Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  But it wasn’t. It was a moment of weakness. Now that my normal thinking had returned, I realised my true mistake dated back two months to January when I’d hammered in those rusty nails. The nails were meant to be temporary, but Ñoño had come to rely on them. I should have removed them as planned. In fact, I should never have helped Ñoño in the first place.

  As the three trainers departed in a huddle towards their dormitory, I felt Alfa 1 glaring at me. Right then, the group mood was on my side, so he didn’t take action. But my punishment would not be long in coming.

  While the others dried off and changed into fresh uniforms, Palillo led me out of sight behind the container. I had to prepare myself mentally for every possibility, he said. My punishment might be anything from a fine of several months’ salary, a few days of El Soleado, the Chinese plank, or even worse. He didn’t need to spell out what he meant by even worse – disobeying a direct order could mean execution.

  I kicked the container. ‘How could I be so stupid?’

  I went to Papá’s shrine to pray and seek strength, but when I opened my locker it was empty. The Virgin Mary statuette was gone. The unsent postcards to Camila and letters to Papá – gone. The photos – gone. I turned. Piolín was standing behind me.

  It must have been something important for her to enter the male dormitory. Her head was bowed and she could barely look me in the eye.

  ‘The trainers need to see you in their quarters,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Pedro, be careful! They’re drunk.’ She stepped forward and hugged me tightly, pressing her fingertips into my back. It was the type of goodbye hug a condemned man might receive before walking towards the gallows.

  My first knock on the flimsy wooden door was drowned out by the sound of death metal music blaring from inside. The door was unlatched. Hesitantly, I pushed it open. Inside, the three trainers appeared to be celebrating the end of the course. They didn’t notice my arrival.

  With their shirts off, Beta and Culebra were straddling the weight benches in the middle of the room, doing arm curls with twenty-kilogram dumbbells. The veins swelled around their snake tattoos – Culebra’s anaconda slithering over his clavicle and down his bicep and Beta’s python curling around his forearm. As they paused between sets, Culebra poured two shots of aguardiente from a bottle on the floor beside them, which they downed instantly.

  Alfa 1 was sitting at the kitchenette table, perusing a list of names. On the table sat another half-empty bottle of aguardiente, a shot glass and a scrunched up bedsheet.

  ‘You wanted to see me, comando?’

  Culebra dropped his dumbbell, stood slowly and turned off the music. He looked at me apologetically and I wondered whether he’d tried to defend me to Alfa 1. Over months of working closely together, we’d become friends. But if it came down to it, there was no question of where his loyalty lay.

  Beta glared at me maliciously before pointing to the chair across the table from Alfa 1. Both he and Culebra moved to stand behind Alfa 1 so that all three were ranged opposite me, as though I were a prisoner in the dock facing three judges. I sat with growing trepidation.

  Seated, I could make out the names on Alfa 1’s list – they belonged to the one hundred and four recruits who’d begun training in November. Some names had one or two ticks beside them – presumably those being considered for promotion. Most had crosses. And some names were struck through with a dark line: Tango, Murgas, Pollo, Rambo, Armani, Pele and Girafa – all of them dead. My own name had three ticks beside it, which had been changed to crosses, and a line through it. However, there was also a question mark in the margin; perhaps they hadn’t yet condemned me.

  For a long time they said nothing. Alfa 1 sat drinking silently – his face was hard to read. Culebra looked uncomfortable, but Beta’s scowl hid nothing – he wanted me dead. It was he who lifted the sheet to reveal the possessions from my locker, including my letters to Papá, which had been opened. I flushed with anger and embarrassment – they’d sifted through my private world. Then my embarrassment was overtaken by panic at what they might have discovered in the letters.

  Although I’d been careful not to mention any specific plans, or even my intention to seek justice for Papá, Alfa 1 might easily read between the lines. However, it seemed that searching my locker had been Beta’s idea. He began to read excerpts from the letters to humiliate me and see how I’d react.

