ONCE OFF THE bus and back inside her house, Camila raced up the stairs to her room. I found her lying on her bed. At first she wouldn’t look at me and I assumed she was in shock. When I caressed her hair, she curled into the foetal position.
‘Your fake cédula I can understand,’ she said. ‘But why do you need the gun?’
‘For protection.’
‘But if they’d found it, they would have shot you. You could have been killed. You could have got us both killed.’
‘They wouldn’t have touched you. But there are worse things they could do than shoot me.’
I’d answered truthfully and my reason for carrying a pistol was logical. But sometimes truth and logic don’t win an argument. Sometimes, they make it deteriorate.
Camila opened her eyes. They were filled with tears. ‘Worse things like what?’
‘Nothing happened, amor. We’re both fine. And you know what I do for a job. It won’t be for much longer, I promise.’
I tried to see things from Camila’s perspective. Four months earlier, she’d reluctantly accepted what I did. But she’d only known in theory. Seeing my pistol and having rifles pointed at her at the Guerrilla roadblock had suddenly made it real.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t be here,’ she said.
I was stunned. Was she saying she wanted to end our relationship?
‘Don’t you see?’ she rushed on. ‘I’m putting you in danger. None of this would have happened if you weren’t back here to see me. You’d be on the coast with Palillo or staying safely with your mother.’
‘Don’t be silly! You’re not putting me in danger! And it’s my choice to be here.’
Camila was silent again. At least she hadn’t said she wanted to break up. But what she was saying almost amounted to the same thing. Of course, I’d have happily paid for us to travel and meet in a different town. But Camila had a year and a half of school remaining, and it would be impossible to time my leave periods to coincide with her vacations. Our relationship was already strained by distance and time apart. Not being able to visit her at home would end it completely.
‘We’ll be fine.’ I brushed the hair back from her cheek. ‘They didn’t see me. And I won’t travel on that bus route ever again.’
Camila buried her face in the pillow. ‘I just want a normal life like the girls at school. I want a normal boyfriend.’
‘That’s not fair, amor. You know why my life is like this. You know what they did to Papá.’
She sat up and hugged me tightly. ‘I’m sorry. What I meant was I just want to feel safe.’
‘You are safe, baby. I love you and we’re not going to lose each other. I promise.’
I felt her hot, wet tears against my neck. I knew she loved me deeply. But we’d left the underlying argument unresolved – the difficulty of her being the girlfriend of someone wanted by the Guerrilla while she lived in a town that they controlled.
I left Camila on the bed, hoping she’d be calmer by morning. Señor Muñoz drove me back to Garbanzos. Three hours had passed by then and they’d cleared the dead body, but we saw the patch of blood and the debris, including the burnt-out hulk of the bus belonging to Felix Velasquez, its lettering still visible. Several windows had melted in a strange pattern down its side, the glass resolidifying like stalactites. Beneath them on the asphalt I saw pools of hardened black rubber that must have belonged to the tyres.
By the time I reached the hotel, I had moved on from my shock and now felt angry. I kept seeing the faces of the young boys and girls at the roadblock. If the long-promised communist revolution ever succeeded, our country would be governed by fourteen-year-olds brandishing AK47s and their eleven-year-old henchmen in ripped jeans who collected taxes for them. I watched television, convinced that the roadblock would be national news. An incident like this was clear proof the Guerrilla had violated the ceasefire. It could not go unreported, especially when there were at least fifty witnesses.
But there was nothing.
Fucking coward journalists! I thought. Fucking big-city media companies!
Like many Colombians, I suspected this was part of an organised political conspiracy; they were deliberately suppressing the news. But it wasn’t.
I’ve since learned the truth about journalists in Colombia. We have the bravest reporters in the world. Many have given their lives to tell the truth about the war and cocaine trafficking. Some live in exile overseas. But those living closest to the conflict zones are warned to keep quiet or be killed. The armed groups know their phone numbers and where they work and live. Even those who publish articles anonymously in big-city magazines like La Semana and Cambio can be traced. Or their families can be. So they report selectively.
Nevertheless, right then and there, I resolved that one day I’d tell my life story to someone who would be willing to publish it. I know I’ve done terrible things – killed people and even worse. I know I’ve lied to those I love. But people need to know that this is not a lie. The things I’ve witnessed with these eyes – these stories I’m telling you – they’re too horrible for anyone to invent. This is the truth about Colombia and I want people to know it.
The following afternoon, when Camila came to my hotel, I could see she was still upset. She was quieter than usual, and after only an hour, she said she was going home.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘I’m fine, amor,’ she said. ‘I just need to be alone. I need time to think.’
I said nothing. We were still together, and that was what was important.
On Thursday night, there was still no news about the roadblock. I switched off the television, picked up my Galil and began cocking and uncocking it. I pulled the rounds from the chamber and then re-inserted them one by one into the empty magazine before reattaching it and starting again. I would not lie idle while Zorrillo, Buitre and their men committed atrocities. Something had to be done, and with the government’s continued inaction, Javier Diaz might be the only one who could help me do it.