Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  ‘I didn’t organise that ambush,’ I responded, signalling to Palillo that Ernesto should ride in the cabin.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said, ‘but you should still keep your word. Ñoño is safe. Release me and Ernesto.’

  I had indeed benefited from Rafael and Beta’s trickery. Rafael, I could hardly bear to look at. But any dishonour I felt vanished the moment we reached the base and I remembered the nine men Buitre had slain during his attack and ambush on the road.

  Despite his being tied, it took five soldiers to subdue Buitre, remove him from the Toyota and carry him up to Ernesto’s former cell.

  Palillo had gone ahead and was now standing, arms folded, at the metal gate. Kicking and screaming obscenities, Buitre refused to enter.

  ‘I didn’t harm your family,’ he said, suddenly noticing Palillo.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Palillo. ‘And yet—’ he punched Buitre in the face, knocking him to the ground ‘—you did torch my mother’s house.’

  Coca-Cola dragged him roughly into the cell while Pantera removed the magazines, lamp and radio we’d permitted Ernesto. Even the ordinarily compassionate Piolín became fiery as she padlocked the shackle around Buitre’s ankle. ‘Those kids are traumatised because of you!’

  A line of volunteers snaked up the stairs. They all wanted to guard Buitre and taunt him, or at least catch a glimpse of the man who’d killed their friends. Even little Iván stared indignantly at him through the bars. ‘This war is between humans,’ he said. ‘Why would you kill dogs?’

  The only soldier to defend Buitre was Ñoño, who had pushed to the front of the queue. ‘He treated me well, Pedro.’

  ‘He hung you upside down.’

  ‘Only for a few minutes. He didn’t harm me.’

  ‘Ñoño, you’re dismissed.’ Then I yelled at the men on the stairs: ‘All of you are!’

  ‘See. I did the right thing by Ñoño,’ said Buitre calmly when I entered his cell. His hands were still cuffed behind his back and he was looking up at me from the floor. ‘You should do the right thing too and hand me over to Buitrago.’

  ‘I might have considered it before you attacked my base, killed my soldiers and shot at my girlfriend. The best you can hope for now is a quick death. I want the girl’s name and number.’

  ‘Never. Caraquemada will come for me. He’ll wipe this base from the map, and all of you with it.’

  ‘Unlikely. Beta tossed your men’s bodies into the river for the caimans. Caraquemada will think you’re all dead. Tell me the girl’s name and I’ll release Ernesto, just as we agreed. I won’t touch your mother. She and Ernesto can keep their house. But don’t forget that you need Caraquemada dead as much as I do. If he finds out about the money you stole, your mother and Ernesto will never be safe.’

  I slammed the iron gate and locked it, leaving him alone on the bare wooden floor.

  ‘Think about that. But don’t think too long.’

  By far Buitre’s biggest advocate was Ernesto. He was temporarily under guard in my cottage while a comfortable upstairs bedroom was being prepared for him. When I entered I found him sitting peacefully in one of my faded blue armchairs, holding a screwdriver and tinkering with a broken lamp.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ernesto, but we might have to keep you a little longer. Your brother isn’t cooperating.’

  ‘So you’re keeping me prisoner until he does.’

  Ernesto’s reproach was fair; there was nothing I could say. Standing there, looking at him – an industrious boy who liked to fix things – I wondered how two brothers could turn out so differently.

  Without looking up again, he asked, ‘Why do you hate my brother so much?’

  I hesitated. ‘He helped murder my father.’

  Ernesto paused for a long time, thinking. ‘Then I understand. You’re wrong to do this, but I understand. Please sit down, Pedro. I want to tell you how my brother got his alias.’

  I had no desire to learn further details of Buitre’s history – his misdeeds spoke for themselves – but after all I’d done to Ernesto, I felt I owed it to him to listen. So I pulled over the other armchair and sat beside him.

