Fernanda taught me how to dance. Before I even learned to walk, I was dancing with her. She’d lift me up in her arms—she listened to music constantly—and she’d rock in time to the songs, always love songs. When I was up to her waist, we used to dance at parties, and she’d tell me I was her favorite dance partner. I kept dancing with her when I was the same height, and later when I was taller too. Eventually I didn’t enjoy it so much—I was ashamed to dance with my mom. These days, I’m too self-conscious to dance. It strikes me as a somewhat ludicrous activity; I don’t see the point of it, whether it’s about self-expression, celebration, emotions, or a million other things that have never really convinced me. But Fernanda insisted. She knew Julio was a lost cause. She said Libardo had no rhythm. You’re the only one, sweetheart—and she’d ask me with so much love in her eyes that I’d end up relenting, the two of us always turning into the main attraction for anybody watching.
Fernanda was way out of Libardo’s league. She wasn’t from a wealthy or prominent family—she was a normal girl, middle class, but pretty and ambitious. He was from humbler stock—very, very humble. He dropped out of high school and joined the street gangs in the upper section of San Cristóbal. When I asked him what he used to do in the gangs, he told me, we did everything, we fucked shit up everywhere, we were always getting into trouble. He even sounded nostalgic about it. When I asked him how he met Escobar, he told me Benito had introduced them. And when I asked him why he did what he did, he told me, because that’s how life is, kid, you’ll understand that one day.
I never did understand, but I figured it was like being born black or white, tall or short. That was what we were, end of story. Though there was always something or somebody to remind me who I was. At first it used to piss me off—I would come to blows. Now I just brush it off.
Once, after a kiss, a girlfriend, my very first one, told me, you’re not to blame for what you are. It was true, but that didn’t clear me of the burden. Fernanda often told me the same thing when I was freaking out about being Libardo’s son. And then she’d give me a hug because ultimately she, too, was “to blame” for what I was. Over the course of my life, I’ve heard it a million times: you’re not to blame for what you are. I heard it over and over until the phrase wore out and lost all meaning.
Another girlfriend in London told me that too, the one I decided to tell my story to because I was convinced I’d found the love of my life. You’re not to blame, Larry. And I said, shove your platitude up your ass, and she stormed out in a fury and I never saw her again. I later realized that when women said that, they weren’t really saying it to me but to themselves instead, rationalizing being friends with me, kissing me, having sex with me. If you’re not to blame, then neither is anybody else. Just like that, easy-peasy.
The only person I’d have wanted to hear the phrase from was Libardo himself, but he never said it. Even after the many times I told him he was to blame, he kept quiet. It took me a long time to realize he stayed quiet because he didn’t feel any blame. He never felt guilty about his actions: the accusations never bothered him, he wasn’t tormented by his crimes, and he hadn’t decided to have children so he could be burdened with remorse. He must have understood it from birth, what he told me that time: that’s how life is, Larry.
At any rate, you always had to interpret what was behind Libardo’s words. When he told us, I want you to go to the best school, to speak English, French, whatever languages you can, to study at the best university, to start companies, it was his way of telling us he didn’t want us to be like him, who never went to college or even finished high school and who spoke street Spanish. He didn’t want us to follow in his footsteps.
He used to brag about his friendships with important politicians and businessmen, about the deals they made and the meetings they invited him to. And the thing he boasted about most was the parties. Him and his beauty queen, because they didn’t invite him without Fernanda. Until one day she realized something.
“None of the other men take their wives,” Fernanda said, connecting dots.
“Of course they do,” he said.
“They bring their girlfriends, mistresses, whatever,” Fernanda said, “but none of them are married to the women they take.”
Libardo huffed. “What do you know?”
“I’ve seen photos of them in the society pages with very different women. They’re lying to you, Libardo. They want to make you think you’re one of them, but they only invite you to the parties they take their hussies to. And they’re putting me on that same level.”
