The Night Will Be Long, page 15
“Carlitos?” Jutsiñamuy repeated. “So you’d say he worked with your husband.”
“Yes, sir. For him.”
“A subordinate.”
The widow looked at the other two women, not understanding.
The sister said to her, “Nadio was the boss.”
“Oh, yes,” the widow said. “Nadio was in charge, of course.”
She kept looking at the photo. “It’s just . . . now that I’m thinking about it, he was a driver for him or something, because another time when he came he took us for a drive downtown. And he took the kids to a lodge out in Jamundí so they could swim in the pool.”
Laiseca stepped forward and, nodding to his boss, addressed the widow. “Pardon me for intruding, ma’am, but do you happen to remember what lodge that was? What was it called?”
“No, he suggested taking them there while we were doing some repairs at home. A big restaurant out in the country with a pool and games.”
“It would be extremely helpful to know where that was. The name or at least the location.”
Surprised by their interest, the woman told them to wait and went over to the stairs. “Maybe my older son will remember. They had a good time, so he might.”
She went upstairs and the others waited in silence. A minute later she came back down. “The Jamundí Inn,” she said. “Grill, restaurant, pool.”
“Thank you so much, and congratulate your son on his excellent memory,” Laiseca said, jotting down the name on his notepad.
“All right,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Let’s leave Carlitos for now and go back to Mr. F. Ma’am, when you heard your husband talk about him, did it sound like he was talking about a boss or a coworker?”
The widow looked up at the ceiling. “Definitely a boss. They were always saying he was about to arrive, that they had to go meet him. It was all very secretive, what he was up to. That’s why they called him Mr. F.”
“Do you have any idea what he did?” Jutsiñamuy asked.
“No, I don’t.”
The prosecutor settled more comfortably in his chair and said, “If I told you Mr. F is a Christian pastor, would that seem strange?”
The widow met Jutsiñamuy’s eyes, surprised again. “Well, no,” she said, “because I did notice that Nadio started using words like ‘saint’ and ‘reverence’—things he never used to say before. He would talk about the saint of martyrs, I remember that.”
“Did he go to Christian churches or to the regular Catholic one?”
The mother shifted in her chair. The widow understood that she should let her speak and lowered her head.
“Nadio was raised with Catholic values,” the mother said. “Baptized and confirmed, and he got married in the Church. He did everything right. If he abandoned or strayed from that education afterward, that’s not my fault.”
The widow shot her a look that the prosecutor felt like a pistol going off. “Well, I’m the one who married him,” she said in response, “and as far as I know, he was always a good Catholic. Just because he didn’t use words from the missal doesn’t mean he went astray. That’s why I say it was weird to hear him saying those things on the phone.”
“Any Catholic would say them,” the mother snapped.
“They might be nicknames or aliases, Mother, don’t contradict me. ‘Master,’ ‘Saint’ . . . What do they mean? Around me he was still just as Catholic as the day we met.”
The mother ate a handful of potato chips, crunching loudly. She was annoyed. “Maybe what was bothering him was other things at home, don’t you think?”
The widow looked up. Her eyes were two flamethrowers. “Go on, then, say what you have to say,” she challenged her mother-in-law.
“If a man’s wife spends her time giggling and flirting with other men, it makes everything harder.”
It was clear to Jutsiñamuy that the interrogation was over and he should leave as soon as possible. He wasn’t going to get anything else from the two women, at least not for now. He said goodbye, thanked them for their time, and went outside.
“Where’s the other family?” he asked Laiseca. “What’s the dead guy’s name?”
“Óscar Luis Pedraza, boss, but all due respect, given that it’s nine at night, I’d suggest we do that questioning tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Why?”
“Remember, today’s Friday and people in Cali go out. It’s like in Bogotá, but even more so,” Laiseca said.
“They go out to do what?”
“To party, boss.”
“Oh, hell. But a dead man’s family won’t be partying. Call them and tell them we’re on our way over.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jutsiñamuy suddenly stopped and said, “You wouldn’t happen to be the one wanting to party, would you, Laiseca?”
“No, boss. I don’t even know how to dance.”
“What about Cancino? Where is he?”
The agent had stayed behind to use the bathroom.
“Here he is, ask him yourself.”
Jutsiñamuy looked at his watch again. “All right, call them and tell them eight tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir, at your orders,” Laiseca replied.
On their way back to the car, Jutsiñamuy stopped with a finger on his forehead and spoke to Laiseca. “Isn’t there supposed to be a good sancocho place around here?”
“I can’t confirm that, boss,” Laiseca said. “I’m not familiar.”
“What about you, Cancino? Any idea where the sancocho is in this neck of the woods?” Jutsiñamuy asked.
“Of course. Kilometer 18. I’ll take you.”
After eating, the prosecutor returned to El Peñón, a neighborhood in the west of the city. He’d reserved a room at the Dann Carlton, which had an arrangement with the prosecutor general’s office for its employees.
Unbeknownst to him, he was only a few blocks from his journalist friend.