  ‘Dear Papá,’ he began in a sneering falsetto, ‘I miss you so much and I’m so sorry for what I did. I know I can never take it back …’

  I knew he was baiting me so that I’d leap at him and give him the perfect excuse to kill me. I kept my fists clenched by my side, eyes front and locked on the horizontal, reminding myself that I was a soldier and this was a test.

  Beta handed a letter to Culebra, who accepted it without enthusiasm. ‘Dear Papá,’ he read, ‘I have your Bible, and I pray every night as you taught me.’

  Now two voices mocked me, mocked my father and humiliated me with my darkest thoughts and most painful feelings. One after the other, they dove in and tore strips from me, like hyenas taking chunks from a fallen lion cub.

  ‘Whenever I feel weak, I think of you and I know you’re protecting me. You give me strength to go on …’ Beta raised his eyebrows in challenge, perhaps believing he’d lit upon my most intimate disclosure.

  But I held strong, and when Alfa 1 saw their mockery wasn’t working, he clapped his hands as a signal to desist.

  ‘Think that was clever what you did this afternoon?’ he demanded.

  ‘Definitely not, comando.’

  ‘Think that was brave?’ demanded Beta, copying him.

  ‘No, comando.’

  ‘Do you think I would have shot Ñoño?’ asked Alfa 1.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I would have. You want to know why? Because one boy like Ñoño cannot override the military objective of an entire unit. You were at the front, Pedro. You’d reached your goal. Why turn back for someone who was already dead?’

  ‘I was weak,’ I said. ‘I felt sorry for Ñoño. It was wrong and I apologise.’

  ‘Weak is exactly right,’ said Alfa 1. ‘You were told not to go back. You disobeyed our orders and you did so publicly. Make no mistake, recruit, there must be consequences.’

  I bowed my head. I was no longer soldado; he was back to calling me recruit.

  ‘We trusted you, Pedro,’ said Culebra sadly, tapping his pen against the list of names. ‘You were first in line for promotion.’

  I bowed my head lower. ‘It was one mistake, comando. I promise it won’t happen again.’

  ‘One mistake?’ repeated Alfa 1 sarcastically. ‘This was not an isolated incident.’

  Beta stepped forward and dropped three rusty nails on the table. His smile was now sinister.

  ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t guess who was responsible for these nails appearing the day after you changed guard shifts with your best friend?’

  So they’d known about the nails all along. But rather than confronting me in January, they’d allowed me and Ñoño to get away with it in order to later teach us both a lesson.

  ‘Forgive me, comando. I shouldn’t have interfered.’

  ‘Damn right. We’re the trainers. We know best how to turn boys into men and men into soldiers.’

  Alfa 1 scratched his head and tapped his pen tip against my name. Now that I’d confessed, fully submitted and given him nothing further to criticise me for, I hoped he could see that I was truly humbled and meant every word of my apology.

  He turned to Beta for his final input.

  ‘You know my position,’ Beta said. ‘Culebra’s gone soft. Any other recruit would be chopped, packed and underground by now.’

  ‘Leave us, both of you!’ Alfa 1 commanded, frowning. Clearly, he had yet to decide.

  Alfa 1 now stood, skirted the desk and leaned into my face. He grabbed the back of my neck and forced me to look at the tattoo on
his forearm.

  ‘Do you know what this is, Pedro?’ he demanded through gritted teeth.

  ‘A rattlesnake.’

  ‘Yes! But do you know what it means? To be part of a team? Do you understand what it means to be a true Autodefensa? You may think that you know better than your commanders, but you don’t. You need to be a team player. You need to trust in the Autodefensas. You need to have faith in its leaders and faith in me. There’s no room in a military chain of command for individuals to do whatever they like. In a battle, that costs lives. And there’s no room for pity either – our enemy will have none for you.’

  Alfa 1 paused, folded my letters and placed them in a bag with the statue, photos and postcards. He breathed out heavily and slid the bag towards me.

  ‘Hand back the Blazer keys. Your leave is suspended. You will remain on La 50 until further notice. And not a word of this conversation to the others or I might change my mind about giving you a second chance.’

  I waited for more. But that was it! My body flooded with relief.

