The revolution had dismantled the huge Pepsi-Cola Sphere that used to balance itself atop the Polar II Tower. It was a vestige from a bygone era, when money ran through the streets of Caracas and petrol flowed rhythmically towards international markets. The Pepsi-Cola Sphere was a symbol of Venezuela’s unique place in Latin-American politics. The seventies were a dark period; dictatorships consumed the rest of the hemisphere. Notwithstanding, “The Small Venice”, as this country was affectionately called (Venez-uela), boasted democratic alternability and the region’s most robust economy. Also, while the rest of Latin America drank Coca-Cola, Venezuelans drank Pepsi. The sphere hung, perched on its watchtower in Plaza Venezuela, erect in the capital of the only country that drank more Pepsi than Coca-Cola. However, towards the beginning of the 21st century, everything would change: the Sphere would be dismantled, just like the democratic institutions, and Venezuelans would start drinking more Coke.
On the other side of Plaza Venezuela, the “University City” started to unravel. It was an extense and privileged space in the heart of the capital, a bubble of calm that contrasted with Caracas’ hysterical traffic. It had been built, like many other monuments and urban projects, during the military dictatorship of the fifties. A Venezuelan architect, fan of Modernism and Le Corbusier, designed wide, cool corridors in the middle of the lush vegetation. His European contacts allowed him to enrichen the university’s patrimony with works by Léger and Calder, making the Universidad Central de Venezuela the most prominent institution of the region. Unfortunately, the architect was forced to indulge the military despot’s megalomania by building a gym in the form of the cap the General wore all the time. The edges swelled over the walls of the “University City”, as if the cap were constantly surveilling the cars on the Francisco Fajardo highway.
Pablo was used to eating at the fast-food carts around the Plaza Venezuela, even if they were sometimes full of students. He hated students. They were too pretentious, all high and mighty. He didn’t understand their jokes and despised their accent. It was a dragged-out Spanish, as if they all had lisps. It lacked manhood, the emphatic, choppy pronunciation he always heard in his slum.
After two or three hot-dogs with grated cheese, mayonnaise and ketchup, he liked to walk down Sabana Grande Boulevard towards the restaurant. The Boulevard, once the refuge of local intellectuals, had been invaded by street merchants. They had taken over every inch of the sidewalk, even parts of the street. In the nineties, a hive of rickety stands had invaded the whole area. Pedestrians could barely slide between the different “businesses”. Every governor and mayor, once elected, promised to “find a solution” to the problem, even threatening mass evictions using the police. All of them had failed. The street vendors were a hydra: cut off one head, two more appeared.
The revolution had promised to “dignify” these informal jobs, creating a pension plan and giving street vendors social security. Chávez himself had ordered on TV, almost ten years ago, that the police were to stop harassing them. By sanctioning informal vendors and giving them carte blanche, chaos ensued. Towards the beginning of the 21st Century, this line of work had taken over every inch of the Boulevard, as well as other streets of the city. Every square foot of concrete was fair game for “businessmen” selling cookies, clothes, burned DVDs. By 2006, street vendors had built a city-inside-the-city, with hairdressers, video-gaming centers featuring flat-screen TVs in the middle of the street, facial piercing parlors and even unsanctioned dentists ripping wisdom teeth out on every corner.
That’s when insecurity exploded. Young gangsters realized that the narrow, improvised passages between stands were perfect to ambush citizens. They stole cell phones, watches, jewellery; they could easily snatch your baseball cap or shoes by flashing the gun snugged in their belts.
Therefore, urbanism during the first decade of the revolution was tantamount to survival of the fittest. In Downtown Caracas, street vendors overtook all the sidewalks, pushing pedestrians onto the first lane of the street. Four-lane avenues were reduced to three, with the last lane reserved for people walking and motorbikes zigzagging between cars.
Nevertheless, at some point no Venezuelan could remember, the government had decided to “recover” some Boulevards that had become unbearable even to the street vendors themselves. They built a street market and relocated everybody. This idea wasn’t particularly original: previous politicians had also “relocated” their street vendors. The trick was to prevent new “businessmen” setting up shop.
That’s why Caracas lived through brief truce periods, with its streets and boulevards wide open. This was one of those moments, and Pablo planned to make the best of it with a calm walk to work. He knew the street vendors would be back soon. There was just too much money, and too much mafia involved, in this informal economy. It was a gold mine for those with access to government subventions. Since street vendors were not held to the draconian price controls that strangled local businessmen, goods that were scarce in the “normal” marketplace could be found here at four, five, even ten times the pegged price. Politicians and Generals in the military would never let this El Dorado disappear, so it was just a matter of time until Pablo would have to take the Subway again and pay for his ticket.
That said, the Boulevard looked gaunt, wasted. The sidewalk had been punished by thousands of street vendors over the years. Their stands had emaciated the concrete, their waste and urine had taken its toll. A thick, black stain covered everything. Some cafés and bars, famous in the seventies, had survived the invasion but their clients were long gone. Nobody came to Sabana Grande to play chess anymore; few remembered the golden years of the Radio City Movie Theatre. The cinema had resisted for half a decade, soldiering on with regular screenings. It caved in due to a dwindling clientele and growing economic woes. Before going under, it became the shelter for glue-sniffing kids. The last moviegoers enjoyed their film projected over the shadows of the small addicts who, frantic and hallucinating, would mimic the images, like Cary Grant in North by Northwest.
