The Night Will Be Long, page 21
Her Spanish was good, but Julieta could tell she was Brazilian.
When the introductions were over, a young man who introduced himself as Ariosto Roldán, the church’s administrative director, took the microphone and said, “All of us are permanent staff. Sometimes other people come in to help, but they come and go. And there are the cleaning staff—some of them are day laborers. If we had a photo of the boy, it would help.”
Pastor Fritz turned to Julieta. “So, you’ve met my little family, which isn’t actually so little. Like I said, the boy isn’t with us.”
“I saw him on Sunday, I’m sure of it. Isn’t there anyone else who works for you?”
“The security people are at their posts—they’re private guards sent by a company. That’s why I didn’t call them in.”
“He must be one of the day laborers.”
“We would have found him by name,” Fritz said, and then called to his director: “Ariosto, come here a minute.”
“Yes, Father?”
“The young lady thinks the boy could have come in as a day laborer on Sunday. Do we have a list?”
“Of course, and we reviewed it already. He’s not on it.” Turning to Julieta, he added, “We keep track of everyone who comes. We write down their names and ID numbers.”
“How much do you pay?” Julieta asked.
“Thirty thousand pesos plus lunch,” the director said. “They help us clean up the auditorium and the halls. You can’t imagine the state they’re in after a lecture.”
They went back up to the second floor.
Julieta saw that the Brazilian woman was following behind them; when they reached the management offices, she disappeared into one of them and shut the door.
“Can I give you a lift anywhere?” Pastor Fritz asked.
“Just to my hotel.”
One of the pastor’s men came over in response to a signal from him.
“Please give the young lady a ride.”
They said goodbye.
“I hope I’ve cleared up your doubts, Julieta.”
“Some, but not the biggest one,” she said, making sure to hold his gaze.
Fritz stared at her, his face serious. Suddenly he smiled, and Julieta’s stomach did a somersault. “Reality is a wild forest full of snake eyes, glittering in the darkness before they attack their prey. But most dangerous of all is love that dries up. The kind that couldn’t escape its tree trunk and has coiled up on itself to sink its fangs into its own heart.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Julieta said. “Remember, I’m not one of your followers, it’s pointless to talk to me like that. I hate symbolism.”
“Just commit those words to memory. Maybe you’ll come to understand them later. I appreciate your visit, and like I said, anything you need, whatever the hour, you can reach out. Consider me a friend.”
“One more thing, Fritz.”
“Yes?”
“You can tell your motorcycle spy to leave me alone. If you need to know something about me or what I’m doing, just ask.”
The pastor looked at her in surprise. “Motorcycle spy?”
“We’ve laid our cards out on the table already,” Julieta said. “It makes no sense to make me explain.”
“Somebody’s following you?”
This time the pastor’s eyes changed. For a fleeting moment, Julieta saw a wild animal.
“Yes,” she said. “Up from Tierradentro. Don’t tell me it’s not you.”
The pastor called his men over and instructed them to listen closely. “You say it’s a motorcycle? Did you see the person following you?”
He was very agitated. Two droplets of sweat appeared on his upper lip.
“He wears a black helmet.”
“Do you know anything else? Where did you see him? Here in Cali?”
“On the west side, yesterday.”
“Yesterday Sunday?”
“Yes, after I came to your lecture,” Julieta said.
“Could you recognize the motorcycle?” one of the security guards asked.
“I’m not an expert. It wasn’t a big motorcycle. Normal size.”
“When we were on our way here, did you see it?”
“No, not since yesterday.”
The pastor gripped Julieta’s arm. “It’s not us, believe me, but I’m going to find out what’s happening. Go back to your hotel now and don’t worry about this. When I figure out what’s going on, I’ll call you. Will you be staying in Cali long?”
“That depends. We’ll see.”
“In any case, you’ll hear from me,” Fritz said. “Go back to your hotel and rest, but avoid going out.”
Now he was acting like a boss, not a pastor. Maybe the mysterious motorcycle was with Fritz’s enemies.
“Why are you so concerned?” Julieta asked.
“Sometimes I’m still haunted by the jungle, but then it passes. All of this is just words. Go rest now—we’ll talk soon.”
He nodded at her, went into his office, and shut the door.
As she walked out through the vestibule, Julieta stared at the door the Brazilian woman had gone into.
But the door wasn’t marked and it remained closed.
When she left for the hotel it was almost seven at night.
Cali’s traffic wasn’t quite as heavy as Bogotá’s, but close. If they didn’t move fast, they’d be trapped in its streets forever. The slow pace gave her time to think. She was struck by the change she’d seen in Fritz, how anxious he’d gotten when he learned she was being followed. She looked all around. The guard riding shotgun was on high alert and every once in a while he stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, fondly checking on his weapon.
Where had the kid gotten off to? Concentrating, she pictured him clearly on the steps on the side of the building. It was him. He’d figured out a way to work with the pastor without revealing himself. Without having to say he was a minor. Maybe he passed himself off as older, under another name, so he could go in as a day laborer. Or he had a friend who registered his name and they split the work between them.
Anything was possible.
