Each time the casing ejected and the plywood target rebounded, Culebra pointed out small things I was doing incorrectly, and then told me to step back before taking my next shot. He taught me to fire standing, crouching and kneeling.
‘And always count your shots.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘How many?’
‘Sixteen, including your two with the bottles,’ I responded. ‘One left.’
I aimed and fired from ten metres. The bullet hit the edge of the bullseye, my best shot of the day. But that was it. Culebra took back the pistol.
He told me to collect the spent 9mm casings and throw them into a pit beside the rifle range that was already half-filled with empty shells. I obeyed, but kept a handful of casings to add to the shrine in my locker.
‘Keep working hard. Keep me informed. And stay loyal.’ Culebra tapped the pistol’s barrel against his tattoo. ‘And one day you might get one of these.’
I smiled. I was definitely on the promotion list.
Culebra tossed me the keys to the Blazer.
‘I need batteries. Not the usual kind – the radio ones. The supplier phoned to say they’ve arrived. And I want some personal supplies. From Villavicencio.’
Villavicencio was the city we’d passed through on the way to El Filtro. It was four hours away.
My mind raced. A truck with tinted windows. An entire day on my own. Stores where the Guerrilla might purchase specialised supplies. Ratón in plain clothes thinking no one would recognise him in a city of three hundred thousand people.
‘Sure. What do you need?’
Apart from batteries, Culebra wanted crates of beer, rum, porn DVDs, generic Viagra and condoms. New Year’s Eve was the following day.
‘Will I miss class?’
‘Yes. A technical class on the parts of a rifle. I’ll give you the handbook and you can catch it up later. But Alfa 1 wants to speak to you first.’
Culebra was using me since he had to teach class and couldn’t leave base. But I didn’t mind being used. I was learning about his brand of loyalty. While I scratched his back, I’d scratch my own too. In Villavicencio, I had a few errands to run myself.
33
NO MALE RECRUIT had ever been inside the commanders’ dormitory – only the girls. Beyond the open door, Alfa 1 sat writing at his desk and did not look up as we entered.
Culebra slipped sideways and retreated against the wall. ‘Here he is, comando.’
The trainers’ shed was the same size as ours, only ours slept twenty-four. Two beds – presumably Beta’s and Culebra’s – stood against the far wall. Alfa 1’s space had two roof-high partitions and included a kitchenette. In the centre of the room stood a weights bench and dumbbell rack. On the desk sat a television, several cell phones and chargers, and a radio.
Alfa 1 continued writing while we stood waiting.
‘Tell me about the broken padlock,’ he said finally.
Surprised, I glanced at Culebra. He’d implied the padlock would stay between us. Alfa 1 looked up and intercepted my glance.
‘Soldier, if you think my men don’t inform me of everything that occurs on my base, then you’ve learned nothing about chain of command. Eyes to the front!’
‘Yes, comando.’
‘Now, I want to know why you requested an additional padlock for the armoury right before five boys deserted.’
‘To protect the container, comando. It’s my job.’
I was trying to be succinct, but my response seemed to infuriate him.
‘If you drive to Puerto Bontón, soldier, it’s because I authorise it!’ he barked. ‘If you shoot a pistol, it’s because I permit it! And if you’re still standing here breathing after not reporting those boys’ desertion plans, it’s because I’m allowing you the oxygen.’ He slammed his hand on the desk. ‘Why did you request the padlock when you could have said nothing and gotten away with it?’
I was shocked by how much he knew, but I answered honestly.
‘I didn’t know anything for certain, comando,’ I said. ‘I’m not a sapo, but I did want to protect the weapons.’
Alfa 1 stood from his desk and began to pace across the room.
‘Luckily for you, I judge a man by his actions and not by his thoughts.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve seen Trigeño kill boys just for discussing desertion. He might have killed you along with them, just for knowing. Your failure to inform us of their plans wasted a lot of man-hours, training time and aviation fuel.’ He laughed ironically. ‘Personally, I’m glad they escaped. I wouldn’t want boys like that on my team during combat. And now the others understand that there are consequences. But you still did wrong.’
