My Name is Marisol

by Michelle St. Claire

  Long ago in the rural south of Colombia, lived a boy. He was a well-mannered boy who tended his father’s farm with pride and skill. He was poor, but smart. Hungry, but full of laughter. Small, but strong.

  One day, when the sun rose to its highest throne in the sky, the boy saw something very special. He saw rays of light stream down from the sky and touch a small shed on a hill. The shed had long been abandoned by the locals and sat several miles away from the boy’s farm.

  The boy lied and told his father that he wanted to go visit a friend in a neighboring farm. His father obliged after obtaining reassurance from the boy that the boy would finish all his chores when he returned.

  The boy left. He took with him his favorite dog and nothing else. As the boy walked towards the abandoned shed on the hill, he met a friend along the way.

  The friend’s name was Pedro. He was the same age as the boy and went to the same school with the boy. They had known each other since they were infants.

  The boy pointed to the sky and showed Pedro the stream of light flowing from the heavens and descending upon the shed on the hill. Pedro was intrigued. Immediately, Pedro joined him on the trip to the shed.

  As they walked, they sang a song. An old Colombian song about bravery and courage and love. They hummed the tune and belted out the words loudly and laughingly. Even the boy’s dog howled with them.

  When they finally reached the shed, it seemed like a halo of light surrounded it. It glowed like a million stars. The door of the shed was already ajar and seemed to beckon the boys to come inside.

  Pedro went in first. He stepped inside, then motioned for the boy to follow. The boy’s dog, hesitant at first, joined him.

  There, in the little abandoned shed, they found a baby. A baby girl. She was sitting upright and dressed in a bright yellow dress. Her brown shiny hair spun like swirled satin. Her tan skin gleamed. Her brown eyes were penetrating and fierce.

  When the baby girl saw them, she smiled her baby smile. There was no one else around. There was no mother or father or sibling around. There was just the baby girl, the boy, his dog, and Pedro.

  Pedro bent down to touch the baby girl. She clutched his finger with one hand and giggled. Pedro laughed heartily then sat down beside the baby girl and tickled her.

  The boy was perplexed at this finding. He could not take his eyes off the baby girl. He thought maybe this was a joke or a figment of his imagination, like a mirage that only thirsty men could see.

  The baby girl turned to the boy and seemed to gesture to him to come closer. The boy did. The baby girl then opened her other small hand and lifted it towards the boy.

  The boy peered inside the small hand to see what was inside. It looked like a note, like a folded piece of paper. The boy took the note out of her hand. She cooed and giggled when he did this.

  When the boy opened the note, he read it. There were only two words on it. It was unusual and did not mean anything to the boy, at least at that time.

  The boy stared at the note for several minutes. Pedro asked him what he was reading. Pedro peppered the boy with questions about the note. The boy looked at Pedro and finally told him what the note read.

  “It says,” said the boy. “It says ‘bella sol.’”

 

  Papa love

  Papa’s funeral was wrapped in a rainbow of joy and sorrow. Locals from the neighboring farms came to give their condolences, leaving behind dishes of hot tamales, arroz con pollo [rice and chicken], and never ending bouquets of lilies. Someone came with a guitar and began strumming old Colombian tunes of happy grief and sweet pain.

  Mama tried to keep a placid expression, but she often crumbled into tears at the mere mention of Papa’s name. Mama seemed stunned and shocked at the sudden tragedy. Her dress was not zipped all the way. Her hair was flat and lifeless. Her makeup was rough and confusing.

  My brothers tried to comfort her. Chū-Cho immediately took control, organizing the funeral in some type of systematic fashion. He had ordered Luis to clean up the house and prepare it for guests. He had summoned the priest and chose the lot for Papa to be buried in.

  I remained in the shadows. Locked in my room. Nursing my wounds. Staring at the story I had begun to write. One of Papa’s fantastical stories he often told. A silly story he created to explain the origins of his nickname for me.

  When I thought of Papa, my heart skipped beats. I remembered his weathered smile. His pepper gray hair. His tired gait. The folds at the crease of his eyes when he looked at me. Papa’s face always brightened when he looked at me.

  “Marisol, come. Come and say hello to the guests.”

  I looked up to see Chū-Cho peering down. He was a taller, younger version of Papa. He was overly serious and frowned when he saw what I was doing.

  “Homework? Now? How can you do schoolwork at a time like this?” he asked me incredulously.

  “It’s not schoolwork,” I mumbled.

  “Well, whatever it is, stop. I need you to say hello to some of the family and Papa’s friends. They’re asking for you.”

  Chū-Cho waited expectantly as I closed my notebook and tucked it under my pillow, wincing at the pain in my tender shoulder. I then stood up slowly and smoothed my long dark blue skirt which was covering the deep scratches on my knees.

  “Vamos,” said Chū-Cho.

  We left my room and meandered through throngs of anonymous people in the kitchen. They were talking about mindless things in Spanish. The hot weather. Last year’s crops. The latest government scandal.

  Chū-Cho led me to the living room area where aunts and uncles and cousins and friends were standing and sitting and milling about. I saw Señora Rosano standing in the corner talking to someone. She immediately walked towards me when she saw me.

  “Oh, Marisol. I’m so sorry for your loss. Losing a father is very difficult. I lost my own father when I was around your age, too,” she said.

  She smiled warmly and leaned in to hug me. Her warm dry clothes were somewhat comforting. I hung in her embrace until she released me.

  “If you need anything, just tell me,” said Señora Rosano with a smile. “I’ve been there. I know what it’s like. You will get through this, I promise.”

  I smiled meekly in response. Señora Rosano patted my shoulder again before turning to talk to someone else. Then another person came up to hug me, offering soft words of encouragement. Then another. Then another. For several minutes, I did not move from my stance, frozen in an apparent pitiful state of sadness.

  “Mija,” whispered someone.

  It was Señor Pedro. He was wearing a mismatched black suit with worn dress shoes. Most of his hair was slicked back framing a kind, gentle face. His entire body wreaked of a cheap musk.

