Shooting Down Heaven Page 19

  She borrowed a pen from the man in the other seat. He passed her a cheap ballpoint with a hotel logo.

  What happened to the Montblanc you used to fill out yours?

  She thanked him with a smile. Even writing her names in tiny letters, she spilled out of the boxes.

  I spilled out of boxes . . .

  She answered no to all the questions, signed, and paused as she was about to put the date. What’s today?, she asked her neighbor, and he replied, November 30. As she wrote it down, Charlie knew she’d remember that date for the rest of her life.

  49

  There are some amounts of time that for whatever reason feel round, so we use them in stories to take inventory. A week ago, people say, or a month ago, or three, or six. They’re useful for tallying either sadnesses or joys, but we tend to use them most often for keeping an account of hardships. Especially absences. Fernanda, the dramatic one in the family, was the one who kept measure of the time since Libardo’s disappearance. It’s been a week, she’d say, a month now, it’s been three months since they took him.

  Julio and I would keep quiet, assessing the seriousness of what Fernanda had said, waiting for the pain to pass—though it wasn’t passing—practicing patience so we could go on with our lives. Though the days went by, some swift and others slow, only an uneasiness persisted beyond wondering what had happened to Libardo, one that came from not knowing what we were going to do, what was going to happen to us. Again we considered the possibility of leaving, but to all three of us it felt like a betrayal. We were oppressed still by the hope that he might be alive. Even if staying meant being cooped up in our house, frightened, under the pressure of threats and financial difficulties. Worse still, being at the mercy of Fernanda’s harsh commentary. She was convinced that money would get Libardo back to us, but she was also spending loads of it whenever she went to the casino to “clear her head.”

  She was sharing her decisions less and less, confiding instead in the men she was meeting with, the purported lawyers, the spiritual advisers, the important people who, she claimed, were helping her.

  She reviewed every sheet of paper she found in Libardo’s study, and instead of clarifying things, each discovery confused her more. Did you ever hear your dad talk about a piece of land in Montelíbano? There’s some guy named Roberto Mahecha who owes your father three hundred thousand dollars. Who do you suppose Mister X is? Is this López Benedetti the same one who was a government minister? Boys, did you know that Don Luis Gustavo—can’t remember his last name—the president of Colautos, who was supposedly so respectable and honest, did business with Libardo? No, Ma, we didn’t know anything about that, Dad didn’t talk much about his stuff. I, at least, never found out, or maybe didn’t want to know—I preferred to remain ignorant of Libardo’s world.

  “All I care about is the farms,” Julio told her, and said, “Don’t hand those over, don’t negotiate with them—they’re our future.”

  Julio was more and more determined that as soon as we graduated from high school, he was going to start running the farms, despite Fernanda’s insistence that he go to college. He told her, I’m not going to waste time learning what I already know. She retorted, if you don’t study, you’re going to be just another peon. They argued a lot, and never resolved anything.

  Six months after Libardo disappeared, I started organizing parties at our house. At first they were small gatherings on Friday nights, which Pedro the Dictator would attend with a couple of friends, nobody from school, just his friends from around town. We used to drink a couple of bottles of aguardiente, watch music videos, talk tough—it helped me blow off steam. Then they started bringing girls, their friends, loose chicks who’d get drunk right along with us. We would dance, watch more videos; we’d grope the girls and they’d get us all horny, but it never went anywhere. Julio would hang out with us some nights, though he almost always took off to visit his mystery girlfriend. Fernanda was understanding at first and put up with the noise and the music, but when she saw the chicks, she told me, “I don’t want those girls in this house.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just look at them.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Look, Pedro is welcome whenever you like, but tell him not to bring those girls.”

  “They’re my guests. I invite them,” I said.

  “Well, don’t.”

  “If you don’t want them here, let me go out.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m going to keep bringing them.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s my house,” I said defiantly.

  “And mine too,” she said, “and Julio’s and your father’s. So you’re going to respect it.”

  “Who respects a drug lord’s house?”

  Fernanda raised her hand and gave me a slap that practically knocked me off my feet. She pointed at the bedroom door and told me, “Get out, you ungrateful brat.”

  That weekend I didn’t have anybody over. I told Pedro I was sick and sat drinking alone in my room, cursing and crying. At midnight I came out, geared up to lash out at Fernanda about how miserable I was, but she was nowhere to be found. Julio wasn’t there either. Only the two maids, four aggressive dogs, and six bodyguards were around. I vomited up the aguardiente I’d drunk and the next day awoke sprawled on the floor, curled up next to the toilet.

  Fernanda didn’t talk to me all week and Julio reprimanded me for what I’d said. I was fed up, I said. You were out of hand, Julio said. She’s the one who was out of hand, I said, and showed him the red blotch that still marked my cheek. Watch what you say, Little Bro, Julio warned me.

