The Colombian Mule

by Massimo Carlotto

  Wrapped up in somewhat démodé winter suits and coats, they looked just like any other South American middleclass mother and daughter, over in Europe for the holidays. Although their Colombian passports appeared to be in order, Customs picked through their baggage with extreme thoroughness. In the end La Tía and Aisa got the entrance stamp they needed on their tourist visas and were let through.

  Doña Rosa, in any case, didn’t intend to stay long, just the time it took to sort out a couple of business matters. She gave the taxi-driver the name of a hotel in Jesolo where Colombian girls employed as nightclub hostesses in the Venice area generally stayed. She had booked three double rooms. Alacrán and another killer, Luis Fernando Jaramillo, along with two women gang members, would be joining them that afternoon. They had arrived at Lourdes a couple of days earlier, and would cross the Italian border with a coachload of the faithful. La Tía had ordered them to bring her a statue of the Virgin full of holy water. Our Lady of Lourdes. Our Lady of the narcos.

  A couple of hours before our telephone appointment with Nazzareno Corradi, Rossini, Max and I met in Max’s study. I stuck a handful of salt peanuts in my mouth and drowned them with a gulp of Calvados. I had only just woken up and hadn’t had time for breakfast.

  ‘Let’s see if we can’t keep out of the cops’ way,’ Old Rossini advised. ‘That business at the hotel stinks of trouble.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Max. ‘It would be better to come at it from a totally different angle.’

  ‘Loading the dice in our favor?’ Rossini asked.

  ‘Precisely. We exploit the fact that Corradi and Arías Cuevas are in the same prison and see to it that the mule submits a voluntary statement to the investigating magistrate to the effect that he’s never met Corradi in his life, and that the police forced him into putting on that charade at the hotel.’

  I got up from the armchair and fetched my cigarettes. ‘But it may not work. We would have to keep Corradi’s lawyer in the dark, get whatever lawyer the court has assigned to the Colombian to agree to see things our way, and then come up with an offer that the mule finds attractive. The problem is that by now the cops will already have promised him a maximum two-year sentence, so I don’t really see him wanting to change his story.’

  Rossini shook his head. ‘But look at it this way. He’s in a prison on the other side of the world, he’s on his own, and he’s not got a penny to his name. I don’t think he’ll be too hard to work on.’

  Max looked up from his notes. ‘First, Arías Cuevas gave the police a description of his Italian contact that was nothing like Corradi. Then, at the hotel, when the mule opened his door and came face to face with Corradi, he started yelling “Get out of here, get out of here” in Spanish, giving everyone the impression he knew Corradi. This will all be in the records and it’s not a bad place to start if we want to muddy the waters while we look for a way out.’

  ‘Max is right,’ Rossini chipped in. ‘If we take this job and Corradi agrees to go behind his lawyer’s back, there’s a good chance we can fuck over both the cops and the magistrate.’

  I stuck a few more peanuts in my mouth. ‘They don’t seem all that keen to be fucked over.’

  Corporal Mansutti had been as good as his word. Corradi replied as soon as the cell phone vibrated.

  ‘I’m known as Alligator. Your lawyer reckons I can help you out.’

  ‘I know who you are and I want to thank you for what you’re doing,’ Corradi said, in a rasping voice that carried with it a hint of cigarettes and sleepless nights.

  ‘You’re in deep shit.’

  ‘I’ve got absolutely fuck-all to do with any of this.’

  ‘There are too many Colombian coincidences,’ I replied. ‘Besides, why should they pick you?’

  ‘You’re looking at it from the wrong angle. It’s precisely because of my Colombian connections that they chose me for the frame. And what’s their motive? That jeweler’s store robbery years back. Nunziante, the flatfoot in charge of the investigations, always swore he’d get back at me.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking this, but I have to know . . . Was Nunziante just going on what he’d heard or . . .’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. It was me all right. I killed the two patrolmen. Then when it came to trial I got acquitted because they didn’t have a scrap of evidence. But somebody who knew exactly what had happened—maybe even one of the boys who had taken part in the robbery—went and blabbed to Nunziante. So when they took me to the Commissariat in Jesolo the other day, Nunziante gave me a smack in the jaw and told me he’d known all along that I’d done the patrolmen, and to prove it he mentioned a particular detail that never came out during the investigation.’

  ‘What a mess. They’ll stop at nothing to make you pay.’

  ‘I know the rules. If they’d pulled me in for something I’d actually done, I’d have gone quietly, just tried a little damage limitation. But when it comes to cocaine—I’ve got absolutely nothing to do with it, never have. And I could be looking at twenty years.’

  ‘Do you think you can get to the Colombian without drawing attention to yourself?’

  ‘He’s on another block, but with a bit of luck I can probably manage it.’

  ‘Okay. Set up a meeting. If the mule’s prepared to make a statement putting you in the clear, we’ll deal with his lawyer.’

  ‘Nunziante is not going to let it go that easy.’

  ‘That’s true. But a statement from the Colombian could under­mine the prosecution case to the point where they couldn’t block a request for house arrest.’