  “Mija,” said Señor Pedro again. He patted me on the back and looked at me kindly. I noticed his eyes were red and his cheeks were tear-stained.

  “How are you? How are you doing? Your Mama said you were not talking that much anymore. She said you stopped talking,” said Señor Pedro.

  My eyes welled with tears when he said this. I had words to say, but I could not say them. I had questions to ask but I knew no one could answer them, at least, I did not think anyone would have the answers I needed.

  “Mija, come. Let’s go outside and get some fresh air,” said Señor Pedro.

  He guided me back through the kitchen and out the back door. We walked through the open field towards a wooden bench that Papa had made years ago. It was nestled under a large avocado tree and faced the back of the farm, where the smoldering remnants of the old barn lay.

  “Tell me, tell me something, mija. Please. Your father was my best friend. I cried all night. I am angry, I am mad, I am heart broken. But I talk. I scream. I yell to God. Please, mija. Tell me something,” urged Señor Pedro.

  “Señor Pedro?” I said tepidly.

  “Yes? What is it?�
��

  “Who was after Papa? Why did Papa have enemies?”

  Señor Pedro looked left and right, checking to make sure that no one was in listening distance. Then he turned to me and looked at me intently.

  “What did you see, mija?” he asked me in a lowered serious tone.

  “Traitor. I heard some men call Papa a traitor. They called Papa that in Barranquilla, too.

  Señor Pedro drew in some breath. “Traitor? Traitor, eh? That is what they said? Did you tell the police that when they questioned you at the hospital?”

  “I tried to, but they told me that there was nothing they could do since I did not have any names and they were masked. I told them about Barranquilla, but they scratched their heads and laughed at me. I think the police thought I was lying. I really do. They looked at me like I was crazy. They probably thought I killed my own father! If it wasn’t for Mama driving them out of the hospital, I might have been arrested,” I said in a cracked sobbing voice.

  Señor Pedro shook his head in disbelief. “What is this world coming to, eh? This country! Aye yai-yai! Colombia! So you are telling me that the police did not investigate? They did nothing to find out why my best friend is gone?”

  I shook my head yes. Señor Pedro looked down on the ground for several minutes, wiping his cheeks periodically. Then he looked at me again.

  “Mija, when your father and I were just boys, your father’s father, your grandfather, got mixed up in a little war. It was not his fault, but it cost him his life,” said Señor Pedro.

  “I know. Chū-Cho told me.”

  “Yes, but Chū-Cho does not know the whole story. Your father swore that he would never tell the whole story to anyone, not even me. I know what happened because I witnessed something, not because your father told me.”

  “What was it? What did you witness?” I asked.

  Just then, a man appeared before us like a dark apparition. He was clad in dark clothes, long-sleeve and form fitting despite the hot afternoon weather. He sported an ugly black goatee that was sharply traced into a razor thin line around his mouth. His beady brown-black eyes burned through me as he opened his large mouth to speak.

  “Señorita Vega,” the man said to me, revealing gold-capped teeth. “I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man.”

  “A great man. Señor Vega was a great man,” corrected Señor Pedro.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. He was a great man. He worked very hard on this little farm to support his family,” said the man.

  “Are you a friend of his?” asked Señor Pedro.

  “Sort of. We were more like business associates. I used to meet with Señor Vega in Barranquilla every month,” replied the man.

  I shifted nervously.

  “Barranquilla? You have come a long way, eh?” asked Señor Pedro through a clenching jaw.

  The man nodded. “Yes, well, I wanted to make sure Señor Vega’s family was alright. I am sure they have a lot of work ahead of them with the head of the family gone.”

  Señor Pedro snorted. “Money. That is why you are really here, right? This is not the time to calculate your investments, okay? Come back another day, whoever you are.”

  “Ladrano. That is my family name,” said the man with a sly smile.

  “Ladrano? Did you say Ladrano?” asked Señor Pedro in an unusually low voice.

  “Yes. But everyone calls me Diablo,” replied the man.

  “Diablo, eh? What kind of nickname is that?” asked Señor Pedro, clasping his hands and wringing them nervously.

  “I was a little bit of trouble when I was young. I gave my mother many headaches so she started to call me Diablo ever since I was small,” the ugly man replied with a sinister chuckle.

  Diablo looked at me after he said that. I immediately looked away. Señor Pedro, sensing my uneasiness, shooed the uninvited guest away.

  “Well, Señor Diablo. As the best friend of Señor Vega who was like a brother to me, I ask you to leave. It is not right to handle business affairs at a funeral. Tell your, eh, family, that now is not the time,” said Señor Pedro as he stood up to face Diablo.

  The two men stared at each other for several awkward seconds. Diablo seemed unflinching in his demeanor, scowling at Señor Pedro as if he respected no one. He then smiled a wide inappropriate smile as he finally turned to leave.

  “Señorita Vega,” he said to me, tipping his hat.

  I watched Diablo walk away. He walked slowly, his steps measured, his feet striking the soft earth in thumps on account of his country-style black boots.

  My heart was racing now. I felt sweat trickling down my back underneath my linen blouse. My long skirt felt too heavy for me. The heat suddenly clenched my neck and squeezed, leaving me lightheaded and dizzy.

  “Come, mija. Come, let’s get inside,” said Señor Pedro.

  He helped me to stand up and walked me back into the house where I immediately returned to my bedroom. After locking the door behind me, I flopped on my small bed and pulled out my notebook from beneath my pillow. Without thinking, I wrote.

 

  One night, when the boy was sleeping, he awoke to a sound. He got out of his bed and tip-toed out of the room so as not to wake his family. The boy quickly walked outside of the house and then paused.

  When he heard the sound again, the boy rushed towards it. Near a small lake, behind a bush, he found the baby girl. It was the same brown-eyed tan baby girl dressed in a yellow dress.

