Fish Soup. Margarita García Robayo

out the window: the chicken sign wasn’t lit up. It wouldn’t be until later. I didn’t eat, I didn’t go to the toilet, all I did was think about Johnny and stare at the grimy window pane. 19, 18, 17, 16…

      Johnny didn’t appear online. I sent him three hundred and seventeen emails. Nothing. I never heard from him again. And with time, the sadness passed, but I was filled with pity. Firstly, for him, because he must have lost everything: his car, his unemployment benefit, his Ecuadorian wife, his VIP passes, his dignity. Then for me, because I’d lost my drives around Miami, the lobster and champagne, the sunsets in Mallory Square, the good life that Johnny had got me used to. And then for me, again for me, for the many times in my life, for every time I’d lost someone I didn’t even care about.

      12

      I took some time off once and didn’t know where to go. They made me take time off because, according to my boss, I had never taken any holiday and I had to. Why? Because it’s a new policy. I thought that there was something wrong with this new policy, and I told her as much, but she took no notice. It was a very small airline and they were tendering to move up a category, to get more routes. During those days off I visited my mother and the first thing she did was show me photos of a boy aged three, four years old, dressed as a cowboy, dressed as Snoopy, dressed as Tarzan. Who’s that? I asked. Who? That child. She shot me a furious look: Simón, your nephew! I didn’t know what to say. While my mother grumbled away, I realised that she had become an old woman: she had grey hairs and wrinkles, and the stale breath that comes with age.

      I stayed for dinner.

      My father had finally given up the taxi business for good, but he was still complaining: nobody takes cares of things that aren’t theirs. A letter came for you, said my mother. When? She squinted and said: it was over a year ago. Why didn’t you let me know? I don’t have your phone number. Yes, you do. She waved me away with her hand: pah!

      I got back to the apartment at midnight. I opened the windows; it was hot. A breeze wafted in, smelling of sludge.

      The letter was from Maritza Caballero, my teenage friend. She said she hadn’t heard from me in a long time, and as she only had that address for me, she had taken a chance on writing to me there, although she presumed I had probably moved. For a while we used to write letters to one another, but then I stopped replying. I got bored. According to what she told me, Medellín was a shitty city. It was neither cold nor hot, pretty nor ugly, rich nor poor. Medellín was nothing. Anyway, she didn’t live in Medellín anymore, but in Panama. Her father had been posted to Peru many years ago. She had gone back and forth many times, and now she had settled in Panama with her husband, who worked on the Canal, and her children. She enclosed a photo of her; she looked the same but with crow’s feet and a guy next to her, a girl and a boy sitting at their feet, like pets. Her phone number, in case I ever went to Panama, was… I scrunched the letter up into a ball and hurled it at the fried chicken, right at the beak, but it didn’t quite make it. It landed in the middle of the street.

      I lit a cigarette.

      I didn’t go to Gustavo’s because I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t go anywhere. I called the Captain, he didn’t pick up. I called again. A woman answered. Hello? Susana? Who is this? I hung up. But it wasn’t Susana, she had a funny accent.

      On Friday, Milagros invited me to go to the islands with them. Her French boyfriend and some friends had rented a couple of cabins. I shaved my legs, packed a bag and then waited with Milagros for them to pick us up. A car with a driver came to collect us and dropped us off down at the quay. Then a boat came in, full of foreigners and hookers. I looked at Milagros, who shrugged. What were you expecting? I thought for two or three seconds. I realised I wasn’t expecting anything. We went aboard. A Frenchman sat down next to me and asked me if I had my life jacket on properly. I said Oui. When we arrived at the beach there was a buffet of juices and drinks. What are you drinking? asked the Frenchman. Negroni. He looked at the table: I don’t think they have it. Cuba Libre, I said. He nodded and went to get some ice.

      We were in a hut filled with wicker sofas. Some of the men had gone off to the beach with their hookers; Milagros and her boyfriend were smooching in one of the cabins. There were two Frenchmen left, who were touching up a girl who couldn’t even have been eighteen. She was laughing. She seemed nervous, but she was hiding it well.

      My Frenchman returned with the drinks. We sat down on a sofa and he put his arm around my shoulder. It was limp, cold, toad-like. I shrugged his arm off and said: I’m expensive. Very expensive? Yes. I don’t care. Okay: I held out my hand, palm up.

      We came back on the Monday, badly hungover. I still had a week of holiday left and I didn’t know what else to do. Spend the money from the Frenchman, but on what, where? I would have been totally justified in spending it on a rent boy who could actually give me a good seeing-to. I called the Captain, but the same woman answered. I hung up. It wasn’t like the Captain was even that good in bed. Then I called Tony’s house. His mother told me that he’d moved years ago, and when I insisted, she gave me his mobile number. Hello? He answered. I miss you, I told him. He was silent for a minute and then said: I don’t. I bought you a present. What? You’re going to like it. I don’t want it. Are you sure? What is it? A surprise: if you come I’ll give it to you, if not… you’ll never know. I don’t know… Come. I got married. I don’t care. I do. I’ll see you in an hour.

      I had bought him a Calvin Klein fragrance. He stayed for the rest of the week.

      13