Author's note:
Santiago
is the first instalment in a new collection of shorter pieces. Each narrative - limited to 5,000 words or less - recounts a different real-life event. As much as possible, nothing has been embellished: things unfold very much as I experienced them.
Some people's names have been changed, however, for all of the obvious reasons.
*****
It was the late nineties. I was twenty-two, and had just arrived back in Santiago after six very long months in southern Chile.
Hired by a Canadian forestry company, I'd been managing a large timber survey about as far south in Patagonia as you could get. Further, in fact. When the highway stopped, we'd taken a boat for another eight hours to the isolated logging camp. What followed was backbreaking work, rain, wind, and a tangled temperate jungle.
Half a year later, now finally free of the damp and the mould and the leeches, I'd arrived back in civilization. I was flush with cash and in good shape after hacking my way through more than five miles a day of dense forest.
I literally hadn't laid eyes on a woman the entire time I'd been there. I was achingly, maddeningly horny.
Walking out of the Santiago hotel after grabbing a shower and changing into something other than work clothes, I flagged the first taxi that I saw.
"English?" I said to the driver as I climbed into the back of the car. He waggled his hand. A qualified
'maybe'.
Shit.
How do I tell him that I want to find a place to get laid?
Today
?
I searched my meagre Spanish vocabulary for something that might work.
"Tener sexo,"
I said. I think this crudely translated, more or less, as '
I really need to get fucked.'
He looked carefully at me in the taxi's rear view mirror, and concluded pretty quickly that I wasn't an undercover cop. He smiled, and nodded.
Thirty minutes later, we were far out in one of Santiago's older neighbourhoods. Sharp sunlight on pale blank walls. Faceless two- and three-storey buildings hard up against concrete sidewalks. Not a tree in sight.
He pulled up in front of a small, nondescript door, yanked on the taxi's handbrake, and looked at me in the mirror again.
"Un momento,"
he said.
He got out of the cab, knocked on the door, and was quickly admitted inside. It closed with a rattle behind him. A minute later, it opened again, and he waved his hand at me.
"Ven."
Come.
I got out of the cab and joined him at the front door.
He wordlessly handed me over to a short, thickset bouncer type, who seemed to reside in the little hallway between the front door and a shockingly steep staircase. The bouncer looked me over carefully, waggled his head noncommittally, and then indicated that I should go up.
I turned to pay the taxi driver, and was surprised to find he'd already left. The bouncer urged me toward the stairs again. He hadn't said a word so far.
I started up the staircase, noticing for the first time that the walls were covered with old, red, velvet-flocked wallpaper. The sconce lights were dim, but I could make out what looked like an ancient Persian runner on the stairs.
Finally reaching the landing at the top, I was met by a shrewd-looking older woman. She held up her hand towards me in a 'stop' motion. I obeyed, not sure what to do next.
She looked me over, seeming almost surprised at how young I was. She started rambling at me in rapid Spanish, and it was my turn to hold up my hand.
"Solo un poco español,"
I said, clearly demonstrating the fact that I could hardly speak any Spanish.
She laughed, and called back over her shoulder to someone.
Taking me by the hand, she led me away from the landing into a large sitting room - also dim, and also lined with red velvet wallpaper. Leather armchairs and wooden side tables lined the walls. An assortment of beefy older men sat in the chairs, most smoking cigars and drinking pisco. The centre of the room had been left wide open, almost like a fashion catwalk.
Looking at the men closely, I guessed that many of them were either military or police in civilian clothing. You could tell by their bearing, and their hard air of entitlement. They clearly resented me from the minute I walked in. I could feel my balls retracting a bit.
To a man, they swivelled their heads and studied me. I was lean, tanned and fit, with a (now) trimmed beard. My ragged hair, though, still hung down around my shoulders after six months in the bush. I definitely did not fit in: I was someone these guys would feel far more comfortable throwing in jail than sharing a drink with.
The old women clapped her hands again to get my attention and mimed knocking back a drink. Not a fan of pisco, I jumped at the first thing that came to mind. "Champagne?" I asked desperately.
