Three weeks after El Rosal burned down, they set fire to another farm of ours near San Onofre. It was smaller, but the size didn’t make the attack any less serious. The message was clear: all-out war. Actually, that’s what Libardo had declared before he realized he’d be the one to lose that war. There was no longer any possibility of negotiating. Their demands, rather than diminishing, increased day by day. They wanted more money, more property, more enemies identified. Not to mention the pressure from the government as it started to expose Escobar’s secret networks. Politicians, businessmen, athletes, military officers, and even artists and priests were unmasked to the authorities and the media. Everybody knew Escobar had such ties, but some of the new revelations were shocking. And in the eye of the hurricane was Libardo, an ally in Escobar’s shadow who’d rarely been mentioned before. His photo started appearing in the newspapers and on television, with claims that made me sick. The man who’d greased the wheels of Pablo’s war machine, the strategist, the man who killed without ever touching a weapon, the chess master of terror, Pablo’s kindred spirit, his shadow.
“It’s actual, pure, outright filthy horseshit,” Libardo told us. “They’re demonizing me. People are going around pointing fingers right and left. Everybody’s bored with Pablo’s death, so journalists are making up stories to get attention. These motherfuckers think they own the world because they’ve got a goddamn typewriter, but I’ll shove those preening bastards’ typewriters, cameras, and their lies right down their cocksucking throats, the goddamn pricks.”
“Libardo,” Fernanda said, her tone calmer. “Tell the boys the truth.”
“But everybody knows the truth,” Libardo replied. “They know”—he pointed at us—“because I’ve never lied to them, right, boys?”
As always, Julio and I looked at each other. Then we looked at Fernanda, trying to read her expression, and at Libardo to see if he was going to explode, thump the table, hurl a glass, or cry, or scratch his head. People might think they know their parents as well as their parents know them, but Julio and I lacked the life experience to know ours, to understand why they did what they did, why they were the way they were. Libardo’s real life was difficult to disguise. There was no way to hide the guys who watched his back, the briefcases full of money secreted around the house, the cars he switched out every couple of months, or the threats he made, and he’d never denied his admiration for Escobar.
“Right, boys?”
Julio and I nodded. Fernanda still wasn’t satisfied.
“Tell them the truth,” she said again.
“What truth, Fernanda? Everybody who knew Pablo knew nobody made his decisions for him—he liked to control every last detail. He made the decisions, the plans, he was the brains. The boss gave orders, and we obeyed, simple as that. And anyone who didn’t obey . . .” He paused and eventually went for an easy explanation: “You know what happened.”
He sounded sincere, but something seemed off. When you’ve lived a murky, tangled life, when you don’t tell lies but you don’t tell the truth either, a blanket of doubt will always settle over you. That was what Libardo’s life was like. What he said about Escobar may have been true—after all, he was now dead, and his family was far away—but it was what they were saying about Libardo on the news that was keeping us awake at night.
Fernanda didn’t push any further. Her expression didn’t change, and she seemed unconvinced, but she didn’t insist. Julio chose to believe him. Like Libardo, he knew that if we didn’t hang together in such times, we’d be lost. Libardo said the same thing in other words, which happened to be pretty sensible.
“It’s like this, boys.” He looked at Fernanda and added, “And this goes for you too. Either you believe me and are with me, or you shillyshally and play for the other side.”
Fernanda spun around. “How am I supposed to believe you, Libardo?”
“The way you’ve always believed me.”
“Until that hussy showed up.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“How am I supposed to believe a liar?”
Libardo came over to us, and she stayed back, muttering to herself.
“I’m going to send more men to Caucasia so they don’t do the same thing to Sorrento they did to the other farms,” he told us. “I’m not going to let them burn it too. I’m going to face them down and make them regret what they’ve done to me.”
Fernanda said, I’m leaving, and he stared after her till she disappeared from view. I don’t know if her story about the other woman was true, but the expression that lingered on Libardo’s face was that of a man in love. He may have had another woman, but Fernanda had Libardo’s heart.
“She doesn’t give a shit about the farms,” he said.
“Pa,” Julio said, “it doesn’t matter anymore what she thinks or we think.”
“I know, son,” Libardo said, “but they’re not going to get to me that easily. They’re coming at me from the sides, trying to hem me in, but they’re not going to nab me without some major effort.”
The telephone rang. We stayed quiet, and it stopped after four rings.
“Pa,” Julio said again, but his emotions got the better of him. His eyes welled up and his chin quivered. Seeing him like that, I fell apart.
In my eyes, Julio was the sensible person in the family, the one worthy of emulation. He was still a teenager, but Libardo and Fernanda often seemed more childish than either of us. He was my older brother, my only brother. Or he was more than that. It was distressing to see him stammering, scared to death. Libardo, too, crumbled when he saw his son sobbing. Once again, it seemed, we were going to end up in each other’s arms.