‘Yes, comando.’
He took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I know you joined the Autodefensas because the Guerrilla killed your father. But tell me this: are you in for the long haul, or are you simply angry?’
That would have been the moment to tell him about my father’s killers. However, if Alfa 1 guessed my intention to go after them, he might become suspicious and that could jeopardise my plans.
‘I’m loyal, comando,’ I lied, meeting his eyes. ‘I’m here for as long as it takes.’
‘Culebra has told me about your hard work in the armoury. And Beta reported that you volunteered to help dispose of the deserters. Keep leading, Pedro, and you’ll be in line for promotion. But remember: being loyal to the Autodefensas means being loyal to me. I want no secrets on this base, no matter how small.’
With that, Alfa 1 dismissed me.
I went to my locker breathing a sigh of relief and changed into my civilian clothes, covering my military haircut with a cap. It was important to keep a low profile when venturing outside our territory.
I took the bullet casings from the pockets of my uniform and tipped all but one of them into the box with my letters to Papá. The remaining casing I put back into my pocket, deciding to take it with me to test the thoroughness of the gate guards’ searches. Since it was a spent casing, without an actual bullet, I wouldn’t get into trouble if they found it.
Alfa 1 might consider keeping secrets on La 50 a form of disloyalty, but by authorising me to drive alone to Villavicencio, he’d enabled me to keep far bigger secrets from him off the base.
34
AS USUAL, THE guards noted the time and purpose of my journey, and scrutinised the interior of the Blazer. They pulled out everything, from the emergency triangle to the tyre jack. On a vehicle’s inbound journey, the guards were looking for cameras, hidden recording devices, telephones, weapons or explosives. On the way out, they searched for anything that might be stolen or seemed out of place.
When I’d driven to Puerto Bontón with Culebra, the search had been quick and friendly. But since the deserters’ escape, La 50 had become like a prison compound in lockdown. The gate guards searched as though their lives depended on finding something. They even patted my groin and turned my pockets inside out.
The guard raised an eyebrow at the single bullet casing. ‘What’s this?’
‘Trash,’ I said casually, but I felt disappointed. If I couldn’t get so much as a spent cartridge off base, what chance did I have with a pistol?
The guard pointed to twelve garbage bags lined up against the fence.
‘Then you won’t mind helping us again with those.’
At the end of their shift, the gate guards were supposed to carry the camp garbage five hundred metres to the dump. On my previous supply run to Puerto Bontón, I’d driven it there for them, saving them several trips. I loaded the bags into the back of the Blazer. It couldn’t hurt to keep the guards onside.
The dump was an excavated pit three metres deep and ten metres across, with the extracted dirt piled beside it. It stank like an open sewer.
I backed up close to the pit and swung the bags in. A swarm of flies swirled into the air, rats scuttled over the edges and rancid air wafted skyward.
I was glad to get back onto the long, flat highway. At the Puerto Bontón army checkpoint, I re
adied my licence but the soldiers recognised the Blazer and waved me through. Once I got past Puerto Bontón a weight lifted from my shoulders and my mind became clearer.
Driving across the floodplains, I noticed that the water levels in the ponds and rivers had dropped, forcing the white storks into denser clusters. Cebu – specially bred cattle with high, protruding backbones – stood in fields with tiny egrets perched on their shoulders. I felt free, with a long, sunny day ahead of me.
For five weeks I’d been obeying orders under threat of severe punishment, even death. But outside the gates of La 50, an entire world had been going on without me. In that world you didn’t follow orders. You didn’t request permission to use the bathroom. You weren’t told what time to sleep and wake up. Being off La 50 reminded me of what had once been normal. With fresh air blasting against my face and the stereo volume up, I pretended I was back in Papá’s Mazda, happy and in control.
On the other side of Monterrey, I passed the same sign we’d seen on the way to El Filtro: GUERRILLA, NOT A PEEP! Half an hour later, a large road sign listed the distances remaining to upcoming towns. At the top of the list, twenty kilometres ahead, was Villavicencio. At the bottom was Garbanzos: 517 kilometres away, only a seven-hour drive.
