The Exile

by Gregory Erich Phillips

  Leila hesitated for a moment on the street outside the white stucco church. The day had already grown hot. She carried her leather jacket; it was too warm to wear it.

  She had no money, no identification, no phone. After spending half her life away from here, she was back on the streets of Cartagena, completely alone.

  There were some services available to help people in her situation, but not many. Colombia had too many of its own poor to worry much about the poor the United States deposited here.

  She had to find a way back, a way to reverse this nightmare. But she also had to survive. That was her first duty to Cristina. Her instincts brought her back to childhood as she calculated how long her breakfast might need to sustain her. That thought used to temper the enjoyment of every meal.

  The gift of a new life, which Manny gave her so long ago, had been snatched away. But not all of his gifts were lost. She returned today as a much different person than the girl who used to roam these same streets. Thanks to Manny, she was educated and skilled. Surely, that would help her find work.

  First, she would email Ashford, then find a job.

  She had never been to an internet café before—they didn’t exist when she was a child, and she had no need for them in the US. But she instinctively knew her strategy for using one without money. It wasn’t too different from other hustles she’d learned as a girl. All she had to do was find someone leaving before their time was up, forgetting to sign off. It might be tricky, but she was good at that kind of thing.

  She walked out into the familiar city. Only a few blocks away from the church, she knew where she was and followed the major street toward the center of town. Every sound stirred her nostalgia. This city bustled in its own unique way. White and brown apartment buildings with cluttered balconies lined the street on each side of her. Lush, tropical trees grew up from breaks in the pavement.

  Down the narrow side streets, with the apartment buildings closer together, a web of electrical and phone wires, sometimes tangled with clothing lines, crisscrossed above the broken-up stone streets. Some of the smaller alleys were only made of packed dirt. Others doubled as storm drains for the flashfloods of the rainy season. Beat-up cars and motorcycles jostled through the street, with only a passing attempt at the concept of lanes. Loose bricks clattered from beneath the speeding tires. Up on the hills to the south, dilapidated but brightly colored houses were packed together in the dark-green rim of the jungle—blue, yellow, green, and tan were the colors that painted the houses beneath wide leaves of palm and banana trees.

  Cartagena hadn’t changed much. Oh, it was beautiful! Nostalgia might have comforted Leila, if not for the gaping hole of loneliness in her heart.

  She forced focus upon her mind. She had been a survivor and a fighter since her earliest memories. If she could take care of herself on the streets as a child, she could do it again as an adult, for however long it took. She didn’t want to take care of herself, though. She wanted to care for the people she loved.

  The tears she had forced back so many times crept up again, and again she choked them away. The situation was hopeless. Deep down she knew that. How could she ever be allowed to return to the United States? But hopeless as it was, she had to hope, because without hope, she would lose the will to survive.

  As she walked, Leila grew more aware of her surroundings. Long dormant sensory memories returned. The familiar sights, smells, and sounds sparked strange emotions. Strangest of all, she realized that she felt afraid. It was an acute fear for her safety, not the general fear of life that came from her arrest and deportation. This fear was more immediate. The sense was tied to these very streets. It was something she hadn’t felt for many years.

  Almost as soon as she recognized her fear, she spotted the internet café on the next corner.

  She stopped, remembering the priest’s warning. She had told him she knew no one in Cartagena, but that wasn’t entirely true. The only people she knew were not people she wanted to meet. Could he have already found out she was back in Colombia? Would he really care after all these years?

  There was no way. She was being paranoid. She wasn’t thinking straight. It was the priest’s words that made her wary and her hormones that whipped her into a ridiculous paranoia. She suppressed her fear and walked on toward the internet café. She had to try this. Even if her fear was based in something real, she would risk her life to connect with her family.

  She looked through the window. It didn’t take long to find someone leaving carelessly. She slipped in and got on the computer. A teenage boy was working the café counter, but he had his head buried in a magazine and she doubted he saw her slip in.

  She got online, opened her email account, and took a deep breath.

  There were a dozen emails from Ashford and several from Manny. She read them quickly. They were both confused and frightened. None of the other emails would matter now. But one more name caught her eye. She had an email from Samantha. She didn’t open it. She didn’t want to know anything Samantha might have to say.

  She emailed Ashford and Manny separately. There wasn’t much she could say, except that she loved them and missed them. She promised to email them again tomorrow. Hopefully by then she would have a job and a place to stay. Then she could tell them where to call her.

  She decided to log into her online banking and see if perhaps she still had access to her savings and credit accounts. A message popped up as soon as she entered her password.

  ***THIS ACCOUNT HAS BEEN FROZEN DUE TO AN OFAC ALERT. PLEASE CALL THE NUMBER BELOW

  FOR MORE INFORMATION***

  Of course. She knew enough about banking laws that she should have guessed that would happen.

  She was about to close the browser, but her eyes fell back on Samantha’s name in her inbox. She couldn’t help it. She opened the email.

  “Leila, I promise to make sure your daughter always has everything she needs. But only if you never try to get Ashford to follow you to wherever they sent you. Ashford understands this too. You’re a tough girl. You’ll be fine.”

