Read an Excerpt
The Convenient Fund
By Jan Smolders
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Jan Smolders
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3342-0
Chapter One
Gloria's first visit to Cupíca was on her mind on Friday morning as she drove her Corolla on Carrera 7 in Bogotá, going south from her home on Calle 134 to the Calle 7 area near the Presidential Palace and La Candelaria. More than two years had passed since the day she gingerly negotiated her way down the shaky, slippery ladder of a Beechcraft Baron twin-engine, set foot on the beach of Cupíca, and was met by the aroma of El Chocó air mixed with drizzle. She reminisced about her first handshake with Father Salazar, the village priest, and about her first night on the stretcher under the zinc roof in Gisela's house. Gradually, Cupíca had become part of Gloria. Well-meaning, little pesterers had baptized her "Miss Cupíca" in the vernacular of the Bogotá office of Nathan Silverman's charitable Futuro Investment Fund, "the Fund," where she worked. She had accepted the crown.
Bogotá traffic was awful. Discipline and courtesy, lauded on all radio channels and solemnly urged by officials, could not be further from drivers' minds. Any intersection that could be blocked seemed to suffer that fate; it didn't matter whether it had traffic lights or not. For a moment, Gloria had considered taking the winding and more adventurous La Calera to go to the city center, but since she was having breakfast in the car, she had taken the cautious approach. She would have to apologize for her tardiness. She was on her way to a meeting with her boss, Liliana, the head for Colombia of the Fund. Together they would have discussions with an official of El Grupo de Desarrollo Colombiano. The GDC was a government entity with which the Fund enjoyed good cooperation. Both the GDC and the Fund saw potential for synergy.
She called Liliana and found her stuck in traffic too.
"Good morning, Liliana. What's up?"
"Morning. Stuck, as always. Every day it seems."
"Like me. Great music you have. BMW quality."
"Love the blues. I'll turn it down. Well, we're stuck and I ran out of coffee. Slept well?"
"Not enough, Liliana. I seem to attract night calls."
"Oohhh, how nice," Liliana gushed. "Tell me. Have some more coffee," she added, laying the exuberance on thick. "Night calls? I'm jealous. All the night calls I get are loud snores from my husband, who loves a late Scotch, something his sinuses don't love."
"Poor thing."
Gloria admired her boss. A mother with a husband, Alejandro, and three children, Liliana was a strong woman, close to fifty, with not more than a couple of extra pounds on her five-foot-ten frame. She was always well-groomed, and her demeanor exuded confidence.
"I want to hear about those night calls, Gloria. Can't wait. A dozen adorers? More? I've heard about a few."
"Ha ha." Gloria's peal of laughter filled her car and Liliana's. "Just a dozen? More! Many more, of course. I'll have to start screening the calls."
"Who are they? Any I know?"
"I've other things to worry about, Liliana, like my Cupíca figures. Marcos keeps bugging me about them; maybe he called you too. Never good enough, that project. He doesn't understand Cupíca, or any part of Chocó, and I'm starting to believe he doesn't understand development either. Maybe I should filter him out. Get myself some sleep."
"Come on. You don't mean that, Gloria." Liliana paused just long enough for Gloria to wonder if her boss was considering her words carefully or simply wanting to emphasize what she was about to say. "I wonder why Marcos didn't discuss that matter with me. After all, I'm responsible for Colombia in the Fund. I report to him. You don't."
Gloria had to brake for a long-haired youngster swinging into her lane. Her little pastry tumbled off the passenger seat. "Mierda," she groaned as she leaned over and down to reach the paper bag. "Sorry, Liliana, some kid just cut me off. You're right. Marcos should be talking to you. Next time, I'll forward his calls. Night calls. Alejandro will love them. And my Cupíca discussions should be with you, not with bloody Marcos Rojas."
"Sweetie, my cute little Gloria, watch your language. Anger isn't good counsel. First things first, you're not going to filter that hunk out. Don't try that stuff on me. I see you gazing at him while he walks away from your desk. I think you like his gait. Or something else? The way his tailor cuts his pants? Everything on him looks good to me. He's tough, but so is Silverman. This is a business. We can't just put our bleeding hearts in our projects. We must put some of our toughest brain cells to work as well. We must survive. If we drown in red ink, the Cupíca jobs will be swallowed with us. And Marcos can't help it that his hips drive you crazy," she teased. "Want to make him walk backward? I think he means well with Cupíca. He loves to visit there."
"True, I mean ... you're right about the business stuff. I'll have to whip things up in Cupíca. Good hearts can be taken advantage of, by the people in Cupíca and by others. We can't afford lackadaisical approaches. Or corruption or faked figures. And about Marcos, well, he does look good, but he knows it." A tinge of helplessness crept into Gloria's voice. "And he knows somebody else likes his gait; actually I know who that is. You'd be surprised."
