Colombiano

  ‘You should get some air,’ Palillo told me when he came back laden with shopping bags. He exuberantly laid out his purchases – a cell phone, a Discman, a gold chain and a fake Rolex. ‘Have you even been outside today? We could go to the park.’

  I shook my head and buried my face in the pillow. Perhaps if Palillo grew bored enough he’d depart for Llorona.

  That evening, Palillo announced he was going to a discoteca. After he left, I raised my binoculars and squinted at Sandoval in his tiny apartment above the store. Of course, Ratón probably wouldn’t just drop by outside of business hours, but by then I was hooked.

  Ten minutes after Palillo’s departure, the storekeeper was eating dinner when suddenly I heard the key rattle in the lock behind me. I turned to see it drop to the floor and heard the lock click.

  Before I could reach for the Taurus, the door flew open. Palillo burst into the room to find me standing by the window clutching my binoculars. He must have tiptoed up the stairs.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded, striding angrily towards me.

  ‘None of your business, is what it is.’

  I glanced instinctively at my pillow. Palillo lunged towards it. Unwrapping the T-shirt, he held the Taurus high above my head. ‘I’m your best friend. Of course it’s my business.’

  I held out my hand, demanding the pistol. ‘I didn’t ask you to babysit me.’

  When I grabbed for it, Palillo gripped me by the throat to keep me away. I was shocked; he hadn’t laid a hand on me since we were seven. I tried to pry his fingers from my neck, but even with one hand occupied with the Taurus, he was far stronger. He wrestled me to the floor, pinned my arms with his knees and slapped me.

  ‘Wake up, Pedro! Whatever you’re getting yourself into is dangerous. You need to tell me what it is. Now!’

  Straddling me, Palillo refused to let me up. I struggled until I was out of breath. Suddenly, I felt exhausted from the strain of a full day waiting on edge for Ratón to arrive, listening for my best friend’s footsteps and hiding everything from him.

  ‘Ratón,’ I told him. ‘The radio operator. He buys batteries at a store opposite.’

  Palillo allowed me to sit up.

  ‘So you’re going to shoot him on a busy public street right in front of where we’re staying?’

  ‘Of course not. I know what I’m doing.’

  I hadn’t even begun to explain the details, but Palillo shook his head.

  ‘This is stupid. And dangerous. What if Ratón shoots first? What if the storeowner tries to play the hero? You could get caught or killed.’

  He told me that this wasn’t me; I was smarter than this. Was this what my father would have wanted? I stared at the Taurus and didn’t answer.

  ‘I know you’re still angry, but this thing will consume you. You need to forget the past and move on with your life.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said stubbornly. ‘And this is exactly why I didn’t tell you – I knew you’d do this. Now give me back my pistol and get out.’

  ‘What about your mother? She needs you, Pedro. Don’t you think she’s suffered enough?’

  ‘Leave my mother out of this!’

  ‘Then think of Camila. Have you even called her?’

  Of course, he already knew the answer to that. I’d deliberately not contacted Camila. I’d thought about her all the time, but it wouldn’t have been fair to make her keep thinking of me. For a decent girl like Camila, the life she’d lead with me would be no life at all. Camila was beautiful and smart. She’d easily find someone else, if she hadn’t already.

  ‘I’ll make you a deal.’ Palillo proffered the Taurus just out of reach. ‘One phone call. Talk to her for five minutes. Afterwards, if you’re still determined to do this, you can have your pistol back and I’ll help you.’

  ‘No deal.’

  ‘You can’t do this on your own. The job needs at least two people.’

  Palillo was bluffing, but his bluff had merit. I could use a lookout in case something went wrong. I was already tired. What if I fell asleep and Ratón came? What if I couldn’t run down to intercept him in time? While I drove Ratón to the saman tree, it would be easier to have an accomplice sitting behind him, training the pistol on him. In fact, now that I thought about it, the Blazer was a stick shift. How would I steer, point a pistol and change gears?

  Palillo was right. Two people would be better than one.

  I knew Camila’s number better than my own. Using his new cell phone, Palillo placed the call. Disguising his voice, he apologised to Señor Muñoz for phoning so late, gave another student’s name and claimed they had an urgent group assignment. He nodded excitedly, handing me the phone as Camila’s confused voice came on.

