Estación Central
Óscar breathed hard as he climbed the last few stairs and staggered across the platform. It was late and there wasn’t much of a queue. A young lustrabota in a heavy coat stood patiently waiting for the last gondola of the evening. Óscar pushed past him, knocking the wooden cajón from his hand, and heaved himself into the glass cabin. It swayed under his weight. The box hit the hard floor and split open, scattering an assortment of shoe polishes and creams across the platform. Óscar collapsed into the moulded plastic seat and pulled a warm bottle of Paceña from his coat pocket. He brought it to his lips and took a swig. The boy watched the gondola door close with a hiss.
“¡Borracho de mierda!” The obscenity was lost in the wool of his balaclava.
Óscar looked over his shoulder and smiled as the cabin was pulled up and out of the station. “The shrimp that falls asleep gets swept away by the current, chango.” The first support pylon was only fifty metres from the station building and by the time the gondola reached it Óscar had forgotten the boy entirely and returned his attention to the remains of his beer.
Óscar wasn’t from La Paz. He’d grown up in a small village about an hour’s drive outside the city. His parents had moved to El Alto for work when he was still young. He’d grown up amidst the chaos of a town that started as an overflow for La Paz and quickly became a city in its own right. He was a teenager when he first heard Pink Floyd, blasting out of a radio that was hanging from a string above a salteña stand outside his school. Pink Floyd led him to Zeppelin, and then back to Argentina with Luis Alberto Spinetta. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, several ill-fated attempts to build a career in music had ended in failure. That had left Óscar in his late twenties with no traditional career prospects and an encyclopaedic knowledge of classic rock. So becoming a DJ at a local radio station seemed like an obvious fit. For almost three decades he’d hosted a daily show on the history of classic rock in South America and the bands that had shaped it. It was a small radio station and the pay didn’t stretch far but what he lacked in money he felt he made up for in reputation. The community was niche, but within it he was somewhat of a local celebrity.
The cabin approached the first support pylon and shook as it was pulled through the transfer assembly and released to continue its ascent, more sharply, towards El Alto. Óscar took another swig from his bottle and found only a warm trickle of beer remaining. It tasted sour. Today marked the beginning of the celebration of San Juan. He’d finished hosting his radio show and left as quickly as possible. There were several bars in the back streets behind the old colonial building that the radio station had called home for the last four years. He’d agreed to start the night there, with a few friends, and even more drinks.
La Paz sat nestled in the mountains, almost four thousand metres above sea level. At that altitude the winter cold would seep into the bones. San Juan arrived on the winter solstice, the coldest night of the year. To keep warm, Paceños would drink sucumbé, hot milk laced with singani, and huddle around bonfires. They’d burn unrequited-love letters, clothes two sizes too small, and photographs of who they used to be. For a whole night, the city would be focused on forgetting. Óscar loved San Juan. It had been years since he submitted a memory to the flames, but he’d start drinking at four in the afternoon and end up passed out in a public park in the early hours of the following morning with little to no memory of the celebrations.
The Teleférico closed at 22:30. He didn’t understand why the city didn’t run it all night during San Juan. He didn’t like leaving the bar early, but it was that or have a few more drinks and then try to find a taxi back to El Alto —on one of the busiest nights of the year. So, he had said goodbye to his friends, tucked his beer into his coat pocket, and walked as quickly as he could to Estación Central.
He reached down and propped the now empty bottle in the corner of the cabin, catching his breath and staring at his reflection. He had comfortably passed middle-age a few years ago and had now settled into his late fifties. He ran a hand through his hair. Still all there. He’d looked after his body when he was younger. Around the radio station he was known to be quite a heartbreaker. But almost three decades of hard drinking and enjoying life had left him with two divorces and a beer gut that, despite his best attempts to keep it sucked in, now fell over his belt when he was both standing up and sitting down.
The cabin was cold and he closed his jacket around himself and turned away from his reflection. It lurched and swayed to the left, and then the right, another pylon passing by outside. He could see ahead of him the lights of Cementerio and below that the General Cemetery for the city. Its terraced hills covered in memorial plaques, some lit up by little votive candles. He had the feeling that the gondola was being slowly lowered into a giant mouth, filled with angry little teeth.
