The Flight of the Condor: Stories of Violence and War from Colombia

Gelatin

Gelatin Harold Kremer Today I go to the office at six in the evening. The secretary says that Carepasa wants to see me. I go up to his office. He tells me to sit down. My feet hurt. I have blisters on one of them. Without looking at me he asks for the invoices, without looking at me he looks at them one by one and he takes notes in an account book. “Only five boxes?” “Only five,” I answer. He scratches his head. He picks up his pen and then he leans back. “I think I’ll send you to that training course. What did you do today, son?” I spend the whole afternoon calling home from a pay phone. It’s busy. I’m in the Santa Elena marketplace. I put down the phone and go to one of the stands. I present the product, give him the pitch: gelatin with a double dose of vitamin C. “It doesn’t sell,” answers an almost blind old lady. “We’re at your service.” I leave my card. I go back to the phone. Busy. I go to another stand. I shake hands with a greasy old man. “I still have the entire previous order,” he points to the shelf. And there are the faded boxes. I go back to the phone and dial slowly. An eternity goes by. Busy. I want to go home and kill Ana. “I covered the entire Santa Elena marketplace,” I say. “About fifteen stands.” Carepasa doesn’t take his eyes off of me. I stare back. “Where do you think, son, the money to pay the employees comes from?” 71 I’ve never thought about it. It doesn’t interest me. “From the sale of bakery goods,” I answer. “Correct. . . . When a company as important as ours launches a new product into the market, it has to make an investment. Generally , you don’t expect to make any money off of it for the first year. But, do you know how long we’ve had the gelatin out on the market?” He makes a note in his account book. “Tell me, son. . . .” I hate the old bastard. “Three years,” I say. “You are mistaken. They’ve been on the market for five years and we are the second largest manufacturer of gelatin in Colombia. Bogot á has the highest sales figures, Barranquilla is second, Medellín is third. . . . Do you know what place Cali is in?” He makes another note in his account book. He’s always making notes, keeping statistics, making charts. And he always asks me questions that I can’t answer. “Tell me, son. . . .” “Fourth place. We’re in fourth place.” “You are mistaken. We’re in seventh place.” He taps his head several times with his index finger. “Think for a moment: Do you think it’s fair that the third most important city in the country is in seventh place?” I say no with my head. But the old man wants to hear my voice and waits for an answer. “Well, no. . . .” I’m tired and I shift positions in the chair. I think of Ana. I want to get home and hear her say that nothing has happened. “That’s right, son. I have to send a report to Bogotá every month. And every month I am ashamed of our sales rate. Three years ago we were in second place. We struggled for every bakery, every shop; we convinced people that they needed our products . . . but first the salesman himself has to believe in the product. Tell me the truth: Do you consume Gelqueen in your home?” He places his hands on the desk and observes me. 72 Harold Kremer 73 Gelatin “We love it,” I say. “Especially my little girl. She loves the tuttifrutti flavor. Sometimes I buy it right here.” My daughter hates Gelqueen. “It looks like rubber and tastes like paint,” she says. “That’s good, son. A good salesman starts at home. I dream of the day when people can’t live without Gelqueen. When that day comes we will be big. Understand?” I move my head affirmatively and I again change position in the chair. Then he gets up and goes to the small built-in bookshelf in the wall. He looks through a pile of papers and dusty books. He takes out a book and slaps it against...