The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (32 page)

She sits by the table, unscrews the top of the tube and squeezes the cream onto her fingers. Lovingly she rubs it into her cheeks, filling in the crevices, soothing the poor sad skin. She massages her face, her eyelids, behind her ears. She stretches her jaw, feeling elasticity in her skin for the first time in weeks. It is fed, it is soothed. Healing is taking place. She turns up the volume on the radio, breaks a square from the bar of chocolate and places it on her tongue. The radio is playing evensong. An organ and a choir.

‘…
of all hopefulness, Lord of all joy,

whose trust ever childlike no cares could destroy,

be there at our waking and give us we pray,

your bliss in our hearts, Lord, at the break of the day.'

16

Postcard home

When I wake, I realize I have slept like a babe. No dream to remember. No demons gnawing on the bedpost. I think back to the Meeting of the previous evening and recall my tears, the feelings and stories I shared with the two men and the honesty and the relief. Lying in my bed I enjoy a sense of ease, in spite of all that has gone before and the daunting task ahead. It's as if I accept what is happening around me. It is what it is. I lie back on the bed and decide to do nothing until something has to be done.

The Novotel Hotel where I am staying is in the embassy district of Bogotá, as quiet and urbane as it comes. The hotel is clinical and nondescript in that peculiarly Swiss style. I could be anywhere. A kind of gentle exhaustion has taken a firm grip and my mind has shut down for now. If I even try to piece together the events of the past weeks or the twist of recent days, my mind protests and refuses to cooperate. We agree a truce, a temporary armistice, freeze-framing the action, at least for the time being. It's as much as I can do to order room service and watch CNN on the television. It's been weeks since I've taken any interest in what has been going on in the world. The news is still the news. It seems to have been going on in spite of my distancing myself from it. Wars and rumours of wars, famines and natural disasters, scandals and scaremongering, sporting triumphs and weather reports. Nothing much has changed. I flick through the channels and then land back on CNN.

There are scenes of panic from somewhere I vaguely recognize. The soundtrack is of machine-guns, but this is not a movie. Then I realize it's Ascavar's compound and it seems there's a siege taking place. I sit up in bed, all remnants of sleep swamped by adrenaline. The pictures show the outside of the compound, leading from the main road. Military vehicles and police cars are everywhere. Soldiers and police are positioned every five yards or so, all clad in body armour, all sporting high-velocity weapons. There is a huge hole in the compound wall, presumably from an orchestrated blast, and an armoured car is ploughing through the gap. The camera angle shifts ninety degrees and an earnest looking news reporter appears in the frame.

‘The siege continues at the Bogotá residence of Carlos Ascavar, the well-known leader of the Medellin drugs cartel. The authorities have been tracking his activities for some time now. In the early hours an attempt was made to arrest him in connection with the brutal murder of a female accomplice, whose body was discovered last month in the Salle Fernandez barrio east of the capital. While resisting arrest, gunshots were fired and the siege you witness behind me commenced. It is not clear who fired the first shots, but we are now some four hours into a serious stand-off involving the Colombian police and military. So far, unconfirmed reports are coming through of two police fatalities.'

The reporter ducks involuntarily as the deafening sounds of an explosion rock the neighbourhood.

‘As you can see and hear,' continues the reporter, smiling at his own ability to regain his composure, ‘this battle is far from over and is likely to go to the wire. This is Sandy Brockhurst for CNN News.'

I sit staring at the scenes, trying to take it all in, when the telephone by the side of my bed rings. It makes me jump. I look at it for a second or two, not sure what, if anything, is safe.

Tentatively, I pick up the receiver.

‘Hello,' says the strangely familiar voice at the other end.

‘Hello, who is that?' I answer slowly, my eyes still on the TV.

‘It's me, Mary Foster.'

‘Of course, who else?' I reply, almost amused. After all, this is the voice that started this whole merry-go-round spinning.

There is another huge explosion from the TV, sending the camera into a whirl.

‘Ah,' says Mary, ‘so you're in the picture. That's what I called you to talk about.'

Sounds of mortar fire on the TV, billows of smoke, soldiers storming through holes in walls.

