by Rusty Young
‘Take this phone number for when you’re ready.’
Relieved, I took the business card – Don Jerónimo’s Taxi Service – stood once more and shook hands effusively with El Tigre at precisely the moment a car horn honked twice. My eyes shot to the Mazda to see Camila surreptitiously sinking below window level. Scanning the plaza, I saw the blue Ford truck belonging to my Uncle Leo – Mamá’s brother – swing into view. My stomach churned. Leo drove past slowly, pretending not to see me. But of course he had.
All the way home Palillo sat tensely in the back seat, a lit cigarette jutting from his lips like a smouldering fuse.
‘At least open the window,’ I said, not wanting Papá to smell the smoke.
‘Thanks, Super-Pedro, you’re my hero,’ he responded, imitating the high-pitched voice of a rescued maiden. ‘Now I can go back to our shitty town.’
‘It’s not that shitty.’
‘Damn right it is,’ said Camila, reaching for Palillo’s cigarette. I didn’t contradict her because I knew she was showing solidarity with Palillo as a reward for his not joining. Besides, I didn’t want to upset her; she’d recently promised to sleep with me on my sixteenth birthday.
I bit my bottom lip and drove. It seemed everyone wanted to leave Llorona, and they wanted me to leave too. Palillo wanted me to join the Paramilitaries. As for Camila, she wanted to study fine arts in Bogotá. We’d been dating for two years but already she’d mapped out our lives. Top of her grade, she was going to university. If her family couldn’t afford the tuition fees, we’d run away and live in a studio apartment in the capital, catch a bus to work in the morning, cook dinner over a tiny stove and scrimp and save for utility bills.
‘This town is so dull, don’t you think?’ she’d say. ‘We need a magic carpet.’
Back then, thinking of the city gave me stomach knots, as though I’d drunk too much coffee. Millions of strangers, rushing around impatiently. Skyscrapers of steel and glass, multi-lane highways and everything sold in plastic. Buses and red trams with turnstiles, traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. Things I’d only seen on television.
The tallest structure in Llorona was the church, which was three storeys high. I’d never ridden an escalator or an elevator. But Camila yearned for the city, and the prospect of her going without me gave me just as many stomach knots.
Even my parents wanted me to leave. They’d pressed me to sign a student loan application to study business when I became eligible for early graduation in a year.
‘You’ll be the first person in our family to go to university,’ Papá told me.
‘You’d make us so happy,’ added Mamá. ‘We’d be extremely proud.’
When you truly love your parents, there’s not much you can say to that. I swallowed my disagreement. In the meantime, however, I was hedging my bets, studying hard enough to not look stupid, but not so hard that they’d think I was academic. So far, it was working. Every year, my teacher wrote in my report card that I needed to apply myself more but I had potential. I liked having potential. Potential is good. As long as it stays as potential and doesn’t get you accidentally admitted into university.
We dropped off Camila, and then I drove Palillo home. ‘I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said.
Palillo could pretend to be mad for several hours, but I knew deep down he was grateful that I’d cared enough to stop him.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ He held out his hand.
I sighed and gave him the business card for Don Jerónimo’s Taxi Service.
We may have rescued him temporarily, but he was still determined to join. I suspected that his getting drunk at the rope-swing tree with Camila the following night was his way of bidding us farewell. If I didn’t find a reason for Palillo to stay, I’d lose him forever.
During our Friday night phone call, Camila suggested I find him a job. That’s what I wanted to talk to Papá about that Sunday after church when we set off to go fishing, as we did every week.
On the river Papá was usually at his most approachable. But as we dragged the dinghy to the water’s edge, I could tell he was still brooding over his earlier conversation with Señor Muñoz on the church steps. Brooding and fuming like I’d never seen him before.
6
ALTHOUGH PAPÁ WAS silent as I rowed, his lips moved, a sure sign he was composing a speech. We had several fishing spots along the river – some on the outer bends where fast-flowing currents brought nutrients that attracted fish, others in calmer stretches behind rock formations or mossy logs. Papá’s fishing rod was a family heirloom. It had a varnished cedar reel seat, a cork grip and a shaft made of finely cut cane strips into which three sets of initials were burned: Papá’s, his father’s and his grandfather’s. My own initials would be added on my sixteenth birthday. Until then, I’d have to content myself with a plastic hand reel.