  ‘¿Hola?’

  She knew there was no assignment, and when I froze up she guessed immediately who it was.

  ‘Pedro, is that you? Pedro, cariño. If that’s you, please talk to me. I know it’s you. Why won’t you talk?’

  Palillo made desperate signals for me to speak. But the words wouldn’t come. I hung up.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But I was lying. Just by saying my name she’d said everything. She was still thinking of me. Four months after I’d abandoned her she was still thinking of me and waiting for my call. Palillo smiled gloatingly. He’d known that the mere sound of Camila’s voice would splash water on my fiery resolve and cool the burning coals of my angry heart.

  ‘Call her back!’ he demanded. I refused so we grappled over the phone. But Palillo had the reach of a champion boxer. Holding me at arm’s length, he pressed REDIAL and then spoke into the phone.

  ‘No, it’s me, Palillo …’ His face turned ashen. ‘What? When? Is she okay?’ He stared at me intently, then dropped his voice. ‘Just a moment.’

  He stepped into the bathroom, clicking the door behind him, and I could hear his low murmuring punctuated by higher notes of surprise. Finally, after two minutes, he emerged.

  ‘It’s your mother,’ he began, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, she’s fine, but five days ago she was having trouble breathing and collapsed. The doctors think it was a heart attack, and she was hospitalised for three days. She’s back at your uncle’s place now, resting.’

  Hearing this, I felt both shocked and ashamed. Immersed in my own bitterness, I hadn’t bothered to think about how Mamá was coping. When I’d thought of her at all it had been with resentment. By not phoning, I had been trying to punish her, knowing how much even a single call would have meant. Never had it occurred to me that I might lose Mamá too. But now I saw my actions for what they were – selfish and petty.

  It broke my heart to think of Mamá in hospital, all alone and panicking that she might die without saying goodbye to me, or even knowing where I was. I sat on the bed, my head bowed, caught between my instinct to race home and be by Mamá’s side, and my near certainty that Sandoval would call at any moment, putting Ratón within my grasp. If I departed, I might never get a second chance at him. After all the hard work and immense risk I’d undertaken, abandoning my plan to get Ratón at this crucial moment would be like ripping a tightly glued bandage from a still festering wound.

  Finally, I looked up.

  ‘Pack your things,’ I said. ‘First thing in the morning, we’re leaving for Garbanzos.’

  46

  WE DEPARTED THE residencia before dawn. I’d spent a restless night and wasn’t happy about abandoning my stake-out.

  ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ Palillo insisted as we drove out of the public car park. ‘Abducting Ratón here in Villavicencio would be too risky. He’d be on his guard. There are regular police patrols and hundreds of potential witnesses. Better to do it in a remote location closer to his home territory.’

  ‘You mean in Llorona?’

  ‘I’m thinking Santo Paraíso.’

  ‘But that’s deep in Guerrilla territory.’

  Papá had never allowed me to visit
Santo Paraíso. Everyone knew it was the haunt of emerald smugglers and drug traffickers. The village furthest south from Garbanzos, it was also the nearest to the Guerrilla camps. Despite its seedy reputation, however, Palillo had visited Santo Paraíso many times – first as a kid, when Diomedes put him to work picking coca leaves, and later on errands for his mother or to collect his inebriated stepfather after three-day drinking binges.

  ‘That’s my point – it’s where Ratón is most confident, and that makes him vulnerable. Maybe we ambush him on a trail to the coca fields. Maybe we take him one night after he’s been drinking at Flora’s Cantina. I still need to work out the details. But the jungle is so dense that we won’t have to transport him far.’

  ‘What if someone recognises us?’

  Palillo shrugged. ‘You’ll have to stay out of sight. But the Guerrilla don’t know I helped bury your father or that I’ve joined the Autodefensas. And I know people who’ve worked with him. Think about it, Pedro – I’m your biggest asset!’

  Hearing this, I felt better about my decision to abandon my stake-out. Palillo could infect anyone with his optimism, and having him on my side halved the risks.

