God's Favorite

by Lawrence Wright

  “Here,” said Tony as he removed the drape. “I hope you’re satisfied!”

  Inside the aquarium, floating in the viscous liquid, was the head of Hugo Spadafora.

  Gods were never happy until they had tasted blood, Tony thought bitterly. Until now, Hugo had been his alone. But what good had it done him, really? One thing after another had gone wrong ever since Hugo passed into the other world.

  Hugo’s eyes were askew—one looking upward and one down at Tony’s shoes. His skin was slightly green and coated with whiskers. An artery trailed out the severed neck like an unplugged electrical cord.

  There was just enough Old Parr left in the spilled bottle for Tony to salvage a few last sips. He clinked the side of the aquarium in a farewell toast—a toast he had never shared with the living Hugo.

  All the things Tony had wanted, Hugo had. He had wanted to be a doctor, like Hugo, but the most that a poor boy like him could expect or hope for was to become a pharmacist’s assistant. Even when Tony turned to the military, he had been overshadowed by the protean Hugo. While Tony was issuing traffic citations and learning drill in the National Guard, Hugo was waging revolution in the jungles of Africa and Central America, writing best-sellers about his adventures. But what did it matter? Tony could not go back and create a happy childhood for himself, or a loving family. He would never be handsome; instead, he was pocked like a Peg-Board and given lizardlike eyes that frightened children and even caused grown men to draw away when they saw him. In his home village there was a she-devil named Tuli Vieja who had a face like a sieve. She sneaked along the stream-sides looking for children to steal. The people said if you looked at her directly, she would suck out your life through the holes in her face. For this reason, some of the Choco avoided looking at Tony to this very day despite the postal station and all the other favors he had given them. They thought he was the male incarnation of Tuli Vieja. Sometimes Tony wondered that himself.

  There had been a moment when everything might have turned out differently—that was the first time Tony had ever seen Hugo, at a little outdoor cantina in Colón during Carnival. Hugo was at his peak then—glamorous, handsome, rich, famous, surrounded by fans and beautiful women, women that Tony could only dream about. There was a samba band, and Hugo had danced like a prince. Everything he did was so naturally cool and filled with grace and courage. Tony had sent a bottle of fine champagne to Hugo’s table, a gesture he could scarcely afford. Hugo, however, did not invite Tony to join him and his beautiful friends. He did not even acknowledge the gift. He simply received it as tribute. He drank the champagne and left, trailing laughter and contempt.

  “But, Hugo, the universe is so fickle,” Tony said now as he contemplated the chain of events that had led inevitably from that moment to this one. “You can be up so high and I down so low. Now look at us. Somewhat reversed, right? I guess somebody up there is watching out for me, eh? What do you think, Doctor? It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  Hugo’s hair swayed like seaweed and his puzzled eyes looked high and low.

  “I don’t see you laughing,” said Tony.

  CHAPTER 17

  ROLLINS HAD SUGGESTED meeting Father Jorge at what he said was a “dentist’s office” in Punta Paitilla, and the priest was surprised to find that it really was a dentist’s office and not a safe house or CIA front. “You sure you don’t mind?” Rollins asked when they met. “I have to spend half my life sitting in this chair being tortured. My gums.” He raised his upper lip to display a pulpy gum line and several missing teeth. “It’s genetic,” he explained.

  “You do know why I contacted you?” Father Jorge asked under his breath.

  “Oh, everybody in this country has a secret to sell,” said Rollins. His skin was clammy and he smelled faintly of rum.

  “I’m not selling anything!” Father Jorge said indignantly.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, Father. Most of our agents come to us because of financial distress. You don’t see too many idealists in this business.” Just then the dentist walked in carrying a hypodermic with a six-inch needle. Rollins shrank a bit. “Maybe you should give me last rites, Father,” he said. “Hah hah hah.”

