In the Beginning Was the Sea

20

THE SOMMELIER uncorked the bottle and poured a little into the glass. Fernando, the bank manager, sniffed the bouquet — he had already sniffed the cork — and said it was lovely. After the waiter left, Fernando muttered that he had had better, but that it was acceptable. J. had called to say he wanted to talk and asked if they could meet somewhere other than the bank. Fernando invited him to lunch at Club Medellín, where he was a member. “He’s going to want to talk about Europe,” thought J. “Jesus, the guy’s a pain in the arse…” He asked Elena to go with him. “I’ve no desire to see that little prick again,” she said.

Fernando had lived in France for four years, J. had spent two years in England. And since J. desperately needed an extension on his loan, he had no choice but to go, alone, and talk about Europe. The four years Fernando had spent in France had been the most important in his life; back then he had been wild and crazy, he stole tins of food from supermarkets, novels from bookshops, he even found a way of calling Colombia from a callbox without paying. They had been the most creative years of his life; he had visited cathedrals, met artists, he had even managed to become a personal friend of Paco de Lucía. This is what they talked about while Fernando delicately sipped his wine, savouring the bouquet like a connoisseur.

When the food arrived, J. made the most of the interruption to solemnly solicit some professional advice. He told Fernando about his idea for the lumber business and asked his opinion. Flattered, the banker lucidly laid out the pros and cons. Broadly, he was in favour of the venture but was careful to warn that he would have to see a detailed business plan before he could offer a decisive opinion. “I’ll come down for a few days’ holiday soon,” he said when J. invited him to visit the finca. The plates were cleared away and Fernando ordered a liqueur. “A pousse-café after a meal is a great aid to digestion, I learnt that living in France,” he said as J. shot him a sardonic look devoid of even a flicker of warmth.

J. drank his liqueur, thinking it “sickeningly fucking sweet”, then casually mentioned the fact that he needed to renew his loan. Fernando first sang the praises of his pousse-café and then began to speak slowly, very slowly about the loan. It was clearly a prepared speech, since he had been rambling for some time before J. managed to work out where it was headed. He talked about the statement of income J. had provided — which was clearly not good — he mentioned their long-standing friendship, talked about his position at the bank and how important it was that he be seen to be scrupulous, especially when it came to lending. Finally he said that, yes, he would extend the loan, but that this was the last time. He flushed slightly and lit a cigarette. J. thanked him and also lit a cigarette. Exhaling smoke from his mouth and nose, he asked about some trivial detail of Fernando’s time in France.