Read Online American Visa by Juan de Recacoechea - Free Book Online Page A

looked like a businessman up to his ears in work. She whispered to him, came back out from his office, and declared: “Wait just a moment.”
    Before long, the fat man commanded her over the intercom to let me proceed.
    â€œEduardo Ballón, at your service.”
    The fat guy lit a cigar while I shook his soft, flaccid hand. His papers were scattered all over the place. The way he obsessively organized and reshuffled them suggested that he wanted to appear stressed out. He was in his shirtsleeves and his belly had just about busted through his trouser buttons: the fat rose up through his chest, gathering in his neck and jowls. His diminutive mouth looked out of place in the middle of his pear-shaped face. His distinctive nose stuck out like a pig’s snout, casting a shadow over his tiny eyes.
    â€œSo, Señor Alvarez,” he said, “some lady told you we could fix your problem . . .”
    â€œA hairstylist who lives in Washington.”
    With an elbow propped up on the desk, he rested his cheek on the palm of his hand. He kept looking at me. “I don’t remember her,” he said.
    â€œA sensual, well-endowed, light-skinned lady from Tarija,” I invented.
    â€œSensual?”
    â€œBig-breasted; her breasts could knock you over they’re so big.”
    â€œWasn’t she the one who didn’t like the consul?”
    â€œThat’s her.”
    â€œShe got a green card.”
    â€œThat sounds right.”
    â€œSo you want to follow in her footsteps.”
    â€œAs soon as possible.”
    â€œHave you been to the consulate yet?”
    â€œNo, I came straight here. I just got in yesterday from Oruro.”
    â€œLet me see your passport.” He leafed through the document while chomping on his cigar like a stevedore. “That hairdresser wasn’t lying to you. We have connections, friends who help us speed up the paperwork every now and then. If everything’s in order, the visa isn’t a problem,” he stressed. “But usually everything isn’t in order; an expired document here, an undated deed there . . . You know what I mean?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    â€œAll these people in the consulate ask for is a few pesos. They help us and we help them.”
    â€œHow much?” I asked.
    â€œEight hundred dollars.” Pushing off with his stumpy legs, he rolled backwards in his chair. Taking note of my horrified expression, he immediately added: “If your paperwork’s in order, then all we’ll do is book your flight. Go on to the consulate. You can go there yourself, you know?”
    â€œThat sounds like a lot of money just to speed things up,” I said. “All my documents are in order: I’ve got the deed to my house, my bank statements—”
    â€œGood for you. If that’s the case, just go to the consulate. They’ll look over your papers and return them to you in a few days. If all goes well, you’ll get the visa; and if not, you’ll have to go through Mexico like everyone else.”
    â€œCrossing the border on foot?”
    â€œOr in some coyote’s trunk.” He laughed and bit hard into his cigar.
    â€œI hear it’s dangerous. Raymond Chandler used to say nobody’s better than a good Mexican and no one’s worse than a bad Mexican.”
    â€œIt’s up to you, Señor Alvarez. That border is a no-man’s land. Let’s just say, unexpected things happen there.”
    â€œEight hundred dollars is a rip-off.”
    â€œIt depends. If for some reason you don’t want to show them your papers, then it’s a good deal. Keep in mind, Señor Alvarez, that the gringos are meticulous. One slipup and it’s over. If they deny you the visa once, forget about emigrating.”
    â€œBut I don’t want to emigrate!”
    â€œWhatever, it’s all the same. This is your first try, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re not