My thoughts turned to home. It was the 30th of December. Mamá would be at Uncle’s cooking stuffed pig with rice. Camila would be trying on dresses for tomorrow’s salsa party. Perhaps I could just keep driving. I had hundreds of dollars that Culebra had given me for supplies. But the temptation lasted only until I reached the city centre of Villavicencio, where on every corner and in every passing face I saw Ratón. I remembered the file on Culebra’s desk. Ratón had been sighted here on the 2nd of November, buying supplies, only two weeks before Papá’s murder.
I knew Ratón needed batteries for his Motorola radio and, from the evidence in his file, he’d probably come to pick them up himself. I purchased everything on Culebra’s list, leaving the radio batteries until last. All the electrical stores in town, including our own supplier, were located on the same block on Third Avenue and sold nearly identical merchandise.
I approached a shoeshine man who was squatting on a wooden stool at the corner of Third Avenue and 16th Street and offered him some coins to enter six of the seven stores and collect a business card from each. Meanwhile I’d visit our own supplier, Don Harold.
Harold was busy with another customer. I stood waiting in the doorway, fingering the bullet casing in my pocket and studying the faces of passers-by. It was to this street that Ratón would come. Would I be capable of shooting him?
On a firing range, ten metres from a stationary plywood cut-out, my aim had been good. But I’d only fired fifteen shots. I envied the perimeter guards who fired hundreds every week. They fired so many shots, but they usually came back with unused bullets, the numbers of which it was my job to record in a large inventory book.
Suddenly I realised how I could get the pistol bullets: I could under-report the number of bullets that were returned to the armoury after shooting practice. One day a number ‘6’ could be turned into a ‘5’. Another day a ‘9’ could become an ‘8’. With more bullets in actual stock than were recorded in inventory, I could then remove them without Culebra noticing a discrepancy.
Don Harold’s customer left and I introduced myself. Our battery order was ready, packed in four boxes, and Harold was helpful, answering all my queries about our current radio model. What was the best way to keep the contacts clean? Would keeping the handsets on low volume extend the battery life? However, this was merely a lead-in and soon I began asking about the Motorola line. Knowing I was keen to save money for my bosses, Don Harold showed me a VHF and UHF catalogue. I recognised Ratón’s model – the Motorola CP200.
‘How much would this cost?’
‘Two hundred dollars.’ He winked. ‘But if you bought enough units, I could give you a special price.’
‘How long would they take to order in?’
‘Two weeks. Three to be on the safe side.’
‘And the batteries?’
‘The same.’
The Guerrilla would have the same lead times for their orders. If I could find out when Ratón placed an order, I’d also have an approximate pick-up time. I thanked Don Harold and paid him in cash.
I carried the boxes to the Blazer. On the corner of 16th Street, the shoeshine man was waiting for me with the six business cards. I paid him too and departed.
Before leaving Villavicencio, I bought a city map, a cheap Nokia cell phone, a prepaid SIM card and a phone charger that could be plugged into the Blazer’s cigarette lighter. Culebra had the connections to buy anonymous SIM cards, but I had to fill in a form and show identification. However, the storeowner gave me the code for blocking caller ID on outgoing calls.
Of course, I couldn’t smuggle any of these things back onto La 50. I’d have to hide them in the one place I knew no one would look – the dump. So I also bought two large zip-lock bags to protect my purchases from the weather.
The four-hour drive back passed quickly, and by the time I reached the dump it was 6 pm and my hands were trembling. The feeling of doing something unauthorised was now very real. By hiding a phone outside the Autodefensa base, I was risking my life. I would need to be careful. In fact, I would need to be meticulous.
I removed the battery from the phone so that it wouldn’t run down. I searched the Blazer – even a receipt could give me away. Then I sealed everything inside the zip-lock bags and buried them in the south-east corner of the dump. I kicked a large stone down from the field above and covered the place so that I could find it again. After wiping my hands and knees and patting myself down, I was left holding the 9mm bullet casing.
