Varamo (8 page)

Th
e
interest the sisters were taking in him, and the conversation as a whole, began
to make sense in the light of his supposed friendship with the driver. After
expressing their concern for the future well-being of their maid and adopted
daughter, they got to the point. Cigarro’s job, was it secure? Wouldn’t it be
affected by the current political unrest? Varamo said that he wasn’t aware of
any unrest, but whatever happened, he didn’t think that the fiancé’s position
would be affected by changes of that kind. “When there’s a revolution, it’s the
senior public servants who are replaced, not the drivers.”
Th
at’s what the Góngoras had thought as well, but
they were worried for another reason, which they proceeded to explain, choosing
their words with care. What they couldn’t understand was how there could be
ministries in the city of Colón, although it wasn’t the national capital. Maybe
they were provincial or municipal or regional ministries? “No, they’re
national,” said Varamo without hesitation.
Th
ey
nodded.
Th
at was what they had always thought,
what they had always assumed: the ministries were the ministries of Panama. But
who had ever heard of an executive government with its ministries based outside
the national capital?
Th
ey weren’t talking about
a satellite city that was bound to be swallowed up by urban sprawl eventually
and become part of the same agglomeration. No, Colón was on the opposite coast,
separated from the capital by the full width of the isthmus.
Th
ey were speaking with an effusive fervor; they
had clearly pondered this question at length. Varamo was at a loss for words; it
had never occurred to him that there was anything odd about the situation. But
he saw what they meant. Once again he was struck by how the inexplicable can lie
hidden within what we have always taken for granted. Noting his ignorance and
his interest, the two ladies set out the hypothesis that they had developed in
the course of their cogitations: Colón must have been a capital of sorts twenty
years earlier, before independence, or even before the establishment of the
Colombian Republic. In any case, it must have possessed a ministerial system
that would have been onerous and inconvenient to transfer to the new capital;
but, of course, having the ministries so far away was even more inconvenient, so
there must be a plan afoot to move them to their natural place. It was hardly
surprising that nothing had been done to implement the plan in two long decades,
given the country’s general inefficiency. But sooner or later it would happen;
in fact, these long-delayed initiatives provided an easy way for politicians to
boost their popularity and appear to be dynamic men of action.
Th
e opening of the linked highways from one coast
to the other, which was to be celebrated in the coming days, could be a logical
first step.
Th
ey looked at him again,
expectantly. He didn’t know what to say: the problem seemed both very far away
and very near. Far away like all those things we have never really stopped to
think about; near like the very same things as soon as we begin to consider them
and realize how they affect us. If there was a relocation, he might be obliged
to choose between moving and resigning. He had never left Colón, the city of his
birth, and moving away was out of the question, for his mother if not for him.
But he couldn’t survive for long without a job. In any case, faced with the
sisters, he could only confess his ignorance and promise to look into it.
Th
ey nodded and said they would stay in touch:
“After all, we’re neighbors.”
Th
eir interest in
the matter was purely altruistic or maternal: they wanted to make sure that
their ward’s future husband had a good, steady income.
Th
ey didn’t mind that he was black. And they couldn’t have been
aware (oddly, for ladies who seemed so worldly-wise) that he had a number of
lucrative sidelines.

In the ensuing conversation, which was more relaxed,
it became clear that the sisters were practical women, with sound business
sense.
Th
is emerged in a rather indirect way.
Th
ere were noises outside, and the Góngoras
reacted: they went to their rooms, first one, then the other (they took turns so
as not to leave Varamo unaccompanied), and came back with powdered faces,
brushed hair, and wearing jewelry. “Well, it looks like we have a little
get-together on our hands,” they remarked, then added, with the smiling poise of
true sophisticates, “Unplanned parties are always the most fun.” For them, to
spend the night entertaining was the most natural thing in the world.
Th
eir only complaint was that they had been caught
with “everything in a mess.” Varamo reassured them politely, but a second look
around revealed that the place really was a shambles. He couldn’t quite put his
finger on what was giving him that impression of chaos . . . But then, all of a
sudden, he realized: it was the golf clubs all around the room, in expensive
leather bags that were propped against the walls and the furniture, or just
lying around. In fact, there was one under the table, and Varamo picked it up
out of idle curiosity (he had never handled a golf club before).
Th
e sisters sighed: “When Carmencita comes back,
we’ll get her to tidy up a bit.” Showing them the club, Varamo said: “Do you . .
. play?” No, they had never played and had no intention of doing so.
Th
ey didn’t even know the rules of the game,
although the terminology had rubbed off on them over years of dealing with golf
enthusiasts.
Th
ey sold the clubs. Apparently
they had decided to confide in him; they told him the whole story, but perhaps
they would have told anyone who happened to visit them. Or maybe they wanted to
show that the malicious rumors were unfounded: they were business women, who
earned their living respectably (although they did admit, in an aside, that the
name of one kind of club —
putter
, which
sounded unfortunately like
whore
in Spanish —
might have accounted for some of the slurs).

