Chapter of “The assassins”, novel by Germán Gaviria Álvarez

one

Araoz preferred to keep the last cigarette he had left. It was going to be ten at night. He didn't think he could resist the urge to smoke when he got off the bus, when he walked to the building where he lived. He had in his pocket the coins for today's ticket, a pack of cheap cigarettes for the next day. He had to borrow money that he would have to extend until the next payment, which he saw far away. He was starving, freezing to death. He resigned himself to the thought that he would go to bed with a blank stomach. What he wanted most was to be in his bed, to rest after a long day that he could go to hell, but that was going to have to wait. He remembered the assigned chair and table in the office, those of a middling employee. He remembered the colleagues with whom he spoke little or nothing, the ones who were doing the night shift right now. (We recommend: Chapter of "Goodbye, but with me", the most recent novel by the Antioquian writer Jun Diego Mejía).

From the black clouds he knew that a hailstorm would fall. It would be best to get out of there as quickly as possible. The wind drove her fists into the pockets of his buttoned jacket up to his neck. Shrunken, Araoz cursed not having left the office when the clock struck half past eight at night. The last-minute assignment was to be finished at his house. He had been standing there for almost an hour, he was tired of waiting. He was sick of every day being the same, of feeling that way. He thought that it would have been better to walk to his apartment as he had done other times, it would not have been a novelty. The later he went, the more unlikely it would be that he would pass a bus. Most of the businesses had closed. There were half a dozen street vendors on the sidewalks, a couple of homeless people, and a small horde of dogs digging through gutted garbage bags. (We recommend: Homage to Joan Didion. Chapter of her novel “Blue Nights”).

He was going to walk away when a luxury vehicle pulled over, Araoz saw that they were calling him. The first drops and nuggets of hail hit Araoz's head as he approached the vehicle, bending down to look inside. He ran his hand over his head, through the shock of hair, and watched. He must have been one of those rich women who don't mind getting someone wet just to ask for directions, anything unimportant.

Shall I take it? she offered.

The woman behind the wheel had her arm resting on the back of the passenger seat and she was leaning slightly forward. The warmth of the cabin and the unusualness of her proposal made Araoz take a deep breath, a little disconcerted as he peered inside, while he checked that no one else was going with her.

We know each other?

Does it matter?

Araoz looked towards the avenue. The bus that seemed to serve him was a block away. Araoz lowered his head, looked at the filthy pavement without knowing what to answer. The woman was not one of those lonely rich old women who go out at night looking for a man. She was a young, ordinary woman, of ordinary beauty, ordinary appearance and expensive clothes, but in bad taste. A kept woman who throws away the money of some old and very rich merchant.

Do you want her to take you somewhere or would you prefer to get wet?

You don't get wet at the bus stop, Araoz said, and made to go back, but he stopped. Although the bus in the distance seemed to be his, it could be a different route; him several times he had been disappointed. He found himself walking for an hour to his apartment in a heavy, disheartening downpour. Neither would he have other shoes for the next day if he wet the ones he was wearing.

The woman removed her arm from the seat, made a deadpan gesture, and placed the cell phone on her lap. Araoz observed the angular knees, the black stockings. Next to his left leg, semi-hidden on the floor, his bag, as if it were protected from thieves.

Araoz opened the door, made himself comfortable in the chair and breathed deeply that pleasant warmth. He hadn't been in a luxury car for too long. He had almost forgotten the feeling of well-being that comes from a large, compact, leather-trimmed, tasteful cabin. He put the hands-free backpack on the mat and crossed the seat belt across his chest. His hands rested on her thighs. He stretched out his legs, resting them from that wait. If my feet get hot, the rest of my body gets hot, Araoz told himself.

Where do I take it?

You drive; you choose the route.

The woman double-pressed the screen of the cell phone, put it in the holder on the dashboard. She looked at Araoz questioningly. She focused on the hail that swelled up sharply, the rain hitting the windshield and the street. She didn't seem to give any importance to what she saw.

Does it go where you want to take it?

Yes.

So, right off the bat?

Why not?

Tell me where I'm taking it, the woman insisted. Araoz thought about the hoarseness of that voice, about her tone. Should he fret or relax? The best thing is always to let yourself be carried away by the circumstances, to resolve as you go along, he said to himself, what do I have to lose?

I go where you want.

Without even asking?

Without even asking.

Araoz perceived a certain hostility in the woman, a certain impudence. He no longer cared about walking to her apartment, getting wet, confirming that he had had a shitty day. A week of shit, although she looks at herself. Yeah, fuck, what am I doing here with this whore?, he said to himself as he was about to get off.

Does it matter to you?

I did not say that. But yes, I don't care.

And what we do, does it matter to you?

It depends.

The woman pursed her lips:

Where do you live?

On Calle One hundred and forty-two with Tenth.

She was waiting for him “el colt”, as Araoz called the uncomfortable table where she worked. In the end, the night was always long, tedious, depressing. She had to finish those errands, tomorrow she couldn't show up empty handed. No, if something characterized him, it was that he never failed to fulfill his commitments, he never left a job half done.

He likes music?

The hailstorm increased in the street, hit the cans increasing the noise in the cabin, mixing with suburban music, the kind of music that Araoz hated. The car remained with the engine running, but the engine could not be heard.