‘Anthony … are you there?'

‘Er … yes,' I say, not quite sure where
there
is.

‘Listen, everything is just fine,' says Mary in a soft and reassuring voice. ‘It'll all be over by this evening. Get some rest and then meet me at seven in Saint Dominic's Square.'

‘Where?' I say, still mesmerised by the real action movie on the television screen.

‘Saint Dominic's Square,' she repeats slowly. ‘Just take a taxi, the driver will know where it is. Seven o'clock. I'll meet you there. There's a bench by the fountain. Did you hear me, Anthony? Okay?'

‘Yes,' I say, like an automaton, ‘Saint Dominic's Square. The bench by the fountain. Seven o'clock.'

‘Good,' says the voice, ‘just relax. I'll see you there.'

Then the phone goes quiet, just as a rattle of machine-gun fire makes Sandy duck once more.

Caitlin sits in the solitary chair listening to opera on the radio. Beside her is a bag containing her few possessions and the usual change of clothes. She looks over to the opposite corner, to the space where for so many days and nights she has lain like a corpse. The thin mattress has been rolled up and the wooden pallet propped against the wall. She stands up and walks through the empty space where her bed has been. Her own personal resurrection. She leans down and finds the small crescent moon she carved with her fingernail. She presses her lips to the plaster. Then there's a new sound. It's not the boiler. It's not the door shutting. It's the click of fingers, and the One without Eyebrows is standing in the doorway, the boulder rolled from the entrance, beckoning her to leave the tomb.

I decide to operate on my time rather than English or Colombian and get to the square at six-fifteen. It is dark already, but the water from the fountain catches the moonlight and illuminates the solitary bench as if it were a film set. A young couple are seated there, deep in an embrace. There is no one else in sight. So there are some things even multi-nationals cannot ensure. Or maybe Mary has booked the bench for seven. I stand for a while and watch the occasional car rattle by. Old Fords and Cadillacs, bumpers hanging loose, dents and scratches, all hand-painted in yellows and blues. The square slopes to one corner, where I am attracted to the only window that is lit up. I, like the lovers on the bench, have time on my side, so I take a leisurely walk towards it. Peering through the window I see row after row of numbered postcards. There is the tinkling of a bell as a very old man leaves the shop. He is excited and animated. He is holding something in his hand, clasping it to his chest, like a letter from a paramour. He casts a look my way, chuckles to himself. I watch him walk away across the square, a bounce in his step.

The door to the shop is slightly ajar so I go inside. The fluorescent bulb and the brightness of all the postcards on display lighten my spirits. The only other person in the shop is the proprietor, who sits behind a battered old table reading a book. He glances above his glasses, barely acknowledges me and then gets back to his reading. The postcards on the wall depict a range of subjects: men and women in national costumes are caught in wooden poses on the side of a hill; golden amulets and rings from the national museum vie for attention with farm animals and famous footballers. All are bright and gaudily coloured like children's cartoons. As I note down a few numbers to take back for souvenirs, the church clock in the square chimes the half-hour. The man stands up from the table, reaches to the shelf and turns on the radio. There is a fanfare over the wavelengths followed by frantic and excited commentary. My ears prick up as I catch the words ‘Ascavar', ‘narcotico' and ‘militia'. After a few minutes the fanfare is repeated, signalling the end of the news broadcast, and the man turns off the set.

‘Excuse me,' I say, before he settles back down to his book. ‘Do you speak English?'

‘Yes, I do.'

He looks to be in his early fifties, with thick peppery hair and striking brown eyes. He is dressed in a fresh white shirt with a paisley patterned scarf. I suddenly realize just how much I am taking in my surroundings, noticing what is going on around me: the moonlight on the fountain in the square; the spring in the old man's step as he left the shop; the pattern of a scarf.

‘Would you be so kind as to tell me what the news bulletin said?' I ask.

‘Ah the news … The news, my friend, is the death of another of Colombia's bully-boys. Carlos Ascavar is with us no more.' He finishes with a flourish of his hand, the matador despatching the bull.

‘How did it end?'

‘He was shot! Who shot him is neither here nor there. More to the point, we are shot of him.'

