Shooting Down Heaven

by Jorge Franco

  She was going out every night. She’d leave in a taxi and the prosecutor almost always brought her back home. One night I heard her laughing wildly with Eloy, as if they were close friends.

  “What were you laughing about with that guy?” I asked accusingly.

  “He told me a joke. Want to hear it?”

  “You let those bastards tell you jokes?”

  Fernanda tried to stifle the remnants of a laugh. Failing in that, she said, “So this drunk walks into a whorehouse . . .”

  “No!” I shouted. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with you, Larry?”

  Then her manner changed, became remorseful, and she signaled for me to sit down next to her on the bed.

  “I’ve got a calculus midterm tomorrow,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s what’s going on.”

  “No, that’s not what’s going on.”

  “Are you O.K.?” she asked.

  For a long time now, I hadn’t cared about school. I wasn’t doing badly, but I just wasn’t interested. The teachers were fed up with coming to the house too; they didn’t say it, but I could tell. They gave their lessons out of obligation and feigned enthusiasm when Fernanda paid them.

  “Pour me a drink?” she asked.

  “You’re drinking a lot, Ma.”

  “So are you,” she said defiantly. “You spend all your time partying with your friends. You even shut yourself in your bedroom with that girl. You think I don’t notice?”

  “Well, if it bothers you, I’ll leave it open next time,” I said.

  She straightened up, her claws out again. She lifted her chin and said, “All of this ends Saturday.”

  That disarmed me. Hearing that date, the precise day of Libardo’s supposed return, plucked me out of my incredulity, flung me into the past, back to those times when Libardo used to go off on trips and I’d ask her insistently, when’s Dad coming back?, always afraid it would be never. Fernanda would simply reply, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, the Monday after next.

  “This Saturday I’ll be a single woman again,” she said, as if she were talking about an appointment at the hairdresser’s or with her masseuse, as if on Saturday she’d be going to a party.

  70

  Tell me the truth, Pedro. Why didn’t Fernanda come get me at the airport?” Larry asked.

  A few drops of water started falling on the windshield, distorting what lay ahead. They were fat, scattered drops tumbling down from a lone cloud on one of those afternoons when Medellín occasionally outdid itself.

  “I’m going to tell you what’s going on,” Pedro said. “Fernanda’s called me more than twenty times today. She’s really anxious. Every single time, she asked when you were arriving and told me she didn’t know how to welcome you home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she didn’t know what you like to eat, how you sleep . . .”

  “What do you mean, how I sleep?” Larry broke in.

  “I’m just telling you what she said to me. Are you going to let me finish?” Larry nodded, chastised. “What you’re really not going to understand,” Pedro went on, “is what she asked me to do as soon as I told her you’d landed.”

  He looked at Larry to see if he showed any objection, any gesture, but Larry remained silent, waiting for Pedro to continue.

  “She asked me, practically begging, not to take you to the apartment, at least not as soon as you arrived,” Pedro said.

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, she just said you couldn’t come now, that we should call her back later.”

  “And what did she say about me?”

  Pedro threw him a sideways glance and said, “You’re acting like you’re her boyfriend, not her son.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “No, I say that,” Pedro said, and turned up the volume on the radio.

  An out-of-tune guy was singing a reggaeton ditty that went, I go real high and I don’t tell lies even if I’m bled dry. Pedro sang along, look at me, mami, look me in the eye, and look out, look out, look out with that, mami . . .

  On the highway was a sign announcing the exit to Cola del Zorro. Larry turned down the radio and said to Pedro, “That’s where they started searching for my dad. Every time we heard a rumor that another dead body had been found dumped in Cola del Zorro, somebody would go out to see if it was him. They even got there way before the forensics people because Fernanda used to say she wasn’t going to let anybody manhandle my dad’s body or cut him open or stick him in a fridge.”

  Pedro looked at Larry, who swallowed hard, and then stuck his head out the window, peered up at the sky, and said, “If it starts raining, everything’s fucked.”

  “What’s everything?” Larry asked.