  ‘Right. Then I’d take myself off on an extended vacation.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that. I’ll call you the same time tomorrow so you can tell me what agreement you’ve reached with the Colombian. Just one more thing. Your cellmate, Rossano Angiò, is a police plant.’

  ‘I thought as much. Far too buddy-buddy.’

  ‘Corradi . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about this direct line. Not even your woman. It could get dangerous for everyone involved.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Victoria is right outside the loop and it’s best she stays that way.’

  I put the phone down and glanced at my two associates. Rossini offered me a cigarette. ‘Corradi knows what he’s doing. He’ll find a way to talk the Colombian into testifying for the defense,’ he remarked, before saying goodbye. He had to go and take delivery of a load of caviar from Dalmatia. Besides which, there was nothing much for us to do till we recontacted Corradi the next day.

  I called Renato Bonotto and told him we had decided to accept the case. Corradi had seemed to us to be on the level. Naturally I omitted to tell Bonotto anything precise about our plan. It would have placed him in an impossible position, professionally speaking, and it would have permanently undermined the trust between us. Anyway, he was really glad to hear the news and made me promise to keep him updated.

  ‘What do we know about the Colombian’s lawyer?’ I then asked Max.

  Max thumbed through his notes. ‘Francesco Beltrame, attached to Venice City Court, thirty-one years old, appointed by the magistrate to represent Arías Cuevas under the provisions of the free legal assistance scheme. A smart kid waiting for his big break.’

  ‘Like thousands of others,’ I remarked.

  ‘Right. Have you still got that old contact of yours in Paris?’

  I stared at Max in puzzlement. ‘Sure. But what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You could call him and see if he knows any Colombian exiles who can give us some information about our trafficker. It’s just possible we might find out something we can use in our negotiations.’

  ‘Excellent idea. I’ll try straight away.’

  Alessio Sperlinga, nicknamed Ciliegia on account of the spherical cherry-red growth in the middle of his righ
t cheek, was a chubby, friendly sort of guy. Originally he was from Como, near the Swiss border, but I got to know him in prison. He had ended up there, as so often happened, owing to a turncoat who up until that moment had been his best friend. Luckily the accusation that he was a member of an armed gang hadn’t kept him in prison too long. But when he got out, he had preferred to emigrate to France rather than start again from scratch in his home town. He hadn’t lost his passion for far left politics and spent years gathering material for a book on our generation of political militants and misfits—but he never got round to writing it. He worked for an IT company and, from what I had heard, had become a first-class chess player.

  ‘Ciao, Ciliegia!’

  ‘Alligator, how are things with you?’

  ‘Not bad. I need a favor.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.’

  ‘Are you in contact with any Colombians?’

  ‘FARC or ELN?’ he asked, naming the country’s two main guerrilla organizations.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m looking into the case of a cocaine trafficker snatched at Venice airport. I need some background.’

  ‘I can always ask around. I’ll give you an email address where you can send me the trafficker’s details and, the most important thing, his photo. The Colombians are past masters at inventing fake identities for themselves.’

  ‘The photo that appeared in Nuova Venezia is pretty good quality,’ I reassured him.

  We chatted for a while. Finally, I asked him if he ever felt homesick for Italy. ‘Not in the slightest, Alligator. It’s not that I’m up to all that much here, but back in Italy I really wouldn’t have a clue what to do with myself. I’d feel even more cut-off from everything going on around me.’

  I said goodbye and glanced at Max. He had been listening in to the conversation on the speakerphone. ‘Your friend’s right,’ he said. ‘The left has been marginalized for good. It’s not our world any longer. For a brief moment, we held it in the palm of our hand. Then they snatched it away again.’

  I shrugged. ‘I never had your dreams of revolution, Max, so I haven’t lost anything. All I ever wanted was to be a blues singer. Right now I’m happy to be where I am. Going off somewhere else no longer makes the slightest sense.’

  I returned to my apartment and dozed off on the couch listening to Joe Louis Walker singing ‘My Dignity’. By the time I went downstairs to the club it was late evening. Maurizio Camardi, a friend of mine who played the saxophone, had organized a session with Eloisa, our resident singer. It was a really enjoyable night. At four, I took Virna home and we went to bed. I lit a cigarette. She rested her head on my chest and I started to stroke her hair.

  ‘We’ve been together for a year and a half now, but you’ve never told me anything about yourself.’ This came straight out of the blue. Her voice was very calm, almost sad.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That you never let me in on what you’re thinking. It’s just . . . I’ve realized I don’t really know you.’

  ‘In my line of work, there’s no room for sharing secrets.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with your work. You just never let on what you really think or feel. You’re nice and kind to me, you make me laugh, we have a good time together, but somehow you shut me out of your life.’

  I took a long drag on my cigarette, recalling my conversation with Max a few hours earlier. Virna was right of course. But how could I ever explain to her that the most intimate part of my existence was over, buried under a mountain of rubble? Or that the only thing I had left to share with anyone was this messy day-to-day life I led?

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, Virna. It’s just the way it is.’

  ‘That’s not true. Things can change. That’s why people get together.’

