Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  He cut the window that very day, a thirty centimetre by thirty centimetre square that he covered with wire mesh. Culebra might have been lazy, but not when it came to his own comfort.

  Another of my jobs was to help repair weapons. When a weapon malfunctioned, Culebra consigned it to the repairs box. There it might remain for months until replacement parts were imported or, if it had only a minor fault, until Culebra had time to fix it using a part from another decommissioned weapon. A tiny component could prevent an entire pistol from working. One might have a broken firing pin, another a magazine that jammed or a faulty trigger spring.

  Culebra taught me how to disassemble the damaged weapons and search for the required part. Most of the pistols were Taurus PT92s – the same type Tango and Murgas had shown me at El Filtro. Manufactured in Brazil, they were inexpensive and had few working parts.

  ‘When will we learn to fire one of these?’ I asked Culebra.

  ‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘Not during basic training.’

  As recruits, we’d use Galil rifles. Pistols were only for commanders; the perimeter guards were being taught to use them as part of their advanced training course. But I needed to learn to use a pistol before I went after my father’s killers. A rifle was too large to steal, and anyway, I wanted Papá’s murderers up close.

  ‘Would you teach me to shoot one?’

  He laughed. ‘Maybe one day.’ He was just brushing me off, but I resolved to change his mind.

  Ten days into the training, Culebra had just returned from purchasing supplies in Puerto Bontón. I was helping him unload the bags from the camp’s Chevrolet Blazer SUV when Alfa 1 approached us.

  ‘We need more electrical tape urgently,’ he said to Culebra. Tape hadn’t been on Alfa 1’s shopping list. I could see Culebra wanted to roll his eyes, but instead he took a deep breath and opened the Blazer door.

  ‘I can drive,’ I offered.

  Alfa 1 laughed. ‘You’re fifteen.’

  ‘I’ve been driving on our finca since I was twelve. And I have a licence.’

  ‘Is it valid?’

  They waited while I went to my locker to fetch it. On my way back, I realised that if Alfa 1 examined it closely he’d know I’d lied about my name. I was sweating as I handed it over, but he merely glanced at it before handing it back.

  ‘No recruits allowed off La 50 alone. Prove you can be trusted. Then we’ll see.’ My heart sank until he turned to Culebra and added, ‘Pedro will drive. You supervise and report back to me later.’

  I now accompanied Culebra whenever he bought supplies in Puerto Bontón. Culebra was content as I was the one driving and carrying heavy bags of provisions while he ‘supervised’. And I’d come to the attention of Alfa 1. After that, I sometimes saw him watching me thoughtfully, and I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or nervous. On the one hand, Alfa 1’s attention might put me in line for a promotion. But he was also more likely to notice if I deviated from the rules, and that could be very dangerous.

  There were many rules in the Paramilitaries and many punishments for breaking them. Some were financial punishments in which fines, called multas, were deducted from your wages. Accidentally dropping your weapon, for example, might cost ten dollars. Most punishments, however, involved forms of physical torture.

  ‘Think you’re here for a romantic holiday?’ Culebra yelled at Silvestre, simply for whispering to Piolín. ‘Fifty push-ups.’

  Once the commanders singled a boy out for punishment, they waited for him to make more mistakes. When Silvestre was overheard by Beta joking that he had a destiny to eat some Tweetie Bird pie, he was punished with El Suplicio Chino – The Chinese Torture. Facing down, he had to support his weight on his toes and forearms and keep his body straight like a plank for two minutes. The moment a knee touched the ground, the trainers struck him hard with his own wooden rifle and the clock started again.

  Seeing Silvestre being beaten by the instructors, I worried about Palillo. At school, Palillo had played the class clown. I feared that his impulsiveness, rebelliousness, or interest in Piolín would get him in trouble. During class I sat next to him tensely, ready to nudge him to keep quiet.

  In the second week, on payday, we were permitted a three-minute phone call from the office. This was a great privilege, Beta told us. Guerrilla soldiers were banned from ever contacting their families again.

  Beta sat nearby to make sure we didn’t give away information about our location. Most recruits said they were working on an African oil palm plantation. They’d see their families at the end of sixteen weeks and would phone again when they could.

  When my turn came, I considered calling Mamá but was still too angry with her.

  ‘Don’t you want to let her know you’re okay?’ asked Culebra.

  Instead of calling, I arranged to have my salary deposited into my parents’ account at the Agricultural Bank. That way, Mamá would know I was alive.

  Later, during question time in Alfa 1’s political class, Tango raised his hand. Perhaps after contact with the outside world he’d grown overconfident.

  ‘Murgas and I were told we’d be paid four hundred dollars per month.’

  Alfa 1’s face flashed menacingly like lightning on the horizon. ‘On the first day I told you the pay and asked if anyone joined against his will. And now you two dare question me?’

  For insubordination, Alfa 1 gave the brothers the harshest punishment to date. Two days tied to wooden posts in their underwear in the blazing sun, a punishment known as El Soleado – Sunstroke. They received no food but enough water to keep them alive. Blistered and weak, they rejoined our table on the third morning.

