Cartagena (4 page)

That night, when I put two mangoes and a bag of boiled water in front of her, my mother saw me again. She told me to sit by her. We sat in silence. Then, in the dark, she leaned toward me and kissed whatever part of my body was closest to her, the outside of my knee, she kissed it twice, then two more times. And then she spoke my name, Juan Pablo, she said, and I looked at her and she said, You must say nothing of it, and think nothing, for you are a man now. I said, Mother? but her only answer was my name, spoken again like a chant,
Juan Pablo, Juan Pablo, Juan Pablo
.

THERE ARE BLACKOUTS EVERY MONTH
in the barrios, sometimes for days in a row. As Claudia and I enter the barrio where El Padre's headquarters is based, the entire mountainside stops humming and everything turns black. In the sudden dark, ghosts of light dance at the edge of my vision like memories, trapped at the back of my eyes. There are no stars. Gradually the glow of city rises over the black line of mountains, and beneath the clouds the effect is one of torchlight smothered by gray blankets.

We continue up the hill in the half darkness. Dim lights begin to shine onto the street from candles placed in windows. At last I see a high lookout on the hill that must be my destination: two youths stand outside the gate holding mini Uzi submachine guns. Even from this distance I can see that they are nine millimeter with twenty-five-round clips. The house is two-storied, with a balcony on the second floor overlooking the hill. Another guard patrols the balcony. The shadow of yet another glides and starts behind dimly lit windows. On the perimeter, the outer wall
is topped by shards of glass of different shapes and colors, and shimmers in the candlelight.

From the midst of the slum, the house rises like a palace.

Stay here, I say to Claudia.

To my surprise, she does not argue. I will wait here, she says, and then pulls back into the shadows of an alley.

At the gate, I say my name and am searched roughly, professionally, and then escorted to the house by one of the guards. He opens the front door, gestures for me to enter, and returns to the gate. Inside it is dark, and the air is heavy, as in one of those houses where the windows have been left closed through the heat of the day. It smells as though someone has been smoking a spliff laced with cocaine.

You are Ron, a female voice sounds out from the corner, where a triangle of light slants down at an angle. I see someone coming down some stairs, her pointy boots first, her tight jeans, and then her bare stomach and then her tank-top breasts and then her face and her tied-up hair, all white and amber in the light. She is extremely beautiful.

Yes.

Xavier is waiting for you, she says. She comes directly to me and takes my hand. Her touch is warm and smooth, and the tips of her fingers lightly trace a circle on my palm. Here is a
chica
, I think, who would fuck me as soon as slit my throat.

Upstairs, El Padre is sitting at a large wooden desk. Behind him are bay windows overlooking the balcony. The room is filled with candles—candles placed on every flat surface, in every window, like in a basilica. I glance around, almost expecting to see a statue of a crucifixion. It is ten o'clock at night and El Padre is wearing a suit with an open-necked shirt. Even sitting, he is tall and broad at the shoulders, and, consistent with the rumors, his complexion is light, but mainly I notice his hair, which is braided into cornrows. I find this surprising. There is oil in his hair—it
holds each individual braid as tight as a cable—and the oil glistens in the candlelight.

Sit down, he says.

The wooden planks creak under my weight as I walk to the chair in front of the desk. He is looking through some papers. Aside from his hair, he looks like he could be any businessman leaving the office at the end of the day. His features seem somehow strange to me—then I realize that even though his skin is fair, he has the wide nose and thick lips of a black man. His eyes, also, are black. I watch the play of candlelight on El Padre's braids, on his fair skin, on his slow-moving hands. He gathers up a pile of papers and taps them on the table to align them, then pulls a pen from his breast pocket and signs the top sheet with a gesture that makes plain his disgust. He puts the pen away. Then he looks up at me with cold, snake eyes.

So we meet, he says.

Yes.

His eyes flick to something behind me. I remember from when I first walked in that there are two others in the room: the
chica
and another guard who carries a rifle and has a joint in his mouth. El Padre looks at me again.