Cementerio
The cabin sunk down into the station. As the brakes were applied to the cable it came to a crawl alongside the platform. Óscar could see the last few passengers climbing into another cabin. From this distance it looked like a family and a young couple had decided to pile into the same cabin, perhaps fearing that it was their last chance to get home before the line closed for the night. The couple sat facing his cabin and he could see them trade glances as two of the children climbed up onto the bench, panchitos in hand, sending little bits of fried onion flying off in every direction. Better them than me.
Distracted by the chaos up ahead, he hadn’t noticed the figure waiting patiently at the rope line for his cabin to slow down and the door to hiss open. Óscar looked up when a black leather shoe and a pair of old, gnarled hands appeared at the edge of the door and proceeded to pull a tall, thin body into the gondola. His head was bent and as he crossed the cabin Óscar heard him say, in a voice that shook with age, “Room for one more?” For a very brief moment Óscar wasn’t sure if the words had come from the stranger’s mouth or had just appeared in the air between them. He folded himself onto the bench seat across from Óscar and after crossing one leg over another, looked up, smiled and said, “aski aruma.”
The Aymara greeting felt strange tumbling off the tongue of the old man sitting before him. He was at least a head taller than Óscar and appeared to be in his late seventies. He wore a fine wool overcoat against the cold and underneath that what looked like a sharkskin grey double-breasted suit. Both hung off him awkwardly. His crossed legs were lost in the drape of his trousers and his shoulders, bony, stuck out oddly. He gave Óscar the impression of a cheap metal coat hanger that had been used to hold clothes up for too long, and was now distorting the shape of the material.
He was Chinese.
Óscar had met several Chinese during his time working at the radio station. Most had been visiting on work, sent by various Chinese conglomerates to negotiate over mineral rights. A few had been sent to Bolivia to study Spanish, working part time at the embassy in the Zona Sur. Those he’d met had been polite and all had been keen to learn more about the history of South American rock. He’d looked upon them fondly. They were either humouring him or genuinely interested, neither of which he minded. However, none of them had spoken anything other than English, which Óscar struggled with. He’d never met a foreigner who could speak the local Aymara dialect. He only heard that spoken in the markets of El Alto, between the caseras he bought marraquetas from each morning.
“Waliki,” he blurted out. It was more out of habit than anything else. Switching to Spanish he said, “I’ve never met a foreigner who spoke even a word of Aymara. Where did you pick it up?”
“Oh,” said the old man. The skin around his mouth was loose and when he smiled it pulled back awkwardly. “I’ve lived and worked in Bolivia for quite a long time and always had a particular fascination with the indigenous people. I have quite a fondness for the Aymara, their culture, their language, their folk tales. They’re such a decadent people.” He laughed, a sort of short bark that exposed his yellowed teeth. They clacked together. Óscar wondered whether they were his original teeth. Maybe an old pair of dentures?
The cabin had reached the end of the platform. With a clunk the gondola was pulled up and out of the station, leaving the empty cemetery below. As it passed through the first pylon it swayed and then slowed, settling into a predictable rhythm. Óscar glanced at his watch. It was 22:40 and it would only take fifteen minutes for the cable car to climb the remaining distance up to the edge of El Alto and down to the platform at 16 de Julio. After that, it was only a short walk and he was home. He had a bottle of singani on a shelf above the sink. There was just enough left to dull his memory of the day and send him off to a dreamless sleep.
Once the gondola had passed the first pylon he pushed back a wave of drowsiness and forced himself to look up. The old man was fiddling with the cuff of his sleeves. In keeping with the rest of his suit, his shirt cuffs were fine, not silk but cotton and bent back on themselves, secured with a small pair of metal cufflinks. Óscar couldn’t tell what metal they were: silver, platinum, cheap stainless steel? Probably silver. Inset into the top of each cufflink was a dull, cream coloured stone that Óscar didn’t recognise. It didn’t look like a precious stone. For an adornment, it looked quite pedestrian. It had left an off-white residue where the cufflink had rubbed against the charcoal grey overcoat. The old man began to pick at the stone, a little of it rubbing off on his thumb. He placed the tip of his thumb in his mouth, making a short sucking noise. The thumb came out clean. “Have you visited Salar de Uyuni...?” He looked up at Óscar. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Óscar,” he said, “and yes, I’ve been quite a few times over the years.”