  Yet this time the baby girl was crying. She softly cried as the boy crept towards her. The boy picked up the baby girl and rocked her. As the baby girl calmed down, she gently smiled at the boy.

  The boy then decided to bring the baby girl inside. He figured his mother would be able to care for her. The boy began to walk back towards his house.

  But he did not make it very far. An ugly man suddenly jumped out of a bush and threatened the boy. He told the boy to hand him all the money he had.

  The boy replied honestly that he did not have any money because he was just a boy. The ugly man did not like the boy’s answer. The man pulled out a knife from his pocket and lunged it at the boy.

  The boy, still carrying the baby girl, tried to fight the ugly man. He kicked at him with his strong legs and dodged the ugly man who repeatedly lunged at him with the knife.

  The ugly man grew tired. He told the boy to give him the baby girl as payment. The boy said he would not. The boy asked the ugly man what the payment was for.

  The ugly man had green eyes. The color of a green forest. Dark green eyes that no one in Colombia had. The man stared at the boy with his dark green eyes. He stared at the boy for a long time, instilling deep fear into the boy’s heart.

  The boy was afraid to say anything again. He tried to move past the man, but he was too fast for the boy. He grabbed the boy’s arm and tried to take the baby girl. The boy, not knowing what to do, screamed. He screamed and screamed at the top of his lungs. He screamed until the roosters crowed and the crickets raised their voices to join him.

  Eventually, the ugly man dropped his knife and put his hands to his ears. He cursed the boy then turned and ran away. The man mysteriously disappeared into the night.

  Satisfied, the boy took the baby girl home. Before summoning his mother, the boy laid the baby girl on his bed. He tickled her and watched her giggle in response. The boy then vowed to himself that he would love and protect the baby girl for the rest of his life.

 

  Fire

  It had been four weeks since Papa died. The rhythm of our house slowly returned back to normal save for the palpable void that still hung in the air. Mama found it easier to no longer talk about Papa and bury herself in farm work instead. She kept me home from school a couple days out of the week, citing that I had to help her with the tomato harvest.

  Even Luis and Chū-Cho became busier. Luis took over the job of handling all of
the farm’s accounting. He paid the bills, estimated revenue, managed all the supplies, and accounted for all our expenses.

  Chū-Cho took over as the head of the family. Papa had long been grooming Chū-Cho to lead, which my brother took to like a fish to water.

  Chū-Cho kept the farm running so smoothly, he found additional markets to sell to. His tactics surprisingly brought us extra money which we used to buy several more generators, allowing us to keep our electricity flowing all day and night.

  Often, we worked like auto-bots, picking and counting and hauling like mindless day laborers. Only at soft moments, like early evening, did we behave like an affectionate family.

  At those times, Luis would unleash a few of his slap-knee jokes while the rest of us laughed. Then Mama would tell us how proud she was of our hard work and our ability to stay together. And Chū-Cho, smiling confidently, would plan out loud what the next day’s goals should be.

  Tonight was one of those nights. We were all gathered in the living room. I was half-heartedly watching a program on the small black and white television while simultaneously chuckling at Luis’ jokes. Mama elaborated with some comedy of her own which triggered happy laughter from all of us.

  Apparently, we were too loud for our own good. We did not hear the knocks on the back door, which eventually transformed into angry banging. Chū-Cho was the first to finally hear it. He raised his hand, ordering us to remain quiet.

  Chū-Cho quickly walked through the kitchen to the backdoor. On the way, he grabbed Papa’s rifle and hid it behind his back as he continued to the door. Once there, he hollered out a “who’s there?” to the anonymous angry visitor.

  A deep male voice responded, “Diablo.”

  The voice instantly sent chills down my spine. With all the extra work I had been doing, I had practically forgotten about that horrid man. I had tried to tell Mamma and Chū-Cho about him, but they had summarily dismissed my warnings as a fantastical symptom of my grief.

  “What do you want? It’s late. Come back tomorrow,” called Chū-Cho from inside the kitchen.

  Of course Diablo was not happy with this response. A sudden loud bang rang through our house as Diablo shot the lock off the back door. He pushed the door open with his foot and walked unashamedly into our house, smiling his goofy smile.

  “Don’t do anything stupid. I am not here to hurt anybody, okay? I am here to collect money. You have not paid me,” said Diablo to Chū-Cho.

  Chū-Cho, clearly confused, clutched the rifle and brought it to his side in clear view. Diablo laughed out loud when he saw it.

  “Young man, in seconds I can send you to join your father. Drop the gun,” said Diablo.

  Chū-Cho obeyed and immediately dropped Papa’s rifle.

  “What do you want from us? We don’t owe you anything,” said Chū-Cho in a voice that was desperately searching for power.

  “On the contrary, you owe me much. You must pay your father’s debt. That is the way it works. Your father came to Barranquilla every month to pay. You must continue. Didn’t his princess tell you? It is a shame that I had to come here to collect,” explained Diablo.

  “The taxes?” said Chū-Cho.

  “Is that what he called them? Taxes? Yes, yes. Well, they are taxes in a way. It is the cost of doing business,” said Diablo.

  Chū-Cho looked to Mama then to me. Mama was frozen in fear while I silently prayed that Diablo will leave, that nothing bad will happen.

  “Who are you?” asked Chū-Cho.

  “Diablo. That is all you need to know. My family has had business with your family for many years. This farm is here because of my family. Those tomatoes are mine. Those black bananas are mine. This farm is mine,” he said.

  “This farm is Vega. It is not yours,” said Chū-Cho defiantly.

  “Is that so? I see your father did not pass down some information to you. I’d be more than happy to tell you, but it will hurt,” said Diablo, smiling.

  “Just give it to him Chū-Cho,” yelled Mama. “Give him whatever he wants. Please!”

  “Ah, Señora Vega. You are a smart woman. You should listen to your mother, young man,” said Diablo.

  “I do not know anything about you and I will not give you one peso from our farm,” said Chū-Cho.

  “Oh, no? You do not know anything about me? Well, what about now?” said Diablo.