  ‘When I was eight and Kiko thirteen, our father was killed,’ Ernesto began. ‘He was a public ombudsman who denounced the paramilitary assassinations of trade unionists. Kiko and I were both there when armed men broke down our door at 3 am. We didn’t know who they were at the time; we only knew that our mamá was crying because these men in balaclavas were taking Papá away. Kiko jumped on my father’s back and I hung from his wrist, thinking that if we weighed him down they couldn’t take him. But Papá made us get off. He said he loved us very much but there was nothing we could do. The Autodefensas took him away, hacked him to pieces and left him strewn throughout our vereda.

  ‘They gave us three days to leave town. We collected his arms, legs, hands, feet and torso for burial, although we never found his head. The vultures had got to him and Kiko killed them using a slingshot. That’s how he got his name: Buitre. They said he was a “little vulture killer”. Guerrilla recruiters approached us and promised that if Kiko joined they’d look after Mamá and me – giving us food, medicine and cash and helping us find a new house. But they never did.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Despite what the Autodefensas did to our family, I forgive them. And I want you to forgive Kiko. I’m sorry for your father and whatever part my brother played. Rafael is right. I don’t know my brother well, but I’m sure he’s sorry too.’

  On Tuesday morning, when Buitre had been in captivity for twenty-four hours, Valderrama’s platoon and my ten new men arrived from La 50, just as Trigeño had promised. Two F350 trucks pulled up at the gate, each containing twenty-five soldiers. I limped down the drive to meet them. I’d removed the dressing on my cheek on my doctor’s orders, and these would be the first outsiders to look upon my scar. The surgeon had told me it would fade with time to a thin white line, but at the moment the wound was still angry and red.

  I remembered Valderrama from my training days at La 50 when he’d been doing the promotion course. He was an experienced soldier, ten years my senior, and his group would be independent of mine and Beta’s; he would report directly to Trigeño.

  ‘Pedro, I’m not here to get in your way, or Beta’s. The three of us have separate jobs to do. This is your home town, and Trigeño told me the steep price you’ve paid to claw it back from the enemy.’ He glanced at my cheek and automatically averted his eyes. ‘My base will act as a buffer against further Guerrilla incursions from the south. I’m here to take the pressure off you. If the Guerrilla so much as cross that river, you’ll be the first to know. And if you need assistance on anything, I’m only a radio call away.’

  Valderrama departed immediately to set up his new base on a plot of land Trigeño had acquired. This was exactly what was needed. A stronger Autodefensa presence – overseen by a commander with direct accountability to Trigeño – would restore the necessary stability to the region and set the stage for crossing the river and retaking the Guerrilla’s final civilian stronghold: Santo Paraíso.

  Knowing Buitre was in captivity and a full additional platoon was stationed in Puerto Princesa, I rang Mamá and told her it was safe for her to leave Javier’s hacienda and move back in with Uncle Leo.

  All that was required now was for Buitre to give me the girl’s name.

  That afternoon, however, when I looked in on Buitre, I couldn’t help but see Ernesto in his face. As people, they were nothing alike, but Buitre had the same nose and identical green eyes – eyes that had also looked upon their father’s dismembered body. I thought back to what Papá used to say: when you know a man’s story, you’re less likely to judge him. Knowing that Buitre’s father had been stolen from him and left for the vultures, just like Papá, made me feel sad and torn. It dampened my will to execute him. He’d joined the war at thirteen – two years younger than I had – and he had done so to help his family.

  I’
d expected to relish having Buitre in my power and to enjoy protracting his ordeal, but now I just wanted this over as soon as possible.

  ‘Are you ready to give me her name?’ I asked him through the bars.

  ‘I’ll do that once you agree to hand me over to the army, not murder me in cold blood. I don’t deserve to die. I’ll spend years in prison and Ernesto and my mother can visit me. Isn’t that justice?’

  ‘For what you did to my father, no, it isn’t.’ I looked around the bare room and spied nothing but the bed and water jug. I unlocked his cell door, entered and snatched up the jug. ‘Perhaps a day without water will persuade you to talk.’

  ‘Pedro, wait! I didn’t kill your father.’

  ‘No, you just held me down and made me watch while Caraquemada pulled the trigger.’

  ‘I had no idea what he was going to do. Our commanders tell us nothing. Questions are forbidden; we’re there to obey orders. All I know is your father had done something to anger Caraquemada. If you’d interfered, he would have shot you too.’

