by Jorge Franco
51
Fernanda shoved everything off the desk—binders, papers, notebooks, all the information she’d been reviewing for weeks now—and spread out a blueprint of the house on the bare surface.
“There’s something here,” she told us, placing her finger on the backyard area.
I was fascinated by the blueprint. I’d never seen the house in this dimension. It was like seeing it from the air, but intimately. The bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathrooms and toilets—even plates and mugs had been drawn in the dining room. In the backyard were green plants, the rectangle of the pool, sun loungers, an umbrella, and several Xs marked with a pencil that were different from the architect’s lines. According to Fernanda, those Xs contained the mystery.
“Your dad doesn’t trust anybody,” she said. “He doesn’t keep all his money in the bank or in the safe—and here, boys, look here.” She opened a school notebook, full of figures, names, scribbles, all written in pencil.
“What’s that, Ma?”
“Cash. Money your dad received, a lot more than is in his bank accounts.”
“He must have spent it,” Julio said.
“Not all of it,” she said. “I’m sure he hid part of it.”
That was where the backyard came in. Those Xs, marked by Libardo, she claimed, must be hiding places, spots where he might have buried a lot of money. I looked at Julio to read his expression.
Fernanda’s theory wasn’t completely out there. We knew that ever since Escobar died, random citizens had been trespassing on his estates and other properties to search for false walls, tunnels, underground caches where they hoped to find vast sums of cash. Even the prison he’d had built for himself in Envigado was being plundered and destroyed, little by little, by those hoping to come across a hidden stash.
“Nobody,” Fernanda emphasized, “absolutely nobody can find out about this.” And once more she put her finger on the Xs on the blueprint.
To keep everybody from suspecting anything, she gave the maids a day off, and since the bodyguards refused to leave the house unprotected, Fernanda demanded that they remain outside in their vehicles, claiming she wanted to spend a day as a family, with no outsiders.
That night, like tomb raiders, we armed ourselves with picks, shovels, and flashlights and started digging approximately where the marks indicated. I didn’t believe there was money buried in the backyard, but I loved the absurdity of the situation. Doing anything different was an adventure.
“If Dad buried something here, it must have been a long time ago,” Julio said, and added, “There aren’t any marks in the grass.”
“He was a real wiz at hiding things,” Fernanda said, laboriously prodding the hard soil with her shovel.
Julio was the one who had experience with this kind of thing. When we used to go out to the farms, he’d turn into a laborer. He built corrals, mended fences, dug wells, had breakfast with the hands, forgot he was the boss’s son. There, in the backyard, he was the only one who was producing results. Fernanda and I had barely managed to remove the top layer of lawn. With power and precision, Julio was burying his pick in the earth and removing large quantities of soil.
“How far down do you suppose it is?” I asked.
“If he was just hiding it, I doubt it’s buried very deep,” Julio said.
Fernanda let out a shriek of terror.
“What’s wrong?” Julio asked, running to her.
“Worms,” Fernanda said.
Julio moved them aside with his shovel and admonished her for yelling.
“They’re so gross,” she said.
Julio suggested she keep digging in the hole he’d started while he continued with hers.
“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to go over everything with a metal detector first?” I asked.
“What, you think Dad hid piggy banks full of coins, dumbass?”
Fernanda reprimanded him. “What did I say about treating each other better?”
“I didn’t say anything,” I defended myself.
“I don’t care,” she said. “It goes for both of you.”
Julio finished digging the three holes. Fernanda took smoke breaks, and half an hour after we’d started, she poured herself a glass of gin. Julio and I removed our shirts. We were soaked with sweat, and nothing was emerging from the earth.
“Maybe we didn’t gauge the marks correctly,” Fernanda said.
Julio huffed.
“Maybe we’re off by a couple of feet,” she said, sitting on one of the benches.
“That’s a problem,” Julio said.
“We’ve still got two left,” I said.
“We should keep making these bigger,” he suggested.
“Look,” I said, “we’ve got an audience.”
Several people were watching us from a neighboring building. Julio yelled at them, lose something, assholes?, but, unfazed, they didn’t budge. I’m going to turn out the pool light, Fernanda said. Tomorrow everybody’s going to know we’re looking for something, I said. So what?, said Julio, anybody who ventures in here is going to end up in one of these holes, he added.
Fernanda started walking around our excavations. She was shining the flashlight on the grass and using her foot to shove fallen leaves aside. We didn’t ask what she was looking for because she didn’t know herself. Any clue, a scar on the lawn, an odd mound, some mark that Libardo left so we could unbury what had been buried.
By three in the morning, I could no longer feel my hands. Fernanda was struggling to remove the soil that Julio had loosened. He looked obdurate, though from time to time he massaged his arms.
“Let’s call it a night and finish tomorrow,” I suggested, and the three of us looked at one another with frustration.
“We can’t leave things like this, boys,” Fernanda said.
“Why not?”
“Well, look at it,” she said, gesturing to the heaps of earth, the holes, the entire backyard torn apart.
