by Martin Roth
The roads were crowded with Friday shoppers, and it took me nearly forty-five minutes to make the drive to Brunswick, all the while pondering the message. “Much worse than you think.” What on earth had Papa Guzman learned? And the Prophets? Did he perhaps mean Grant? Or someone else? But who?
But as I swung the Datsun past the Lebanese bread shop and approached Papa Guzman’s home I was confronted with the kind of horrible scene that in Australia is normally confined to American cop dramas on TV. Police cars were everywhere, and part of the street was taped off. I quickly parked nearby and walked over. I could see police officers walking in and out of the house. A small crowd had gathered.
“Looks pretty bad,” I said to an old man in a rust-colored overcoat who seemed to be giving a commentary on the proceedings to passers-by.
“An ambulance left half an hour ago,” he told me. “With the man from that house. Someone reckons he’s been shot.”
On my cell phone I immediately placed a call to Rohan at his office at The Age. I told him what I had just seen. “Better come in and meet me,” he said. “I’ll get onto my police contacts.”
We met at the Mandheling coffee bar. “A gunman wearing a balaclava,” said Rohan. “Shot your comrade-in-arms in his living room. All accomplished in about twenty seconds. Police say it was an absolutely professional job. ‘Execution-style killing’ is what they’re telling the press. Wife’s under sedation.”
I wanted to go and seek out Maria, to sit with her, to offer her comfort. But how could I? This was my fault. After so many years as an heroic freedom fighter Papa Guzman had in Australia at last found the quiet life he deserved. And now he was dead. Because I had interrupted that peace. Because I had visited his house and shouted at him that he was scared.
He had said he was counting on me. Well, old comrade, I thought to myself, you still can count on me. Our struggle continues.
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