The White Album (25 page)

1975

on the Colombian
coast it was hot, fevered, eleven degrees off the equator with evening trades that did not relieve but blew hot and dusty
.
The sky was white, the casino idle
.
I had never meant to leave the coast but after a week of it I began to think exclusively of
Bogotá
, floating on the Andes an hour away by air
.
In
Bogotá
it would be cool
.
In
Bogotá
one could get
The New York Times
only two days late and the
Miami Herald
only one day late and also emeralds, and bottled water
.
In
Bogotá
there would be fresh roses in the bathrooms at the Hotel Tequendama and hot water twenty-four hours a day and numbers to be dialed for chicken sandwiches from room service and Xerox
r
á
pido
and long-distance operators who could get Los Angeles in ten minutes
.
In my room in Cartagena I would wake to the bleached coastal morning and find myself repeating certain words and phrases under my breath, an incantation:
Bogotá
, Bacata
.
El Dorado
.
Emeralds
.
Hot water
.
Madeira
consommé
in cool dining rooms
.
Santa Fe de
Bogotá
del Nuevo Reino de Granada de las Indias del Mar Oceano
.
The
Avianca flight to
Bogotá
left Cartagena every morning at ten-forty, but such was the slowed motion of the coast that it took me another four days to get on it
.

Maybe that is the one true way to see
Bogotá
, to have it float in the mind until the need for it is visceral, for the whole history of the place has been to seem a mirage, a delusion on the high savannah, its gold and its emeralds unattainable, inaccessible, its isolation so splendid and unthinkable that the very existence of a city astonishes
.
There on the very spine of the Andes gardeners espalier roses on embassy walls
.
Swarms of little girls in proper navy-blue school blazers line up to enter the faded tent of a tatty traveling circus: the elephant, the strong man, the tattooed man from Maracaibo
.
I arrived in
Bogotá
on a day in 1973 when the streets seemed bathed in mist and thin brilliant light and in the amplified pop voice of Nelson Ned, a Brazilian dwarf whose records played in every
disco
storefront
.
Outside
the sixteenth-century Church of
San Francisco, where the Spanish viceroys took office when the country was Nueva Granada and where Simon Bolivar assumed the presidency of the doomed republic called Gran Colombia, small children and old women hawked Cuban cigars and cartons of American cigarettes and newspapers with the headline
“jackie y ari
.
”
I lit a candle for my daughter and bought a paper to read about Jackie and Ari, how the princess
de los norteamericanos
ruled the king of the Greek sea by demanding of him pink champagne every night and
medialunas
every morning, a story a child might invent
.
Later, in the Gold Museum of the Banco de la Republica, I looked at the gold the Spaniards opened the Americas to get, the vision of El Dorado which was to animate a century and is believed to have begun here, outside
Bogotá
, at Lake Guatavita
.
“Many golden offerings were cast into the lake,” wrote the anthropologist Olivia Vlahos of the nights when the Chibcha Indians lit bonfires on the Andes and confirmed their rulers at Guatavita
.

Many more were heaped on a raft
.
...
Then into the firelight stepped the ruler-to-be, his nakedness coated with a sticky resin
.
Onto the resin his priests applied gold dust and more gold dust until he gleamed like a golden statue
.
He stepped onto the raft, which was cut loose to drift into the middle of the lake
.
Suddenly he dived into the black water
.
When he emerged, the gold was gone, washed clean from his body
.
And he was king
.

Until the Spaniards heard the story, and came to find El Dorado for themselves
.
“One thing you must understand,” a young Colombian said to me at dinner that night
.
We were at Eduardo’s out in the Chico district and the piano player was playing “Love Is Blue” and we were drinking an indifferent bottle of
C
hâteau
L
é
oville-Poyferr
é
which cost $20 American
.
“Spain sent all its highest aristocracy to South America
.
”
In fact I had heard variations on this hallucination before, on the coast: when Colombians spoke about the past I often had the sense of being in a place where history tended to sink, even as it happened, into the traceless solitude of autosuggestion
.
The princess was drinking pink champagne
.
High in the mountains the men were made of gold
.
Spain sent its highest aristocracy to South America
.
They were all stories a child might invent
.

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice
.
—The opening line of
One Hundred Years of Solitude,
by the Colombian novelist Gabriel Garcia Marquez
.

At the big movie theaters in
Bogotá
in the spring of 1973
The Professionals
was playing, and
It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World,
two American pictures released in, respectively, 1967 and 1964
.
The English-language racks of paperback stands were packed with Edmund Wilson’s
The Cold War and the Income Tax,
the 1964 Signet edition
.
This slight but definite dislocation of time fixed on the mind the awesome isolation of the place, as did dislocations of other kinds
.
On the fourth floor of the glossy new
Bogotá
Hilton one could lunch in an orchid-filled gallery that overlooked the indoor swimming pool, and also overlooked a shantytown of packing-crate and tin-can shacks where a small boy, his body hideously scarred and his face obscured by a knitted mask, played lisdessly with a yo-yo
.
In the lobby of the Hotel Tequendama two Braniff stewardesses in turquoise-blue Pucci pantsuits flirted desultorily with a German waiting for the airport limousine; a third ignored the German and stood before a relief map on which buttons could be pressed to light up the major cities of Colombia
.
Santa Marta, on the coast; Barranquilla, Cartagena
.
Medellin, on the Central Cordillera
.
Cali, on the Cauca River, San Agustin on the Magdalena
.
Leticia, on the Amazon
.

