Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  I’d wanted to give Camila warning – meeting after school and seeing her on my own. But Palillo had argued persuasively for a group attack using the element of surprise – it would give her less time to think.

  At 12.30 pm, the principal, Rector Prada, emerged from the main building with his wooden-handled bell. He’d never missed a day of school nor rung a single bell late.

  As Prada shook his bell, a swarm of students streamed onto the playing field. Palillo’s eyes lit up at the sight of the fresh-faced schoolgirls in their blue plaid dresses, black shoes and knee-high white socks.

  He rubbed his hands together and made kissing sounds. ‘Succulent and ripe for the picking!’

  They were the same girls Palillo had been staring at lustfully for years, but fruit that had once been out of reach was now within his grasp. Four months older, an inch taller and having left school, he’d climbed several rungs of the attractiveness ladder and his confidence had ascended with him.

  News of our arrival spread like wildfire. A crowd of curious students quickly gathered, their fingers poking through the cyclone wire fence. I spotted Camila a moment before she saw us. She hesitated at the gate and looked directly across the road at me. Leaving school grounds during lunchtime was forbidden, but that wasn’t the problem. I could read her face. It told me that despite having hoped for this moment, she was suddenly dreading it.

  I smiled and waved, but she continued to stand there uncertainly until her best friend, Carolina, snatched up her wrist and dragged her across the road.

  We hugged. Holding her, I felt tingles down my spine. I’d missed her so much. Coming out of the embrace, I tried to kiss her but she turned her face, and all the nice things I’d been meaning to say melted in my mouth.

  I searched Camila’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘You cut your hair.’ There was an implied question – my hair was military-short.

  ‘It was getting long. But I can grow it again for you.’

  ‘Don’t! Short hair brings out your cheekbones.’ She ran her fingers down my cheeks and gave me a half-smile, but still no kiss.

  ‘We’re going to shoot some billiards at Francisco’s,’ I ventured tentatively. ‘Want to come?’

  I thought going to one of our usual haunts would remind Camila of the old days, but her eyes fired with anger. ‘Pedro, you’re acting like we saw each other yesterday. You can’t just turn up after months of silence and expect everything to be the same!’

  Behind her, dozens of noses poked further through the cyclone fence.

  ‘Can we talk in private?’ I held open the back door for her to get in. Surprising her at lunchtime had definitely been a mistake. ‘Please. I’ll explain everything.’

  On his side of the truck, Palillo was faring much better with Carolina. During that same interval, he’d flashed his fake gold necklace and imitation Rolex, made passing mention of his high-paying job and established legal ownership of the Blazer.

  Suddenly, our spectators dispersed. Rector Prada appeared in the playground, reaching for his whistle. Palillo slid into the front passenger seat and turned the sternly-approaching principal to our advantage.

  ‘¡Rápido! Jump in!’

  The girls obeyed, slammed the door, and we sped off. In my rear-vision mirror, I saw the principal standing in the middle of the road blowing his whistle. Palillo and I tapped knuckles while Camila and Carolina shook their heads, laughing.

  Speeding towards the pool hall, I felt invigorated. Seeing Camila in person – hearing her voice, smelling her hair and touching her – silenced my doubts. I couldn’t ignore how I felt when she was near me. Of course, I didn’t know what future we had or what would happen when I had to leave. But I wanted her. I needed her. And I had to win her back.

  48

  FRANCISCO’S POOL HALL had been our usual after-school haunt when it was too rainy for the rope-swing tree. We’d spent more afternoons here than I could count, bribing older boys to sneak beers and cigarettes to us.

  As I lined up the break for our second game of billiards, Camila perched on a stool beside the billiard table.

  ‘So, tell me about this new job,’ she said.

  ‘Not much to tell, really.’ I averted my gaze, plucking at my T-shirt. ‘Harvesting the fruit from African oil palms. After the first day my muscles were so sore I could hardly move. But you get used to it. Whenever I want to quit, I think of the money I’m sending Mamá.’

  I didn’t like lying and I was no good at it, but Palillo chimed in with details about our hijo de puta boss and Camila seemed satisfied.

