WHEN THE GUERRILLA killed Ariel Mahecha’s father for being a sapo, Padre Rojas had been among the first on the scene. He’d ridden the parish’s 85cc Yamaha – affectionately dubbed Little Red Riding Hood – behind the army truck that transported the body through town and stayed comforting the widow until after midnight. Surely his replacement, Padre Guzmán, would perform the funeral rites and offer Mamá comfort?
Leaving Camila watching the highway for the police and army, I banged on the presbytery door. When no one answered, I peeked through the blinds and tapped on a window. A side door was unlocked. I hesitated, but it was an emergency.
Inside, it was dark and smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke.
‘Father Guzmán!’ I called out, my foot crunching on an empty can.
Suddenly, a light flicked on and a chubby, bald man in pyjamas towered over me, holding a bronze candelabrum at shoulder height, as though ready to strike.
‘Stay right there! I’m phoning the police!’
I didn’t recognise Padre Guzmán at first without his toupée. When I finally did, I held up my hands. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I knocked and called out. My name is Pedro Juan Gutiérrez González. I’m the son of—’
‘I don’t care if you’re the son of God. You can’t come barging in like this. I have a good mind to tell your father.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Padre. My father’s dead.’
The priest lowered the candelabrum. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, son.’ He spoke as though he were measuring out a goblet of communion wine, watching the level of his words scrupulously so as to pour into them the right amount of sympathy. ‘Dead how?’
‘Shot.’
‘Guerrilla?’
I nodded. ‘Padre, would you come up and say a prayer with our family? Then my father needs to be buried in his plot.’ I gave directions to our finca.
‘Shot, you say?’ He massaged his scalp. ‘Then the police are there?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m new to this. I’ll phone Bogotá for instructions.’
‘But you will perform the burial rites? And we’ll need a truck to bring Papá to the cemetery.’
‘A truck? Unfortunately, my superiors have only seen fit to furnish me with a motorbike.’
Suddenly, the bedroom door behind him crashed open and the mulata maid emerged wearing an emerald green nightgown. She was statuesque, with skin as smooth as milk chocolate. The priest flushed like blown coal.
‘Señorita Mosquera, what are you doing in my room? I told you to vacuum it tomorrow.’
‘Vacuum it yourself, Orlando!’ she barked. Guzmán feigned outrage until she said contemptuously, ‘The boy isn’t stupid.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Phone one of your parishioners.’ She unhooked the wall phone. ‘I saw a dozen trucks here on Sunday.’
Placing his arm across my back, Guzmán ushered me to the door, mumbling tissue-thin promises about how he’d try to help. ‘I trust to your discretion regarding Señorita Mosquera. We don’t want her to lose her job, do we?’
I departed unconvinced, although unable to argue.
‘Wait!’ The mulata maid raced after me. ‘You look pale, Pedro. You should eat something.’ She held out a plate of pastry pasteles. Flashing a panda keychain, she whispered, ‘His motorbike is in the shed.’
‘Thanks, but I can’t take it. You’d get fired.’
‘He’s a nice man underneath,’ she said sadly as I turned away.
Underneath what? I wondered. Underneath three robes of cowardice, his toupée and thirty excess kilos of hypocrisy?
‘Pedro, look!’ Standing by the highway, Camila waved excitedly. ‘Here comes your uncle.’
Pulling up in his blue truck, Uncle Leo leaned across Mamá and wound down the window. ‘I told you to take your mother to my house.’
‘Where’s Papá?’ I demanded of Mamá. ‘Did the police arrive?’
But Mamá wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she concentrated on shredding a tissue. I raced to the back of the truck and looked in the tray. No body. No shovel. Nothing.
‘You left him! Mamá! How could you?’
Finally, Mamá spoke. ‘You said five minutes.’
I flushed with guilt but controlled my voice. ‘We need to go back up. He’s all alone.’
‘We thought we saw something,’ said Leo. ‘Strange men approaching.’
‘Impossible! The Guerrilla are long gone. And anyway, you could have brought Papá with you.’
‘I know it’s hard, but we’ve done all we can. Leave this to the authorities.’
‘Then get out! I’ll drive.’ I grabbed for his door handle, but he banged down the lock and scrambled to wind up the window.
‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one week?’
His message was clear. I was responsible for my father’s death. He knew it. I knew it. And he could tell Mamá about my meeting the Paramilitaries at any time.
‘Coward!’ I spat. I ran to retrieve my bike from where it lay beside the church.
‘Wait!’ Camila sprinted alongside me, grabbing under the seat as I began pedalling off. ‘We’ll go up together.’
I unhitched her hands. ‘Please, Camila! I need to get there quickly.’
‘Then I’ll find a truck. I’ll steal one if I have to.’
I loved Camila so much. She was fearless devotion during a storm of treachery.
‘And find Palillo!’ I called back.
As I crossed the bridge and stood pedalling for the ascent, I saw what I most feared: black dots circling in the sky above our finca.