I watched her press the buttons one by one, transfixed by the vast darkness each tiny bulb illumined
.
The light for
Bogotá
blinked twice and went out
.
The girl in the Pucci pantsuit traced the Andes with her index finger
.
Alto arrecife de la aurora humana,
the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda called the Andes
.
High reef of the human dawn
.
It cost the
conquistador
Gonzalo Jimenez de Quesada two years and the health of most of his men to reach
Bogotá
from the coast
.
It cost me $26
.

“I knew they were your bags,” the man at the airport said, producing them triumphantly from a moraine of baggage and cartons and rubble from the construction that seemed all over
Bogotá
a chronic condition
.
“They smelled American
.
”
Parece una turista norteamericana,
I read about myself in
El Espectador
a few mornings later
.
She resembles an American tourist
.
In
fact I was aware of being an American in Colombia in a way I had not been in other places
.
I kept running into Americans, compatriots for whom the emotional center of
Bogotá
was the massive concrete embassy on Carrera 10, members of a phantom colony called “the American presence” which politesse prevented them from naming out loud
.
Several times I met a young American who ran an “information” office, which he urged me to visit; he had extremely formal manners, appeared for the most desultory evening in black tie, and was, according to the Colombian I asked, CIA
.
I recall talking at a party to a USIS man who spoke in a low mellifluous voice of fevers he had known, fevers in Sierra Leone, fevers in Monrovia, fevers on the Colombian coast
.
Our host interrupted this litany, demanded to know why the ambassador had not come to the party
.
“Little situation in Cali,” the USIS man said, and smiled professionally
.
He seemed very concerned that no breach of American manners be inferred, and so, absurdly, did I
.
We had nothing in common except the eagles on our passports, but those eagles made us, in some way I did not entirely understand, co-conspirators, two strangers heavy with responsibility for seeing that the eagle should not offend
.
We would prefer the sweet local Roman-Cola to the Coca-Cola the Colombians liked
.
We would think of Standard Oil as Esso Colombiano
.
We would not speak of fever except to one another
.
Later I met an American actor who had spent two weeks taking cold showers in
Bogotá
before he discovered that the hot and cold taps in the room assigned him were simply reversed: he had never asked, he said, because he did not want to be considered an arrogant
gringo
.

In
El
Tiempo
that morning I had read that General Gustavo Rojas Pinilla, who took over Colombia in a military coup in 1953 and closed down the press before he was overthrown in 1957, was launching a new bid for power on a Peronist platform, and I had thought that perhaps people at the party would be talking about that, but they were not
.
Why had the American film industry not made films about the Vietnam War, was what the Colombian stringer for the Caribbean newspaper wanted to talk about
.
The young Colombian filmmakers looked at him incredulously
.

“What would be the point,” one finally shrugged
.
“They run that war on television
.
”

The filmmakers had lived in New York, spoke of Rip Torn, Norman Mailer, Ricky Leacock, Super 8
.
One had come to the party in a stovepipe preachers hat; another in a violet
macramé
shawl to the knees
.
The girl with them, a famous beauty from the coast, wore a flamingo-pink
sequined
midriff, and her pale red hair was fluffed around her head in an electric halo
.
She watched the
cumbia
dancers and fondled a baby ocelot and remained impassive both to the possibility of General Gustavo Rojas Pinilla’s comeback and to the question of why the American film industry had not made films about the Vietnam War
.
Later, outside the gate, the filmmakers lit thick marijuana cigarettes in view of the uniformed
policia
and asked if I knew Paul Morrissey
’s
and Andy Warhol’s address in Rome
.
The girl from the coast cradled her ocelot against the wind
.

Of the time I spent in
Bogotá
I remember mainly images, indelible but difficult to connect
.
I remember the walls on the second floor of the Museo Nacional, white and cool and lined with portraits of the presidents of Colombia, a great many presidents
.
I remember the emeralds in shop windows, lying casually in trays, all of them oddly pale at the center, somehow watered, cold at the very heart where one expects the fire
.
I asked the price of one: “Twenty-thousand American,” the woman said
.
She was reading a booklet called
Horoscopo: Sagitario
and did not look up
.
I remember walking across Plaza Bolivar, the great square from which all Colombian power emanates, at mid-afternoon when men in dark European suits stood talking on the steps of the Capitol and the mountains floated all around, their perspective ! made fluid by sun and shadow; I remember the way the mountains dwarfed a deserted Ferris wheel in the Parque Nacional in late afternoon
.