“So what do we do?” Julio asked.
Fernanda, tired and shaking, lit another cigarette. I don’t know if it was from the smoke, but it looked like her eyes were watering. If she was going to cry, it was no surprise. We’d imagined we’d brandish the shovel a few times and strike a plastic bin full of US dollars. Plus, what good would that money do us, if it existed? What would being richer get us? Would it bring Libardo back? If Fernanda was going to cry, the cigarette dispelled her weeping. With her fingers, she squeezed the top of her nose between her eyebrows.
“What if those Xs aren’t what we’re thinking?” I asked.
“I’m sure there’s something here.”
“Well, today wasn’t the day,” I said, and dropped my shovel next to the hole. When I put on my shirt, my whole body ached.
“What are we going to tell the boys?” Fernanda asked. “And the help?”
“This area is off-limits,” Julio said. “Anyone who sets foot here gets shot. And anyone who asks about it can go to hell.”
It was dark, but I could tell Fernanda was shocked by Julio’s comment. It might have been Libardo talking. I was alarmed but also felt comforted. At least somebody was starting to show some authority in this whole business. And what scared me wasn’t that Julio was talking like Libardo, but that he might meet the same fate.
“Why not tell them the truth?” I said.
“That there are hidden stashes?” Fernanda asked.
“No,” I said. “That there isn’t anything.”
“Well, I’m going to keep looking till I’ve dug up the entire backyard,” she said.
“Let’s go to bed,” Julio said.
Before heading up to our rooms, we looked over the work we’d done, the wasted effort in every pile of earth and every hole. And we saw her, defeated, lost, inhaling on a cigarette as if it were the only thing she had left in this
world.
52
As soon as the airplane wheels touched the runway, the magic of flying lost its divine, mythic, defiant quality and became the mundane act of endlessly taxiing. Charlie felt as if she were falling apart when the engines roared in reverse to brake. In touching down, that plane was forcing her to set foot on the soil where her father had just died. For the thousandth time, she sobbed, until they came to a complete stop.
Again she looked back, searching for Larry, but the crowd had gotten to their feet even before the announcement that it was O.K. to stand up. The only people still seated were the flight attendants; everybody else was opening overhead compartments, calling across the rows as if they were in a market. They smelled of fatigue and sleeplessness, and in the commotion, Charlie harbored the hope of finding Larry so he could be with her during the torturous ordeal of returning to Colombia.
She turned on her cell phone, and a message from Cristina, her sister, appeared, saying that everything was all set for her arrival. Salgado from the Bogotá office will be waiting for you, he’ll take care of everything, look for him. And just as she was finishing reading it the phone rang, from an unidentified number, but she answered because she knew who it was.
“Salgado just called to tell me you’ve landed,” Cristina said. “How was the flight?”
“Oh, Cris,” Charlie sobbed.
“I know. It’s awful.”
Charlie collapsed in tears, and Cristina told her, get off that plane right now, Salgado’s got your ticket to Medellín, we’re waiting for you. How’s Mom?, Charlie asked. She just can’t talk right now, Cristina replied, when you’re with Salgado call me back on his phone. O.K., Charlie said, then wiped her tears and stood up, but she had to sit down immediately.
I’m going to throw up . . .
“I don’t feel good, Cris.”
“You need to get off that plane right now,” her sister said, and hung up.
The discomfort was simply her body rejecting the drinks she’d had. A secret that, for the time being, she’d again have to hide.
He’s the only one who knows . . .
She tried to stand up once more, slower this time, and leaned on the seat back and asked another passenger to help her with the suitcase she’d stashed in the overhead compartment.
The first-class passengers were filing out, and those in coach were being told to wait by a flight attendant. Charlie let inertia carry her off the plane, though she threw one last glance toward the rear.
Nothing . . .
Just hundreds of frazzled faces. She put one foot in her country and then the other. She pulled her suitcase along, and almost immediately ran into a young man who said, “María Carlota, I’m Rubén Salgado, assistant director of human resources.”
Her surprise was visible.
“How were you able to get in here?” she asked.
“The minister of foreign affairs has been very helpful. He’s smoothed things out for us.”
They were standing in the middle of the ramp, with the passengers squeezing past. Salgado grabbed the suitcase and said, “Come on, let’s go. You’ve got just enough time to catch your flight to Medellín.”
They moved down the jet bridge, but Charlie stopped to look back.
“Are you waiting for somebody?” Salgado asked.
“Yes,” she replied, then corrected herself. “No, nobody.”
She tried to keep up with Salgado. She pulled her sunglasses out of her purse and put them on.
“I’m really sorry about your father’s death,” Salgado said. “Working for him has been one of the most enriching experiences of my life. He was a remarkable person. He’ll be missed here in Colombia.”
Charlie thanked him in a tiny voice. She’d have to get used to it. From now on people were going to be constantly imparting their condolences. She looked back again but saw only the herd also heading for the passport control area.
“I need you to give me your baggage claim slips,” Salgado said.