Do not.

Do you want me to change it?

It's your car, put on the music you want.

The woman moved the lever, launched the vehicle to the left. From Carrera 15 she went down to the North Highway at 85th Street and sped through the traffic. It was not the route that Araoz expected him to take. He had heard stories of rich women who hung around Carrera 15 late at night looking for young males to please them, asking for violent sex, even paying well. But he was no young man. He had never thought of earning extra money that way. He wasn't too sure what people meant when he talked about “violent sex” either, he wasn't interested in it and didn't want to imagine anything like that. He must have looked tired, his appearance was not what it was years ago. The clothes he wore, though clean and decorous, were old, worn, ugly. He must have looked like an old idiot, poor thing; A loser.

In a few minutes they passed through 170th Street. The woman sped towards the Bogotá exit, where she was not raining. Araoz looked at the woman out of the corner of her eye. She liked those slender wrists, the straight, intensely black hair that fell over her chest, her slight, slight figure; she liked light women. He reminded her of someone, but he had seen and dealt with so many people in his life that he let go of the idea.

What did it matter finally, what did it matter who the hell he was. Just as it didn't matter what happened. In any case, he should feel proud that she had chosen him, among so many others. Araoz did not believe in good luck, "good luck" is for the ignorant, for the scoundrels; he believed in probabilities. What is the probability that a young woman, half pretty, with attractiveness, with a luxury car, with luxury clothes, picks up a man with an unhappy face who could be her father in the current circumstances?

None.

On the North Highway, the blocks of buildings and houses formed a cluster in the city that slowly fell behind. Trees floated clipped over sidewalks. The Eastern Hills stretched out in the distance in their continuum of great dark masses. The dark world of the night called for impunity.

Araoz was going to mention something because of the speed at which they were going, but he stopped himself. Let the woman go as fast as she wanted. Araoz took out a case and put the glasses away. He rubbed his eyes, sank into the seat almost without energy, letting go, not paying attention to what little was visible through the window, feeling more and more comfortable in the chair. His feet began to heat up.

Could you turn off the radio?

The woman didn't answer, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

A downpour is also going to fall around here, said Araoz.

Yes.

You know me.

Should? Like why or what, the woman replied, frowning. She pushed the throttle down a bit more. She touched a screen on the dashboard, the radio went dead.

Aren't you afraid to pick up a thief, a murderer, a...?

Rapist?

Yes.

You don't seem to be any of that.

What do I look like?

Artist or something.

I am not an artist.

What does.

I am a cartoonist. I work for a magazine.

When he said these words, Araoz considered what they meant. The final job of a bankrupt man who, although he had glory days, now did cartoons for a magazine that always delayed payments, that never recognized the quality of his work, in which he would never have a worthwhile salary . Araoz thought of his boss, that old “friend” who used to go to his house to eat and get drunk. The one who was outraged with him because during the fire – a fire for which Araoz was not to blame – the collection of erotic photographs from 1900 that he had lent him had been burned. “Friend” who delayed his salary when he felt like it. The truth is that Araoz didn't have much talent either, it didn't matter how many hours he dedicated to the commissions, the result was very good, he was never of superior quality, he never had been. He worked for a few coins, clinging to them with paws and hands. When the boss found a more willing young man, he would replace Araoz in the blink of an eye. And after that? He hoped to hold out there a little longer, until his problems were resolved.

Therefore, an artist.

Cartoonists are not artists.

oh

And you?

Business.

Because I.

Because you? I like mature men.

Araoz inspected the woman's face, with its easy lines. She must have been in her thirties. A prepaid who likes a stranger to give her a good fuck, Araoz told himself. A whim that occurs while the guy who supports her is on a trip or breaks his back working.

What's so weird about it? she added.

Any.

Three hundred meters before the toll, the car turned around, it seemed to return to the city. He immediately moved into the right-hand lane, turned and entered a small road where pieces of pavement formed large gaps with sharp edges. The “Guaymaral” ad, quite lopsided, was missing two vowels, one consonant. The arrow pointing the way had been smudged with spray paint. The car entered an aged sidewalk that led to the mansions in the sector. But the vehicle did not cross any wall surrounding a country house or enter any hidden parking lot, as Araoz expected. The woman stopped the vehicle where the road ended. The headlights illuminated the dusty thickets. The abandoned paddock was lost in the blackness of small bushes and tall grass giving the impression of a compact tangle.

In the middle distance, Araoz spotted the light bulb at the entrance to a small house. The light was yellow, faded. The little house must have been a one-story house, made of brick and with Eternit tiles, infested with half a dozen mangy dogs. They were the ones making noise. Araoz observed with indifference how unpleasant the field was before her eyes. He didn't care that the owners of the surrounding mansions gradually devoured those lands or that year after year they were displacing the original owners, miserable peasants who worked in those mansions for nothing. In a sense, he himself had done it once, he had never felt remorse about it.

The woman turned off the engine. She slid the tips of her nails from her knees to Araoz's groin. She leaned into him meeting her gaze; with her other hand she caressed her face, Araoz's long beard.

* It is published with the authorization of Planeta Editorial Group.