Shooting Down Heaven

by Jorge Franco

  The obligation she was referring to was a number of commitments the school had made to us in exchange for favors received. A new chemistry lab. Twenty-five computers. New sound equipment for the auditorium. Ten TVs, one of which ended up in the headmaster’s office, to mention just a few of Libardo’s donations in the past year alone.

  “You can go in now,” the assistant told Fernanda.

  The headmaster couldn’t mask his discomfort. He was so exaggeratedly kind that it was obvious he was faking. Who knows what doubts and feelings were gnawing at him as he watched Fernanda sit down in front of his desk, the two of us by her side, coquettish and serene as if nothing were happening.

  “I thought you were still off on a long trip,” Estrada said. “In one of those exotic countries Don Libardo’s so fond of.”

  “Duty first, Enrique,” Fernanda said.

  “That’s all well and good,” the headmaster said. “But with the country in such chaos . . . A lot of our families have gone to live abroad, and I thought you had too . . .”

  He was probing, groping, brazenly weighing us up, smiling, slavering.

  “Not at all, Enrique,” Fernanda declared. “Here we are, and here we’re staying. This is the boys’ last year, and it’s better for them to finish their studies in the same place. This school is like home to us now.”

  Estrada offered thanks, bobbed his head, mentioned the positive outcomes they’d achieved thanks to Libardo’s contributions. He blew sunshine, but through pointed teeth. He invoked morality, adherence to norms, principles, our generosity, and my talents, my math skills, my good grades in general. Of Julio he merely said, the boy takes after his father. He’s a good boy, he added. And when he finally said, what can I do for you, Fernanda leaned forward slightly to make her case.

  “Our family’s going through a difficult time right now,” she began.

  “I imagine so,” the headmaster said.

  “Julio and Larry may be all grown up now, but they’re sensitive, and this new situation is affecting them deeply. I haven’t tried to hide anything from them: they know everything, and though Libardo and I avoid arguing in front of them, we’re under a great deal of pressure and do sometimes make mistakes.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Estrada said.

  “I’m sure that in the coming year they’re going to do their very best. That’s why I’ve brought them with me today, so they can commit to being good students despite the unfortunate circumstances, to work hard and get good grades.”

  Estrada smiled at us. Fernanda kept going: “However, Enrique, in exchange I’d like to ask you to talk to the teachers and urge them to have a little extra patience with them, to take into account that my boys’ home life has fallen apart.”

  “With luck all of this will pass,” the headmaster broke in.

  “No, Enrique, no,” Fernanda said. By now there wasn’t much left of the woman who’d walked in. Her expression was gloomy, and she was no longer flirting or speaking in the cheerful tone she’d started out with. “No,” she repeated, and shook her head. Her voice cracking, she said, “Libardo isn’t going to leave that woman, no matter what happens.”

  “What?” Julio interrupted her.

  “It’s the truth,” said Fernanda. Sobbing, she added, “He’s in love with her.”

  “That’s why you came here?” I asked. “That’s why you brought us?”

  “Boys,” the headmaster said, trying to placate us.

  “This is ridiculous,” Julio said, then got up and left.

  Fernanda covered her face, still weeping.

  “You’re unbelievable, Ma,” I told her. “We’re all going to be killed, and the only thing you care about is Dad’s mistresses.”

  “What do you mean, you’re all going to be killed?” Estrada asked, confused.

  Fernanda shook her head, but she couldn’t speak. So I got up and left too.

  “Julio, Larry,” Estrada called out as I disappeared through the door. The whole school was in class now. I saw Julio walking rapidly toward his class. I went over to the railing of the bridge connecting the offices with the classrooms, and there, from the third floor, I saw Libardo’s men leaning on the SUVs, smoking and laughing. One of them was even racing around the car after another one, the two of them chasing each other like children. And I saw Pedro the Dictator get out of another car and run toward the classrooms, all in a rush, already late on the first day of school.