I drew the bow of the dinghy up to a partly submerged fallen tree and secured it with a rope. We both cast and paid out the lines until they went slack and then we drew them up a little so the bait rested just above the bottom.
The sun sat high in the sky, its rays sparkling off the water. Papá leaned back with his elbow resting on the dinghy’s side, steeped in private thoughts. From time to time, the sun ducked behind one of the high clouds and the resulting shadow sent a shiver up my spine and made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Two hours passed like that, and I’d almost convinced myself that I’d been wrong about Papá’s mood when finally he spoke.
‘Anything you want to tell me, Pedro Juan?’
He only called me by my full name when a lecture was pending. Whatever Señor Muñoz had told him, he was trying to tease it out of me, like baiting an eel from its nest.
‘No, sir.’
‘Anything you think you should tell me?’
I hated that question. Rather than fishing with a rod, it was like using a net. He could just throw it out and pull in confessions about crimes he’d never even suspected.
‘Nothing I can think of.’
Papá’s voice hardened. ‘What in Christ’s name were you doing in Garbanzos plaza? Out in the open where everyone could see?’
It took me a moment to realise he was referring to Friday afternoon, when I’d gone to rescue Palillo from the recruiters.
‘It was only half a beer, Papá. I didn’t even finish—’
‘I’m not talking about drinking, Pedro. Who were you with?’
Of course I couldn’t mention Palillo or Camila.
‘Old school friends.’
‘Those boys are not your friends,’ he said sternly. ‘They’re killers. They kill people!’
‘I wasn’t going to join. I swear I would never join.’
‘Palillo can look after Palillo.’
‘But I thought I’d never see him again!’ I said, relieved that Papá had guessed my reason for going to the plaza. ‘He’s looking for any work he can get.’
‘No buts, Pedro Juan. Did you ever stop to think how other people might view our family after what you did?’
‘Why do you care what people think of us?’
‘What I care about is this family! I care about the consequences for this family if people see you drinking publicly with killers. Think, Pedro! What happened three weeks ago? Think! What did we do last weekend? Think! What happened last August to Ariel Mahecha’s father?’
Three weeks ago, we’d fixed the church roof after the stray mortar. Last weekend, we’d buried Humberto Díaz. The previous August, the Guerrilla had killed Ariel’s father for being a sapo. Sapo literally means ‘toad’. But it also means ‘snitch’ since both toads and snitches talk too much.
‘But, Papá! I didn’t tell them anything! All I said was—’
‘What you did or didn’t say doesn’t matter. These men speak with bullets. You risked all our lives.’
Suddenly, I felt ten years old – the same age I’d been when Papá told me not to play at war. I bowed my head, waiting for
more, but Papá stood, using my shoulder to balance while he untied the rope and pushed us out into the slipstream.
‘Change seats,’ he said. ‘You row.’
It was the longest row of my life. We sat opposite each other in silence. Papá stared fixedly at a point on the bank. My own gaze remained locked on the transom. Papá was absolutely right. I’d put myself and my family in danger. The Guerrilla often killed innocent people to send messages to their enemy and anyone watching. To them, we civilians were like ping-pong balls they smashed back and forth at each other. It didn’t matter that I had no intention of joining. Just by speaking to El Tigre, I’d risked being branded a sapo.
On the other hand, if Palillo had joined, he might have ended up dead. Papá had taught me that we have an obligation to others – to our friends, to people less fortunate, even to our enemies and sinners. Isn’t that why we’d risked our lives to bury Humberto Díaz? Didn’t we have an obligation to protect people from danger?
It was now the magical dusk hour, when the sun sank behind the mountains, the shadows of trees drooped across the river and the jungle came to life. Swarms of insects skimmed over the water’s surface, bringing schools of fish up from the river depths. From time to time, a baitfish flew into the air, tail still flapping, its silver scales flashing momentarily in the fading light.