  At that, he slapped Chū-Cho so hard that he spun around and hit his head against the wall, then slumped to the floor in an unconscious stupor.

  “Chū-Cho!” called Mama as she rushed to his side.

  “Now, who else wants to know what I am about?” said Diablo.

  “Please, please. How much? We will give you whatever you want!” Mama said through sobs.

  “Your father knew the amount. It was two million pesos. But because I had to come here, the amount has now doubled. Four million pesos. That is what I want now. And I want it every month. And you must come to me, where I am, to pay it,” instructed Diablo to Mama.

  “Okay, okay. Luis, go. Go get the money for him,” ordered Mama.

  Luis scrambled away from the living room and disappeared down the hallway. I knew we did not have that money. Papa had always refused to keep that much cash in the house, choosing instead to store it in banks or invest it in farm equipment.

  As Chū-Cho slowly came to, he managed to stand up and face Diablo. He shrugged off Mama who was trying to keep Chū-Cho from getting hurt again.

  “I want you to leave. I want you to leave right now! I owe you nothing. Whatever my father was paying you died with him. It is over,” said Chū-Cho with renewed vigor.

  Before Diablo could respond, Luis returned with a shoe box. He handed it to Diablo who grabbed it and opened the box. Diablo quickly counted the pesos, then angrily threw the box of money on the floor.

  “What is this? I said four million pesos. Four million!” exclaimed Diablo.

  Frustrated, he snapped his fingers and two men suddenly entered in through the back door. They were tall and dressed similarly to Diablo in black clothes.

  “Is it done?” he asked them.

  “Si,” they responded in sloppy unison.

  Diablo turned to address us, smiling wryly.

  “Well, Vega family. I can no longer continue to let this outstanding debt of yours pile up. I can no longer allow this!” he said.

  “Please!” said Mama. “We will pay. We will pay you.”

  Diablo snorted. “With your pitiful box of pesos? Hah! Yes, you will pay. Good night, Vega.”

  He abruptly turned and left our house, in a somewhat strange haste.

  Chū-Cho sighed after they left. “What is he talking about? Papa never told me about any debt. We’re not paying anybody anything!” he said.

  “I-I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen,” I said.

  “Please, Marisol. You are always in your room scribbling on your notebook. Everything you say never makes any sense, anyway,” he said.

  “That’s not true! I told you about the man that came to Papa’s funeral. I told you! But you didn’t listen!” I said.

  “Listen to what? To your babbling? To your crazy imagination about Papa having enemies? Papa never had any enemies, okay? This is just some local criminal trying to take advantage and steal from us, that’s all!” roared Chū-Cho.

  “That’s not true! He killed Papa. I saw him,” I pled.

  “You said they were masked, Marisol! You said you didn’t know who they were. That’s what you told the police, right?” yelled Chū-Cho.

  “I tried to tell them. But they wouldn’t believe me! It’s true! It was him. That man killed Papa!” I screamed.

  “Enough!” said Mama, her face awash with tears. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we stay together. Tomorrow, I will ask some friends and family for loans. Then we will pay this man and he will leave us alone,” she said in between
sobs.

  Chū-Cho chuckled sarcastically. “Mama, I don’t think that criminal is going to leave us alone, especially if we pay him,” he said.

  Mama did not respond to him. Instead, she slowly walked to a nearby window and looked out as if something marvelous just caught her attention.

  “What is that?” she asked no one in particular.

  Following her gaze, I stood momentarily frozen at the realization of what was happening. Flames licked our fields ferociously. They traveled from bush to bush, from tree to tree, from fruit to fruit, engulfing the land in a wild orange blaze. Our farm was on fire.

  “Vamos!” was the next thing I heard.

  I rushed outside, covering my mouth and nose. I heard neighbors calling out to us, braving through the blaze to grab us and save us. I heard the men from neighboring farms, young and old, yell to each other for hoses and buckets and troughs and anything that could haul water. I saw their frantic movements as they tried to create order in this chaos.

  I saw my brothers join them, their faces trickling with sweat, their shirts drenched from the labor of this hopeless endeavor. They threw buckets of dirty water onto the fire. But the fire laughed at that them. Instead of abating, it grew higher and higher.

  Someone called the authorities. Others wondered out loud if our poor city of Santa Elena had a fire truck. Some women cried, praying that the blaze would not spread to their poor estates.

  It did not. Although the authorities did come, they did not come with a fire truck. Only several men from the National Colombian Police appeared. They came in pick-up trucks with guns at their belts, completely ill-equipped to manage this scene of destruction.

  But one of them, a deputy, ordered his men to organize the water by drenching the fire at different points on our farm. In obedience, his men carried out his orders by enlisting the locals, including my brothers, to help.

  For hours we watched. We watched them fight the fire like Roman soldiers fighting a mystical dragon. At times, the men were able to push back the blaze, only for it to lash its deadly tail and spread its terror someplace else.

  The fire roared as it moved, brandishing its orange and red fangs menacingly. It bellowed while it munched on our tomatoes, savoring the sweetness of the fruits’ delicate flesh. It shrieked as it popped the windows of our house and melted all of our memories.

  Through several exhausting hours, the fire finally grew tired, apparently full and no longer hungering for land to eat. I could see the majority of our farm smoking with only one patch alit. It seemed as if the fire was yielding its hind legs and lowering its head in surrender to the men.

  Like a collective muscle, the men mounted the largest container of water they could find onto a pick-up truck. Then they positioned the container close to the core of the remaining fire patch and tilted it. And as the water poured out, the defeated blaze released its last smoky sigh and died.

  General Moreno

  “Can you repeat again what you saw, Señorita Vega?”

  General Marcurio Moreno scowled as he spoke. Leaning back into his worn leather chair, he glared at me with mean eyes. He was a fair Columbian with light brown hair and light brown eyes. His heavy-set build proved to be too wide for his own chair, prompting him to constantly shift around like a fidgety child.

