It isn’t love that makes the world go round, I tell them, it’s economics. And then I ask, remember Clinton? The one who got the blow job?, Pedro the Dictator asks. That’s the one, I say, though I’d meant the president, not the man. What are you talking about?, La Murciélaga asks, who got a blow job? And Julieth says, what does that have to do with the topic at hand? You were talking about love, princess, Pedro says. Sure, Julieth replies, but why’s this dude bringing economics and that gringo into it? Because Larry’s an economist, remember, Pedro says. I’m not an economist, I say again, I started but never finished. You may not have finished, Pedro says, but if they saved your credits you’re still a work in progress. You guys are such dorks, says La Murciélaga. I was talking about those people, the ones singing at the house, says Julieth, they believe in love. Well, if love means I have to sit around singing with a guitar by a fireplace in a room that smells like burnt meat, I’d rather be alone for the rest of my life, La Murciélaga says. No, Murci, I’m not talking about romantic love, Julieth says, that’s not what I mean, but I do think those guys have got a different kind of power. Who’s got the hooch?, Pedro asks, and La Murciélaga pulls half a bottle of aguardiente out of her purse. You go first, the Dictator tells her.
The bottle passes from mouth to mouth; when it’s his turn to drink, Pedro takes a swig without even slowing down. I, for one, believe in universal love, says Julieth. What kind’s that?, Pedro asks. Where everybody loves everybody else, La Murciélaga says. Then I believe in universal love too, says Pedro, and Julieth punches him in the shoulder. Dumbass, she says, I’m talking about the force that makes the world go round. Economics, I say. Oh, no, no, no, Julieth exclaims, and clutches her head. What a bunch of idiots, you know what I’m saying, stop screwing around.
We move up the Las Palmas highway at the snail’s pace that the traffic permits, along with the rest of the crowd looking to watch the fireworks from a good vantage point. Thousands of lights explode in the sky above Medellín, from one end to the other, as if the entire valley were erupting. As if all of Medellín were a volcano. Roll another joint, Murci, we’re going to be here a while, Pedro says. I’ve got one ready, she replies. Light it up, then. Nobody answered me about the volcano, I say. What? The name of the sleeping volcano in the middle of Medellín. Hahahaha, La Murciélaga cracks up. Nothing and nobody in the city is sleeping right now, Julieth says. Lowering the window, she adds, listen to that noise out there. Open all the windows to let the smoke out, Pedro orders. And the smell, says La Murciélaga, my hair ends up reeking of weed and tomorrow my mom’s going to ask me what’s that weird smell. Don’t tell me your mom hasn’t tried it, Murci, Julieth says. My mom?, oh man, you clearly haven’t met her. No way, Julieth says, we always think our parents don’t do anything, that they’ve never done anything, when in fact they’ve done all the same things we have and more. My dad doesn’t know the difference between a line of coke and a joint, Pedro says. La Murciélaga laughs. Mine have tried it, Julieth says. What? Marijuana. What about coke? I don’t think so, but marijuana they have, Julieth says. She turns to look at me and says, do you remember those nights out on the town with your mom, Larry?
La Murciélaga passes me the hydroponic joint, and in her dark eyes I see curiosity and compassion. Epic nights out, Pedro says, just epic, Fernanda is unstoppable. Is?, I ask, is she still partying? I mean, she’s got a lot of energy, Pedro says.
A car goes by, and they shoot a bottle rocket or a roman candle at us, I don’t know, something glittery and deafening that whizzes past our windshield like a bolt of lightning. La Murciélaga screams and Pedro yells, fucking assholes! He stomps on the gas to go after them, but there isn’t much he can do with all the traffic and the bendy road. Do you see her often?, I ask Pedro, who’s still cursing: those bastards practically fired that fucking thing right through our window! He keeps speeding up and braking, trying to pass the cars ahead of us. At the karaoke bar, a friend of my dad’s asked me how my mom was doing, do you know anything about that, Pedro? I want to see their face when I shove those fireworks up their ass, Pedro says. They’re nuts, says La Murciélaga, who’s only just now recovering from the fright. What’s my mom up to, Pedro? Pedro, you’re going to get us killed, Julieth yells. Let them go, you’re never going to catch up, says La Murciélaga, and adds, it just scared us—we’re over it. They did it deliberately, Pedro says, are you over that too, you chickenshits? He gives up, though he’s still fuming, if I run into them up there, they’ll see, they’ll see. He looks at me furiously and says, we’re in full-on combat mode here and you’re asking me about your mom, give me a break, Larry.
We merge with the line of cars, like everybody else. The music on the radio and the fireworks fill the silence that descends after Pedro’s fit of rage. Maybe Julieth and La Murciélaga are thinking the same thing I am, that those people deserve to get their asses kicked. Pedro’s cell phone rings and we all jump. Our defenses are still low. I still don’t understand why I can’t go home yet. Why’s Fernanda punishing me with exile my very first day back? The Dictator could turn down the music to talk more comfortably, but instead he’s shouting at the top of his lungs. He curses, insults, roars with laughter, getting worked up, tells the person on the other end of the line what happened: a crappy little dark blue Mazda, he says, yeah, a 323 with three twats on board, if you see them let me know. Who are you talking to?, La Murciélaga asks, but he doesn’t answer, instead telling the other person, just think, if that bottle rocket had come through the window it would have ruined this handsome mug. He laughs again and curses again. La Murciélaga stubs out the joint in the ashtray. Julieth looks at me, and I tell her, I don’t know what I’m doing here. La Murciélaga turns around and says enthusiastically, it’s La Alborada, sweetie.
Outside I see the orange sky and, down below us, the glow. The noise and euphoria summon Dylan Thomas once more to the tip of my tongue—“wise men at their end know dark is right”—and Thomas summons her once more to my memory. Are you sure you don’t know a Charlie who lives in London?, I ask Julieth and La Murciélaga. Male or female?, Julieth asks. Oh, so tedious, La Murciélaga says. Female, I tell Julieth. Pedro ends his conversation, and La Murciélaga asks again, who were you talking to? That was Ro, he replies, they’re already up there, at the overlook past El Peñasco. Who is she, what does she look like?, Julieth asks me. Some woman he met on the plane, La Murciélaga answers. She’s got black hair down to like here, I tell Julieth, gesturing to just below my shoulder. Her dad died day before yesterday, I say. Hers too?, Julieth says. Mine died a long time ago, I point out. At this rate, Pedro says, the fireworks will be over by the time we get there. She’s got a small nose and a pale complexion, I continue, but Julieth isn’t listening, nor anybody else. They start belting out the reggaeton song that comes on the radio.
Boom boom, let it go boom, pump up the room, if things are feeling hot, make her zoom-zoom.
But I’m overcome with sleepiness. I rest my head on the back of the seat and once again look out and down, toward the smoking crater that’s about to erupt.