“Such a wonderful place, Óscar, I’m glad you’ve been.” He folded his hands into his lap and tugged at his sleeve and the cufflink disappeared from sight.
“I’m Mr Bai.” He angled himself forward and extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Óscar.” His hand felt cold to the touch. The skin had a papery texture and he could feel the bones of his fingers beneath the translucent skin. Óscar clasped the hand firmly and for a brief moment he worried that he’d hurt him, but the old man squeezed back crushing Óscar’s hand in a vice-like grip.
“Nice to meet you,” said Óscar as he quickly withdrew his hand and rubbed it with his other. “Have you just come from Uyuni?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I arrived this morning by car. The traffic was terrible. It took an age to get through the gridlock in El Alto. I was going to go straight to,” he trailed off and seemed to think better of it, instead saying, “How well do you know Miraflores? I keep an office – well more of a place to work when I’m not sleeping – in one of the old buildings off Plaza Villarroel. Do you know it?”
“I know Miraflores, but I’ve never been to that part.” Óscar looked at the empty beer bottle, still propped against the glass wall of the cabin and wondered how many he’d had this evening. Not enough.
“It’s a lovely neighbourhood, very convenient and when you get to my age being surrounded by hospitals is just prudent planning.” He grinned at Óscar. Óscar gave a short, awkward laugh, more out of politeness than anything else. Bai continued to describe the perils of rush hour traffic, while Óscar’s mind wandered.
Since he’d run out of beer he’d grown tired. It had been a long evening after an even longer day and now there was nothing left to drink and no compadres left to distract him. He could feel his eyes fluttering and his head lolling back and forward with the rhythm of the swaying cabin. How long had Bai been talking? The old man seemed harmless enough, but Óscar had heard stories of many a paceño who fell asleep in a cable car late at night and woke to find his pockets cut open and his money gone. On second thoughts, he’d better do his best to stay awake. At that moment the cabin lurched, transitioning through a pylon assembly and Óscar’s head jerked forward from where it had lolled a few minutes before, waking him up.
“It seems like you’ve had quite the day, Óscar,” said Bai, as he eyed the beer bottle that had fallen over during the transition through the pylon and spun across the floor in little circles before coming to rest next to the closed door of the cabin.
“Sorry, I drifted off for a moment. What were you saying?”
“Nothing of any consequence.” Bai smiled, flashing his yellow teeth. For a moment Óscar thought they looked different, still stained and unpleasant, but oddly off centre. Óscar’s grandmother had been given dentures when he was young. He could still remember watching her remove them from a glass of water next to her bed, apply a fixative, and press them firmly against her smooth gums until they held in place.
“So you can imagine my surprise when we hit a blockade that had been set up in the middle of the road. Do you know the one I mean, Óscar?”
He couldn’t know, could he? No. Of course not. He had no way of knowing. The flash of panic pushed the tiredness back and he had a moment of clarity. If he sat here and let this old man continue to talk he’d fall asleep. So, to keep himself awake he’d have to do the talking. Keep his mind occupied. He glanced at his watch. It had been three minutes since they left Cementerio and he guessed there were only twelve minutes left before they arrived at 16 de Julio. Twelve minutes. Keep talking for twelve minutes. He could do that.
“I’ve heard of it,” said Óscar. He left the briefest of pauses and just before Bai was about to continue, he interjected and said, “How long have you lived in Bolivia, Mr Bai?”
“Oh, longer than I can remember. When I was, how do they say it,” he paused and said, “fresh off the boat.” He chuckled. “I worked with the Spanish in Potosí. Helping them find and extract the silver from the belly of that glorious mountain, Cerro Rico.”