Libardo grumbled, perturbed. “I’m not going to butt into their lives,” he said. “They can sleep with whatever women they want. Those parties are where we do business.”
“Well, you’re going to have to go on your own from now on. I’m not going to be considered one of those tramps.”
Fernanda wasn’t looking at him as she spoke, emphasizing her irritation. He got up, walked to the window, and stared out.
“Did you know?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I don’t pay attention to those things.”
They were both quiet a while, and then it was Fernanda who stood up and said, “I’m going to have them serve dinner.”
“Fernanda.”
She stopped.
“Given what you’ve said,” Libardo asked, “are you sure you want me going alone?”
“Is that a threat?”
Libardo didn’t respond. He kept looking at her, leaning against the glass. She took a step forward and said, “I hope I’m wrong. I hope that when you need those guys, they’ll have your back.”
She left the room, leaving a trail of truth behind her.
That same night, after dinner, we were in their room watching TV when Libardo told Fernanda, “The deputy attorney general agreed to talk to us. But I’m not going. One of the Arangos, a Molina, and Benito are going in my place.”
I looked at Fernanda, whose demeanor was like a thermometer for measuring her reaction. She was concentrating on a small hand mirror, plucking her eyebrows. She arched them, brought them together by scrunching her forehead, raised them again, brought the mirror close to her face, and skillfully kept tweezing.
“Didn’t the Arangos turn themselves in?” she asked.
“Just Jonathan.”
I looked at her again to see if her expression had changed, if she was looking at Libardo, but she was still focused on her eyebrows. Suddenly she moved the mirror, and her eyes met mine. I looked swiftly back at the television.
“So you’re going to surrender too,” Fernanda said.
“No fucking way,” Libardo said. “The Diago meeting isn’t official.”
Fernanda got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. Libardo kept talking: “Pablo implicated him in the group. I think he’s playing dumb and we’re going to have to have a talk with him. If he helps us get the government off our backs, it’ll give us some breathing room to fight the other bastards.”
Fernanda peered out and said, “Larry, Julio, look at the time. It’s going to be impossible to get you up in the morning.”
As I left, I heard Fernanda say to Libardo, don’t talk to them the way you talk to your people. He said, I wasn’t talking to them, and anyway they’re men now. Then don’t talk to me like that, Fernanda said, and don’t act like a thug in front of your sons. Libardo raised his voice, indignant: Thug? Thug? I couldn’t make out anything after that; I didn’t want to hear what came next.
A little while later, after I was in bed and had turned out the light, Fernanda came into the room.
“Larry.”
My heart started beating faster. When she came in like that, it was because something had happened between them. I always used to wonder why she came to me and not Julio. Sure, I was more like her, I looked like her and had her features, shared her sensitivity and some of her tastes, but Julio was her son too, the older one, and it should have been his job to console her. But she chose me, her kindred spirit, as she told everybody we were—she used to say it proudly, like a peacock, and her eyes would shine, her words sparkle.
“You asleep, Larry?
She came over to the bed and groped for the edges of the mattress so she didn’t bump into it. Sometimes, when she came to my room like that, it was because she’d been drinking and she’d trip over a shoe, over some clothes I hadn’t picked up, or she’d get lost in the darkness and end up on the floor, laughing uncontrollably. I didn’t find it at all amusing to see her sprawled on the floor, collapsed in laughter, crawling over to my bed, where she’d climb in, reeking of alcohol.
“Larry?”
She was sober now. She smelled like the creams she applied before bed.
“Larry.”
I shifted a little. There wasn’t much point in pretending to be asleep. It never put her off. I moved over to give her room. She lifted the sheets and slipped into bed. She spooned me from behind and murmured, “I don’t want to sleep with him.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s really worked up. It’s best to leave him alone.”
“What’s going to happen to us, Ma?”
“Nothing, darling,” she said, and ran her fingers through my hair, and then, as if time had ceased passing, as if I hadn’t gotten older and she was still dandling me in her arms, she added, “Go to sleep now, sweetie.”