Sitting on the floor in the shower with the hot water falling on my head, I see a procession of images of everything I’ve experienced during these sleepless, stressful hours. Medellín as one big flash of light, the smell and noise of fireworks, the raucous shouting of drunks and the dull thudding of songs that say nothing and yet say everything, saying how small we are, how small we’ve become: a monotonous, empty reggaeton tune, misogynistic and violent, a cult of nothingness. One day, one night, one early morning linked to this next day that’s nearly turned to night again. Fernanda, Pedro the Dictator, La Murciélaga, Julieth, marijuana, aguardiente, coke, Julio, Libardo’s bones, my grandparents, Vanesa, Rosa Marcela, and among all those other faces, hers, Charlie sleeping, crying, drinking, her hair on my shoulder, our hands intertwined, her sad face that is becoming blurrier in my mind with every passing minute.
The water starts getting cold and my fingertips are wrinkled. The bathroom is full of steam, the mirror foggy, and the towel Fernanda’s given me is the kind that doesn’t really dry you off. Outside I can hear her laughing. Is she still on the phone with Julio? He called from the farm to tell us he’d decided to bury Libardo next to a lignum vitae tree on the land next to the lower ravine. I knew which one he meant because Libardo always used to stare at it in amazement when it was in bloom.
My suitcase is still on the bed with the clothes all jumbled up as if I’ve been here for days. Fernanda keeps laughing hard, and then I hear a man’s laughter alongside hers. She and whoever the other guy is murmur something and then laugh again. I know that laugh.
I go out of the bedroom and try to find them. The muffled laughter and fragmented sentences are coming from the kitchen. I know that voice. There they are, close together and leaning on the counter, Fernanda and Pedro. As soon as they see me, they freeze, especially him. She tries to stop laughing, like a little girl who’s hiding something. But they can’t tamp it down. Fernanda’s nose is white, and Pedro’s holding a knife with a bump of cocaine on its tip that he was about to sniff when I walked in.
“You bastard,” I tell him.
“Larry,” Fernanda says, but besides my name she doesn’t have anything else to say.
I spring at Pedro and ram him. We both fall to the floor. Fernanda screams, but instead of intervening, she tries to gather up the coke that’s spilled out of the bag and scattered across the floor. Pedro and I roll around; he’s stronger than I am, always has been, and he pins me down.
“Let me explain.”
I hurl every insult that occurs to me. Pedro may be stronger, but I’m more pissed off. I flail and manage to lurch to one side. I attack him again, and Fernanda digs her nails into my neck and tells me to let him go. I punch him in the face and take off running. I’m trying to get away not from him but from the entire experience. And from the truth.
At the elevator, I realize I’m barefoot. I go back to the apartment and ring the bell. Pedro opens the door.
“Give me a minute to explain,” he says. “It’s a long story.”
His nose is bleeding. I shove him and he falls down; I go into my bedroom, grab my shoes, and leave again, slamming the door. Outside, the streetlights are already on. Where the hell am I supposed to go? The world’s so big, but I’ve only got one place I can go: my grandparents’ house. I have a sister too, but do I dare? As I’m putting on my shoes, I hear someone calling my name.
“Larry! Larry!”
I turn and see her. It’s Julieth, shouting to me from Pedro’s SUV. She signals me over. Inga’s asleep next to her, and La Murciélaga is crying.
“Where are you going?” Julieth asks. Seeing how upset I am, she asks, “What happened, Larry?”
“What are you doing here?”
“We’re waiting for you and Pedro,” she says. “He went up to get you.”
“Don’t talk to me about that asshole,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” Julieth asks, surprised.
The three of them are still wearing the same clothes they were in yesterday. They stink of alcohol. They’ve lost their charm. Inga’s drooling, La Murciélaga’s eyes are swollen, and Julieth looks glazed over.
“What’s up with her?” I ask, gesturing to La Murciélaga.
“She’s sad.”
“Why?”
“Everything.”
“Are the keys in the ignition?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Julieth says. “Pedro will be right down.”
I get into the driver’s seat and start the engine. I haven’t driven for years, but it’s one of those things you don’t forget.
“What are you doing?” Julieth asks.
I don’t answer and hit the gas.
“Where are you going? What about Pedro?” Julieth says.
Any street will do as an escape route; instinctively, I head up into the hills. A bottle rolls around under my feet and gets trapped between the pedals. Instead of braking, I accelerate. The women scream.
“What are you doing, Larry?”
I manage to drag the bottle free with one foot. La Murciélaga starts crying again, and Julieth begs her to stop thinking about that. The bottle’s still got some aguardiente in it; I squeeze it between my thighs, uncap it, and take a long swig.
“There’s the booze!” Julieth exclaims. “We’d lost it.” She snatches it from me and takes a slug, then passes it to La Murciélaga and says, “Drink this and stop blubbering, please.”
I turn on the radio and La Murciélaga yells, “No!” She slams the radio off and, freaking out, says, “I don’t want music, I don’t want liquor, I don’t want anything, I don’t want to live.”
Without realizing it, I run a red light and another car screeches to a stop just short of my door. Julieth screams and La Murciélaga doesn’t even notice. Inga moans, still asleep. They yell at me from the other car; back in the day, I would have gotten shot. Julieth leans forward and, feigning a dignity that doesn’t match her level of sobriety, tells me, “Don’t be childish, Larry. Stop being such a dick. Tell me where we’re going already.”
I prise the bottle from La Murciélaga and take two more swigs. My body is trembling like a dog that’s just woken up.
“Answer me, Larry!” Julieth shrieks in my ear.
“To fucking hell,” I say, and slam the gas pedal all the way to the floor.