“What?” Charlie asked, distracted.
“The slips for your suitcases. They’re probably not going to make it onto your flight. I’ll claim them for you.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring them to you on the next flight,” Salgado explained, and then his voice darkened. “I’m going to the funeral too.”
He put his hand gently on her shoulder to urge her to walk faster.
Charlie was out of breath when they reached passport control. Salgado apologized to her and said again that if they didn’t rush, she wouldn’t make her connection. He spoke with an airport worker, showed him a piece of paper, and then told Charlie that they could use the line reserved for diplomats. Salgado took care of everything. He showed the official her passport, answered the questions for her, explained once more why they’d used that line, all in hand.
Meanwhile, Charlie was eyeing every passenger who reached the spiral that was growing behind her. Until finally, way in the back, he came into view. He was walking slowly and carrying a backpack. A powerful emotion swept through her. She smiled. She raised her hand, but Larry didn’t see her. He was moving forward, his mind elsewhere, in the huge line that had formed.
“All right. Let’s go,” Salgado said, suddenly heading off with the suitcase bumping along behind him.
“Yes,” Charlie said.
Before leaving, she looked back at Larry again. He was standing still, his passport in hand, and he was looking at her, the way you look at something in a shop window that you can’t afford. Charlie raised her hand again, more timidly now, almost fearful. Larry did the same. Her hand and his, barely raised, insecure, vague, like two accomplices in a crime.
53
My new sister lives in a gated community where all the houses are identical, small with lots of exposed brick. The guard stops me at the gate and scrutinizes me with guard-like suspicion. I ask for Rosa Marcela, and he thinks a moment. Maybe I should give her mother’s name, Vanesa, because my sister might still be at school. But the guard picks up the phone and waits. I think about Julio and Fernanda; if she finds out I’m here, she’ll kill me. He must hate me right now and will definitely tell her. I’m a dead man, or at least exiled; I can just see myself having to seek refuge at Gran’s house.
“What’s your name?” the guard asks.
“Larry,” I tell him.
“Larry’s here asking for Rosa Marcela,” the guard says to the person who answered. Then he asks me, “Larry who?”
The usual, of course, the only way anybody ever recognizes me in this country.
“Larry, Libardo’s son.”
The guard repeats what I’ve said and endless seconds go by. I think again about Fernanda and Julio and this choice I’ve made that already tastes like betrayal.
“The little girl isn’t home yet, but go on in,” the guard tells me.
The facades are all the same, even the doors are the same; the only thing that changes is the curtain color and what I can see of the inside. So what happened here? Why does one of Libardo’s lovers live in this kind of neighborhood? And what about her daughter? Did he consider her to be different from Julio and me? Did they lose their fortune, like us? There it is, in any case, here I am: in front of number 23. The bell jangles all through the neighborhood, in every nerve in my body, in my neurons that wig out when they hear footsteps approaching.
“Hello.”
“Vanesa?”
“Yes. Larry?”
“Yes, I’m Larry, Libardo’s son.”
“Come in, Larry. Welcome.”
I go in, and the first thing I see is him. His felonious smile, twisted and wicked, the glinting gaze of a man who revels in his sinning.
“Weren’t you abroad?” Vanesa asks me.
“I arrived yesterday.”
“Do you want something t
o drink?”
“No, thanks.”
Next to the photo of Libardo are photos of the little girl at different ages. Vanesa signals for to me to sit down, but I continue to be distracted by everything I see.
“Has something happened?” she asks anxiously.
“They found my dad.”
“Yes. Doña Carmenza told me.”
We look at each other in silence, furtively studying each other. All I see is a young woman, just a few years older than me, attractive, uncertain, on the defensive.
“I thought . . .” she says, and stops.
“It was only just now,” I tell her, “I found out she existed.” I gesture toward one of the picture frames with my head.
“Oh, Rosi,” she says, and smiles.
“I didn’t know,” I say.
“Nobody knew. Just Libardo, but since . . .”
It’s so hard to call things by their name, especially when they refer to pain, tragedy, guilt. But I make no attempt to finish her sentence. I nod so she knows I understand.
“He never met her,” Vanesa says. “He just saw her in the ultrasounds. He cried when he found out she was a girl.”
“He always wanted a daughter, I know that.”
Her eyes well up, and she hugs herself and looks at me with embarrassment. She shrugs and says, “Well, that’s life.”
I go over to the photos and compare Rosa Marcela to Libardo. She looks a lot like him, especially her smile. She’s got some of both of you, I tell Vanesa.
“She’s got his personality,” she says, and laughs.
“Is that good or bad?” I ask. She laughs again.
“I liked the way he was,” she says. “Your grandmother says they’re exactly alike.”
“Do the two of you see her often?”
“She used to visit us more regularly. She’s been really busy with Don Alonso lately, but she’s very generous with us. She helps us a lot.”
I tremble just imagining Julio and Fernanda finding out that Gran has been sharing the money they send her.
“She pays Rosi’s tuition. She’s a saint,” Vanesa says.