A car circles the square at great speed, beeping its horn, and then departs.

‘To Ascavar's demise?' I ponder aloud.

‘Maybe, or maybe a wedding, or just for fun. It is not so very important in the scheme of things. Here, we are used to these changes. There will be other Ascavars, other presidents, new mayors and judges. One man is just one man. Whether a president or a king, a pauper or a thief. He comes, he goes. He does good, he does bad. Don't you agree?'

Do I? I put my hand to my mouth, considering. The shopkeeper waits for a reply and then, when I say nothing, he decides to continue.

‘The world will go on around us. We can only try to make our own small contribution. Did you see that old man who left the shop just before you came in?'

‘Yes, I did, he looked very happy.'

‘Happy, he was.'

The shopkeeper looks at me for a moment, as if about to divulge a great secret. He seems to weigh me up, to determine if I am worthy of his confidence. Behind him the shelves are filled with old manuscripts stacked higgledy-piggledy against each other. Amongst them are ornaments and bric-a-brac covered in varying layers of dust. I spot a pocket watch, a rusted padlock, a full-sailed model ship with tiny men on the mast awaiting orders from the bridge.

‘I will tell you this, not to boast but merely to illustrate my point. That elderly gentleman, who goes by the name of Dr Augusto Marquez-Gomas, is happy because I have made his dream come true. Let me tell you a little about him. For almost sixty years he has been the physician to this neighbourhood. He brought me and my six sisters into the world. He is the most respected man hereabouts. Aside from medicine he has two great passions. Bullfights and picture postcards. He has the finest postcard collection of Spanish matadors in all of Colombia. For the last fifteen years he and I have been searching for the final card for his collection. Last week in Villa Camelo I found it amongst a chest of papers being sold in the market square. How my heart leapt when I saw it. Luis Perez Ortega, at the bullring on the hillside near Competa. He is shown executing the
costadillo pass, suerte de varas.
The watermark was perfect and the stamp was intact. He cried when I first showed him the postcard. So the news, my friend, is not that Ascavar is dead, but that Dr Augusto Marquez-Gomas has completed his postcard set of famous Spanish bullfighters. My happiness is for the good doctor, not for those who wish Ascavar dead.'

We both turn and crane our necks at the swish of new tyres, the hum of a finely tuned engine. The Mercedes has darkened windows, so it is impossible to make out the passengers. The car circles the square twice and then comes to a halt on the north side, by the fountain. The lovers look up from each other, observe the car, then stand up from the bench and prepare to leave. The boy straightens the girl's hair, kisses her gently on the nape of the neck, and then the two walk off towards the labyrinth of alleyways leading to the barrio where they live. The shopkeeper stands beside me as we watch the two lovers disappear.

‘Maria and Jesus. They come to the square every evening. They will marry in the spring. My name is Pedro Maldovar,' he says, extending a hand.

‘And mine is Anthony Malloy,' I reply, as we shake hands. ‘Very pleased to meet you.'

We talk a little longer and he shows me some old postcards from various Colombian cities. I buy the ones I had selected from the wall and an older more expensive one of Medellin, just for the memory. As he packages them up the clock strikes seven and I say my goodbyes.

The moon is hiding behind a cloud, so the bench is no longer lit up. As I make my way across the square towards the fountain I hear a sobbing rising above the gushing of the water. The sobbing turns to a howl. There, at the base of the fountain, is a tiny boy, scratching at his own face and screeching like a banshee, his back stacked ten foot high with scraps of cardboard. As I walk closer he gets up and scuttles away to the opposite side of the square. He is filthy and shoeless, his clothes are rags and his long hair hangs around his face in matted clumps. He scurries across the cobbles of the square. His ungainly load, tied to his middle, gives him the appearance of a dung beetle. He settles down on the curb of the square and moans to himself. I can't help wondering if this is a performance for my benefit to elicit sympathy and dollars. Before I have time to consider the matter further the door of the Mercedes opens. As I expected, it is Mary who steps from the car and makes her way across to the empty bench. She's obviously been watching my progress from the shop and she beckons me to join her.