“The Spanish? That’s Repsol, right? I thought they mostly worked with gas extraction up in Beni. I didn’t know they still mined silver.”
“You’re right there, Óscar, the Spanish are very focused on hydrocarbons now. Most of the mining is done by the Canadians and the Americans. Both needed help locating the fattest seams and setting up the most efficient way of extracting the silver and I was happy to help. What about you, Óscar? You mentioned that you were a radio DJ?”
Óscar couldn’t quite remember whether he had mentioned that. Perhaps he had. It didn’t usually take long before it slipped out. “Yes, for almost thirty years now.”
“What made you choose a career in radio?”
“I sort of fell into it,” he shrugged, “ever since I heard Pink Floyd on the radio when I was young it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Pink Floyd?” Bai looked blankly at him.
“One of the greatest rock bands that there’s ever been? You’ve never heard of them? Syd Barrett, Roger Waters, Richard Wright, Nick Mason? They wrote The Dark Side of the Moon, one of the best-selling albums of all time.” Bai turned his hands over in his lap, palms up, in surrender.
“I’ve never really been one for music, I’m afraid. I’m one of these awfully boring people who live for their work. You must appreciate that having poured so much of yourself into your career?”
“Well, truth be told, radio wasn’t my first choice. The dream was to make it big as a musician, start a band, and put Bolivian rock on the map. Do for Bolivia what Pink Floyd had done for the UK music scene. You know?” Bai nodded and Óscar continued. “The first band I joined was called Tin & Thunder. It wasn’t my band. I stumbled across them practising in a bar I used to drink at most afternoons and liked what I heard. I hung around until their rhythm guitarist stormed out one practice session and they asked me if I wanted to give it a try.”
“You played rhythm guitar?”
“Not really. I’d mostly viewed myself as a lead guitarist, writing the music and being the face of the band. But they had a gig coming up and were desperate for someone. I’d tried to start my own thing with a few friends, but getting it off the ground was hard work. With Tin & Thunder all I had to do was turn up. And, hey, I thought this would be good practice for when I started my own band in a few years’ time.”
“How long did you play with Tin & Thunder before you knew it was time to leave?”
“We played together for years. Mostly small bars that wanted live entertainment and the occasional gig if we’d managed to save up enough money to rent a venue. It was hard to sell tickets. We didn’t have enough recognition to draw crowds on our own so often supported a more popular band, you know, warmed up the crowd. We had a lot of fun, but it was going nowhere. I’d spent five years as a rhythm guitarist. Felt like I was always in the background, never the spotlight. When I made suggestions they were mostly ignored. It was frustrating.”
“So you left and started your own band?”
“Sort of,” said Óscar. “We had a falling out. I wanted to have a bigger say on what we played. The rest of the band disagreed. It was a whole thing. They decided it would be best if we parted ways. If anything, this was good for me. I’d become too comfortable, strumming away in the background, having lost sight of the dream. You know?”
“I completely understand. It must have been hard not being recognised and appreciated after offering them so much of yourself.”
“Exactly. I’d made sacrifices too. I needed time to work on my own music, and between that and practice sessions with Tin & Thunder, holding down a job was impossible. For over three years I lived with my parents, sleeping in the room I grew up in. It wasn’t easy. Can you imagine the impact it had on my social life? I’d meet a girl and bring her home to the single bed in the spare room of my parents’ home—not very rock and roll.”
“But now you had the freedom to finally strike out on your own, start your own band.”
“It definitely gave me the space I needed. I spent a couple of years writing, working on my music, frequenting bars and talking to people in the business. The community in La Paz isn’t that big and rock and roll was still considered pretty niche back then. I worked on a name and planned tryouts. I even sketched out the flyers, but never got around to printing them. It turned out my parents weren’t happy for me to hold tryouts in their home and renting a venue wasn’t something I could afford.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bai.
