The Night Will Be Long, page 11
The prosecutor listened impatiently, guessing the best was yet to come, and Laiseca said, “But here’s the juiciest bit, boss. Hope you’re sitting down. He’s the founder of several evangelical churches that are part of the Assembly of God, in Belém do Pará! Huh? What do you think of that? According to what I read, he founded them himself in rural areas and in jungle villages.”
“Hot damn. That is interesting. What kind of church is it?”
“International evangelical, sir, with a footprint in northeastern Brazil. They’re Pentecostals, boss.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a long story, but it’s based on some verses from Mark that describe the power of God and the way it is transmitted to humans. They believe that God acts through the pastor’s hand, so pastors have supernatural powers.”
“Supernatural?”
“Yes. Bringing the dead back to life, curing the sick, speaking foreign languages without ever learning them, healing wounds, immunity to poisons. What do you think?”
“Amazing stuff. I should become Pentecostal.”
“I saw it on YouTube,” Laiseca continued. “There was this one pastor who used to do a show from the pulpit. He’d arrange to be bitten in front of the congregation by this super deadly kind of snake they’ve got down there, the lancehead. Its venom causes gangrene and heart attacks. I don’t know what the trick was, but the video shows the fang marks in his forearm. And nothing happens to him!”
“A fake snake?” Jutsiñamuy said, joking.
“There’s no such thing, boss. I was thinking maybe it didn’t have any venom. That happens with snakes that are—”
“All right, tell me about the guy,” Jutsiñamuy broke in.
“Well, that’s all we’ve got for now.”
Jutsiñamuy drew two lines under the information in his notepad, and in a fit of meticulousness looked at the time and jotted it down.
“Very good, Laiseca. Is Cancino with you?”
“Right next to me, sir. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No thanks, I believe you. All right, go out and get more info on the two guards, and I need you to find out who the third guy might be, the John Doe, OK?”
“At your orders, boss. Over and out.”
When he hung up, Jutsiñamuy scanned the list of foreign pastors from the Inzá gathering that Julieta had sent, to see if one of the Brazilians was Henriquez. But the name didn’t appear. This is getting good, he thought.
Julieta scoped out the building again from the side of the road. It was about three hundred meters away. A three-story structure with a steeple and a neon cross. Underneath, a lighted sign: “Christian and Missionary Alliance Church of Inzá.” They turned right and drove through what had to be the furthest-out houses on the south side of town, went along the road, and parked in front. Her cell phone said it was a quarter to ten. She liked being punctual, but this often happened: she would arrive way early, when people were still getting ready.
They were greeted by a young woman in a skirt and a white shirt with the church’s logo embroidered on the left pocket. “Pastor Cuadras will see you in just a moment. Would you like coffee?”
They thanked her and declined.
From the foyer a lateral arch led into the nave of the church. Julieta glanced inside. A massive stage or pulpit with an iron table on marble legs. Curtains to either side. Speakers concealed amid the fabric.
In the back, partially recessed into a wall made of something made to look like alabaster (or was it genuine?), a modern statue of Christ. Julieta imagined that during worship the figure, made of a strange red glass with purple streaks, must light up. Don Ferdinando’s finances clearly weren’t suffering, since unlike the plastic chairs she’d seen in other places, he had pews of cedrela or comino wood. Everything seemed very pleasant, but instead of an air of tranquility, the place set her teeth on edge. What was it? Maybe a foul whiff of air freshener that didn’t go with the wood or the fake alabaster. A lavender scent, like a locker room or a motel bathroom. The fragrance was coming from the dark expanse of the floor. It had been mopped recently. Gross, she thought.
She turned to mention it to Johana and came face to face with Pastor Ferdinando Cuadras—he was practically on top of her. She recognized the man from the photo, though Photoshop had helped him out there. Whereas on the screen he looked young and energetic, in reality he was a pudgy guy with visibly unwashed hair dyed a mahogany color with gray roots showing. All of Julieta’s revulsion for the lavender was transferred to this humble servant of Christ, who, to top it all off, almost bowled her over with the reek of his breath as he gave a beatific smile and said, “Welcome to our church.” Just what I needed, Julieta thought. It was the thing that disgusted her most in a person.
“Come into my office,” Pastor Cuadras continued. “I’m delighted to have you visit.”
Julieta tried to avoid being directly in front of him and moved off to the side, but it was no use. Sensing that she was the boss, he pursued her, speaking even louder. In accordance with (unwritten) provincial protocols, he needed to put on a show for her, the well-educated urban woman.
“Besides my religious readings,” he said, “I love reading investigative journalism. We have some great journalists here! What’s that book about the life of Saint Laura? Oh, yeah. A-ma-zing. A fantastic study. And I still listen to the radio too: the W, Blu Radio, Caracol . . . I always say that here in Colombia we’ve got the best journalists, don’t you think?”
Julieta sat down on the far side of the table and, still suffocating from the smell of his rotting teeth, managed to say, “Thank you for seeing us, Pastor.”
