Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  On Sunday mornings I prayed in the chapel, often crossing paths with Trigeño’s mother, who nodded to me solemnly. Once or twice, Trigeño prayed at the same time. Exiting the chapel, he smiled at me and touched his finger to his necklace, which carried a similar cross to mine. I was surprised that his mother acknowledged me, but not her son. I sensed strong tension between them.

  During my free time, I visited La 50 to catch up on news of my platoon members. Culebra’s second fast-track course was now in full swing. With a record intake of 250 recruits, La 50 was now an assembly line, with the recruits jammed side by side in their hammocks like tinned sardines. Ñoño was completing his first-aid course. Coca-Cola was undergoing physiotherapy for his shattered leg.

  Every dawn at La 35 I jogged alone, since that was the time of day that I did my best thinking. One morning I found Trigeño jogging beside me, with a three-car security convoy trailing behind.

  ‘Where’s your journalist?’ I asked jokingly, falling into step.

  He laughed. ‘He can’t keep up! Nor can anyone else for that matter.’

  I took this as a challenge and matched him stride for stride. At the end of ten kilometres we stopped and doubled over, panting breathlessly beside a slow-flowing creek.

  An insect skittered across the water and a large fish surfaced to take it, sending ripples outwards. ‘A pirarucu,’ I said automatically.

  ‘You fish?’ Trigeño asked.

  ‘I used to. Every Sunday with my father.’

  ‘We should fish together one of these days,’ he said. ‘I keep the dam stocked with bream.’

  ‘Whenever you have time, comando.’

  Now that I’d ascended to platoon leader, I became privy to the commanders’ private conversations and began to notice personality differences that hadn’t been obvious during basic training.

  A young soldier, Abel, was brought to La 50 with his hands tied. The previous day, on his birthday, he’d gotten drunk by the pool at La María and gone into the local village carrying his rifle to impress a girl he liked. He’d banged loudly on her door, causing her panicked father to phone the urbano commander, who captured and disarmed him. Alfa 1 had Abel bound naked in the sun, ready to be executed after three days of El Soleado. Trigeño, however, set him free.

  ‘What about the statutes you wrote?’ Alfa 1 said quietly to Trigeño at the commanders’ dinner table, where we junior commanders were also permitted to sit.

  ‘Relax!’ said Trigeño. ‘It was the kid’s birthday.’

  ‘Every day is someone’s birthday,’ Alfa 1 mumbled.

  Trigeño heard him and retorted loudly, ‘You’re a hell of a soldier, Alfa 1, but you’re also inflexible.’

  Inflexible. That was the exact word for Alfa 1. He never wavered; he never bent. But neither did he adapt. I found myself being drawn towards Trigeño and away from Alfa 1’s rigid, black-and-white way of thinking.

  Beta seemed to delight in these disputes between Alfa 1 and Trigeño. Perhaps he figured that, as third in command, he might one day become their main beneficiary. He was also ambitious and sly. He’d state his opinion if asked, but once his superiors overruled him, he said no more, although he did seem to sulk a little and I noticed the occasional look of resentment cast towards Alfa 1, who was constantly reigning in Beta’s violent tendencies.

  With Alfa 1 busy overseeing our advanced training, Beta ensured that the recruits’ basic course became more vicious and gruesome. Men in civilian clothes were delivered to La 50 blindfolded and gagged. After a week in Beta’s Bunker, they were dragged into the daylight, blinking, burned and beaten. Recruits were told that these men were captured guerrilleros and to practise their killing on them, and then their ‘chopping and packing’. But I wasn’t convinced that they were enemy combatants, particularly since Trigeño wanted the Guerrilla to return to ‘business as usual’.

  One day a man caught raping a six-year-old girl was brought to camp. Beta strapped him by the torso to an African palm. He tied one end of a rope around the man’s stomach and the other end to the Blazer’s tow bar, and then sped off, ripping the man in two.

  ‘We have no government prisons out here,’ stated Beta, ‘but if we did, and that was your daughter, would you pay taxes to feed, clothe and house that bastard?’

