Shooting Down Heaven

by Jorge Franco

  26

  Charlie squeezed his hand, and the airplane shook furiously. The seatbelt signs lit up, and the flight attendant came on the loudspeakers to announce what was already clear to everybody: the plane was experiencing some turbulence. The people who were sleeping woke up, those who were already awake sat up straighter, and even the drugged ones shifted in their seats.

  “What’s going on?” Charlie asked.

  “There’s some turbulence.”

  “Yeah, I know, but why?”

  Larry raised the shade to see if he might find the explanation outside, but that made things worse; the plane lights bouncing off the clouds made it seem like they were in the middle of an electrical storm.

  “Shut that,” Charlie ordered him.

  “We’re going through some clouds. That’s why.”

  “But there aren’t any clouds this high up,” Charlie said.

  “Then we must not be that high up.”

  “Oh, God,” she exclaimed, and squeezed his hand tighter. Then she said, “Recite something to me.”

  “What?”

  “Whenever I was scared, my dad used to calm me down by reciting a poem.”

  The plane was lurching up and down, shaking from side to side. Behind them they could hear a lot of noise. As they pitched in and out of air pockets, Charlie asked Larry for a poem.

  Like I’m some kind of medieval troubadour . . .

  “Please,” she insisted, her fingernails digging into his arm.

  “What poem?”

  “Any.”

  “But I . . .”

  Then, from somewhere in his memory, Larry remembered how his econometrics professor in London, Sean Leeson, used to end every class to clear his students’ minds: Do not go gentle into that good night, old age should burn and rave at close of day. Closing his eyes, savoring the experience, Larry started reciting the Dylan Thomas poem he’d memorized through hearing it so often from Leeson.

  It wasn’t the best poem for traversing a storm in an airplane. Thomas talked about lightning, death, rage, and darkness. Maybe that’s why she looked at him in bewilderment, though she did seem less scared. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  The turbulence affected Larry’s voice; he was trying to call up the same gravitas and power his professor had displayed, but he wasn’t pulling it off. He wanted her to feel what he’d felt when he used to listen to Leeson closing out the session with his hoarse but gentle voice, after having turned their brains to mush with mathematical models and statistics. The plane lurched and dropped, the passengers screamed, and Larry, as if he were praying, continued: Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight. He stopped and she asked him to keep going.

  What if the poem were a premonition? . . .

  He translated it in his head. They were those grave men near death—Larry, Charlie, and the two-hundred-odd other souls aloft in a plane that was plunging out of control.

  “Go on, don’t stop,” Charlie insisted.

  And you, my father, Larry recited, then stopped and confessed, “I can’t go on.”

  Why a mention of the father, and in that line, in this moment? With the two of us on our way to be with our dead fathers . . .

  If he’d finished the sentence, Larry would have said, there on the sad height.

  I can’t go on . . .

  Charlie laid her face on his chest and started pleading to her father. And her father must have heard her, because the plane bounced on a pocket of air and rose again.

  “Daddy,” Charlie said, biting Larry’s shirt.

  The bottles and glasses crashed to the floor, and the two interlaced their fingers as the plane climbed and climbed. A spark of hope flickered in them both: higher up there would be no clouds, or wind, or lightning, only stars and sky, and her and him and, perhaps, eternity.

  27

  The stalking was simple at first: somebody would call and then hang up. The call could pass for a wrong number, but then there would be five, ten more calls until late into the night. Libardo would lie sleepless with rage, and Fernanda was climbing the walls. Whoever it was didn’t even give Libardo time to insult them; Fernanda got the brunt of his tirades instead. You goddamn sewer rats, I’m going to find you, I’ll drag you out of your fucking holes and make you regret it, Libardo would say, but they’d already hung up before he even got to the first obscenity.

  “We’ll unplug the phones at night,” he told us. “In this house we’re going to sleep in peace. They can stay up all night on their own.”

  “Who is it calling?” I asked.

  “The people who killed him.”