  ‘Yes, comando,’ I said, taking my possessions and heading quickly for the door. ‘Thank you.’

  My relief lasted only until I closed the door and comprehended the full consequences of having my leave revoked. When I did, Alfa 1’s punishment seemed almost as bad as execution. I would have preferred a week tied naked in the sun, two Chinese planks and a fine of six months’ salary.

  During my confinement to base, Sandoval the storekeeper would ring my phone, which was switched off and buried at the dump. I wouldn’t be able to listen to his message. When Ratón didn’t show, Sandoval might try a few times more. Eventually, he’d contact Ratón some other way, or Ratón would contact him. Once they communicated, Ratón would realise something was wrong. He’d probably change numbers and suppliers. He might even disappear altogether.

  I might never get a chance at Ratón again. And maybe not at Papá’s other killers either. After my confinement, who knew how long I’d be stuck on La 50? Moments earlier I’d been glad to be alive, but what did that matter if everything I’d planned and worked so hard for was now completely destroyed?

  41

  WHEN I RETURNED to the dormitory, everyone seemed amazed that I was alive. They wanted to know my punishment.

  ‘I can’t say,’ I told them glumly.

  I had all afternoon to dwell on my own stupidity. I would have given anything to take back what I’d done. But our course was now over. Our rifles were cleaned, oiled and shelved in the container. That night there would be a party with a blessing ceremony and the following day our two-week leave would begin. There would be no more classes, no more exams and no more opportunities for me to prove to Alfa 1 that I was a tough team player.

  While everyone around me cleaned out their lockers and happily discussed vacation plans, I lay in my hammock, depressed and angry with myself. From our course, six boys had been chosen for promotion – Silvestre, Escorpión, Indio, Kamagra, Pirata and Johnnie Walker. Right then, they were lining up in the office to have their snake tattoos done.

  That should have been me, I thought. I should have been with them in the office.

  When the others left for dinner, Palillo and Ñoño were still trying to guess my punishment. I was so depressed that I no longer cared about Alfa 1’s orders. I confided in them.

  ‘That’s all?’ exclaimed Ñoño. ‘No pay cut? Not even a single push-up?’

  To Ñoño, my punishment was fantastic news. He’d been feeling guilty because this was all his fault. He couldn’t understand why I was so upset about losing my leave. Neither could Palillo – I’d told him that I didn’t want to return to Llorona anyway, so what did it matter?

  ‘I’ll stay behind with you tomorrow,’ he offered.

  ‘I’d rather be alone.’

  Ñoño also tried to comfort me, offering to bring me food and my beer ration from the mess hall. I told him to go away.

  When Ñoño left, Palillo shook his head.

  ‘Your punishment’s too light,’ he said. ‘You need to stay on guard, Pedro. Remember when the deserters were captured and returned?’

  Of course I did. They’d been sent back to training and ordinary duties as though nothing had happened.

  Palillo was right. There had to be more. And there was. It came that very evening in the form of a Venezuelan witch doctor.

  42

  LA BRUJA BRAVA – the Fierce Witch – stepped from a motorised canoe onto the bank of La Quebrada wheeling a leather suitcase and surveyed the assembled graduates.

  She was short and squat, with thickly matted black hair threaded with condor feathers. Her wizened face might have belonged to an old-looking thirty-five-year-old, or a well-preserved seventy-year-old.

  ‘She doesn’t look so fierce to me,’ said Ñoño. ‘And I’m betting that suitcase is full of dried llama foetuses.’

  ‘I doubt it’s soap or a change of clothes,’ joked Palillo, referring to her pungent odour.

  La Bruja Brava laid her suitcase at the water’s edge and flipped open the lid; it was empty. She lit a small pipe that she produced from the folds of her voluminous skirts. Then, fully-clothed, she waded into the river until the water was waist-deep. She lifted her face skyward, her eyes rolled back and she began to chant unintelligible words in a thick, masculine voice.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s an Indian dialect,’ answered MacGyver, who’d pushed his way to the front. ‘She’s invoking the Big Red Boy.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘The devil. You make a pact with him and he saves your life.’