  His aim was a society with no Guerrilla, no cattle rustlers, no car thieves, no muggers, no drug addicts, no cocaine-traffickers, no rapists and certainly no child molesters.

  ‘We don’t want people like that in our community. Think of all the money wasted on courts and prisons for criminals who then get released and reoffend. Wouldn’t it be better if those people just … disappeared?’

  Slowly, I found myself agreeing with him. One day, I planned on having a family with Camila. Men who raped children simply didn’t deserve to be alive. Making them disappear seemed the right thing to do.

  By the end of the third week, I could strip, clean and reassemble my Galil while blindfolded. We’d memorised windage charts, learned to calculate the lag time for a fast-moving target and could estimate a man’s distance from us using his crouching, sitting or standing height.

  However, as mid-November approached, I began to dread the anniversary of Papá’s murder. The day before his anniversary, I felt hollow as I ran my fingers over his photo. Many things had happened in my outside world, but I felt that my inner life hadn’t moved forward at all. In fact, it had stagnated back there, exactly 364 days ago.

  ‘You seem upset,’ Trigeño said to me between classes. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, looking down at my feet.

  ‘Thinking about your father?’

  I nodded, surprised that he’d guessed. ‘Tomorrow is the anniversary of his death.’

  ‘Then tomorrow morning you will train extra hard to keep your mind occupied. And in the afternoon, we’ll do something fun.’

  That ‘fun’ thing was fishing at his dam. Trigeño was a busy man who had meetings with dozens of people every week, and yet he made time for me.

  Standing barefoot in the mud, I felt myself relaxing as we fished side by side, overlooking the valley. Throwing out my sinker and then teasing in the line took me back to happier days with Papá. Below us, the lush plains stretched peacefully to the horizon.

  Our conversation flowed smoothly. We talked about our common interests. Prayer. Jogging. Our favourite species of fish to catch. I told him about my father’s rod, which had both Papá’s and my grandfather’s initials engraved in the handle. We also talked politics.

  For Trigeño, there was one simple test of a political system: whether people wanted to join it or leave.

  ‘You don’t see North Americans desperately paddling tyre inner tubes through shark-infested waters to reach Cuba,’ he declared.

  Finally, as the sun descended, I told him how, following Santiago’s radio order, Caraquemada had executed Papá while Buitre held me down. I told him how, because of my hot-headedness, Zorrillo had banned us from our finca.

  Afterwards, I felt peaceful and lighter, as though expressing the unbearable weight of my pain made it a burden shared.

  ‘But your mother’s okay? She has somewhere to stay?’

  I nodded cautiously, feeling my cheeks burn. Perhaps I’d been too honest with Trigeño, opening myself up to tricky questions. Having seen what he’d done to two innocent men simply for receiving benefits from their cocaine-trafficking brother, I certainly couldn’t let him know that Mamá was staying with Javier Díaz.

  Luckily, he didn’t press me. Instead, he slipped some cash into my breast pocket. ‘Call her and send flowers.’

  ‘Gracias,’ I mumbled.

  ‘You need to be strong and stay focused, Pedro. Don’t let your sadness distract you.’

  ‘I am focused. I want Santiago dead. And all Papá’s other killers.’

  ‘Then trust me. You’ll have your shot at Santiago – I’m sure of it.’

  When a man like Trigeño expresses certainty, there i
s no reason to doubt. His certainty became my certainty, and the anniversary of Papá’s death ended calmly with Trigeño and me fishing side by side.

  After I returned from fishing, Alfa 1 sent for me. He was alone in his dormitory with two shots of aguardiente sitting on the desk before him. His eyes were sparkling, as though they were dancing their own little jig.

  ‘Help me celebrate,’ he said, sliding a shot towards me.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘My no longer being a fugitive.’ He raised the shot glass. ‘The witness won’t testify. So there’s no more arrest warrant. Gone!’

  ‘So you know who the witness is?’

  ‘Who the witness was.’ Alfa 1 made the sign of the cross. Then he laughed. ‘A son of a bitch with a mouth bigger than his brain – that’s who he was.’