  “But what do they want? Why do they keep hanging up?”

  “To screw with us, to scare us, but we’ve gone through darker times than this before,” Libardo said, resolute.

  It wasn’t true—we’d never experienced anything like this, at least not as a family. Libardo had probably faced death many times in his life; he’d have felt it bearing down on him with a pistol in his mouth, with a chainsaw rumbling at his throat. Who knows how often he’d believed his final moment had arrived, and who knows how he kept managing to elude it. But now they were messing with his family, and Escobar wasn’t around to help him out.

  During the day they called every hour on the hour. Libardo had instructed us not to answer, but the endless ringing was worse than the silence on the other end of the line. It echoed like an air raid siren, like a dripping faucet on a sleepless night, like a madman’s shouting on the streets or a burst of gunfire in the wee hours. More than a noise, it was an icy shock that ran to the very tip of every nerve. So it was better to pick up the handset and immediately drop it again. It would ring again only exactly sixty minutes later, like the bird in a cuckoo clock.

  Fed up, Libardo managed to get our number changed and, at least as far as noise went, calm returned to the house. But the harassment didn’t let up. My philosophy teacher, Mario Palacio, in a fit of self-righteousness, decided to mock Julio and me and all the other students he referred to as “cartel kids.” He wouldn’t name names, but he’d look at us pointedly when discussing “the corrosive epidemic of drug trafficking”; he’d stop next to us while preaching about “the mafia culture that has aggravated our city’s social ills.” He gave a lot of exams, and I received a failing grade on every single one, supposedly because philosophy was a way of looking at the world and, he claimed, I was blinded “by the ephemeral gleam of easy money.” To make up the failed exams, he gave me an additional assignment. He handed me a small, worn red book that looked like a missal, titled The Five Philosophical Theses of Mao Tse-tung. And he told me, “I don’t want a summary of the book, I want an examination of how each thesis can be applied to the new social and economic model of Medellín.” He said it in the dogmatic tone that he used in class to convince us that his way of looking at the world was the correct one.

  “Poor bastard,” said Libardo when I told him about the assignment and showed him the red book. He looked at it with disgust and added, “Screw that assignment and Mao what’s-his-face too. That bitter old coot isn’t going to ruin your year over a completely useless class. Let me talk to him.”

  Of course they never talked; he sent Dengue in his stead. I never knew what was said, but in any case the Mao assignment was dropped, though I continued to do badly on the exams. What’s more, other teachers made common cause with Palacio and took the same attitude toward us. My schoolyear hung in the balance.

  Then one day, the phone rang again, and nobody said anything on the other end of the line. It rang again exactly sixty minutes later. And every hour every night. And the next day and the days after. We unplugged the telephones again before going to bed, but when we plugged them in the next day, they’d start ringing right on the hour once more.

  Libardo cursed and hurled threats right and left. Into the void, knowing there was
nothing else he could do. He could keep getting new phone numbers, and they’d find them out every single time.

  Then we started getting clear, direct messages through emissaries sent by Los Pepes. They wanted our properties, the most valuable ones, and large quantities of cash.

  “At least they’re looking to negotiate,” Fernanda said.

  “Does this seem like a negotiation to you?” Libardo replied in fury.

  “Well, yeah,” she said. “Each side’s contributing something, right?”

  “They’re demanding everything.”

  “But they’re offering us peace,” Fernanda said.

  “Are you all out of brains or something?” Libardo said. Leaping up and pointing a finger at him, she replied, “What I am is all out of patience with you. I’ve had it up to here!” With the same finger she drew a line across her forehead. She stormed out and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  “What a harpy,” Libardo remarked.

  Any spark could set us off. Somebody always ended up slamming a door at the end of a conversation. The next day we’d hug it out, like a team before a game, and apologize, promising love, loyalty, and unity. The four of us with the water up to our necks, but clutching one another.