  On the way to Garbanzos I confessed everything, including how I’d obtained the gun and bullets, and the details of my plan for Ratón at the saman tree. Palillo apologised for slapping me and I apologised for lying.

  ‘How did you find me out?’ I asked.

  ‘You were acting strangely, and then I saw the Blazer in the parqueadero. I asked if you’d been out, but you said no.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘Clever? You’re the one who stole a pistol and bullets from three psychopaths without being noticed. Anything else you’ve stolen?’

  I had to tell him.

  ‘You’re sitting in it.’

  Palillo removed his safety belt, lifted himself from the seat and looked around. It took several seconds before he comprehended.

  ‘You mean you stole this truck? I thought you had permission. You stole the whole fucking Paramilitary truck!’ Laughing, he gave me a high five. ‘Right on!’

  With Palillo in such high spirits, the 500 kilometres of winding road flew beneath our tyres in no time. I was glad I’d decided to go back. Although my disgust for the townspeople of Llorona was still fresh, I needed to make sure Mamá was okay.

  On the inbound highway with Palillo’s newly purchased regaetón CDs blaring, I began to recognise familiar details – the colour of mailboxes, the angle of crooked fence posts, and landmark trees by the side of the road. Even the air had a distinctive odour.

  With so many sights, smells and sounds completely unchanged, I imagined what my return home might have been like, if not for Zorrillo’s prohibition. At our farm, I’d find Mamá in the garden hanging clothes on the line. She’d embrace me and we’d both say how sorry we were. The dream continued until Palillo turned down the music.

  ‘What are you going to tell everyone?’ he asked, furrowing his brow. ‘Our stories have to match.’

  In our new job, I informed him, we stood each day at the base of African oil palms, holding a long stick with a rope coil to hook the fruit. Work started at 5 am and ended at 3 pm. The pay was lousy, but it was tax-free and we were given meals, work clothes and lodging. The Blazer belonged to our boss, who’d sent us to pick up tractor parts and permitted us to visit home.

  ‘You’re a better liar than I am!’ exclaimed Palillo.

  ‘I had a damn good teacher!’

  In all likelihood, Mamá would not believe my story. There were many wives and mothers of Paramilitary soldiers in Garbanzos. It was impossible they didn’t talk. However, most knew better than to stir up trouble. With such high unemployment, income from husbands and sons saved families from poverty.

  ‘And what about Camila?’ asked Palillo.

  Since the phone call, I’d been sure I wanted to see Camila. But now I started having doubts. We might rekindle our love only for me to leave her again. A bigger fear was also gnawing at me. Camila had called me ‘sweetheart’ on the phone, but deep down I was afraid she was with someone else.

  Entering Garbanzos, I noticed tiny changes wrought during my absence: a freshly painted house door, a new billboard advertisement and shops with changed window displays. It had only been four months, but I now felt much, much older.

  We should have taken side streets to the plaza where the cheap residencias were located. Instead we paraded down Avenida Bolivar with the windows down, our elbows out and the music pumping. We wanted the town to know we were back. We had made it, and although we were only sixteen, we were men now.

  Everyone knew everyone in Garbanzos. Seeing our unfamiliar vehicle, they looked up. It was a reckless thing to do, attracting so much attention. But I liked being in that truck. I wanted people to think that maybe it was mine. Maybe I had an important job now. I also liked having the Taurus within arm’s reach. It made me feel that no one could ever mess with me again.

  Every Paramilitary soldier dreamed of returning home triumphantly with enough money to buy his mother a house. In the meantime, he might pay her rent a year in advance. But the very minimum a Paramilitary son returning home should do was fill his mother’s refrigerator and pantry.

  It was only 10.30 am so I had time to check into our residencia with Palillo and stop at the supermercado before I drove to see Mamá.

  Gripping five bags of groceries, I knocked on Uncle Leo’s door. I knew he wasn’t home. I’d seen his blue truck parked in front of his hardware store on the main street.

  Mamá opened the door and her hand shot to her mouth.

  ‘Pedro! ¡Por Dios!’ She hugged me tightly. ‘How I’ve missed you!’

  I lowered the shopping to the floor and returned her embrace. ‘Me too, Mamá.’