Many years before, the engineers and other foreigners
working on the canal, from France, England and the United States — three nations
crazy about golf — had introduced the game, creating a demand for clubs, which
grew as the local public servants, anxious to be fashionable, began to play as
well.
Th
e clubs, of course, were not made in
Panama, so they had to be imported. Any one of the city’s shipping firms would
have taken care of that, if the government, in the grip of one of its regular
financial crises, hadn’t imposed an exorbitant import duty, which made smuggling
almost mandatory. And that was where the Góngoras came in, seizing the
opportunity, occupying the little economic niche that society provides for each
of its members, though few realize it and reap the rewards.
Th
e sisters found their opening by a curious
fluke: someone realized that the safest way to smuggle the clubs in was to board
a ship docked in Colón and disembark again soon afterward, walking with the aid
of a “stick,” which was, in fact, a golf club. Since the customs agents and port
inspectors had no notion of the game and had never seen the clubs, they assumed
that they were a strange kind of walking stick, and gave the matter no more
thought.
Th
e sister with the prosthetic leg
perfected the plausibility of the trick; she ended up making it her specialty
and monopolizing the sector. All this was explained while she was away getting
herself ready, and the other Miss Góngora added that there had been positive
side effects: since the clubs had to be smuggled singly, her sister had been up
and down hundreds and thousands of gangways over the years. As well as giving
her something to do and helping her to regain her self-esteem after the
accident, it had made her exercise intensively and kept her healthy, active and
youthful.
Th
ey couldn’t complain about the other
side of the business, either: dealing with the buyers. It had obliged them to
keep open house for foreign gentlemen and local personalities, and that had put
them in touch with the city’s elite. Another reason, Varamo supposed, for the
Góngoras’ anxiety about the potential transfer of the ministries.

No, no, they couldn’t believe that Colón was going
to lose its political, cultural and social prominence, said the sisters.
Th
ey were long-standing residents; they had seen
the city grow and change with the construction of the canal, the upheavals that
had led to the independence of Panama, and the century’s various transformations
. . . It had never occurred to them that Colón was not a capital city, since it
was the capital for them. And yet, objectively, it wasn’t the capital of the
nation.
Th
eir outlook dated from a time before
the nation existed, when Colón was undeniably a hub. It was the Atlantic port,
the gateway to Europe; yet one of the canal’s long-term effects might be to
transform West into East, Europe into Asia. Perhaps the time had come for that
conversion, which, after all, had been the reason for opening the canal in the
first place. It was as if the country were being reversed in a mirror. Listening
to them, Varamo thought (but didn’t say) that this was the reasoning of
smugglers, for whom the national was a categorical imperative. And the thought
occurred to him because his own predicament, which he had just remembered, was
of a similar nature: printing money was a prerogative of the nation, and even
counterfeiting reinforced the national perspective. But these abstractions
seemed rather insubstantial when faced with the self-assurance of the Góngoras.
What they were worried about was losing their market, their clients; the
illegality of their trading didn’t seem to bother them at all. Was it because
they had some kind of protection? Or because crime per se, of any kind, was
nothing to be worried about? After all, in modern capitalist society, everyone
had to look after their own interests, and the natural and appropriate way to do
that was through crime. Which meant that society as a whole was bathed in a
criminal atmosphere.
Th
e law was just a
regulatory mechanism. But individual interests were translated into money, and
for money to be useful to all citizens alike, and adapt itself to all the shifts
of desire and fantasy (and reality), it had to maintain a level of abstraction.
And that was precisely why what had happened to Varamo was so disturbing: the
counterfeit notes in his pocket introduced an element of brute materiality; they
couldn’t be exchanged for others or abstracted from the situation; they couldn’t
adapt.