  She sighed. ‘I would’ve come with you.’

  ‘And done what for money?’

  ‘The same as you.’

  ‘It’s not work for a girl.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Pedro. After you left I cried for a month.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. I kept thinking about you the whole time. And I’m sorry about the note. You know I’d never have left you. Never. But …’

  I stopped, since I didn’t want to use Papá’s death as an excuse.

  ‘You must miss him.’

  I nodded and my eyes filled with tears. Camila hugged me to change the subject.

  That was our pattern for the rest of the afternoon – creeping in close and then pulling away. We were treading lightly over old territory, testing to see if we still had our connection.

  In two and a half hours, Camila didn’t let me kiss her. We avoided the big subjects. How long I could stay. Whether she knew anything about the Guerrilla and our finca. Whether she still loved me and wanted any future with me. I asked none of the questions I wanted to about other guys. I had no right. I’d hurt her and she was still making up her mind.

  It was hardly the homecoming I’d imagined. All afternoon my mind had played tricks on me. One minute I felt like I was in the right place, the next like it was all wrong. And if it felt like this in Garbanzos, what would it be like in Llorona, where my memories of Papá would be even stronger?

  Palillo and I drove Camila back to colegio before the final bell. Carolina had stayed at the pool hall to meet some friends. It felt strange parking among the waiting parents of the younger students. Normally, we were on the other side of the fence.

  ‘You’d better go,’ Camila said. ‘My father’s picking me up.’

  ‘Since when does he pick you up?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Since the Guerrilla destroyed the Llorona police station last month. He insists on knowing where I am at all times.’

  So, the Guerrilla had come back to finish the job they’d started the previous October. I wasn’t alarmed; mortar bombs didn’t mean they’d taken control of the town. However, the bombing was symbolic: the Guerrilla were growing stronger.

  Unfortunately, Señor Muñoz’s protectiveness meant I’d have to get his permission to see Camila – no easy task since he knew I’d defied the Guerrilla and broken his daughter’s heart.

  ‘¡Mierda!’ Camila exclaimed suddenly, sliding down the seat. It was 3.14 pm. Rector Prada had appeared in the playground, his head turning while his nose twitched like a bloodhound’s. Camila eased the door open and I watched her skirting behind cars.

  Rector Prada’s glare landed on our Blazer.

  ‘Fuck!’ I turned to Palillo. ‘He’s seen us.’

  Palillo laughed, honked the horn and impersonated the principal. ‘Pedro Juan Gutiérrez González, correct your posture or you’ll grow up twisted.’

  Rector Prada began to cross the road, signalling for us to wait. Before Palillo could honk again, I grabbed his wrist and turned the ignition.

  Palillo pulled up the handbrake and held it. ‘What’s he going to do? Make you pick up litter during recess?’

  It was too late; Prada tapped on the window and I wound it down. He nodded politely to us both. ‘Gentlemen.’

  I nodded back. ‘Señor Rector.’

  ‘Gutiérrez, you topped the mathematics exam.’

  It took me sever
al seconds to process what he meant. Exams came from a completely different planet. In that world, I should have been pleased by my result. I remembered studying hard for that exam two days before Papá’s death.

  ‘Would you like your exam papers returned?’

  I shook my head and Rector Prada didn’t press me. I was no longer his student and he respected the new state of play. ‘For what it’s worth, Gutiérrez, I was very sorry to hear about your father.’

  For five years he’d stood over me like a giant stop sign, telling me only which lines I was prohibited from crossing. Now, unexpectedly, he’d lowered his guard and given me some open road.

  ‘Please don’t punish her.’

  Rector Prada sighed. ‘Just don’t let it happen again.’ He crossed back to the school and rang the bell at 3.18 pm – three minutes late.

  Palillo had been wrong about approaching Camila at school, but he’d been right about speaking to the principal. I’d needed to face him, just as I’d eventually have to talk to Señor Muñoz, whose car I saw approaching from the opposite direction. But I wasn’t ready for that yet; I was still bitter at him for preventing Camila from getting a truck to transport Papá’s body. Besides, there was someone else I needed to see – and an apology that I needed to make.

