Medellín, New Year’s Eve, 1969
As soon as I saw them, I got the feeling they were different. They didn’t look like us. They didn’t dress like us. They didn’t behave like us. I could tell these men were rough.
What made it more incongruous were our surroundings. We were in one of the city’s swankiest hotels. Massive crystal chandeliers loomed over dozens of round tables, each of which seated at ten people. A stage that traversed the whole of one end of the ballroom suggested there would be entertainment at some point in the evening. For now, though, it was a bit of a free-for-all. There were lots of kids running around, many of whom I knew, as they were the children of those friends of Dad’s who visited the house or his various clubs and those I’d met at the embassy parties our parents dragged us along to while they were socialising. I wasn’t allowed to run around that night, however. I had been told to sit tight for the time being, Barandiga and Martinez close by me. I felt hard done by – that I was missing out. But I did as I was told. The way the bodyguards’ hands hovered over their holsters told me this wasn’t like our usual get-togethers.
For a start we were in Medellín, the second city of Colombia and a place that to me had neither the status of Bogotá nor the charm of Cali. From the moment we’d stepped off the plane the atmosphere had felt gritty and, even though we were here to celebrate the dawn of a new year, there was a detectable seriousness about the proceedings.
Our table was near the stage to one side. My parents and their friends were suitably attired in their finery, befitting our surroundings but it was one of the men who occupied the other tables in our area who really held my attention. He wasn’t the tallest – and certainly wasn’t the oldest – but there was just something about him.
Dad was in business mode, I could tell. This might have been a family event, but I could tell he wasn’t relaxed. Even when he was talking to someone he was scanning the room, alert to any eventuality. In fact, everyone seemed a little tense, like they didn’t really want to be there, which I thought was odd as, to any observer, it would have seemed like a big party.
I began following my dad’s gaze. His concentration was focused on the men near us and, in particular, the man I’d singled out. What was it about this man? He didn’t look like my Carlos uncles – either the banker or the lawyer – or like Gregorio. He didn’t look particularly smart. His shirt was loose-fitting, casual and open-necked. Whenever he stood up I could see he had a bit of a paunch and his trousers, held up by a belt, were baggy, creased and in desperate need of a pressing, not like my dad’s, which had one neat fold the length of his leg. His hair was untidy and its grease shone under the ballroom lights. Yet people kept coming up to him and leaning over the table to get a word. I couldn’t help but stare. Then his eyes locked with mine. I was used to people looking at me curiously but this was different. I’d never had someone look so intently at me. I had to look away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. One of the men who had been speaking with him got up and approached our table. Dad stood up and greeted him with a firm handshake. The man was looking down at me. Over at the table the younger man kept staring too.
‘Phillip,’ my dad said, ‘Can you come here, please?’
I stood up, grateful to be by my dad’s side.
‘This is don Silvio. A business associate of mine,’ he said, in Spanish. The man half-smiled and nodded a greeting. ‘He would like you to meet someone. A friend of his.’ Somehow, I knew exactly which man this friend was going to be. I started to feel strange and looked up at Dad for reassurance. ‘It’s perfectly fine,’ Dad said, smiling as he placed a hand on my shoulder. That made me feel better.
‘This way,’ the man said, taking my hand and showing me across to the table I’d been staring at. As we crossed the hall, people started to move out of the way to let us through. Someone sitting right next to the man I’d been looking at earlier hastily jumped to his feet and offered me his seat. The man pushed his chair back to create a bit of room. Silvio said something and stepped back. I looked across at Dad, who was watching only a few feet away. He smiled and nodded. Barandiga was now standing by his side. I edged closer and got a whiff of cigarette smoke mixed with pungent musky cologne. Something stopped me from sitting down.
The man sat back and considered me. He had a thin moustache and, when he smiled, he revealed a row of yellow teeth.
‘Don Roberto.’ His tone was deep, gruff and semi-formal.
I must have looked confused. Silvio leaned forward and whispered something.
‘Ah, don Felipe!’ the man said. ‘Siéntese, por favor.’ I did as he asked and sat down, but perched at the very edge of the chair. The man leaned in and said muttered something so quietly I couldn’t quite catch with all the noise around from the surrounding tables. I was also keeping an eye on the men next to him. They were more excitable and were mucking about and making a big deal about drinking lots of liquor. I caught a glint of steel at the waistband of the man next to me and I suspected the others were all carrying something too. At the mention of the word ‘padre’ – ‘father’ – though, I again tuned into what the man was saying and looked across at Dad. The man laughed and followed my gaze. He asked me what I liked doing, if I liked football.
The man spoke so quietly I wasn’t sure if he was trying to make sure the men beside him couldn’t hear. I just shrugged. It was a strange feeling. The other men made me nervous but I felt like this man wanted me to like him. I didn’t feel threatened by him. We only sat like this for a few moments and, throughout that time, I stayed silent, only smiling when I thought I could make out something he said. I just knew that in situations like this, when I was mingling with adult associates of my dad, I had to be on my best behaviour. After a few minutes more I saw Dad look to Silvio and, as if in response, he leaned in and whispered something to the man. The man sat back in his chair once again.
‘Adiós, mi hijo,’ he said – ‘Goodbye, my son’ – now at a volume I could understand. ‘I will see you again. And always remember little man – you are an Escobar.’
Dad approached and gestured to me to join him back at our table. I did so.
‘I have to hand it to you,’ the man said to Dad in Spanish, ‘The choice of venue and the location? Inspired. In the open, in front of so many people here to celebrate. The perfect cover.’
Dad smiled but he put a firm hand on my shoulder. ‘It was so everyone could be here. We don’t want anyone to feel left out.
‘I have to hand it to you, gringo. You have been true to your word,’ the man said.
Dad pulled me closer into him.
‘And I will be true to mine,’ the man added, laughing.
I saw Dad offer a thin smile and he led me back to our table. ‘Who was that man?’ I said.
‘Just someone we’re going to be doing business with.’ He smiled and said I could sit down again. The rest of the party passed by in a blur. There was music and dancing and, when midnight came, loud cheers and banging from outside. The festivities didn’t excite me as much as the fireworks I had seen in our home city, however. When it was time for us to leave I was so tired I struggled to stay awake. I caught one last glimpse of the man who’d taken such an interest in me. He was standing looking at me. There was something weirdly familiar, yet also strangely alien about him.