  “This may pinch a bit, but believe me, you’ll be glad for it in a little while,” said the dentist, plunging the needle into Rollins’s tender upper gum. “Don’t move around so.”

  Rollins made a cry like a little bird.

  “This will take a few minutes,” said the dentist. “I’ll be back when you’re numb.”

  “I wish they used gas here,” said Rollins when the dentist had gone. “I’m such a coward about these things.”

  This was the CIA? Father Jorge worried about Major Giroldi placing his trust in an agency that was so shabbily represented. Nonetheless, he forged ahead. “I assume that a certain PDF officer has been in contact with you,” he said.

  “I talk to dozens of them,” said Rollins. “What’s his name?”

  Father Jorge paused, then whispered Giroldi’s name.

  “Oh, right. So you’re our contact?”

  “I’m only delivering a message.”

  “Okay, then, what shall we call you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tradecraft. Every agent gets a moniker. We don’t want to have to use real names in our reports.”

  “I’m not an agent.”

  “Okay, whatever, but suppose Giroldi wants you to get in touch with me again. Maybe you don’t want people to know who you are. You just use your trade name. Safer. More discreet.”

  This was absurd, Father Jorge thought, but on the other hand, he certainly didn’t want anyone to know about his involvement. “What do you suggest?”

  “I’ve got my own system,” Rollins confided. “What’s your favorite Disney character?”

  “Mickey Mouse?”

  “Taken,” said Rollins. “Maybe something a little less obvious.”

  “Can’t we just say something like ‘José Rodríguez’ that sounds like an ordinary name?’ ”

  “It is an ordinary name, Father, too ordinary. Do you know how many guys there are with that name? Suppose some guy who really is named José Rodríguez calls me up—it could get very confusing. Listen, trust me, you want a name that’s memorable but not exactly real. Anyway, it works. All my guys do it.”

  “Oh, well, this is ridiculous. You can call me anything you want.”

  “It has to be something meaningful to you. Otherwise, you might forget it, and then where would we be?”

  “In that case, maybe you can call me Pinocchio. I think that would be very appropriate.”

  “I like your thinking, Father. It’s symbolic and memorable. Unfortunately it’s also taken.”

  “Goofy, then.”

  “The really mainstream ones are pretty much picked over. Donald, Daffy, the nephews. I had one of the Seven Dwarves left till last week. I encourage you to think a little less conventionally. Like ‘Thomas O’Malley.’ ”

  “Thomas O’Malley?”

  “You never saw Aristocats? He is the alley cat who rescues Duchess.”

  “No, but I like the name.”

  “Like I said, it has to be meaningful to you. I can suggest some ideas, but it should come from within.”

  “But I’m not that experienced with these movies. I can’t really think of any.”

  “Oh, come on, Father—think back! You must have seen dozens of them when you were a kid. Everybody did.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “What was your favorite? Sleeping Beauty? Fantasia? Cinderella?”

  “Bambi, I suppose.”

  “Bambi happens to be available. You’re a luppy man, Fadder.” The Xylocaine was taking hold.

  “I really don’t want to be called Bambi.”

  “How ’bout Thumper?”

  “Okay, okay, can we just go ahead with this?”

  “Sure, sure, but how would you like to be paid?”

  “Paid?” Father Jorge snapped. “I’m a priest! I�
��ve taken a vow of poverty. I’m certainly not going to violate that to take a bribe from the CIA.”

  “It’s not a bribe, Fadder. It’s a gesture of appreciation. And if you don’t want the money, we can give it to somebody else. Even to your church, if you want.”

  Father Jorge paused. “How much money are we talking about?” His parish really was very poor.

  “Not millions but not hundreds, either. Depends on the relationship. How it debelops.”

  “It’s not going to develop. I’ve just come here to deliver a message for a friend. A man who is placing his life in danger and needs your help.”

  Rollins rubbed his tongue across his deadened incisors. “Well, then, talk. Nobody’s stobbing you.”