  49

  DESPITE HAVING PASSED the army barracks countless times on my way to school, the following morning I went beyond the three-metre high walls topped with barbed wire for the first time.

  At 9 am I was ushered into Colonel Buitrago’s office to find him sitting at his desk, writing. He was in his mid-fifties with a round face, thick silver hair and a grey-flecked moustache.

  ‘Colonel, I apologise for the voice messages,’ I said, stepping up to his desk.

  ‘You were angry,’ he stated matter-of-factly, continuing to write. ‘But I wasn’t ignoring you that day. My phone was out of range. I didn’t get your messages until two days later.’

  I felt ashamed as I remembered my last message: You’re an hijo de puta and a fucking coward.

  ‘Thank you for looking in on my mother.’

  He finally put down his pen and acknowledged my thanks with a nod. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘I want to make a statement, Colonel. I know some of the names of Papá’s killers – and I can describe the others in detail.’

  ‘There’ll be time for that later. Let’s take a walk.’

  He led the way out of the barracks and down the street towards the central plaza, nodding to street vendors and storekeepers. Despite the Guerrilla having a price on his head, he displayed no fear, eventually perching on a bench in full uniform while having his shoes shined by a young boy wearing a grimy hat. He flicked lint from his three-starred lapel, perhaps wondering whether, despite my apology, I still believed he’d neglected his duty or feared the Guerrilla.

  ‘I’m sorry about Mario Jesús, Pedro. He was a good friend and a good Catholic.’

  ‘Gracias.’

  ‘I see you’re wearing his crucifix.’

  Buitrago fingered his own silver cross. Although I was still resentful, I remembered him kneeling with a pair of tweezers beside Papá, pulling shrapnel from the church pews, and my resentment diminished.

  ‘I started battling the Guerrilla two and a half decades ago, Pedro, long before you were born. The hardest part isn’t the gunfights but the funerals. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve attended.’

  ‘Papá never had a funeral. I buried him myself on the finca.’

  The colonel sighed. ‘Believe me, if I’d been here that day, I would have pursued the men who killed him. I’d have ensured he received proper burial. But I can’t be everywhere at once. Each time the Guerrilla place a collar bomb on an oil pipeline, I have to send a platoon to secure the area while engineers mend the leak. Meanwhile, the guerrilleros blow a phone or electricity tower as a further distraction and take advantage of my overstretched resources to kidnap a new victim, move a cocaine shipment or kill a good man like your father.’

  I nodded.

  ‘It mightn’t feel like it, but I’m one hundred per cent on your side.’

  ‘Then go after them, Colonel. I told you, I know who they are.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple. The Guerrilla camps are five days’ march away. We can’t just walk in. The approaches are sown with landmines. They have scouts.’

  ‘You have helicopters.’

  ‘Which make noise. They have hostages, and they threaten to kill them if we come too close.’

  ‘Their urban militia don’t. The commander who operated the radio—’

  ‘This is not an overnight job. And there’s a correct way of doing things.’

  He glared at three Autodefensa recruiters seated at the cantina then flicked two fingers towards them as though they were marbles. The recruiters catapulted from their seats, abandoning their beers on the table.

  I was about to tell him exactly where he could find Ratón, but seeing this, I stopped myself. Not every army officer in Colombia was willing to collaborate with the Autodefensas. Buitrago tolerated Autodefensa recruitment since the Guerrilla was their common enemy. But the Autodefensas weren’t going to run the town. Not on his watch.

  ‘The fact is, Pedro, we have undercover operatives throughout the region, gathering intelligence on enemy activities. This war against the Guerrilla will be won through persistence, and by winning the hearts and minds of civilians. Not by stooping to their level. Or worse.’ He glared once more at the recruiters’ table – now empty – then looked significantly at me, and I realised he knew exactly where I’d been for these past four months.

