Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  Palillo, Giraldo and their men began pushing the Mercedes downhill towards the enemy, using it as cover as they fired their rifles and hurled grenades. I attached another RPG and scored a direct hit on Buitre’s spotlight. The squads in the southern and western trenches had waited for the explosions before scrambling over the rubble and collapsed sandbags in front of their trenches and sprinting towards Buitre’s men, Galils blazing. I saw the muzzle-flashes from the enemy as they fled towards the trees, their shots becoming more sporadic.

  Over the PA system, I heard an announcement in a deep voice I didn’t recognise but which sounded strangely familiar: ‘Pedro, this is Lieutenant Alvarez. We received your emergency call. Hold your positions. We’re approaching fast.’ Then a pause before a different-sounding, and yet very similar, voice responded: ‘Copy that, mi teniente.’

  Then I recognised the voice and burst out laughing. Coca-Cola! He was trying to trick the fleeing Guerrilla into believing we’d reconnected our VHF antenna and that the army were on their way.

  I was out of RPGs but by then I was hopeful; my men had at least reached the perimeter.

  There was no more return fire from the retreating enemy.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Pantera announced over his hand-held radio.

  We’d repelled them completely.

  I went downstairs and outside to give follow-up orders for my men. And it was not until Iván ran out and hugged my waist joyously that I remembered: Camila.

  132

  CAMILA WASN’T IN the cellar. Nor was she in the downstairs bedrooms, but I knew she would not have crossed the dark open ground to return to our cottage. I bounded back up the stairs and stopped suddenly, seeing her at Ernesto’s door, her hands clutching the bars. I didn’t know how long they’d been speaking, but when Camila turned towards me, her face said it all. The corners of her mouth turned down and her eyes were filled with unfathomable disappointment. Of course, she’d already heard Buitre’s demands on the megaphone, but now she knew everything.

  ‘I can explain,’ I began, beckoning her away from Ernesto’s door to indicate we should talk privately.

  ‘How could you possibly—’

  ‘Not here!’

  Camila brushed past me, swept down the hall and entered an unoccupied bedroom. I barely had time to follow her in and close the door before she rounded on me.

  ‘Tell me this isn’t true! That these past three weeks, while I’ve been making love to you in our cottage, you haven’t been holding a civilian you captured up here.’

  I knew I needed to stay calm but I immediately felt my anger rising, burning hot under Camila’s judgmental gaze.

  ‘He’s the brother of the man who caused Papá’s death. And I didn’t capture him – Beta did,’ I added defensively. ‘I’ve treated him well. You can ask him.’

  Camila folded her arms. ‘Ernesto is not responsible for what his brother did. And Beta brought him here for you. For you to chop him up and feed him to the fish or let him go as you pleased – that’s what Ernesto told me. So don’t try to twist the facts. This is you.’

  ‘It’s the only way to get Buitre,’ I insisted. ‘I have to make him pay for what he did to Papá and so many others. Have you forgotten how he kidnapped Cecilia, that girl from your colegio?’ I softened my voice. ‘When we have Buitre, I promise I’ll release Ernesto.’

  I tried to put my arm around her shoulder but she shrugged me off. ‘That’s not good enough. Do you have any idea what he’s going through? And how do you think his mother and fiancée feel right now? Or don’t you care? After all, you’ve never let your mother’s or my feelings stop you from doing whatever you wanted.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I protested. There was some truth in what she was saying – I hadn’t put our relationship first – but maybe if she’d actually seen Papá lying there, the trail of ants and the vultures trying to get at him, her attitude might have been different. ‘These men aren’t human, Camila. They need to be punished. No one else is going to do it. I’m sorry it’s affecting you, but for Papá’s sake, this is something I have to do.’

  Even as I spoke Camila was shaking her head.

  ‘Listen to yourself! It’s always about you. What they did to your father was abominable, but you haven’t learned from it. Instead, you’re multiplying your own suffering ten times over in others. At the beginning, when the Guerrilla was destroying our town, I could at least see some point to what you were doing. I told myself that once Llorona was peaceful, you’d put the past behind you. But you haven’t. And I can see now that you won’t.’

