My Name is Marisol

by Michelle St. Claire

  ***************************

  The day unfolded slowly like a lazy summer flower. Although Mama tried to keep herself busy, she constantly asked me for the time.

  “What time is it Marisol? What time is it?” she repeated at twenty or thirty minute intervals.

  I responded to her patiently as I obeyed her mindless commands: “Marisol, wash that cup.” “Straighten that picture frame.” “Sweep the mats again.”

  Like in the candy factory, I heeded Mama readily for I understood her anxiety. She moved around Señor Pedro’s small house nervously, re-fluffing fluffed pillows and re-ironing clothes she just ironed. Chū-Cho and Luis had long ago disappeared from the house, having escaped quietly out of the back door sometime in the early afternoon.

  And as the afternoon crawled to a close, I wondered if Diablo’s threats were just empty threats intended to instill fear in us. Mama and I had planned to journey to the local hospital to visit Señor Pedro in just a few hours with the growing hope that we would have good news to share with him.

  But such hopes were soon dashed when someone banged on the front door at the stroke of five o’clock. Mama slowly set down a pot she was holding and looked at me. I held out my hand to Mama, gesturing for her to stay back as I moved closer to the front door.

  “Who is it?” I called out in the most fearless voice I could muster.

  “Ladrano. Open up,” said Diablo.

  I opened the front door slowly until Diablo shoved himself in. He was dressed in his usual all black attire. Diablo’s shiny black hair was slicked back with too much gel. His brown eyes twinkled with the excitement of mischief. He appeared to be alone.

  “Princess, nice to meet you again,” he said as he stood in the middle of Señor Pedro’s small house.

  I did not respond but awkwardly gestured for him to sit down at the kitchen table. Mama stood behind the kitchen counter frozen in fear. She could not take her eyes off Diablo.

  “Princess,” he began, leaning back in the old wooden chair as if he was comfortable. “I assume you told your mother why I am here, no?”

  I sat down at the far corner of the table, trying desperately to avoid his glare. “Y-yes, I did,” I said.

  “Well, good. Then tell your Mama to come here and sign these papers,” said Diablo as he pulled out some folded papers from his jacket pocket.

  “Um,” I said. “Mama is not going to sell to you.”

  Diablo looked at me intently, trying to burn his eyes into me.

  “What?” he said.

  “She’s not going to sell the Vega farm to you or to General Moreno,” I said.

  Diablo sighed. “Look, princess, you do not have to be brave. You have always been protected. But your father’s debt must be paid and it must be paid now,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why? Because I said so,” said Diablo.

  “Is it? Or is it because of your mother? Or maybe your sister?” I said.

  Diablo’s eyes widened.

  “What did you say?” he said.

  “You heard me,” I said, surprised by my own boldness.

  “Do not talk about my family, okay?” warned Diablo, his eyes obviously watering.

  Just before I could respond, the front door swung open and Chū-Cho and Luis bursted in, brandishing two shiny black guns and training them on Diablo.

  “No!” cried Mama, who finally found her voice again.

  “Oh, so now the boys are trying to be macho, eh?” said Diablo, standing up while pulling out a hand gun from his waist.

  “Chū-Cho! Luis!” cried Mama. “Stop. No! Don’t!”

  I had never seen Chū-Cho so angry. His eyes were blood-shot, his forehead wet with sweat. I silently prayed that he would put the gun down. That Luis would not follow into his older brother’s missteps.

  “Diablo,” said Chū-Cho, his voice low and hoarse. “I want you to leave here and never return. I want you out of our lives for good!”

  Diablo chuckled. “Hah! So now that you have something, you think you can order me around?” he said.

  Luis looked absolutely frightened. His hands were trembling. He looked nervously from Chū-Cho to Diablo, perhaps wondering what to do next.

  Diablo walked closer to them.

  “Stay back!” ordered Chū-Cho.

  Mama ran from behind the kitchen counter over to where Chū-Cho was standing. She pleaded with him to put down his gun.

  “Chū-Cho, please! Please. Don’t do it. Throw that thing away,” she cried.

  Chū-Cho tried to ignore her but Mama began grabbing at the gun. As she struggled with Chū-Cho, Luis lost his nerve and dropped his own gun.

  Then Diablo lunged at Luis, grabbing him into a headlock and training his gun at Luis’ head. Diablo dragged Luis towards the front door and kicked it open. He whistled loudly, triggering two masked men to appear suddenly.