You know, Ron, you will never become an agent. His voice is soft.

Because I'm too dark?

Because you think you are smarter than your superiors.

I do not say anything.

You were given an assignment and you refused to carry it out.

I did not find the target, I say quietly.

He pauses. A good
soldado
does not choose which orders to obey from his
general
, does he?

No.

He swivels around on his chair, leans back and speaks out through the bay windows as though addressing the night. I am
your
general
, he says. I must look after an entire army. If two women fight, I shave their heads. If somebody cheats me, I shoot them in the hand. If a
soldado
fails me, or betrays me…what choice do I have?

I watch as a gecko runs along the top frame of the window. It stops, testing the night air with its tongue. El Padre turns back around to me and frowns.

You have been getting high on the
sacol
, he says.

I recognize the insult. I do not do that stuff anymore, I say. It is for children.

The heat from the candles on the desk, the scent of wax, the smells of marijuana and cocaine from the guard's spliff—all combine and condense in my head.

You disobeyed me, he says—I who have been your benefactor—and decided instead to spare your friend.

I do not say anything.

Do you know what your friend has been saying? For the first time El Padre raises his voice. Do you know what ears listen to those kinds of words? Do you know what it costs to quiet those words? You pull on the hand that feeds you.

I remain silent.

Worse, you make me lose face. Respect.

You can send other
sicarios
for him, I hear myself say.

When you have already told him to run?

I told you I could not find him.

I have already sent Zeno, he says.

I do not know Zeno. But I hear he is good.

Yes, Zeno is good. His thick lips purse together, then part. Already he has achieved his mission. Two days ago.

I feel my mouth pool with cold spit. I remember I am sitting before a snake. I remember that Hernando is skilled in the ways of leaving the city unseen. And that he has had four days.

Yes?

I do not lie, he says, as though reading my thoughts. In fact, Zeno told me this himself when I visited him earlier today. In the Hospital San Vicente de Paul. He looks at me intently with his dark empty eyes. Then he says, Where he was admitted for a severe fracture of the skull.

Once again, I feel myself sliding out of my own body.

This is peculiar, El Padre goes on, because Zeno said Hernando did not resist. An easy hit. So his injuries must have been caused afterward. But of course you do not know anything of this?

It is not easy for me to contain my surprise. I am looking at El Padre but what I see is the black body underneath the cardboard roof, the red donut crumbs and the sugar on his lips. My mind races like a fast-rewinding movie. So they all knew, I think—Luis and Claudia and Eduardo. I should not have gone into hiding. But I had to go into hiding—to give him time to escape. Above all this I think of Claudia, who knew, who knew where I was hiding, and who had made a choice not to tell me. I realize El Padre is still waiting for me to speak.

If you do not trust in my ability, I say, I can go away. My voice sounds like a series of echoes inside my head. You can take my salary for this month as compensation.

That is generous of you, Ron. Perhaps I will return the favor and give it to your mother.

He has not taken his eyes from me. I say to him, I am a
soldado
. You said this. There is no reason to involve my mother.

We look at each other. On the desk between us a thick candle sputters in a sudden draft, but neither of us blinks. His eyes are black puddles.

A bell rings in the outside darkness. I cannot hold my eyes to his—I look away. Everywhere I look are the flames of candles. It is truly like the inside of a church, I think, although I cannot remember having been inside one for years. My head feels
humid. I look at El Padre again and realize I no longer know the words to any prayers. Hail Mary, full of grace, I think, but after that my mind is as dark as an empty barrel. I wonder if the stories are true. I wonder where he conceals the knife. I wonder if he will ask me to turn my back to him, or if he will come to stand behind me.

HERNANDO WAS READING THE NEWSPAPER
over an evening meal as I watched from my concealed position, behind a thick shrub, in his backyard. Four days ago. My Glock loaded and ready. I watched him for a long time before coming in. When he saw me his face was grave with surprise, his eyes blinking down and up from the gun. Then he stood to embrace me.

They sent you? he asked quietly.