  The colonel was a stainless steel cog in a rust-ridden machine. But his correct way of doing things was frustrating. He didn’t approve of the Autodefensas, but he lacked enough soldiers himself to make Llorona safe for ordinary people.

  ‘When can we return to our finca?’

  He gave me a pitying look.

  ‘Not yet, Pedro. My patrols have been monitoring the situation. Trust me. It’s not safe.’

  ‘When then?’

  ‘My lieutenant will take your statement whenever you’re ready.’ He patted my waist where the Taurus was concealed. ‘Right now you’re on the wrong path. But if you decide to change your life, my battalion gates will be open to you when you turn eighteen.’

  50

  AFTER MEETING WITH Buitrago, I was satisfied that the army was at least trying to find Papá’s killers. However, they were slow and I wasn’t ready to give up our budding plan to abduct Ratón.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to go ahead with this?’ Palillo asked back at our residencia when I pressed him for details. ‘Kill a man in cold blood? You might start World War Three.’

  ‘Two hundred per cent sure,’ I declared. ‘Besides, the Guerrilla are the ones who started it. We’ll be doing society a favour.’

  Palillo nodded. ‘I spoke to a friend I used to pick coca leaves with when I was a kid. He said Ratón changes safe houses regularly and tries to avoid routines. But there’s one place he has to be every week – Flora’s Cantina – where he goes on Saturdays to oversee the workers’ market.’

  The tiny settlement of Santo Paraíso lay diagonally across the river from Puerto Princesa, where the dirt road south from Garbanzos stopped. Apparently, it was the wildest of places, a collection of primitive huts huddled amid dense jungle. The only access was by private boat or the river ferry that glided with glacial slowness back and forth between the two villages, transporting two cars at a time, together with pedestrians and supplies.

  Santo Paraíso’s remoteness from the authorities made it a contrabandistas’ paradise. The mountainsides above the town were blanketed with thousands of hectares of waist-high coca plants, and the entire local economy was dedicated to the production, wholesaling and transport of cocaine.

  Flora’s Cantina was a notorious drinking den on the settlement’s outskirts, a favoured haunt of narcotraficantes, coca-leaf pickers and Guerrilla command
ers when they came down from their mountain camps. Restricted chemicals were bought and sold. Bar brawls erupted with a flurry of punches or a clash of machetes, and often ended in exchanges of pistol fire.

  But the clearing beside the cantina was also the site of the weekly workers’ market, a place where honest day workers – jornaleros – gathered to be hired or paid by respectable landowners for tending food crops. The Guerrilla set wages and ensured workers were paid fairly by farmers and narcotraficantes alike.

  I was dubious at first. ‘But won’t Ratón have bodyguards?’

  ‘At the market, yes. But afterwards, no. My friend says that when he leaves, they stay behind. That’s when Ratón is at his most vulnerable.’

  Palillo’s plan was simple. Each Saturday morning Ratón was transported to and from the workers’ market by Anaufre, an old boat driver who lived in Puerto Princesa. Anaufre had worked for the Guerrilla for years. At 9 am, he’d ferry Ratón across the river and drop him off near Flora’s Cantina, then return to Puerto Princesa until it was time to pick him up again at noon.

  ‘That’s when we strike,’ Palillo said. ‘Anaufre waits for Raton at a small, rarely used jetty. It’s wooden and half-rotting, so most boat traffic stops at the newer concrete wharf nearer the village centre. Trust me, Pedro, it’s perfect.’

  According to Palillo, the narrow path from the jetty to the cantina cut through thick jungle. However, we couldn’t simply ambush and kill Ratón on the spot – someone might hear the shot and, even with our own hired lancha, we mightn’t be able to motor away in time. Instead, Palillo had hit on a brilliant idea: we’d offer to ferry Ratón across the river ourselves.

  ‘We’ll go to Puerto Princesa before Anaufre is due to pick up Ratón and I’ll sabotage his motor. Fixing it will delay him by at least an hour. When Ratón arrives at the jetty, I’ll claim that Anaufre is sick and has sent me in his place. With no phone lines or cell phone reception, Ratón will have to take my word for it.’