Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  On Sunday, I went to morning Mass in Llorona with Mamá, hoping to regain Señor Muñoz’s approval. Colonel Buitrago sent two armed soldiers to escort us. Mamá was delighted and dusted off her best dress.

  ‘It feels like old times,’ she cooed as we set out in the army vehicle.

  Leaving Garbanzos, I felt relaxed. In the daylight I recognised familiar landmarks – trees, rocks, small hills and even potholes. My body felt comforted as it swayed with the curves of the road, recalling years of daily trips to and from school on the colectivo. And then, as we entered Llorona, we saw it: the destroyed police garrison – the one I’d visited to report Papá’s murder.

  The netting had failed to repel the cylinder bombs. Four large craters were strewn with the bricks from two collapsed walls. Across the remaining bullet-pocked structure was written a piece of blood-red graffiti: PEOPLE’S ARMY ARE HERE.

  ‘Anyone killed?’ I asked.

  ‘Just one. A junior conscript.’ The senior bodyguard shook his head. ‘The others were lucky. They were eating dinner in Garbanzos.’

  So that’s what things had come to. A single death was lamented by no more than a headshake; failing to defend a town under attack was considered lucky.

  ‘The dead conscript,’ I said, ‘was he the boy with pimples?’

  The bodyguard nodded.

  It made me furious. The boy had tried to do his job honourably, but his superiors had left him alone and defenceless, like a donkey tethered to protect a village from a jaguar. Similar levels of cowardice were infecting the nation. That week the government had raised the possibility of a ceasefire so it could enter into peace talks with the Guerrilla.

  When I mentioned the ceasefire proposal, our escorts snorted their derision. In the last month, Caraquemada’s 34th Unit had stepped up its local campaign. Farmers had been forced to pay higher vacunas. The Guerrilla had established a semi-permanent roadblock between Llorona and Puerto Galán where fourteen-year-old guerrilleros turned back traffic. There had been two kidnappings. Three campesinos had been ordered from a bus then shot in full view of the other passengers, their bodies dragged into a drainage canal. The Guerrilla were masters of perfidy – talking peace while waging war. Government propaganda was little better. Elected officials came and went, leaving behind a graveyard of broken promises. Their announcements gave one version; Llorona and the river villages lived another.

  Reaching the church steps I looked south to the hills and, when I saw our finca still standing, relief rushed through me like water through an unblocked drainpipe. I could make out the house, the shed and even the fence line. Although reassured, I was frustrated to be so near to home yet unable to return. We left the junior bodyguard pacing nervously on the church steps while the other soldier escorted us inside. The Guerrilla considered anyone in uniform – even unarmed traffic police – legitimate military targets.

  My entrance into church provoked murmurs. Walking down the aisle, I saw Camila seated with her parents and two older brothers, Sebastián and Santiago. She turned and smiled. Intercepting the smile, Señor Muñoz looked from me to his daughter and frowned. I was surprised to see Palillo escorting his mother and younger siblings in through the side entrance. He winked at me.

  Another family was seated in our usual pew, but they stood to change seats. Everyone knew I’d defied the Guerrilla, but I couldn’t tell whether they were being respectful or distancing themselves.

  Our pew was soaked with Papá’s memory. I smelled him in its red cushion. Where I knelt on the wooden kneeler, I imagined indentations from the pressure of his knees. However, as the chubby Padre Guzmán ended his sermon without condemning even one of the recent incidents, I was reminded of how much things had changed since the days of Padre Rojas.

  After Mass, I waited on the church steps while Mamá, escorted by the senior bodyguard, went into the cemetery to lay violets on Humberto Díaz’s grave. This was one of Papá’s last requests of her, and she made a point of doing it each time she visited.

  My eyes were drawn once more to our finca.

  ‘¡Vámonos!’ said the junior bodyguard, also scanning the hills. ‘It’s safer for you to wait in the car.’

  I shook my head and surveyed the plaza in front of the church. It brought back more memories. I looked at the familiar mini-mercado and street-side stores selling soda bottles filled with gasoline for motorbikes. Our former neighbour, Old Man Domino, sat on one of the plaza benches drinking aguardiente and feeding pigeons.