  We drank and I felt privileged that he’d chosen me, and me alone, to share this news. In recent months, Alfa 1 had taken me under his wing. Even when he was hardest on me – singling me out for disproportionate and sometimes unfair criticism – I suspected this was also a perverse token of his affection and belief in my potential. He was holding me to a higher standard than the others.

  Later, as I opened the door and bade good evening to Alfa 1, I noticed the strange dusk, with the sun and moon out at the same time, inhabiting opposite ends of the sky, and the difference between Trigeño and Alfa 1 struck me starkly.

  The two men were loyal allies, intertwined links in a cast-iron chain of command. But Trigeño was a colourful performer, a man of ideas who wanted to take those ideas beyond himself and convince others in order to instigate social change. Alfa 1, on the other hand, was private and solitary. He lived his life in black and white. He judged men by their actions, and his personal sacrifice was his loneliness and a lack of gratitude from others.

  Who was the greater man? I wondered as I walked back to my dormitory. Who would I follow, if forced to choose?

  Papá wouldn’t have liked either of them. They’re killers, he’d said of the Autodefensas. But then again, I was now a killer too. A precision killer. And at the markets in Puerto Galán on the Sunday before Christmas, Zorrillo would not escape my bullet’s justice.

  93

  MY VISIT HOME in December was very different to my previous one in July. I arrived by bus on the Monday before Christmas, but Mamá couldn’t meet me because she’d accepted work as a cook inside Buitrago’s army garrison. She’d also requested more money from me the week before, so my salary would have to stretch.

  I sent Camila a text with my hotel and room number. An hour later, she tapped at the door and slipped into the room like a frightened shadow. Instead of joyously launching herself at me, she stepped quietly into my arms and nestled her head under my chin.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked when she finally released me.

  Camila’s gaze slid away guiltily. ‘I had to tell people we broke up.’

  ‘What?’ The news was like a slap in the face. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my brothers found out you’re an Autodefensa. Before they left town to find work, they informed Papá. He’s furious with you. I had to lie and say we’d had a fight.’

  Camila had heard of people quitting the Autodefensas before the obligatory four years of service, and that’s what she wanted me to do. ‘When I go to university, you can come with me and get a job in Bogotá. I’m sure Fabián would give you a reference.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it later, amor.’

  But there were only so many times I could postpone the inevitable discussion. Camila was still devoted to me, but her patience was wearing thin.

  It was 8 pm when Mamá called past my hotel still wearing her blue uniform, having just worked a ten-hour kitchen shift at the army barracks. Her eyelids drooped heavily with exhaustion.

  ‘I can only stay for half an hour, hijo,’ she said, kissing my forehead. ‘Javier’s driver is waiting downstairs.’

  It was a strange state of affairs. Mamá was working galley-slave hours for a pittance and yet living in a mansion with an armed bodyguard to pick her up. But the extra money wasn’t for her; it was for Uncle Leo. His hardware business was in trouble, thanks to a new Guerrilla checkpoint south of Garbanzos.

  ‘No deliveries past this point,’ a teenage guerrillero had informed Leo the previous month. He’d offered no reason and could not say how long the new policy would last.

  Mamá shook her head. ‘Without deliveries, half Uncle’s business is gone.’ She’d given him money to repay his suppliers and even buy groceries.

  In fact, the entire region was in the grip of an economic crisis. South of Garbanzos, Caraquemada’s unit now controlled everything. Declaring a regional strike, Zorrillo forced campesinos to march and chant with placards. He publicised this as ‘a peasant-organised rally against environmental damage caused by US crop fumigation’, but he fooled no one. Coca was the Guerrilla’s cash crop, and he was protecting it.

  Nevertheless, his strike was effective. People couldn’t get to work. According to the hotel owner, the river towns were the worst affected. But even in Garbanzos plaza, stores were empty. Rather than spend money in restaurants, wives made packed lunches for their husbands, or families skipped meals altogether.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I heard a little girl complain.

  ‘Drink more water,’ replied her mother.