  “Don’t you know what today is?” Pedro asked.

  “November 30.”

  “Not just that, man. Today’s La Alborada.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The worst damn day of the year. Nobody sleeps, not even the people who go to bed and try,” Pedro said, and smiled his roguish smile, the same one he’d used to become top dog.

  He turned up the radio again. The reggaeton guy was still chanting, if you’re looking fly I’ll get real high, but this guy ain’t gonna cry, mami. Pedro sang his own version, if it’s a rainy sky, I’m gonna cry, Larry, buddy, Larry, Larry. And he kept repeating, Larry, Larry, and finally collapsed in laughter.

  The tires squealed on every curve, and the SUV wove among the other vehicles. Larry stared at the buildings down below; they were much taller than the ones he remembered, closer together, untidily embedded in the mountain. He was distracted by a sign next to a store that said, “MINUTES FOR 200 PESOS.”

  “So where are we going?” Larry asked.

  “To pick up La Murciélaga.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Sarita Martínez. Don’t you remember her from school? She hooked up with Fernández at the prom, remember him? She gave him hickies on his neck so hard she drew blood. That’s why they started calling her the Bat.”

  “No way.”

  “I swear man, I saw it myself, he was bleeding. Dude was terrified too ’cause he had a girlfriend. Well, they broke up the next day, you can imagine.”

  “And she’s who we’re picking up?” Larry asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Pedro replied, “but no worries, she’s changed a lot too. Plus we’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “I hate surprises,” Larry said.

  Up ahead was another sign similar to the last one: “MINUTES FOR 200 PESOS, TO LANDLINES AND ALL PHONE COMPANIES.”

  “I thought they were real minutes,” Larry said.

  “Huh?”

  “What those signs are advertising,” he said, and closed his eyes to ponder the possibility of buying minutes made of time, of past and future, minutes to hang on to as souvenirs or to throw in the garbage and forget entirely. Minutes to have on hand in case of need, to use in an emergency, Larry thought, for when our last minute is almost up.

  71

  In a whiny voice, La Murciélaga asks me, why do you never know where you are, Larry? You’ve puked three times, you reek, nobody’s going near you, and since they saw us come in together, nobody’s coming near me either, she tells me, her head resting on my shoulder as we lounge on a sofa, people chatting, jumping, and dancing around us. Please, Murci, for the last time, tell me where we are. I hate you, you bastard, she says. Where am I, Murci?, whose house is this?, whose party is this? That jagoff’s, she says, and points to a muscular guy who’s laughing hard. But it’s not his house, she says, he just organizes these underground parties. By the way, Larry, she says, you didn’t pay, you’re a gatecrasher. Pay for what?, I ask. To be here, she says, or do you think this is free?, this costs Lázaro a pretty penny. I don’t have
any money, I say, just British pounds. That works too, La Murciélaga tells me, where are they? At home, in my wallet. Then I remember what I was feeling just before Julieth told me, open your mouth, Larry. But it isn’t my home, I say to La Murciélaga, I’ll just go get my things and then stay with my grandparents, want to come with me?, I suggest. No way, she says, I’m not going anywhere till Pedro gets here. Pedro’s coming here? Of course, she says, he’s one of the organizers. Pedro’s an asshole, I tell her, and she moves away from me. She warns me, say that again and I’ll cut your balls off. Do you know about him and my mom?, I ask. Of course, she says, everybody knows. Everybody knows they do coke together?, I ask. Oh, no, I didn’t know that, she says, I just know he’s fucking her, but I don’t know anything about the drug stuff. Pedro the Dictator’s sleeping with my mom?, I ask. You didn’t know?, she asks, and says, but he’s your best friend. That’s exactly why I didn’t know, I say, because he is . . . was my best friend.