“The three of us are men,” Libardo said. “Tough men. They’re never going to take us down.” He sucked in breath between each sentence. “Three warriors.”
I sensed that the hug was imminent. We were so close, we could feel Libardo’s spit spray as he spoke. I wanted to run away, but Libardo’s overflowing emotions forced me to stay, to be tough, a warrior, as he said.
“Three stallions,” he said.
The tower that Libardo insisted on keeping upright began to sway. The large hands gripping us weren’t strong enough to support us and him too.
“Three lions, three . . .”
Three somethings—he never actually said because he knew we sensed what was about to happen. He didn’t even have the energy to give us a hug. His hands on our shoulders was the best he could do. If Fernanda hadn’t come back, the three columns that kept Libardo’s tower standing would have toppled right there in front of her as if they were made of cardboard.
“Libardo,” Fernanda said, leaning against the wall with the phone in her hand.
“You were there,” he said, though it was unclear whether it was a question or a statement.
“Estrada called,” she said.
“Who’s Estrada?”
Libardo had met him, but he’d stopped bothering to remember any names that weren’t part of his war, ones he mentioned every day, ones that obsessed him and kept him up at night.
“The headmaster,” Fernanda said, and looked at us with an expression of anger, or sadness, or something equally scary. “Julio and Larry can’t go back to the school,” she added.
“What?” Libardo asked.
“The parents and teachers had a meeting and decided it was best if the boys don’t go back.”
“They kicked them out?”
“No. They’ll hold their spots till things get better. In the meantime . . .”
“They’re kicking them out? They’re putting them out on the street after everything I’ve done for that fucking place? I’ll go after the bastards who don’t want my sons to go to school.”
“He said it was for their safety.” Fernanda gestured toward us. “And the school’s. They don’t want to have the bodyguards around, they say that . . .”
“See here,” Libardo interrupted, “how about instead of making excuses, those bastards come and talk to me straight?”
“Let me speak,” she said, almost shouting. “They can keep studying here at home. The school’s going to send assignments, and some of the teachers can come tutor them here.”
“And you’re O.K. with that?” Libardo asked belligerently.
“Of course not, but what can we do? Are you going to go down there and wave a gun around to force them to accept our kids?”
“Not one gun. A hundred of them, a thousand, as many as it takes to make those bastards understand.”
“Perfect,” said Fernanda, “and after the massacre, they’ll definitely welcome us with open arms.”
She was the only person in the world who talked back to Libardo. Even his mother faltered when reproaching him for something, and though Julio and I sometimes rebelled, we were always terrified. Fernanda was the only person who dared. Plus maybe his lover, if he had one, or maybe Escobar, his boss.
“No,” Libardo said after a silence. “You two are going to go study at the best school in the world.”
“Which one’s that?” Julio asked.
“Any school, doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s the best, and you’re going to show those dirtbags you’re made for big things, not graduating from some shitty school.”
“When?” I asked.
Libardo had this look on his face like he had it all worked out; he was already smiling and waving his arms, striding back and forth, talking loudly like the old Libardo. “Tomorrow if you like, or next week,” he said. “We’re lucky enough to be able to do whatever we want. We’ll look for the best school in the United States, or Europe, and Estrada and the rest of those bastards will eat their words.”
“Libardo,” Fernanda broke in.
“They won’t know what hit them,” he continued, ignoring her.
“Libardo,” she said again.
“You two are going to walk out of that shitty little school with your heads held high.”
Fernanda dropped the telephone on the table, grabbed her purse, turned around, and said to Julio and me, “I’m going to the casino. I need to clear my head.”
Libardo didn’t hear her or see her leave; he was too caught up in his rant. “And when they find out you’re graduates of the world’s finest school . . .” He raised his arm, pointed his index finger, and said emphatically, “I mean it, the world’s finest school—they won’t know what to say; imagine their stupid faces, they’ll have to eat their goddamn words.”
He stopped pacing back and forth and stood still, looking at us. My head was about to explode, and I longed to run after Fernanda to get away from this madman.
“Where’s your mom?” Libardo asked, looking around.
“She went out,” Julio said.
“At this hour?”
“She went to the casino.”
Libardo’s lips moved in a silent curse. Probably he said what he used to say to her when they hated each other, during a fit of jealousy or a lover’s quarrel, what the two of them would say in private.
“Go to bed,” he instructed us.
He gave us a kiss, and the phone started ringing again.
“Don’t worry, I’ll unplug it now,” he said, with the tone and expression he always used to try and delude us. To delude himself.