The newspapers the following day carried photographs of the “slaughterhouse,” as they called it, to the south of Cali and in their digital editions showed a detailed galley of images with the legal warning “not for those of a sensitive disposition.”
Juana and I looked through them, and as we did so she told me who was who. Some, in addition to being wounded in the chest, had received the coup de grâce in the back of the neck. The explanation that was given for what had happened can be summed up in this press cutting:
“A revenge attack, a settling of accounts, or a turf war: these are the hypotheses offered by the criminologists of the Prosecutor’s Department’s technical investigation team, in collaboration with technical units of the Criminal Investigation Department, after inspecting the property in this exclusive area to the south of Cali in which early yesterday morning, during a party, a gun battle took place that left six dead and three seriously wounded. Among the bodies found was that of Néstor Pombo Holguín, also known as Cusumbosolo, second in command in the organization led by Freddy Otálora, the ex-paramilitary and head of an organization specializing in the production and sale of pink cocaine, who may have escaped. Among the dead are other members of the criminal gang, such as Belisario Córdoba Garcés, also known as Maluco, Andrés Felipe Arias Carvajal, also known as Palmasoya, Enrique Gómez, also known as Pelaíto (a minor), and the women Esperanza Echeverri Santamaría (from Medellín), also known as Mireya, and Martina Vélez Uribe (a minor, also from Antioquia), also known as Pussy.
The place has been cordoned off and surrounded by police cars. A special prosecutor has been coordinating the investigation into these multiple murders.”
Now we had to wait for Manuela. Another long wait.
I felt guilty for not being like most of my compatriots: optimistic, energetic, looking to the future, hoping to contribute in my own way to the construction of the new man.
When my phone vibrated, indicating another message, I immediately thought of Manuela. Maybe she was trying to communicate this way, but it wasn’t her.
It was Teresa, the Mexican diplomat!
“How’s it going, my dear Consul, and how wonderful that you managed to find Juana. How is she? And the child? Maybe you can send me some photographs. I left Thailand for Mexico City in 2010, but last year I was sent abroad again. I’m an ambassador now! Don’t go thinking they sent me to Washington or Paris. No, I’m in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Mexico has just opened an embassy because this is the headquarters of the African Union and you can talk directly with fifty-four countries, it’s just like the Brussels of Africa. You should come and see me, I have a nicer house than the one in Bangkok and much bigger. Why don’t you come and spend a few days with Juana? Where are you both now? From Rome there’s a direct flight on Ethiopian. Let me know if you like the idea. Affectionately, Teresa.”
What a surprise: Ethiopia, Ethiopia.
I went back to my guard post in front of the TV, waiting for new revelations. The news may be the only drug that can make waiting more bearable. All the same, I was surprised by the amount of unimportant news that was produced daily.
“Two trucks were involved in a head-on collision on the way out of the Unicentro shopping mall in the city of Pereira, leaving one person injured and losses of several million. Since one of the trucks was transporting foodstuffs from Venezuela, it is believed that this may have been a premeditated act.”
“An Italian citizen named Rocco Dozzino, a promoter of young Colombian soccer players to European clubs, reappeared yesterday in the city of Cartagena de Indias, where he was presumed to have been kidnapped two weeks ago. The supposed disappearance had alarmed the consulate of his country, which informed the authorities. On boarding the plane back to Bogotá, Señor Dozzino expressed surprise that he was the object of a search and explained that he had withdrawn to an isolated hotel on one of the Barú islands with his new partner, the Afro-Colombian Luis Pupo, thirty-six years old, former goalkeeper of Cortuluá soccer club. In any case”—and this was the other news—“Señor Dozzino will have to face a number of accusations of fraud.”
And of course, the slow and laborious construction of the Republic of Goodness continued.
One of the principal changes in the legal system was the “legal jubilee,” in which one day every two months the Public Prosecutor’s offices were opened to all those who wanted to confess a crime, in this way obtaining a substantial reduction in the sentence, provided it did not involve a murder or a crime against humanity. The aim was to institutionalize forgiveness and provide incentives that could heal the wounds left behind by the conflict.
In a similar vein, the Union of Prosecutors’ Departments and the Ministry of Defense created a show on the educational channel called The Forgiveness Hour, which knocked the most popular soap operas, and in some cases even soccer matches involving our beloved national team, off the top ratings slots. The format of the show was to confront former combatants, from whichever sides, with their victims. It was recorded in the open air in front of a large audience. In most of the episodes, the perpetrator would present his case in front of the victim, who watched him from one of the seats on the improvised set. When he had finished, the perpetrator would approach with a wireless microphone and beg forgiveness, sometimes even getting down on his knees. This was the most emotional part of the show, since the victim, generally in tears and clenching his teeth, ended up by agreeing and saying, “Yes, I forgive you,” which would lead to thunderous applause, cries of congratulations, and whoops of joy from the audience. In some cases, the perpetrator and the victim embraced.
This program of reconciliation had been imported from the experience of the Republic of Rwanda, where the Hutu population had exterminated a million ethnic Tutsis in the space of two or three months in 1994.
Many hours passed before Manuela returned. Tertullian told us we had to go back to Bogotá immediately. He would travel that same night to Amsterdam. My attention was drawn to his strange golfer’s outfit: a pair of plaid pants and a light jacket.
“Well, my dear friends, it was a pleasure,” he said, bowing, “nature can feel proud of us. Mother Earth is a little better than she was a while ago, and that’s something our ancestors will thank us for; anyway, Manuelita will tell you the ending of this story. I just want to repeat two instructions: stay together, but keep out of sight, am I making myself clear? Juanita: you and I are quits. It was a pleasure being able to help you. Consul, the honor was all mine.”
Having said this, he left.
Two hours later we were on a flight to Bogotá. Manuela maintained her silence during the flight and when we got to the apartment in the Nogal she shut herself in her room. When Juana went to ask her if she would like a cup of tea, she found her on the floor, in a fetal position, hugging her legs.
That night, watching the news, Juana and I found out what had happened.