I barely registered any of this. Instead I felt the trembling of my hands on the oars as they made jittery strokes. My father’s gritted words – you risked all our lives – felt like a brand seared unexpectedly on a calf by its kindly master.
By the time we reached the Mazda, Papá’s silence was so deafening I felt like I’d committed murder.
‘I’m sorry, Papá. I didn’t think.’
He spread his arms wide. ‘Come here.’ He gave me a hug. ‘I shouldn’t have yelled at you. But you need to learn you can’t force a man into doing right. He has to work it out for himself. Until he does, the best you can do is keep your own house in order.’
Although happy that our fight was ended, I pressed him softly.
‘He’s my best friend, Papá.’
Papá sighed. It was his okay-I-surrender sigh.
‘Edgar is leaving on the first of December. Provided Palillo’s mother lets him drop school, he can have Edgar’s job on minimum wage. No leave until twelve months. And tell him no drinking!’ Papá pinched my ear playfully. ‘That goes for you too.’
7
THAT NIGHT, ON the phone with Camila, we resolved two mysteries: who had snitched on me, and Papá’s strange conversation with Señor Muñoz at church. Rather than coming to me directly, or even going to Papá, my cowardly Uncle Leo had told Señor Muñoz he’d seen me with the Paramilitary recruiters. Señor Muñoz then had little choice but to inform Papá.
‘Forgive him, Pedro,’ said Camila. ‘He was in a tough position.’
Señor Muñoz I could pardon. But I was livid at my uncle.
At forty-two, Uncle Leo was still a bachelor. Despite a paunch and baldness, he fancied himself as a Colombian Don Juan. Papá, being a strict Catholic who opposed sex before marriage, expressed his disapproval with subtle sarcasm.
‘I don’t know why your brother doesn’t marry,’ he’d once commented quietly to Mamá. ‘He’s certainly interviewed enough candidates.’
I asked Camila, ‘Were you seen in the plaza too?’
‘No,’ she cooed, now grateful I’d made her stay in the Mazda. ‘I owe my hero big time.’
‘Bring forward my present?’ Her virginity on my sixteenth birthday.
‘Amor, March is only four months away.’
‘Three months and twenty-six days.’
‘Someone’s counting.’ She laughed and we said goodnight.
I awoke on Monday determined to triumph at mathematics because it would make Papá proud. Naturally, Palillo hadn’t studied.
‘I can count just fine,’ he proclaimed. ‘And I can do decimal fractions.’
Pointing at a group of girls, he scored their faces. ‘Eight-point-two. Three-point-seven. Nine-point-one. Plus I can do size estimates.’ His gaze moved lower. ‘32B. 30A. 34D.’
Palillo was determined never to be serious. Never. His real dream was to be an actor. He wanted to play the forbidden negro love interest in TV soap operas. I told him to be realistic – no black actors appeared on TV, except the washerwoman who does the soap powder commercials.
‘Exactly,’ retorted Palillo. ‘There’s a job vacancy. And I’m going to fill it.’
‘In the meantime, perhaps if you took that real job you’ve been offered.’
I explained Papá’s proposition and Palillo’s face lit up. He began making a list of what he’d buy with his first paycheque: Nike shoes, Discman, gold chain, and Nokia cell phone. By ‘pens down’ he’d added twenty more items and was in debt until mid-next-century.
Having diverted Palillo’s focus from joining the Paramilitaries, I felt relieved. The following day, Tuesday, I drove our Mazda to the garage for repair with my bicycle in the tray and then pedalled to my science exam.
On Wednesday, I woke to my alarm at 5.45 am, feeling good about that afternoon’s geography exam, and crept barefoot to the kitchen to prepare Papá’s morning tinto. I milked the cows beside Papá, and then spent two hours studying.
Just before noon, Papá walked me to the gate where I’d leaned my bicycle.
‘Good luck with geography!’ He pulled me into a hug. With my chin on his shoulder and my eyes closed, I felt that he’d fully forgiven me for being seen with the Paramilitaries in the plaza. Coming out of the hug, however, I tensed at the sight of several Guerrilla soldiers fanning out across our yard.