  I go to the bathroom to puke. According to La Murciélaga’s tally, it’s the fourth time, though nothing is coming up anymore, just groans and retches. The urge to barf doesn’t abate—it actually increases thanks to the filthy bathroom, the piss and streaks of shit in the toilet, the condoms on the floor, the foul smell, the truth, and the evidence. Pedro is fucking Fernanda, they’re doing drugs and who knows what else, the bastards. There’s nothing left of me in the mirror. The pallid image of Libardo’s son, the bloodshot eyes that failed to see the best friend’s betrayal, the ears that didn’t hear Fernanda’s moans of pleasure, the mouth that kissed the mother, the face of an orphan begging to be saved.

  Somebody else needs the bathroom, somebody who must share my eagerness to expel everything and is frantically pounding on the door. I open it, and a woman says, hiccupping, you can stay if you want, I’m just going to pee. Smiling widely and shimmying, she lowers her underwear. I leave and shut the door, as I should.

  La Murciélaga is no longer on the sofa. Or in the crowd either. I don’t see Julieth or a single familiar face. Lázaro’s over there wandering around, burly and exultant, so sure of himself that you don’t know whether to envy him or feel sorry for him. A guy comes up to me and says, you look lost, buddy. I’m looking for a couple of girls, I tell him. I brought a few, he said. No, no, they came with me. Haha, he laughs, mine are better, women on the verge of ecstasy, he laughs again, the best ones here, Estrella, Tulipa, and Dolfi, he says, you choose, brother, I’ve also got the hottie everybody’s after, Smiley, zero drama, zero blues. I’m looking for La Murciélaga, I say, have you seen her? Couldn’t miss her, he says, she went up there. He points to a staircase crowded with people going up and down. Upstairs, Lázaro is throwing two men out of a room. You’ve got the wrong party, faggots, he yells, and shoves them, they’re ashen, confused, Lázaro keeps kicking them in the legs, fucking cock jockeys, get the hell out of here, snarling an inch from their faces.

  Finally I spot somebody I know. Inga. I’d forgotten she’d come with us. I’ve forgotten when I arrived here. Inga, Inga, have you seen La Murciélaga? Yeah, she says, she went into the prisoners’ room, last one at the end. She gets really close to my ear and says something I don’t understand, maybe she’s speaking Swedish. I didn’t catch that, Inga. Her breath stinks, like mine. Inga repeats the same thing. I still don’t understand. She plants a kiss on me and leaves. She turns around and asks, is it true Pedro’s coming? I don’t know, I say, I hope not. And have you seen Julieth? I haven’t seen her, Inga, there are too many people. She finally leaves.

  So which one of these is the prisoners’ room? And who are they? A rock band? That must be the place, where all those people are going in and out. There it is, yes indeed. Oh, a performance. On top of everything else, it seems the party has its more sophisticated element too. The performers are sitting on the floor, gagged and with their hands and feet bound. In front of them, a group of people are watching in silence, La Murciélaga among them. The women actors are crying. One is playing a mother, the other appears to be the daughter, and the third is the maid. I slip between the guests until I reach La Murciélaga. Murci, I say, and she shushes me. Don’t say my name, dummy, she hisses. The actors moan beneath their gags. Beside the one playing the mother, a little girl is bawling her eyes out; her crying sounds muffled and her eyes are full of terror. It’s a compelling scene—no wonder the audience is so rapt.

  Hang on. What’s that little girl doing in a performance piece?

  What’s going on, who are these people?, I ask La Murciélaga quietly. She says, they’re the owners of the house. They’re actors? She shakes her head and says, it’s real, that’s what makes it so powerful. One guest, a dude with a ponytail, goes up to the family and spits on the forehead of the older man, the one who’s playing the father, or who’s not playing but in fact is him. He shakes with rage, roars, gets red in the face, the spit sliding down his forehead. The audience cheers.

  It’s not a show?, I ask La Murciélaga. It’s real, like I told you, she replies, annoyed, but even though she’s repeated it, I don’t understand. Six people tied up, abused, dumped on the floor. The little girl looks at me as if she can tell I don’t have a clue. Her puffy, tear-filled eyes fill me with the fear they express. Let’s go, Murci, I say. She shushes me again. What are they seeking with a nonexistent silence? When the music is making every wall of the house throb? Please, Murci, I say, and other people join her in shushing me.

