Shooting Down Heaven

by Jorge Franco

  “Somebody might call,” she’d say. “He himself might even call.”

  On one of those phone calls, somebody spoke. He asked for Fernanda and demanded seven or eight hundred million pesos, some astronomical amount she couldn’t even remember because she’d been so nervous. She asked to have till the next day so she could look into things.

  “You see? I knew it, he’s alive, he’s been kidnapped, but he’s alive.”

  Benito asked, “Did they tell you they had him?”

  “They called asking for money, Benito. That’s all they’re interested in,” she said. You know Libardo was paying them for a long time.”

  “But did they tell you they had him?”

  Fernanda hesitated. “No.”

  “Did they tell you they’d return him if you paid?” Benito asked.

  “No.” She faltered again. “But what’s the problem? Obviously they have him—they’re asking for money in exchange.”

  Benito told her that when they called again, she should demand proof of life, and if they really have him, he said, we’ll negotiate.

  “Negotiate what?” Fernanda asked.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Benito said. “Libardo would never agree to pay that much.”

  “But we can afford it,” Fernanda said, and Benito shrugged.

  Our pulses changed; our hearts beat faster now, sped up for no reason. Our tastes changed, as did our preferences. The air in the house and the light that came in through the window changed too. And so did the way we walked and carried ourselves. Our patience evaporated, and irritability was a constant companion.

  Dengue and his men were still looking. Their way. The way Libardo had taught them, the way Escobar had taught Libardo, and the way the devil had taught Escobar. All they managed to do was stir things up even more, and all their investigations led back to the same place: Los Pepes. A devastating truth that dashed our hopes.

  “Keep looking,” Fernanda ordered.

  Our grandmother was there one afternoon when Dengue arrived with the same news as always. Right in front of Fernanda, she asked him, “And why isn’t your boss here helping you look for him?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Carmenza,” Fernanda said.

  Without looking at her, as if Fernanda weren’t there, Gran said to Dengue, “She was the last person who was with him, the last one to see him. She left this house with Libardo still alive.”

  Fernanda stood in front of her so my grandmother was forced to look at her. Gran looked defenseless with Fernanda towering over her.

  “What are you implying?” Fernanda asked.

  “What we’re all thinking. You were the last one who saw him.”

  “I’ve already discussed that with them,” Fernanda said, gesturing to Dengue, “and with you and my children. I don’t know why you’re coming at me with this now, Carmenza. I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

  “Libardo was tired,” Gran said.

  “Of me?” Fernanda asked defiantly.

  “Of your tantrums, your gambling, your whining.”

  “He told you that?”

  Gran looked over at us. Dengue was staring at the floor. Fernanda was still poised for attack, standing upright, her breasts aimed at Gran’s face.

  “Did he tell you that, or are you making things up, Carmenza?”

  “This isn’t a topic to discuss in front of your boys.”

  “Who started it?” Fernanda said. “Besides, they’ve been filled in already. I imagine Libardo told you about his tramp, right?”

  Gran pressed her lips together, her body trembled slightly, and she even clenched her fists as if she weren’t afraid of Fernanda.

  “Ma,” I said, “that’s enough. Stop.”

  “Carmenza,” Fernanda said, “I don’t ever want to see you in my house again. If you want news about Libardo, you can call your grandsons or call him.” She pointed to Dengue again. “Or ask Libardo’s goddamn hussy, or check the newspapers, but I don’t want to see you here again for as long as I live, understand?”

  “Fine for now,” my grandmother replied, “but my son will have the final say on that once he returns.” Turning to Dengue, she said, “I’ll leave you to ponder that question.” Then she looked at Julio and me: “You’re always welcome at my house, boys. Come over whenever you like.”

  Fernanda led us to the kitchen, asked for water, took out three bromazepam, and passed the pills around. It was our daily communion against reality. She downed her dose with a beer and shut herself in her room for the rest of the day. She answered the phone whenever it rang. And when they didn’t call again for several days we were left feeling both depressed and elated.

  “They’re probably getting ready,” Benito predicted, and, when they were alone, warned Fernanda, “The next move is to go after the widow.”

  “That’s only when there’s a dead body,” she said.

  Benito shook his head. “No,” he said. “They come after you so you’ll give them everything.”

  “I’m not a widow, Benito.”

  “Your husband isn’t here, Fernanda. Alive or dead. It’s awful, but that’s the situation. And the only way they’ll leave you and your sons alone is if you give them what they’re asking for.”

  “And if I don’t?” she asked.

  Benito’s expression was unambiguous. She sat down to cry, and when he tried to place a hand on her shoulder, Fernanda swiftly brushed him away. He hovered nearby, waiting.

  “So they’re not going to hand him over to us?” Fernanda asked.

  “If they haven’t said so, then no.”

  That night, she relayed the conversation and added that she’d lost faith in Benito. But he’s family, Julio said. That’s no guarantee of anything, Fernanda said. So what now?, I asked. She was quiet, then said, I need to think.

