EPISODE VII
“Look, Alba, what it´s happening to this rare bird is that he is deeply in love with your daughter. Balou’s blooming heart has been broken into million pieces. That´s all this is about. He has good intentions, yet a surplus of uncontrollable loving energy runs riots inside him.”
Notepad: Private data record (likely to make it available to the public) where high priority information is grouped by field of work, for investigation purposes or otherwise.
Nugaró, Colombia, January 19th 2018
Less than ten thousands inhabitants live in Valentina´s parent’s village of Nugaró. The first hints of activity when a foreigner gets there [from Cali] are the sweaty employees moving around the petrol station, at whose side the E.S.P.I. stands unpretentious. It was a sunny day, the villagers walked across the main road shuffling their feet with their heads down due to a temperature not stifling enough to make pedestrians feel dazed.
The road runs through from north to south cutting Nugaró in two slices, so the population is incidentally housed in accordance with social classes; but comparisons between inhabitants´ buying power disappear at the Central Square, where fervent believers mix up with retired agnostics and fake vivid nature lovers, being the latter, in fact, alert at the arrival of truckloads of coca coming from the south. In the core of Central Square there is a huge centenary tree that gives shade to strollers as well as it shelters unspeakable secrets. Some visitors seek rest by plunging into a vespertine meditation under him; others shed tears onto him while appealing for mercy or the fulfilment of postponed desires; whereas the fewest of them claim for miracles, revelations or epiphanies out of his wisdom. A quarter of a mile past the square you drop by “Virgin Mary” local church, patron saint of Nugaró, defender of the oppressed, the poor, still nationally known as protector of truck-drivers. Seen from afar one could seem to be getting closer to a retreat house, exception made of the outstanding ten-meter-high brick clad tower, on top of which someone has forgotten a worn out steeple. Neither dome nor ostentation, but an apex ceiling has been erected above a dark-brown double-winged folding door, a heavy pinewood monstrosity that welcomes you before succumbing to evangelisation. Yet it is not as heavy as the weight of Valentina´s soul nowadays.
It´s two o clock in the afternoon for the villagers of this bucolic crook in mid-eastern Colombia, the vast majority of whom are longing for the return of Álvaro Uribe, a rancher ex- president of the country that devoted –during his period in the government- much of public resources to restore road safety along with ensuring freedom of circulation for the citizens. In doing so, he fiercely fought the FARC forces (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia), turning Colombia into a cruel slaughterhouse.
The Argentinian guest has already had lunch and left the hotel; only then Gloria felt relieved. The E.S.P.I. owner is a forty five years old good-looking lady, proud of her Indigenous roots and also of her paraglider adventurous boyfriend. Gloria, endowed by nature with preciously moulded hips, thought that she mastered everything about hotel management, psychological control over guests, thanks to her degree in Tourism, to her casual customer approach, her trips around the world and to the day-to-day business-life routine at the E.S.P.I. Single with no offspring, she treated her guests the way a mother would, especially the ones now turned into permanent tenants; formerly salesmen travellers that changed their visitors status as Nugaró captured their hearts. Even if she tried to keep a professional distance with them, she was up-to-date with their current activities and the reasons why they had come to Nugaró. Far from preconceived judgements, Gloria tended to think that the way each person provides his livelihood depends most on his own capacities and functional limitations rather than on his own inner will. Therefore Ethics, in Gloria´s opinion, was a philosophic flop and life a hardness that can be softened up only by the cultivation of persistence.
