#Zero

by Neil McCormick

  ‘Hey, Grover, cigarette for me?’ Jesus piped up hopefully.

  ‘Filthy habit,’ said Grover, shaking his head. He coughed hard a couple of times, to emphasise his point.

  ‘Where to?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s see now, does this fancy timepiece of yours have a compass?’ Grover studied the Patek Philippe on his wrist. ‘I’d say thataway,’ he pointed.

  ‘No, no, this way, stupid gringo,’ shouted Jesus, taking off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ asked Grover.

  ‘With mi madre,’ shouted Jesus. ‘By bus. It take many days. Not like beautiful aeroplane!’ He spread his arms wide and buzzed ahead of us, as if he was flying home.

  There were no signs of life as we tramped down the dirt track but we could hear animals fleeing our heavy footsteps, the shriek and click of birds and insects. The sun was high, the sky was blue, it was a beautiful day. We hiked a couple of miles down the mountainside, Jesus never tiring, until the red dirt trail opened up wide enough to be a road, and we three travellers walked into the village of La Esperanza.

  A guidebook would be unlikely to describe La Esperanza as ‘traditional’ or ‘picturesque’. It was more functional and haphazard. There were forty or more dwellings spreading in all directions off the main dirt road, some solid adobe bungalows but most just shacks built from rough wood planks and corrugated metal, everything slightly warped and twisted, gaudy colours fading in the sun. Chickens scratched in the dirt, dogs lazed in the shade, pigs snuffled in straw-laden pens. A skinny cow regarded us coolly, then went back to masticating. There were mules tethered to rusting cars only fit for scrap. Laundry hung from lines spread hither and thither, colours faded with wear and washing. Women looked on uneasily, frozen in the middle of domestic tasks, some weaving and sewing, some scrubbing, some tending animals. Small children, displaying none of their mothers’ reserve, came scampering out to race around us. A group of elderly men sat smoking in the shade beneath a large open structure of wooden poles suspending a corrugated roof, and they too watched silently, making no move towards us. Dominating the village was a small, gracefully constructed white church with a thick thatched roof and freshly whitewashed adobe walls. In its shade stood a solid, oblong building with a smart, civic air and rows of wide-open windows, at which could be seen the eager faces of children, peering at us, pointing and chattering. A hand-painted sign over wide red doors declared it Escuela de San Patricio. What the fuck was Ireland’s patron saint doing up here in the Andes? Incongruously, flying above the civic building, alongside the Colombian flag of yellow, blue and red, was what looked distinctly like an Irish tri-colour: green, white and orange. Parked next to this building was a white minibus which, apart from a little mud spatter around the wheels, and a hand-painted La Esperanza, looked as if it might have just been delivered fresh from the factory floor. The seats were still covered in plastic shrink-wrap.

  ‘I smell coke money,’ muttered Grover, warily.

  The doors of the school crashed open and forty or more children exploded out, dashing to surround us. There were kids aged from four or five to maybe eleven or twelve, boys and girls, colourfully dressed in T-shirts and shorts. Their boldness seemed to release the adults, who moved to join the gathering. I looked into their beautiful faces, the dark eyebrows, wide cheekbones, high-bridged noses, aquiline jaws. This was the blend of native Indian and European locals called mestizo, the same features I saw in the mirror every day.

  No one was calling my name or humming my tunes, yet they seemed agitated by my presence all the same. A girl grabbed at my hair and shouted El Rojo, The Red. It spread like a whisper from one to the other, El Rojo, El Rojo, El Rojo. Jesus was hopping up and down, I couldn’t tell whether from nervousness or excitement. I scooped him up in my arms and held him aloft. ‘¿Alguien conoce a este niño?’ I asked loudly. Does anyone know this child?

  ‘Jesus!’ shrieked a plump old woman, stepping up to take him from me with strong arms and a smile of toothless joy.

  ‘Abuelita!’ gushed Jesus, hugging her tight.

  ‘Goddamn, I love a family reunion,’ drawled Grover.

