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

treated me to a glamorous dinner in the hotel beside the bus terminal, followed by an under-the-covers workout till dawn. When I left she shed tears like Mary Magdalene and said she’d write me once a week. I paid off my outstanding debt to my landlady for the use of two rooms and her kitchen. I even went to the cemetery and paid my respects to friends and relatives in the other world. I’d kissed Oruro goodbye forever. Return? Looking like what? A defeated man with his tail stuck between his legs? No way. Either I would travel to the United States or I would commit suicide. I had no other choice. The idea of killing myself was not new to me. In reality, I’d thought it over an infinite number of times ever since Antonia abandoned me and left me alone in the world. I probably would’ve done it already if it hadn’t been for my son, perhaps the only link I had to this earth that has treated me so badly. I wanted to see him grow big and strong like a gringo, without complexes or fears. When he left, he told me he’d never return.
    The cognac shook me up a bit, but it didn’t calm my nerves. I asked for a second drink and downed it. The bill was enough to cover two lunches. The American visa was costing me like a good whore. The mere idea of a trip to the U.S. had buried that chronic depression that had plagued my entire adult existence, that sense of impotence that made anything I did seem futile. I had come once again to be trapped in a tangle of doubt and indecisiveness. I went out onto the street and rambled from one place to another with no particular destination in mind. The sun shone magnificently and the temperature was mild. If everything had gone well, this would have been a blessed day. But it had gone to hell! My luck was like a coin that I always flipped onto the wrong side. I didn’t have any solutions. I couldn’t change my karma.
    My return trip was a true excursion. I walked up Sagárnaga Street, past the hardware and textile shops. Here, face-to-face, but without flags or weapons, Arab and Jewish merchants look each other in the eyes. They are old leftovers from the waves of migrations that reached Bolivia before the Second World War. Their hardware stores look old and somber. They’ve never been refurbished, not even with a second coat of paint. Vendors in the middle stretch of the street offer tourists, mostly foreigners, a series of attractions that include ancient silverware, wood carvings modeled after Aymara figures, alpaca sweaters, and ponchos. Medicinal herbs are sold alongside symbols of indigenous witchcraft, such as llama fetuses, which you’re supposed to bury for good luck before breaking ground on the construction of a new house. Further up the street, hunched-over porters with bulky bags of merchandise slung over their shoulders weave between barrels containing fruit for sale. Everything is perfectly laid out.
    I arrived exhausted at Illampu. The cognac and the steep climb had caused my heart to race, forcing me to slow down. I leaned against a flimsy adobe wall that barely supported a tavern catering to lowlifes and prostitutes. A terrible stench of cheap liquor emanated from inside. A beggar covered in dirty rags sang the official anthem of La Paz. His face, deformed by the venomous concoctions served in nearby dives, was bruised and covered with scars. I took my time and avoided the fruit barrels propped up on the sidewalks. Thank God Illampu is flat, a rarity in this mountainous metropolis.
    In the Hotel California lobby, the manager drowsily played a game of chess with a fat and content-looking guest, who, with his dashing Borsalino felt hat, appeared to be from Beni. He was probably a wealthy rancher, one of those who catches a plane just to count his livestock grazing on the vast haciendas on the eastern plains. Having sold off a percentage of their herd, they return each week with money bursting out of their ears to spend a little winter