  Though she didn’t get fixed up like she used to, she changed her clothes and put on lipstick. She pulled a wad of bills out of an old purse that was hanging in the dressing room like any other. She called for two bodyguards and went to the casino on Calle Oriental near Avenida La Playa, where she wasn’t so well known. It didn’t matter that we begged her not to go out, not to make things worse. I even said, what if something happens to you, Ma, what will we do? Nothing’s going to happen, I won’t be long, she said, I need to think, she insisted. We told Benito, because who else.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have them keep an eye on her without her noticing,” he told us, but we remained worried, especially since we’d absorbed some of Fernanda’s suspicions about Benito.

  Ever since I can remember I’ve felt like I was condemned to loneliness. I was never actually alone—the house was always full of people, there were always parties full of Fernanda and Libardo’s friends, always other children to keep me company, and later friends from school or other people who were around—but even though my world was bustling and crowded, I still had the sense it was all a setup to mask my solitude. And not just mine but all of ours, a solitude that suffocated Libardo, Fernanda, Julio, everyone who inhabited that criminal underworld where everything was a lie. But I’d never felt so alone as I did that night when I realized that we had no one left we could trust, and that at that very moment Fernanda was deciding our future in front of a slot machine.

  40

  Charlie waited three minutes to make sure Larry hadn’t gone to the bathroom too, or maybe was in the back looking for something for her headache. But five, fifteen minutes passed, and Larry didn’t show. He’d left his seat so tidy, it looked like it had been unoccupied for the entire flight. Pillow, blanket, headphones all neatly in place. She turned around to look for him a few times but couldn’t see the back rows. When she decided to go find him, she was blocked by the carts handing out breakfast. A flight attendant pulled down her tray table, and Charlie told her she didn’t want breakfast.

&
nbsp; “Not even coffee?” the flight attendant asked. Charlie shook her head.

  All I want is a drink . . .

  And she wanted Larry by her side; she wasn’t ready to land in Colombia alone.

  What was it that chased him away? Did my alcoholic past scare him off? . . .

  For the first time the whole flight, she thought about Flynn and recalled that at one point she’d nearly invited him to come with her on this trip. She’d decided against it because she was becoming increasingly doubtful about her feelings for him. It was best to put some land between them, or ocean, at least for a while. But she wanted him by her side now, wished he were there to console her, to face the arrival with her and help her make her connecting flight to Medellín, to do for her what she felt unable to do herself.

  He wouldn’t have let me drink, and I wouldn’t be wanting so badly to have another one . . .

  She felt rage. It felt unfair that Larry had left. Larry wasn’t Flynn, but he was somebody. She looked back again, and the service carts were still in the way. She brought a glass to her lips; it was empty, full only of fingerprints. From one of the seat pockets she pulled out two mini bottles of gin, two among the many they’d drunk, but they were empty too. Not a dreg, not a drop—even the smell had evaporated.

  She lifted her feet, wrapped her arms around her knees, and cried a good long while. Her neighbors glanced at her a few times while finishing their breakfasts. Images and sounds of her father when he was alive kept flooding her memory. Him with her, with her mother, alone, with the whole family. More and more memories that caged her in grief and despair. She decided to go get a glass of wine, anything, even if she had to beg the flight attendant. But when she tried to get up, she couldn’t. Her feet didn’t respond, nor her arms to support her, nor her voice to ask for help. With effort, she was able to move her eyes, and when she looked across the aisle she saw her neighbor cleaning up a bit of egg that had fallen on his shirt. She saw the white lights on the ceiling, and where the fasten-seatbelt sign was supposed to be, there was another one that kept flashing, intermittently, from red to black, and it said, best not do that, Charlie. Best not do that.

  41

  At about eight in the morning we see Libardo again, twelve years after, scattered across a tray. There are fewer bones than I’d expected. Some of them aren’t even whole. The official from the National Institute of Legal Medicine separates them with a large pair of tongs, as if he were manning a grill. Libardo’s skull catches my attention. There’s still hair on it.

  “Well, here you are,” the official says from behind a surgical mask.

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  “The earth consumes everything else,” he replies.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Julio asks.

  “That’s what the necropsy says,” the official answers, and adds irritably, “That’s not my job.”

  My brother crosses himself; I don’t know whether to imitate him. Julio approaches the tray and picks up the skull. He examines it on all sides, like when you’re buying an avocado.

  “Look,” he says, “it’s intact.”

  “If you’re going to take him, you have to sign these forms,” the man says.

  The comment sparks my curiosity. “What if we don’t want him?” I ask.

  “He’ll go to the medical school,” he informs me.

  “Of course we’re going to take him,” Julio says, looking at me with annoyance. “That’s why we’re here.”

  The official asks us to wait a moment. Julio returns the skull to the tray and picks up another bone. A long one, maybe a femur. Poor Dad, he says, holding the bone in both hands. He holds it out to me, like a scepter being passed from one king to another. No, I say, I don’t want to touch it. It’s Dad, Julio says. I know, I say, but I don’t want to, I can’t. Julio goes over to the forms the official left on the counter and flips through them. A wave of nausea washes over me; I look for a chair and sit in the first one I find. Julio doesn’t even notice. This is what I came back for, then, to collect a heap of bones, to root around in the wound that had already closed and formed a scar, to undo the steps of our past. The ceiling light starts flickering like in a horror movie.