  Señor Pedro did not like him. He sat next to me and often interjected before I answered as if he were my lawyer.

  “General, she already told you what she saw. She told you everything,” said Señor Pedro.

  “Señor, I know. But I need to hear it again – for the records,” replied General Moreno.

  “Why? We have been sitting here for two hours and you have not picked up your pen once! You are wasting our time. If you are not going to investigate, then just say so!” roared Señor Pedro.

  General Moreno sighed deeply, then stood up. He shoved his puffy hands into his pockets and strolled around the small office, striking the creaky wooden floor with his heavy cowboy boots.

  “Señor, this is a very serious allegation. Very serious. You are alleging that someone by the name of Diablo committed murder and arson. This is very serious,” he said.

  “Then why haven’t you done anything? Marisol has lost her father. I lost my best friend. And now they lost their farm!” said Señor Pedro.

  “Yes, and we still do not know who did it, do we?” replied General Moreno.

  “Ladrano,” I said. “I told you that his last name is Ladrano.”

  “That is a very common name, Señorita,” said General Moreno, tilting his head sarcastically.

  “Is this a joke to you?” said Señor Pedro, abruptly standing up.

  “Old man, you do not want to pick a fight with me, okay?” warned General Moreno in a louder voice.

  “What do you want us to do, eh? These people have lost their entire home, their land, their livelihood. They are living with me in my small cramped house. Of course, they can stay there for as long as they want to, but they do not want to. They want to rebuild. But they need you to open an investigation in the name of dignity and respect. It is the right thing to do!” said Señor Pedro.

  General Moreno leaned on the edge of his desk, causing it to slightly tilt.

  “Okay. One more time. Señorita Vega, tell me what you saw on the night your father died,” said General Moreno.

  “Okay,” I said. “I heard a sound from my bedroom and I went outside to see what it was.”

  “Go on,” said General Moreno.

  “Then, I heard a man calling my father a traitor.”

  “Keep going.”

  “I ran to where the sound was coming from and it was from the barn in the far corner of our farm. When I got there, I saw a man wearing all black and he had a black mask on. He was beating Papa who was tied to a post. He kept calling Papa a traitor and ordered him to pay money. Papa offered him the farm, but the man laughed.”

  “And where were you in all this?”

  “Some man pinned me down by my hair. He tied a cloth around my mouth so I couldn’t speak. I tried to get away, but it didn’t work.”

  “And of course, this man was masked, too, eh?”

  “Yes, they all were,” I replied.

  “You see,” said General Moreno, turning to Señor Pedro. “How can we find out who these people are if the eyewitness cannot identify them?”

  “But I did see them!” I said.

  “When?”

  “When they came back to burn down our farm. They were the same men. I know it!”

  “How do you know this, Señorita Vega? My men told me it was very dark.”

  “Because during Papa’s funeral, Diablo came. He was wearing the same black cowboy boots that I saw when Papa died. And when he came back to burn down our farm, he was wearing the same boots. It was him all the time,” I replied.

  General Moreno snorted. “So now you say he came to Señor Vega’s funeral. You did not say that before,” he said.

  “I guess it slipped my mind,” I said.

  “I see,” said General Moreno.

  “Please, General,” I said. “Whoever was after Papa took our farm. What else will they take? What more damage will they do to us? We are like sitting prey and you won’t even help us!”

  “Okay, okay,” said General Moreno. “This is what I will do. I will open an investigation based on the new information regarding your father’s funeral. If this Diablo man is the same man, then, of course, he will be found and brought to face his crimes.”

  “That is not enough,” said Señor Pedro.

  “What? I said I will do what you want me to do. What more do you want?” growled General Moreno.

  “We will not leave without a formal police report showing that you are investigating the fire as an arson and my friend’s death as a murder,” replied Señor Pedro.

  “I cannot do that, old man”

  “Yes, you can, General.”


  “Why do you need a police report? Santa Elena is a very small town. My word is more powerful than some piece of paper.”

  “Vega needs a report to give to the insurance company.”

  “Insurance?” said General Moreno with renewed interest. “Vega had insurance?”

  “Si. And they need your police report so they can get the money they need to rebuild,” said Señor Pedro.

  “Well,” replied General Moreno. “That certainly changes things.”

  “Why?’ said Señor Pedro, angrily. “Why does it change things, eh?”

  “Well, it just does. Fine. I cannot give you a police report right now because it comes from the central office. But I will have it ready in two days. You can come back to get it,” said General Moreno.

  Señor Pedro stared at General Moreno, perhaps searching for some signs of honesty which were wholly lacking from General Moreno’s countenance.

  “Old man, you can trust me,” said General Moreno, his light brown eyes twinkling, winking with deceit.

  “Everybody knows you are a crook, General,” said Señor Pedro.

  General Moreno laughed. “Hah! Santa Elena is a town of opinions. Everyone is entitled to an opinion,” he said.

  “It is not an opinion. It is fact,” said Señor Pedro.

  General Moreno walked closer to Señor Pedro until they were almost nose to nose.

  “Fact according to whom, old man?” taunted General Moreno.

  “According to me,” replied Señor Pedro.

  “You seem to know much, old man.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Yet, you do not know the truth behind your friend’s demise.”

  “I know that somehow you were involved, General. You are always involved in taking things that do not belong to you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  “Well, old man. If I am a thief, then at least I am an obedient thief. I cannot say the same for your friend.”

  “Vega was not a thief. Never!”

  “He owed a debt that he could not pay. Yet he still expected the terms to be honored. Who was the real thief, eh?”

  “General, it is interesting that you know about those terms even though Marisol did not disclose that to you. Those terms you speak of were drawn in stupidity. You cannot put a price on human life. Even a stupido like you should know that!”

  General Moreno huffed. “Old man,” he spat. “You are coming close to crossing the line.”

  “It is you that must be careful. One day, the truth will come out.”

  “I control Santa Elena. I control the truth in Santa Elena, not you and not that spoiled little princess,” said General Moreno in a husky whisper.

