by Jorge Franco
“Don’t worry, she’s not interested in rescuing Dad,” he said. “She’s playing for the other side.”
“Stop talking bullshit.”
“She’s only going because she wants revenge. She doesn’t care that he’s missing, or kidnapped or whatever. Everything she’s doing, she’s doing it out of jealousy.”
Lucila served us breakfast and asked us if we wanted anything else. She left us alone. Nobody can relax when somebody’s waving a pistol around. Then Fernanda came in, with her hair wet and a drink in her hand at seven-thirty in the morning.
“Put that back where it was,” she told Julio.
“What if they come here?” he asked. “What if shit hits the fan and they decide to come after us?”
“Stop being so dramatic. It’s not the first time I’ve delivered money to these people.”
“But it is the last,” Julio said.
“What are you drinking, Ma?” I asked.
She looked at the glass and placed it on the table.
“I’m nervous,” she said.
“Really?” Julio said. “Didn’t you supposedly have everything under control?”
“Not about them,” she said, “about Libardo.”
I shot Julio a look that said I told you so. For the rest of us it could be the end of a problem, but for her it was just an episode in her marriage. The doorbell rang.
“That must be Jorge,” she said.
Lucila appeared and asked if she should answer.
“Yes, go answer. If it’s the prosecutor, tell him I’ll be right there,” Fernanda told her. She looked at Julio and said, “Take that gun to your dad’s study.” She looked at me. “You help me carry the suitcase.”
“Aren’t you going to have any breakfast?” I asked.
She picked up the glass again, grabbed the pitcher of orange juice, and poured a little into her drink. She took a swig and asked, “Happy?”
The phone rang. I rushed to answer in case it was them, but it was my grandmother.
“What’s going on over there, sweetie?” she asked.
“Hi, Gran.”
Fernanda was already talking to the prosecutor. I didn’t feel comfortable saying anything.
“What’s going on, Larry?” she said again.
“Can I call you back in five minutes?”
“So something is happening,” she said.
Fernanda came over and asked, who is it? Gran, I said, and she waved her hand dismissively. I met Lucila’s gaze, and she lowered her head and went off toward the bedrooms, alarmed.
“Answer me, Larry,” Gran said.
“I’ll call you back in five minutes,” I said, and hung up.
The prosecutor had taken charge of the suitcase. He was smiling like he was heading off on his honeymoon, not a dangerous operation. Fernanda had been more agitated ever since he’d arrived. She said she was going to the bathroom one last time. Julio and I were left alone with the prosecutor.
“Is that a Jericho?” he asked Julio.
“What?”
“The pistol.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s my dad’s.”
“Let me see,” the prosecutor said.
Julio, hesitating, handed it over.
“Yes,” Cubides said, examining the pistol and stroking it. “It’s a 941. Not very common around here.”
Fernanda came back and said to the prosecutor, “All right, let’s go.”
He gave the gun to Julio and said, “Don’t take it out of the house.”
And Fernanda said, “See you later, boys. I’ll get in touch if there’s any news.”
I stood waiting for a kiss, a hug, even a tear from Fernanda. Maybe she was cold on purpose; any of those gestures I was hoping for would have seemed too dramatic, too final. The prosecutor went out, pulling the suitcase, like a pilot ambling toward his plane. He didn’t even turn to look at us before closing the front door.
“I thought he was going to keep the gun,” Julio said.
“I thought he was going to point it at us and run off with the suitcase,” I said.
The phone started ringing again. Lucila peeked in the doorway and said, “Larry, your grandmother’s asking for you.”
“What do I tell Gran?” I asked Julio.
He shrugged, thought for a moment, and said, “Best tell her the truth.”
“But there is no truth yet,” I said.
“Then don’t tell her anything.”
73
Pedro pulled up in front of an apartment building. Is this where you’re living now?, Larry asked him, and he said, no, this is La Murciélaga’s place, she’ll be right down. I love partying with her. Is she your girlfriend?, Larry asked. No, she’s crazy. You never brought her to those parties at my house, Larry said. Oh, she was a good girl back then, Pedro said, and added, Julieth’s going to come with her. Julieth? Uh-huh. Julieth Julieth? The one who . . . Larry didn’t finish his sentence, and Pedro nodded wickedly. Larry asked again, Julieth? Yeah, dumbass, Julieth, Pedro said, or is there some other Julieth I don’t know about? There was no doubt. Larry saw her come out of the building with La Murciélaga. Honestly, Larry said, I don’t recognize either one.
The last time I saw Julieth, we were both seventeen . . .
Pedro got out and gave them each a kiss on the cheek and a hug. They chatted excitedly for a moment. Larry couldn’t make out what they were saying. Pedro waved him over.
“The queens of the night,” he said by way of introduction.
“Do you remember me?” La Murciélaga asked Larry. Seeing him hesitate, she said, “Sarita, from high school.”
“Yes,” Larry said, “Pedro told me, but I . . .”
“I know,” she said. “It’s the same with everybody.”
