All of a sudden, as if responding to some unspoken command, the Digbats stopped their assault. Some of them tossed away their crude and bloody weapons. They looked tired and surprised by what they had done. The screaming died, and the moaning of the beaten protesters could be heard. In this moment of release, some terrible understanding passed between the Digbats and the protesters. It was the recognition that they were not separated by politics or class or generations but by their very natures; and that because of this, humanity would never be reconciled; peace would never be more than a pause in the eternal cycle of wars and revolution.
In this tragic moment Father Jorge noticed Teo Sánchez standing a few feet away with a pipe in his hands. Teo’s clothes were splattered with blood and bits of gore. He was standing over the body of an unconscious woman whose face had been mangled. As soon as Father Jorge saw him, he realized that Teo had been staring at him for some time. Perhaps he was weighing whether to attack him. Father Jorge walked toward him, then fell to his knees beside the beaten woman and began to pray. Teo stood over him for a moment, then dropped his pipe and ran away. The pipe made a clanging noise in the street and then rolled over the cobblestones.
A few feet away from Father Jorge, the PDF colonel was vomiting beside his waiting jeep. Father Jorge held the hand of the woman whose face Teo had destroyed. Her nose was ruined and flat and bits of her teeth lay on the ground. He felt useless. He could tell that she was alive, but he didn’t know what to do with her except to pray. He got back to his feet and walked through sticky puddles of blood to the presidential candidate. Endara was sitting up, holding a handkerchief on the wound to the back of his head. “I’m all right, Father,” he said, “but check in the car—my bodyguard.”
Father Jorge went to the car and looked in the shattered windows. The bodyguard had been shot in the face. Bits of his brain had scattered onto the upholstery. A fly crawled across the man’s open eyes. For a moment Father Jorge thought he would be ill. He quickly blessed the bodyguard and made a cross on the man’s gory forehead. Then he stared fixedly at the bright blood on his finger. Everywhere people are suffering and dying for freedom, he thought helplessly, and here I am, a traitor talking to a dead man.
CHAPTER 16
TONY STOOD IN FRONT of a three-way mirror examining the stylish reflections of himself. Señora Morales stood behind him and on either side. “There’s nothing wrong with the jacket,” she said. “It’s your attitude.”
“What do you think, Lollipop?” Tony asked.
Carmen sat sullenly in a stiff Danish chair. “I think you should listen to Mama,” she said in a voice of weary experience.
Señora Morales tugged roughly at Tony’s shoulders. “A jacket like this has a statement to make. You need to relax and let it speak for you.”
Tony tried to relax, but Señora Morales was unconvinced. She took his wrist and shook it. “Loosen up!” she commanded. “This is not a uniform, General! If you want to look like Jack Kennedy, do like this—” And she slumped a bit, rolling her shoulders forward and sticking her hand where her jacket pocket would be.
“Like this?” asked Tony, trying to imitate her.
“No! Not like this.” She replicated his stiff bend at the waist, a sort of Japanese bow that completely missed the point. “Like this!” She transformed the movement into an elegant, Eurotrash slouch. “Great men are confident! Great men carry themselves with grace and assurance! They do not poke out their chests like Tarzan. When you see them, you know what they are inside.”
“You can’t judge a book by its cover, Mama,” Carmen said.
“Nonsense.”
Tony struck another pose. Señora Morales stepped back and appraised him. “Better,” she said grudgingly. “Remember, everybody loved Kennedy because he was so suave, so sophisticated. He dressed so well.”
Tony stared at his reflections. He looked like a small, squat mobster in a stylishly shapeless jacket. In his opinion, the slouch made him appear a bit infirm.
“They will love you, too,” Señora Morales said as she ran her hand across the rich Armani wool blend. “Now, when you speak, do this—” And she poked the air in a characteristic Kennedy gesture.