  Señor Pedro stepped back. He grabbed his hat and gestured for me to follow him out of the police station. Once outside, I peppered him with questions about General Moreno. About the terms. About what he knew. About Papa.

  But Señor Pedro walked rapidly toward the make-shift bus stop in the Santa Elena town center. He was visibly upset. His left arm slightly trembled as he stood wordlessly, waiting for the bus to arrive.

  “Señor Pedro, please. What happened in there? Tell me,” I pleaded.

  Señor Pedro kept his focus forward and did not turn towards me until the bus pulled up.

  “Vamos,” was all he said as we boarded.

  Caramelo

  I visited Papa. Early one morning, I sat on the broken concrete bench behind the old Catholic Church and talked to him as he laid beneath the earth. A large wooden crucifix marked his humble tomb.

  I told Papa what happened. How Vega farm was no more. How the tomato vines were scorched down to their roots. How we escaped with nothing but the clothes on our backs. How his mysterious tormentors got away with yet another crime. How no one believed me. How no one cared to listen to me or tried to answer my questions. How we were now living in Señor Pedro’s small house. How….

  I sat for hours talking to Papa. I imagined him responding to me. I heard him calling me ‘bella sol,’ then weaving his response into a sappy tale of his childhood. I imagined feeling his hand squeeze my shoulder, reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. ‘Bella sol, I love you,’ he would say in my mind’s eye.

  Papa was my best friend and my protector. He took me everywhere with him. He gave me special privileges over my brothers. And although I loved Mama dearly, I shared with Papa a wonderful father-daughter bond.

  That is why I could not understand why Papa kept such secrets from me. Why he refused to give me straight answers. Why he didn’t even tell Mama or his sons or Señor Pedro about his mysterious villains.

  ‘Traitor.’ ‘Terms.’ ‘Price of human life.’ ‘Debts.’ These words swam in my head as I thought of Papa. His secrets cost him his life and the destruction of our entire livelihood. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

  As I contemplated these things, I stared at the crucifix standing crookedly in the earth. The expression of the suffering Christ mirrored my own. Saddened. Sorrowful. Helpless.

  Papa was always religious. Always obedient. He taught me many prayers and the ways of God and the love of God and the mysteriousness of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Papa had said God was our father, the father of all people who look to him.

  As I looked at the crucifix, I wondered if Papa’s words would ring true now. If God, the Father, who took my Papa away would become my father now. If He would protect me like Papa did and provide for me like Papa did and love me like Papa did.

  A single tear escaped from my eye and glided down my cheeks. “Please, God,” I whispered.

  “Marisol!”

  Mama called out to me, shaking me from my prayer. She was waving at me as she stood on the edge of the road. After the funeral, Mama had sworn she would never return to Papa’s grave out of fear of triggering her fragile emotions.

  “Marisol!” Mama yelled again.

  I sighed and stood up. After wiping my cheeks and quickly making the sign of the cross, I trotted out towards Mama.

  “Come on, Marisol. We are going to be late! I have been waiting for you,” cried Mama.

  She spoke to me sternly, chastising me in Spanish. Hastily, we walked down the dusty road towards our ride that would take us to work at the caramelo [candy] factory.

  Señora Rosano had protested this decision. Weeks before, she came to Señor Pedro’s house and had pled with Mama to keep me in school. But Mama had thrown up her hands, claiming she had no choice. That we needed the money. That her sons had already traveled to Chile to find work. That our family had to start over. That there was nothing else she could do. That her friends had suggested we work in the candy factory. That we could not live in Señor Pedro’s small house forever.

  So I worked. Once Mama and I clocked in at the factory, I donned a plastic cap over my head and stood stationed near a boiling cauldron so large that I could easily fall into it. I stood there and stirred. I stirred hot thickening liquids that varied in colors. Hot pink. Red. Green. Electric Blue. Brown.

  A bell rang at some half-way point in the day and Mama gestured for me to follow her for the thirty-minute break. And there I sat between middle-aged women lamenting their miserable lives and complaining about the obscenely low hourly wage which seemed never enough to buy a bag of rice or two plantains from the market.

  The factory was supposed to be the largest employer in Santa Elena. The shining star of the city’s economic achievements. The supposed answer to Santa Elena’s stubborn rural poverty.

  The sprawling factory plant was relatively clean and manned by Colombian supervisors who spoke Spanish with American accents. They made us wear green smocks etched with a brightly colored caramelo emblem at the breast. They boasted that this was the best factory to work in. That it was an international operation. That their candies were delightfully consumed around the world in large q
uantities.

  On the first day, Mama and I were given samples to taste. Mama had tried her best to be respectful. She had swallowed the treat quickly and smiled uneasily, lying that it was the best thing she had ever tasted.

  I had tried to follow her example but involuntarily cringed as the overly sweet mixture melted on my tongue. Disgusted and dissatisfied, I had stood quietly before my new supervisors, hoping they had not noticed.

  They seemed to not care at my negative reviews of their sweet products. In fact, they did not care at all that I was even there. Or that I was underage and technically too young to be employed in the factory. They did not care that I was not wearing gloves or protective sleeves to cool my arms as I stirred the large metal ladle over hot bubbling liquids all day.

  I hated the work but we needed the money. With Chū-Cho and Luis looking for work in Chile, Mama and I were on our own.

  She had ordered me to say little. She had told me to just continue working until we saved enough money to go to Chile. She adjured me to just be quiet, obey the rules, and work. And so I did.

 

  Diablo

  After working for several hours at the candy factory, I suddenly missed school. I missed Señora Rosano and her crisp dry appearance. I missed my friends and my books and even the stifling hot classroom.

  I felt anger simmering in my spirit. My restlessness seemed to intensify day after day. I found it hard to concentrate or focus on one task. Disillusioned, I dropped the large ladle I was using to stir the hot candy and leaned against the factory wall for a break.

  “Marisol!” whispered Mama angrily.

