On April seventeenth at fourteen forty local time the fifteen step off the bus from N'djili airport. The runway is behind them. The gate of the Venus Village is in front of them. It is a sky-blue sheet-metal gate with the hotel's name in yellow paint.

They left Houston twenty-nine hours earlier. They are from Colombia, Ecuador, Peru. They are the first fifteen of the agreement.

The Colombian is the twelfth to step off. He holds the plastic bag of repatriation in his right hand. The bag contains: a white shirt, a pair of socks, a toothbrush with worn bristles, a sealed envelope with documents.

The director of the Venus Village is named Lukombo. He introduces himself in French. He hands out the keys to the rooms. There are six keys. There are fifteen rooms. People sleep three to a room.

Room 207 is on the first floor. It has two single beds and a cot. A Peruvian is already in the far bed. An Ecuadorian arrives right after the Colombian. The Colombian takes the cot.

The visa is for seven days. The repatriation paper says so. Lukombo says so too, in French, which the Colombian doesn't understand. An Ecuadorian woman translates. Seven days starting from the seventeenth. It expires on the twenty-fourth. After the twenty-fourth the paper says nothing.

The first day at eleven the water cuts off. The Colombian is in the bathroom. The faucet makes a coughing sound and then stops. The Colombian goes down to the ground floor with the empty bottle from the room.

The bar counter is to the right of the entrance. There is an attendant in a red shirt. The Colombian shows him the bottle. He says: agua. The attendant looks. He doesn't answer.

A Congolese woman on the chair next to the counter says a word. She says: mai. The Colombian looks at her. The woman repeats: mai. She points at the bottle. The Colombian says: mai. The attendant smiles. He pulls a one-and-a-half-litre bottle out of the counter fridge. He hands it over.

The Colombian says: mai. He says it again, because the first time didn't come out right.

The second day the water cuts off at nine. The Colombian goes down. He says: mai. The attendant gives him the bottle.

The third day the water cuts off at ten twenty. The Colombian goes down. He says: mai.

The fourth day the water cuts off at eight ten. The Colombian is the first to go down. The counter has just opened. The attendant is arranging the bottles on the shelf. He turns to the Colombian. The Colombian says: mai.

The attendant gives him the bottle. He stops with his hand on the neck of the bottle, before letting go. He asks in French: comment vous appelez-vous. The Colombian doesn't answer. The attendant switches languages. He says in Spanish, slowly: cómo se llama.

The Colombian says his name. He says it whole: first name, first surname, second surname.

It is the first time he says it in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

The attendant says: my name is Bisengo. Bi-sen-go. The Colombian repeats: Bi-sen-go. The attendant smiles.

The Colombian goes up to the room with the bottle.

The fifth day the water cuts off at seven. The Colombian goes down before the sun even reaches the courtyard. Bisengo is already at the counter. The yellow counter light is on. The plastic cash box is on the shelf.

The Colombian says: mai. Bisengo gives him the bottle. He hands it over whole, without stopping at the neck.

Lukombo comes in through the corridor door. He stops three steps from the counter. He says something to Bisengo in Lingala. The phrase is brief. Bisengo answers. The answer is even briefer.

Lukombo looks at the Colombian. The Colombian holds the bottle with both hands. Lukombo says nothing to him. He turns. He goes back through the corridor.

Bisengo takes a finger of mango juice from a pitcher behind the counter. He pours it into a plastic cup. He hands it to the Colombian. He says: para usted. Mañana también.

The Colombian says: gracias.

He goes up to the room. He puts the bottle on the bedside table. He puts the cup of mango juice next to it. He drinks half the juice. He sits on the edge of the cot.

The visa expires in three days.

The Colombian opens the plastic bag. He takes out the sealed envelope with the documents. He looks for the paper with the phone number of his sister, in Quibdó. The paper is there. The number is written in blue ink. The pen is faded.

Tomorrow he will go down to the counter with the empty bottle and with the envelope. To Bisengo he will say: mai. Then he will show him the paper. Bisengo will understand.

When his sister answers, the Colombian will tell her that he is well. He will tell her that the visa ends on Saturday and that he doesn't know where he will go on Monday. He will tell her that he is in a country called the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in a city called Kinshasa, even though of Kinshasa he has seen nothing because in five days he has never left the Venus Village. He will tell her that he has learned a word in a new language. He will tell her the word.

Mai.