  ‘I just need more time. And you already agreed you’d wait. I’ll join you as soon as Buitre and Caraquemada are dead.’

  Camila was silent for a minute. When she spoke again her voice was soft but emphatic. ‘I was willing to wait. And I’ve been patient. I’ve tolerated and compromised on things I never imagined I would. But it’s no longer a question of waiting; it’s a question of the person you’ve become while I’ve waited. Keeping Ernesto prisoner is wrong, Pedro. Purely and simply wrong. I can’t turn a blind eye to things that I know in my heart are wicked. So I’m asking you, Pedro, for the very last time: give up this life, release Ernesto and come with me to Bogotá. It’s your decision.’

  ‘You’re the one making this decision. You’re the one who’s changing things. You can’t do this, Camila. You can’t ask me to choose between you and Papá.’

  Camila stared at me, tears welling in her eyes. I stared back at her, hoping to break her will. The fact that she was still standing there meant maybe, like me, she felt we were divided, like two cars on a dual carriageway, travelling in opposite directions, wanting and yet unable to turn around.

  ‘Your Papá is dead, Pedro. I’m alive. I want a boyfriend who has passions and dreams – and hobbies other than killing people! And if you can’t do as I ask,’ Camila continued, a tear trickling down her cheek, ‘then this is goodbye. It’s over. But when I’m gone, I hope you’ll look closely at your own reflection. And I pray you’ll see how much you’ve changed. Because what you’re becoming is a monster, no better than the men you hate.’

  Camila turned and opened the door. Palillo was standing there; he’d overheard our yelling.

  ‘And you!’ she said to him. ‘You know I’m right. But you’re too much of a coward to say it, even to your best friend.’

  Palillo looked at me, open-mouthed, as she pushed past. I heard Camila’s footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. She’d never have said those words if she’d known about Palillo’s mother. I expected Palillo to be angry with me too – it was my fault they’d attacked his mother’s house. He didn’t know whether they’d burned it down or whether his family was even alive. But he must have been in shock, because all he said was, ‘I came to tell you that I’ll wait until first light. And then I’m taking one of the Yamahas and going to look for my family.’

  I nodded, wracked with guilt at how I’d brought more suffering into his family’s already difficult life. ‘I hope they’re all fine, hermano. I’m sorry I involved you.’

  Palillo lingered in the doorway. ‘You okay?’

  ‘She’s demanding I release Ernesto.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? It was one thing to do this when Camila didn’t know, but is it worth losing her over? If you do what she asks, maybe it’s not too late …’

  ‘So I should just leave the Autodefensas, go to Bogotá and forget Buitre and Caraquemada ever existed? No way.’

  ‘You’re no monster, hermano,’ Palillo said before leaving. ‘But maybe Camila has a point. This obsession you have … it’s getting you nowhere, and we’re all paying the price.’

  After Palillo left, I fell back against the wall and slid to the floor, my head buried in my hands. I knew Camila had meant every word – we were definitely over. I never thought I’d lose her. I didn’t want to lose her. But I had.

  How could she end a four-year, loving relationship with an ultimatum that she knew was impossible
for me to fulfil? She and her family had reaped all the benefits I’d battled to win for Llorona. We’d made the town peaceful enough for her to continue her studies in safety, for her parents to run their store and for her brothers to return. It was now easy for her to turn things around on me and take the moral high ground.

  As for her final stabbing insult, comparing me to the Guerrilla – how pathetic and ridiculous! I couldn’t stand the thought of being with someone who had such a low – and unjustified – opinion of me, nor someone who could interpret the same facts so differently.

  Even after all our years together, Camila was clearly incapable of understanding the most fundamental force that drove me: my love for Papá. That I should forget what they had done to my family in order to live in Bogotá – something that she wanted, not me – showed how truly selfish she was. What I was fighting for was bigger than her, bigger than me, bigger than us. And if she couldn’t see that, then maybe I was better off without her.