"Hmm. Let's sit together, Gloria, after the meeting, maybe in one of the little cafés here in La Candelaria. Some great hot chocolate on this damp, dreary day may work wonders and could inspire. We all go through little personal struggles. And we'll comb through the Cupíca figures together too, at the office, after the chocolate. Oops," she suddenly yelled, startled, "I must be careful here. Some idiot almost ran away with my front bumper. Chiaito. Bye. See you soon. I see the front gate of the GDC. I'll tell them you're close."
"Thanks, boss, or should I say 'Mom'? Moms are supposed to drive carefully, with baby seats. See you."
A fever raged in Gloria, and she could not beat it. She had had difficult conversations recently with Marcos. She was getting to know him. He was power thirsty and obsessed with money. He also had been showing unusual interest in spending time with her over the phone and via e-mail, and now in person during visits from Lima, where he resided. More and more interest. She had a range of emotions when it came to Marcos, not all good, but she had to admit she felt a carnal attraction to this man. His mere presence made her tremble. He knew it; he sensed her unexpressed feelings. Gloria sighed. He was a complicated and outrageous dream, this lanky Peruvian with the looks of Antonio Banderas. She wanted more than a dream. Over the last few months, she had laid her hands on his hips many times. But she knew of at least one other pair of hands that knew how those hips felt. The thought consumed her.
Gloria now had to concentrate on the negotiation with the GDC.
Chapter Two
The meeting at the GDC had gone well.
Gloria had admired Liliana as the pro she was at negotiating the financial and legal aspects of a deal. She knew Liliana had been around and wasn't afraid to call a spade a spade in front of anybody—anybody. She brought a lot to the table. She had a strong legal background. Gloria had heard from others that Liliana had finished at the top of her law class at the Universidad de los Andes and completed two years of specialization in corporate law in Austin, Texas. It was clear to Gloria that Liliana's deep connections in the Colombian world of government were an invaluable asset. She had the wit and looks to break deadlocks and elicit softened responses in heated discussions. Gloria felt a tinge of jealousy.
Today's discussion had centered on a spice production project in El Chocó, based on herbs grown in the forests. No wonder Liliana had asked Gloria to go with her. But during the meeting, "Miss Cupíca" had had to be told a couple of times by her boss—with long stares and breaks in sentences—that active participation, and not easy escapes away into dreams, was expected.
After the meeting, the hot chocolate at the Chica Caleña coffee shop offered a heavenly flavor on this dreary day. Gloria felt that, even here, the baristas never put enough sugar in it. She had been rubbing her freezing hands, but now she could cradle the hot cup. And with Liliana, I feel good.
Liliana discussed the big topic.
"About that boy in your dreams, you will not filter him out. You can't; of course not. You would slit your own throat. Goodbye Fund, good-bye Cupíca. Nonsense. He'll be in our lives as long as he lasts with our honcho, and I don't think you want him out of your sights anyway, right?"
Gloria looked in her cup. Indeed, a spade is a spade. "Yes, Liliana, I must hang in there, I guess. Cupíca counts on me."
"So do I, Gloria, and, frankly, Marcos is just doing his job. Mr. Silverman's no joke. He didn't get rich just being nice. Of course, in old age he's changing his tune a bit." Gloria knew Liliana was referring to the money Mr. Silverman invested in the Fund to create employment for poverty-stricken South Americans, including many Colombians who had been chased from their homes by terrorism. And both women knew their boss could still crack his whip. "Don't judge Marcos too harshly," Liliana added, her tone a bit softer. "He's in it for the good cause, just as we are. He could be making a lot of money in Rio Tinto or Valle instead of running the Fund."
"Do you actually know him? For me, Marcos remains a stranger," Gloria sighed.
"I have little contact with him myself."
Marcos was Liliana's operational boss for the Fund, but her real boss was, unofficially, Mr. Silverman—"Nate" as he wanted her to call him. She did some work for Nate outside the Fund, and she knew him a bit socially. She'd stayed at his place, "his palace," in Boca Raton with Alejandro. They had discussed Marcos a few times "off the record."
"What I do know," Liliana concluded, "is that in Silverman's eyes, he's a smart, clever, good-looking guy, outrageously so if you ask me, who's good at chatting up people."
"You're telling me?"
Liliana smiled and continued, "He's particularly good at that with older people. He could make a career out of squeezing inheritances out of old ladies who long for a person who listens to them and sends them flowers. I've seen Nate smile when he heard Marcos asking Mrs. Silverman about her health, her hobbies, and her charities. Marcos is a champ. He negotiates very well. Seriously, feet on the ground, Marcos is also an excellent engineer and businessman. He professes to be sacrificing years of his life to make a contribution to society, but at one point Mr. Silverman smiled, when he recalled the negotiations he had to work through to recruit him. Last but absolutely not least, to me, Marcos sounds like Iglesias, Julio. I love his voice; it works wonders—a man with the looks of Antonio Banderas and the voice of Julio Iglesias! Does it get any better?"
Gloria laughed, barely avoiding choking on a piece of cake. "Liliana, you're the married one here. He's mine, not yours."
"Well, if you mean that, the second part, go for it," Liliana cheered her on. She grabbed Gloria's forearm and shook it. "Call 'Julio' from time to time, at night, before he calls you. Surprise him. Listen to that seductive voice. Tell him you miss him."
