Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  However, the psychological profile did mention one potential weakness: a voracious appetite for women. Guerrilleros weren’t permitted wives or girlfriends; however, they were allowed a ‘sentimental partner’ or socia. As a senior commander who frequently moved between units, Caraquemada kept multiple socias, all of them under fifteen years old. When he saw an attractive campesina girl, he pressured her parents until they let him have her. If she was pretty, he forced her to join so he could enjoy her regularly. The parents of one girl taken from her home had travelled for days by foot to the camp, where they complained to another commander. They were later found murdered.

  At that moment, Beta knocked on the door and requested Alfa 1 step outside for a quick meeting.

  Seizing my opportunity, I photocopied the entire 150 pages, praying the machine wouldn’t overheat. I inserted the copied pages into an unopened ream of paper, which I resealed and placed at the bottom of the stack for later retrieval.

  As I closed the cupboard, the door was suddenly flung open and Alfa 1 strode in brusquely.

  I concentrated on not looking guilty, which only made my pulse race harder.

  ‘Pedro, is there something you need to tell me?’

  70

  IT WAS PAPÁ’S old trick – the fishing net question – and, whatever he was angling for, there was only one way to play it.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, comando.’

  Alfa 1’s eyes narrowed. ‘Very well. I’ve authorised Beta to transfer Piolín out of your squad, effective immediately. Tortuga will replace her.’

  There could only be one reason for the transfer: her previous week’s slip-up.

  ‘As her squad leader, don’t I get a say in this?’

  ‘Not when a trusted commander like Beta comes to me with legitimate concerns about safety. You were warned when you chose her; Piolín is a distraction.’

  ‘But no rules were broken.’

  Alfa 1 scowled, obviously irritated. ‘Pedro, you need to respect not only the rules but also the people who enforce them. If you’d come to me rather than keeping secrets, this might have turned out differently. You need to be loyal to me above everyone else, including your best friend.’

  ‘Yes, comando. I apologise.’ I bowed my head.

  So it was my fault. Perhaps, if I’d acted when MacGyver suggested, Alfa 1 would have simply reprimanded them.

  ‘You can finish reading the files later. Right now, you’ll inform your soldiers that Piolín is being transferred as part of restructuring. Patrols commence tomorrow morning at six.’

  My squad had spent the weekend at La María and had just returned to base. I only hoped that during their time off, Palillo and Piolín hadn’t become closer. However, as I led Palillo behind our dormitory, he told me that they’d shared a room.

  ‘So if you spent the night together,’ I said, ‘then you two have …?’

  Palillo shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’re planning to. But I want it to be special. Like you and Camila.’

  He was really excited.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘Has someone died?’

  ‘Piolín is being transferred from the squad.’

  At first he looked at me in disbelief. Then his face dropped and he kicked the wall of the dormitory. ‘Fuck! I’ll kill Veneno. I’ll fucking kill him. Dirty sapo.’ He breathed out heavily through his nose. ‘What will happen to her?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. Trigeño has ordered a major restructuring and the commanders are on edge, so it’s best if you two aren’t seen together for a while.’

  I tried to comfort him, telling him it would take time but he’d get over her. He insisted he wouldn’t – there was no one like Adriana. He told me he’d written her poems.

  ‘You know, Pedro, I can hardly spell so they were nothing great. But I was just telling her how I feel. The next day, she’d composed them into a song, which she sang to me.’ Palillo was crying now, leaning forward against the dormitory wall with tears streaming down the bridge of his nose. I’d never seen him cry. Not even after the fiercest beating from his stepfather. ‘No one ever sang to me. Not even my mother. She was always too busy with my brothers and sisters.’

  I knew it was no use telling him about meeting new girls in the future. He only wanted Piolín. ‘Even with the transfer, maybe there’s some way …’

  ‘Don’t be naïve! Defying the commanders could get us both shot.’ He shook his head. ‘But she was the best thing that ever happened to me.’