“Truth be told I was heartbroken when Tin & Thunder didn’t turn out to be my ticket to the big time. The next few years saw me play with any band that needed a rhythm guitarist, but nothing stuck. That was when my sister introduced me to Lionel. He’d recently moved to the city to start an independent radio station. He was putting together a schedule and wanted unique voices that would set the station apart. I must have talked his ear off for over an hour. When he managed to get a word in sideways he asked me to host a pilot episode of a show on classic rock from a South American perspective. I wasn’t the lead guitarist of my own band, but to be handed a role like this was good enough. Soon after, I moved out of my parents’ spare room and started making a bit of money. The next thirty years just flew by.”
Óscar laughed. The gondola swayed in the wind and as he looked out of the window he could feel the fatigue return, like a warm blanket. Talking had invigorated him. He shuffled in the plastic bench to get the blood flowing, rolled his shoulders back and tried to find a more comfortable position. They must be over halfway by now. Not long left. He could almost taste the singani. Stifling a yawn, he said, “perdón, it’s been a long day.”
“No need to apologise,” said Bai. He uncrossed his legs and recrossed them, the opposite leg now sitting on top. “You know, Óscar, I thought I recognised you. I assumed that I’d heard your voice on the radio. I rarely listen to the radio but travelling through the city you often hear snippets drifting from restaurants and shops, bits of talk shows, an introduction to a song.” He paused. “But that’s not it, is it... I remember now. This morning, at the blockade in Miraflores, you were standing off to the side.”
For a brief moment he was completely awake. The warm blanket of fatigue dropped from his shoulders. The cabin was colder than before. He shivered. “What a small world.” Bai was smiling broadly, his lips drawn back over his yellow teeth. They were black and dead at the root. Perhaps they were his own teeth... “So, you’re a failed musician, radio DJ, and,” Bai paused, cocked his head to the side and said, “...masista?”
Óscar bristled at the label. “No, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t support MAS, not anymore. Not since the news about Evo.”
“So why were you there, Óscar? Your compadres certainly looked like masistas from where I was sitting. Two had balaclavas on as is the habit for the bloqueador. Curious, that the other five had chosen to throw caution to the wind and reveal their faces. Even the lustrabota feels the need to wear a balaclava to protect his identity from being discovered by his school friends and their parents.” Leaning forward he said, “Why would a recognisable radio DJ get mixed up in politics and risk his reputation, his show, everything he’s spent thirty years building?”
The question hung in the air. A few seconds passed. Óscar wasn’t sure how to respond. When Bai explained it like that it didn’t make much sense. Bai had brought up the blockades earlier. Óscar had hoped that it wouldn’t come up again, or at least that Bai wouldn’t connect him to the blockade, but it seemed that he had. Now he had to talk his way out of it.
“Look,” said Óscar, leaning forward to mirror Bai, “you don’t understand. I was dragged along. It really wasn’t my idea. After the new government was elected and the President took away the fuel subsidies people were angry. I live in El Alto. I live next to the people this hit the hardest. They’re my neighbours, they drive the trufis, taxis, and delivery trucks. They maintain the roads, staff the food stands, and,” gesturing all around the cabin, “keep the Teleférico functioning all year round. The subsidies made fuel affordable. They kept their businesses making a small profit and their vehicles running. They weren’t making much but they weren’t drowning. That all changed when the price spiked. No one could afford it. The trufi drivers had to put prices up and risk losing customers, or absorb the cost and take home little to nothing. It wasn’t sustainable. So, when they knock on your door and ask you to join them at a street protest, you don’t say no.”
“It sounds like you believed in the cause,” said Bai.
“No, well, maybe...” said Óscar. “I understood, but I didn’t want to be drawn into it.”
“And what happened when those protests turned violent?”
Óscar leaned back and said quietly, “Well, then you try and keep out of the way. When they hand you a metal pipe and stand there waiting, expectantly, you smash a few windows. Everyone cheers. They move on.”
“That’s quite a jump from placards and chants,” said Bai.
