With every day that went by, Libardo was even more dead. The government had no interest in finding him. They claimed to be looking for him, but in fact they’d have been thrilled to have one less drug trafficker to deal with. They condemned vigilante justice—that’s what institutions were for, they said, and we needed to trust in the authorities. They kept giving us speeches when it was clear to everybody that Libardo had disappeared—had been disappeared, as Fernanda emphasized to them, even though she knew they wouldn’t do anything to find him.
The few friends he had didn’t do anything either, apart from making some noise. His absence must have suited them too. It meant one less person sharing the pie, or the portion they had left, since the Cali capos, the Norte del Valle guys, Los Pepes, and others had steadily filled the vacuum that Escobar left in the drug trade. So the only ones who missed Libardo were us.
Our grandmother didn’t come back to the house after her confrontation with Fernanda. We used to go visit her, and she’d always insinuate that the last person who’d been with Libardo and seen him alive was Fernanda. She said it a lot, to the point that Julio had to shut her down. That’s enough, Gran, he said, Ma had nothing to do with it, she adores him, she wouldn’t have let anybody hurt him. Gran scowled, annoyed by Julio’s tone, and stared at our grandfather, who was probably off orbiting Saturn’s moons.
But the others kept calling. Not on the hour anymore but several times a day, and sometimes when they felt like it they’d ask for Fernanda. They demanded money in exchange for information, and though Benito warned her it might be a scam, Fernanda got sucked in. She was talking with a guy named Rómulo who, he claimed, was the spokesperson for the group that had Libardo. Fernanda asked for proof of life, but Rómulo put her off with excuses. He claimed they were holding him in an isolated area and that for Libardo’s safety and theirs, it was best not to take photos of the place. Fernanda tried to put up a strong front, there’s no deal without proof, she told Rómulo many times, but they wouldn’t give in.
Dengue, who was battle-hungry, urged Fernanda to negotiate. We’ll get him one of these days, ma’am, he told her, we’ve got to maintain contact with them, we can’t let them disappear, Dengue said, his hitman adrenaline pumping.
Benito brought Julio and me together and said, “You all are going to end up in the street. Talk to her. Libardo’s assets belong to you too, and those people are looking to clean you out.”
Obediently, the two of us attempted to talk with Fernanda, as if we were adults, men of the sort who could fill Libardo’s shoes, confident and aggressive. We talked, and then she said, “There’s no reason for me to be negotiating with those murderers in the first place. I would have thought Libardo was enough of a man that by now the two of you would have learned something and would know what to do in these situations. But no. So now, since I’m trying to save him, I’m the bad guy.”
“Ma.”
“Let me finish. I’ll remind you that Libardo’s blood is running through your veins too. You are Libardo. What happens to him happens to all of us.”
Just as it seemed like her lecture was hitting its stride, Fernanda let out a shriek of terror. We were sure they’d come after us and we were dead meat. But she’d cried out because a bat had flown in through the sliding doors in the living room and was circling above us, above her. She screamed every time the bat brushed against her head. Julio tossed a sofa cushion at it, but that only made it more frantic. Two of the guys burst in through the same door where the bat had come in. They had their pistols drawn, ready to let off a hail of bullets. One of them made Fernanda get down on the floor while Julio and I kept hurling cushions at the bat.
“Duck down,” one of the guys said, raising his gun.
“No,” Fernanda shrieked. “The light, the light.” She was referring to the twelve-arm crystal chandelier that hung in the middle of the room. But the bodyguard didn’t put away his gun, and in the confusion shot not the chandelier or the ceiling or even the bat, which managed to find the exit before it took a bullet, but a Botero painting, the one Libardo used to say was worth more than any of us.
Fernanda got up from the floor, furious with the bodyguards and with us. She chased them out of the house with another scream. Julio stuck two fingers in the gash that the bullet had left in the thigh of a fat woman playing cards in the buff. Holy shit, he said, and Fernanda yelled for us to get out.
That single shot gave the neighbors an excuse to complain to the authorities that there’d been a gunfight at our house. A patrol car pulled up out front, and from my room I saw the bodyguards talking with the police for a long time. Fernanda found me glued to the window when she came upstairs to have us all pray together. For a long time, ever since I found out what Libardo did, I’d believed it was presumptuous to ask God for anything. I didn’t feel deserving of his protection or his favors. And I still believed it in that moment when Fernanda took our hands, Julio’s and mine, and with her eyes closed asked for Libardo to return safe and sound as soon as possible. She asked for that every night, clinging to us, convinced that God protected capos too. In that tense atmosphere, I would burst into uncontrollable laughter every time I remembered the mayhem the bat caused.
That night, Pedro came to visit me. He was one of the few school friends who still came around. That last year was when we started calling him “the Dictator.” He was a complete tool, but he was also caring and loyal, especially with me. Probably because he’d been obsessed with money ever since he was a kid, but I didn’t care about that: there he was whenever I needed him, or surprising me with late-night visits with a bottle of liquor, though he might also just steal one from Libardo’s study so we could sit around and drink and talk.
“Did you write your will?” Pedro asked.
“Don’t joke about that.”
“Everybody’s saying you’re going to get killed.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t care anymore.”
“Leave everything to me, man,” Pedro said.
“What’s everything?”
“The Rolex, your stereo, your motorcycles . . .”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Everybody’s getting killed, Larry.”
“Then maybe you will too.”
He took a swig from a bottle of brandy and passed it to me. We both coughed as the alcohol hit our throats.
“You’re so lucky,” he said. “Not having to go to school. That’s the life.”
“Actually, it’s hell here, Pedro.”
He shrugged, unconcerned.
“It’s hell everywhere.”
We drank again, and again coughed and shuddered at the brandy. We were quiet, staring at the bottle, until I said, “I’m going to leave you everything.”
“Really?” he asked excitedly.
I nodded, and he smiled.
“In writing?” he asked.
“In writing,” I said.
He leaped toward the desk, rummaged for some paper, and grabbed a pen. He handed them to me and started dictating:
“Medellín, April 2, 1994 . . .”