American Visa by Juan de Recacoechea Read Free Book Online

executioner seemed to be sick of interviewing. He had decided to shorten the questioning. The girl left gracefully and returned to her seat, looking satisfied. Her father happily kissed her on the cheek and asked, “What did he tell you?”
    â€œHe told me to come back in three days; they’re going to verify everything.”
    â€œDid you show him the shares from the beer company?”
    â€œYeah, that impressed him. I don’t think there’ll be any problems. He tried to confuse me, but I didn’t let him.”
    The color had returned to the girl’s face. She said goodbye to me with a hint of a smile.
    Verify the documents , I thought. What the hell is that about? Trembling, I moved forward to the first row and settled into an empty armchair. That bit about the verifications was like a knife through my heart. If they try to verify them, I’m screwed .
    Number thirty-five stepped up. He was assigned to Magic Johnson’s kid brother, who was sweating a river, as though he were in a Turkish bath. On my right side, a modestly elegant woman, discreetly perfumed, waited stiffly while reading a magazine. From time to time she raised her head and looked around disdainfully at her surroundings.
    â€œExcuse me, señora, but I couldn’t hear,” I said. “The documents— don’t they check them?”
    She replied in a hoarse, mannish voice, “It’s necessary. A lot of people forge them. Imagine all the people who want to leave the country and how easy it is to falsify documents. Everything and everybody is corrupt these days. Years of political chaos have led to our ruin, to a moral catastrophe. Don’t you agree?”
    â€œOf course,” I hastened to answer.
    â€œIs this your first time applying for a visa?”
    â€œYes. I’m going to visit my son.”
    â€œThe first time is somewhat difficult. They have the idea stuck in their heads that all the people who travel as tourists are going to stay on to work.”
    â€œI would never do that,” I said. “I’m old. Besides, I love my country.”
    She looked at me as if I’d uttered an insult. “You’re lucky!” she said sarcastically. “I can’t live in Bolivia. I can’t get used to it. It’s swarming with Indians! Aren’t you scared of them?”
    â€œI’ve never thought of it.”
    â€œBolivia has the highest birthrate in Latin America. In five years, the Indians will be living in places like Calacoto—in our neighborhoods.”
    â€œFor you, then, it’s a good thing they won’t make it to . . .”
    â€œChicago, Illinois. I live there with my husband, who’s a doctor. I’m from Cochabamba.”
    â€œCochabamba’s a nice place, but overpopulated,” I said.
    â€œThat’s because of the land reform. Now the crooks who grow coca own the land. What irony, those so-called revolutionaries . . . And you, do you have everything together?”
    â€œTogether?”
    â€œIn order?”
    â€œI have the deed to my house and a copy of my bank statement.”
    â€œThey look closely at those things,” the doña said. “I think they even hire detectives to do background checks at City Hall and the banks. The gringos don’t sleep.”
    â€œDetectives? That’s got to be an exaggeration.” My heart stopped beating for an instant. I coughed and rubbed my chest, the source of my body’s lifeblood.
    â€œIs something wrong?”
    â€œThe ups and downs in this city; Oruro is flat.”
    The black man with praying mantis arms called out, “Thirty-six.” A nun with a rosary and a Bible stepped forward. The black man greeted her with a smile that revealed his white shiny teeth.
    â€œWhat number do you have?” I asked.
    â€œForty-four. I hope they make it to me. I want to take a flight the day after tomorrow. My issue is a simple passport renewal. I’m a