AFTER CELEBRATING early Sunday mass, Father Jorge napped in the vestry. He fell deeply asleep almost immediately, and when he awakened it was with a jolt, as if he had stepped in a hole. He was disturbed without really knowing the reason why. He supposed he must have had a dream that he had now forgotten.
When he went outside the sun was so bright he felt almost blind. He squinted and limped toward a patch of shade under a banyan tree. As he was approaching, he recognized Major Giroldi sitting on a bench, waiting for him.
“May I walk with you, Father? There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
Father Jorge nodded.
“Let’s go this way, away from the Comandancia,” Giroldi suggested.
They turned down a narrow street filled with shuttered shops that had been closed since the economy died. They moved slowly because of Father Jorge’s feet, which were almost healed but still tender.
“I trust I have your confidence,” said Giroldi.
“Of course, although perhaps we should return to the confessional if there’s something—”
Giroldi laughed grimly. “If it’s a sin, I haven’t committed it yet. Perhaps you could advise me.”
“I will do as best as I can.”
Giroldi cast an anxious glance down the street, then resumed walking and speaking in a low tone. “I am considering a desperate action. Can you imagine what this might mean? Pardon me for being so mysterious.”
He wasn’t being mysterious at all, in Father Jorge’s opinion. The major reeked of conspiracy. “I can make a guess,” the priest said.
They came to the remnants of the old walled city. Near the rubble of the wall there was a corrugated iron fence that was orange with rust and gaudily painted with graffiti. A vine had burst through the pavement and seemed to be tugging the fence into the ground, into the past, along with the vestiges of the ancient wall and the rotting apartments of Chorrillo.
“I am a Christian and a patriot, Father. Now I find these two sides of myself in a dangerous struggle. I wish to do something for my country that may place my soul in jeopardy.”
“Sometimes men of faith take great chances,” said the priest.
Giroldi stopped and looked directly at Father Jorge. The officer’s eyes were haunted and filled with sleeplessness. “Do you ever think about the story of Abraham and Isaac? I have often wondered why God would place a man in such a position that he would have to sacrifice his son.”
“He did not have to make the sacrifice, only to be willing,” Father Jorge said. “God stayed his hand.”
“But what if God had actually demanded the blood of Isaac? This is the question I ask myself. Can it ever be right to kill in cold blood?”
“I don’t believe God would ask this.”
Giroldi stared at him intently, then he began to walk again. “This is a great burden off me, Father.”
“Whatever you do, you must take care to protect yourself and your family.”
“Believe me, this is very much in my mind. And for that reason, I have a big favor to ask. I cannot think who else to turn to.” Giroldi looked at him in embarrassment. “I want you to take a message to the CIA.”
“The CIA? I don’t know any such people!” Father Jorge said under his breath. “Besides, I am not sophisticated in these matters. I’m afraid I would place you in greater danger than you already are.”
“Father, I need someone I can trust. At least I know where you stand. You are a hero. You have suffered for the cause. In you, Hugo’s spirit lives. That is a rare thing in this country, where so many play both sides. Besides, no one would suspect you of being a conspirator with the army.”
The sound of it made Father Jorge draw a quick breath. “No, no, it’s too risky, too absurd.”
“I can’t do this myself,” said Girol
di. “If I am seen, then it’s over for me. There will never be an end to Noriega. But if my plan succeeds, with the help of the Americans, think how much good we can accomplish! You said yourself that men of faith must take chances. If we don’t act for the good, then why should we expect goodness to follow?”
I THOUGHT WE WERE on an enemy-reduction plan,” Gilbert Blancarte said as he surveyed the curses on Tony’s voodoo altar. There was a photo of Ronald Reagan under an ashtray; a picture of Guillermo Endara stuck in a ball of cornmeal; and an article by Sy Hersh wrapped around a rotten tamale. Father Jorge’s name was inscribed on a slip of paper and nailed to a cow tongue. Joining the pin-filled dolls of Pablo Escobar and Jesse Helms were George Bush, General Honeycutt, and a huge, menacing female figure that the witch doctor failed to recognize.
