Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  Camila and I sat across the aisle from them and I nodded politely. ‘How have you been, señores?’

  ‘You’re on the wrong bus,’ muttered Old Man Domino without looking at me.

  ‘I’m going to my girlfriend’s house. Have you met Camila Muñoz?’

  ‘Pay attention, young man! Your bus goes in the opposite direction,’ he insisted, still not meeting my eyes. ‘You should get off.’

  I shrugged at Camila. Maybe he was drunk. Or perhaps he was going senile. Camila winked back at me and her eyes motioned downwards to Old Man Domino’s wrist, where I saw a white medical band. There was also a circular sticking plaster on his forearm, and I guessed he’d been to the Garbanzos clinic for a blood test. With the amount he drank, it was a miracle he was still alive.

  I smiled at his wife, but she turned her head to stare out the window. Her jaw was tense and I assumed she was embarrassed by her husband’s behaviour. But Old Man Domino wasn’t drunk or senile; he was attempting to secretly warn me.

  Rounding a blind corner halfway to Camila’s home, the bus braked suddenly. Through the windscreen, I saw a line of six cars stopped ahead of us. A soldier in the middle of the road was using a fluorescent baton to direct us towards a diagonal line of orange traffic cones that led to the highway’s shoulder. Beside him was a green metal sign with white lettering: National Army – Security Check.

  ‘Not again!’ The driver cursed under his breath.

  I had my Smith & Wesson tucked into my waistband under my shirt, but I wasn’t concerned. I’d passed two government checkpoints a week earlier without incident.

  However, when the bus pulled to a halt, I got a better look at the twenty or so soldiers who stood beside it gripping rifles. Their uniforms were exactly the same as those of the army, but with one crucial difference: these soldiers wore black rubber boots.

  The Guerrilla! They’d moved their roadblock north – perhaps to provoke the army, or perhaps to net people like me who usually got off before the roadblock. My heart began pounding furiously. I nudged Camila in the ribs.

  ‘They’re guerrilleros,’ I whispered.

  ‘¡Mierda!’ Her hand gripped my knee. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘We’ll be okay. Just let me do the talking.’

  The automatic doors swished opened and two guerrilleros, aged about fourteen, stormed up the stairs, brandishing their AK47s. Adrenalin surged through my body. Camila’s grip on my knee tightened.

  One boy watched the driver while the second addressed us. ‘Buenas tardes, ladies and gentlemen. Please place your hands on the seat in front of you.’ The boy walked unhurriedly down the aisle, his boots squeaking as he eyed the passengers one by one. When his gaze met mine, he held it for a moment and then thankfully moved on. ‘We’re from the 34th Unit of the FARC. This is a security check. We’re making the region safer for everyone.’

  I began to panic. A security check meant there would be a full-body pat down.

  ‘Everyone please stand, leave your cell phones on your seats and exit the bus.’

  Before obeying, I had a quick choice to make: take the pistol with me or leave it on the colectivo. I remembered Beta’s lesson: a commander should never get caught alive by the enemy. The pistol was for defending myself to my last breath. If I left it behind and they discovered who I was, an agonising death awaited me. On the other hand, if I took it with me and they discovered it, it would be one man with a pistol against twenty soldiers with military assault rifles.

  I decided to chance it unarmed – I’d rely on my fake ID and hope no one recognised me. I lifted my sports bag to my knee as cover, extracted my Smith & Wesson from my waistband and wedged it into the gap between our green vinyl seats. Camila’s eyes widened but she said nothing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the boy demanded, detecting my movement.

  ‘Leaving my bag here on the seat.’

  ‘Bring it with you! All belongings need to be searched.’

  As I filed down the stairs in front of Camila and Old Man Domino, I heard a third boy outside yelling commands to the passengers alighting ahead of us: ‘Hands against the windows! Feet spread apart! Have your identification cards ready.’

  Hearing this, I realised I’d been right to leave my gun behind – their searches would be thorough. Nevertheless, I felt truly frightened. To walk unarmed towards the enemy went against my every soldierly instinct. I felt naked and powerless. All it would take was one of the twenty guerrilleros to recognise me.