She watched the traffic in case the motorcycle reappeared. What should she do if it did? The pastor was still denying that he was the survivor, but for all intents and purposes he’d acceded. Tenuously speaking between the lines, or so she thought. All those metaphors! What were they intended to achieve? The worst part was that she’d memorized them, just like he said, or at least she had no trouble remembering them. They were there, as if she’d written them down and was now reading them out.
“Reality is a wild forest full of snake eyes, glittering in the darkness before they attack their prey. But most dangerous of all is love that dries up. The kind that couldn’t escape its tree trunk and has coiled up on itself to sink its fangs into its own heart.”
Anyone who talks like that, like he’s the new Jesus Christ, is an arrogant dumbass, she thought. What love had dried up? Was he in love? I bet he’s doing the Brazilian woman. She would have sworn to it. The Brazilian had a nice body. Colombian men love Brazilian women. They’ve got that fantasy cliché in their heads of the girl from Ipanema and round, chocolate-colored asses. The land of the thong bikini. And plastic surgery. Ivo Pitanguy, the Picasso of the tummy tuck and breast implant. This woman—Egiswanda, was it? She seemed like she was about Julieta’s age, but she looked a lot better. Better legs and a better ass. Judging by those muscles, she probably spent half her day at the gym. Did she live with him? Where was her house? Did she have kids? “The kind that couldn’t escape its tree trunk and has coiled up on itself,” Fritz had said. He couldn’t have been referring to the Brazilian. Maybe he was thinking about somebody else or, since he’s a pastor, about the love we should have for God, and how some people don’t feel it. Was that what he’d meant by “coiled up on itself”? Or was he talking about the person who’d attacked him on the road? They might seem friendly and polite, but his people had been involved in a bloody gunfight. The fact that it was self-defense raised even more questions about who he truly was.
Suddenly she remembered Johana. Was she at the hotel?
“Hi,” she said into her phone. “Are you at the hotel?”
“Yes, boss. I’ve been here all afternoon, waiting in case you needed me. I was reading. Did you go out wandering?”
“I’ve got a bunch of stories for you. I’m almost there. Let’s meet in the café.”
“All right.”
When Johana arrived, Julieta told her everything, writing notes about it all at the same time. It had been a rough day emotionally, so she ordered a fresh-squeezed lemonade with ice rather than her usual tonic.
Johana ordered a Fanta and said, “And you believed him about the guy on the motorcycle?”
“Yeah, it really did make him nervous. But we’ll see. It was like he was linked somehow to his enemy, the guy who attacked him.”
“If the pastor thinks that, he must be afraid the attacker is looking for something through us. Sounds dangerous, don’t you think?”
Julieta drained half her glass in one go and said, “Dangerous for him, definitely.”
“And for us. If he’s an enemy spy, he must know you spent the afternoon at the church,” Johana said.
“True, but what can he do?”
“Use us to get to him, take us hostage. Torture us.”
“All right,” Julieta said, “let’s not go overboard. And to think I believed that the war was over in this country!”
“A lot of people believe that,” Johana said, “but with a rightwing government trying to drag us back to the 1990s, things are going to blow up again fast.”
As they talked, the brake lights of passing cars gleamed in the gentle drizzle.
Suddenly Julieta got up. “I don’t know if we’re in danger, but let’s go up to my room to make some calls. I haven’t spoken to the prosecutor in a while. What time is it?”
“After nine,” Johana said.
“Not too late. Come on.”
They went upstairs. As soon as they entered, Johana went over to the window to scan the street. She scrutinized the neighboring buildings to see if anyone could see them. It wasn’t likely. She closed the curtains anyway.
Julieta picked up her cell phone and dialed the number.
“Prosecutor Jutsiñamuy? Sorry for calling so late.”
“No problem, Julieta. Any big news?”
“Well, I wanted to tell you some things. Is this phone line secure?”
“No worries about that.”
She described in detail her two meetings with Pastor Fritz. She talked about the Nasa boy, who hadn’t shown up among the people working at the church, but she was sure he was there in some way she didn’t yet understand. And finally about the motorcycle.
“Do you think you two could be in danger?” Jutsiñamuy asked.
“Not really,” Julieta said. “If they wanted to do something to us, they’ve had plenty of time. Judging by the pastor’s behavior, the people watching us could be his enemies, the same ones who attacked him.”
“It would make sense,” Jutsiñamuy said.
“What do you advise?”
“Go back to Bogotá.”
“That’s an option,” she said, “but not right now. How did things go with identifying the bodies?”
“We’re working on it. We can meet up tomorrow if you want. What hotel are you in?”
“El Peñón.”
“Oh, I’m really close by. At the Dann Carlton. Come over and we can have lunch here. There’s a good restaurant, and that way we can be sure nobody’s watching us. Do you know the place?”
“Of course, thank you so much. See you then.”
Julieta was still tipsy from the gin. She decided to have another drink to even things out and went over to her minibar. She offered one to Johana.
“Do you want anything?”
“No, boss, thanks. You know I’m a lightweight. Three sips and I’m done for. If you don’t need me, I’ll go to my room.”