Julieta went back to the hotel with Johana and decided to extend their stay another night. Pastor Fritz’s gaze had left her deeply unsettled. How had he done it? He’d known she wasn’t an orphan just by touching her. And the whispering she’d heard about her sons—how could he . . . ? They are with me, she repeated in her mind. She thought again of Franklin. Had he actually meant his own children?
Julieta wasn’t a believer—quite the opposite. She disdained anything that cast itself as “spiritual,” unless it also taught valid ethics and morals. There had to be an explanation for what had happened that morning. After a rest, she sat in front of the window and began to write.
First theory: Pastor Almayer knew about her because Franklin was with him and had told him about her interest in the incident on the road. Second theory: if the information hadn’t come from the kid, most likely the person who’d come into their hotel room and broken into the car worked for the pastor.
The sequence of events she wrote in her notebook was as follows:
1. Franklin spotted her in the line to enter the church.
2. He told Pastor Almayer, who had his men watch her inside the warehouse.
3. When she got up and joined the orphan line, someone let him know.
4. In a show to intimidate her, Almayer feigned that his knowledge had come at the touch of her hands.
5. The fact that he knew she wasn’t an orphan meant they’d already looked into her.
It was logical—it could explain it.
The mystery was still the kid. Looking at her own summary of events, she realized that all her cards were on the table. There was no point in hiding; she should speak with the pastor directly. Would he agree? She called Johana and told her to request an appointment for the next morning.
To her surprise, the pastor agreed. He would expect her at nine thirty at the church.
Julieta felt a strange shiver. The idea of meeting him in that place suddenly seemed terrifying.
“Call back and tell him I’d prefer to meet somewhere else,” she asked Johana. “In a café, a public place.”
Johana called back a little while later. “The church secretary says a café isn’t an option for security reasons. He can meet you in a conference room at the InterContinental Hotel, same time.”
“All right,” Julieta said.
“I’ll confirm the appointment, then.”
She had the rest of the afternoon and evening to update her notes. But first she went out for a walk along the river.
She liked that area of Cali. The majestic trees. The rain tree outside La Tertulia Museum and the sand-colored building, a smaller version of Brasília’s Itamaraty Palace. Apartments with wide balconies, the hills in the distance. The Casa Obeso Mejía, on an island in the middle of the river.
She walked upstream to the historic neighborhood of Santa Teresita and was surprised to see old crumbling mansions—how could they be standing empty? Maybe because of inheritance disputes or asset forfeiture. The river had some trash in it, but the water still looked clean, and imposing stones were arrayed like sculptures along its banks.
Spotting an antique shop, she decided to go in.
A small warehouse crammed with dusty objects: yellowing plates and glasses, crooked furniture, useless things. She liked hotel ashtrays, especially the classic ones made of porcelain. She had a good number of them at home. Also bar paraphernalia with brand names like Martini, Campari, Cinzano. It was relaxing to stroll through the smell of damp wood and freshly polished copper. She saw a trunk full of canes and picked up one topped with an eagle’s beak; she saw old books in French and German, leather-bound and musty; she saw music boxes and wound one up, and it played a balalaika; she wandered down a narrow passage of shelves piled with religious objects: Christs in a variety of sizes, their bodies wounded and suffering; winecups and altar candles, threadbare chasubles, robed Virgins carrying the Child, hands cupping the world, like the Infant Jesus of Prague.
She suddenly got a gut feeling and started digging in a chest until, surprised, she picked up a small wooden carving and studied it in the light.
It was an open hand, with the wound of a nail through the palm and the words “We are healed” inscribed across it. She pulled out her cell phone and found the photo of the tattoos Jutsiñamuy had sent her.
It was identical.
She went to talk to the owner.
“How much is this?”
The man pushed his glasses up his nose. “Forty thousand. It’s original.”
“Original? In what way?”
“From the Assembly of God in Brazil. They make these pieces. It’s supposed to be the hand of Jesus. Look on the bottom—there’s the stamp. Without that, it’d be worth about ten thousand.”
“I’ll take it.”
She handed him a fifty-thousand-peso bill. The old man wrapped her purchase in newspaper.
“Do you have anything else from that church?”
“Let me see if I can get some for you. At the moment just what you can see in that trunk.” He handed her a business card. “Call me in a few days. I can try to track down other things.”
She walked out with her heart pounding and headed back to the hotel along the other side of the river. Now the traffic was coming toward her. That may be why, looking the other direction, she saw the motorcycle again.
Following her.
She crossed the road and stood staring at him. With the river between them, the man, in his tinted black helmet, held her gaze. Julieta raised her hand to her forehead in a salute. But he didn’t respond. He just took off and turned at the first corner.
It’s him. He knows where I am and what I do and where I go, she thought. It’s him, that fucking guru.
After much consideration, Johana decided to spend the afternoon meeting up with a former comrade from the guerrilla who’d returned to Cali. She’d had the woman’s phone number for more than a year, so she called. Her name was Marlene. They agreed to meet at five at Ventolini, a café in the Unicentro shopping mall. On her way there in a taxi, Johana thought back on a battle against paramilitaries in the Yarí that had left Marlene injured. She’d been hit six times, but none of the wounds were serious; the bullets had just grazed her. Johana had helped her up the hill to safety and washed each of the wounds. Marlene had passed out on the stretcher, and when she came to, she started crying. Johana asked her what was wrong.