“Claro. I remember spending the rest of the evening shaking, afraid that I had been caught on camera. That I’d walk into the radio station the next day and be called in to see Lionel. We’d sit opposite each other and he’d slide his phone across his desk, a video of me smashing up a storefront playing full volume. He’d thank me for three decades of loyalty to the station, but express with sincere disappointment that the station had to distance itself from political violence. I wouldn’t even get a last show. Gonzalo would be taking over.”
“But that didn’t happen?”
“No. I was just another face in the crowd. Another angry nobody. Then days turned into weeks. The government reintroduced the subsidies, but that wasn’t enough for the protestors. They wanted blood. They wanted someone to blame. They demanded that the President step down. He refused, newly elected with a popular majority. I think they knew he wouldn’t go quietly. But the violence died down. Now when they knocked on my door it was to hold a sign, not a metal pipe. I didn’t like it, but I could live with that. This went on for a few weeks until something changed. I think they realised that the government was trying to wait them out. So they escalated, blockading traffic and cutting off La Paz from the rest of the country.”
“Starving it,” said Bai.
“And they expected my help. The first time was uneventful. It was a minor road mostly used by delivery trucks bringing food into the city from distribution hubs outside El Alto. We parked a minibus across the road and waited as the traffic piled up behind it. There were plenty of irate drivers, but no one got hurt. I stood around for a few hours until I got hungry and convinced the others it was time to call it a day. So when they knocked on my door this morning I didn’t put up a fight. I thought we’d spend a few hours standing by the side of the road and then I’d host my radio show and spend the rest of the evening at the bar. A proper San Juan celebration...”
“And is that what happened, Óscar?”
“No. This time was different,” said Óscar. “It started off the same as before. We’d take two minibuses and park them across a highway cutting through Miraflores. There were seven, maybe eight of us, including the organiser. She’d direct them, they’d man the blockade and I’d hang back, as usual, do what I could to keep out of the way.” Óscar sighed. “I didn’t even volunteer to drive this time. I did a terrible job on our first blockade, parked over some broken glass. The owner found their minibus the next day, one tyre fully deflated. So this time, I rode in the back with everyone else. Parking two minibuses across the road mid-traffic isn’t easy, people shout and hurl abuse, and as soon as they understand they’re trapped, they panic. If anything, this time was easier. With two minibuses, we were able to quickly close the road.”
“No one put up a fight?” said Bai.
“Well, there are always one or two who make a fuss,” said Óscar. “But after you see someone’s windscreen get smashed in by an angry young man with a metal pipe, you get back into your car and quieten down really quickly.”
“You?”
“No, by then I’d sat down on the kerb and was listening to the organiser shout instructions. I’d had my fill of metal pipes. After a while even the car horns stopped and we settled in for a long morning. That was when I heard it...”
“The siren?” said Bai.
“Yes. Even at a distance you could hear it. Then as it crested the hill I could see the flashing lights. It slowed down along with the rest of the traffic and before it could attempt to turn around and find another route to the hospital, it was boxed in. Taxis, cars, delivery trucks, it couldn’t move. I saw the driver of the ambulance lean out of the window and shout over the siren. One of the men manning the blockade walked slowly down towards the ambulance. There was an argument. The driver tried to open his side door and get out but the protestor pushed the door closed and shouted something I couldn’t hear.”
“Did you say something? The organiser was right there.”
Óscar dropped his eyes to the floor of the gondola. “I thought that was the end of it. So I went to get a Coke.”
“You went to get...a Coke?”
“I didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t pulling my weight. So, I went to the little shop across the road from the blockade and brought back some bottles of Coke. I passed them out amongst the protestors. I could hear the man who’d had the altercation with the ambulance driver mention that they were transporting an elderly man from San Miguel to Hospital de Clínicas. It sounded like he’d had a heart attack while shopping with his grandchildren. The driver had begged the protestor to let them through, to make an exception.”
“Let one through, you’ll have to let them all through,” said Bai.
Óscar nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said.”
“It can’t have been more than five minutes later that the ambulance driver burst out of his cabin, ran around the outside of the ambulance and climbed into the back. By this point it was clear that something terrible had happened. The protestor from earlier and our organiser took off, jogging between the cars until they reached the ambulance. I thought about joining them, but something stopped me. They returned a few minutes later. The organiser’s face had drained of all colour. She said the elderly man had suffered a second heart attack and the paramedics weren’t able to revive him.”