“Felicidad,” Tony admitted guiltily. He was deep into a bottle of Old Parr.
“You are also having marital difficulties?”
“She’s a very powerful woman. You’ve got to give me something for her.”
Gilbert looked at the lingering yellow bruise under Tony’s eye. “Do you want her dead or merely terribly punished?”
“No, no, not dead. Something like, I put it in her coffee and she becomes pleasant. And thin. Something like that.”
Gilbert sniffed in his patronizing, too easily exasperated manner. “Honestly, Tony, where do you get these ideas? First, we must consult the orisha. I need a few minutes to prepare things. Why don’t you get your offerings together?”
Gilbert wrapped a black turban around his head, then briskly set about clearing a space on a coarse wooden table upon which a concrete head of the god Elegguá reposed. The icon had a mouth, eyes, and nose made of cowrie shells and a knife blade sticking out of its forehead. Gilbert lit five black candles and set a coconut on the table. Then he pressed his hands together and looked around the room. Apparently everything appeared satisfactory. “Okay,” he said, “what do you have to offer?”
Tony came forward and made the sign of the cross, then placed a rooster carcass on the altar, along with a bottle of rum and one of Fidel’s favorite cigars. Gilbert examined them noncommittally. “Omi tutu, ana tutu, loroye, tute ilé,” he intoned, placing three drops of water on the god’s head. “Now we will see if the orisha accepts our sacrifice.” He took a hammer from his kit and with a single powerful blow split the coconut into several pieces. Milk and bits of shell flew into the air. He then tore off three pieces of rind and knelt on the floor.
“Akueyé owó, akueyé omá, ariku babagwa.”
“Apkwaná,” Tony responded.
Gilbert threw the coconut rinds on the floor. Two of them were brown side up, one was white side up. Tony looked at the rinds and then at Gilbert.
“I don’t know, Tony, it doesn’t look good.”
“Can’t you throw it again?”
Gilbert shrugged. “I can do it, but the orisha may not like for us to be asking again without improving the offer. Haven’t you got something else for him?”
Tony looked suspiciously at Elegguá. The cowrie-shell features had a kind of surprised idiot look. “What does he want?”
“That’s the thing about gods, Tony. You don’t know what they want until you give it to them. This Elegguá, he’s the trickster. He usually likes food, he likes goats, he likes toys. But you take a chance when you’re dealing with him. He’s the justice giver, the score settler. If you cross the line with him, he’ll punish you. You could put down a perfectly good sacrifice, but if he’s turned against you, forget it. My experience is that he usually wants the thing you don’t want to give.”
Tony thought about this for a moment, glumly. “I don’t have a goat on the premises,” he said.
“Well, what do you have? It better be good.”
Tony rummaged through his drawers and came up with several parrot feathers and an ornamental Japanese dildo. Gilbert placed them in front of the god and repeated the incantation. When he threw the coconut rinds, all three sides were brown side up.
The back of Tony’s neck began to prickle.
“I told you we should have made a better sacrifice,” Gilbert said. “You should have listened to me. I didn’t want to throw the coconut again, but you insisted.”
“What am I going to do now?”
Gilbert put up a silencing hand and then closed his eyes. Tony sat anxiously for several minutes as Gilbert’s breath became shallow and his head lolled to the side. Finally his eyelids opened to reveal a mass of garish veins racing through the pupil-less eyeballs. Tony shivered and took another gulp of whiskey.
“Bad signs,” said Gilbert in his helium voice. “Many enemies. Many problems. Oh, you have been bad, Tony. Baaaaaad.”
Baaaaaad? Hadn’t he tried to get out of the narcotics business? Now the Colombians were trying to kill him. Hadn’t he tried to placate the Americans? Now they were trying to remove him from power. Every step he took got him in deeper trouble. He was beginning to get a little impatient with moral reforms.