Th
e conversation was
interrupted by the arrival of the Police Chief and his assistant.
Th
e Góngoras fluttered about like hens, raising
their voices as they went to the door, chattering hospitably.
Th
e party was livening up. “
Th
e Police Chief!” Varamo muttered to himself.
“Why did I have to come here, tonight of all nights? I’ve gone and walked into
the lion’s den!”
Th
e elderly smugglers, by
contrast, were happy; their sole concern was providing their guests with drinks
and sandwiches, as if they didn’t have a comatose cabinet minister in the house.
Th
ey were reminded of the fact by the
newcomer, who reported directly to the Minister of the Interior. “Do come and
see him,” they clucked, “we put him in the broadcasting booth, on the doctor’s
orders. But we should warn you that he’s unconscious, the poor thing.”
Th
ey led the Police Chief away from the entrance
hall to a small side door. Varamo was relieved; he had been preparing a little
speech with which to introduce himself in case the group headed his way: “I
wasn’t involved in the accident. I just happened to be passing when it occurred,
and I helped to carry His Excellency’s body.” When he saw the visitors
disappear, he slipped away to the kitchen, which seemed a safer place for the
moment. An image accompanied his retreat: that of Carmencita, also known as
Caricias, who had appeared in the sitting room for the briefest moment before
the Góngoras sent her rushing off to the kitchen to serve more coffee. Varamo’s
choice of hiding place was partly motivated by the desire to speak to her. But
since he didn’t know the house, it took him some time to find his way, and by
the time he reached the kitchen, Caricias had already gone to the dining room.
He stayed there waiting for her. He couldn’t have been her childhood friend; she
was far too young. Perhaps the Góngoras were getting the generations mixed up,
and he had played with her mother. He couldn’t remember doing so, but it was
possible. It was a logical explanation, although it would be logical too, in a
way, for the “last woman” to remain eternally young.

Varamo didn’t have much time to consider
this issue because he heard voices approaching. He listened carefully: the
Góngoras and the Police Chief were coming down the passage. “It was the doctor
who connected him, so that he wouldn’t lose touch with the world!” one of the
ladies explained emphatically, while the Police Chief muttered pessimistic
objections: “
Th
at’s the surest way to lose
touch.”
Th
ey were talking about the Treasurer.
“No one’s irreplaceable.” Gleeful, conspiratorial laughter. “
Th
is is the lion’s den,” thought Varamo,
panicking. Luckily the voices continued on their way, toward the dining room,
where they met with a chorus of greetings and laughter. It was his chance to
make himself scarce, and without a second thought he headed for the front door,
trying not to trip over the golf clubs. But as he crossed the sitting room he
glanced around, looking for Caricias. Just as he was about to reach the door, he
hesitated. Although he wasn’t sure why, he wanted to speak to the girl again and
was saddened by the thought of missing a chance to do so. Opportunities don’t
always present themselves. In fact, they never present themselves as such; it
isn’t in their nature.
Th
at was something he
knew well. Opportunities only exist in retrospect, when it’s already too late.
And he was sure that he would regret having missed the opportunity to speak with
“the last woman.” It didn’t matter that the sobriquet had been bestowed on her
as a joke by her boyfriend Cigarro. Once pronounced, it acquired an enormous
conceptual weight, the full force of which was bearing down on Varamo. Glancing
around, he noticed the little door through which the visitors had passed a few
minutes earlier. He was curious to see how the Treasurer had been accommodated,
and there was a chance to kill two birds with one stone: it was unlikely that
anyone else would go in there for a while, so it would be a safe place to wait
until Caricias came back into range. In he went, without any further
deliberation.