  A small crowd of Papá’s old friends and acquaintances crowded around to pat my shoulder and express their condolences for his death. Finally, Señor Muñoz approached me gingerly, like one of Old Man Domino’s pigeons edging towards a dangerously located crumb. For him, this spot must have roused strong memories of his last conversation with Papá.

  I glanced at Camila, who was watching anxiously, and stepped forward to end his torment. ‘Señor Muñoz,’ I said, holding out my hand.

  ‘Pedro, I’m truly sorry about your father.’ Señor Muñoz shook my hand warmly. ‘Mario Jesús was a dear friend. I apologise we were unable to offer assistance on that tragic day. But I hope you understand my duty as a father.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Come to dinner tomorrow night. It will give us a chance to talk.’

  His wife, who had returned from their car with Papá’s fishing rod, offered it to me, adding, ‘Your friend …’ she glanced at Palillo and hesitated, realising she didn’t know his proper name. ‘Your friend, The Toothpick, is also welcome.’

  I accepted the rod. ‘I’d enjoy that.’

  ‘Vamos,’ urged the bodyguard a second time, tugging at my wrist.

  Mamá had returned and we scrambled into the car, which now contained an additional passenger: Palillo.

  Sunday afternoon had been my favourite afternoon of the week. It broke my heart having to return to Garbanzos after Mass. All the way back I looked over my shoulder, thinking that I should have been fishing with Papá.

  ‘Francisco’s Pool Hall, driver,’ Palillo instructed the bodyguard after we’d dropped off Mamá. ‘Pedro, you coming?’

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  Palillo frowned, not understanding. ‘You don’t have to drink.’

  I spun the centrepin of the fishing rod and Palillo finally caught my meaning.

  ‘Will the dinghy sink if I invite someone special?’

  ‘Depends how fat he is.’

  ‘She, Pedro. She.’

  53

  IT WAS HOT on the river. The sun reflected off the water brilliantly. Removing his shirt, Palillo offered to row, wanting to impress Carolina with his military-trained muscles. Camila and I sat in the bow holding hands.

  As we reached my favourite fishing spot, I felt myself relaxing. While I fished, Palillo smoked cigarettes, drank rum and struck tanning poses. I feathered my line and tilted my face up towards the immense blue sky. Strangler figs clung to the trees along the banks, their branches interwoven like twisted fingers. In the riverside tree canopy, a tribe of howler monkeys screeched and hurled leaves and fruit into the branches below.

  Above the trees, the mountain peaks rose boldly, their slopes steep and green and rocky. Watching the slow-moving cloud riding the light breeze, listening to the slap-slap-slap of the boat’s hull against the water as it tugged against its mooring, and with my fingers dangling in the cool water, I had the impression we were bobbing in a vast cauldron of nature.

  With the Taurus in the bait box, I felt invincible. Let the Guerrilla come, I thought. This was now their territory. But I would be ready for them.

  Of course, fishing here wasn’t the same as with Papá. But with our gang back together, it began to feel like old times. At colegio, they’d dubbed us the three mosqueteros. Now, with Carolina, there were four of us.

  Suddenly, my cell phone rang shrilly. All of us were surprised. There was rarely phone reception in Llorona – we must have hit a lucky patch on the river.

  Camila frowned.

/>   ‘Who else has your number?’ she demanded, folding her arms. She was sometimes jealous.

  Only three people had my number: Camila, Palillo and Boris Sandoval in Villavicencio.

  I shrugged. ‘It’s probably work.’

  Palillo knew ‘work’ didn’t have my number, and I avoided looking at him in case our faces gave away the lie. We both knew what that call meant – the storekeeper had received Ratón’s batteries.

  The phone continued ringing and vibrating in my hand.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Camila. ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m on vacation.’

  ‘Until when? Maybe they need you back early.’