“Wasn’t the hospital only a hundred metres past the blockade?” said Bai.
Óscar leaned against the side of the gondola, his hand against his forehead. His face was illuminated by the light of the fireworks still exploding over the city. His eyes were red. Now that the truth of this morning had been shared, the tiredness returned and all he wanted to do was sleep. Forget the half-empty bottle of singani above the sink. Just crawl into his bed, wrap his covers tightly around him, and forget what had happened.
“And that was when the police arrived?” said Bai.
Óscar lifted his head up from his hand and turned his gaze back towards Bai. “We heard them coming and by the time they arrived we’d piled into the two minibuses and were on the way back to El Alto.” Óscar paused and looked at Bai. “How did you know?”
“I was in the black Toyota Land Cruiser. Parked behind the ambulance. I saw your man talk to the driver. I watched the paramedics scramble to try and revive their patient. And I saw you standing off to the side, drinking a Coke.”
Óscar hung his head. “I... didn’t want to get involved...”
Bai turned around and looked over his shoulder. “It looks like we’re nearly there, Óscar. End of the line.” He looked sympathetic, almost concerned, and for a second Óscar felt like someone had understood his plight. Maybe others would understand too. It really wasn’t his fault. Óscar’s eyelids drooped. The cabin swayed gently in the cross-wind. He closed his eyes. Just for a few minutes. He’d made it back home to El Alto.
16 de Julio
The cabin jerked to a stop opposite the rope line at 16 de Julio. The door hissed out and open. Óscar slowly opened his eyes. Everything was blurry. He blinked a few times and the cabin came into focus. The station was dark. He looked at his watch. It was 22:50. The journey from Estación Central had taken exactly fifteen minutes. He felt like it had taken much longer but couldn’t put his finger on why.
He looked for Bai and noticed that the cabin was empty. The plastic bench across from him was deserted. Had Bai left as soon as the doors had opened? Perhaps he’d realised how late it was. Hurried out and down the stairs from the platform, through the turnstiles, and on to a waiting taxi.
Óscar stood up and felt the blood rush to his head. He fell back down on the plastic bench and the cabin swayed. He didn’t remember drinking this much. He grasped the handrails and pulled himself up and out of the cabin. Looking around he could see a light on in the attendant’s window on the other side of the platform. Óscar made his way towards it.
His feet felt like dead weight. As he reached the window Bai appeared from the shadows in front of him. Bai looked at him, and said nothing. For a few seconds, Óscar stood and stared at Bai. He looked different. Perhaps it was the shadow cast across his face. The light from the attendant’s window made Óscar squint. Bai looked older, paler, his hair thinner, his face more sunken and lined than before.
Óscar took a step forward, and as he did Bai reached out towards him. His gnarled hand closed into a fist. It pulled back and suddenly...
...Óscar’s closed fist rapped against the attendant’s window and he stumbled backwards.
The office was empty. The attendant had left for the day. He brought his face close to the glass. He felt the loose skin under his sunken eyes, his fingers prodding and probing what had become of his face. He looked down at his coat. It hung off him awkwardly. His shirt, which had previously been stretched taut across his stomach, hung flat against his body. His hands grasped his shirt and in a panic he pulled at it, desperate to see what lay beneath. He found only rolls of loose skin. The skin felt rough and dry, and had the same translucent sheen as his face.
He turned away from the attendant’s window and a raspy, weak “excuse me,” sputtered out of his mouth. There was no one on the platform. He dragged himself towards the stairs. He knew that they descended to the exit just as they had at Estación Central. There would be someone there. Someone who could help.
As he reached the top of the stairs his legs gave way and he collapsed onto his knees. For a moment he thought he saw a fine wool coat flutter through the turnstiles in the shadowed lobby below. A second later he’d sunk down onto his side and lay at the top of the stairs, his breathing ragged and shallow. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last beer, he thought, as his eyes closed.