  Alfa 1 stood on the riverbank and ordered us to strip to our underwear. He announced that making a pact with the Big Red Boy was compulsory. The devil’s spells protected you against enemy fire. Provided you obeyed the individual spell given to you, bullets could hit your body but never penetrate. A right spell meant that your right side was protected in battle. A left spell meant that your left side was protected. Those given an even spell should not advance with an odd number of troops in their squad and vice versa for odd spells. Other spells required you to repeat a special saying or throw a handful of rice over your shoulder after the first bullet was fired.

  Beta went in first. Since spells expired after six months, he needed his renewed. He liked to display the keloid scarring on his abdomen that proved he’d already been saved once. His spell involved chewing on a piece of mutamba bark before battle then reciting a phrase that only he was allowed to know. The Fierce Witch guided his head underwater and inhaled smoke from her pipe, blowing it into his face as he resurfaced.

  While Beta dressed, MacGyver strode in and I slunk to the back of the queue where I hoped to be less visible and perhaps even avoid receiving a spell. Papá had told me God could forgive everything except making a pact with the devil. It meant you’d lose your soul and couldn’t enter heaven. Palillo saw my discomfort and followed me.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s perfectly fine to have two religions,’ he assured me.

  To him, faith was like ice-cream: ordering a double scoop allowed you to mix contradictory flavours. However, like Papá, I was a one-flavour man.

  Palillo told me I couldn’t refuse – white magic was common throughout Los Llanos, so we were surrounded by believers. Besides, the trainers were watching me closely. Ñoño also had his reservations, although for different reasons.

  ‘This is uneducated bullshit,’ he crowed. ‘Do they really think stupid chants will block bullets travelling at a hundred metres per second?’

  ‘Quiet!’ hissed Palillo. ‘Remember to stay on guard.’

  The line advanced rapidly. Hemmed in on one side by the river and on the other by twelve trainers, I felt like a bull being corralled towards a matador.

  As Ñoño entered the water, Alfa 1 eyed me attentively. Palillo went next. When my turn came, I followed Palillo’s advice and stepped forward without protest. Before holding my head underwater for five seconds, the Fierce Witch to
ld me my spell. I should always move forward and face my enemy; the moment I turned my back or took my eyes off him, he would kill me.

  As I came out of the water, Alfa 1 eyed me again. But I wasn’t his true target – he must have overheard Ñoño’s earlier snideness about the Fierce Witch.

  ‘You don’t feel protected by this uneducated bullshit?’ he asked with apparent concern.

  Ñoño, who was buttoning his shirt, seemed startled. ‘I have my spell, comando.’

  ‘And yet you don’t sound convinced,’ replied Alfa 1. Then he yelled to the troop assembled on the bank, ‘Does anyone else here not believe in the Big Red Boy?’

  Although most Colombians are raised Catholic, not a single hand went up.

  ‘And yet I’m sensing doubt,’ observed Alfa 1, no longer needing to shout. The troop was so silent that I could hear water trickling off nearby rocks. ‘I think we need an example for the doubters.’ He aimed his Galil at Ñoño’s chest. ‘Kneel.’

  Ñoño remained standing. He was half Alfa 1’s size. He clasped his hands and looked up pleadingly as though praying to a giant god.

  ‘Please, no, comando! Please.’

  Alfa turned the Galil away from Ñoño and fired his entire magazine into the creek. The rifle cracked repeatedly, a line of bullets splashed across the water and the air filled with smoke and the smell of burned sulphur. Ñoño was trembling. Alfa 1 gripped his shoulder and pushed him down.

  ‘I said kneel!’

  The rifle was now empty. Alfa 1 removed a single round from his breast pocket and held it up before inserting it in the chamber and cocking the rifle, which he then trained back on Ñoño’s chest, waving it from left to right. ‘Left or right? Which side is your spell?’

  Ñoño was too shocked to answer. The Fierce Witch came out of her trance and answered for him.

  ‘His left.’

  ‘Then hold still,’ said Alfa 1, digging the muzzle under Ñoño’s left collarbone, the side that was protected, ‘and you won’t feel a thing.’