  19

  It isn’t love that makes the world go round, I tell them, it’s economics. And then I ask, remember Clinton? The one who got the blow job?, Pedro the Dictator asks. That’s the one, I say, though I’d meant the president, not the man. What are you talking about?, La Murciélaga asks, who got a blow job? And Julieth says, what does that have to do with the topic at hand? You were talking about love, princess, Pedro says. Sure, Julieth replies, but why’s this dude bringing economics and that gringo into it? Because Larry’s an economist, remember, Pedro says. I’m not an economist, I say again, I started but never finished. You may not have finished, Pedro says, but if they saved your credits you’re still a work in progress. You guys are such dorks, says La Murciélaga. I was talking about those people, the ones singing at the house, says Julieth, they believe in love. Well, if love means I have to sit around singing with a guitar by a fireplace in a room that smells like burnt meat, I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life, La Murciélaga says. No, Murci, I’m not talking about romantic love, Julieth says, that’s not what I mean, but I do think those guys have got a different kind of power. Who’s got the hooch?, Pedro asks, and La Murciélaga pulls half a bottle of aguardiente out of her purse. You go first, the Dictator tells her.

  The bottle passes from mouth to mouth; when it’s his turn to drink, Pedro takes a swig without even slowing down. I, for one, believe in universal love, says Julieth. What kind’s that?, Pedro asks. Where everybody loves everybody else, La Murciélaga says. Then I believe in universal love too, says Pedro, and Julieth punches him in the shoulder. Dumbass, she says, I’m talking about the force that makes the world go round. Economics, I say. Oh, no, no, no, Julieth exclaims, and clutches her head. What a bunch of idiots, you know what I’m saying, stop screwing around.

  We move up the Las Palmas highway at the snail’s pace that the traffic permits, along with the rest of the crowd looking to watch the fireworks from a good vantage point. Thousands of lights explode in the sky above Medellín, from one end to the other, as if the entire valley were erupting. As if all of Medellín were a volcano. Roll another joint, Murci, we’re going to be here a while, Pedro says. I’ve got one ready, she replies. Light it up, then. Nobody answered me about the volcano, I say. What? The name of the sleeping volcano in the middle of Medellín. Hahahaha, La Murciélaga cracks up. Nothing and nobody in the city is sleeping right now, Julieth says. Lowering the window, she adds, listen to that noise out there. Open all the windows to let the smoke out, Pedro orders. And the smell, says La Murciélaga, my hair ends up reeking of weed and tomorrow my mom’s going to ask me what’s that weird smell. Don’t tell me your mom hasn’t tried it, Murci, Julieth says. My mom?, oh man, you clearly haven’t met her. No way, Julieth says, we always think our parents don’t do anything, that they’ve never done anything, when in fact they’ve done all the same things we have and more. My dad doesn’t know the difference between a line of coke and a joint, Pedro says. La Murciélaga laughs. Mine have tried it, Julieth says. What? Marijuana. What about coke? I don’t think so, but marijuana they have, Julieth says. She turns to look at me and says, do you remember those nights out on the town with your mom, Larry?

  La Murciélaga passes me the hydroponic joint, and in her dark eyes I see curiosity and compassion. Epic nights out, Pedro says, just epic, Fernanda is unstoppable. Is?, I ask, is she still partying? I mean, she’s got a lot of energy, Pedro says.

  A car goes by, and they shoot a bot
tle rocket or a roman candle at us, I don’t know, something glittery and deafening that whizzes past our windshield like a bolt of lightning. La Murciélaga screams and Pedro yells, fucking assholes! He stomps on the gas to go after them, but there isn’t much he can do with all the traffic and the bendy road. Do you see her often?, I ask Pedro, who’s still cursing: those bastards practically fired that fucking thing right through our window! He keeps speeding up and braking, trying to pass the cars ahead of us. At the karaoke bar, a friend of my dad’s asked me how my mom was doing, do you know anything about that, Pedro? I want to see their face when I shove those fireworks up their ass, Pedro says. They’re nuts, says La Murciélaga, who’s only just now recovering from the fright. What’s my mom up to, Pedro? Pedro, you’re going to get us killed, Julieth yells. Let them go, you’re never going to catch up, says La Murciélaga, and adds, it just scared us—we’re over it. They did it deliberately, Pedro says, are you over that too, you chickenshits? He gives up, though he’s still fuming, if I run into them up there, they’ll see, they’ll see. He looks at me furiously and says, we’re in full-on combat mode here and you’re asking me about your mom, give me a break, Larry.

