The Exile

by Gregory Erich Phillips

  “Be ready not to think, only to act. It’s a shock to fight for the first time, but if you stop to think, you’ll be the first one killed.”

  Manny looked up as a tall, thin woman stepped out of his tent, dressed in the same green fatigues as he wore, with her black hair pulled tight into a bun. He smiled at his wife. Even dressed as a soldier, her face etched with sadness, he thought Marissa was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  “What are you men up so early talking about?”

  “Manny is going to tell me the story of when we took the Dominican Embassy. Were you there too?”

  “No. But my father was, along with Manuel. I was pregnant at the time.”

  “If I had known, I would have stayed home.”

  “¡No te comas sus cuentos! Nothing could have kept him away.”

  Manny laughed. “Quizás. Bueno, do you think the boy with the cumbersome saint’s name deserves his story?”

  “Oh, leave him alone about his name.” She turned back into her tent.

  San Juan el Bautista Velasquez fidgeted. Manny knew he was embarrassed by his parents’ strange choice of a name.

  “Picture it.” Manny stretched out his hand. “Ambassadors from around the world gathered at the embassy for a celebration. They were dressed in their finest regalia, all their pins and medals, eating and drinking. We surprised them in tracksuits.” He laughed. Two other men, stationed to watch the road, took a few steps closer to listen. Manny nodded at Carlos and Pasqual before continuing.

  “That was the day the Colombian government finally took us seriously and saw us as the voice of the people that we were. M-19 had waited ten years for a day like that. Even the United States’ ambassador was there, so you can be sure the world took notice.

  “We released all the women the next day to show we are a movement of the people and only held the diplomats. We are a political movement after all, not animals. I’m proud that not a single hostage was killed. The president tried to make us out as terrorists, but the people were behind us the whole time. When it ended, the crowds cheered us as heroes.”

  “Was the mission a success?”

  “I suppose it depends on your point of view. Not all our demands were met, but we showed the government that the people will stand up, that we are willing to fight and die for justice. We made the name of M-19 famous in Colombia and around the world.”

  Manny paused, then looked from Juan to the other two men. “I believe this new mission will be an even prouder moment for us, our proudest moment. Even if we die, it will be for the honor of the people of Colombia, and others will follow in our footsteps.”

  Someone grunted. Manny thought it was Pasqual but couldn’t be sure. He had spoken the heroic words they all wanted to believe, but none of them felt eager to die, himself included.

  “Did you go to Cuba with the others?” asked Juan.

  “Yes. Most of the group is still there, including Marissa’s father. Since I wasn’t one of the leaders, I was allowed to return to Colombia in less than a year.”

  “In time for the birth of your child?”

  The question brought a pall over Manny’s good memories. His face darkened. “Yes, in time for the birth of my child.”

  San Juan el Bautista stopped asking questions. But after a moment, Manny continued talking anyway. He wanted to share his story, even the painful parts.

  “I had many dreams in those days of what Colombia could become once its people were free and also of the family I could have. I wanted to start a better life for myself—that was what we were fighting for, after all. I used my share of the ransom money to start a course at Universidad de Cartagena.”

  “What did you study?”

  “Computer programming.”

  Juan started to laugh. “Computers?”

  “Don’t mock the future. Unfortunately, God had other plans for me. I quit the program, and now here I am.”

  The day was growing hotter. Humidity hung thick in the air. Droplets gathered on the wide green leaves of the foliage that encircled the camp.

  “Okay, enough of your stories,” said Pasqual. “My feet ache. Time for you two to take a watch.”

  “Fair enough.” Manny leaped to his feet. “Grab your rifle, Juan. Don’t let it weigh you down.”

  The relieved watchmen sat down. Pasqual shook the empty coffee pot in disappointment as Manny and Juan walked toward the edge of camp.

  Early that afternoon, after his watch had ended, Manny retired to his tent, hoping there would be time for a siesta before the others arrived.

  Marissa handed him a mug of water. He took it and held her hands around it. She looked into his eyes for a moment before slipping her hand out and walking back across the tent. He would not get the kiss he had hoped for. Manny knew he was sticky and unshaven, with his mustache overgrown—hardly the handsome husband she had married long ago. But he also knew that wasn’t why she had walked away. He could not be blamed for his appearance after a week in a jungle camp.

  It wasn’t he who had changed. Their pain affected him, but he was still the same man, full of hopes and dreams. His heart ached for their lost child. But it also still ached with love for his wife, even though the spark was gone from her eyes. He wouldn’t push for her love. He believed it was still there, deep in her broken heart, and would return to him in time. He missed her, even now when they stood beside each other. He missed her most at night when they lay together, when sometimes she even allowed him to make love to her, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Do you really believe everything you told that boy earlier?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing changed after your success at the embassy in 1980. Nothing will change if we are successful in the days ahead.”

  “We must believe it can. If people like us don’t work for a better future, Colombia will be lost.”

  “A better future—I used to believe in that.”