  When I told Piolín the news about ‘restructuring’, her face turned white.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Piolín. There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Pedro. We should have listened to you.’

  Before dinner, Piolín sought me out privately. Her eyes were red and swollen. She handed me a thick, white envelope.

  ‘I want you to give this to Palillo,’ she said. ‘It was meant to be a present.’

  Inside were two plane tickets from Villavicencio to Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast. She’d purchased them by phone and had them delivered to La María.

  ‘When I bought these,’ she said, ‘I thought maybe the war was over, or our war at least. We could fly away and, if we kept our mouths shut, maybe they wouldn’t come after us.’

  ‘Does Palillo know?’ I asked.

  Piolín shook her head. ‘I wanted to surprise him.’

  I tried to hand them back. ‘They’re expensive. You should request a refund.’

  ‘No, maybe he can use the money to help his siblings. They need protection.’ She looked at me meaningfully. ‘He told me how you two used to wait outside his house on your bikes, throwing stones to distract his stepfather.’

  I was surprised Palillo had discussed his family problems with Piolín. There’d been an unspoken code in our childhood: we both knew what happened in his family but talking about it wouldn’t change a thing.

  Piolín sighed. ‘It’s funny – when I ran away from home I never expected to meet someone like Palillo. To everyone else he’s a clown. But to me, he’s a giant black lamb. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I trust you. The other night, we were sharing a room at La María. I was drunk and I finally told him I wanted to do it. So when he was in the shower I took my clothes off, lit a candle and waited under the sheets. But you know what? Palillo never laid a hand on me. He said he didn’t think I was ready. And afterwards I realised he was right. I probably wasn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She looked at her feet. ‘Last year, when my mother was away for weeks at a time working as a cleaner, my father raped me. Not just once. It went on for two months.’

  ‘You mean your stepfather?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, my father. That’s why I ran away and joined up. This might sound stupid, Pedro, but I wanted to kill men. All men. That’s why I invented a boyfriend. I didn’t want anyone coming near me.’

  Later I found out that stories like Piolín’s were not uncommon – most of the Autodefensa girls had horrendous pasts – but at the time I was shocked.

  ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘After Palillo, you’re the second person I’ve told.’ Then she laughed ironically. ‘Actually, the third if we’re counting my mother. She didn’t believe me. That hurt worse than what my father did.’

  Finally, I gleaned the depth of connection between Palillo and Piolín. Both had joined the Paramilitaries simply to get out – it didn’t matter where. Somehow, despite the horrors surrounding them, they’d found each other. But now, right at the very moment they’d dreamed of something better than the life they’d been dealt, the commanders had separated them.

  I considered waiting to give Palillo the envelope until after we’d departed. He might do anything: beg Alfa 1 to intercede, confront Beta or even fight Veneno. However, he took it well, praising Piolín’s generosity and hiding his disappointment.

  He sa
id nothing more until we heard further news later that night: Beta had transferred Piolín into his own unit, the one responsible for ‘intelligence gathering’. From now on, she’d be directly under his control and constantly within his reach.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Palillo muttered.

  Our eyes met and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. On La 50 Beta was ruthless enough, but out in the grassy savannah with no one watching and no higher authority than himself, could such a man be trusted to respect Piolín?

  71

  FOR OUR NEXT patrol in July, we’d expected a normal rotation lasting eight days, but on the sixth day we were recalled to La 50. We arrived late on Saturday night to discover that several other squads had also been called in. There were rumours of an intelligence breakthrough on which we’d be briefed the following day.

  Early on the Sunday, I found Piolín by La Quebrada, crying. Assuming she was still upset about her separation from Palillo, I sat by her side, as she had with me on New Year’s Eve nearly six months earlier.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t believe he sent me there and made me watch!’ she cried.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, realising this had nothing to do with Palillo.

  ‘Beta.’

