The Sound of Things Falling by Juan Gabriel Vasquez

Author:Juan Gabriel Vasquez [Vasquez, Juan Gabriel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2012-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

The deputy director of Peace Corps Colombia was a small, thin, distant man with thick-framed glasses like Henry Kissinger’s and a knitted tie. He received Elaine in his shirtsleeves, which would not have been odd if the man hadn’t been wearing a short-sleeved shirt as if he were in the unbearable heat of Barranquilla or Girardot instead of freezing to death up on this plateau. He used so much brilliantine in his black hair that the light from the neon strip lighting could produce the illusion of premature greying at his temples or white roots in his parting as straight as that of any military officer. She couldn’t tell if he was North American or local, or an American son of locals, or a local son of Americans; there were no clues, no posters on the walls or music playing anywhere or books on the shelves that might allow someone to guess at his life, his origins. He spoke perfect English, but his surname – the long surname that looked up at Elaine from the desk, carved in a brass sign that looked solid – was Latin American or at least Spanish, Elaine didn’t know if there was any difference. The interview was routine: all the Peace Corps volunteers had passed or would pass through this dark office, sit in this uncomfortable chair where Elaine now half-rose to smooth her long aquamarine skirt with her hands. Here, before the lean and aloof Mr Valenzuela, all those who’d been trained in the CEUCA sat sooner or later and listened to a short speech on how the training was approaching its end, how the volunteers would soon be travelling to the places where they would fulfil their mission, speeches on generosity and responsibility and the opportunity to make a difference. They listened to the words permanent site placement and then immediately the same question: ‘Do you have any preference?’ And the volunteers pronounced recently acquired names of unknown content: Bolívar, Valledupar, Magdalena, Guajira. Or Quindío (which they’d pronounce Kwindio). Or Cauca (pronounced Coka). Then they’d be transferred to a place near their final destination, a sort of intermediate stop where they’d spend three weeks at the side of a volunteer with more experience. Field training, it was called. All this was decided in a half-hour interview.

‘So, what’s it gonna be?’ said Valenzuela. ‘Cartagena is out, so’s Santa Marta. They’re already full. Everyone wants to go there, to be on the Caribbean.’

‘I don’t want to go to a city,’ said Elaine Fritts.

‘No?’

‘I think I can learn more in the countryside. The spirit of a people is in its campesinos.’

‘The spirit,’ said Valenzuela.

‘And a person can help more,’ said Elaine.

‘Well, that too. Let’s see, tropical or temperate?’

‘Wherever I can be more helpful.’

‘Help is needed all over, miss. This country is still only half-baked. Think about what you know as well, the things you do well.’

‘Things I know?’

‘Of course. You’re not going to go plant potatoes if you’ve never even seen a photo of a hoe.

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