  I mentally revised the name and date of birth on my fake identification. I knew the types of questions they’d ask: Where was I from? Where was I going? What for? With whom was I travelling? Where did I work? My answers needed to sound confident. If they detected nerves and my story didn’t hold up, they’d overpower me in seconds.

  Behind me, Camila gave my hand a gentle squeeze. Both our palms were clammy, but her simple touch calmed me. As we descended the final step, she interlocked her fingers with mine. I’d never been so glad that she was with me. Of course, Camila didn’t know the full details on my fake cédula. But she knew the name I’d registered under at the hotel. And providing I was questioned first, she would go along with whatever I said. She would not falter and we’d get through this together.

  However, as soon as Camila’s foot hit the asphalt, a female guerrillera seized her wrist and jerked her away from me.

  ‘Women this way,’ she barked. ‘Other side of the bus.’

  With no chance to align our stories, my panic escalated. Would Camila say we were travelling together? Would she remember to use my fake name and say that my job was picking the fruit from African oil palms?

  Stay calm, I told myself. Breathe deeply and stay calm.

  I stood in line to the left of Old Man Domino, facing the bus with my hands touching the window, my back to the Guerrilla squad and my brain racing faster and faster. I couldn’t believe this was happening only seven kilometres from Garbanzos. Where was the army? If Old Man Domino had known about the roadblock, surely word had reached Colonel Buitrago.

  Through the window I could see Camila being questioned on the other side of the bus. Our eyes met briefly. Her face was ashen. I now wished I’d told her to pretend not to know me. She would have been safe then. But the most important thing now was for our stories to match. I tapped my cédula against the window and she nodded that she understood. I was relieved when her interrogator finally moved to the next passenger.

  In the bus’s side mirror, I caught glimpses of the scene behind me. Seven guerrilleros, working as a team, were making their way down the line of male passengers. They looked about twelve or thirteen years old, and three of them were girls. One of the boys squeezed and patted each man from shirt collar down to socks, a girl rifled through bags, and the eldest looking boy checked IDs and asked questions. Three metres behind us, the remaining four stood covering our backs with their AK47s. By the time the interrogator reached me, even my fingertips were perspiring, leaving smudges on the glass.

  After studying my cédula and comparing my face to its photo, the boy slid the edge of the card down an alphabetical list of names on his clipboard. Halfway down, I read my own name: Juan Pedro González Gutiérrez. I tensed, but he went past it in search of my assumed name – Jhon Jairo García Sanchez – which, of course, wasn’t there.

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Field worker. I cut fruit from African oil palms.’

  ‘Take off your hat.’

  I obeyed. I didn’t dare turn around, but I could feel his eyes studying my military haircut. Suspicion entered his voice.

  ‘Your cédula says you’re from Meta. Why are you so far from home, Jhon Jairo?’

  ‘I’m visiting family.’

  Hearing my story aloud, it sounded flimsy. The boy stepped in closer, tapping my ID card against his clipboard, and his eyes bore into me with increasing distrust.

  ‘Who exactly are you visiting? I need full names and an address.’ He turned and looked back, as th
ough debating whether to call over a superior. Tilting my head around under my armpit, I followed his gaze back to a tall, well-built man, the only soldier who looked fully-grown.

  By then, three cars and a Rápido Velasquez bus had been detained behind us.

  ‘This one’s on the list, comandante!’ cried a girl, jabbing her rifle muzzle into the back of an overweight man with a moustache and herding him and a woman, who was probably his wife, away from their vehicle.

  ‘Bring him over,’ replied the commander. ‘That makes three from the list plus the oligarch driving the BMW.’

  I thought I recognised his voice, but his face was partially concealed by a hat. He was interrogating three men who were kneeling before him with their hands behind their heads. Two of the men were young and casually dressed. The third was an elderly gentleman wearing a suit. The fat man with the moustache was forced to kneel too.

  At that moment, the commander removed his hat and wiped sweat from his brow.

  I froze. It was the blond boy – Buitre. He was standing only three metres behind me, next to the four guards. Heart racing, I bowed my head lower and pulled my arms in tightly against my cheeks.