  She was walking towards me with the most disapproving look on her face. I did not care. I did not want to work at this factory anymore.

  “Marisol, what are you doing?” Mama asked me.

  Mama was short and in her oversized uniform topped with a large plastic cap over her head, she looked more like a cartoon character, than Mama. But her face was all serious.

  “Marisol!” she repeated, snapping her fingers in front of me.

  “Sorry, Mama,” I mumbled. “I’m just tired.”

  “Well, we still have five more hours to go. You’re young. How can you be tired?” she said.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I mumbled again.

  “Well, the supervisor needs you to go pick up some more wrappers. There are two boxes waiting at Building B. You can carry them. Go get them. Go!” she ordered.

  I slowly shuffled out of the boiling room and made my way out of the building. The noon day sun struck me with its powerful rays. Squinting, I traveled on the narrow outdoor hallway towards Building B.

  It was the storeroom that housed rows and rows of supplies. Throughout the day, new boxes and new cans and new bottles were constantly being brought in, while empty containers immediately thrown out.

  As I neared the entrance, the guard nodded as he eyed my work badge that was sloppily pinned to my breast. I had been here only once before to get a box of hair caps. I did not know where the boxes of candy wrappers were. Or what type of candy wrappers I needed. Or even how much. I had not bothered to ask Mama such details.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a worker who appeared to be older and wiser. “Do you know where the candy wrappers are?”

  The man peered at my badge then glanced down at a clip board in his hand. “I see you’re from Building A. You need box forty-one sixty-three. They’re over there,” he responded, pointing to a row of medium size boxes in the far corner.

  Thanking him, I walked over and began searching for Box 4163. As I scanned the shelf labels, I found two boxes that were small enough for me to carry. They were nestled in the back of a bottom shelf, forcing me to kneel down and push other boxes out of the way to retrieve them.

  As I worked, I could not help but to overhear a sordid conversation taking place two rows from me. The men were trying to talk softly. They exchanged heated words sharply and forcibly, as if their words were weapons.

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it ready?”

  “Almost. The old man was there a few days ago poking around, so we had to pull back. But nothing has happened since then.”

  “And the sons?”

  “Gone.”

  “The princess?”

  A man sucked his teeth. “Aw, who cares about the princess. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It matters, stupido! It matters. You always mess things up.”

  “Don’t call me stupid.”

  “What should I call you, eh? A donkey? You are the fat general’s donkey.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I want the money tomorrow, okay?”

  “I’ll have your greedy money.”

  “You better or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else you dishonor your father and you dishonor me.”

  “Don’t talk about my father, okay? You know nothing about my father.”

  “Everybody knows that green-eyed bandit was nothing but trouble. That’s why he was kicked out of Barranquilla. Don’t follow in his footsteps, okay?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Get me my money, then I will shut up.”

  Then the men stopped talking and walked away, their footsteps echoing against the pristine tile floor.

  I shuddered as I realized they were talking about my family. I backed away from the shelf in fear and lost my balance, dropping the box of wrappers. As I bent down to pick it up, someone came to help me. But at the sight of his black cowboy boots, I froze.

  “Here, let me help you,” he said before realizing who I was.

  Once Diablo looked at my face, he smiled his wide mocking smile. Cocking his head to one side, he said “Well, if it isn’t Señorita Vega, the princess.”

  My tongue was suddenly dry and stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  “It must be very difficult to live without the farm, eh?” he said, his gold-capped teeth glaring at me.

  I stood up slowly and faced him. With all the boldness I possessed, I opened my mouth to speak.

  “Diablo, wh-why did you kill my father?” I said, my voice quivering.

  “Your father killed himself.”

  “Th-that is not true.”

  “Princess, do not meddle in things that are too complex for you.”

  “Wh-what do you want? Why did you burn our farm?”

  “Because a debt is a debt, princess.”

  “A debt for what?”

  “You already forgot Barranquilla?”

  “Papa never told me why he had to go to Barranquilla.”

  “Good. Because it is none of your business.”

  “Y-yes, it is…my business.”

  “You have been paid for, so leave it alone. Go back to your mother.”

  “No.”

  Diablo looked at me. His dark brown eyes shot rays of hate into me.

  “What did you say?”

  “I-I said no.”

  “Look, business is business. Walk away.”

  “Why did you kill Papa? And why did you say I was paid for?”

  Diablo smiled. “Your father made a promise to uphold a bargain and he broke it.”

  “What bargain? With who?”

  “With Ladrano family.”

  “Does it include Grandpa Vega?”

  Diablo looked at me in slight surprise.

  “What do you know about Grandpa Vega?”

  “I know what my brother told me. And I know that Señor Pedro saw something. And I know that there were ‘terms.’ And I-“

  “Look, princess. Keep out of this, okay? Go back to your mother and leave Santa Elena for good. Vega farm is mine now.”

  “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  Just then, a factory employee appeared in the aisle, app
arently looking for something. Diablo snorted angrily and abruptly walked away. He disappeared like the mysterious apparition that he was.

  “You okay?” the factory employee asked me.

  I mumbled something in reply and hurriedly scurried out of the building, leaving the supply boxes on the floor. I had to get home. I had to talk to Señor Pedro and finally force him to tell me the truth. To tell me everything that my father could not.

 

  Señor Pedro Gutierrez

  “What is it, mija? Why are you not at work? Where is your mother?” asked Señor Pedro.

  He spoke to me as he busily closed his store, closing cabinets and locking doors.

  “Señor Pedro, I need to talk to you. I need to talk to you right now,” I said.

  He stopped what he was doing and turned to me.

  “What is it, mija?” he asked.

  “Diablo. I saw Diablo at the candy factory. He saw me. He spoke to me. He said that I was paid for. He said that Papa owed the Ladrano family a debt that he did not pay. He even knew that my brothers were in Chile and that Mama and I were planning to move to Chile to join them,” I said breathlessly.