“Go ahead,” Julieta said. “I’m going to put my notes in order.”
Johana paused at the door on her way out. “I don’t mean to butt in, but be careful with the alcohol, boss. You’ve been drinking a lot.”
Julieta looked at her, startled. “I drink when I’m on edge, but it just means the investigation’s going well, don’t worry. But thanks for mentioning it.”
“Good night,” Johana said.
Once she was alone, Julieta took two long sips, one right after the other, and felt her soul being restored to her body. Johana was right about the drinking, but that’s how she’d always been. She was compulsive—what could she do? At least she wasn’t into coke or other drugs.
She went to look in the mirror. She couldn’t deny that the pastor had affected her. There was something special about him. She glanced at the messages they’d exchanged, and a voice deep down made her wish he’d text her right that moment. She looked at the screen and wondered if she dared send him a message now. She imagined what she’d say: “I’m drinking gin at the hotel, alone.” How would he respond? Plenty of sinister criminals have been charismatic, entertaining, intelligent people.
She needed to be careful.
She kept staring at the silent screen. Could she go to a bar for a drink? She was tempted, but she looked at her notebook and remembered that she needed to work. She peered out the window and saw the lights of the neighborhood, the lively cafés, and, higher up, the three illuminated crosses on top of the hill. She imagined all the young, strong men she could meet with just a bit of effort, but told herself no, maybe another day. Right now she was wedded to that notebook. She opened the minifridge and took out a Coca-Cola before sitting down to work.
FURTHER TESTIMONIES
The next day, Jutsiñamuy got up at 5:30 A.M. and did his morning exercises next to the bed: push-ups, running in place, sit-ups, stretching, head to the side and front, in circles, ear to shoulder, touch toes. When he finished each set, he looked in the mirror, flexing his muscles and turning to observe the silhouette of his torso. It wasn’t out of vanity. Even apart from the issue of health, as he saw it, allowing himself to get out of shape would constitute an act of moral negligence. The hotel had modern gym facilities, but it seemed undignified to perform such movements in front of other people.
Later, after showering and donning a casual warm-weather outfit—leather loafers, Lacoste polo shirt, sand-colored linen pants—he went up to the poolside terrace and served himself breakfast from the plentiful buffet: fresh fruit, especially pineapple and papaya (antioxidants), a bowl of cereal, unsweetened yogurt, green tea (he should have brought his own, since all the hotel had was a blend of green tea and mint).
As he sipped his drink, he pulled out the day’s edition of Cali’s El País newspaper. He flipped through, stopping on each news item and carefully reading the summary and the first three paragraphs. He finished the cereal, but a smell wafting from the platters on the buffet distracted him. Next to the scrambled eggs was another smaller platter with fried bacon, curly and dark with a paler vein down the middle. His mouth watered: Once a year can’t hurt, he thought.
He went back to the buffet—feeling defeated—and took a large plate, but thought, You can’t eat the stuff on its own, and served himself two large spoonfuls of scrambled eggs. The same platter also contained Santa Rosa sausages. He glanced over at the waiter, who was watching him, and moved down the table till he found the arepas. His mind conjured the image of an arepa with a sausage on top. No, no, he pleaded weakly, seeing his hand, acting of its own free will, place two arepas on his plate and crown them with the meaty zeppelins of chorizo. He told himself, without much conviction, that he could still set the plate down and leave it there, but he found himself carrying it to his table instead. He met the waiter’s eyes, who immediately said, “Enjoy your breakfast, sir. Would you like more juice?” Yes, fresh-squeezed orange juice. He kept flipping through the paper until he reached the regional section, on Valle del Cauca, and saw the photo of a young man named Enciso Yepes. His family had reported him missing. Mechanically, Jutsiñamuy began to read the article:
Enciso Yepes, 35, from Cartago (northern Valle del Cauca), disappeared three weeks ago, according to his wife, Mrs. Estéphanny Gómez, 41, who lives in Cartago. Mrs. Gómez notified the authorities that her husband, a private security professional with VigiValle, has not reported home for several days. VigiValle claims not to have heard from its employee since the beginning of the month, as a result of which it had rescinded his contract on the grounds of unauthorized absence. Mrs. Gómez declared she was taking legal action and said that her husband had not informed her of any change in his work, instead telling her that he would be traveling to another part of the country to provide security, which he had done on numerous occasions in previous months. Accompanied at the lower court in Cartago by her lawyer, Anselmo Yepes (the missing man’s brother), Mrs. Gómez stated that recently her husband had been providing security services throughout Valle and Cauca for the New Jerusalem evangelical church.
When he read this, the prosecutor almost spilled the tea he was holding. Oh, shit, he thought, this is getting good. He looked over at the waiter. Seeing that he was distracted, he ripped out the page.
Then he called Laiseca.
“Good morning, boss,” the agent said when he picked up. “At your orders.”
“That’s the spirit, Laiseca,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Good morning. I’ve got a present for you this morning. Have you read the local paper yet, El País?”
“Not yet, boss. I’m just finishing the New York Times.”