  Her new squad had been in charge of transporting the captured guerrillero to the Palace of Truth, an isolated cluster of trees far out in the north of Casanare where suspects were interrogated. But once the prisoner was delivered and her squad was reassigned to other duties, Beta had ordered Piolín to remain and hold the tape recorder during the interrogation.

  El Psycho had tortured the guerrillero for four days, slicing him up and down his arms and legs with a surgical scalpel, and then banging the tree branch to which the prisoner’s wrists were tied to make fire ants descend and feast on his congealed blood. Beta had done the questioning. Each session went on for hours. They stopped only for meal breaks and to change the batteries on the voice recorder.

  Piolín was traumatised.

  ‘He was like a scarecrow, with bits of flesh hanging off him,’ she sobbed. ‘At one stage, he offered to go undercover for them with a satellite transponder. Beta held up a mirror and showed him his own mangled face, laughing. “But they’ll never recognise you,” he said. After that, the man begged to be killed – but El Psycho wouldn’t kill him. He sewed the cuts up again to keep him alive longer.’

  Tears trickled down Piolín’s cheeks. ‘The guerrillero was called Efraín, and he told them his life story even before the first cut. After he’d confessed everything, they insisted he tell them more about the layout of the mother camp. He tried to invent something just to stop the pain. But when they asked him for details, he couldn’t supply them because he truly didn’t know. So they tortured him for lying. I never thought I’d say this, but I was happy when he died.’

  Piolín broke down before I could ask what had caused Beta to station her there. I guessed it was punishment for rejecting his advances.

  I placed my hand on her shoulder while she regained her composure. I felt sickened by what she’d told me, but I kept wondering what Efraín had revealed. Could the camp possibly belong to Santiago?

  Her gaze remained fixed on the water. ‘I read somewhere that there is only one thing worse than the most horrible acts of evil men: the silence of good men. But whoever said that was wrong. They never heard a man trying to scream but gurgling instead because his lungs were filled with blood. Over that sound, give me the silence of good men any day.’

  Turning, Piolín looked wistfully at the La 50 gate and the single road that led back to Puerto Bontón then to Bogotá and then to her home town of Barranquilla.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I warned. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘I won’t, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I think I made a mistake joining.’ She stood resolutely, wiped her eyes and took out a make-up compact. ‘It was good to see you, Pedro. You’re one of the nice ones.’

  72

  FIVE WEEKS HAD passed since Trigeño ordered us to hand in our phones. Only now did Alfa 1 return them. He was in excellent spirits – apparently Trigeño had pressured one of the witnesses in the case against him into retracting her statement.

  I phoned Camila immediately. She was relieved to finally hear from me, although frustrated at having a boyfriend she rarely saw and who she wasn’t able to phone. As I listened to her grumbling about everyday problems – her overprotective father, a bad result in her mathematics exam and a girl who had been spreading gossip about her – I could feel my mind being cleansed of the things Piolín had told me.

  Camila and Piolín were the same age. Both were pretty. But their lives were so different. Whatever problems Camila had, she was still extremely lucky.

  As for Mamá, she must have become worried by my lack of communication, because she’d sent me a postcard that had been delivered to La 50 by Don Jerónimo the taxi driver while I was away patrolling.

  Mamá had been careful. The postcard had no addressee. It was unsigned and undated, and it mentioned no names.

  Mi querido, I hope this finds you well. I’ve found work during the day. I listen to the radio and watch telenovelas at night, when I most miss talking to your father. Of course, I miss you too. And I know a little someone who is very much looking forward to seeing you. Please call me when you can.

  I rang Mamá, intending to thank her for the postcard and to urge continued caution. Uncle answered gruffly, told me she was now living elsewhere and gave me her new number. Hearing Mamá’s voice, I felt relieved, then immediately went on the offensive.

  ‘Why move out, Mamá? I didn’t like you living with Uncle Leo, but we can’t afford it.’

  At first Mamá gave evasive explanations about earning extra money by sewing and ironing at nights, but when I pressed harder she finally admitted the truth.

