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 mocos 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
***
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 mocos 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
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