  We merge with the line of cars, like everybody else. The music on the radio and the fireworks fill the silence that descends after Pedro’s fit of rage. Maybe Julieth and La Murciélaga are thinking the same thing I am, that those people deserve to get their asses kicked. Pedro’s cell phone rings and we all jump. Our defenses are still low. I still don’t understand why I can’t go home yet. Why’s Fernanda punishing me with exile my very first day back? The Dictator could turn down the music to talk more comfortably, but instead he’s shouting at the top of his lungs. He curses, insults, roars with laughter, getting worked up, tells the person on the other end of the line what happened: a crappy little dark blue Mazda, he says, yeah, a 323 with three twats on board, if you see them let me know. Who are you talking to?, La Murciélaga asks, but he doesn’t answer, instead telling the other person, just think, if that bottle rocket had come through the window it would have ruined this handsome mug. He laughs again and curses again. La Murciélaga stubs out the joint in the ashtray. Julieth looks at me, and I tell her, I don’t know what I’m doing here. La Murciélaga turns around and says enthusiastically, it’s La Alborada, sweetie.

  Outside I see the orange sky and, down below us, the glow. The noise and euphoria summon Dylan Thomas once more to the tip of my tongue—“wise men at their end know dark is right”—and Thomas summons her once more to my memory. Are you sure you don’t know a Charlie who lives in London?, I ask Julieth and La Murciélaga. Male or female?, Julieth asks. Oh, so tedious, La Murciélaga says. Female, I tell Julieth. Pedro ends his conversation, and La Murciélaga asks again, who were you talking to? That was Ro, he replies, they’re already up there, at the overlook past El Peñasco. Who is she, what does she look like?, Julieth asks me. Some woman he met on the plane, La Murciélaga answers. She’s got black hair down to like here, I tell Julieth, gesturing to just below my shoulder. Her dad died day before yesterday, I say. Hers too?, Julieth says. Mine died a long time ago, I point out. At this rate, Pedro says, the fireworks will be over by the time we get there. She’s got a small nose and a pale complexion, I continue, but Julieth isn’t listening, nor anybody else. They start belting out the reggaeton song that comes on the radio.

  Boom boom, let it go boom, pump up the room, if things are feeling hot, make her zoom-zoom.

  But I’m overcome with sleepiness. I rest my head on the back of the seat and once again look out and down, toward the smoking crater that’s about to erupt.

  20

  Out of nowhere, as if they were old friends, Charlie asked him to tell her a secret.

  “What kind of secret?” Larry asked, and she said, “One that no more than two people know.”

  “A secret . . .” said Larry, pretending to think, and she laughed. She had him trapped.

  There was no way out, no possible excuse: everybody’s got a secret, or lots of them. A sin, a hidden desire, a loathing that nobody else knows, an aberration.

  “Tell you what,” Charlie said. “Hand me your glass, and while you’re thinking I’ll go get us some more gin.”

  “On one condition: you tell me one too.”

  They shook on the deal, and she went to fetch the drinks. Larry still felt cornered. When she returned, he tried to throw her off: “I have several varieties of secrets. Which kind do you want? Level C is little secrets, level B is regular secrets, and level A is big secrets.”

  “Level A, of course.”

  “I need more time for that kind of secret,” he said. “But I’ve got some real high-quality level C ones.”

  “I’m willing to negotiate. Tell me a level B secret.”

  They clinked their glasses and drank. Larry cleared his throat.

  “A few years back, not long after I arrived in London, having decided it was where I was going to live, I did my first grocery run and spotted these bags of lentils and tossed one in my cart because I was craving a home-cooked meal. I called my mom for the recipe; she doesn’t cook, but she asked around and found out for me. Since I didn’t have a pressure cooker, it was going to be a slow process, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I just left the lentils cooking and would occasionally go in and stir them with a wooden spoon. I started watching a movie on TV, and by the time I got back to the kitchen, the spoon wasn’t there anymore.”