  133

  AT FIRST LIGHT I emerged from the farmhouse and stood, hands on hips, surveying the carnage. Six hours had passed but the sulphurous odour of gunpowder still lingered in the air, together with the smell of singed grass, burnt rubber and what I assumed was charred human flesh.

  The thick walls of the farmhouse were pocked with bullet holes. Broken glass littered the ground; every window was shattered. The milking shed roof had partially collapsed and its four support columns were tilted at precarious angles. The generator was twisted, blackened metal. Around our defensive trenches, tyres had fallen, sand spilled from the sacks and thousands of shell casings littered the ground.

  I sent Indio’s squad to scout the perimeter.

  ‘They’re definitely gone,’ he said on returning. ‘I’ve sent Coca-Cola to fix the VHF antenna.’

  I nodded. Once that was done we could radio Colonel Buitrago to come up.

  Another team was collecting the corpses, lifting them by the ankles and wrists and lining them up in front of the farmhouse. We’d lost six men in total – Gafas and El Mago at the guard posts; Condor when the mortar bomb hit the milking shed; and Montoya, Zeus and Batman in the northern trench, their throats slit by Buitre’s covert rescue squad.

  The media would probably report Buitre’s attack as ‘a minor skirmish with few casualties’, if they reported it at all. But these were men I knew, men whose lives I’d been responsible for. All of them were dead because of my decision to hold Ernesto.

  The five German shepherds were also dead, including Coco, who’d passed away during the night.

  ‘Call Padre Rojas when the phone lines are back,’ I told Pantera. ‘These men deserve a proper burial. And bury the dogs beyond the northern perimeter.’

  ‘What about the nine dead guerrilleros?’ he asked.

  ‘Leave them for Buitrago.’

  Camila, accompanied by Piolín, emerged from our cottage, which had somehow escaped damage. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she refused to look at me. There was nothing more to say.

  My own anger had also dissipated, replaced by resignation. I’d accepted that Camila might even be right about Ernesto, yet I couldn’t change my position or my nature and therefore we were definitely over.

  Spotting the line of dead bodies, Camila averted her eyes. ‘I’ve asked Piolín to take me home.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ I said. ‘Buitre may still be out there. He may have the road covered.’

  She finally faced me. ‘How long do I have to wait?’

  ‘Until we fix the antenna, radio the army and they’ve secured the area. Maybe another hour.’

  Palillo approached me, wheeling one of the bikes. ‘I’m going for my mother.’ I nodded, patting him on the shoulder.

  Hearing this, Camila demanded, ‘If it’s safe enough for Palillo, why can’t I go?’

  ‘I told you. It’s not safe. Palillo’s going because he has to.’

  Suddenly, we heard a commotion and the sound of children’s voices at the gate. Palillo dumped the bike and sprinted down the drive. ‘Mamá!’ he called out in disbelief.

  Palillo’s mother had arrived, bedraggled, carrying her youngest child in her arms. Her four other children were trailing behind, shell-shocked and hugging close to her skirts. Their legs were dusty and they looked ready to drop from weariness.

  Palillo hugged them all, apologising profusely for not coming to their rescue. ‘Mamá, you walked all this way?’

  She nodded. ‘We hid with the neighbours and watched while those men burned our house down. None of us could sleep. But at dawn we got scared they’d come back. So we made a run for it.’

  While Piolín took charge of the kids, herding them to my cottage to wash, feed and send them to bed, Palillo put his arm around his mother. ‘I’m just glad you’re alive.’

  She looked around in amazement at the devastation. ‘And I’m glad you are.’

  Camila glared at me. ‘I guess that means the road is safe. Now can I go?’

  My instinct was still to wait for the army, but after the constant flurry of urgent decisions made under extreme pressure I felt depleted.

  Over the previous twenty-four hours I felt like I’d been caught up in a spiralling series of mistakes and consequences that I’d never intended or imagined were possible but had somehow just happened. So I relaxed and let go. I was simply glad that Camila was alive, that Palillo’s family was alive, that Buitre had been repelled, and that together, as a team, we’d all fought so valiantly.