The pizza parlour was buried on the first floor of the Commercial Center. It stuck out and dominated the Boulevard, like a huge terrace. It was ideal to avoid the constant pestering of beggars who would harass the people eating. It also made the clients feel safe since it was cut off from the outside, like most establishments in Caracas.
The owner, Giovanni Aponte, had hired Pablo as a waiter four years ago. He was the son of a Sicilian immigrant who’d arrived between World Wars. They’d made money handling different businesses, then lost most of it. Venezuela was a great place to make quick deals. The country crowned investors rapidly, then dethroned them just as fast. The Petrol Class, those who plugged themselves into the black gold like junkies, would spread the riches in restaurants and nightclubs following whims and fast-changing trends.
Giovanni’s father, Angelo Aponte, was an eagle-nosed Italian who’d survived the first years of his South American odyssey by unloading ships at the port. He swore he’d own his business in the future, something he achieved in the seventies by establishing a chain of popular fast-food joints in Caracas. The peak of his success was a nightclub in the Tamanaco Commercial Center that his kids, Giovanni and Sergio, managed. At its peak, it became the most famous spot in the whole city. The Aponte brothers had basked in company of the upper class, supermodels and local TV stars; Giovanni’s chiselled jawline and Sergio’s blue eyes were the center of nineties’ nightlife.
The bomb that rocked the Commercial Center in August of 1993 would change their lives. A group of financial speculators lead by a businessman called Ramiro Helmeyer set off a pound of C4 in the parking lot. The plan was to make the real estate plunge, buy dozens of shops and then sell them when demand went up. Even though there were no casualties, the Aponte’s nightclub, accessed through the parking lot, was completely destroyed.
The insurance company promised to cover the costs of the explosion in full. However, the claim took a long time to get processed and, a year later, Seguros Progreso filed for bankruptcy. Mister Angelo Aponte never got his money back. Then, in 1994, the whole financial system collapsed, wiping out what little savings he had left. A whole life of work, destroyed by Venezuela’s greedy bankers. The Aponte family had to start over, far from the limelight and glamour of Caracas’ nightlife.
Now, almost fifteen years later, Giovanni Aponte managed “Pizza Aponte” by himself, while his brother earned a living in the private transport business. Sergio had bought six taxis which he rented out to drivers trying to make a living crawling around the sweaty, horn-honking, capital.
Pablo had a good relationship with Giovanni Aponte. He didn’t know his past, or his predicament as the city’s fallen angel of the night. Nobody really remembered. Venezuela is an amnesic country. Loyalties are fickle. Bankruptcy meant social loathing, complete erasure from comments going around from Thursday night to Sunday. Giovanni took the shot, swallowed his pride and planned the reconstruction of the Aponte empire. Pablo, on the other hand, only saw a pudgy forty-year-old, with a receding hairline and forced smile, who faked an italian accent and called himself “Maître ‘D”, something no one understood.
Pablo was thankful for the job, though. Pay was terrible, as in all restaurants, but the tips allowed him to make a decent living. He made more than a University teacher, a Psychologist or a Nurse; he only continued to live in the slums because his entire family depended on his income. He thought of himself as a hard worker. The only thing that made him uncomfortable was the owner’s insistence on changing the names of the pizzas.
He didn’t care for semantics; the names were only variations of the word “Aponte”. What he didn’t like was that the clients never understood that an “Apontizza” was a pizza or that an “Apontone” was a calzone. Everybody frowned when he offered an “Apontizza with pepperoni”, some even made fun of him and asked for an “Aponte-beer” or worse, an “Aponteer” or a “Tiramis-onte” for dessert. The owner didn’t budge though, insisting they’d be known for their “Apontizzas” in the near future.
Iker was leaning on his chair and wetting his lips on a Polar beer when Pablo came to his table.
-Today’s special is the “Apontizza Reina”.
-The what?
-Sigh. The Apontizza Reina. That’s what pizzas are called, here.
-Eh, okay. Don’t worry though, I’m expecting someone and I don’t think we’re going to eat. Could I have another beer? Or whatever it is you call the Polars here.
-Nah, a beer is a beer, man.
-Great. A beer, then.
Iker watched the waiter fade between the plastic, toy-like tables, of the pizzeria. The reaguetón floated, hypnotic, in the air. A warm breeze swept through the place. His mouth was dry; he shook his head and licked his teeth, trying to shoo the monkey away. The simian little head chased him. He felt he would see the ape’s face if he swung around. He could barely breathe, even though he was gasping frantically. The thick, caribbean oxygen choked him. Iker… Iker…, he heard over his shoulder. He looked down at his hand, trembling uncontrollably. Iker… IKER! He slapped his hand and held it down to stop the shaking. When she came, everything would be alright. She had that gift: she could break through the darkness and show him the way. The plane left tomorrow. It would be a new life for her, salvation, for him. Nobody would follow him anymore. Nobody would threaten him. In Barcelona, he wouldn’t be thrown in jail without being charged.
He had mixed feelings, though. After a few months, the Spaniard had become accustomed to the tropical lifestyle. He seemed used to the constant noise. The heat, the piercing sun, didn't melt him anymore. He knew he’d miss Venezuela. He’d never forget what he’d been through while looking for information on the Venezuelan Narco-State and, if he ever did, the scars on his feet would surely remind him.