"But he's not just mine ... This is between the two of us, but ..." Gloria swallowed hard and then met her boss's gaze. "He called me Paola, twice. At my place. Do I look like her?"
Paola was Mr. Silverman's right hand. She had a stellar reputation; virtue incarnate, she was incorruptible.
Liliana almost spilled her hot chocolate. "Dios mío! Are you serious? Did you react? What did you say?"
"I laughed; best I could do. Upset but trying not to show it. I put my index finger on his lips and told him he was really mixing work into our pleasure at this late hour, too much overtime, and that he must have had too many calls from her, about the Fund of course. And I felt his hips—tight. His chest also."
"Hmm, what did he say? How did he wiggle out of this?"
"He laughed too, and he said I should call him more often. He said he's scared of her and laughed again. And then he came close and whispered something in my ear that made me forget her. Sorry."
"Yes, he may be scared; there may be something to that. Paola controls Silverman, no doubt. He's given up most of the daily controls and relies on her—chief of staff turning into chief of boss. I can see that when I'm at his house in the Sanctuary in Boca Raton. She's there often. Marcos isn't entirely kidding; he has reason to fear her. Paola is a great person, but she can be very rough if she feels she has to," Liliana whispered knowingly. "She knows she can."
Liliana took the time to check her hot chocolate and stir it with deliberate slowness. Then she took Gloria's hand and said, "Glorita, I'm starting to think that you should cool it a bit with Marcos. Forget what I said; don't call him for awhile. I stand corrected. Lots of great hips and tight chests in Bogotá. This Marcos business is dangerous. You don't know where this dark path could lead."
Gloria considered Liliana's wisdom; she felt she couldn't afford not to. I can't say I haven't been warned, she thought. But her heart wished she hadn't.
Chapter Three
After hot chocolate time, Gloria had a lunch appointment at La Bienvenida on Calle 82 with her friend Ana.
This Friday was a dark one in more than one sense. Ana had called. She was stuck on Calle 100 and begged for time. Gloria waited at the restaurant and didn't feel like reading files or even the messages on her BlackBerry. The Marcos thoughts were draining her energy.
As she looked at the tea left in the bottom of her cup, she walked the paths of her Cupíca history.
It was 2005 when she'd set foot for the first time on the soft, reddish soil just past the north end of the Cupíca airstrip, with anticipation and trepidation. She had smelled the water-laden air, heavy and so different from Bogotá's. The Fund had sent her there to work on economic and social development for the area.
The tiny Beechcraft had flown Gloria and her two companions, government employees, from Bogotá to this place. It had been a rough ride, which graphically demonstrated the wisdom of not taking breakfast before boarding for El Chocó. Poor pressurization didn't help the cause. None of those aboard, except the two pilots, had ever been to El Chocó. Gloria knew most Colombians never visited there. El Chocó evoked visions of a foreign country they had no desire to see. The region was stunningly beautiful, but the weather was awfully hot and humid and made flying risky. The food was monotonous and boring, travel schedules totally unreliable; "nothing works, nobody works" was standard language used to describe El Chocó's economy in Colombian business discussions. The presence of terrorists and drug traffickers was no secret to Gloria.
The pilots had searched for the right speed and angle to land their little Beechcraft. All they could rely on for landing was their skill and experience. Gloria helped them with a silent prayer and thanked God with another one when the plane coasted to a halt at the very north end of the strip.
Stepping out of the plane, she was met by kids begging for bags to carry. She noticed they were out of breath, and she realized that they must have run here from the village as fast as they could when they spotted the plane overhead. They were smelling business, pesos.
One of the boys, an air of budding gravitas over him, handed Gloria a card from El Padre, Father Salazar. She had heard the father had the only phone in the village, a satellite phone the GDC had donated to him. The card said the father expected her in his house, right across the little square in front of the church, immediately after touchdown. He had fixed the schedule for her visit.
Gloria was relieved when she and the boys with her bags arrived at Father Salazar's house. It had been a long, hot, and wet twenty-five minutes. All and everything the boys had carried was muddied but intact. She had felt half ashamed for walking into the village looking like a pampered pro golfer with multiple caddies, but she was also conscious of the need to support the fledgling, youthful branch of the local economy that was accompanying her. Onlookers visibly approved. The boys had been good companions on the walk, happily chatting, innocently upbeat.
A loud and hearty welcome awaited Gloria. She met an enthusiastic Father Salazar, a sturdy, cross-eyed man in his midforties, with heavy glasses; a light-skinned Paisa (the name for people from his Medellín area). The father's laugh was loud and infectious. He gracefully carried his too many pounds on his five-foot-ten body under the priestly garb but apparently hadn't yet found a way to hide a stubborn belly. From the first minute, he made it clear that he expected real things from Gloria and the Futuro Fund, not those often-heard pipe dreams. He was ready to do more than his part.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Convenient Fund by Jan Smolders Copyright © 2012 by Jan Smolders. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