  Punishments were given arbitrarily and were often completely disproportionate to the offence. But the commanders’ message was clear: there was nothing we could do to question or defy them. They owned us completely.

  Of course, the girls were treated leniently. They talked and giggled without being reprimanded, and the commanders went easy on them during physical training. This was part of the system of penalties and inducements used to win them over. Although Tortuga always finished the obstacle course long after Ñoño and outside the maximum time permitted, nothing was said.

  Whenever I saw a new punishment meted out to another boy, I tried to train myself to survive that punishment. During free time, I practised push-ups, sit-ups and pack runs with bricks. Some days I refused to eat, giving my food to Palillo. Other days I didn’t drink, no matter how hot and thirsty I became. To practise for when we’d have to do guard duty, I kept my eyes open all night.

  I wanted to make myself tough enough to handle anything they threw my way. If Alfa 1 punished me, I’d take it and thrive. I aimed to be the best recruit of my intake and earn promotion. The faster I rose through the ranks, the sooner I’d gain the skills and the opportunities to go after Papá’s killers.

  I tried to occupy every waking minute so I wouldn’t have time to think. But when I did have a moment’s rest, my thoughts invariably returned to Papá. I liked to remember him in our happy times, fishing on Sundays, sitting in our pew at the church or at the family dinner table with Mamá serving roast beef.

  I still woke from nightmares, covered in sweat. In my dreams, Papá now died in different ways: drowning in the river where we fished, while I desperately tried to pluck him from the rapids, or thrown head-first through the windscreen of our truck when I ran a stop sign and collided with a bus.

  There were only two constant elements to the nightmares: Papá always died violently and the fault was always mine.

  In connection with my work in the armoury I sometimes had to go to the office, where I overheard the trainers’ phone calls, radio communications and snippets of conversation. By staying as still as a spider, I could get them to forget I was there and talk freely.

  Culebra grew careless and left files open. One day, when I was alone in the container, I passed the desk and saw a face I recognised: Ratón’s. The photo was slightly blurry, as though tak
en through a long-distance lens. It was lying on a sheet of paper in an open manila folder on the desk.

  I looked over my shoulder guiltily. Then I slid the photo across and scanned the words on the page below:

  CHAPA:

  Daniel Joaquin Gómez.

  APODO:

  Ratón

  UNIT:

  34th Unit, Vichada Province

  RESPONSIBILITIES:

  Recruitment, logistics, and community liaison

  LAST REPORTED SIGHTING:

  2nd November 20––, seen buying supplies in Villavicencio by a civilian informant

  Finally, I’d found the first useful clue in the hunt for my father’s killers. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could trace the Guerrilla using their supplies. Necessities such as food, oil and antibiotics they could buy from any corner store or marketplace. But provisions such as camouflage uniforms, military hardware and specialised batteries required authorised distributors. That was how I’d get to Ratón. According to the file, he’d last been sighted buying supplies in Villavicencio only six weeks earlier. And I already knew what one of his regular purchases must be – batteries for the Motorola radio through which he’d received the order for Papá’s execution.

  25

  NOW WHENEVER I awoke from a nightmare, I lay awake listening to the deep breathing and occasional snores of the other boys and fantasised about taking my revenge. After seeing Ratón’s file, my thoughts focused increasingly on him.

  December the 17th marked one month since Papá’s death. In my locker, I built a small shrine containing Papá’s pocket Bible and a plaster statuette of Mary that I’d bought in Puerto Bontón. On either side of Mary, I propped up photos. The first was of Papá and Mamá, taken two Christmases ago, smiling as they embraced on the sofa, surrounded by presents and torn wrapping paper. The second was of Camila, beautiful in a blue summer dress. The final photo was one I’d taken of Papá on a Sunday afternoon six months earlier. It showed him sitting comfortably in the dinghy with his foot braced against the gunwale and the fishing rod resting against his knee, enjoying his afternoon of relaxation. Wearing Papá’s crucifix around my neck, I prayed and wrote him a letter.

  There were no locks, so I was careful not to give away anything specific about the Autodefensas. But I wrote about my feelings, how things were going with Palillo and the thoughts I had at night. After writing, I took off the chain with the crucifix and stored everything in a shoebox under the statuette of Mary.

  Over the coming weeks I would write more letters to Papá and also postcards to Camila, which I never posted. Maybe one day I’d send them – one day when all this was over. But that day seemed a long way off. I had yet to fire a gun. I didn’t have a vehicle, a pistol or bullets. All I had was my anger.

  Meanwhile, I kept my head down and tried not incur the commanders’ wrath. But I worried more than ever about Palillo, who continued to flirt with Piolín behind their backs.

  We could all see how the commanders wooed the girls with privileges. The hair conditioner, tweezers and underwear a girl needed could be delayed or accelerated depending on her attitude. If she were friendly, she might get the body lotion she requested the next day; if she weren’t, it might take two weeks to arrive.

  The girls played the commanders’ game cautiously – not asking for much, but not refusing privileges either. They knew their rights under the Autodefensa Statutes – extra lip balm didn’t oblige them to have sex.

