Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER NINE

There's no better way to get to know a city than to walk its streets. A place will reveal its soul through its sights, sounds and smells, and eventually, it'll teach you its rhythm. Yet, in a place where there are about 52 violent deaths a day, one needs to take a few safety measures.

First, I have to dress inconspicuously; no flashy clothes with flashier labels. Then, I place some of my money in my wallet, some in my front pocket and some in my left sock. I wear cheap plastic shades and no watch. My smartphone is a gamble, but I can't do without it. And then I'm off to face the city of my birth.

It feels hotter and looks dirtier than I remember. The noise of heavy traffic, along with dozens of motorcycle messengers masterfully zigzagging between cars, makes me feel like I've run into a wall of sound. My allergies have struck with a vengeance ever since I woke up this morning. I hope they'll subside once I get re-acclimated. I know that's not true, but the thought comforts me.

My first stop is a local arepera in the nearby neighborhood of Altamira, where I have a culinary orgasm eating a reina pepiada-basically fried corn dough filled with a mixture of avocado and chicken salad-along with a "negrito," an espresso that would give most Americans arrhythmia. I savor these familiar flavors while Oscar D'León sings salsa from a small boom box that has seen better days. Then I head to the subway.

El Metro de Caracas is a world unto itself: efficient, safe, modern and clean. To me, it has always represented the untapped potential of this country. It's like traveling in a utopic version of my homeland. Even so, my Venezuelan street sense kicks into full gear with surprising ease. Paranoia is a way of life in this city; you either keep your wits about you or you end up paying for it, and right now there's a guy who's making my "spider sense" tingle.

The man looks to be in his early forties, is of medium height and roaming eyes. He's been following me since I left the restaurant. The fact that he's wearing a cheap leather jacket in the middle of summer is my first clue that something's just not right. The guy must be armed and probably not working alone.

Looking like I do, I can't imagine what he thinks he could possibly steal from me. Perhaps my years living in the US cause me to give off a gringo vibe that he hopes will translate into dollars. Whatever the case may be, he'll wait for me to exit the station to make his move.

There's only one stop between Altamira and Chacao, where Corso has its headquarters; but I decide to remain on the train. I take my phone out and feign checking something on it. In truth, I'm using its camera to take a closer look at my assailant without him knowing. I even turn the sound off to take a picture of him. You never know.

At the next stop, I exit the train car, discreetly holding my house keys in my fist. They stick out of my fingers like makeshift spikes ready to strike. Fortunately, the train heading in the other direction is already there. I rush to it and watch the reflection of my would-be mugger in the car's window. He's definitely tailing me. Once inside the train, I turn around and look my pursuer straight in the eyes. The guy stops dead in his tracks, so obviously he knows that I'm onto him. The door between us slides closed and I'm gone. Welcome home.

I try to put my little run-in with the lower elements of my hometown behind me as I walk into Parque Cristal, the cube-shaped glass building where Corso is based. I go to HR to square away all the required paperwork. Then I head to Trishna's corner office.

She's not there, but the steaming teacup on her desk tells me that she'll be back soon. So I use the time to satisfy my curiosity. Her office is bright and neat, creating the illusion that it's almost bare. There's a collage framed with shots of Trishna scuba diving, rock climbing, sky diving, snowboarding and beating somebody up in a self-defense class. The other photographs on her walls are of important company events. All of them look recent. No family pictures or potential suitors. So far so good. The only other decorations are framed lithographs of black and white photos. One is "Les Escaliers de Montmartre, Paris" by Brassaï. I don't know much about photography, but the haunting image reminds me of German expressionism in film. The other one, identified as "Noche en Badajoz" by Alberto García-Alix, shows a woman sleeping alone in a hotel room with the lights on while a tattooed male hand mimics a gun pointed at her. On top of Trishna's desk is The Post-American World by Fareed Zakaria. She's almost done with the book.

"Find anything interesting?" Trishna says from the doorway.

"Hi," I say casually.

"Have you been introduced to the IT and Information Security teams?" Trishna says.

"I was on my way there, but first I wanted to thank you for greeting me last night at the airport."

"It was my pleasure," she says, walking to her chair. "After you settle in, I'd like to brief you on a couple of concerns we have regarding our international accounts."

"Sure," I say. "Listen, maybe I came through a little unprofessionally last night and I'd like to apologize."

"That's not necessary."

"No, really," I say. "How about dinner tonight? My treat. We can sit and talk about business and kick this off on the right foot. I know this little French restaurant that's just amazing. Very few people know about-"

"La Belle Époque?"

"You know it?" I'm shocked. Only a select clientele knows the discreet eatery. I know it because of my Dad, who had dined there with the president of his company. It subsequently became a favorite anniversary joint for my folks.

"It's been closed for a few years now," Trishna says, as she takes a sip of her tea. Something tells me she's enjoying my fumble.

Damn! That was one of my secret weapons. I go through an extensive list of alternatives in my mind in a matter of seconds, but now I'm unsure how many of them are still in existence.

"Tell you what," she says. "Why don't we go to El Hatillo after work and you can buy me a cup of coffee; I'll brief you there."

"Great, I'll see you after five," I say, glad for my small victory.

El Hatillo is a municipality perched on a mountain just outside the city. It is a tiny town built around a square; a throwback to colonial times. It now serves as a collection of cafés, pubs, restaurants and craft shops. We take a table on the second floor of a cozy café.

"How was your first day?" she says.

"Lots of introductions and red tape," I say. "The real work starts tomorrow."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Trishna says. "It can't be more hectic than your previous jobs."

True, but I have no desire to entertain that conversation. "So, tell me about the security problems the company has been having."

Trishna explains that there have been complaints from their international accounts about data security. The measures already taken have proven insufficient, hence the need for Corso's headquarters in Miami to send a specialist to solve the problem.

Coffee somehow turns into dinner, when I finally realize that I've been sitting there chewing my food and talking about work without making the slightest pass at her.

"Buy a rose for the lady, Sir?" says a little girl offering a bright red rose from a bunch she can barely hold in her small hand.

"No, thank you, sweetie," Trishna says.

"I told you a thousand times not to come here!" the waiter says between clenched teeth, as he rushes to get the street urchin.

"It's OK," I say, lifting my hand to stop him. "It's my fault. I saw her on the street and called her over. Here you go." I give the girl a few bucks for a flower. "Why don't you get her something to eat and put it on my bill?"

The waiter begrudgingly accepts and escorts the kid inside the restaurant. I put the flower beside me and apologize for the interruption. "Do you want anything else?" I say.

"I'm fine. Thanks," Trishna says. "I'd like to go to sleep sometime this week."

I ask for the check. "You want to know insomnia, you should try Café Arabica sometime. Their black coffee looks like petroleum, but it's quite tasty. That is, if it still exists, of course. The Thai restaurant next to it used to be pretty good too; great oyster sauce."

"I'm pretty busy this week," she says.

"You can go whenever you want," I say, checking that the girl's meal was charged before paying. "As for your security problem, don't worry. Send me your email tomorrow and I'll keep you posted on my progress."

"You're not keeping the flower?" Trishna says, when we get up from the table.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," I say, picking it up. "Here," I offer it to her. "I'm more of a petunias guy myself."