  My thumb hovered over the keypad. Ratón was suddenly within my grasp, but being with Camila had made me feel happy for the first time since my father’s death. I wanted that feeling to continue. Over four days I’d felt her anger thawing, although I’d resisted committing to a departure date in case I changed my mind when I got the call from Sandoval. But now I pressed REJECT CALL.

  ‘Until next Sunday, mi amor. Seven more days,’ I announced.

  Camila threw her arms around my neck. ‘Oh baby, that’s wonderful!’

  Driving back to our hotel after dropping Camila and Carolina home, we were stopped at the main traffic lights in Garbanzos when the Díaz brothers spotted us. They were exiting the Agricultural Bank and Javier raised his hand in polite greeting. When I ignored him, Fabián stepped in front of the Blazer and banged the hood.

  ‘Pedro! Pedro! Pedro! How are you, my friend?’

  Insincerity dripped from them thicker than the gold chains around their necks. Both brothers shook my hand warmly through the window, rudely ignoring Palillo seated beside me. My family lacked the Díaz wealth, but owning land at least made us acceptable to them, whereas Palillo’s family rented a shack in the poorest area of Puerto Galán.

  Still, I was confused. At the cantina Javier hadn’t wanted to know me, and he was now acting as though nothing had happened and he hadn’t seen me in years. In fact, both brothers began behaving like I was one of their oldest friends.

  Javier must have noted my scowl of scepticism.

  ‘I’m glad you made it out safely,’ he said apologetically. When I didn’t respond, he changed tactics. ‘We’re having a party next weekend.’

  ‘Blue Label whisky,’ Fabián chimed in. ‘Pork lechona. A live vallenato band. Important people from Bogotá. You and your beautiful girlfriend should come.’

  ‘Gracias, but the three of us are busy that night.’

  ‘We didn’t say which night.’

  ‘I know. But thank you anyway.’

  Insulted, Javier kept his cool. ‘You must at least drop by for a drink. We’ll toast to our fathers. May their souls rest in peace.’ He crossed himself loosely then handed me his business card. His brother did the same.

  The mention of our deceased fathers was so sudden and casual it left me speechless. Accelerating away, I felt like the electric window couldn’t go up fast enough. Only months after their father was brutally murdered and they were throwing parties. The Díaz brothers wanted something, but I didn’t know what. Was Javier trying to make up for the fact that he’d failed to vouch for me at the cantina? Were the brothers merely being sympathetic neighbours? Or did they suspect it was Papá and I who buried their father? But that was impossible. Not even Palillo knew about the burial.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. They’ve discovered exactly who you are.’

  ‘And who exactly am I?’

  ‘A commander in the United Colombian Autodefensas. And they’re long-term cultivators. One day, they might need you.’

  54

  BACK AT OUR residencia, Palillo and I listened to the voicemail that had been left after I’d pressed REJECT CALL in the dinghy:

  ‘Hola, it’s Pacho speaking. The chickens are ready for pick-up.’

  ‘Motherfucker!’ exclaimed Palillo.

  I played it again. Despite the fake name and code, I recognised Sandoval’s voice. In one way, this was a relief: my original plan was still on track. However, the knowledge that I could proceed whenever I wanted was almost too much for me.

  ‘Delete it! And Ratón’s number too,’ Palillo advised me. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him next Saturday.’

  While Palillo showered, I listened to Sandoval’s message four more times. Finally, as I heard the water stop running, I deleted it. I had to get ready. Dinner with Camila’s family was in two hours, although my friend The Toothpick had no intention of attending.

  ‘Good luck with the in-laws,’ said Palillo, emerging from the bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his waist.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘When you get back, knock five times like this.’ He demonstrated his secret tap.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because Palillo might have company. Naked company.’

  I laughed. Only five days since he’d seen Piolín, and already she was ancient history. I wished I could forget and move on like him. But once something was in my head I couldn’t let it go.

  As I was driving to Camila’s house, Sandoval’s voicemail continued to plague me. Finally, I forced myself to relax. After all, I didn’t need to phone Ratón to pass on the message immediately. I had their code now. And if our plan to take Ratón at Santo Paraíso miscarried again, I could use it at any time.

