’ll give me the death penalty, is that right? When am I going to get out of here? You have come to get me out, haven’t you?”
I nodded. Then I looked at the prosecutor.
“Leave us alone, please.”
“I don’t understand your language,” he replied irritably. “Nobody here understands it, it’s the same as being alone.”
“His feet are chained, he’s not going anywhere.”
“Good for him,” he said. “You have ten minutes.”
He lit a cigarette and walked reluctantly to the end of the cellblock. Then he made a noise — I don’t know if it was a word, I wasn’t listening — and the others too moved away.
The prisoner looked at me insistently. “Have you come to get me out? Will I leave here with you?”
“I wish that were possible,” I said. “The charge against you is a serious one. They’re going to ask for the death penalty, and there’s not much you can do, except plead guilty. If you do that, they’ll give you thirty years and then you can apply for a pardon or the king’s mercy. That can take eight or nine years. This afternoon I’m going to hire the best lawyer in Bangkok, but I know from the prosecutor that acquittal is impossible. There’s a bag of pills as evidence. I’m going to consult with Bogotá so that the Ministry can ask officially for your sentence to be served in Colombia, but that takes time, and there’s nothing we can do if it’s a death sentence. Do you understand? Once it’s been pronounced it can be carried out at any moment. The lawyer and the prisoner are informed two hours in advance.”