Consideration | BTL SRVC XXVII

Michael Dee. “Patience and Determination Inverted (Ballona Wetlands)” (2018). Lightjet on Kodak Edura. 16” x 24”. Courtesy of the artist.

At first, the suspiciously handsome man in the corner garnered nothing more than a passing glance and a snide comment by Dmitri, “Nothing good ever comes from being that handsome.” 

We had an impromptu drinking contest with three iced bottles of the local Guaro. Of course Celeste won, she could drink almost anyone under the table and has a competitive streak that matches her prodigious liver. I gave up after eight shots; it wasn’t really the alcohol, which clocks in around 50 proof, but the anise. I always get flashbacks to that night in Beirut. Arak and speedboats turned into a deadly combination, and I ended up sitting in a cell sweating out the anise-tinged poison until a buddy from Mouawad’s company got me released. Gulping down three or four iced coffees, I was then picked up on a private jet to Cyprus. Totally, and rightfully cleared of all charges in absentia, I am still no longer welcome at Zaitunay Bay.     

An attendant broke my reverie by producing an ornate white phone on a silver tray, “For you Señor.” 

“Mushi mushi?” 

“Meet me on the terrace.”

I looked across the room, his table was vacated, and I caught a flash of a figure pass through the door. My own party was entering a quiet phase, Celeste was passed out on the couch, Dmitri was softly crying on the Palm Reader’s shoulder, and the couple from Lagos were furiously making out. No one would miss me. I glided off. 

“Do you hear that?”

There was nothing, the thick black night muffled whatever sound there might have been. 

“No, not a thing.”

“Exactly. We must leave Bogota immediately. I’m having the car brought around.”

“A little late to begin a hunt isn’t it?”

“Not for what I’m after. You coming?”

“Mind being slightly more specific?”

“Music. Beauty. Or you could stay here.”

I looked inside the thick glass doors at the three a.m. revelry. It reminded me of a very large exhibit at the Natural History Museum. I followed him around front. 

Like the night itself, the car was large, black, and silent. 

“Where to?” 

“The Torca, just on the outskirts.” He opened a sliding panel. “Do you drink Aguardiente?”

“Mostly out of a sense of duty.”

“Try this then. Cumbé, local sugar cane, glacial water, Pimpinella anise from the Andes and finished in local oak.”

With a sales pitch like that, I was sure it would be delightful. It was, and I told him as much. The rest of the drive we broke down all the South American sugar cane spirits and came to a consensus that Cachaça was our favorite. I came out for Avuá aged in Amburana barrels, while he, being a snob, went for their Avuá Copan, aged in Tapinhoá Casks for a year, then six months in Hardy cognac barrels. Expensive, almost impossible to come by, sort of like saying the Sasquatch is your favorite animal. Of course, there was a bottle behind the magic panel, and of course it was exquisite. 

 We were getting into the warm zone as we glided out of the city and into the Torca River Basin. 

“Do you have much Ornithological experience?”

“Is that the reading of bumps on the head?”

He laughed, too loud and too long, and I was glad the spirits were getting to him as well. I knew damn well that it was the study of birds, but I wanted to say something pithy. Also I don’t particularly like birds, so I was uncomfortable with where this was going. 

He pulled out a large cocktail shaker, added ice, Cachaça, Green Chartreuse and Lemon Juice. He then shook, elbows up, arms at 45 degrees, exactly 16 times, and poured the contents into two small thermos jugs. He tossed one my way. 

“This is going to be arduous work; you’ll need to stay fortified. Ahh, we’re here.”

We exited the car. It was very dark, but the swampland around us was alive with sound. Toads, bugs, and a few birds electrified the night. He went to the trunk and pulled out our kit for the expedition. 

“There are very few birds that sing at night, and I am urgently in need of a few.” He handed me a long-poled net, a large birdcage, and a flashlight, which apparently I was to strap to my head. “Don’t use the light unless you get in a real jam, it will upset the balance. Here, put this on.” I slipped into some sort of rubberized overalls with boots attached. He did not don one, choosing instead to remove his shoes and socks and to roll his trousers up almost to his knee. I opened my thermos and took a long pull.

“You can keep your Mocking Birds and Whippoorwills,” he said softly, “and don’t start me on Nightingales. No, I am looking for the Angel of the Night, the Black Crowned Heron. We’re going to lure them out by playing their song and cornering them when they respond.” He pounded on the roof of the car. “Ramon, comienza.”

A thick guttural sound, something akin to a small dog being choked, started emanating from the car. He held his finger up to his lips and scanned the inky black night. After a few cycles of birdsong, there was a response. He took off running, and instinctively I followed. “I need a male and a female, but you can just pick up anything. Ramon will sex them when we get back.”

Like that, he was swallowed up by the black. I fought the urge to turn on the light and waded into the swampy bog. Ramon kept up the broadcast, and after a while I could orient myself, inching closer and closer towards the response of our car’s plaintive cry. I was closing in. I set down the cage and hoisted the net over my head with both hands. Our recorded Heron called out, and after a beat, there was a response. It was right in front of me. I drove the net down. There was a surge of activity all around me. My prey (possibly) flew directly into my chest, upsetting my balance and causing me to fall face first into the bog.  

I sat up wondering whether to shout “Bloody Hell” or “I’m OK”, but from a far distance I heard a loud “Shush” and said nothing. Assessing my situation, I found the net had broken, and when I turned on my light, it sputtered dimly and went dark. Water had flooded into my rubber pants, so I had to take them off to move. After four or five steps, my Loubotin Oxfords were sucked off my feet, but I continued on inching towards the Heron call coming from the car. Fortunately I hadn’t lost the thermos. The spicy, slightly sweet concoction went down easily and filled me with the hope that I would survive this ordeal. 

I trudged endlessly towards the sound, unsure if alcohol, exhaustion, or extreme absurdity slowed my movements. I tried to walk, but mostly crawled through the dank muddy bog. Finally, about to give up, I sat down, opened the thermos, and drank the last of my cocktail. As I lifted my head towards the sky to drain the last of it, I noticed a change, a slight lightening on the sky. I had survived the night! Very soon the sun would be pushing over the horizon. The Herons had ceased singing and the new birdsong was of a lighter and more hopeful tone. When it was light enough to see, the car wasn’t more than a few hundred meters away. Ramon had stopped playing the Heron’s call when it was obvious the mission was over. I crawled back to the car. I fell into a fitful sleep beside the back door and was awoken when Ramon finally emerged from the front seat.  

He scanned the horizon with binoculars, but apparently found nothing. With the last of my strength, I opened the back door and slid in. The bottle of Chartreuse was lying beside me. I gratefully opened it and had a long pull, then fell into a deep sleep.  

When I awoke it was once again dark. The glass between the driver’s area had been lowered.  

“El Jefe?”

 “Nada señor.”

“Can you drive me back to my hotel?”

“Of course. Tomorrow we send in the choppers for a more thorough search. I am hoping he has found both a male and a female, but am unsure.’ 

When I got into my bathroom, I saw my face was caked with mud. Celeste had gone, there was no note. I took a shower, ordered a giant Fritanga (extra Blood Sausage) and half a dozen frias. I ordered a 6 a.m. wakeup call and nosedived into the bed. 

I had, of course, planned to accompany Ramon back to the basin to continue the search, but during coffee and some pastries out on the terrace, I began to reconsider. Maybe, just maybe, the birdsongs of the night no longer belonged to old libertines like ourselves. Maybe there was a new generation ready to tread into the swamps to find the magic for themselves. I decided to decamp for Mexico City, but would recommend anyone starting this treacherous journey to bring a stiff cocktail.