  A path was cleared through the crowd so that another old woman could be escorted to the front, children hanging on to her wiry arms. She was small and leathery, grey flecking her long black hair, but she had been a beauty once, and there was a hint of vanity in her print dress and bead necklace. She was clearly of high standing in this village, one of the elderly men pushing children away so she could reach me unmolested. She studied me intently. ‘Sabía que vendrias un día,’ she said.

  I knew you would come one day.

  She took me by the hand and led me towards a pink adobe cottage. It was a simple little house yet conspicuously the nicest in the village, with its own low wall around a carefully cultivated garden. There was a mural, primitively yet boldly painted by the front door, showing the Virgin Mary in blue and white holding a naked baby with a full head of flaming red hair. He was the first ginger Jesus I had ever seen. El Rojo.

  The cool, shady interior was simply but warmly furnished, with woven rugs and blankets artfully arranged into a kaleidoscope of colour and pattern. She led me on, into another, smaller room. Candles burned beneath a statuette of the ubiquitous Virgin, blue and white and beatific. Behind the statuette, the wall was covered in photographs, carefully assembled to make the shape of a cross. I stepped closer to examine the pictures in the dim, flickering light. It was hard to breathe. I knew most of these photos. I had seen them before, a long time ago. There were photographs of birthdays and holidays and Christmas meals and play dates and new school uniforms and silly faces and kisses and hugs. And, in all of the pictures, there were members of a family, smiling happily. A father. A brother. A mother.

  The old woman reached out and touched a picture of a brown-faced, blue-eyed, red-headed boy, uncomfortable but proud in a shirt, tie and green Kilrock Junior uniform, on his first day at school. ‘Pedro,’ she said. And turned to smile at me.

  ‘Grandma?’ I replied, trembling.

  I don’t know how long I stood in that room, looking at the pictures while my grandmother ran her fingers through my hair. I don’t think I had seen a single one of those photographs in over a decade. The family albums never came out after my mother died. Her face had slowly faded from my memory, her brown eyes had been erased, her wide mouth rubbed out, the freckles across her broad nose had vanished one by one. Her lustrous black hair had lingered longest but it too had disappeared in time, until all that was left was an empty red dress, and then nothing.

  I delicately unpinned one of the pictures from the wall and stared at my mother’s gorgeous face, caught in an unguarded moment, hair blowing so that a strand trailed across her mouth, laughing unselfconsciously, so young, so free, so happy, so alive. In the background, I recognised the streets of New York. I wondered when my mother had been there, and who had taken that picture, from before I was even born.

  My grandmother stroked my neck. ‘Ah, Maria,’ she said. ‘Mi Maria. Te pareces a ella.’

  You look just like her.

  I had to get some air. Outside, a big wooden table was being assembled under the old men’s awning, and it looked like a feast was being prepared. Women were bringing dishes from their houses – there was already bread and meats and tomatoes and potatoes and pomegranates and mangoes. Bowls of thick bean stew started to arrive. Grover was tucking in, knocking back cups of clear liquid with the old guys, a roving eye taking in the unselfconscious beauty of the younger women. ‘All right, kid?’ he asked, as I slumped down next to him. Children kept coming up and touching my hair, smiling and saying El Rojo.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t know anything any more.’

  ‘Yeah, this country will drive you loco, every time. Come drink some of this fine aguardiente with me and my amigos. They got the good stuff up here in the mountains. Make you see straight again. Or double. I can’t remember which is better.’ H
e waved an arm, and one of the old men filled my cup. I took a slug and felt a burn hit the back of my throat and explode in my chest. It was like sour vodka. I put it down. I needed to keep a hold on things.

  ‘There’s a joke they tell in Colombia,’ said Grover. ‘When God made the world, He gave Colombia two oceans, the Pacific and the Caribbean, three mountain ranges, the bluest sky, the greenest emeralds and oil and gold and the greatest abundance of wildlife, forests and rivers anywhere on the planet. So the Archangel, who’s doling it all out, he says, wait a minute, Señor, are you sure you wanna give all these fabulous riches to one country? Isn’t that a little unfair to the rest of the world? And God thinks about it, and He says, “You’re right! But wait till you see the people I’m gonna put there!”’