“Always in the Lord’s grace,” he said. “This house belongs to everyone and to the Father of the world.”
She longed for a cigarette, to shield herself with a curtain of smoke.
“All right then, how can I help you?”
Julieta glanced at Johana. “Well, my colleague and I wanted to talk to you and learn about the Alliance event you held last weekend.”
“Oh, of course. Hang on a second, honey, did we offer you anything to drink? Esther, come here!”
The same employee, this time sour-faced, appeared in the doorway.
“I did offer but they said they didn’t want anything, sir.”
“Oh, OK, well, bring me a Coca-Cola Light, would you?”
He turned back to his visitors. “That was a huge event, you know. We prepared for more than a year, and I’ll tell you something, it could be—I don’t know, it could be the largest gathering of Christian churches ever in Colombia . . . Do you know how many came? Thirty-seven! What do you say to that? And not some dinky congregation that meets in a garage, no sir, none of that. Thirty-seven of the biggest Christ-centered churches. The theme was, of course, solidarity with the rural world in post-conflict Colombia. I wanted to focus the discussion on declaring those long-suffering territories a sacred zone, one of resurrection after war, because that’s the basis of Christian thought and evangelical action: forgiveness and reconciliation. Over the weekend we gave twenty-three seminars and indigenous people came from all over to tell us their experiences.”
“But . . . are the indigenous people Christian?” Johana asked.
“Some are, some are, honey. We’re working hard on that. The important thing is to look for topics where we’re in agreement.”
“And what topics are those?” Julieta asked.
“There are plenty, really deep stuff. For example, the thing that worries every decent Colombian: the ideology of gender and the creation of a homosexual state. We can’t allow it. It’s an affront to God, and we’ve got to band together to fight it. Fortunately we’ve been able to block it. The guerrillas keep demanding it, of course, and since the government used to give them everything they asked for, well . . . But luckily that’s over now.”
“Tell me something, Pastor Cuadras,” Julieta said. “You pastors are allowed to marry, right?”
“Of course. We understand that human love is not an impediment to loving God.”
“And are you married?”
The pastor was silent. He cupped his hand over his mouth and coughed gently. “No, miss, not yet, by the grace of Jesus Christ and the apostles.”
“May I ask why?” she asked. “You’re older, experienced. You could start a family.”
“Up to this point, it’s been God’s will to have me working exclusively for his glory rather than devoting myself to one person. We pastors are devoted only to the Lord and the Bible.”
Julieta pretended to take notes, but she was only scribbling random words and doodling. She hadn’t gotten to what she was really interested in: his relationship with Pastor Fritz Almayer.
“And which Christian church do you have the closest ties with? The Christian and Missionary Alliance is huge, right?”
The pastor shifted in his chair. “Absolutely. We’re associated with congregations from lots of countries. People of faith seek us out and love us and above all support us practically all over the world.”
Julieta didn’t like for interviewees to notice her eagerness to learn something specific, but this guy was driving her crazy.
“Is that so? In what ways do you influence and improve the life of the community?”
The man raised his index finger in the air, as if he were pointing. “Well, miss, as I said, we’re working for the people on a number of issues that are our church’s main areas of focus in the world. For starters, providing relief and spiritual counsel. In these postwar times, you can’t imagine the wounds people harbor in their souls! Here in the church we listen, organize prayer chains to help victims overcome their suffering . . .”
Julieta was getting ahead of herself, but she couldn’t resist. “Have you received any government funding for your programs?”
The man hesitated. “Well, we have projects that require financing. But that’s not the important part. What really matters is what helps people find the path to Christ—that’s the key.”
“And how’s your relationship with the other churches in the country?”
“We have an assembly and there are meetings at least every three months. We’re organized because the different institutions are all engaged in the same activity: our objective and our purpose is the word of Christ. We all agree on that, and because we’re united we can express our opinion with strength on certain domestic issues. We are the voice of many people who have never been heard.”
Julieta was about to give up on the interview, but Johana, noting her irritation, decided to jump in. “Pastor, I’m from Cali, and my mother goes to a church called New Jerusalem. Is that one of your churches?”
The pastor smiled broadly. His foul breath spread through the room and Julieta almost passed out.
“They’re not part of the Alliance, but they’re close collaborators. Pastor Fritz, who leads that church, was with us this past weekend. We work in the remote village areas and are good friends. He’s a disciplined man and his expression of the message is exemplary. Tell your mom she’s in good hands. I’ve been to some of his sermons and he’s a wonderful speaker.”
“How long have you known him?” Julieta asked.
“At least five years, shortly after he opened his church. He’s from the plains region, from Caquetá I think. So he’s sensitive to the country’s problems, like us. He offers people consolation. We agree on that: you can’t talk about the word of Christ without having your feet on the ground. I always wonder: if Jesus Christ were here, what would he do about this or that?”
Julieta’s bile rose again. “Do you think that if Christ were here, he would have voted against the peace process the way you did?”