  ‘Let a poor old mother take a look at her son!’ Pushing my shoulders back to appraise me, her gaze skipped my military haircut and concentrated on the rest of me. ‘New clothes! And you must have grown two inches.’

  In contrast, Mamá seemed to have been whittled away by sadness. Grief and illness had ravaged her face like drought, leaving her eyes parched and her skin as mottled as a dried creek bed. But I was pleased she was on her feet.

  ‘What happened, Mamá?’ I asked, carrying the shopping inside. ‘Camila said you were in hospital.’

  Mamá avoided my gaze. ‘The doctors aren’t sure. They thought it was a heart attack, but now they’re saying it was angina, brought on by stress. I’m meant to rest and then get checked on Monday.’

  I didn’t need to ask the cause of her stress. Papá’s death was still imprinted deeply on us both. Losing her beloved husband, being banished from her home and not knowing where I was had taken their toll. We hugged again and her affection tempered my remaining bitterness like sugar meeting coffee.

  ‘Mamá, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.’

  On the day of Papá’s death I’d treated her too harshly. I’d blamed her excessively because I was actually blaming myself. At the time, I’d been unable to put myself in her shoes. Although the decision to leave Papá unburied would have been an agonising one to make, perhaps any mother would have done the same to protect her remaining family members.

  I stacked the pantry and refrigerator as, against my protests, Mamá prepared me caldo. Looking around the cramped living room, I noted she slept on the fold-out sofa. I saw new clothes but none of her possessions from the finca.

  ‘You got my salary?’ I asked.

  Mamá closed her eyes and nodded her blind acceptance of my new job. If she suspected I’d joined the Autodefensas, she didn’t let on. ‘It was the only way we knew you were alive. Thank you, Pedro. I couldn’t survive without your and Leo’s generosity.’

  Uncle Leo! I bristled at the mere mention of his name. Mamá I could forgive, but nothing could excuse Leo leaving Papá to the vultures and refusing to lend me his truck.

  Mamá ladled caldo into my bowl then sat at the table with me while I ate.

 
‘Have you visited the finca?’ I asked.

  She dabbed at an imaginary fallen eyelash. ‘I went up twice … but only to the fence line. I saw the cross you made.’ Suddenly, she broke down. ‘Pedro, please! Promise me you won’t go to the finca. The Guerrilla killed three campesinos last week. Colonel Buitrago checks on me sometimes. He says our property isn’t safe—’

  ‘Colonel Buitrago? What’s he done about the killers?’

  But she never got to respond. Uncle Leo’s arrival cut our conversation short.

  ‘Pedro!’ He smiled unconvincingly. ‘Good to have you home.’

  ‘Uncle Leo.’ I glared at him and got to my feet. ‘I was just leaving. I only came to see Mamá.’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay.’ He scratched his head nervously. ‘There’s not much space here, but we’ll manage.’

  ‘I won’t impose. I already have a hotel.’

  As I walked towards the door, Leo followed me, determined to show up my ingratitude with more offers. ‘Do you need a lift? Or I could lend you the truck.’

  ‘A bit late for that, isn’t it?’

  Without turning, I jangled the Blazer keys and gave him the finger. After he retreated, I bade goodbye to Mamá, who’d also followed me to the door, and promised to come again the following day.

  ‘Try to be nice to him,’ she said. ‘He means well.’

  ‘I’m sorry because he’s your brother, but I can’t be around him. It reminds me of that day.’

  ‘I know it does, Pedrito.’ Mamá hugged me.

  She stood on the doorstep, watching me go, and called out after me.

  ‘Please, Pedro, I’m begging you. Don’t go to the finca. It’s too dangerous.’

  47

  BACK IN THE Blazer, I breathed a long sigh of frustration. I’d intended to drive straight to Llorona and visit Papá’s grave; now it seemed I couldn’t. Not only was the Guerrilla prohibition still in place, but it would upset Mamá, which was the last thing I wanted.

  Instead, I picked up Palillo and drove to our old school, Colegio Santa Lucía. We parked opposite the wrought-iron gates, near the grassy football field where I’d played Saturday football with Papá barracking from the sidelines. There, we waited for the principal to ring the lunch bell and Camila to emerge.