14.3 Infidel

The Daimler rolled savagely through a flow of traffic, from calle to carrera, in the so-called ‘Red Light District’, bumping its wheels into potholes filled with water. No matter how slow they moved, Calima felt those bumps in the backseat. An area framed within a triangle formed by Calle 22, Avenida Caracas and Carrera 17. She kept eagerly observing the very old modern-type city buildings pretty low; framed windows, stained walls, spoilt by graffiti, food vendors, people and garbage. Narrow lanes of the old city where Bogotá became the Athens. She could see a mountain at the end of every road and kinky girls by every door.

That was why Jamal Carreon supposed she should not step here looking for her sister. He rented this car and located the villa and her sister. He spoke to Marina on two occasions by then. First time, he caught her by Calle 22 and Carrera 15.

 

She sat on a bollard to drink a beer. On bare buttocks in a white hipster, white bustier and not a care in the world. He approached from the front in the late afternoon sun. He wore a pair of blue jeans and a white polo shirt he bought for the trip. She caught sight of him in shock that made her jaw drop and unable to move. As he came closer, she turned to face the road and sit tight hoping that he did not see.

He leaned closer and whispered, “Hola! Is it really you? Mary?”

She dismissed discreetly, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Jamal immediately changed tactic and cried a bit louder, “Oh Mary! I can’t believe it! How nice to see you! What brings you here?”

She glanced at him, “What is it that you want?”

“How about a drink!” he still continued to talk loudly, “Yeah, I got caught in the racket but now I am free. Those guys, you know, they are still in police custody.”

“Mr Jamal,” she warned, “talk softly.”

“I am so glad to see you!” he carried on ignoring her reticence and she knew he would not stop, “Are you alright? It wasn’t me, Mary! Believe me! Those thugs kidnapped you. And I heard you escaped but they could not find the money…”

“Mr Jamal,” she warned, “we shouldn’t talk about that. Why are you here?”

“I am going to Venezuela. My daughter is in Caracas, Jennifer, she’s the eldest,” Jamal paused and turned serious, “Say! What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“What kind of work? What can you do?”

“Laundry.”

“Do you know what this place is like?”

Marina gave a shrug on a shoulder, “Mr Jamal, don’t concern yourself!” An afternoon sun fell on her skin to give an orange glow.

“Hang on!” he said, “I want to buy you a drink but I don’t have time now,” he turned searchingly, “Can I meet you again? Where can I find you? Where do you stay?”

“You can buy me a drink from this pub and go,” she got on her feet.

Jamal chuckled, “Oh Mary! You haven’t changed a bit! That won’t do. I come back. Will you be here?”

“Maybe,” she answered, “I don’t want to talk about kidnapping.”

“Alright,” he said on his step turning to go, “it’s off the menu.”

She watched him go. Jamal crossed the road without looking back.

The next day he observed secretly from a nearby location. When the afternoon light hit the pavement, she appeared five times. When she made a break, he reached the corner and sat on the bollard in the sunlight, waiting for her.

He knew when she appeared by the corner without looking back. He knew she approached from behind.

“Hola Jamal!” she called informally and he turned getting on his feet.

“Hi there, Mary!”

“What exactly are you doing here?” she was holding a beer.

“Jenny, she is a chemical engineer…to be frank, I thought to stopover here in Bogotá for a week.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At Hotel Saint James, over a kilometre from here. Why?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes,” he nodded, “I am always alone. I don’t like crowds. Where can we go?”

She pointed right ahead, “There’s a pub next block,” and he knew she took him further away from her domicile that stood on the lane; Carrera 15.

They began to walk towards east. Soft rays of the afternoon sun fell on her bare buttocks as she wiggled away. Marina looked lot healthier with an incredible backside.

“I am astounded to bump into you,” he began, “So, this laundry, is it all true! You work there?”

“Not precisely,” she said.

“Is your husband supporting this?”

“Jamal!” she cautioned, “We rather not talk about that. And you can’t tell anyone back in Argentina that you came across me.”

“Why? Are you hiding from someone?”

“Yes,” she said, “my family, my friends, my husband. Nobody knows where I am.”

“I see!” he sighed, “I see you’re wearing a little cross around your neck.”

“Yes, I’m a different person now. Everything has changed. Jamal! I am happy here and I want to keep this life.”

“I’m shocked to hear!” he uttered.

“I know,” she said, “Let’s get in there!”

They entered a small café on Calle 22, after passing Dona Rosa corner. “How did you escape from there?” he asked.

“Stop asking me about that.”

“Alright! What shall we talk about?”

“Talk about you,” she said.

“Well, I’m picking a woman every night. This place is fantastic. You know, I am old and not much of a man but it gives me some kind of satisfaction for the whole week if I could sleep with a woman.”

“I can understand that.”

“And now it’s you,” he uttered, “I don’t know where to start. I’m happy to know you’re there and count on this one I missed.”

“One out of ten!”

“Yes,” he chuckled.

“If you ask…” she cut short.

“Are you involved in service business?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, Mary, perhaps if you will join me on a little sightseeing, that will do enough!”

She nodded, “Fine, it’s a date.”

“I don’t want to miss it,” and he added, “Have you been around to places?”

“Not much.”

“I have been here several times when I worked for the US government.”

 

The Daimler turned to Carrera 15. “See that red signboard!” Jamal pointed to the right side from the driver seat, “Villa Magellanica, a little nightclub and a laundry on the top.”

“Is she working there?” asked Calima in the backseat and Maria glanced slightly from the passenger seat. She sat in the front with a camera taking photographs.

“Absolutely not,” said Jamal, “She goes to Chapinero, five kilometres away, to work at a gold shop maintained by her godmother who lives in Chapinero. She takes a bus.

“See that white van!” he slowed passing the garage, “If Ana García is here, there will be a red Cherokee parked next to the van. She keeps many chicas here. Most of them are not even Colombian.”

The Daimler stopped at the corner. “It’s here we met,” he carried on, “She sat there on the bollard. She’ll be home any moment.”

“Fine, I have seen enough,” said Calima, “I take your advice and follow your lead.”

Jamal Carreon turned the Daimler onto Calle 22 and rolled smoothly without bumps.