The man smiled nastily and looked at Julieta with a strange gleam, as if something had lit up in his mind. He was silent a moment, making a gesture of suspense that might have come out of a manual such as How to Speak in Public, the spine of which was visible in the bookcase behind the desk.
“If Christ were among us, honey, none of this would have happened, believe me. We would be in his glory. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare my noon sermon.”
Julieta knew she’d lost an opportunity, and she hadn’t managed to find out anything about the image of the hand or the phrase “We are healed.” At any rate, she hadn’t spotted them anywhere.
“One last thing, pastor. Do you know a boy named Franklin Vanegas?”
The man was already getting up. He was startled by the question.
“Of course. I know him well. Why?”
“He disappeared two days ago.”
“Disappeared? Are you sure?” he said, reengaging in the conversation. “That boy is always off somewhere. He’s young, but he gets around like an adult. He goes all over the place.”
“Sorry, pastor,” Julieta said, “one last thing. I’m curious how you met him.”
“Oh, everybody knows Franklin,” he said. “He’s well liked. He comes to do odd jobs for a little money. Whenever he shows up I hire him for something, even if I don’t need him. He loves poking around on the internet. Franklin’s a good kid, besides that. God knows what he’s up to on there.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Just at the Alliance gathering. He was helping out with the delegations from other churches. He was assisting Pastor Fritz, actually, now that you mention it. He was with that group, if I recall correctly.”
“Group?” Julieta asked.
“Well, the pastor didn’t come alone, of course. He brought people with him.”
“Women?”
“He performs his services with two women. He’s almost always with them.”
Seeming suddenly wary, Pastor Cuadras stood up and stared at them oddly, even icily. “Did you really want to talk about the Alliance gathering, or are you after something else?”
Julieta looked him in the eye. “We’re interested in the relationship between the Catholic Church and the evangelical churches in the region. We were just in Tierradentro and San Andrés.”
“Oh, I figured. So Father Tomás sent you here. All right, now I understand the point of these questions. You can tell him I said hi.”
The goodbyes were somewhat rushed. Julieta couldn’t wait to get out of there.
When they got into the car, she turned to Johana. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Johana eyed her cautiously. “It looks more and more certain that Pastor Fritz was the one who survived the attack. This pastor’s story matches up with the kid’s. The women who got out of the Hummer and climbed into the helicopter!”
“Exactly,” Julieta said. “But there’s something I don’t understand.”
“Franklin,” said Johana.
“Yes, the kid. Or young man? I don’t even know what to call him. If he was with Pastor Fritz during the festival, he must have recognized him, so why didn’t he tell us? And another thing: how is this Cuadras asshole bound up in all of this? Did he send the motorcycle spy? Did he give the order to delete the report about the attack?”
They were full of questions, which was what Julieta most enjoyed. The twists and inconsistencies of a story made her eyes shine. She felt like she was deep into it now. It warranted a cigarette.
“We didn’t find out anything about the tattoo,” Johana noted.
“Well, one thing at a time.”
They drove back to Popayán, where they retrieved their belongings from the hotel, returned the Hyundai, and hired a taxi driver to take them to Cali.
On the road, Julieta tried to organize her thoughts again. What was she looking for now? She had a hunch that she couldn’t put into words. She considered calling her sons again, but just the thought of talking to her ex made her feel exhausted. She scanned the day’s news on her cell phone and found an article about the bodies on the side of the road.
“The police found three bullet-riddled bodies in a ditch along the road between Popayán and Cali, near the village of El Bordo. The victims’ identities remain unknown, police say, as does the motive for the crime. The three men were shot to death. The preliminary theory of the prosecutor general is that the murders are linked to local drug-trafficking mafias.”
Julieta looked for additional news on the incident in other papers, but all she found was the same brief article from the Colprensa news agency. In Calí’s El País she found a photo of the road and the bodies in plastic bags.
She called Jutsiñamuy and recounted her conversation with Pastor Cuadras. She told him she was on her way to Cali. “Did you see the news in the press?”
“Of course. El Espacio has pretty detailed photos of the corpses. In two of them you can see the tattoo I told you about.”
As Julieta listened, an idea occurred to her. “Hey, tell me something. Are the tattoos recent? I mean, could they have been done after the men were dead?”
Jutsiñamuy froze. He hadn’t considered that possibility. “I’ll call Piedrahíta right this minute.”
They hung up. Julieta closed her eyes. The heat and the winding road were making her sick.
“I’m heading your way, my dear,” Jutsiñamuy said, calling Piedrahíta from the car. “Get the highway stiffs ready for me again.”
“What for? We were just about to start processing them for release.”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
He got to the coroner’s office as quickly as he could. He didn’t have his driver, so he left the car double parked in the parking lot and raced up the stairs two at a time. Piedrahíta was at his desk. They said hello and went down to the morgue. The prosecutor was so worked up that he didn’t want to waste time explaining what he was thinking.
The three bodies were still on the metal trays.
“The religious tattoos, Piedrahíta, that’s what I want to see.”
