Angel of Galilea

Orifiel, Angel of Light There were no warning signs of what was about to happen. Or maybe there were, but I was unable to interpret them. In reconstructing the sequence of events, I recall that a few days before it all started, three men raped a crazy woman in the garden in front of my building. It was around then that my neighbor's dog vaulted from a third-story window, landed on the street, and walked away unharmed. And the leper who sells lottery tickets on the corner of 92nd and 15th streets gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby. Surely those were signs, among many others, but then again this insane city gives off so many doomsday warnings that no one pays attention anymore. And I live in what is considered a middle-class neighborhood: one can only imagine the number of omens that crop up daily in the shantytowns. The truth is that this story, with its supernatural echoes, which would so deeply transform my life, began at eight o'clock on a very ordinary Monday morning when, in a lousy mood, I arrived at the editorial offices of Somos magazine, where I worked as a reporter. Feeling certain that my boss was about to give me a particularly loathsome assignment, Id been dreading this moment all weekend. I was sure he would send me to cover the national beauty pageant that was getting under way in Cartagena. I was younger then, full of energy and ambition, and determined to write about things that mattered, but fate had dealt me a cruel blow, forcing me to earn my living at one of the many popular weekly tabloids. Of all my assignments at Somos, covering the pageant was by far the worst. It was an unnerving task to interview thirty girls with wasp waists and wasp-size brains to match. I also have to admit that their abundant youth and trim figures wounded my pride. Even more painful was having to rhapsodize on Miss Bocayas Pepsodent smile, Miss Tolimas dubious virginity, and Miss Araucas preoccupation with poor children. To top it all, the beauty queens tried so hard to project a charming, naive image that they dealt with everyone on a first-name basis, kissing us, swinging their hips, bubbling over with sweetness. They even had a special name for the reporters from Somos: Sommie, while you're interviewing me, hold my mirror so I can put on my makeup. Take this down, Sommie: My favorite person in the world is Mother Teresa of Calcutta. And there I'd be, standing in front of this splendid five-foot-ten figure, scribbling down streams of nonsense. No. This year I was going to refuse to cover the pageant, even if it cost me my job. Devouring a bowl of earthworms would be preferable to being called Sommie one more time or doing Miss Cundinamarca the favor of fetching the earrings she left in the dining room. So I entered the editor's office cursing under my breath; unfortunately, I knew only too well that it would be impossible to find another steady job and, therefore, to resign was out of the question. At the far side of the room I spotted the familiar bottle-green corduroy jacket, and I thought, now the jacket will turn around to reveal, turkey neck and all, none other than my boss who, without greeting me, will bark out orders to pack for Cartagena--and off goes Sommie again, having to swallow her worms whole. The jacket turned around, and the turkey looked at me, but contrary to my expectations, he condescended to wish me good morning, and not a word about Cartagena. Instead he demanded something else, which I did not like any better. "Get out to the Galilea district right away. An angels been sighted." "What angel?" "Whatever. I need a piece on angels." Now Colombia happens to be the country in the world with the most miracles per square foot. All virgins descend from Heaven, all Christs shed tears, invisible surgeons perform appendectomies on the faithful, and soothsayers predict winning lottery numbers. This is all routinRestrepo, Laura is the author of 'Angel of Galilea' with ISBN 9780609000939 and ISBN 0609000934.