  Larry fell silent. Charlie prodded him. “And?”

  “It disappeared. Maybe it dissolved in the soup.”

  Charlie looked at him mockingly. Crossing her arms, she asked, “So what’s the secret?”

  “Well, nobody else knows that story.”

  “No, that doesn’t count.”

  “What about if I tell you that I once, in a fit of love-induced spite, drank two bottles of whiskey all by myself, sitting on a wall beside the Thames?”

  “That doesn’t either.”

  “Aha,” Larry said. He leaned his head back and pondered. She watched him. Feeling awkward under the pressure, he said, “Once, when I left school, instead of going home I told the driver to take us to Éxito. I was with two friends, and we knew exactly why we were going: to shoplift.”

  “Hang on,” Charlie broke in. “That doesn’t count either.”

  “Let me finish,” Larry said. “The secret isn’t the shoplifting. So yeah, we were going to steal things, stupid crap we could stick in our pockets and down our pants. We’d done it once before. We each got our own stash and then bought something cheap to explain the alarm. We’d showed the guard our receipt and walked through. The alarm went off, and they let us through. That’s how it worked the first time, and we thought it would be exactly the same.”

  “Did you get caught?”

  “Hold your horses. We waited in line at different cash registers, and before we’d paid, a man in a suit and tie came up to one of my friends. He took him off to get my other friend, and finally they came for me. The man asked us to go with him. He led us to this little room, like an office supply storeroom. He asked us to empty our pockets. We refused, and he threatened to call the police. At that, very slowly, we started putting the items we’d stolen on a table.”

  “What did you steal?”

  “A bunch of crap, like I said. I’d nicked some dental floss, a lipstick . . .”

  “A lipstick?”

  “I wanted to give it to my mother.” Larry took a sip and cleared his throat. Something changed in his voice. “The man ordered us to pull down our pants. We refused again, and again he threatened to turn us over to the police. Reluctantly, we unbuttoned our pants and pulled them halfway down our thighs. A few more small things fell out. He told us to put them on the table, next to the others. Then he felt around my friends’ underwear, and when he got to me, he didn’t just feel around outside.”

  “Jesus,” Charlie said, and La
rry nodded. “What did you do?”

  Larry took another long sip and said, “Nothing. I think I closed my eyes . . .” He took a deep breath and added, “No. I didn’t, because I clearly remember the look on my friends’ faces. All three of us were shaking, and they were staring at me in horror. Maybe they thought the guy was going to do the same thing to them, but he fondled me for a while and then told us to leave, said if he ever saw us there again, the next search would be at the police station.”

  “That’s outrageous.”

  “Yeah. When I got home, I heaved my guts out.”

  “You didn’t tell your parents?”

  Larry shook his head.

  If I answer that question, I’ll have to reveal another secret. If I’d told Fernanda, she definitely would have told Libardo, and he’d have killed me for letting somebody touch me, he’d have killed the man who touched me, all of the employees, the owners, he’d have blown up the store, every single location, the delivery trucks, the billboards, everything, absolutely everything . . .

  “No,” Larry said, “it stayed between me and my friends, and we never talked about it again.”

  Charlie let out an indignant sigh. The noise of the engines was ricocheting inside their skulls. Larry shook his head and said, “All right, your turn.”

  21

  Fernanda taught me how to dance. Before I even learned to walk, I was dancing with her. She’d lift me up in her arms—she listened to music constantly—and she’d rock in time to the songs, always love songs. When I was up to her waist, we used to dance at parties, and she’d tell me I was her favorite dance partner. I kept dancing with her when I was the same height, and later when I was taller too. Eventually I didn’t enjoy it so much—I was ashamed to dance with my mom. These days, I’m too self-conscious to dance. It strikes me as a somewhat ludicrous activity; I don’t see the point of it, whether it’s about self-expression, celebration, emotions, or a million other things that have never really convinced me. But Fernanda insisted. She knew Julio was a lost cause. She said Libardo had no rhythm. You’re the only one, sweetheart—and she’d ask me with so much love in her eyes that I’d end up relenting, the two of us always turning into the main attraction for anybody watching.