  I knew I had to answer the soldier’s question about who I was visiting, but I couldn’t. Whatever I said would only sink me deeper and endanger Camila. All I could feel was the blood thumping through the tight veins of my forehead. If Buitre sees me, I’m dead – tortured … and then dead.

  The interrogator shook my arm, demanding again, ‘Who are you visiting?’

  ‘Me!’ came a voice from beside me. It was Old Man Domino.

  ‘And who are you?’ asked the boy.

  ‘His grandfather.’ Old Man Domino handed over his ID card. ‘And you can call me “sir”, muchacho.’

  His rudeness was deliberate. The boy was thrown off balance, clearly unaccustomed to challenges from civilians. I was thankful for Old Man Domino’s intervention – it strengthened my cover story and diverted the boy’s attention. But for how long? If he asked more questions, our responses would never align.

  The boy held the two ID cards side by side, looking indecisively from one to the other. Then he stiffened. ‘Your surnames are different. I need to check this with my comandante.’

  Heart in my mouth, I tilted my head again and my eyes followed his footsteps towards Buitre. I looked sideways, gauging the distance to the bus door, planning to sprint for my pistol.

  However, Old Man Domino turned abruptly, drawing the ire of the four guards, who pointed their rifles and yelled at him to stand still.

  ‘¡Oye! Buitre, tell this muchacho you know me!’ he called out.

  ‘I think that man’s drunk,’ said our interrogator. ‘His breath stinks.’

  ‘Him!’ Buitre laughed and waved the boy away. ‘He’s always drunk.’

  ‘But—’ the boy protested, holding up the ID cards.

  Buitre pointed at our bus. ‘Finish that one quickly. Move on to the next bus.’

  As the soldier returned our ID cards and ordered us back on board, I smelled gasoline and saw two guerrilleros using a hose to siphon fuel from the gas tank of the bus behind us. The boy followed us inside, still suspicious. When he saw me sit down next to Old Man Domino, he shook his head and jumped off.

  I collapsed back against my seat, shaking. Old Man Domino had saved me. No words could ever express my gratitude.

  Camila boarded, pale and perspiring. I moved across the aisle to sit beside her, but we didn’t look at each other. I had no idea what she’d been through on her side of the bus. I wanted to comfort her but didn’t trust myself to speak.

  I sat on my shaking, sweaty hands, trying to breathe evenly and not look out the open window. Only metres away was one of my father’s killers – a man I had dreamed of killing but who had been only seconds away from killing me.

  Suddenly, cries came from the guerrilleros outside.

  ‘¡Los Chulos! ¡La Ley!’

  The Vultures and The Law were the Guerrilla’s terms for the army and the police. Whistling and hand signals passed along the line of guerrilleros.

  ‘Take these three enemy away,’ Buitre ordered, pointing at three of the four kneeling prisoners.

  ‘No!’ screamed the wife of the overweight man with the moustache.

  She clutched at his shirt, but two guerrilleros prised her off. She dug around inside her handbag, pulling out a white plastic bottle, which she rattled.

  ‘Please, señor!’ she said to Buitre. ‘He needs these for his heart! He could die without them.’

  But Buitre waved her away.

  She began crying. ‘It’s only medicine. Please take it! It’s only medicine.’

  The three hostages were led away – hands bound with plastic ties, rifles digging into their spines – leaving the elderly man in the suit still kneeling.

  ‘Do you have your car keys?’ Buitre asked him.

  ‘Of course.’ Hope flashed across the man’s face as he reached into his pocket. ‘I can drive you wherever you like. Or better still, just take the car—’

  Without even letting him finish, Buitre shot him in the side of the head. He slumped sideways and a collective gasp came from the passengers on our bus.

  ‘I will.’ Buitre scooped up the keys from the dirt and tossed them to a subordinate. ‘Turn the oligarch’s car sideways and block the road. Then torch it.’

  ‘Army!’ The call came again – louder and more urgent this time. At that moment, there was an explosion. They’d set the Rápido Velasquez bus on fire, sending flames licking up its sides.

  Our driver swore and slammed his foot on the accelerator. As the bus sped off, we looked through the back window with our hands covering our mouths at the scenes of chaos and panic on the highway behind us.

