“Well . . . the only business of Pablo’s that I know of is the ‘Coca-Cola’ one! But this is precisely the kind of problem he loves to solve with a flick of his wrist. . . . Stay right where you are, and he’ll call you.”
Minutes later, my phone rings. After a short conversation, I go to my partner’s office, and with a radiant smile I tell her, “Margarita, the congressman Escobar Gaviria is on the line, and he wants to know if he can send his jet for us tomorrow at three in the afternoon.”
ON RETURNING FROM MEDELLÍN, I find an invitation to dine with Olguita and the Singer. She is sweet and refined, and he is the friendliest and most candid Andalusian in the world. When I get to their house—they hardly wait for me to sit down—Urraza asks me how it went. I reply that, thanks to the advertisement for Osito Bicycles that Pablo offered us, we’ll be able to pay all the company’s debts, and that the next week I’m going to film a program with Pablo at the municipal dump.
“Well . . . for that kind of money, I’d eat garbage! And you’re going to put him on TV? ¡Hostia!”
I tell him that every journalist interviews half a dozen unimportant congresspeople every week, and that Pablo is a member of the House; an alternate, yes, but a congressman nonetheless. And I add, “He’s in the process of giving away twenty-five hundred houses to the ‘residents’ of the dump, and others to people who live in slums. If that isn’t news in Colombia, I’ll eat my hat!”
He wants to know if Pablo made the interview a prerequisite, and I tell him no: I was the one who required it as a condition to accept the advertising; he asked only for a five-minute segment. I explain that I feel so grateful for his generosity, and have so much admiration for what Medellín sin Tugurios is doing, that I’m going to dedicate the whole hour of my Monday program to it, from 6:00 to 7:00 p.m.; the show will air in three weeks.
“You’ve certainly got balls! . . . And I’m starting to think Pablo is interested in you.”
I reply that all I’m interested in is saving my company and advancing my career, which is the only thing I have.
“Well, if Pablo falls in love with you and you fall in love with him—as I think could happen—you won’t have to worry about your career again, or your future, or that damned production company! And you’re going to be thanking me for it for the rest of your life, believe me.”
Laughing, I tell him that’s not going to happen: my heart is still very bruised, and Pablo has always been fascinated by Ángela.
“But don’t you realize that was all just child’s play? And that she’s the kind of girl who will always be in love with some polo player? Pablo knows Angelita isn’t for him; he’s not an idiot. He has very big political aspirations and he needs a real, elegant woman at his side, one who knows how to speak in public, not a model or a girl from his own class, like the last girlfriend. . . . Did you know he left her with two million dollars? What wouldn’t he, a man who wants to be president and who’s on his way to becoming one of the richest men in the world, give to a princess like you!”
I say that men who are so rich have always liked very young girls, and I’m already thirty-three years old.
“Oh, stop that bullshit, you look twenty-five, hostia! And multimillionaires have always liked sensational women—role models—not little girls who have nothing to talk about and don’t know how to make love. You’re a sex symbol, and you’ve got twenty years of beauty ahead of you. What more do you want? Do you know any man who cares how old Sophia Loren is, silly girl? You’re this country’s professional beauty with a pedigree, something Pablo has never had! Hostia, and here I thought you were an intelligent woman. . . .”
To add a final flourish to his rant, he exclaims in horror, “And if you plan to show up at that dump wearing Gucci and Valentino, I’m warning you, you won’t be able to get rid of the stench for a week! You can’t even imagine what it’s like there. . . .”
IT IS LIKE THE STENCH of ten thousand bodies on a battlefield three days after a historic defeat. Miles before we get there, we can already smell it. The Medellín dump is not a mountain covered with garbage: it is a mountain made of millions and millions of metric tons of decomposing trash. It is the stench of organic matter accumulated over centuries, in every state of putrefaction. It is the smell of gas emanations erupting all around us. It is the reek of all that remains of the animal and vegetable world after it mixes with chemical waste. It is the smell of every form of absolute poverty, the stench of injustice, corruption, arrogance, and utter indifference. It impregnates every molecule of oxygen around us, entering our pores and shaking our bodies to their core. It is the sweetish aroma of death, a perfume made for Judgment Day.
We start up along the same ash-gray road used by the trucks to deposit their cargo at the peak. Pablo drives, as always. I can feel him observing me every minute, scrutinizing my reactions: those of my body, of my heart, of my mind. I know what he’s thinking, and he knows what I’m feeling: a fleeting glance catches us by surprise; a certain smile confirms it. I know that with him by my side I’ll be able to stand everything that awaits us; but, as we approach our destination, I begin to wonder if the cameraman and my assistant, Martita Bruges, will be able to work the full four or five hours in that nauseating environment, on that unventilated stage, in that stifling heat enclosed by the metal walls of a cloudy day that was more oppressive and suffocating than any I remember.
The smell was only the preface to a spectacle that would make the toughest of men recoil in disgust. The Dante’s inferno that spreads before us seems to measure several square miles, and the mountaintop is terror itself: above us, against a dirty gray sky that no one would think to associate with heaven, swarm thousands of buzzards and vultures with razor-like beaks under cruel little eyes and revolting feathers that haven’t been black for a long time. Haughtily—as if they were eagles—the members of this underworld’s reigning dynasty take a few seconds to evaluate the state of our health, then go back to feasting on horse carcasses with wet viscera glinting in the sun. Below, hundreds of newly arrived dogs greet us by baring teeth sharpened by chronic hunger; beside them, other, more veteran canines—less skinny and more indifferent—wag their tails or scratch their patchy, flea-infested fur. The whole mountain seems to tremble with undulating and frenetic movement: it is the thousands of rats, big as cats, and millions of mice of all sizes. A swarm of flies hovers above us, and storm clouds of gnats and mosquitoes celebrate the arrival of fresh blood. For the lower species of the animal world, this place seems to be a paradise of nutrients.
Some ashy figures, different from the rest, start to appear. First, out peek curious little ones with swollen bellies, full of worms; then, some males with sullen expressions; and, finally, some females so gaunt that only the pregnant ones seem alive. And almost all the younger women are expecting. The drab creatures seem to emerge from all around us, first by the dozen and then by the hundred; they circle us to block our way or prevent us from fleeing, and in a matter of minutes they have us surrounded. Suddenly, that close, oscillating tide explodes in a clamor of joy, and a thousand white sparks illuminate their faces.
“It’s him, it’s don Pablo! Don Pablo is here! And he’s brought the lady from TV! Are you going to put us on TV, don Pablo?”
Now they look radiant with happiness and excitement. Everyone comes to greet him, to hug him, to touch him, as though wanting to keep a piece of him for themselves. At first glance, only those miraculous smiles separate these dirty and emaciated people from the rest of the animal kingdom; but in the following hours those beings will teach me one of the most splendid lessons that life has seen fit to give me.
“WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE my Christmas tree, miss?” asks a little girl, tugging at my silk blouse.
I imagine she’s going to show me a branch from some fallen tree, but it turns out to be a little frosted Christmas tree, nearly new and made in the USA.
Pablo