  ‘My father did nothing. I was the one who spoke to the Autodefensa recruiters in the plaza, yet after his death they called Papá a sapo. Zorrillo painted that lie all over our finca.’

  ‘Zorrillo was a spoilt narco with no self-control. But not Caraquemada. He’s swift. He’s brutal. And he overreacts. But he always obeys our statutes. So your father couldn’t have been completely innocent. Caraquemada wouldn’t have executed him for something you did.’

  I knew Buitre was mistaken. I was responsible. And his attempts to explain my father’s death by insisting on Papá’s guilt only made me angrier. I wanted answers, not more questions and doubts.

  I returned his water jug. ‘You can keep this … for now. But you will give me that girl’s name. In the meantime—’ I dragged the mattress off his bed and hurled it into the corridor ‘—it’s your choice how much you want to suffer.’

  142

  FOR THE NEXT three days – Wednesday, Thursday and Friday – Buitre continued to resist my demands for the girl’s name and number.

  ‘Are you ready to talk?’ I’d ask each time I went to his cell.

  ‘Have you released Ernesto?’ he’d reply.

  ‘I will once I’m certain I can get Caraquemada.’

  Frustrated by his obstinacy, I gradually increased his discomfort, hoping to break him. From the day of his capture I’d kept him handcuffed at all times. I’d then begun removing his privileges one by one: on the second day, he’d lost his bed and blankets. On the third, I stopped letting him out for toilet breaks, giving him a bucket to use instead, hoping he’d eventually tire of his own rotten smell. On the fourth day, we nailed the shutters closed, blacked out the windows and reattached the door in front of the metal bars with only an eyehole drilled through it so guards could observe him. I knew Buitre had no conscience, but I hoped that as he sat alone in silence and total darkness his own thoughts would drive him crazy. Finally, on Friday morning, I cut off his meals.

  Physical torture I couldn’t abide, but that wouldn’t stop me making his life a living hell. Whether it took a day, a week or a month, Buitre would eventually see that his predicament was hopeless.

  To my surprise, Palillo approved of these privations. ‘Free accommodation is already way more than that house-burning motherfucker deserves. As for Ernesto, a few more days with us won’t kill him.’

  The rest of my men, including the ten new arrivals, seemed motivated and happy, barring Rafael, whose rifle I’d confiscated after his treachery. He wisely stayed out of my way. Guarding an important Guerrilla commander imbued the camp with a renewed sense of pride and purpose.

  Aside from Camila’s unwavering silence, I had every reason for optimism: I had Ñoño back, my foot and face were healing, and I was once more properly mobile since the new pick-ups were automatic. Best of all, Buitre was in my custody and I’d soon have the information I needed to go after Caraquemada.

  Meanwhile, I was looking forward to the elections in three weeks. Felix was still on track to being elected senator – his approval rating was now seventy-five per cent. That might dull the shine on Fabián Díaz’s smile, but I didn’t care.

  Once Fabián was no longer a candidate, he’d have no justification for retaining his battalion of ‘bodyguards’. Beta and his Black Scorpions would have to return to La 50, and the towns would return to the peace they’d enjoyed for the first six months after our takeover. A sense of change was in the air, not only in our camp but also in the streets, markets and plazas.

  ‘Whatever you said to Beta or the Díazes, it worked,’ Felix told me when I met him for lunch in Garbanzos on Friday. ‘The harassment of my passengers has stopped. We’re getting word to voters in the villages and mountains. Despite Caraquemada’s intimidation, they’re determined to vote.’

  There were still disturbing reports, however, about the Black Scorpions extorting small businesses in the river villages. Felix had also heard that the Díaz brothers were buying up land well below market value, using threats and intimidation when they encountered resistance.

  ‘One landowner who refused to sell simply disappeared. Men in balaclavas took him away in a truck and he hasn’t been seen since,’ Felix reported.

  ‘Who was taken?’

  ‘I trust you, Pedro, but for his family’s sake I can’t tell you. However, once I’m sworn in I’ll make sure Colonel Buitrago receives adequate men and resources to protect people’s rights.’