  ‘Eleonora Díaz offered to let me stay in the guesthouse at her sons’ finca near Garbanzos.’

  ‘What? How are you even talking to her? I thought she was in Bogotá.’

  ‘She came to see Colonel Buitrago to discuss her own finca. He said our properties still aren’t safe. Eleonora saw the position I was in and insisted on helping.’

  ‘Mamá! We’re Gutiérrez! We don’t accept charity.’

  I hated the thought of us owing anyone. It was undignified for Mamá and reflected badly on me. A son should look after his mother. If he couldn’t, then the job fell to the males of the extended family, in this case Uncle Leo.

  ‘It’s not charity, Pedro. They’re family friends. Eleonora has also suffered tragedy. We talk by phone almost every day. Her sons send their regards to you. You remember Javier and Fabián?’

  ‘You know Papá never approved of Humberto Díaz.’

  ‘I’ve got to live somehow, Pedro,’ Mamá pleaded, her voice starting to strain. ‘And your uncle needs his privacy. If I’m there, he’ll never find a wife.’

  So that was it! Leo and his little amigas needed somewhere to get private.

  ‘Please, Mamá, move back to Uncle Leo’s.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Pedro. It’s rude to Eleonora when she’s been so kind. I need friends. You’re gone. Leo has his work. You have Palillo with you. Who do I have? Tell me! Who do I have?’

  Mamá began crying and that always got me. Once a woman starts crying, the man has to back down. We’re tougher than they are. Mamá wasn’t one of those women who use crying as a weapon. Neither was Camila. They only cried when they meant it. Hearing her upset, I tried to see Mamá’s perspective. She’d gone from her parents’ house straight into marriage. For twenty years, Papá was all she had known. Without him, she was adrift, a riverboat cut loose from its mooring.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mamá. Everything will work out fine. My leave is in two weeks. I’ll find you somewhere else to live.’

  Mamá sniffed. ‘Things are complicated right now. Phone me before you arrive, Pedro. And don’t bring that truck. You need to be �
�� discreet.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her what she meant. But Silvestre was signalling to me urgently. Alfa 1’s briefing was about to commence.

  ‘Fine. I’ve got to go, Mamá.’

  I hung up and strode towards the office. The other squad commanders were already taking their seats on the rows of folding chairs that had been set up in the middle of the room.

  I resolved to somehow find the money to rent Mamá her own place. I didn’t like her depending on anyone else, especially the Díazes. Although we’d been neighbours for eleven years, they’d never shown any interest in us while Papá was alive. We’d done our duty by burying their father, but they didn’t know that. They owed us nothing. And I found their sudden generosity suspicious.

  The sons had handed me their business cards when I’d visited Llorona. At the time, I’d brushed them off. However, now that my mother was accepting their hospitality, things had changed. I needed to talk to them. I could have called Javier or Fabián – I still had their cards in my locker. But that conversation was one I’d prefer to have face to face.

  73

  ALFA 1 SAT behind us in the back row, allowing Beta to conduct the briefing. At the front, a map was taped to a corkboard. Beside it, a poster-sized photograph was covered by translucent brown paper that concealed the details of a man’s face.

  Beta cleared his throat to signal that he was ready to begin. When Silvestre and Johnnie Walker continued talking, he glared at them until a hush fell over the room. This was Beta’s chance to dominate, and he was revelling in it.

  ‘New intelligence has come to light,’ he announced. ‘An informant has kindly volunteered information about the Guerrilla’s mother base, which we suspect is located near the border with Venezuela.’

  Beta stressed the phrase kindly volunteered, smirking as he said it. I remembered Piolín’s description of Efrain’s final days.

  ‘Our informant has been with the Guerrilla for only two years and is not privy to military strategies. However, he was able to give us details of food drops made along the Cristal River that he and his squad transferred to other locations, usually three or four days’ trek towards the Venezuelan border. We believe the food’s ultimate destination was the Guerrilla camp.’