  Señor Pedro took a deep breath. He took out some keys in his pocket and locked the door to his store. Then he motioned for me to walk with him.

  “Mija,” he said. “Come. I will tell you everything.”

  We strolled slowly on the worn path leading to his small farm house. It was late afternoon; the big Colombian sun was slowly descending beyond the hills.

  Señor Pedro cleared his throat before he began. “Mija,” he said. “Long ago, right after your Papa married your mother, he ran into a man named Señor Ladrano.”

  “Ladrano? Was he Diablo’s father?” I asked.

  “Yes. Señor Ladrano was the head of the Ladrano family in Barranquilla. He was a strange man. He did not look like a Colombian at all. He had striking black hair and deep green eyes. Very strange,” said Señor Pedro.

  “Did you say green eyes?” I asked.

  “Si. He could not be missed. Everybody knew about Señor Ladrano because the Ladrano family, at least the ones that lived in Barranquilla, were very bad. They were wrapped up in crime, in stealing, in paying bribes, in….in very bad things,” said Señor Pedro.

  “Señor Pedro, how come you didn’t tell me this? How come you didn’t tell me this when I told you about Papa’s monthly trips to Barranquilla?” I asked.

  “Mija, I-I didn’t know for sure. I did not know if the Ladrano family was involved in this. But now I do. I’m sorry, mija,” he said.

  “Why were they after Papa?” I asked him.

  “Well, your father did not tell me, but I knew because I saw something. I heard something. It was right after your father married your mother. They went on a brief honeymoon to the shores of Caracas in Venezuela. I was watching the Vega farm for them. When they came back - that very night they came back - I witnessed something,” said Señor Pedro.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well,” began Señor Pedro. “I saw your father talking to Señor Ladrano who had come to visit the Vega farm. They were arguing loudly. Your father did not know I was there, but I was hiding behind the bushes. You see, I was on my way to the Vega farm to greet the new couple, to wish them well on their new marriage.”

  “What happened?” I asked impatiently.

  “I heard them talking, then arguing about some contract, about terms,” replied Señor Pedro.

  “Terms?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Señor Pedro. “And-“

  Just then, a white pick-up truck pulled up and abruptly parked in front us, blocking our path. I saw Diablo in the passenger seat and General Moreno in the driver’s side. The General tumbled out of the truck and waddled toward us.

  “Old man,” he said condescendingly to Señor Pedro.

  “General, what do you want now, eh?” said Señor Pedro.

  The General smiled. “Señor Ladrano tells me that he had a nice conversation with the princess today,” he said with smirk.

  Señor Pedro threw up his hands. “Look, you thief! I am tired of your games, okay? You have done nothing for my friend. Instead, you have stolen from them! You did not help us with the insurance. You did not help us to investigate the murder of my friend. And now you want to threaten his daughter! No more!” he yelled.

  “Old man, calm down. You could have a heart attack, you know,” said General Moreno.

  “Get out of our way,” said Señor Pedro. He grabbed my arm and gestured for me to walk around the truck. But Diablo got out of the truck and stood in front me, blocking me.

  “Get out of our way!” repeated Señor Pedro, louder.

  “Old man, calm down. I just want to talk,” said General Moreno.

  “About what?” asked Señor Pedro.

  “About the Vega farm. Now, I have been made aware of the debt that Vega owed Ladrano. Señor Ladrano provided proof that it is a valid debt,” said General Moreno.

  “What debt? There is no debt! There is just jealousy and old grudges. There is no contract and no debt!” said Señor Pedro.

  General Moreno snickered. “Well, whatever it is, I have proof of it. And since Señor Vega did not pay it, well, the Vega farm will have to be sold,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “We will never sell the farm!”

  Diablo flashed his gold teeth. “Princess,” he said. “Shut up.”

  “No!” I repeated. “We will never sell. Mama will never sell!

  Señor Pedro put his hand out to silence me. “Mija, let me handle this,” he said.

  “General,” said Señor Pedro, turning to the rotund law enforcer. “What is your take, eh? What deal did you strike with the devil?”

  General Moreno smiled. “Old man, you insult me. I have come to you to request something and you insult me in return?” he said.

  “Request what, eh? What do you want?” spat Señor Pedro.

  “I need that little princess to tell her Mama to sell the farm to me, I mean, to Señor Ladrano. We know they will be leaving for Chile, so they do not need it,” said the General.

  “No,” replied Señor Pedro. “Señora Vega will not sell. I know this. And besides, how did you know about Chile?”

  “I have my sources, old man. I am the General of Santa Elena, no?” said General Moreno.

  “You are the thief of Santa Elena,” said Señor Pedro.

  “Old man, I warned you. I will not warn you again. Do not insult me,” said General Moreno in a low tone.

  “You do not scare me, General,” said Señor Pedro. “You are corrupt and everybody in Santa Elena knows it. You are corrupt from your head to your toes! You have worked with all the filth in Columbia. From the common criminals to the gangs to the F.A.R.C.! You are a thief!”

  General Moreno walked closer to Señor Pedro, glowering at him. His light eyes turned dark and menacing. I tried to run towards Señor Pedro, but Diablo grabbed me.

  “Old man,” said General Moreno. “If you say that I am corrupt, then why do you insult me, eh?”

  At that, General Moreno jabbed Señor Pedro in the stomach, causing him to fall to the ground. I wriggled out of Diablo’s grip and ran to him.

  “Princess,” said General Moreno as he walked back to the truck. “Tell your mama to sell your farm, okay? Tell her that I will be coming by in one week to have her sign the papers. Tell her…or else.”

  He tipped his hat sarcastically and climbed into the driver’s seat. Diablo got back into the passenger side and flashed a smile at me as he slammed the door shut. They sped away, kicking up dust behind them.

  “Señor Pedro,” I whispered.

  He was lying on the ground, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath. I consoled him for a few minutes then stood up, searching for someone to help. Upon seeing some locals in the distance, I called out to them.

  “Help!” I said. “Help! M
y friend is hurt!”