  After lunch I visited the Llorona church to say a prayer for Papá.

  Crossing myself and opening my eyes as I finished my prayer, I saw Padre Rojas standing beside the pew.

  ‘How are you, my son?’

  ‘Healing quickly, Padre. The stitches are out. I’m back driving again and I’ll have this thing off in a week.’

  I pointed to my moon boot, but rather than glancing down, Rojas gave me one of his deeply religious stares – looking into my eyes as though he were peering at the very depths of my soul. ‘True healing involves the spirit not the flesh. Anything you want to talk about? My confession box is always open, if you feel you have lost your true path.’

  ‘Gracias, Padre, but I have no sins to report … anyway, none that are new.’

  Rojas shook his head gravely and turned away before I could catch him trying not to smile.

  Coming out of the church, I found Old Man Domino in the plaza playing checkers with Iván. His wife, Gloria, was tugging at his wrist, trying to cajole him into coming home for lunch. He was drunk and belligerent, insisting he was about to win and that she was interrupting his concentration.

  ‘Time to go home, viejo,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a ride.’

  He looked up at me with glazed eyes. ‘You children think you’ve changed things in this town. You haven’t changed ni mierda. Let us play two more games, then you can drive me home. We’ll have a meal and I’ll show you the cesspit you’re drowning in.’

  When I insisted we leave immediately, Old Man Domino swiped the board clean, sending pieces flying and smashing the bottle of aguardiente on the concrete.

  Gloria began crying as I bent down to clean up the mess. ‘I’ll accept your invitation when you’re not blind drunk,’ I said.

  ‘You do that, muchacho,’ he said angrily. ‘Then we’ll see who’s blind.’

  Friday also marked two weeks since Camila’s premature departure from Llorona in Fabián’s Cessna. I hadn’t heard a word from her since. By then, I guessed she must have moved into her shared student accommodation. Bogotá was only a three-hour drive beyond Villavicencio, but considering her coldness and silence she might as well have been on the moon.

  Although we’d gone for much longer stretches than this without talking when I was away at La 50 or out patrolling the savannah, this was different. I’d always known she was there, loving me, ready and waiting for me to come home. Finally, I understood how Camila had felt – waiting, not knowing, and wondering whether she would ever see or hear from me ag
ain.

  The next morning I was reading the Saturday paper in the sunny courtyard of the farmhouse while Piolín was in a nearby bedroom, organising books onto shelves for her new classroom and library. Flicking past the social pages, a photo caught my eye.

  It had been taken at a farándula event, and there were celebrities in the background. The photo was centred on Fabián, who had one arm around Camila. She was bright-eyed and smiling, with her long hair styled in large glamorous curls, and wearing a red dress with a plunging neckline. On Fabián’s other side stood Andrea.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ I said. ‘I’ll fucking kill him.’

  Hearing me, Piolín came out, and when she saw the newspaper she tried to calm me. ‘Look! He’s got his arm around Andrea too. They’re just huddling together for the photo. Don’t read into it, Pedro. She still loves you.’

  ‘I don’t trust him. I’ve seen how he operates. He’ll get her drunk. He’ll drug her.’

  ‘They’re friends, Pedro,’ insisted Piolín. ‘She tells me every time.’

  ‘Every time when?’

  Piolín flushed. ‘Camila has been calling. She claims she’s checking in on me. But that’s not the real reason. She’s calling to find out about you.’

  ‘Then why not call me?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I can promise that after all Camila has been through she’s definitely not looking for a new relationship. She’s happy being single.’

  I knew Piolín meant this as reassurance. But to me it wasn’t. Single meant Camila was available. Maybe nothing had happened with Fabián Díaz. Maybe instead Camila was out meeting many guys and having lots of fun, but with ‘no commitments’. I was not sure which felt worse.

  Camila had asked me never to contact her again. So far I’d respected her position, but after seeing that photo my will crumbled.

  I texted her: ‘Camila, I miss you. I love you with all my heart.’

  My phone beeped and my heartbeat quickened. Her response contained an address in Bogotá followed by: ‘If you truly love me, you know what you have to do …’