47

I walked like an old man. I thought the cane would give me the air of a sophisticated gent, but it just made me look sick. I had insisted on leaving early, and I was making my way out of the place. One month in the hospital was way too long. I couldn’t take the captivity any longer. Initially, the doctors had refused to let me out, but I did what needed to be done. I paid off the nurses, and they signed the discharge papers. I signed documents too, but those were the papers stating that I wouldn’t hold the hospital or the doctors responsible if anything happened. According to the doctors, I was only partially recovered. Milo and Rony had come to pick me up in the Land Cruiser. Getting into it was an ordeal. Milo kept making good-natured jokes, teasing me every time I yelped in pain, and despite my discomfort, I laughed. We all laughed. It felt so good I didn’t even notice that I had ripped out two of my stitches.

Back at the house, Modibo was waiting for me. When he saw me get out of the Land Cruiser much thinner and barely able to walk, he cried his eyes out. He called the doctor to get me sewed back up. For good measure, the doc gave me a tongue wagging as he redid my stitches. I made faces, despite the disapproving looks from Modibo that said: “Boss, it’s not right to make fun of a doctor!” Then, once we were alone again, the kid took care of me the way a son looks after his father. It almost didn’t bother me.

~ ~ ~

I maneuvered on my three legs between the workbenches of the slaughterhouse. For some reason, there was an old coatrack in the middle of the room. I hadn’t seen it on my last visit. I paused in front of the bench where poor Alejandro Nuñez had met his end—an end I myself had almost shared. In a way, I had been reborn on this abomination of crude wood, this birthing table crisscrossed with scars from the chainsaw. In fact, it was still there, on the table. The Malian investigators hadn’t deemed it wise to take it. I brushed the chainsaw’s metal housing with my fingers. The blade seemed to have been recently greased. I sighed and examined it. It was still pockmarked with rust. I raised my eyes and scanned the dilapidated structure. Sunlight was flooding through cracks in the walls, and airborne dust particles were dancing in the rays.

“Is this a pilgrimage?”

Behind me, I heard the dry and derisive words tinged with Spanish. The guy just loved to sneak up. I turned around with difficulty. Rafael and Rodrigo were standing in the entrance, blocking my way out. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t in any condition to make a speedy escape.

“You could say that. It took you long enough,” I said as I lit a cigarillo, my cane dangling from my arm.

I watched them walk toward me, the butts of their guns sticking out of their pants. I inhaled the smoke, but it tasted like ashes—because of my medication, I figured. I threw the still-burning cigarillo on the filthy floor.

“We were expecting you, Camara. And it took you long enough to get out of the hospital.”

“It’s the starlet in me. I love to make a grand entrance.”

The Spaniard almost smiled.

“So, you settled the score with Samaké.”

“That wasn’t me. It was this town that got him. I guess the vigilantes spoiled your plans. When we were up north, you let me go because you were going to hand me over to him.”

Rafael chuckled. “All we had to do was wave our red cape in front of you.”

“That’s one of my weaknesses. I’m excitable.”

I wasn’t scared of Rafael or his buddy Rodrigo. I just wanted to get it over with. It was obvious he did too.

“Now we’re closing the book,” he said. “But there’s still one thing I don’t understand. Why the big vendetta? It’s such a shame. We could have gotten on quite nicely, even worked together. After all, we’re cut from the same cloth.”

“No, that would have never happened,” I replied. “You’ve forgotten about Drissa.”

“Who’s Drissa?”

“My caretaker, the man whose wrist your goons sliced.”

“That old black guy? All this for him?”

“He was my best friend. Since you killed him, one of us will have to die. That’s how it goes.”

“And it looks like it’ll be you.”

With a smile on his elegant face, he aimed his gun at my head.

“I don’t get you, Camara,” he said. “You could have saved your skin by fleeing the country. You knew we’d find you if you stayed here. Why didn’t you run?”

I was still looking at the table.

“Because this is my home,” I said. “It took me a while to admit it.”

Rodrigo had stepped around me and was eyeing me hungrily. “You should be happy then,” he said, purring like a big tomcat. “You’ll get to spend the rest of your life—the few minutes of it you have left—in your homeland.”

“Too bad you’ll never see your homeland again,” I replied.

The Venezuelan gave me a confused look.

“What are you talking about, Camara?” Rafael asked.

“He thinks your traveling days are over,” I said, pointing behind the two drug traffickers.

Still aiming their guns at me, they turned their heads to see who I was pointing at. An old man was, indeed, standing behind them. He was wearing a white linen suit, classic moccasins, and an off-white Panama hat. His handsome ivory mustache was a bit old-fashioned, and his eyes were as cold and dark as death. He looked like the vision I had when I was with the angels.

“Who is that?” Rafael asked.

“This is Tomas Nuñez, a rich and powerful farmer from Cauca Valley on the western side of Colombia.

“Don Nuñez!” Rafael shrieked. “What’s he doing here?”

There was panic in the Spaniard’s voice—a quiver that gave him away as much as the veil of droplets that covered his forehead. The old man took off his jacket without saying a word. He smoothed it carefully and hung it on the coatrack.

“When I found out that Mike Kedzia was actually Alejandro Hilario Nuñez, I set out to notify the one living relative he had left—his uncle, the gentleman you see here,” I continued. “Finding him wasn’t easy. I even had to ask the French police for help. Can you imagine, Rafael? The French police! But I had no choice. No one in Colombia would have known about Alejandro’s death, because he had assumed a new identity in Mali.”

Half a dozen of Nuñez’s soldiers silently slipped into the slaughterhouse. They were heavily armed, mostly with Kalashnikovs, and quickly deployed themselves around the Spaniard and the Venezuelan. Rodrigo let out a desperate cry, twisting like a cornered animal. The sicarios quickly disarmed him. Rafael, meanwhile, was trying to keep his composure, but the blood had drained from his face. I planted myself in front of him and took the automatic pistol from his hand. He didn’t resist, as if he’d lost his will. The soldiers bound their hands with zip ties.

“You see, Rafael, Don Nuñez lost his family in the many battles between the Cali and Medellín cartels. Pablo Escobar spared no one in those days. The only ones to escape were the young Alejandro and Tomas Nuñez. They were the sole survivors. And you killed one of them…”

Rafael spit on the floor. His eyes had regained all of their intensity.

“Your nephew was nothing but a maricón—a fag—Don Nuñez,” he yelled at the old man, who was putting on a protective suit—the same suit that the Spaniard himself had worn when he was chopping up Alejandro.

Two of the sicarios pounced on Rafael—as he cried out like a fool—and dragged him to the workmen’s bench. The old man’s continued silence made my blood freeze, even though, in a way, he was the embodiment of fate’s merciless justice. It was Newton’s Law in its most basic form: for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction.

“That dirty faggot was ruining us!” Rafael shouted.

Tomas Nuñez picked up the chainsaw and started it with a powerful tug. The old man still had it in him—most likely thanks to his days in the fields. He leaned over Rafael, his power tool humming in his hand. I decided it was time to head out. I had seen enough butchery. Outside, the Harmattan winds were sweeping through the wild grass. I shielded the flame of my lighter and lit a cigarillo. Inside, the chainsaw was singing its head off.