  In any case, Libardo failed in his efforts to keep Julio and me out of everything that was going on. It was impossible not to let us be drawn in—we weren’t little kids, and the whole business with the phone calls, plus the mood swings, the news stories, and the rumors, ended up pulling us right into the power struggle. Ironically, while the country believed one war was over, another was beginning, and I was an unwilling recruit to one side.

  Los Pepes were out of control. There were a lot of them, and they had a lot of power. According to Libardo, all he needed to guarantee his safety in the conflict was a Pepe. That was the only thing he was looking to hook in a turbulent river. Los Pepes had been around for two years, ever since Escobar had burned the mutilated bodies of the Moncadas and the Galeanos, and now they were not only stampeding over everything in an unrestrained herd but also exhibiting a terrifying level of hatred. They murdered people and left a message with every corpse, burned properties, tortured victims with unprecedented cruelty. We were actually lucky that their attention to us had been limited to anonymous phone calls and specific demands. The question that haunted us was when they were going to take the next step.

  Libardo waited for the maid to clear the plates from the table. Once we were alone, he said, “Every revolution has involved a long series of battles. The ideas that changed the world traveled winding, difficult paths. The changes we’re after can’t be achieved overnight. We’ve lost a lot of people, but we’ve kept going. And we’re not going to stop.”

  It wasn’t a new speech—he was always saying that Escobar was hated and persecuted for being a subversive. That in this conservative, oppressive society, his ideas were shocking because they were so revolutionary. Libardo picked up the fork that had been left for dessert, gripped it tightly in his fist, and said, “Revolutions demand sacrifices, and sooner or later this retrograde society will embrace Pablo’s social message. I’m going to keep fighting for those changes, boys, so you’ll be proud of me one day.”

  His voice cracked. While waiting for the lump in his throat to clear, he grasped the fork in both hands as if he were going to bend it. Though it was hardly the moment for it, I ventured a question: “What kind of changes, Pa?”

  He looked at me and smiled. His eyes welled up. He let out a quiet laugh, and finally bent the fork. “The little squirt’s a smart one, huh?” he said. “I like that.” He spread his arms and said, “Come here.”

  I got up and approached him slowly, more alert to Julio’s reaction than to Libardo’s, looking for support in my brother’s eyes, but Julio was as bewildered as I was.

  “You too, Julio,” Libardo said. “Come here.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course, son, you come here too.”

  He wrapped his strong, hairy arms around us. He kissed us. He smelled like sweat and soil. His three-day beard pricked my face. I was annoyed that he and Fernanda were both trying to fix everything with a hug. Warm washcloths on foreheads. No hug has ever saved anybody from a fatal disease. Drops of herbal tinctures, floral teas to distract us from our suffering.

  I tried to pull away, but he squeezed us tighter. We couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t perceive anything apart from his heavy breathing, until the noise of the fork crashing to the floor made us all jump.

  28

  Larry?”

  “Hey, Ma.”

  Fernanda tries to sit up, adjusting the T-shirt she’s using as a nightgown. She isn’t wearing anything else. She’s lit up by the hall light, and my shadow is falling across her face, which she scrunches up like a little girl carelessly awakened. She murmurs something, as if weighed down by her own body. I put my hand on her back, and she asks me, confused, “How did you get in?”

  “Pedro unlocked the door.”

  “Oh, O.K.,” she says, and looks around in a daze, as if she’s awakened in an unfamiliar room. “What time is it?” she asks.

  “Three thirty.”

  “Did you just get here?”

  I nod, and Fernanda sits up in bed, pulls the sheet over her legs, and runs her hand through her hair. She seems surprised to discover that it’s still damp. I reach out to turn on the bedside lamp, but she stops me. “No,” she pleads, “I look awful.”

  She gazes at me a while and strokes my cheek. “Larry,” she says, “I’ve really missed you.” She grabs my hand and leans toward me. “You smell like liquor,” she says, smiling.

  “They refused to bring me. I’ve been trying to get here for a while, but Pedro told me you weren’t . . .”