  Father Jorge took a deep breath. The import of what he was about to say was so serious that the fate of the entire country depended on it—but he seemed to be trapped in some bizarre farce. “My friend asked me to inform you that there will be a sudden change of leadership. But he will need your support.”

  Rollins eyes widened. “A coup? Wow, that’s—”

  Just then the dentist returned. Rollins shot a frustrated look at Father Jorge, then opened his mouth wide.

  “How are we doing?” the dentist asked impatiently. He was a brisk and efficient type. He had a pair of magnifying lenses pushed up on his forehead. “We should get started. Can you feel this?” He stuck a metal probe in Rollins’s gum.

  “Ow!”

  The dentist looked at him in surprise. “Again?” he said.

  “It hurbs.”

  The dentist shook his head in amazement. “I’ve never seen anyone so resistant. I guess I’ll have to double up on the anesthetic.”

  When the dentist had left the room, Rollins turned to Father Jorge. “Quick, I don’t want another shot! When’s this going to happen?”

  “Wednesday at dawn.”

  “Doesn’t give us much time.”

  “Secrets don’t keep in Panama.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Block off the roads to the Comandancia. You don’t have to do more than that—just make sure that reinforcements can’t get through. Pretend you are doing one of your regular exercises.”

  “That’s all?”

  “This is a Panamanian solution, Mr. Rollins, just like your president has been calling for. All you have to do is to block traffic. And fly over the airport to keep the aircraft from taking off.”

  “The U.S. cannot be party to any plan that results in the death of a foreign leader.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Rollins, that’s the last thing our friend has in mind. He only wants a change at the top.”

  “That’s what we want, too, Fadder.”

  “One last thing: during the coup, his family will seek refuge at Howard Air Force Base. You must ensure their safety.”

  The dentist returned with another giant injection.

  Rollins put his hands in front of his face. “No, no, it’s dead! I don’t peel a ting!”

  But the needle slipped through his defenses, and as Father Jorge left the room he noticed Rollins’s feet curling toward heaven.

  I THINK WE should talk,” said Tony.

  “If you got something to say, okay, I can listen,” Pablo Escobar replied. “But private and in the open. Neutral territory. Not on the phone.”

  “Why don’t we go for a jog?” Tony suggested.

  An hour later the two men met at Fort Amador and began running along the causeway. Escobar was not in such bad shape for a heavy man, but he sweated through his Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt before they had gone half a mile. He mopped his face. His thick black mustache glistened.

  “Here we can say what we want,” Tony said. He was puffing a little himself, and he could smell the Old Parr sweetly working its way through his sweat glands. “I carry this along for insurance, in case they are listening.” He turned on a transistor radio. The U.S. Armed Forces station was playing “Okie from Muskogee,” a Merle Haggard tune.

  “At least change the station,” said Escobar.

  Tony turned the dial. “Okay, but you should pay attention to such things. The words to their songs are a window to the gringo soul. They are such Protestants! Sex and infidelity, all the time!”

  “Catholics are just as bad,” said Escobar. “Fucking guilt, always on your mind.”

  “Right, I agree. The difference is the Protestants think the world is coming to an end at any moment, and in their heart they know it is their fault. Which, this is probably true. The world will go up in a big bang, just the way it was created, only this will not be God’s intention. He makes the world, and then the Baptists destroy it.”

  “Every religion is full of cranks,” said Escobar. “You can’t put it all on one group. It’s just as likely that the Jews and the Muslims will put an end to things as the Baptists. Hell, the Hindus.”

  “Yes, but the Baptists think the apocalypse is coming soon, and they will all get to heaven before everybody else. People like this should not be in charge of the American nuclear arsenal.”

  “It’s scary,” Escobar agreed. “Whenever you mix religion and politics, watch out.”

  “I think the real problem is sexual,” said Tony.

  Escobar nodded enthusiastically. “If everybody got more pussy, the world would be a lot safer place. That’s the problem with religion—it gets in the way of natural appetites.”