The cylinder bomb. Humberto Díaz’s burial. The bullet through the stained-glass window and Palillo’s recent attempt to join the Paramilitaries.
All big news. All connected. And all leading up to this moment.
8
THE TWO CLOSEST soldiers had their AK47s pointed at me and Papá. The rest crouched, their rifles scanning in arcs. I recognised none of them and knew from their grim expressions that this was no ordinary visit.
At first, I counted twelve guerrilleros: two covering us, four under the oak tree, four near the shed and two at opposite ends of the fence. Then I saw more soldiers in surrounding paddocks. And more still, hidden back near the edge of the forest. I’d never seen so many in one place. There must have been thirty or forty.
‘What do I do, Papá?’ I whispered, convinced it was me they’d come for. Papá must have thought the same. He looked alarmed.
‘Stay close,’ he said, pushing me behind him. ‘Let me do the talking.’
When their point guard signalled, a group of ten more guerrilleros emerged from behind the shed.
‘Name?’ demanded a thickset boy with blond hair and piercing green eyes – rarities in a country of mixed Indian-Hispanic descent.
‘Mario Jesús Gutiérrez Molina,’ answered Papá.
‘ID card, please.’
‘Your commander knows who I am,’ Papá said, nodding to the shed where he’d recognised Ratón. As head of the Guerrilla’s urban militia, he normally wore civilian clothes. That day, however, he was in uniform and carrying a heavy Motorola radio.
‘He’s not in charge,’ said the boy.
‘Who is then?’
‘Me.’ A scowling, chimneystack of a man with arms as thick as saplings stepped from behind him. ‘Know who I am?’
Papá nodded and handed over his cédula.
It was Caraquemada. It had to be. We’d never seen him in the flesh, but his horribly disfigured face was famous throughout the region. The left half of it looked like it had been eaten away by acid. A thin flap of skin half-covered a glass eye.
Papá averted his eyes politely. ‘How can I help you, señor?’
Caraquemada glanced towards me. ‘Your son …’ he began, and my heart stood still. They were going to take me! ‘Send him inside.’
I could breathe again. And my tension diminished
further when I saw Zorrillo. Although three commanders in one place meant something big, Ratón and Zorrillo could vouch to Caraquemada that Papá had never given them any trouble.
But then Mamá ran out of the house, screaming. I later learned that, from her kitchen window, she’d seen our three farmhands tied up and led away. When four rifles were pointed at her, she froze and her hands shot into the air. As Papá moved to protect her, the blond boy raised his rifle.
‘Go inside, Pedro,’ Papá ordered. ‘Take your mother with you.’
I remained riveted to the spot.
‘What’s all this about?’ Papá demanded of Zorrillo. ‘We paid last Wednesday.’
However, Zorrillo pretended not to know him. Stepping forward, he handed a written sheet to Caraquemada, who crosschecked it against Papá’s cédula.
‘Mario Jesús Gutiérrez Molina, you are charged with supplying the government army.’
Papá laughed – convinced there had been an error – and pushed the rifle tip away.
‘That’s not true.’ But when the blond boy thrust it back, Papá sounded less confident. ‘Supplying them with what?’
‘Water.’
Papá sucked in air. I stood paralysed with disbelief. In a lawless, war-torn land where extortion, kidnapping and murder were rife, being accused of giving away water was like being fined for littering during a hurricane.
‘Do you wish to speak in your defence?’ Caraquemada asked.
Papá could have denied it, or claimed the army lieutenant had given him no choice. But he had the nerve of a bullfighter. Rather than lie, he defended his principles.
‘It is a sin to deny a thirsty man water. You and your men are also welcome to drink from my pipes.’
Caraquemada took this as an admission.
‘Please accompany us for further investigation.’ His tone was businesslike, as though Papá had the option to refuse. But Caraquemada’s face told another story.
‘I will do no such thing.’ Papá must have known that they’d already decided his fate. Once he’d admitted the offence, there was no need for further investigation.