  “I was bushed,” she says, and touches her hair again. “What time did you arrive?”

  “In Medellín?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like noon. I haven’t slept at all.”

  “Come here, sweetie.” She gestures for me to sit next to her. She leans her head on my shoulder. Her hair smells clean, but her breath smells like cigarettes.

  “Where’s Julio?” I ask.

  “At the farm. But he said he’d come early.”

  She slides down the bed a little. She shakes her head and covers her ears.

  “All those fireworks, Jesus Christ,” she complains. “What time are they going to stop?”

  She breathes in, sighs, then rests against my shoulder again.

  “Did you see the apartment?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s really small.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “It’s not like the house,” she says.

  It is smaller. The bed is half the size of the one she used to have. Instead of picture windows it’s got narrow casements; there’s no artwork or heavy drapes, just blinds.

  “It’s great,” I say. “You don’t need any more than this. It’s bigger than my place in London.”

  “It isn’t easy,” she says, and clears her throat.

  It occurs to me now that the reason she never sent me a photo of the apartment or showed it to me when we talked on Skype was more because of the mess than the size. Fernanda has never finished unpacking the things she brought from the house.

  “I set up Julio’s room for you,” she says. “He’s at the farm pretty much all the time. At any rate, it’s got two beds, if it turns out he wants to stay. Hope so. It would be wonderful to be all together again.” She sighs, sighs again, and clarifies, “Not beds. Cots.”

  “I’m so tired I could sleep on the floor,” I tell her.

  “Sleep here with me tonight, if that’s even possible with all this noise. Are you hungry? Did you eat?”

  “I’m fine. Sleepy.”

  I could fall asleep like this, fully clot
hed and with my shoes still on, leaning back against the wooden headboard, with Fernanda’s damp hair as a pillow. I would plunge into sleep as soon as I close my eyes, but the overhead light suddenly flips on and blinds us.

  “Why is it so dark in here?” asks Pedro, standing in the doorway.

  Fernanda pulls the sheet over her head. “Jackass,” she says.

  “Turn off the light, dipshit,” I tell him.

  “I just wanted to show you the shirt I borrowed,” Pedro says. He spreads his arms to show me the one he’s put on in place of his bloody one. “It was the best one I found,” he says. “Your clothes are butt-ugly. You’ve got the worst fashion sense.”

  “What are you doing here?” Fernanda asks.

  “I brought you your son.”

  “Right, but why are you still here?”

  “I was changing.”

  Now I see her in the overhead light. Her skin is red, her eyes swollen, and she has spots and wrinkles that weren’t visible on the computer screen. It wasn’t so long ago that I last saw her in person. It could be the hour—everybody looks like crap when they’re disturbed in the middle of the night. She’s still beautiful anyway; she still looks like a queen. Or is it the passing years, which destroy everything?

  “What happened to your face?” she asks Pedro.

  “Not too much. Sure happened to the other guy, though.”

  “Well, bye,” I tell Pedro.

  “Bye?” He laughs. “You’re coming with us. Inga and the others are waiting in the car.”

  Fernanda laughs too, and I don’t understand her reaction. I’m irritated by the complicity in her chuckle. “What’s so funny?” I ask, and the question only makes them laugh harder. Fernanda’s face flushes, her nostrils flare, and a thread of spit lashes her upper teeth to her lower ones.

  “I’m going to pee,” she says, and gets up.

  The Dictator goes gloomy, deflates when it’s just me around. It’s always been like that when we annoy each other. Our friendship always saves us eventually, or his willingness to turn the page as if nothing had happened. I’m not budging from here, Pedro, I tell him. It’s still early, he says, let’s go for a ride. I shake my head. I heard about this kickass afterparty, he says, it’s going to be off the hook. No, I say. He looks at me. Fernanda flushes the toilet. I’m taking your shirt, Pedro says. I shrug, and he leaves. I feel myself nodding off. Fernanda’s taking a long time. Just as I’m about to fall asleep, she says, “You stayed?”