  Leila closed the browser and stood up. Bitch! She still can’t leave me alone.

  She walked toward the door. The teenager at the desk looked up at her. A flip cell phone whipped up in his hand and he snapped a picture of her.

  Panic rose in her chest.

  She rushed out and hurried down the street.

  She became dizzy and nauseous. Samantha, then another kid with a cell phone camera, just like at the airport. What was happening? This was beginning to feel like some weird nightmare. It couldn’t be real. Her mind wasn’t right after everything she had gone through.

  As she walked, the fear stayed. She sensed she was being followed. She tried to figure out exactly where she was. She paused at an intersection, then turned left. If her memory served her right, there was a shopping mall a few blocks this way. She had to get off the street for a moment to steady herself.

  There it was—a clothing store entrance at the edge of the mall, with a short white lattice fence in front of a bright-pink door.

  She slipped inside, pausing to catch her breath. There weren’t many shoppers inside this early. A quick look around confirmed that no one had followed her into the store. The cheap clothes on the racks reminded her how badly she would love a change of clothes. She had been in these same jeans and gray T-shirt for too long. But she had no money even for fresh underwear. She lingered between the racks, taking several deep breaths, then made her way across to an exit at the other side.

  Leila stepped out the other side of the store, back to the open street. She gasped. Two policemen stood waiting for her.

  “Señorita, please come with us.”

  “¿Por qué? No he hecho nada.”

  “El jefe te ha pedido.”

  “¿El jefe?”

  One of them grabbed her arm, not maliciously, but firmly enough that his point was clear. Before she had a chance to think if she should try to escape, she was shoved into
the back of a police car.

  Had they been watching her since the airport? Were they waiting at the church this morning? The priest had alluded to that, and she should have been more careful. She’d be a profitable piece of ass in the wrong hands. The teenagers taking pictures at the airport, and again the one at the café, could be working for traffickers. These cops might be working for them too.

  They didn’t drive far. She recognized the precinct police headquarters that she and her friends had always avoided as children. She was ushered up three concrete steps between the two policemen, then seated alone in an office.

  The room was a mess, with three piled desks and chairs strewn at random. Pictures and certificates hung on almost every inch of the walls. A fan whirred in the corner, kicking up corners of paper. There was something stuck in the fan; it clattered at every rotation. The room smelled of stale coffee, flat Coke, and cigarettes. It was a workroom for men who lacked the civil budget to hire regular cleaners.

  Being brought here rather than to some remote place should have been a good sign. But something was wrong.

  She started to look around the clutter of the room, wondering if there was anything that could be useful—some money perhaps or a weapon. Before she could get her bearings, she heard a click and her eyes darted back to the door. The knob was turning. She cowered in her seat.

  The door opened. She muffled the cry that nearly burst out of her mouth. There he was—Paulo Varga—dressed in the uniform of the precinct chief.

  “Bueno, La Alta. Volviste. I knew this day would come. You’ve changed a great deal. ¡Que linda!”

  He closed the door, leaned against the wall, and licked his lips. She remembered when he licked the dripping blood she’d drawn off of those lips years ago. All the terror from that night returned tenfold.

  “What do you want?” Her own voice sounded weak to her, full of dismay and defeat. “I’ve suffered enough. Why won’t you just let me be?”

  “I want to help you. Manny tried, but he was always a coward. Now, you see how badly he failed. You need a real man.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You have no cause to fear me. I’ve never done you any harm.”

  “You tried to rape me when I was a little girl. Are you going to rape me now?”

  “That’s an ugly word. I don’t want to hurt you, but you do owe me.”

  Leila’s heart raced. What could she do? This was no longer a mere street thug. He was the chief of police.

  He took a few steps closer to her and grinned. “You have a debt to pay. You and Manny both. You took his name, after all. Now, his sins are yours.”

  “If revenge is what you’re after, then stop being polite. I can’t stand it.”

  “Why so hostile?”

  “Because you fucking arrested me. Are you going to sell me off as a whore or just keep me locked here for yourself?”

  “You’re better than that.”

  Leila tried to judge what her chances of escaping him would be. He was a lot older, but he looked stronger and more imposing than she remembered.

  “I want to paint a picture of you,” he said. Considering everything that had happened, it sounded too bizarre. “I’ve wanted to paint you for years. Ever since you came to my house that night. I tried several times, but it’s hard to paint someone from memory.”

  She remembered how his paintings had looked. In retrospect, it surprised her that they had been so sexless, his models so lacking in femininity. But worst of all, they lacked life. The women had looked like painted corpses. She remembered the dream she used to have, with her face dead in one of those pictures. Now, here Paulo was wanting to paint her. The thought of him doing that horrified her almost as much as the thought of him raping her.

  “I want to help you and care for you. It would be stupid of you to refuse. The girl I met on the streets long ago took her chances when they were offered.”

  Leila tried to think quick. She wanted to fight, preferring even death to the degradation of submitting to such a man. But through everything, Cristina never left her mind. Her goal was to find a way back to her daughter. Dying here would do Cristina no good; neither would rotting in a Colombian prison or being forced into captive prostitution. Was there a way to play this to get Paulo to help move her closer toward her goal without doing something that would make her want to die instead of live?