  Above all my selfish considerations, what I wanted most right then was what Camila wanted for herself – for her to be with her family, where she’d feel safe.

  So when Pantera called out that the VHF antenna was fixed and the army was on its way, there seemed little to be gained by waiting.

  But my grey-dawn decision, made in the bubbling wake of waves of adrenalin, with my judgment skewed by tiredness, grief and guilt, turned out to be one of the worst of my entire life, and one that meant everything would be far from over.

  ‘Let’s take her home.’

  134

  SIX OF US would travel on three bikes – Camila, me and four others. When I called for volunteers Ñoño immediately raised his hand.

  ‘You’re behind me on the lead bike,’ I said. Next was Tarantula. ‘You take Camila on the middle bike.’

  When Hector volunteered to ride rear-guard with R6, our convoy was set.

  As we motored downhill along the bumpy dirt road, it was a clear day, with a pink dawn sky and a scattering of clouds. As always, I had my pistol. But since it’s impossible to fire a rifle while driving a bike, only Ñoño and Hector carried their Galils. Nevertheless, with Palillo’s family having walked this route safely and Buitrago on his way and likely to cross our path any minute, my lingering fears about Buitre had vanished.

  We passed my finca and then Old Man Domino’s white fence. Just as we rounded a bend and entered the thicket before the road dipped more steeply to the town centre, I spotted a severed tree trunk blocking the road. My heart raced.

  ‘Ambush! Turn around!’ Even as I braked heavily, several guerrilleros raised their heads from behind the tree and took aim with their rifles. Yanking the handlebar, I spun the bike into a desperate 180-degree turn. The other bikes skidded and spun too, sending up showers of tiny pebbles.

  Ñoño’s fingers dug tightly under my ribcage as I sped back uphill. But it was too late. Another tree was already falling ahead of us, thumping onto the road. More guerrilleros crawled out to take up positions behind it. I skidded us to a halt again and glanced sideways at Camila. She was clutching Tarantula’s waist and looking at me in terror. We spun our bikes again.

  From the trees to our left, I heard Buitre’s voice thunder through his megaphone, ‘Throw down your weapons!’

  Ñoño let go of my waist and began firing, as did Hector from the back of R6’s bike. When the enemy returned fire, I screamed, ‘To the right! Go!’

  We were at the lower reaches of Old Man Domino’s p
roperty, and provided we made it off the road, we’d be protected by the trees and have a chance of making it to the open fields behind.

  Tarantula and Camila went first, exiting under heavy fire. They headed diagonally into scrubland. The instant they’d made it I followed, with Ñoño gripping my shoulder with one hand while firing with the other. As we zigzagged through the trees, low-hanging branches whipped against my legs and face. The engine screamed and my tyres spun wildly in the dirt. To my right, R6 and Hector were keeping pace – until I heard a shout and glanced side ways in time to see R6 fall off, hit, and Hector’s body being buffeted by bullets.

  Camila and Tarantula were almost clear of the thicket when, fifty metres ahead of us, two guerrilleros emerged from the trees and began firing. Tarantula was struck. His head jerked sideways and their bike veered off course, tilted, then fell. Camila screamed as the Yamaha landed on her leg.

  I changed course, accelerating towards her, when I heard a pop – my front tyre burst – and lost control of the steering. We struck a deep ditch at speed and Ñoño yelped as he was thrown into the air. I held on, squeezing the brake, but my momentum caused me to slide forward until my front wheel hit a tree root and I was catapulted over the handlebars.

  I sat up, dazed. Fifteen metres behind me, Ñoño lay on the ground, unconscious. His rifle was nowhere to be seen. Fifteen metres ahead of me, Camila was trapped beneath the Yamaha, screaming for help. Both were completely exposed to the enemy. I had to make a quick choice with the Guerrilla closing in: I could likely save one, but not both.