  Manny came up behind her and took her bony shoulders in his hands. She flinched at his touch, but he held firm. He would never stop trying to restore the connection that had once been so intense between them. “Have hope, Marissa, both for our country and for ourselves. We can have another child.”

  She twisted out of his grasp. “Do you think another child can make up for the daughter we lost? This hole in my heart is not something that can be plugged with a new thing to love.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll never forget that loss either. But it doesn’t mean you can’t love again.”

  “Look at us. Look at our lives. This is no place to raise a child.”

  “We can walk away from it, like we did before. I’ll go back to the university and finish the course.”

  “This thing we’re doing will always follow us. It would have poisoned our daughter’s life if she had lived, and it will poison another child’s life if we have one.”

  “It doesn’t have to.” Manny sighed, desperate to make her understand. “Don’t you want the chance to love again? It wouldn’t be to undo the pain. A heart is big enough to carry love and pain together. Pain alone will kill you.”

  “Maybe it already has.”

  Manny sat down on his cot. There was nothing more he could say. It had been three years since their baby died. Marissa had to find the will to heal in her own heart before his love would have a chance to reach her again.

  How he wished she would try, even if only for him. He had loved their baby too—so much. He would never forget. But he wanted another chance at fatherhood. His heart burst with love that had nowhere to go. Without a child, and with a wall of pain between him and his wife, there was nothing left but to channel his energy toward the cause of his people.

  He believed Marissa’s heart could still love too. He remembered her before, in the intimate early days of their marriage and during the happy months with their daughter. He believed motherhood could bring back the woman he loved. If only she would give it a chance.<
br />
  The rumble of trucks sounded sharply from the distant road. Manny jumped up from the cot, instinctively reaching for his rifle. Marissa remained calm.

  “They’re here,” she said. “The time has come at last.”

  16

  MARISSA LIFTED THE flap of the tent and looked out.

  “¡Dios mio! Look at all those guns and explosives.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The comandante and his whole gang.” She paused. “It looks like Paulo came with them.”

  Manny stiffened. “What business does that traqueto have with this?” He walked up beside his wife, watching as three crowded trucks rumbled into the center of camp. The men leaped out, stretching their legs after the long, cramped drive into the jungle. Yes, there was Paulo Varga, looking full of energy for a fight. The men began to unpack their arsenal.

  Marissa turned back inside. “Don’t let your imagination turn that man into a rival, Manuel.”

  “It’s his own doing.”

  “Let it go. I told you, nothing happened when you were away in Cuba.”

  “I saw the picture he painted of you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was all alone and pregnant. You were off trying to save the world. Paulo was kind to me, so I was kind to him too. He asked if he could paint me, but it wasn’t romantic. You saw the picture. He made me look like a frumpy old woman in that stupid folk dress. He’s not a good artist.” She lifted the tent flap again. “Jealousy’s not attractive on you, Manuel. Come on. There’s work to do today.”

  Manny followed her out as the entire assembly instinctively gathered for orders from their commander.

  The comandante was last out of the truck. Everyone’s eyes fell on him. He was built like a stone, not the largest man, but the one who would surely be the most difficult to move off his spot. His own eyes, quick and clever, surveyed those who waited on his words. He had a mustache almost as broad as his shoulders, and bushy hair squashed down from his green cap.

  “It is time, my friends,” he said. “Tomorrow, we fight for justice, for Colombia!”

  A cheer went up, which the comandante quieted with his arms. “There is still much planning to be done. There will be time for celebration later. An hour first to rest, then let us gather to plan our attack.”

  The group dispersed reluctantly. Everyone who had been waiting in the jungle was anxious to begin.

  Manny and Marissa walked up to examine the new supplies. M-19 had never been short on weapons, but this new arsenal was still impressive.

  “Well, there’s my favorite man and wife,” Paulo said, appearing from behind the truck.

  Manny took Marissa’s arm. As one of only a handful of women in their militia, and the most beautiful, Marissa always remained under Manny’s watchful eye. Most of the men respected him and admired his wife honorably. But Paulo didn’t respect him, and Manny doubted he had any honor.

  “Welcome, Paulo.” He tried to muster a warm tone. The last thing he wanted was to appear intimidated.

  “I can’t wait for a good fight tomorrow.” Paulo punched his palm and licked his lips.

  “Hopefully, it can remain peaceful, just like in ’80.”

  “Your past exploits do you credit, Manny, but this time will be different. I hope you have the stomach for a fight. Go through and pick some weapons.”

  “I already have a gun I trust.”

  Paulo whisked a strand of oily black hair off his forehead, then looked at Marissa. “Linda Marissita, I have missed your pretty face. It’s so much better alive than in the picture I have of you in my apartment.” Manny saw Paulo’s eyes rest on his wife for an extra second before he reached into the closest truck and pulled out a box marked with a red medical cross. “This is for you. Don’t let your husband fool you. Your job as a nurse will be busy. Men will be wounded.”

  He took a medic’s armband out of the box and reached to put it on Marissa’s arm. Manny snatched it out of his hand and affixed it himself. Paulo laughed.