  Many times, I heard people mention how la situación was mala. People had stopped openly criticising the culprits. It wasn’t the Guerrilla who were bad. It was the situation.

  The only ones seemingly unaffected were the Díaz brothers. Somehow, their bus routes continued to operate.

  What I’d predicted during my last visit was coming true: the peace process wasn’t working. Slowly, the Guerrilla were consolidating their power and strangling the local economy. Determined to prove themselves the solution to poverty, they were prepared to become its cause.

  After the latest spate of attacks – a daylight kidnapping in Llorona and a homicide in Garbanzos plaza – locals were circulating a petition to remove Colonel Buitrago. They wanted a duro – a ‘hardliner’ – to replace him; someone who could protect them, perhaps someone not so opposed to the Autodefensas.

  I saw the colonel the day after my arrival, his face tense, striding purposefully through the plaza surrounded by a dozen uniformed men. Since he’d requested I not contact him, I didn’t wave, although I know he saw me because the following day he sent me an envelope via Mamá.

  Inside were several photographs of our finca and a shot of Buitrago clutching a Bible as he stood under the oak tree near Papá’s grave. On the back, he’d written: ‘I said a prayer for Mario Jesús on your behalf.’

  It was a thoughtful and conciliatory gesture after my heated outburst at the Díaz fiesta. I sent a short, unsigned, thank-you note in return.

  Among Buitrago’s many critics, the most scathing was Felix Velasquez, whose transport business had deteriorated further. Mauricio Torres also continued to struggle at the cattle yards under the Guerrilla’s tightening yoke.

  I was still determined to take a shot against Zorrillo at the Puerto Galán markets on Sunday, with my new scope and sniper skills. However, sneaking into the town in my previous disguise of fisher boy would be impossible. Every boat now had to report to the Guerrilla at the wharf.

  I heard this news from Old Man Domino when I visited him in hospital. He was suffering liver complications and looked jaundiced, although his eyes retained their sparkle.

  He must have noticed my disappointment and guessed I was up to something because, when his wife stepped outside to speak to the nurse, he clutched my wrist fiercely.

  ‘You’ve got your whole life ahead of you,’ he said. ‘Don’t ruin it by getting yourself killed.’

  I was grateful to Old Man Domino, although his advice meant I’d have to think of another way in. Perhaps Don Mauricio could smuggle me close to the market in a cattle truck, but he wouldn’t take my calls. And without outside assistance, my plans
for eradicating Papá’s killers amounted to nothing.

  94

  IT WAS 6 PM on Christmas Eve and I missed Papá worse than ever. I sat alone on the edge of my mattress, staring down at his photo on my knee. It was my second Christmas since his death and the most miserable yet. At least the previous year I’d been angry at Papá’s killers. This year, I was simply depressed.

  I looked out of the window remembering how, when I was younger, the townsfolk would erect an enormous Christmas tree in the plaza. People would leave gifts underneath for distribution to the poor. Fairy lights flickered everywhere. Families would walk through the streets holding hands.

  But that year, not a soul walked the plaza. It seemed everyone was with their family, dining together. Everyone, that was, except me.

  Mamá was with the Díaz clan at Javier’s hacienda. She’d offered to cook them dinner – they’d been good to her. I couldn’t tell Mamá about Fabián giving Camila cocaine or my conviction that the brothers trafficked drugs, so when I refused to attend she assumed I was being rude and stubborn.

  ‘When you’re ready to be civil,’ she said, ‘I’ll send our driver to collect you.’

  Camila was with her parents and brothers. Unfortunately, I was no longer welcome in her home, and, anyway, it was too dangerous to visit. As for Uncle Leo, he was probably drinking with one of his teenage perras. I couldn’t even bring myself to answer when Palillo’s name flashed on my phone because I didn’t want to infect him with my sadness.

  I turned on the television. Caracol News was running a segment on the latest piece of Guerrilla villainy: they’d celebrated Christmas by hijacking a plane and forcing the pilot to land on a public highway. Then they’d kidnapped all twenty-two passengers, including a senator.