  The dead man was facedown beside the highway with a grey-haired woman slumped over his body, wailing. Motorists were scrambling for their cars. Several passengers from the torched bus stood watching it go up in flames. Others ran for cover. A line of vehicles extended in both directions, blocked by the burning bus. Panic spread as dozens of drivers attempted three-point turns at the same time, honking and screaming at each other. We rounded the bend and lost sight of them.

  Behind us, I heard a second explosion – that must have been the dead man’s BMW. A second tower of thick black smoke billowed upwards. I hugged Camila. She was trembling violently and her chest was heaving as she emitted small, staccato gasps.

  ‘It’s okay, baby,’ I said. ‘We’re safe now.’

  85

  ONCE OFF THE bus and back inside her house, Camila raced up the stairs to her room. I found her lying on her bed. At first she wouldn’t look at me and I assumed she was in shock. When I caressed her hair, she curled into the foetal position.

  ‘Your fake cédula I can understand,’ she said. ‘But why do you need the gun?’

  ‘For protection.’

  ‘But if they’d found it, they would have shot you. You could have been killed. You could have got us both killed.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have touched you. But there are worse things they could do than shoot me.’

  I’d answered truthfully and my reason for carrying a pistol was logical. But sometimes truth and logic don’t win an argument. Sometimes, they make it deteriorate.

  Camila opened her eyes. They were filled with tears. ‘Worse things like what?’

  ‘Nothing happened, amor. We’re both fine. And you know what I do for a job. It won’t be for much longer, I promise.’

  I tried to see things from Camila’s perspective. Four months earlier, she’d reluctantly accepted what I did. But she’d only known in theory. Seeing my pistol and having rifles pointed at her at the Guerrilla roadblock had suddenly made it real.

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be here,’ she said.

  I was stunned. Was she saying she wanted to end our relationship?

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she rushed on. ‘I’m putting you in danger. None of this would have happened if you weren’t ba
ck here to see me. You’d be on the coast with Palillo or staying safely with your mother.’

  ‘Don’t be silly! You’re not putting me in danger! And it’s my choice to be here.’

  Camila was silent again. At least she hadn’t said she wanted to break up. But what she was saying almost amounted to the same thing. Of course, I’d have happily paid for us to travel and meet in a different town. But Camila had a year and a half of school remaining, and it would be impossible to time my leave periods to coincide with her vacations. Our relationship was already strained by distance and time apart. Not being able to visit her at home would end it completely.

  ‘We’ll be fine.’ I brushed the hair back from her cheek. ‘They didn’t see me. And I won’t travel on that bus route ever again.’

  Camila buried her face in the pillow. ‘I just want a normal life like the girls at school. I want a normal boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s not fair, amor. You know why my life is like this. You know what they did to Papá.’

  She sat up and hugged me tightly. ‘I’m sorry. What I meant was I just want to feel safe.’

  ‘You are safe, baby. I love you and we’re not going to lose each other. I promise.’

  I felt her hot, wet tears against my neck. I knew she loved me deeply. But we’d left the underlying argument unresolved – the difficulty of her being the girlfriend of someone wanted by the Guerrilla while she lived in a town that they controlled.

  I left Camila on the bed, hoping she’d be calmer by morning. Señor Muñoz drove me back to Garbanzos. Three hours had passed by then and they’d cleared the dead body, but we saw the patch of blood and the debris, including the burnt-out hulk of the bus belonging to Felix Velasquez, its lettering still visible. Several windows had melted in a strange pattern down its side, the glass resolidifying like stalactites. Beneath them on the asphalt I saw pools of hardened black rubber that must have belonged to the tyres.

  By the time I reached the hotel, I had moved on from my shock and now felt angry. I kept seeing the faces of the young boys and girls at the roadblock. If the long-promised communist revolution ever succeeded, our country would be governed by fourteen-year-olds brandishing AK47s and their eleven-year-old henchmen in ripped jeans who collected taxes for them. I watched television, convinced that the roadblock would be national news. An incident like this was clear proof the Guerrilla had violated the ceasefire. It could not go unreported, especially when there were at least fifty witnesses.