  “Let’s go, let’s go now, damn it!” I shout.

  The family writhe on the floor like earthworms, they moan in chorus, they howl, and though I can’t understand them, it’s clear what they’re pleading for. A woman berates me, you’re making them nervous, beat it. That’s exactly what I want to do, but I can’t move. Get me out of here, Murci, I tell her. Supremely irritated, she shoves me toward the door and, stumbling, I manage to escape the room.

  Still pushing me, she guides me out of the house and unleashes a diatribe that’s as muddled as what I just saw, as what I feel. They’re part of the consumer society, she says, the materialistic powers-that-be, and they have to pay for that, we observe them so they’ll feel guilty, we force them to look at us looking at them, we spit in their greedy faces for their arrogance. Stop, I say, I don’t want to listen to this. Lázaro’s a prophet, she says, if it weren’t for these parties, those people would go unpunished. Enough, shut up. You shut up and listen, she says. I can move more easily now. Where are you going, Larry? Where’s the car?, I ask, I have to go, where did you park, Murci? Earth to Larry, she says, you have no idea what’s happening on this planet.

  I walk into a vast backyard where night swallows the treetops and it smells like those flowers that release their fragrance only when it’s dark. And those people’s materialistic violence, La Murciélaga is still saying. This is what the yard at my house was like, I tell her, it smells exactly the same. You’re not listening to me, Larry. Come on, I say, let’s go farther in. You just want to fuck me, she says, you’re just like those materialistic pigs, you see me as an object. So stay here, then. No, wait up, Larry, don’t leave me here by myself. We trip over a huge root and fall on the ground. We start laughing. This is what it was like, I say. This is what what was like?, she asks, and I reply: my world.

  The stars glimmer through the trees. We stretch out on the grass. La Murciélaga clambers on top of me, pushes her face close, and kisses me on the lips. We start laughing again. With another kiss, she passes me something with her tongue, another pill. No more, I tell her, I’m topped out. Swallow, she says, and pushes my tongue with her tongue. The pill rolls down my throat. She kisses my throat, sucks on it, but I can’t seem to get turned on. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Murci. She bites me, takes off her shirt with a swift motion, and puts my hands on her tits. She rubs against my pelvis, my unresponsive cock. She moans, sighs, whines, giggles, spreads her arms wide and flaps them. This isn’t going to work, I murmur, I’m beat. She moans loudly, wriggles aro
und on me, and sucks my neck again, bites me. No, Murci, that hurts. She grabs my skin with her teeth. That’s enough, Murci. I wrap my arms around her to restrain her. Her skin feels weird. What’s up with you, Murci? What’s on your arms? She stops and says, wings. She lets out an orgasmic moan, straightens up, and bares her teeth to the night, and when she opens her arms two dark, furry wings unfold. She flaps them wildly and leaps into flight, disappearing into the darkness.

  72

  Everything was chaos that Saturday, chaos and fear and shame. Starting very early, Fernanda was already on a rampage through the house. She spoke on the phone, and then I heard her talking to Julio. They were arguing about whether she should carry a weapon. Julio was saying yes, and she was claiming that was the first thing they’d warned her about, and plus, she told him, I’m going with Jorge. Every time I heard her call the regional prosecutor Jorge, my guts twisted. Julio was insisting she shouldn’t even go, that’s what the CTI agents were for. If they don’t see me, there’s no handoff, Fernanda declared, plus I’m just going with Jorge, he’ll be there in a personal capacity. Then she said she was going to take a shower and get ready to leave.

  In the kitchen I found Julio fondling the pistol Fernanda refused to take with her. Lucila was watching him out of the corner of her eye while beating some eggs.

  “Mom doesn’t want to take it,” Julio complained.

  “What good would it do her?” I asked.

  “Self-defense.”

  “She’s got other weapons,” I said. “She knows how to use them.”

  “This is only one that’s any use,” he said, and pointed the gun at the window. Lucila eyed him with terror.