Así es y Así son, los Iquiqueños

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Well? How do you find it? Iquique, the city? How does it seem to you? It’s uh- I’m fumbling for words. And I don’t fumble for words. But what? I’ve only been here a matter of hours, but already I can tell, no rambling diatribes, no sea-scrolls filled for the ages with the emotion like a Buenos Aires or Paris, easy, a New York, or Los Angeles which I bitterly defend. He answers for me. It’s particular. Particular, no? I can’t think of a more accurate description having ever been used for any old place, ever on this earth, or any planet recognized or acknowledged. Particular.

I met Marcelo in the South of Brasil, in Florianópolis. And now I was here in Chile, his country, his city. After a lunch at the Mercado Centenario of salad and shellfish in a seafood broth and fish and mashed potatoes I put a call in to his office. The architects were working in a temporary office in a wing of the city hospital while their new ones were being remodeled. After hopping a bus to the hospital and asking several people in different wings, I found him. He introduced me to everyone and before I knew it we were all in a car driving to the site of their new offices to inspect everything. People minded the paint job and beams and stairs, there was a lot of walking in and out of rooms and comments and agreements and nodding. When do you guys move in? I asked wanting to participate. A month if everything goes well. There was nodding and arm-folding and examining. Before long we bid farewell to the coworkers and were at the clinic where Marcelo has just designed the new wing, which is all but complete, a few last touches, one week maybe. We walked along the boardwalk back to his place. We passed a pack of winos and a group of wild dogs and looking at their eyes I came to realize them as similar beings.

At his place we had some cereal and milk splashed on and he told me about his weekend trip to Arica, how he liked it, met a girl who he felt understood him, how maybe he’d move there but maybe in time. It was interesting to me to see how he lived, to learn more about his life in Iquique. For instance at work I saw a dedicated professional, successful and ambitious. On the walk home he ran into surfer friends and his connection with this life became obvious. At his place he showed me the view on the balcony and we went across the way to see “El Flaco”, his friend who stayed at his apartment when he was in Brasil, and was able to get the very apartment next door. He’s a dentist and in the Air Force. At his place the two chewed up a half hour talking about their weekends until their lawyer friend showed up with the beer, and we went back to Marcelo’s. Slowly people just started showing up. More beer was poured, wine was brought and opened, more people showed up, a couple left, cigarettes were smoked, joints rolled, lit, passed, conversation flowed light with the wine.

I became hungry and Marcelo’s fridge was vacant, I ate a few offerings with zeal, prunes in desperation, two ripe kiwis, before I knew it a small group of us were off to El Wagon in Centro, for dinner and more wine. I ordered a mixed seafood platter, Marcelo and Alvaro a cazuela de jaiba, the lawyer shellfish and ceviche and potato salad. There were three others, René, Ezequiel, and Christian. Introductions were made, crude jokes mixed with sentimental musings. The place was first-rate, not cheap by American standards, everyone seated privileged. Parking the car outside Alvaro had to give a few coins to the bums who in turn “watch over” the car, and a few cigarettes for good-nature. You’d think money would be enough, he said.

When the plates where cleared and bottles empty we paid the check, arrangements were made to move the festivities to Oxigeno, a posh bar. The place was half-empty, it was a Tuesday night, but we sat and ordered drinks the same. A girl Marcelo knew greeted us and in her presence crude jokes were made and she was off, as was Marcelo. When he came back he spoke his mind, and a fuss was made. Marcelo looked tired, he had barely slept the last few days, it had been one long party. He arranged for Ezequiel to see me home, said to call him and we said good-night. He and the girl were off. I was tired, I had arrived that morning but not to insult anyone I kept up conversation while another round of drinks were ordered. At some point, lucky for me as I consciously had to keep my eyes open, the group decided to call it a night on account of work in a few short hours. How? I’m a decade or more younger than these guys on average, and I’d be unable to function.


Everyone said goodnight, but not before a little fuss was made that Marcelo had said he didn’t have a good time with those guys, and what disrespect, and what? How long has he known us? Two years? And the girl? The Mina? Two months? There’s a code. It’s not written. No writing! In fact- unwritten. No words I tell you! A code. Are you getting this? Yes. You are? Good. It’s a code! No words! Understood. Or it could be- an unwritten code, that’s understood between friends. You follow?

Ezequiel drove me home. He drove slow, maybe to hang on to the night, maybe because he wanted to hide how much he drank and if he drove faster it would show. He pointed out historical buildings, told me when he moved, how life was at a slower pace, he said things pensively, with weight that can only be achieved after twenty-waking hours. We arrived at my residencial. It’s not right you know? He couldn’t be back to this. There’s a code, he said with an index finger confirming the code’s existence, possibly lodged somewhere in the fabric of the car’s roof, or invisibly etched in the windshield. You know there are no words to this code. I gazed out wondering if I would still be in the car when it was light out. As if the bored, mischievous cats looking on at the car from wood-paned windows would view us in time-lapse, with people strolling past and cars, specters rushing by, the sky going from black to increasingly light shades of blue.

Hey! I’ll give you my number. Listen I work off the plaza, if you want to go to lunch, call this number. It doesn’t matter when. Or for anything you need. Understand? I took the slip of paper. Lunch! Or anything, eh? Yeah? Yeah. We mutually commented on the pleasure it had been, we’ll see each other, hey Chile and Perú tomorrow night World Cup qualifier, eh? Understand? It’s gonna be Perú, get it? And Chile? Yeah? In the lobby of the residencial I asked for the key to room number ten, I walked down the long corridor, fiddled with the key and knob, chucked my shoes in the corner of the room, ripped the covers exposing a fresh, naked bed, and plowed in. There’s a code, you get it? Understand? Yeah? Faces scrolled through my head, not thirty-seconds elapsed and I was in a deep, profound sleep.

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