coldhearted scientist وداد

Back to Shahrazad I

About a week after the phone call, or the dream, a fax arrived from the Bank of the Republic of Colombia: we urgently need the title of your lecture. So now I phoned. It seemed I was to cancel my regular classes for a week to participate in a symposium at a southern branch of the National University. Other academics from from around the world would do the same, and we would have parties. My ticket was waiting for me at the Fairmont Hotel in New Orleans.

So I invented a lecture title and told my department chair I had been called away to Colombia for a week. I expected to be viewed as irresponsible for doing this, but my prestige increased. At the Fairmont I picked up my ticket. I did not pay for it, but I got the Frequent Flyer miles. I have now used these up on another adventure with Bebeto.

It was the same flight that, rather than descend nicely, had crashed against a mountainside a few days earlier, killing all the passengers. With this accident and a major attack by the FARC on an army convoy, it had been a bigger week than usual in that part of the world. And like its predessor, the plane I took to Bogotá had mechanical problems. It had flown to Miami from Los Angeles, but it did not make the standard for international takeoff. Technicians were working desperately, and the pilot kept announcing that they needed another thirty minutes. Several hours after boarding, we were finally authorized to leave. I used the time to search for the passenger list, because according to Bebeto, a Brazilian member of the symposium was also on this flight. The flight attendants, who were very busy flirting with each other, told me he was not there.

It was after midnight when we landed in Bogotá. Bebeto had said I would be met, but that would have been at six. I had never been to Bogotá, but I assumed that this being a big city, it would have a big airport open twenty-four hours a day. I assumed that even without the Brazilian and without being met, I would be able to make some phone calls, find a place to stay, and locate Bebeto in the south the next morning.

I hold a United States passport and it works very well. I was waved right through customs, but I had been wrong about the airport. The terminal was small and Andean, like the ones in Quito and La Paz, and it was mostly closed for the night. There were a few Indian and mestizo men standing around, bundled up against the cold, and that was it. Not an open kiosk, not a phone in sight. I wandered outside and asked some guards where there might be a telephone. Not here, ma’am, we don’t know, ma’am. I was not sure I should trust Bogotá cab drivers. I had not brought a lot of cash, and this was before the advent of internationally enabled ATM machines. The ticket I was supposed to travel on the next day was with my unknown Bogotá hosts.

While considering these questions I noticed a teenager who seemed to be waiting. He was holding a drawing I recognized. I asked whether he knew Bebeto, and Cero, I am Tupac! I have come from the south! It is nice to meet you! Where is Luiz Eduardo? Luiz Eduardo was the Brazilian, and Tupac was quite concerned that I had not found him on the plane. But as we stood wondering what to do, the terminal began to disgorge people. Brazilians, Colombians, Peruvians, Bolivians, everyone had made it through customs. We approached all the men in order, Luiz Eduardo? At last one said yes, here I am, what a terrible flight. […]

Axé.