Although the empty cartridge was harmless, new guards would be at the gate and bringing it back onto the base would be hard to explain. But neither did I want to throw it away. It was my lucky casing – the one that had given me the idea about under-reporting the inventory of bullets. I decided to keep it with the other items. And bending down a second time towards that pestilent stench to retrieve my zip-lock bag, I had another inspiration.
The guards searched everyone and everything that left La 50 as though their lives depended on it. Everything, that is, except the garbage.
That night, lying in bed, I thought of the deception I was now guilty of and what could happen to me if I were found out. I remembered Tango and Murgas, and how they’d been killed before my eyes, chopped, packed and completely erased from the earth. But then I pictured Papá’s face and the risks meant nothing. My fantasy of killing Ratón came strongly into focus – now that I’d seen the electrical stores in Villavicencio, I could imagine exactly how it would be.
It is early evening when Ratón arrives. Few people are on the sidewalk. I approach quietly from behind as Ratón exits the shop. I grab his arm and stick my pistol between his ribs, telling him not to try anything stupid. He recognises from my voice and demeanour that I am professionally trained and does not resist. We walk calmly to the Blazer, which is parked around the corner. Once in the car, I make Ratón tie his own blindfold, which I’ve placed in the glove box.
Ratón begs to know who I am, where I am taking him and what I intend to do. I tell him to keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him.
We drive out to the field I have chosen, park the truck behind a large tree and walk a kilometre from the road. I command Ratón to kneel. I remove the blindfold and tell him who I am and why I have brought him here. It has only been four months. I know he recognises me and remembers what he did. But he pretends it wasn’t him – he is innocent; I have the wrong person. I tell him there is no use denying it and eventually he changes tactics, now arguing that it wasn’t his fault – he was merely a junior radio operator who conveyed messages between commanders. He says he is sorry for my father’s death and he begs for mercy. I then deliver my speech while Ratón remains silent with his head bowed.
I have practised this spe
ech many times in my mind. It is the same speech I will deliver to each of my father’s killers when their turn comes. I know precisely how long it will take, the voice I will use and the exact words. Words like justice and suffering and right and wrong.
This is war, I tell Ratón. A war that the Guerrilla started and that they continue to wage on Colombia. It is their rule that you must choose one side or the other and so they must surely realise the consequences arising from that choice.
I reason with Ratón and, gradually, I see in his eyes that he accepts justice must be done. Killing him is now the only thing to do – it is the right thing, the moral thing. I promise to make it quick provided he tells me where to find the others, which he does
Finally, I circle Ratón slowly, just as Caraquemada circled my father. I pronounce the crime he has been found guilty of. The crime of killing a good man – a community man, who attended church and went fishing every Sunday – on the flimsy pretence of supplying water to the government army. The crime of making an innocent woman into a widow, of leaving a son without a father and of banishing them from the land they depended on to survive, thereby adding to their sorrow and preventing them from continuing life with any shred of dignity.
On the third time around, I place the pistol at a point I have chosen at the base of his head and pull the trigger. Ratón’s skull thumps on the ground and I walk away, not looking back. And it is done.
35
THE FOLLOWING DAY – New Year’s Eve – I began stealing 9mm rounds. After range practice, the twelve perimeter guards lined up at the container to hand back their pistols and boxes of unfired ammunition. While I wrote, Culebra called out each man’s alias, the last three digits of the pistol’s serial number and the number of unfired bullets he was returning.
‘Valderrama, number three-seven-one, returning eight bullets.’
At first, I was too scared to under-report the bullets. In the end, I only changed one numeral, writing a ‘5’ instead of a ‘6’. If Culebra checked my list, he might notice. However, his thoughts were on that night’s celebration. There would be music, and each of us would receive four vouchers that could be exchanged for cans of beer. Culebra gave my list only a cursory glance before opening the brown paper package of Viagra and condoms I’d bought for him.