  “Así que, Paulo, can you help me get back to the people I love?”

  His expression changed. Even a man as conniving as Paulo was not immune to the plea of a beautiful woman. His lust, she knew, could blind him in other ways. If nothing else, she could buy herself a few more moments before he raped her out of spite.

  He was clearly thinking about it. She could see his erection in his tight police pants. She wanted to vomit.

  “I’d love nothing more than a glass of water right now. I’m parched. I don’t even know how many days I was in prison before they flew me here yesterday.”

  “Relax here. I’ll send my secretary in with some water and lemon.” He didn’t move. “You people the United States deports need someone to help you get started. Luckily for you, you have me. Tonight, I’ll take you out and show you that life in Cartagena will not be so bad. Then you can sit for me while I paint. I’ll find a pretty dress for you.”

  His eyes scanned up and down her body, which made her skin crawl.

  “Yes, I think I know what will fit that beautiful body you’ve grown into. So sexy.” He licked his lips again. “I’m not as bad a man as you think. You’ll soon learn to enjoy spending time with me.”

  He left the room, not forgetting to lock the door behind him.

  34

  THE DOORKNOB TURNED again. A different man walked into her makeshift prison cell, carrying the lemon water.

  He wasn’t dressed in a police uniform, but he wore a name badge of the department. This must have been Paulo’s secretary. He had a sad, oddly youthful face. His round midsection and slouched shoulders gave away his years, probably mid-forties. He was younger than Paulo but had none of his athleticism. His dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He handed her the glass, observing her with curiosity.

  Leila read his badge out loud. “San Juan el Bautista Velasquez. That’s quite a name. I think I’ve heard it before.” She recalled Manny’s stories of the revolution. “You were my father’s friend.”

  “That was many years ago.”

  She heard the remorse in his tone and guessed that he knew who she was too. “Is there anything you can do to help me? Would you do that for Manny?”

  “Manny left. Paulo gave me work when I got out of prison.”

  “Please help me. I have to get home.”

  He turned, clearly uncomfortable, and left the room. This man was no fighter anymore. She saw it in how he carried himself. He was a defeated man who had lost his hope for life. He wouldn’t be any help to her even if he wanted to be.

  The lock sounded in the door behind him.

  What did she need help for, anyway? She would do better on her own. Paulo was nothing but a bully, and if she couldn’t fight him, then she could outsmart him.

  Leila took a large drink of water, then got up and rummaged around the room. She didn’t even know what she was looking for—a key perhaps. The clattering fan seemed to grow louder, making it difficult for her to concentrate. She had an urge to find and extract whatever was stuck in it. What a stupid thing to be distracted by at a moment like this.

  She had to escape before Paulo returned. She might not get another chance. In a drawer she found a pile of coins, which she stuffed into the pocket of her jeans. In another cabinet she found a knife in a leather sheath. She slid it into the inner pocket of her jacket, which she put back on, despite the thick, hot air of the room.

  There was one high window on the wall across from the door. The iron latch was rusted, hanging loose from its catch. She couldn’t escape through the door, but the window was worth a try.

  Sh
e slid one of the desks beneath the window. It scraped roughly and loudly on the concrete floor. She climbed up on it. Opening the pane, she stood on tiptoes to get her head through. The office was on the second floor. A lump rose in her throat as she looked down a flat concrete wall to the pavement of the alley below. How far was that—fifteen feet, twenty? It would be quite a fall.

  She forced herself to be brave. She took off her heeled sandals and dropped them out the window, then hoisted herself up and through. She lowered her legs, hanging onto the window frame, stretching her body downward, shortening the drop as much as she could. Her arms began to hurt. She squeezed her eyes shut and let go.

  Her feet hit with a thud. She let her knees bend and her butt hit down. She waited for a moment to catch her breath, then stood up. She was fine. Nothing was broken or sprained. Her soles would be a little sore, as would her rear end.

  She ran, carrying her sandals, which fortunately hadn’t broken. These streets were filthy, but she had run barefoot on them many times before.

  If there was a favor Paulo did her, it was to bring her back to the neighborhood she knew so well and to leave out enough coins for a bus. She found one, bound for the Old Town harbor, a good destination. In the touristy areas, things worked differently. A barrio thug of a police captain wouldn’t have much influence there.

  A half hour on the bus helped her calm down. She focused on breathing, trying not to think too much . . . about any of it. She got off the bus amongst the multicolored colonial buildings and cobbled streets. She heard English and French mixed with Spanish on the sidewalks and coming through open shopfronts. Not far from here stood the little inn where she and Manny had waited for their plane tickets and visas. That time didn’t seem so long ago anymore.

  It now must have been past noon. If she was going to make use of this day, time was running out. She walked toward the shore and began making inquiries at the hotels.

  There were several new ones around the neighborhood of Getsemaní, where new urbanity mixed with the colonial and the decrepit. The high stone walls that separated fancy houses from the street were splashed with colorful graffiti.