“Bad vibrations,” Gilbert said. “The universe is so angry with you.”
“What? What do you see?”
“Storm clouds coming. Chaos! War! Disaster!”
“Enough!” Tony cried, slamming down his whiskey glass.
But Gilbert was still lost in his trance, foretelling the awful future. “Bombs! Fire! Many people dying! Oh, Tony, it’s all your fault, you really fucked up so bad . . .”
Tony poured a pail of chicken blood on Gilbert’s head. The witch doctor snapped to in a violent spasm. “What’s happened? Oh, my God! Blood!” he said in alarm. “Am I injured?”
“Go. Get out of here.”
Gilbert looked bewildered. “You did this to me?”
“Get out of Panama,” Tony said. “Leave immediately. No more of this superstitious prophecy.”
Gilbert collected as much dignity as possible, given the chicken blood dripping from his nose. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Tony. You offend the gods, you got to expect punishment. That’s the way it is. Me, I tried to help you. And look at what you’ve done. You’ve made a big mistake. You need all the friends you can get.”
“I need you? I’m the ruler of the goddamn country! I’ve got an army! Millions of dollars! Everybody who does business in this country needs Tony Noriega! So don’t try scaring me with your hocus-pocus. You and your ‘bad vibrations’—hah!”
“You’re crazy, Tony.”
“Don’t forget your herbs.” Tony poured a bowl of dried cieba leaves on Gilbert’s head. They stuck like feathers to the chicken blood.
Gilbert rose to his feet. His face was as dark as a thundercloud. “Blasphemer! I tried to save you! But no! You can’t stop yourself, can you? You have to go and do something so stupid you’ll never redeem yourself. You’ve really fucked up now.”
“Get out,” said Tony. “You’re lucky I’m letting you walk away.”
“What you’ve done to me is nothing compared to what’s about to happen to you, my friend. You’ve offended the gods, and they will destroy you! Akwaté omú bilabao!”
When Gilbert was gone, Tony looked around at the mess that was left behind—his ruined sacrifice, the blood on the table that was spilling onto the floor, shattered bits of coconut. He was flooded with remorse. Gilbert really was very powerful—no doubt he’d be joining the Colombians in the wanga war—and now Tony was alone, utterly alone. He looked fearfully at the impassive concrete god. Suddenly his legs went weak. He dropped to his knees and begged forgiveness. “I know I’ve screwed up. I don’t know what got into me!” But the god radiated disfavor. “Please, please forgive me, Elegguá! I know I’ve made a fool of myself—it wasn’t meant to show you disrespect! I was mad at Gilbert—that guy really annoys me. I know I’ve offended you with my sacrifice, but if you’ll just grant me your blessing, I’ll give you anything you desire—anything!”
When he looked up from his prayer, Tony gratefully spotted his half-empty bottle of Old Parr, but as he reached
for it, he inadvertently knocked it off the table. Or had the bottle leaped away from his grasp? It seemed like another warning from the universe of the unbridled punishment in store for him.
“Okay, what do you want?” Tony cried.
Silence.
“Money? I can give you money. Goats? You can have a whole goddamn herd of them! Just tell me what you want!”
Tony was finally beginning to realize the full measure of the orisha’s displeasure.
“Okay, okay, I know what you want,” Tony said. “Okay, I will give it to you. But remember this sacrifice! It’s enough! After this, we are even with each other!”
Tony staggered to his feet. He was woozy and disoriented, but he struggled to move the bulky pharmacist’s cabinet where he stored his precious herbs. Once the cabinet was out of the way, Tony wedged himself into the dusty space behind it. There was a wall safe behind a false panel. Inside were several hundred thousand dollars in cash, a U.S. military code book, secret formulas for casting spells, and a large goldfish aquarium covered with a paisley drape. He lifted the aquarium and carried it carefully into the room where Elegguá was waiting.
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