  I didn’t reply and she fell asleep, snoring softly. I turned to look at her. Tiredness was mercilessly deepening the lines she had acquired working nights and falling in love with men who, like me, had never been able to offer her anything. I smiled at her, and lightly kissed the corner of her mouth.

  Nazzareno Corradi was euphoric. ‘The meeting with the Colombian went like a dream. He’ll do anything to avoid being sent back to Colombia. He’s demanding cast-iron guarantees from a lawyer, money up-front, and several minor internal prison favors.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be easy to get around the deportation order once he’s completed his sentence,’ I objected.

  ‘Make something up, Alligator,’ Corradi barked. ‘This guy’s far more scared of going home than of staying in jail.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘He’s a nobody.’

  ‘From now on, avoid any contact with him. We’ll go and have a word with his lawyer later today.’

  Francesco Beltrame had been born into a family of lawyers. The stately palace near the Rialto, not far from the Venice City Courts, had on its door a plate bearing the name of not one but three lawyers called Beltrame.

  The secretary brought it to our attention that we didn’t have an appointment. ‘Legal problems are like that,’ Max said thoughtfully, ‘they come up all of a sudden and are often urgent.’ After about forty minutes, she showed us into the young lawyer’s office.

  Tall, slim, with a modish goatee and wearing a midnight-blue tailored suit, Beltrame greeted us with a handshake and invited us to sit down in small armchairs opposite his desk.

  We were one chair short and Beltrame went to fetch it himself from the ante-room. I glanced around to get some idea of the character we were dealing with. The decor was up- to-the-minute and pricey, the work of a well-known Venetian designer, clearly a present from Beltrame’s daddy. Still, there was no doubting that Junior too had a taste for money.

  He turned a smile on us that he must have practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror. ‘What can I do for you? Messrs . . .’

  Max scratched the stubble on his neck. ‘Our names don’t matter that much. Let’s just say we’ve come here to do a friend a favor.’

  Beltrame, unruffled, nodded at Max to continue. I liked the kid. He was wide awake.

  ‘You’ve been appointed by the court to provide free representation to Guillermo Arías Cuevas, a Colombian national, presently detained at Santa Maria Maggiore on international drugs trafficking charges. We have no doubts whatsoever as to your professional abilities and are quite confident that Arías Cuevas will receive the best possible defense, but we are also conscious of the derisory nature of the fees disbursed to court-appointed lawyers. We have therefore decided generously to supplement the aforesaid fees in order to ensure that your professional services are remunerated at their just worth.’

  Beltrame looked us over slyly. ‘Very kind of you I’m sure. I suppose you gentlemen are in no way connected with the activities of Arías Cuevas . . .’

  ‘You’re on the wrong track,’ Rossini snapped. ‘We are not looking for anything from the Colombian. We just want you to represent him properly.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Max, in his habitual calm and friendly tone of voice. ‘We would like Arías Cuevas to be represented with special care, and feel that that care should be appropriately remunerated.’

  ‘But you don’t want him to appoint me directly as his defense lawyer. Formally speaking, Arías Cuevas must remain a legal-assistance case, right?’

  Instead of replying, I extracted a yellow envelope from my jacket pocket and deposited it on the table. ‘Ten million lire. Tax-free.’

  Beltrame stared at the envelope for a long time. ‘What am I risking?’ he asked apprehensively.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Max hurried to reassure him. ‘All you’ve got to do is stick to procedures.’

  Beltrame wasn’t yet convinced. ‘The Colombian is collaborating with the police. He’s struck a deal with them . . .’

  Max smiled benevolently. ‘Why don’t you g
o and see him. I’m certain you’ll give him the best possible advice.’

  Beltrame reached out and took the envelope. ‘As it happens, I don’t have to be in court tomorrow morning. I guess I can find the time to interview a client at the prison.’

  On the way back to La Cuccia, on an autostrada plunged in freezing milky-white fog, we drove along to the sound of Taj Mahal singing ‘Lovin’ in My Baby’s Eyes’. After a while I leaned forward and removed the cassette. ‘Virna is beginning to show signs of weariness,’ I said to my friends, and told them of the conversation that Virna and I had had the previous night.

  From his seat behind me, Max clapped me on my right shoulder to express his solidarity. ‘I know what you’re feeling, Marco. But try not to lose her. Virna is special.’

  Old Rossini was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Honestly, guys, I don’t understand you,’ he burst out.

  ‘In fact, I’ve never understood you. That goes not just for the two of you but for everyone else I’ve ever met, whether in prison or on the outside, who was ever part of your precious “generation”. What really happened? What does it amount to? They gave you a little slap on your little behinds and all of a sudden something died inside you. Please! I spent a total of fifteen years in prison. As a child I suffered hunger. My family was persecuted by the Nazis because my mother was a Jew who smuggled contraband. My first and last wife cheated on me with my lawyer. And here I am, fresh as a daisy and twice as pretty, having the time of my life.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing,’ I objected.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Rossini hit back angrily. ‘Virna is right, snap out of it. Wake up, deal with your past once and for all. Get over it.’

  I turned around to Max, hoping for some support, but he was gazing out into the fog. I pushed the cassette back in.