"Champagne?"
the woman echoed back, surprised.
"Si,"
I replied, trying to appear more certain than I actually felt.
What the fuck was I getting myself into?
She clapped her hands together again, this time with glee, and rushed out of the room.
Thirty seconds later, before the old boys could take advantage of her absence and start pummelling me, the woman swept back into the room. She was followed by an aged, tiny man carrying two thin glasses, and a champagne bottle in an ice bucket. He plunked them noisily down on the table beside me, eyed me carefully, and winked. He walked out of the room, cackling softly to himself.
I could hear a commotion in the hall outside the sitting room. Every few seconds, a different woman would peer briefly around the doorframe, scan the room, and then come to rest on me. This was usually followed either by a giggle, or a gasp, as their heads withdrew. There now seemed to be quite the whispered debate going on in the hallway.
With one sharp word from the old women, the murmuring stopped. She walked into the room, followed by her neatly organized chorus line.
There were twelve to fifteen women in all, looking like they'd come from every continent in the world. Scandinavian blondes, a redhead, women of Asian and African descent - someone for every taste under the sun.
Gathered in the centre of the room, they smiled at the men with practiced innocence, and thinly veiled boredom. They'd done this many times before.
When their gazes paused at me, though, their vacant expressions vanished. Each of them studied me carefully; trying to figure out what in the hell I was doing there. I felt like I was being sized up by a pack of wolves.
Finally, growing increasingly uncomfortable, I spoke up using the little Spanish that I could muster.
"Canadiense. Tecnico forestal,"
I stammered. The men relaxed slightly, now understanding that I was a bit more legit than I looked. A Canadian forestry technician. Huh. No biggie.
Deciding to clinch things, I mentioned the name of the Chilean logging magnate I'd been working for. It was as if I'd said "Rockefeller" in a New York bar. The generals, hiding their surprise, all nodded their heads sagely. They looked at each other, and immediately pulled in their claws. I'd passed the test, I guess. They went back to evaluating the girls and sipping their piscos, now studiously ignoring me.
As the new bona fide celebrity customer, the women's attention turned back to me. They were giggling again, and whispering excitedly to each other.
One by one, the madam introduced me to each woman by their first name. Some names were Spanish, some weren't. They truly were from everywhere.
As they were called, they each stepped forward and twirled in front of me. It was almost like a beauty pageant with me as the sole judge. The women seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. The old men quietly watched the show from the sidelines, reluctantly ceding me first place in the whole affair.
Each woman was attractive in her own way - some in their late teens, some in their twenties, a few in their thirties. Each, though, also wore a certain look. It said that
real
passion was not for sale here: I'd just have to make do with a reasonable facsimile.
Feeling turned on and dismayed at the same time, I didn't see any one woman that made me want to jump up and say
"Yes, please."
Something just wasn't clicking.
I started to panic slightly, not sure how the room would react if I said, "Thanks. But is there anyone else?" I didn't even know enough Spanish to articulate it.
I'd underestimated the madam, though. She understood precisely what was going on, and nodded her head silently. Turning towards the door, she called out gently,
"Sofia?"
The girls all muttered in surprise.
After a few moments of silence, a young, shapely woman stepped shyly into the waiting room. There was no practiced artifice here. She looked completely out of place in the bordello.
She walked quietly to the middle of the room, and stood looking at me. I was floored. Of Spanish and Mapuche heritage, she was a classic beauty in her early twenties. Barefoot, and dressed almost primly in a simple cotton shift, she stood about 5'8", with flawless olive skin and jet-black hair. She had wonderfully full breasts and hips, and her legs looked like they went on forever.
She looked pensively at me as I studied her. I was dumbfounded: I'd never seen darker, deeper eyes in my life. It was like looking into pools of ink. Sofia saw me take a sharp breath and then she looked away, staring down at her feet, embarrassed at the attention.
I looked over at the madam, who was watching me carefully. You
literally
could have heard a pin drop in the room. I nodded to her silently.
"
Bueno!"
