Women´s Panties (a hidden transcript)

Recent events in Bogotá, Colombia

I was putting together the displays for the panty store when Señor Roberto, the friendly little man who owned the bicicleteria next door, ducked under the half open roll-up door.

¨Buenos dias, amigo! Como te vas!¨ We shook hands and then the little man hugged me tightly with both arms, his face pressed against my chest. I had only met him the day before.

¨When will you open the tienda?¨

¨When we have received the mercancia,¨ I told him. ¨Perhaps Monday.¨

¨Bueno. Bueno.¨ He nodded and looked around the local.

I went back to screwing on the legs of one of the mayas, the standing upright displays we planned to hang the panties and tops from. Señor Roberto stood at the roll-up door watching.

¨¿Qué tal Francia, amigo?¨

¨I don´t know,¨ I said.

¨Surely you do. How is France?¨

¨Soy americano. I am American.¨

¨¿Norteamericano?¨

¨Yes. I told you that yesterday.¨

¨I do not think so.¨

I measured the last piece of red plastic sheeting for the floor and cut it with my knife, using a piece of cardboard to keep the line, and then put it into place.

¨Tienes que descansar un ratito, amigo. Come. I want to show you something.¨

I followed Señor Roberto across the street and into a building that was under construction. On the ground floor was a tall mound of dry cement. The workers had mixed some of it and were putting up a brick wall. The lower level was to be the new location of his bicicleteria, explained Señor Roberto. The second floor he planned to rent to a family. Construction would be complete in twenty days.

Señor Roberto called over one of the laborers, a very dark negro from the Choco.

¨Let me present to you my friend,¨ Señor Roberto said to the negro. ¨He is French.¨

¨In truth, I am American,¨ I said and shook his hand. ¨Mucho gusto.¨

¨¿Vienes de Estados Unidos?¨ The negro asked.

¨Yes.¨

¨He is a norteamericano,¨ Señor Roberto said proudly.

In the afternoon Señor Roberto invited me to lunch at the pescaderia. He was insistent I order the cazuela de mariscos. It was a dish he ate four times a week for the maintenance of his cycling physique. It was the dish of all cyclists from the Boyaca. Señor Roberto ordered it for the both of us.

The creamy soup of mixed seafood came steaming hot in an earthenware bowl and delivered upon a wooden platter. With it came a plate of fried plantains, salad and arroz con coco. The server brought a pitcher of fresh lemonade and two glasses.

¨Why do you choose to live in America? It makes no sense at all.¨

I smiled at him. I was trying to think of some way to make things clear to him.

¨Why do the French not wish to live in their own country?¨

I didn´t say anything. It had started to rain outside. I blew on a spoonful of cazuela to cool it.

¨Do you have brothers and sisters?¨

¨I have a younger brother,¨ I said. ¨He lives in France.¨ I said it and knew I had made a mistake.

¨Claro. Of course he does,¨ said Señor Roberto. ¨And why should he not?¨

¨He is americano.¨

¨¿Norteamericano?¨

¨Yes. As I am. Somos norteamericanos.¨

¨Claro. Of course,¨ he nodded. ¨You are North Americans. But when will you open the tienda?¨

¨The cazuela is delicious,¨ I replied.

¨Yes. I eat it four times a week.¨

We finished eating and went to the counter to pay for our meals. The cazuela was 12,000 pesos.

¨¿De donde viene usted?¨ the woman asked me.

¨My friend is French,¨ said Señor Roberto proudly.

¨I am American,¨ I said.

¨But you live in France?¨

¨Yes,¨ said Señor Roberto,¨Claro. Of course.¨

¨I live in America,¨ I told her.

¨Then you are americano?¨

¨Yes.¨

¨He is americano. Claro, of course,¨ said Señor Roberto, ¨Vamos amigo, let´s go. I must get back to the bicicleteria.¨