  “This doesn’t specify how he died,” Julio tells me, examining the papers.

  “He was murdered,” I say, and I taste the nausea in my spit.

  Julio looks at me gravely and says, “Really? No kidding.”

  I burp, and a retching convulses my body. I’m enveloped in a vapor of rum and ether. I struggle to my feet and run for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Julio asks.

  I see my reflection in the water in the toilet bowl. Nothing comes out, though it feels like my eyes are about to bug out of my skull with every spasm of my stomach. I puke up groans, spit, rage, grief, pain, and memories.

  “You O.K., Little Bro?” Julio asks from the other side of the door.

  “Yeah,” I say, just so he’ll stop asking.

  “Let’s go then,” he says. “We’re all set.”

  Outside he’s got a red bag with the name Libardo scrawled on it. He’s holding it as if he were carrying a baby in his arms. The official looks at me and chuckles. “Pretty much everybody vomits,” he says. “Some people even shit themselves.”

  I don’t have the strength to protest.

  “You look pale, Little Bro,” Julio says. “We should go.”

  “I’ll go with you,” the official says.

  We exit the room, go upstairs, walk down hallways. The official drops off copies of the form, in different colors, at various doorways. Outside, at last, we encounter daylight, natural light, and the air still smells of fireworks. The official says goodbye.

  “How many bones does a body have?” I ask.

  “Two hundred and six, give or take. Not counting the teeth,” he replies.

  I don’t understand the “give or take,” as if some people had more or fewer bones than others. I don’t have the energy to ask; I barely manage to wave.

  “Let’s get some breakfast,” Julio says. “That’s why you’re feeling weak.”

  “What about Dad?” I ask, still staring at the bag.

  “He’s coming with us,” Julio says, already heading toward the car.

  Out in the streets, city maintenance workers are gathering up the ravages of La Alborada. Sticks from bottle rockets, candles from sky lanterns, charred remains of black powder, aguardiente bottles, bags of food, condoms, shoes, and dead birds.

  “The three of us together again,” Julio muses as he drives. “The men of the house.”

  Libardo’s riding in the backseat in the red bag. Julio glances back every once in a while. Now we’re the ones taking care of him. As much as he told us, we’re three invincible warriors, three tigers, three stallions, still all we’ve got is the little of him they managed to gather up.

  “The guy told me we can’t cremate him yet,” Julio tells me. “We’ve got to wait till the attorney general’s office issues some document.”

  “There’s no need anyway,” I say.

  “Fernanda wanted to,” Julio says.

  She doesn’t realize how little of him is left. We can stick him in an urn just as he is.

  The men picking up the trash toss a couple of dead dogs into the garbage truck. Stray dogs that didn’t survive last night’s battle, and seeing them tumble on top of the rubbish, I think about Libardo dumped in a landfill. The image isn’t a new one. I’ve pictured it a million times and dreamed it, with impeccable clarity, in every nightmare I’ve had. Libardo rotting among other corpses, a dream I stopped dreaming only recently.

  Julio parks near a restaurant. By now the sun is shining brightly, and the dazzling light only adds to my sleepless exhaustion. Julio opens the back door and takes out the bag of remains.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.


  “Taking him with us,” he says.

  “You’re nuts.”

  “If I leave him here, somebody might think there’s something in the bag and break in and steal it.”

  “But . . .” Julio’s already locking the car. I persist: “Why don’t you put him in the trunk?”

  Julio gives me a big-brother look and says, “What’s up with you?” He holds the bag out toward me with both hands and says, “It’s Dad, Little Bro, this is Dad.”

  So the three of us head into the restaurant. Julio insists I carry the bag, and I insist that I don’t want to. Bring this man a strong cup of coffee—he hasn’t slept for I don’t know how long, Julio tells the waitress. She looks at me pityingly and jots down Julio’s order for two breakfast platters. Scrambled eggs, chorizo, an arepa, and cheese. Is it just going to be you two?, the waitress asks. Julio nods, and she gathers up the extra place settings. Libardo’s in the other chair, but he won’t be eating.

  “Well,” Julio says, “it’s the end of an era. We know where he is, and given what Mom wants to do with him, we’ll always know where he is.”

  I yawn and apologize. Julio grimaces at the waitress and points at me so she’ll hurry up with the coffee.

  “According to those papers I was reading,” he tells me, “Dad may have died ten or twelve years ago.”

  “So they don’t say anything,” I say.

  “Ten or twelve years, don’t you get it?”

  “Well yeah, but which date are we going to use?”

  The waitress arrives with our coffees. Julio is pensive. I’ll be right back with your food, she says. Julio stirs the sugar into his cup and keeps thinking. He lowers his head, puts his hand on his forehead, and starts to cry.

  “Hey . . .” I say. I swallow the coffee and the knot that rises in my throat at seeing him cry.

  Julio raises his other hand to signal to me not to say anything, to let him be, it’ll pass. He cries a little longer, wipes his drippy nose with a paper napkin, looks at me, and smiles. I return his smile, feeling that I love him now more than ever.