She sidled up and kissed him on the cheek. Larry looked at the other woman, who was smiling like somebody leafing through a memory album. He’d slept with her, they’d seen each other completely naked, they’d had their hands and mouths all over each other, but apart from that Larry never knew anything about her. They hadn’t talked for more than half an hour all told.
I don’t even remember her voice, I don’t know how she talked . . .
“Hi, Larry,” Julieth said. She stepped forward and gave him a kiss in greeting. He was embarrassed by his unwashed smell, his bad breath, the hours he’d been wearing the same clothing. Julieth asked, “What’s up? How have you been?”
It was the same Julieth, but to Larry it felt like she was somebody else, just like him, just like everything around him.
“All right, let’s go,” Pedro the Dictator commanded.
La Murciélaga climbed in front and Julieth in back, next to Larry.
This smells like an ambush, Pedro’s an expert at those . . .
If he was refusing to take Larry to Fernanda’s place and had brought along Julieth to stir up the past, it was because he had some devious plan in motion.
“What are you doing in Medellín, Larry?” La Murciélaga asked.
“They found his dad,” Pedro butted in.
“How exciting! Finally!” Julieth exclaimed.
“Dead,” Larry clarified.
La Murciélaga punched Pedro and said, “Why didn’t you warn us, jackass?”
“No worries,” Larry said. “It’s really complicated.”
“What a shame,” Julieth said.
“All right, that’s it, new topic,” Pedro said. “We’re on the party train.”
“But . . . I don’t understand,” Julieth said.
Music filled the SUV again, rattling the windows and their brains.
“We’re going to stop at Kevins first and get something to drink,” Pedro said.
“Remember, I . . .” Larry tried to say, but Pedro cut him off.
“Yes, yes, I
know. Don’t be a drag.”
“And how long are you staying?” Julieth asked.
“Did you hear that?” Pedro asked.
“What?”
“The fireworks have started.”
“Just ten days,” Larry told Julieth.
“Hear that, hear that?” Pedro asked again.
“How can we hear anything with the radio so loud?” Larry said.
“It was a really big boom,” Pedro said, and added, “Besides, it’s not a radio, it’s a component.”
“I need a drink already,” La Murciélaga said. “Fireworks make me a little nervous.”
If I’d known I was going to arrive today, I wouldn’t have come, not on La Alborada . . .
Returning to Medellín was like never having left, as if the years he’d spent abroad had been a dream and, when he woke, the city had swallowed time.
Pedro reaffirmed it: “In my dictatorship, anyone who comes back will stay forever.”
Nothing new to Larry. He’d always felt shunned in his own city. Ever since he was a kid, being Libardo’s son had condemned him to living in exile in his own country.
“Did you all hear about that baby that predicts the future?” La Murciélaga asked.
“You and your spook stuff,” Pedro said.
“But this was on the news,” she said.
“I heard it,” Julieth said. “He’s two months old.”
“And he’s already talking?” Pedro said mockingly.
“He not only talks, he predicts what’s going to happen,” La Murciélaga explained. “Supposedly a relative came to visit him and made fun of him because he was really ugly, and supposedly the baby told him, you’re going to die tomorrow, asshole. And boom, the guy gets run over by a truck the next day.”
Pedro let out a loud laugh; he also let go of the wheel and they almost crashed into a pole. Julieth and La Murciélaga screamed in unison.
An accident right now could be my salvation . . .
“That’s what you get for making fun,” La Murciélaga scolded Pedro.
“Oh, so I’m going to die too?” he asked.
“Of course you’re going to die,” Larry said. “Someday.”
“In the meantime, let’s get drunk,” Pedro said.
They pulled into the Kevins parking lot. Though it was still quite early, the bar was packed.
“This place is so decrepit,” La Murciélaga said. “It’s all old men and cartel guys.”
“There aren’t any cartel guys in Medellín anymore,” Pedro said.
“Oh, sure,” she said, and got out of the car, a look of resignation on her face.
Pedro exchanged hellos with the guard, the doorman, and several waiters as he walked in. Larry noticed that the entrance sign had two letters burned out, the K and the V. While they were waiting for a table, Julieth asked, “Are you still living in the same house?”
“I live in London,” Larry said.
“I mean your house here.”
“No. I don’t live there anymore.”
“The music isn’t so bad,” La Murciélaga said.
“I’m going to look for the bathroom,” Larry said.
He walked through the crowd, everybody gesticulating as they talked. A waiter pointed him to the bathroom, and on the way he walked past a door made of dark glass guarded by a beefy guy with an earpiece. He couldn’t see inside. Different music was playing from what was on the restaurant speakers. The hulk frowned when he saw Larry trying to snoop.
“This room isn’t open to the public,” the guard said.
Somebody behind Larry spoke: “Excuse me.”
“Don Nelson,” the hulk said.
Larry turned around and bumped into an older man who was bald and red in the face. He stepped aside so he could get by, but the guy stared at him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I was just leaving,” Larry said. “I was looking for the bathroom.”
“It’s that door over there,” the hulk said.
“You must be one of Libardo’s kids,” the man, Nelson, said. “You look just like him.”