  “But why? Why does religion stand in the way of sexual fulfillment? I think we adopt religious beliefs as a way of avoiding sex as much as possible.”

  “Tony, with all due respect, that makes no sense to me.”

  “Tell me, Pablo, what is religion after all?”

  “Fairy tales,” said Escobar. “A story we tell ourselves about life everlasting. Helps us go to sleep at night.”

  “I agree that religion has this quality. But all creatures die, and yet man is the only one that we know of that creates religions. Why is this? Because he is aware of his solitude.” A beautiful girl in sunglasses ran past them in the opposite direction, with an exhausted white dog the size of a large rat. The dog’s tongue hung limply to one side of his mouth and his toenails clicked on the sidewalk. Tony and Escobar both turned to look at the girl’s ass as she passed. “Why do you want sex in the first place?” Tony continued. “Because you don’t want to feel alone. You want to have union with another person. Say this girl—you’d like to fuck her, right?”

  Escobar grunted.

  “But afterwards, maybe it’s not such a good feeling, right? You feel more alone. Then maybe you want another girl, this time a different one. But the outcome is the same. It is like drinking salt water—you finally die of dehydration. A cruel paradox, isn’t it?”

  “I still like fucking. I’d fuck the dog, as a matter of fact.”

  “Of course you would—because you love life and you’re afraid of death like everybody else. It’s perfectly natural. When you’re fucking, you’re saying yes to life, and yet death is the whole point of sexuality. You merge with another person in order to escape the loneliness of existence and the fear of death, but with every sexual act you are reminded of your mortality and the prison of identity.”

  “Jeez, Tony, you’re a morbid son of a bitch.”

  “There’s only one escape from this existential dilemma. Love. If you’re really in love, you can never be entirely alone.”

  “Now I believe that,” said Escobar. “I got a good woman. She puts up with a lot of shit, I can tell you that.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” Tony said enviously.

  They had come to the base of the Bridge of the Americas, which spans the canal. Tony immediately started up the slope.

  “I don’t know,” said the panting Escobar. “It’s a long way across.” He stopped and bent over to catch his breath.

  “We don’t have to go all the way, but the view is really something.”

  They jogged slowly up the pedestrian side of the immense bridge, which arched like a cat’s back
over the waterway. Escobar lagged behind, grumbling and perspiring. His pudgy legs were quivering. “Slow down,” he complained.

  The bridge traffic roared past them, emitting foul gusts of diesel.

  “We’re almost there.”

  A Liberian tanker slipped quietly past underneath them, its radar mast scooting just under Tony’s Reeboks. Finally they reached the apogee of the bridge. “No one should visit Panama without seeing this,” Tony said proudly. “Here, you can see practically the whole country—the mountains in the west and the jungles in the east.”

  Escobar held on to the rail, gasping.

  The sky was very close today; the heavy black clouds were impaled by the flagpole on Ancón Hill. Immediately below, on one side of the canal, was an American naval base; on the other side were Quarry Heights and the busy port. In the distance another ship was slowly rising in the Miraflores Locks. Tony could just see the machinery turning, the tourists taking photographs, the vendors selling T-shirts and Panama hats. He felt a rush of national pride. “Ask me any question about the canal,” he said. “I know everything.”

  “I’m really not interested in the goddamn thing.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s a ditch,” said Escobar. “I don’t see what’s so impressive.”

  Tony couldn’t help feeling wounded by Escobar’s insensitivity. It was hard to reach out to someone who was so unmindful of another’s national feelings. “It’s a common misunderstanding that one ocean is higher than the other,” Tony finally said.

  “I thought that was the whole point of the locks.”

  “Not at all. The tides are somewhat different, but the levels are essentially the same. In point of fact, the locks raise the ships well above sea level. Much higher than you probably thought.”

  “How high?” Escobar asked grudgingly.