  The next Friday I invited everybody again, both guys and girls. I gave Pedro money so they could buy aguardiente; I didn’t want Fernanda throwing it in my face that we were drinking the house’s liquor. But she never said anything about my parties again, not about the girls or our benders. I guess since she was going out at night, she didn’t feel like she had the right to scold me.

  At another party I met Julieth, and I slept with her that same night. At a certain point we turned out the light, and the glow from the videos provided enough light to keep pouring ourselves drinks. Taking advantage of the darkness, I felt her up and found she was already as wet as an oyster. She was the one who suggested we go to the bedroom. I went upstairs with her without checking whether Julio and Fernanda were home. I didn’t care what they might think.

  Julieth and I devoured each other. I had been in forced abstinence for months, and she was lusty by nature. Pedro told me afterward that they could hear my moans downstairs, even with the music turned all the way up. She emptied me all the way out, I told him, and I thanked him, instead of thanking Julieth.

  On another Friday night, when we’d already downed an entire bottle, Pedro tossed a folded dollar bill on the table and looked at me, waiting for my reaction. The others clapped, including Julieth. I smiled to oblige them.

  “We’re doing coke,” Pedro said.

  I kept smiling.

  “Want some?” he asked.

  One of the guys unfolded the bill to reveal the white powder. He touched it and then sucked his finger. He flung himself backward and fell to the floor, faking a fit of emotion. Everybody laughed, and Pedro pulled his ID card out of his wallet. In the video we were watching, two stout gentlemen were dancing and singing Macarena, Macarena, Macarena.

  “Want some, buddy?”

  I glanced over at Julieth, and she shot back a look full of uninhibited desire. Pedro put the corner of the ID with a bit of coke under her nose. Julieth sniffed. It looked like her lips were going to explode, like she was about to come. Before it got to me, everybody took a hit. And then Pedro was standing in front of me, digging in the bill with the corner of his ID. Under my nose was my history, Libardo’s, the Pandora’s box of Colombia, the force that made the world go ’round. Every p
article of that powder contained a war, but who was I to judge? A victim? The victimizer? A standard bearer for morality, or the bad apple? Everybody was watching me to see if I’d take that hit. The son of a capo doesn’t do drugs?

  “Come on, man,” Pedro urged me.

  In reply, I told him—told myself—“I don’t give a shit.”

  50

  Do you think Mom has a boyfriend?” I ask Julio.

  “I have no fucking clue,” he replies.

  “Don’t you care?”

  “What would be the point? She does whatever she feels like anyway.”

  “She’s still pretty,” I say. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she were seeing somebody.”

  “You talk to her more than I do. You know a lot more about her.”

  “I think there’s somebody who knows more than the two of us.”

  “Who?”

  “Pedro.”

  Julio makes a face I can’t decipher.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  “Where else can we go?” he replies.

  It’s the first time in my life that I’ve been to a funeral home, and I hope it’s the last, at least while I’m alive.

  “Wooden PJs for our eternal rest,” Julio remarks, standing in front of the array of caskets in different styles and colors.

  A salesman in a black suit and a tie offers his assistance. He speaks in a quiet voice, his tone grief-stricken, as if he were the bereaved one.

  “We need something for my dad,” Julio says.

  “My condolences,” the salesman says.

  “It’s a special case,” Julio explains.

  “Of course,” the man murmurs. “No problem. Come and I’ll show you.”

  It smells a little like flowers and a little like wood. There’s celestial music in the background, a choir of angels providing atmosphere.

  “Actually, you should take a look at my dad,” Julio says, and raises the red bag in front of the face of the salesman, who clears his throat awkwardly.

  “Right,” he says. “Let’s go to my office instead.”

  He gives us each a business card. The salesman is an adviser, the card says. He offers us coffee and calls to Marinita, a woman who’s wiping down a casket.

  “I imagine your late father has undergone an exhumation process.”

  We don’t respond.

  “In that case,” he continues, “an urn rather than a casket is the more suitable choice.”

  “Will he fit in an urn?” I ask.

  “I can offer our cremation service,” the adviser says.

  “Dad’s got a matter pending with the attorney general’s office,” Julio explains. “We can’t cremate him yet.”

  “Right,” the adviser says, and the cleaning woman deposits the cups of coffee in front of us. “Bring me one too, Marinita,” the man says.

  “We don’t have all of him,” Julio says, “and I think there . . .” He hesitates, then plunges on. “There are some parts that are really long.”

  “Of course,” the adviser says, “that’s why I suggested the cremation service, which comes with a plan that includes the urn.”

  “My grandmother wants to keep him,” I say.

  “In that case, the most appropriate choice is definitely a box.”

  He slides a catalogue with photos of wooden boxes across the desk.

  “These are specially for storing remains. We have them ranging in size from twenty-eight to forty inches long,” he explains, “and we can also have them custom-made according to your particular needs.”

  There are boxes made from various kinds of wood, simple or ornate, and he says we can put whatever inscription we want on it.

  “Like an epitaph?” I ask.

  Julio looks at me oddly and asks, “What’s that?”