  Señor Muñoz sat at the head of the table. His giving me the place of honour to his right was pressure enough. Camila’s not-so-subtle sideways glances and under-the-table nudges only added to it: the future of our relationship was contingent upon my withstanding a thorough analysis under the family microscope.

  The main course passed uneventfully with Camila’s brothers ignoring us. As her mother served dessert, Señor Muñoz asked me casually, ‘Is your job dangerous?’

  Camila must have repeated the African oil palm story.

  ‘It can be.’ I cut a strawberry with my spoon then looked him in the eye. ‘A tractor tipped on one of the workers in January.’

  That was all that was needed. An honest-to-God denial.

  ‘I know your Papá would be proud of the way you’re looking after your mother.’

  I beamed. But then I felt guilty because his praise was based on a lie.

  After dinner, Señor Muñoz invited me to speak privately in his study. He produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker, still gift-wrapped, and two tumblers.

  ‘Whisky? I’ve been saving this.’

  I nodded and we clinked glasses.

  Señor Muñoz sipped his whisky and was silent for a moment. ‘My daughter cried for a month after you left,’ he said finally, choosing his words carefully. ‘She hardly ate. She didn’t do her homework. In fact, she barely left her room. I know you had your reasons, but I don’t want to see her get hurt again.’

  ‘Señor Muñoz,’ I said, ‘I’ll be honest – I can’t offer Camila stability right now. I need to be away earning money. But I do love her.’

  He nodded; there was something else eating away at him. ‘I’m also worried about the Guerrilla. You being back here and going out so publicly might provoke them. And if Camila is with you …’

  ‘I understand. But I’m only here for another week and I’ll be careful.’

  Sighing, he placed his hands on the armrests and pushed himself wearily to his feet. ‘At your age, my wife and I were engaged. So who am I to stop young love?’

  55

  AT 3 PM THE following day, Palillo and I drove to Colegio Santa Lucía to pick up Camila. Palillo was glowing like a blacksmith’s poker fresh from the coals. He’d slept with Carolina the night before, making him an instant expert on the female species.

  ‘Could be your turn soon, hermano,’ Palillo declared, casually adjusting his crotch. ‘Girls never want to be the first in their group to fall. But once one has fallen, they don’t want to be the last either.’

  Camila burst throug
h the gates, looking beautiful with her hair in pigtails and her uniform riding high. Marcia, another of the girls from Camila’s year, was crossing the road behind her, blowing kisses to Palillo as she headed for our truck.

  ‘But what about Carolina?’ I asked.

  ‘Supply and demand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are plenty of pretty girls.’ He smoothed Moroccan oil into his hair. ‘But there’s only one Palillo.’

  With Palillo’s newly lost virginity came a newfound cockiness. He’d persuaded Juanita to skip lunch on Tuesday. Wednesday recess he had a date with Olivia.

  Palillo made me laugh, but we were so different. I was glad to see him happy, although I didn’t envy his growing appetite. The only girl I wanted was Camila.

  Palillo began his Monday 3.30 pm appointment with a kiss. ‘Marcia, I believe you’ve met my chauffeur, Pedro.’

  His banter, however, met with fierce opposition. Camila was Carolina’s best friend.

  ‘You!’ She grabbed his ear. ‘Out of my seat. Pedro’s mine.’ She dragged him from the car. Locking the doors, Camila leaned in and kissed me with her tongue. My body flooded with pleasure as I felt her coming back to me. It was our first proper kiss. Then she pulled a bikini from her backpack. ‘Rope-swing tree please, driver.’

  Camila was pleased with me for winning over her father. At Llorona River, she cast aside her shoes, stripped off her knee-high socks and began slowly unbuttoning her blue plaid uniform. Then she slipped it off entirely as she sashayed towards the water. I’d seen her in a bikini, but the way she disrobed now was far bolder than I remembered.

  ‘Wait!’ I stalled while I thought up a reason not to take off my shirt. If Camila glimpsed the tattoo, it would ruin everything. ‘I haven’t got a towel.’

  ‘Who said anything about swimming?’