Larry didn’t know how to react. Libardo had left so many enemies in his wake that he wasn’t sure how to respond to Nelson.
What if one of those enemies has been waiting to settle a score for twelve years? What if waiting has only intensified his hate? I could say, no sir, I don’t know any Libardo, but I’ve never denied my father in my life; I’m certainly not going to do it now that he’s dead.
“Yes, sir,” Larry said.
“Which one?” Nelson asked. “There are three of you, right?”
“No, sir, just two.”
“Huh, that’s weird, I thought there were more.”
Larry still didn’t feel safe; he didn’t know which side Nelson was on.
If he were one of Libardo’s enemies, he’d have already slammed me up against the glass door . . .
“I knew your father well,” Nelson said.
Larry, still on pins and needles, only smiled.
“We used to do business together. You probably don’t remember because you were really little.” Nelson put a hand on Larry’s shoulder and added, “There are more friends of your father’s inside.”
Larry didn’t know what friends Nelson was talking about. He’d spent those years abroad thinking that Libardo had been surrounded only by hatred and vengeance, that nobody had loved him besides his family.
“I heard he’d been found,” Nelson said. “Are you going to put on some kind of funeral?”
“I haven’t discussed that with my mom yet,” Larry said. “I just arrived from London.”
“Oh, so you’re the one who went away. Harry?”
“Larry.”
Nelson slapped him on the back a couple of times and said, “Come on, join me. The boys are going to love seeing you.”
They entered a world that was unfamiliar to Larry, full of a smoke that got into his throat and made his eyes burn. It wasn’t a large group, all men, all older, like Nelson. One of them, microphone in hand, was singing in front of a karaoke screen. He warbled out of tune as the song lyrics scrolled past. The others watched in silence. They waved to Nelson, but nobody dared to interrupt the man who was singing. On the tables were bottles of whiskey and rum, lit cigars and cigarettes.
What’s that smell? . . .
Another guy gestured to Nelson to sit down, and the two of them settled into a couple of armchairs at one end of the room. The singer closed his eyes and raised his hand to his chest. A waiter came up to Nelson and spoke in his ear. What’ll you have, Larry?, Nelson whispered. Nothing, thanks, I can’t stay long, my friends are waiting. Just one little drink, son, with us, your dad’s buddies. The waiter was still standing there, waiting.
This smell reminds me of something . . .
If you live in London, you probably like whiskey, Nelson said. Yes sir, Larry replied. A whiskey, then, Nelson said, and gestured to the waiter. The singer still had his eyes closed. The words on the screen no longer matched what he was singing. Larry looked at the men, who were listening with something approaching admiration. Cell phones and guns lay on the tables. He willed the whiskey to come soon. Nelson was bobbing his head along to the music.
I know what it smells like . . .
Finally the whiskey came. Finally the song ended. The men applauded wildly. Without anyone asking him, Larry said out loud in wonder, as if he’d discovered something huge, “It smells like Libardo.”
74
His is the one voice I don’t want to hear, but if a person is lost and hears his name being called, he has to follow that voice, even if it belongs to the devil himself.
“Larry, Larry, what are you doing here?” Pedro the Dictator calls from the car.
He’s appeared out of nowh
ere on this dark road; I didn’t hear the engine or see the lights of his SUV. He’s following me, as he’s done ever since we were kids; he’s hounding me; he hasn’t let me rest since I arrived, and plus, he’s sleeping with Fernanda.
“Get lost, asshole,” I tell him, and keep walking. I’m not heading anyplace; I’m just going wherever the road takes me. In the SUV, he’s matching my pace.
“Get in,” he says.
“Leave me alone.”
“Larry,” says Julieth, who’s in the passenger seat, “it’s dangerous around here, get in.”
“I’ll take you home,” Pedro says.
“I don’t have a home,” I say.
“Don’t be such a crybaby,” he says. “There’s a rough neighborhood up ahead. You’re going to get yourself mugged.”
Pedro speeds up a little and swerves the SUV to block my path. He climbs out, and before I can take off in another direction, he gets in my face.
“Get in the car right now, you hear me?”
“What are you going to do to me next?” I challenge him.
“I haven’t done anything to you,” he says.
“What about the thing with my mom?”
“That’s with her, not with you.”
“But she’s my mom.”
“She’s a very lonely woman, and you split for London and haven’t bothered coming back till now. And your brother is holed up on that damn farm all the time. She doesn’t have the two of you, Larry—you haven’t given her any attention.”
Julieth sticks her head out the window and says, “Guys, get in the car, this isn’t the place to work your stuff out.”
“You’ve got her doing drugs,” I say to Pedro.
“Would you look at that,” he says, and rolls his eyes at Julieth. “The son of a narco claims to be all upset because his mom does coke.”
I leap at Pedro, but I trip over my own feet and crash to the ground. Julieth shrieks.
“That’s enough,” she tells us. “Cut the bullshit, and let’s get out of here.”
Pedro grabs me by the shirt and helps me up. I can barely stand. He opens the back door and pushes me in.
“I don’t have her doing anything,” he says. “She has herself doing everything; I just join in.”