Because he disliked its touristic vibe (in the end, he never ceased to be a peasant) Gloria´s boyfriend seldom visited the E.S.P.I., so to her the business worked as a private space, a bunker arranged to develop her ongoing critical thought processes. Gloria wanted to unfreeze herself, she wanted to do otherwise than to fix her glance on the shoulder bag left by the Argentinian, whose name he failed to give her: “I´m not disenchanted of my name of birth at all, Gloria, the thing is –The Loser Titan had explained her, inadvertently falling into a professor mode- that any name of birth someone puts on a child is nothing but a label resembling the cows of the countryside identified with numbers, and, as you know, labels can easily be peeled off once the container gets wet; you may now understand that what identifies my soul is never to be linked to removable imprints. Hence, in these historic days against which I´m bumping, it would be nice of you if you invoice to Balou, my real name is irrelevant”. Gloria issued the invoice to Balou without any question; she prevented herself from showing inquisitive toward guests, she instead listened to them before writing down everything they said on a notepad. Her most secret dream was to publish a memoir similar to the chronicle “The Voyeur´s Motel” written by the world famous journalist Gay Talese, where she would reflect the outcomes of the systematic surveillance the E.S.P.I performs over its legal occupants. Still, the daily fare breakdown gives no evidence of surveillance added charges (cameras, hidden microphones in each bedroom, tapes recorders strung to beds and lavatory were Gloria´s self-financed expenditures). As tourism undergraduate student, Gloria had been taught that the deeper a host gets to know targeted-guests the better service they would receive. Not unexpectedly she would later follow this advice to the letter.
She couldn´t wait to open the shoulder bag, but instead of betraying the trust the Argentinian had placed on her, just to refrain curiosity she phoned Alba, Valentina´s mother.
- Hi, Alba, what a day! How are you doing? –Gloria greeted her, with her best native Valledupar´s accent.
- Not so well, mate. Valentina has migraine headache and allergy.
- How so?
When Valentina was four years old –Gloria suddenly remembered- she used to roller-skate along Nugaró at lighting speed, waving as she left the hotel behind. Gloria could hardly figure out that healthy child now being sick.
- My daughter came across an Argentinian at Cali airport late last year. Although he drew her attention at the beginning…Oh Gloria, he is now staying at your hotel. Is he in his room? Have you seen anything strange in his behaviour during check-in or later on?
In the name of prudence Gloria decided not to tell Alba that Balou criticized the hotel´s facilities with remarks typically heard from a hotel management expert. Even if Balou never meant to offend Gloria, despite of the ferociousness of his reviews, she concealed her anger before him sticking to the motto: “The customer is always right”. It had never occurred to her that guest service could have been optimised with zero investment. She got fitting reviews from him as a matter of fact, likely to be implemented right away. It grew in Gloria the gut feeling that Balou was floating; his insights on worldly matters seemed to be heterodox, probably grown out of an ignited decision-making centre. Rather than being offended, she felt envy because of Balou’s suggestions did not pop into her head before his apparition.
- He´s definitely an odd-looking character, there is no argument on that, Alba. For one thing, he refused to give me his real name, I had to invoice for the stay to a nickname he chose at random: Balou, which is the name we are apparently supposed to call him by during his visit to Nugaró. That´s weird, isn´t it? It´s known that I excel at scanning people at first sight, so as to get a comprehensive profile before accepting any tenant. If and when the scanning is unsatisfactory I don´t let her/him in, a ubiquitous invention like “I was about to put myself in a purgative-aimed quarantine so doors are closing” always comes to my mouth to make the matter easy. But instead, it was the Argentinian who scanned me; so I could not bring myself to get rid of him. Some sort of counterintuitive bewilderment replaced my lack of fear when Balou handed me a present for Valentina. That´s why I called you. Can you come fetch it by seven in the evening, Alba? Otherwise I take it home. Look, Alba, what it´s happening to this rare bird is that he´s deeply in love with your daughter, Balou´s blooming heart has been broken into million pieces. That´s all this is about. He has good intentions, yet a surplus of uncontrollable loving energy runs riots inside him. Nothing to be scared of. There are no reasons whatsoever to consider that Valentina is unsafe.
- I almost forgot: he has already had lunch in his room and is now out walking around the village. He asked me to have his dinner ready by seven in the evening.
It took ten seconds for Alba to answer Gloria:
- Oh my God, the present you are talking about is the cause of Valentina´s migraines. Her attempts to feign before me turned out to be unsuccessful: sharp maternal instinct always beat childish performances. Valentina talked to Balou by noon today and her mood changed straightaway, she was like a transfigured teen. You should have seen her. Yet Valentina hardly ever sleeps in daytime hours, she took a nap after lunch. I am concerned about this situation, Gloria. My husband insists in inviting Balou for dinner, under the guise of having a closer look to the enemy. He is exaggerating, as always. What´s your opinion?