“Nothing, comrade, I just can’t believe I’m still in this hellhole after getting riddled with lead,” Marlene said, battered and with her arms and legs smeared with dried blood. “I don’t deserve to be alive, I’m such a moron.”
“Easy, sister. Don’t talk, save your strength. Don’t waste your energy saying silly things,” Johana said.
“You don’t understand,” Marlene said. “With all that shooting going on, I came out of the shelter to retrieve a chain that had gotten pulled off my neck. I almost died because of it.”
“What chain?”
“Here,” she said, and pulled it out of a fold in her uniform. It was shiny and looked like gold, with a crucifix.
“What is it?” Johana asked.
“My father gave it to me before he was killed by the paramilitaries,” Marlene said. “He was the only good man I ever knew in my life.”
Later, when peace came, Marlene had said she wanted to leave the country. Study abroad, if she got the chance. Maybe in Cuba. But in the end she’d had to stay in Colombia.
When she saw Marlene, Johana felt a lump in her throat and a fierce nostalgia for the guerrilla camp. They hugged. Marlene had gained weight, and her limp from an old injury was more noticeable now. Johana looked at her neck and there it was: the chain with the crucifix. The same one.
They sat down to talk.
Two women with their memories, of marching through the country’s high tundra, jungle, mountains, its plains and canyons; women who had fought together and shared ideals, in heroic, complicated circumstances; who had helped and hidden each other; who knew so many things about each other, and about other women who had been there. And so their conversation, once they’d caught each other up, turned to their comrades. Where was one? What was another doing? Not forgetting her reason for being in Cali, Johana asked if Marlene remembered a comrade who’d gotten together with a Nasa man near Inzá and had a son about fourteen years ago, maybe a little less.
“I remember a few women who had kids. Hmm, with a Nasa man? Do you mean Josefina?” Marlene said.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Johana said. “I wasn’t in that area much. Were there a lot of women who had children with indigenous men?”
“I don’t know if they were Nasa, you don’t really ask about that stuff. They were rural folk. There was this one woman named Myriam who ended up getting punished because she hadn’t asked permission to be with the man. Do you remember her? She had a kid. I was there when he was born.”
“A son? What was his name?”
“He didn’t even have a name yet when they took him away.”
Johana decided to tell Marlene why she was interested. She told her about the kid from San Andrés de Pisimbalá. Franklin. She laid out the story his grandparents had told her.
“There were several instances like that,” Marlene said. “One kid was taken to Pasto. A comrade . . . what was her name? Mariela, I think. Another went to Ecuador, Carmen’s kid. She was from the coast and was going around with another fighter, from Guapi.”
“Was the guy from Guapi black?” Johana asked. “Or, I mean, Afro-Colombian?”
“Yes, his name was Walter.”
“No, that’s not him. The kid isn’t Afro-Colombian. He’s Nasa.”
Their ice cream arrived. Marlene had ordered chocolate and vanilla. Johana, just chocolate.
“How old is he?” Marlene asked.
“We don’t know exactly, but I’d guess between twelve and fourteen. He could be eleven. He’s big, even though indigenous people tend to be pretty small. His face looks Nasa, but he’s taller than most.”
Marlene stopped eating and said, “There was another comrade from Bogotá who had a kid. I remember now. They took that baby away really early on because he cried constantly, especially at night.”
“Did you know her?”
“Of course, but hang on . . . Her name was Clara, that’s it. She was from San Juan del Sumapaz. Don’t you remember her?”
“Now that you say it, that name does sound familiar,” Johana said. “Was she the one who was with us in La Macarena, at one of the conferences?”
“Yes, her. I think I’ve got a photo of that conference somewhere,” Marlene said. “I’ll find it and send you a copy on WhatsApp.”
“Thanks, it would be great to see that,” Johana said. “Send me a good high-res scan with all the detail. Did you know the father?” she added.
“Of course. He was a quiet kid who read a lot,” Marlene said. “Really strong, too, pure muscle. Handsome guy. It was so sad when he was killed.”
“Where did it happen?”
“In Puracé. He’d stayed behind to help fend off an attack on a commander—it wasn’t even his squadron, but he stayed because of some mystical conviction. He said he knew the area. They held off the army for more than three hours till two helicopters were brought in and fired on them from above. That took out six of the ten men. Two others were badly wounded. One lost his leg. It was a heroic sacrifice, but brutal. Trying to protect that corridor came at a huge price.”
Johana pulled out her notepad and wrote, Clara, from Bogotá. “There must be a lot of kids out there, huh?”
“Yeah,” Marlene said. “You remember, we lived life to the max in the guerrilla camps.”
They talked till seven in the evening.
“Do you ever see other comrades?” Johana asked.
“No,” Marlene said, “Braulio a bit—remember him? He was a medic. I saw him during the first year of peace. We lost touch after that, when people started getting killed. It was dangerous here in Cali. Sometimes I see Joaquín at church. The guy who led the squadron.”