  “What’s written on gravestones,” I say.

  “But he isn’t going to have a gravestone.”

  The adviser breaks in. “Maybe a twenty-eight-inch one would be large enough for your grandmother to keep him in.” He shows us the photos of the smallest boxes. “But we can make them to order too,” he says again.

  “Gran might like one of these,” I tell Julio. The adviser sips his coffee. Julio and I start looking through the photos again from the beginning. The salesman tells us to take as long as we need, afterward he’ll show us the funeral plans for this kind of situation.

  “What kind of situation?” I ask.

  Does he suspect how Libardo died? Are there special services for burying cartel capos?

  “We offer ceremonies for the final resting place,” he adds, “as in your father’s situation.”

  “This one,” Julio says, and puts his finger on one of the boxes. He looks at me, seeking my approval.

  “That one’s quite sober,” the adviser says. “Exactly right for someone who’s deeply loved. It has a timeless, traditional design.”

  “Do you like it?” Julio asks me.

  “Yes,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “We have it in stock,” the adviser says.

  “How much is it?” Julio asks.

  “That’s one of the larger ones. It costs two hundred thousand pesos, and we do offer financing,” the adviser says.

  Julio wants to pay in cash, with no payments or interest to worry about; like me, he wants to put this behind us now and not have to think about yet another of Libardo’s debts every month.

  “What’s next, Little Bro?” Julio asks.

  He means what are we going to do with the remains. Put them in the box now? Carry them in the bag until we find the right time and place to transfer them?

  “Do you offer that service?” I ask the adviser, and then clarify. “Without cremation, of course.”

  “You’re referring to . . . ?” He moves his hands from the bag to the box and back again. “Of course,” he says. “We have a very special plan in which our mortuary technicians, with the utmost compassion and professionalism, prepare your loved . . .”

  “Plan?” Julio interrupts. “It’s an additional cost?”

  “Three hundred twenty thousand pesos, which can also be financed via the credit options I mentioned.”

  “Let’s go, Little Bro,” Julio tells me. He grabs the bag and stands up. He signals to me to take charge of the box.

  In the car, he remarks that if Libardo had known how expensive it is to die, he would have stayed alive. He was such a tightwad, Julio says. It’s not like he decided to die, I point out. I know, Julio says, but if he’d known how much it costs, maybe he would have left some kind of instructions.

  The box is in the back, on the floor, and the bag is on the seat. Julio looks irritated. It’s a risk, but I decide to say it. “I need a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Can you take me to this address?”

  I show him the pink slip of paper that Gran gave me.

  “What is that? What’s there?” Julio asks.

  How can I say it without it being the end of the world? I’m already regretting bringing it up. I could have gone on my own, without telling anyone about it. This overwhelming exhaustion has got me making bad decisions.

  “Rosa Marcela lives there,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “Our sister.”

  Julio shakes his head. He doesn’t look at me. The muscles in his jaw tense. I attempt to smooth things over.

  “Is it far from here? Does it take you out of your way?”

  “What part of this do you not get?” he asks slowly.

  “It’s natural for me to want to meet her,” I say. “It’s not her fault. Like us, she has nothing to do with this.”

  “I don’t get you,” Julio says, still looking straight ahead, driving without heading anywhere in particular. “If she doesn’t have anythin
g to do with this, why do you want to get her involved?”

  “Because she’s our half-sister and I want to meet her.”

  Julio tries to shift gears, but he doesn’t press the clutch down far enough and the gear sticks, grinds, and the car bucks.

  “Look, Little Bro. Dad’s back. There’s no more mystery, no more waiting. The next step is the inheritance process. If the government doesn’t confiscate whatever’s left, our portion is going to be very small. And you want to share that small portion with a little brat we don’t even know.”

  “For me it’s not about money, it’s about kin. She’s family too,” I say. “Very much so.”

  “Well, it’s going to be about money for the judge. He doesn’t give a shit about kin.”

  It’s like Libardo’s alive. He’s still generating discord, still causing problems. He’s still ruling over us survivors as well as among the dead.

  “Is it a long way away?” I ask again.

  “A long way from where?” he asks. “It’s a super long way from New York. Paris too. It’s even a long way from the farm.”

  It’s too late now to put out this fire I’ve started, but even if it’s my fault I have no intention of getting burned.

  “I can go by cab,” I say.

  Julio looks at me and pulls over without checking whether anyone’s coming up on our right.

  “Go ahead,” he says. “Good luck with your bullshit.”

  “I don’t have any money,” I tell him. “Colombian money. Can you change a few pounds?”

  Julio lets out a furious laugh. Change, he repeats, change, he mutters. He pulls out his wallet and hands me two bills.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “No fucking clue,” he says. “But I do know where you’re going. You’re going off a cliff, Larry, and you’re going to take me and Mom with you.”

  A sharp pang silences me. Dejected, I heave open the car door and get out. He’s my brother, and it hurts. Why am I doing what I’m doing? Could I live in peace if I didn’t?