  Piolín, their leader, ensured they protected each other. If one was summoned to the commanders’ dormitory on an errand, a friend went with her. Piolín was smart and read widely, so Alfa 1 kept her onside with a reading lamp and books. Although she’d announced she had a boyfriend, she was still the most beautiful of the five and he hadn’t completely given up on her.

  Training, meanwhile, increased in difficulty. On the obstacle course, Culebra continued reducing the maximum time, Alfa 1 shouted at us through a megaphone, and Beta hit us harder. Ñoño spent his free time practising on the monkey bars and now, after one or two failed leaps, he was usually able to grab the first rung and swing across. But he was always the last of the boys to finish and his punishments accumulated.

  The physical demands were almost too much to bear. But the harder the trainers pushed us, the harder I tried. On the first day I’d finished the course in the middle of the pack. Eventually, though, the additional training I did in my free time began to pay off.

  ‘Relax!’ whispered Palillo as I did my nightly sit-ups after locking the armoury.

  ‘I’m still working.’

  ‘That’s not work,’ he whispered. ‘You’re punishing yourself.’

  As long as I controlled the pain I could stay focused on the future and stop wishing for my old life. I could forget that my own mistakes had destroyed everything. I also believed this extra training would protect me against every possible eventuality. However, there were some punishments so brutal they were impossible to train for.

  26

  ONLY THREE WEEKS into the course, we were thoroughly exhausted. With just one rest day per week, our muscles barely had time to recover. The relentless yelling, sleeping in uncomfortable hammocks as well as pointless exercises – such as being woken in the middle of the night and ordered to stand at attention for an hour – had also worn us down. Tango and Murgas were still angry at being tricked and even angrier at their recent El Soleado punishment.

  However, it wasn’t easy to leave the Autodefensas. MacGyver told me a discharge was occasionally granted to men who’d proven themselves to be good soldiers and who would keep their mouths shut. But this was up to individual commanders and only considered after four years.

  Tango and Murgas knew this but couldn’t wait. They were fed up. A week before Christmas, they decided to do something about it.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ whispered Murgas, slumping down beside me at breakfast, while Tango sat opposite him. ‘Want to join us?’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I lowered my voice even though the table was still empty. ‘Where would you go? There’s nothing for fifty kilometres in every direction. The commanders have vehicles, binoculars and boats. How far do you think you’ll get on foot?’

  ‘We wouldn’t be on foot. And we only have to get as far as that army base we passed at Puerto Bontón.’

  Their plan was for me to drive them there. Although the guards at the gate searched the Blazer thoroughly on the way in and out, personnel in the vehicle were assumed to have permission.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We’d hand ourselves in.’

  Being under age, they hadn’t broken the law by joining the Autodefensas. Provided they didn’t return to their old neighbourhood – the scene of previous crimes – Tango and Murgas wouldn’t do prison time. But even if they did, anything would be better than La 50.

  ‘And what would I do?’

  ‘The same as us. Or just keep driving.’

  ‘Pass the salt!’ said Tango loudly. I looked up and saw Ñoño approaching with Daisy trailing behind him. He was the one who fed her and she followed him everywhere, even sleeping under his hammock at night.

  I stood, leaving a half caldo with fried egg on the table.

  ‘You eating that?’ squeaked Ñoño.

  ‘I’m full,’ I lied. After the midnight sprints I was as hungry as a packhorse, but I slid the tray to Tango and Murgas. If they were planning to leave, they’d need to build up their strength.

  Tango approached me again that afternoon. Following the obstacle course, we had free time until dinner. We’d somersault from the pier into shoulder-deep water. Those who could swim would paddle twenty metres upstream to a metal pole, the tip of which poked out of a two-metre high waterfall. We’d hang on and let the water strike our faces until the fierce current tore us off.

  The five girls bathed twenty metres downstream. The unwritten rule that the girls were off limits didn’t stop Palillo from sneaking looks or a hundred boys from splashing, wrestling and teas
ing to show off.

  Neither Tango nor Murgas could swim. Waist-deep in water, Tango sidled up to me. I didn’t even want to be seen talking to him, but he put a hand on my shoulder to detain me.

  ‘Not interested,’ I said. There was no way I was going to desert. La 50 was exactly where I wanted to be.

  ‘Think about it, Pedro. You’ll never find your father’s killers stuck in a shipping container in the middle of nowhere.’

  I froze. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re not stupid! Murgas has a master key to both the container and the weapons rack. I’ll steal a pistol for you myself!’

  ‘Don’t do it!’ I hissed, horrified. ‘Be patient! At least wait until we’ve finished training!’

  We were interrupted by Silvestre, who was splashing closer. ‘In you come, Ñoño!’ he cried. ‘What’s wrong? That time of the month?’

  I looked up and saw Ñoño standing on the pier with his arms folded awkwardly. Daisy sat beside him. Perhaps she sensed his discomfort because she whined and licked his knee. It wasn’t so much getting into the water that was the problem, it was getting out – he didn’t have a hair on his body and our standard-issue white boxers turned semi-transparent when wet.

  Jump! I thought. If he dived in now, that would be the end of it. He could remain in the water until everyone was out – or until the girls got out, when the boys’ attention would be focused on them.