American Visa by Juan de Recacoechea Read Free Book Online Page A

U.S. resident, but I still keep my Bolivian passport, even after fifteen years in the U.S. How about that?”
    â€œCongratulations. You’re brave.”
    â€œIt’s a kind of insurance to be a resident. I can enter and leave the States legally, whenever I want.”
    â€œThirty-seven,” the young woman announced. This was the worst thing that could have happened to me. The brawny man was going to interview me. I was sure to have a rough go of it. His facial expressions were sinister. He was biting his bottom lip, looking for a victim. I was the victim.
    I would have sold my soul to the Devil for that visa, but there was no time for ceremony. The burly official was arguing with a young man wearing blue jeans and a loose-fitting jacket. “You should speak with the consul, maybe he’ll understand,” he said.
    â€œThis is my acceptance letter from the university,” grumbled the boy. “Why should I see the consul?”
    â€œStep aside. It’s a matter for the consul.”
    In the confessional booth the Imperial Inquisitor waited impassively, like a statue.
    â€œThirty-eight,” the bigheaded man called out.
    Nobody stood up! Paralyzed with fear, I couldn’t budge, or even think.
    â€œThirty-eight,” he repeated.
    My legs started to tremble uncontrollably. An acute stinging sensation in my crotch made me wince. My loins felt like they were on fire. The bigheaded man unceremoniously retired my number and announced thirty-nine.
    Fifteen minutes passed before I could feel my legs again. I asked the American Marine for my ID and left the consulate.
    I was a coward, a stinking coward. Worst of all, I knew I’d never return to the consulate.
    â€œDetectives!” I stuttered out loud. “Now what?”
    I urgently needed a drink, something strong that would hit me immediately. I scoured Potosí Street and found a bar on the first floor of a hotel. The place was tiny, but charming. It was wood-paneled, which gave it an intimate, distinguished appearance. A coffee machine operated by a young boy with affected, womanish mannerisms stood on top of the bar counter. I found a seat beside the window facing the street. A dark-skinned girl who smiled easily, wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, waited to take my order.
    â€œOne cognac,” I requested.
    â€œFrench?”
    â€œBetter if it’s French,” I said.
    It had been a long time since I’d drunk one. Its price was prohibitive, especially given my current circumstances, but I was a ruined petit bourgeois who longed for the past. My nerves could only be calmed with fancy sedatives. I asked for a pack of cigarettes. It was a silent bar, nearly enveloped in shadows. The customers gave the impression that they were waiting for the go-ahead from some hidden director to begin conversing. The quiet in the bar allowed me to meditate on my situation.
    My quest for a visa had become a fiasco. Neither my forged documents nor my bank accounts were of any use. I didn’t have the balls to face the interviewers. It was all the fault of that lady who told me that they hire detectives to examine the documents. If that were true, they would surely return the documents to me with a bloody “no” and not allow me to appeal. If they deny you the visa once, they’ve denied it to you forever. If, on the contrary, the assertion of that Illinois resident was false, then I’d shot myself in the foot like a fool.
    As far as I was concerned, things couldn’t get any worse. The girl brought me the cognac and I lit a cigarette. Returning to Oruro would be impossible. The Slav I used to work for had hired another guy to sell his merchandise. Finding a new gig for my daily sustenance would be like asking a blind man to catch a fly with two fingers. My buddies since childhood had bidden me farewell with parties that cost a fortune; even the girl I’d been dating, a cashier at a local shoe store,