  “Hey!” called Chū-Cho as he fought off Mama and ran behind Diablo.

  “Get him,” ordered Diablo to his men.

  Immediately, they grabbed Chū-Cho and wound his arms behind his back, causing him to scream out in pain.

  “Awwwwww!” yelled Chū-Cho.

  “Chū-Cho! Luis!” cried Mama as she followed them.

  They dragged my brothers into a pick-up truck, similar to the one General Moreno was driving days ago. They threw them into the camper and quickly jumped into the front seats, speeding away.

  “You get your worthless sons when I get that worthless farm! But this time, princess, you come to me!” yelled Diablo from the passenger side window.

  Mama collapsed in my arms. She cried and sobbed with all her body, all her soul. I stood there, horrified and dumbfounded.

  When I was talking to Diablo, I had touched upon something. I had touched upon the truth that I had pieced together from Papa’s stories. But my brothers, with good intentions wrapped in too much Colombian valor and family pride, interrupted what could have been a successful unraveling of the man named Diablo.

  As I held Mama, I silently vowed to put a stop to this once and for all in the only way I knew how.

 

  Señora Rosano

  “Señora, I need your help,” I said as the students filed out of the classroom.

  It was Friday, just days after my brothers were kidnapped by Diablo. Mama had been lying in the darkness of depression in her bedroom, refusing to work or to eat or even to speak. It seemed the fate of my entire family had fallen on my shoulders.

  “What is it, Marisol? I heard about your brothers. Everybody knows. It’s horrible! Have you gone to the police?” she asked me tenderly.

  “I can’t. The police are involved. They were involved the whole time,” I said in a low voice.

  Señora Rosano closed the classroom door and sat in a student chair.

  “Sit, Marisol, sit. Tell me what I can do to help you,” she said earnestly.

  “Well,” I began. “Señora Rosano, I think I know why Diablo was after Papa. And I need your support when I expose the truth.”

  Her eyes widened. “Expose? Expose what?”

  “Well, I can’t tell you here. But if you meet me at the hospital tomorrow when I visit Señor Pedro, I’ll tell you,” I said.

  “Okay. But how did you come to find this out?” she asked.

  “Señora Rosano, I have these writings. Stories, really. They are stories that my father told me over and over again about his boyhood. I never thought anything of them until I realized that he was trying to tell me the truth. The truth was hidden in his stories,” I replied.

  Señora Rosano smiled. “Remarkable! Only a Colombian can be so clever! Even from the grave your father showers you with his love and guidance,” she said.

  “Yes, yes. But it is time to expose the truth now,” I said.

  “Do you think it will help to get your brothers back?” asked Señora Rosano.

  “Yes,” I said. “I
t will. And I think it will drive Diablo away for good.”

  “Wow. So what can I do?” she asked.

  “I need you to take us to Barranquilla. To take me and Mama to Barranquilla to get my brothers. Is that possible?” I said.

  Señora Rosano thought for a moment.

  “Well, when?” she asked.

  “In a couple days,” I replied.

  “Oh, Marisol. Things like that take weeks. You need law enforcement with you. You need professional negotiators. You cannot just go and think they will obey you just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers for emphasis.

  “But I don’t have weeks. I have to fight now,” I said.

  Señora Rosano leaned forward, looking at me intently.

  “Marisol, do you know what you’re doing? I know you have been through hell these past months. Someone is definitely out to get your family, but do you think it is wise for you to face them? You are only a teenage girl,” she said.

  I shook my head yes. “Señora, it is something I have to do,” I said.

  “Do you have to? Can’t you just contact the National Police of Colombia in Bogotá? Let them handle this mess,” urged Señora Rosano.

  I stood up and faced her.

  “Señora Rosano, are you going to help me or not?” I said.

  “Marisol, I am still your teacher, okay? Please show me some respect,” she said, her voice sharp and stern.

  “I’m sorry. But I need to know if you’re going to help me or if I just have to do it myself,” I said.

  “So you want to save your brothers and your farm through the truth you discovered from your writings?” said Señora Rosano.

  “Yes. It’s my only voice now,” I replied.

  Señora Rosano nodded. “Fine. I will help you. But I am still going to call the National Police of Colombia in Bogotá. Not all the police are corrupt. Someone will help us, ” she said.

  Standing up, she smiled warmly and patted me on the back.

  “I’m proud of your bravery, Marisol. Your father would be very proud of you,” she said.

  I smiled tepidly in response, hoping that my attempt at bravery would not be met with failure.