  “Don’t think that will protect you though,” Paulo said.

  “I have a gun I trust too.” Marissa turned and walked back to the tent.

  Manny couldn’t help asking the thought that had been on his mind since the trucks drove up. “Who financed all of this?” He swept his arm across all the weapons and crates of ammunition.

  “We have always had powerful friends.”

  Manny looked Paulo straight in his dark eyes. “Are they our friends or your friends?”

  “I’ve told you before, I never worked with Pablo Escobar.”

  “But you knew him.”

  “Many people know him. His cartel reaches far and wide.”

  “The mission of M-19 is justice and freedom. I won’t have drug lords polluting our cause.”

  “You’re a soldier, Manny. A good one. Let others worry about politics and finances. Do your job, and maybe tomorrow night you will still be alive to lay with your wife.”

  Manny scowled up at the taller man.

  Paulo cackled, patted Manny on the chest, and sauntered away. “Either way, she won’t be lonely.”

  Manny forced himself to stay calm. This was no time to fight with a comrade. He may have been respected within M-19, but Paulo had many more powerful friends.

  Whispers circulated in the camp as the afternoon progressed. The target was the Colombian Palace of Justice in Bogotá. Beyond that, nobody yet knew the scope of the plan. When the sun was almost down, the comandante gathered them all together. The men sat on benches while their leader sat on the bumper of one of the trucks.

  “My friends, my brothers, tomorrow we will take the Palace of Justice by force. The Supreme Court is in session, and all twenty-five judges will be present. If any of you have been there, you know it is built like a fortress. Once we have secured the building, it will be nearly impossible for the army to retake, should they attempt it. Regardless, we do not expect them to retaliate given the prominence of the hostages we’ll hold. After the initial standoff cools down, we’ll force a trial of President Betancur for his crimes against the people of Colombia. Presided over by the Supreme Court, this trial will stand in the official records.”

  “Isn’t that merely symbolic?” someone asked.

  “Yes!” The comandante was emphatic. “Much of what we do is necessarily symbolic. We have thirty-five men and a few women here. The military has hundreds of thousands. We can’t beat them in battle. What we do is meant to inspire the people to rise up with us, showing that brave men and women will not take injustice lying down.”

  He paused to let his words sink in. Manny had to admit, he was an inspirational leader. It sometimes took such a man to remind them of why they had given their lives to this cause. The comandante continued.

  “I will lead the main assault through the basement. We should be able to get the trucks in with little resistance and overwhelm the guards down there. Avoid bloodshed, if possible. A smaller group will be on the first floor, having entered in civilian clothes. Our goal will be to secure the entire building, but the fourth floor is where the justices meet and all legal records are held. So, that is our primary objective.”

  A flurry of questions followed, and the lieutenants began to assign tasks. Manny felt a rush of excitement. This sounded much like the successful embassy siege five years ago.

  The comandante’s voice boomed again over the chatter. “Enough with the questions. You all know exactly what you need to know and not more. Now, let us eat and enjoy a peaceful evening. This may be our last one for a long time.”

  The group began to disperse, returning to their tents to make ready for the morning’s departure. Manny started back toward his own tent but stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was the comandante.

  “Manny, I want you to lead the group in civilian clothes through the main entrance tomorrow.”

  Manny nodded.

  “Your valor in ’80 has not been forgotten. Neither has your skill. You are the only one her
e today who was on that mission. I think that experience will serve you well in gaining access undetected.”

  “Thank you for your confidence in me, Comandante.”

  “Which men do you want to take with you?”

  “I’ll take Pasqual, Carlos, and San Juan el Bautista.” He didn’t like the idea of being separated from Marissa, but as the nurse, her place would be with the main group.

  “How about bringing Paulo with you too? He’s a strong fighter, if it becomes necessary.”

  “No. I don’t trust him. He’s a loose cannon. I don’t know what he might do.”

  The comandante nodded.

  “Also, forgive me, but I wonder if Paulo may be more interested in his own ends than those of the revolution.”

  “You may be right, Manny, but it’s unwise to question your comrades. We may die tomorrow. It would be better to die as brothers.”

  Manny clasped his leader’s hand and nodded. They embraced.

  “Get a good shave tonight,” said the comandante as he walked off. “Your disguise won’t work if you look like such a dirty guerrilla.”

  Manny stood alone in the clearing. The benches were empty. The trucks waited heavily on the matted earth. The comandante was right. He might die tomorrow. In 1980, he had been too young and foolish to realize how lucky he’d been. Until today, he felt sure that the next venture could be equally successful and bloodless. Unlikely. Would the government allow them the same success twice? He had studied enough of his country’s history to know that these adventures seldom ended well.

  The smell of fresh stew filled the air. Soon, it brought the men out of their tents. They gathered again on the benches to eat their dinner. Manny wondered if it would be his last dinner. His anxiety had sapped his appetite, but he took his bowl and ate it anyway. He needed his strength. As night fell, a jug of wine was passed around along with tales of past glories and future dreams.

  “Manny, where’s your guitar?”