- My mind is blank, Alba. As soon as I get Balou´s scan, I will provide you with some information on him.
- What kind of information?
- Ill-informed hosts are never properly rewarded. So relax don´t worry about it. The lesser we speak, the fewer questions can be put –Gloria recurred to an invented proverb just to end the conversation.
Gloria hanged the call up abruptly.
The stifle lips movement Alba made –if re-masterized- could, in itself, have been taken as a frozen smile.
After nap, Valentina sneak out of the house and started walking along the deserted streets of Nugaró at leisurely pace. A profound inner voice prompted her to cut off from society in order to think of the next steps to take regarding the Argentinian. To hire an assassin to put The Loser Titan out of the streets –she weighted her first radical option- was out of consideration since, as a sentient being, life ought to be preserved at any cost; to run away like a thief to her apartment in Cali would make her feel a coward at the least. She may not do that. As strange as it may seem, the lesser scared portion of her soul pleaded God to cross The Loser Titan by chance, appearing the encounter to be a whim of destiny. Not long after fifteen minutes’ walk, Valentina was seated under the centenary tree, the one that used to advise her wisely since childhood. Halfway between home and Central Square she made a stop to talk to Venancio Pombo, a friend of her father who dreamt to become the Mayor of Nugaró. He easily capture Valentina´s vote for the upcoming elections. Smiley like any other politician worthy of its name, Venancio pounded the pavement distributing flyers while charging against his competitor and current Mayor, Eusebio Vallegrande, a young politician suspected of being bribed by the gangs of Putumayo. These smugglers were said to be conceded free circulation permits from Eusebio Vallegrande, as their truckloads of coca passed through Nugaró seemingly exempted from Police check. The cottage Mermelada (Vallegrande´s nickname meaning patronage) was building outside Nugaró, in the condominium Manzanares, attracted the attention of the villagers especially that of Venancio Pombo, who never let the occasion pass to point out that the cottage was the proof of Vallegrande´s enrichment from out of the blue. Although Valentina is ambitious with respects to politics and works hard for being in the spotlight, she barely paid attention to her father´s talkative friend, for her mind, away from the scene, only concerned about her final destination.
The wise tree provided a home for Valentina´s pleadings. Whilst she embraced its robust trunk she felt that pleadings were being embraced too. They were eventually being processed. Valentina expected The Loser Titan not to meet her father as well as to leave Nugaró to the soonest, hopefully passing unseen. To invite him to dine home was one of her father´s most ridiculous ideas he had ever had, taking into account her efforts to stay clear of him. “Given the circumstances, no one in his right mind would foster a face to face between me and The Loser Titan” –she reasoned. Plenty of men dying for his daughter represented an uphill matter for René, Valentina´s suffering father, whose adaptation to the new scenario reported paternal jealousy as the most significant item to cope with. From her personal standpoint the giver of her life was not prepared –neither mentally nor emotionally- to handle the reactions of the masculine universe to her beautifulness. The untrained eye would assure that René takes the world by storm, but whoever digs a little deeper in him will discover demons like fear and ever present doubts fighting inside. Among his greatest fears one specific prevailed: that someone does harm to his beloved daughter. Valentina was not naïve enough to neglect her father´s deep-rooted weaknesses, what he was capable to do amidst a situation of desperation worries her too much. It would be sufficient for him to smell a threat on Valentina´s physical integrity to put peace at risk, to put cold-bloodedness aside and the world upside down.
In the moment Valentina puzzled over the airport affair her father called her, he spoke in a martial voice: “In case you have not phoned the Argentinian yet, dear daughter, I more than suggest you to do it now. Tell him to cancel dinner at Gloria´s hotel, for he is invited home instead. “This is not a suggestion, it´s an order”. Given that she was raised to obey the elders she proceeded the way René “suggested”. Her behaviour should be untarnished so as to become the pride of her parents, a medal they would brag about to society.
Valentina´s fifty four years old father would venerate the ex-president Álvaro Uribe because of his methods to undermine the FARC forces. “If someone fucks Valentina, he is fucked-up already” –René warned from the rooftops to anyone willing to listen-, implying that suitors of Valentina might be regarded almost as outlaws, a danger to society, being them at the same level of the FARC guerrillas.