  Grover let out what sounded like a low, bitter chuckle.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I admitted.

  He looked offended. ‘The people, kid. The Colombian people. The laziest, most violent, mistrustful, thieving sons of bitches ever to put down in paradise.’

  ‘The people seem pretty fine to me,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, beautiful people, every goddamn one of them. They give the world ninety per cent of its cocaine, and for that, the world is truly thankful. And if, along the way, they have broken all records for the murder and kidnapping of their fellow citizens; fought civil wars for so long that nobody can remember who’s fighting who or for what; killed, enslaved and displaced millions of poor peasants … well, why dwell on the negative? Salud.’ He knocked back another cup.

  ‘You married a Colombian,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Only after she tried to kill me,’ he pointed out. ‘Salud!’

  ‘How much of this firewater have you drunk, Grover?’

  ‘It don’t take much these days, kid,’ he admitted sadly. ‘Ain’t touched a drop in fifteen years.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, man, pull yourself together,’ I said. ‘Consuela leaves you alone for one night and you’re drinking and smoking like a trooper.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if she’s coming back,’ he confessed, sadly. ‘Never could figure out if that woman ever really wanted to be with me, or was just paying a debt. We should’ve had kids but … well …’ He lost himself briefly in some private torment, a grimace flickering over his face. ‘Will you be my kid, kid?’

  ‘I’m sure she loves you, Grover.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What makes you such an expert on love? All those dumb pop songs? How about Penelope Nazareth? Tell me about the great movie star. Does she love you? Damn, kid, I used to moon over her back in the day. What do you think she sees in a skinny runt like you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.

  ‘She’s been through a few like you in her time, the old girl, ain’t she? No offence, kid. Wasn’t she married to Johnny Pitt or Brad Depp? Or was that a movie?’

  ‘It was a movie,’ I said. But there had been a few like me in my time, as Beasley was wont to point out.

  ‘Damn, kid, you and me we should just settle down here in the mountains, pick a couple of beautiful peasant girls, just a couple each, and live like kings.’

  ‘Where are all the men?’ I asked.

  ‘Working,’ he said. ‘An honest day’s toil for a dishonest day’s pay. There are coca plants to be cultivated. And there’s probably some little bossas hidden around here somewhere, where they cook up the base, then wait for a guy like me to take it north, where some little jerk with a pass grade in high school chemistry will turn it into white gold.’

  ‘Coca!’ agreed one of the old men enthusiastically, bashing his mug off Grover’s.

  ‘This doesn’t look like some hardcore drug operation to me,’ I said, sceptically.

  ‘Listen, kid, no offence meant. Coca’s been growing in these hills since before man even arrived. It’s just a leaf. Grows wild around here. Coffee too. They probably grow a little plantain, cassava, sugar cane – everything we are eating here they grow themselves. Resourceful little bastards. But the only thing anyone wants to take off their hands is coca. And they don’t want to pay too much for it, neither, and if they can get it for nothing they will. So the guerrillas come in for their cut, and the cops come in for their cut, and the local government comes in for its cut, and every now and then the military fly over and spray the mountain with pesticide cause el presidente has to be able to lock arms with his compadre in the White House and tell the world they’re doing all they can to fight the War on Drugs, even though everybody knows they are lying through their coke-stained teeth. We lost that war before time began, cause it’s a war against humanity itself. It’s like telling your cock not to get hard at the sight of a beautiful woman. We were born to get high, dammit. From the first time some damn caveman stumbled on a bush of fermented berries we’ve been getting out of our skulls every damn chance we get. Life is hard. How you supposed to make it to the end of the day without a little drink?’

  ‘I thought you did fifteen years, Grover,’ I said, trying to calm him down. Our hosts were starting to look alarmed.