I nodded.

And?

He looked at me, calmly, as though I were a brother he had grown up with every day of his life. He looked at me as though he already knew what I would say. I wondered whether he knew better than me what I had been thinking as I stood outside in his yard, underneath the warm, polished leaves, testing the trigger in the half dark.

I told you, I said. I told you.

He smiled. My fingers tightened around the Glock. I looked at his forehead. Then, as though following a separate will, my hand lowered the gun to the table, let go of it.

Run.

I was not sure if I said it aloud or merely thought it.

His smile froze. Run?

He will send others. You must go. Now.

What of you?

I did not know. I had never thought it would happen this way. My mind was still clear—as it was whenever I did the business—but before the broad calm of Hernando's look I could feel the clarity slipping away.

He asked, Are you sure? After a while he frowned, then said abruptly: Come with me.

He nodded, as if it had been I who had made the suggestion, then nodded again, more vigorously, saying to himself, Yes, yes. But where? Far away. The coast. North is better. Cartagena. Come with me to Cartagena. We will be fishermen. He laughed aloud. After all this! he said.

Cartagena?

Yes, he said. Why not? He spoke playfully now, as if we were kids again, as if we were in one of our
mocós
and bragging to each other about our day's score.

I cannot go, I said.

I will not go without you, he said. When I brought my eyes to his I realized he was serious.

Even then, I understood the consequences. He was my brother but I owed him nothing—he knew that. I had not seen him for three months. He knew I had come in from the streets and—like them—had promised nothing, was incapable of betrayal. He laughed, and as I watched him laughing, his face made childlike in the act, I suddenly saw a glimpse of the old Hernando and in that moment I realized how completely he had left that person behind. I remembered him tall and bronze-skinned, then handing me the gun on the hill, then weak-kneed and pale, and now as I watched him his face was again new. It was unlike any of the faces I had seen in their last moments—always too tight or too loose—his was settled somehow, clear of weakness, the face of a
soldado
ready to die—for what, I did not understand—but whatever it was, I knew then it was not mine to impede. I would let him go. I thought of El Padre. I thought of
my mother, and of Claudia. I thought of Cartagena and wondered how many times a person could start over. After a while I started laughing as well.

Yes, he said again. Yes, yes. He paused, his face sly: Claudia likes Cartagena.

Fishermen, I said.

Yes, he nodded, grinning widely. Do you remember how Luis described it?

I brought my hand to my mouth, tapped my teeth with my fingernail. This sent Hernando into a renewed fit of laughter. We were like two drunken schoolgirls. Do I remember? I said. Only after the fortieth time.

AFTER A LONG SILENCE
, El Padre sighs, his breath fluttering the candle flames on his desk, then smiles with his mouth and says:

You are right. You have been a good
soldado
.

I do not say anything. He leans back in his large chair and clasps his hands behind his neck. Even the darkness of his armpits somehow suggests violence. Hail Mary, full of grace…

When I was your age, he says—even younger—I too had to eliminate my friends. He pauses. His voice has changed; it is softer now, damper. I did not mark your friend as a hit, he says. But I chose you to make the hit.

I bow my head, not knowing what to say. I remind myself that, of course, I already knew this. I think of the World Cup story, and wonder distantly if El Padre's face looked then as it does now: like a gangster in an American music video.

He continues speaking. As he speaks, it seems that his words harden into deep noises. Afterward, he says—he is saying—afterward, I learned to not care so much about the death—only the details. Death is just a transaction. A string of consequences.

I nod. I am becoming heavier. His words are weighing me down. My body is a rock in this chair.

Take me, for example, El Padre says, looking at me carefully. If I die, do you know how many deaths will follow? He tells me the number. I do not know whether he is saying it with pride or sorrow or disbelief.

But part of me is capable of thinking that this is an extraordinary thing. That one life can hold so many others up. That the other lives can be ignorant of this. It reminds me of a game of wooden blocks I used to play with my parents, where the push of a single piece could bring the whole tower crashing down.