Guantánamo: A Dysfunctional Romance

Bogotá

I booked a suite in a small boutique hotel just off 93rd Street, a fashionable restaurant and entertainment district in Bogotá, frequented by mamas' boys in BMWs and silicone-laden Barbie dolls, none of which I was aware of until I got there. Reviewing the options over the Internet it just seemed a cozy little place to make our first acquaintance, with fresh, modern décor and reasonable rates, surprisingly, for the area. I told the kids I had an out-of-town assignment, left them with their mother and got on an airplane to Colombia for the ride of my life.

At the airport, Silvia was waiting just outside the gate, standing next to her sister Catalina, who looked just like her. Isabel was also there. I made a beeline straight to Silvia, confounding her devious scheme to confuse me, and introduced myself politely, with a handshake, avoiding all presumption. We'd been talking for two years, but we hadn't truly met and I wanted to allow the encounter to sink in. How could I know she'd feel as comfortable in person as we had been over countless hours of long-distance conversation, however intimate?

The sisters came with us to the hotel, which the cabby took about half an hour to find because I forgot to bring the address. All six eyes were glued on me during check-in, keen to the relaxed bonhomie with which I addressed the hotel staff and asked if they had any decent wine. It was late and the restaurant was closed, but they let us in to see their stock: there were several nice reds from Chile and Argentina. I also asked if the room had a sound system, which it didn't, but they loaned us a boom box that we took upstairs to play Silvia's new CDs.

So far I seemed to be making a good impression, which was easy because I was buoyant with the excitement of meeting her, plus several in-flight Bloody Marys. She sat in the farthest armchair across the room; Isabel and Catalina sat on the couch, closer to me, as I poured them wine and started the music. Silvia hardly spoke, but observed with fierce intensity as I interacted with her older sisters. Clearly, I had to win them over. Good thing they had a sense of humor; they laughed over my antics as I tried to recover from tripping over the coffee table and said something ridiculous to save face.

After two bottles Catalina wanted to leave but Isabel, tipsy, wanted to order another one. Catalina insisted that they should give us some space for further acquaintance, but I diffused the awkward moment by suggesting that they go home together and we could reconvene in the morning to make plans. I'd been traveling all day and needed some rest, I explained. The phone rang at two-thirty in the morning. It was Silvia: "I knew that I would like you, Daniel, but I never imagined I'd like you so much." It was working, I thought, and slept like a baby.

I called around ten and we agreed to meet at her apartment, a fifth-floor walk-up in a slightly dingy part of Bogotá. She was alone. Verónica and Marcela were away for the holidays with their dad in Cúcuta, on the Venezuelan border. There was a coy politeness, as we were already quite intimate on a verbal basis, but had yet to approach one another physically. I bore gifts, and she wanted to see them right away. There was a childlike sparkle in her eyes as she opened each package. They were sooo beautiful, she squealed, smiling brightly.

And so they were. Although I'd already shipped her several gifts (including Simón), I had also hoarded a few: mainly delicate, exotic lingerie by the likes of La Perla, Aubade and I.D. Sarrieri. It's not that I spared no expense when it came to fueling sexual fantasy; I just didn't keep track—the collection represented a small fortune. We had already discussed the importance of erotic tension and agreed it was about fifty-one percent of a meaningful relationship; it carried quorum. So I never felt bad about sexing her up, and these tasteful, high-end props really did the trick.

She chose to wear a crimson Simone Pérèle bustier top that complemented both her hair and skin tone. I took pictures of her modeling it before a mirror. In one lucky shot her reddish hair was backlit by reflected flash; she seemed to glow from within, her mirror image smiling with approval from the other side. As she admired herself I came to her from behind and kissed her lightly at the turn from neck to shoulder. She viewed me from the mirror in breathless anticipation, unsure if we were going to "do it" then and there. But I let the tension build.

"Your sisters are expecting us," I teased her, and she snapped out of it.

"Oh, right! We've got to go."

There was time; I was there only to see her, I reminded her, unlike Víctor, who had fit her in as a sideline to his "business trip." He just wanted to sound important, but he had made a big mistake. I wanted to meet her friends, her family, to insert myself in her everyday life. I wanted her entire existence to be a part of mine, for our shared experiences to be firmly grounded in reality. I wanted to fall in love with her... or maybe I already had.