  ‘For the love of a good woman,’ he said, slugging back another cup. ‘You know what joke God really played on this country? It wasn’t the people. Nothing wrong with these beautiful people. Best damn people on earth! He gave them the sun, and He gave them the sea, and He gave them the mountains. And then, to even things out a little bit, he gave them the coca leaf. Yeah. That put the cat among the pigeons. And through all of the corruption and stupidity and robbery and murder that drives this multi-billion-dollar business, a guy up here in the mountains could work with his bare hands all month to cultivate enough coca to earn his family … what? Fifty dollars? How much cocaine would that buy at one of your Hollywood parties, kid? Less than a gram, I bet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Clean-living kid, huh?’

  ‘I’m a pop star, Grover. I don’t pay for my drugs.’

  He laughed. ‘I like you, kid.’

  An old man with a thick, proud moustache patted Grover on the shoulders and nodded sympathetically. I don’t know how much he had understood of Grover’s rant, if anything, but he seemed to be mulling it over. ‘Siempre duro,’ he said, ‘Siempre duro.’ Things are always hard. I had heard the expression somewhere before. But the way he spoke the words, it was not a cause for complaint, just a fact of life.

  Grover rattled his empty mug but a tall, straight-backed woman stepped forward and took away the bottle. ‘I think your friend has had enough,’ she said, in careful, precise English.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, dammit,’ said Grover, but when he looked into her proud, calm face, he mumbled an apology and tucked sloppily into the food instead.

  ‘What your friend says is true,’ the woman said. ‘Life has always been hard in La Esperanza but there is no shame in that. Life is hard everywhere. Many young people leave, cause they think there will be an easier life in the city. It does not always work out that way.’

  Her name was Doña Cecilia Augusta and she was one of two teachers who ran the Escuela de San Patricio. She herself had left La Esperanza as a girl but she had returned, bringing some tattered dreams and educational skills to the village. ‘I will never leave again,’ she says. ‘I have seen too many terrible things down there. Up here in the mountains, the soldiers come, the soldiers go, but we are always here, like the trees and the birds. Where else is there to be?’

  ‘And my mother?’ I said.

  Doña Cecilia smiled. ‘I knew your mother,’ she said. ‘She was a little older than me but she was a beautiful girl, brave and kind and resourceful. She left a long time ago, after her father died. Maria was an only child, there was no bread-winner in the family and she didn’t want to work in the fields, nor did she want to marry, so she chose to leave the mountain and earn money and send it back to her mother. You did not know this?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about my mother,’ I said.

  Doña Cecilia said something to my grandmother, who hadn’t let
me out of her sight the whole time. The old woman nodded, got up, and walked back to her house.

  ‘How did my grandfather die?’ I asked.

  ‘Everybody dies,’ said Doña Cecilia. ‘It is not important how.’ But she spoke to the old men in Spanish, and the hombre with the thick moustache went into an animated monologue that seemed to go on for quite a while, and involved guitar playing and shooting. ‘He was killed by some soldiers,’ announced Doña Cecilia at the end. ‘I don’t know which ones, they are always changing.’

  My grandmother returned, tenderly clutching a bundle of envelopes tied up with a red ribbon. She placed the bundle gravely before me, like a sacred offering.

  My hands trembled as I tugged out the first envelope, examining an address scrawled in childish yet painfully neat handwriting. There was a faded yellow-and-blue stamp, and a florid postmark on which I could just make out the last part of the date, 1989. I gently extracted a single sheet of paper from inside the envelope. It was ringed in pink, with floral margins. A girl’s paper.

  ‘Estimado Madre’ I read. ‘Le escribo para hacerle saber que estoy a salvo y bien.’

  ‘What does it say?’ I asked. My eyes were so full of tears the words were swimming on the page. And anyway, although I could understand most of what I heard around me, I had never learned to read Spanish.

  Doña Cecilia took the letter from me, and read out: ‘Dear Mother, I write to let you know I am safe and well.’

  Doña Cecilia explained that there was a postal delivery to La Esperanza on a truck, once a month, or at least most months, and there was usually a letter, sometimes containing some dollars, whatever she could afford, sometimes containing a money order that could be cashed whenever one of the men visited the nearest town, a treacherous drive down the mountain. And there were pictures of her life and stories of her adventures in America and then in Ireland. All of the village was proud of Maria, and what she had made of her life. The letters came every month for thirteen years. And then they stopped.