“I envy him,” he said.
“Go to sleep, then.”
“I’d rather talk to you.”
“So let’s talk about something else,” Charlie suggested. Two more snores rang out, and they laughed again. “Where do you think we are?” she asked.
“In the middle of nowhere,” he replied.
18
Where did we get the idea that after Escobar’s death, we’d wake up in a city cradled by birdsong and morning rain, refreshed by the warm breeze on sunny afternoons? That wasn’t the kind of city we were built for—we weren’t made to live in paradise. Escobar’s own son, his blood still hot, had sworn vengeance, and even though he spoke in the haste of a tantrum, the fury in his words had whipped up hate. The men who’d slain the monster weren’t content with cutting off its head. They wanted to gobble up its corpse, right down to the entrails. The government, borne along by momentum like a lumbering tank, was looking to finish the job. Libardo started getting cabin fever, and Fernanda decided to go back to the casinos, even if it meant being escorted by a couple of the boys. It was the only place she felt relaxed.
In the enormous house, the bunker Libardo had built to protect us, my brother and I used to hang out every afternoon, staring at each other or watching TV to learn about all the things Libardo and Fernanda refused to tell us. We speculated about what would happen next and what we would do. I was set on fleeing, but Julio wanted to stay. His passion was the family’s farms; he hadn’t even considered going to college, wanted to start running them straight out of high school, overseeing the livestock and harvests.
“I’ll die if I have to go live somewhere else,” he used to tell me. “Move to another city and, even worse, speak another language.”
“You might get killed if you stay,” I said.
“I’d rather die of a bullet than of sadness,” he said.
Looking at each other, what we saw was two pipsqueaks talking about life and death, surrounded by bodyguards and maids. The fragile calm we enjoyed was sheltered by Libardo’s fortune. In a world where money determined everything, we believed that money would get us absolution too. But we hadn’t figured that the money was going to run out sooner rather than later.
Escobar’s family was urgently seeking asylum, though they were a hot potato that no country wished to take on. If even they were looking for a new life abroad, how could we not leave too? We weren’t bound to them by any sort of affection, though in a way their life resembled ours.
Libardo never told me, but I overheard him saying it to someone else: the shipments will get taken care of—there’s too much money and power involved for an empire to collapse overnight. He said with convincing frankness: our national hypocrisy will save us. But his optimism was belied by his irritable mood, the insults he hurled out left and right, the threats he issued whenever he talked on the phone, and especially the fear that showed on his face.
Things weren’t any better at school. For starters, nobody had expected us back. They’d assumed we’d gone into hiding, so there was a huge commotion when we showed up under increased protection. Our bodyguards had instructions not to budge from the school all day. We weren’t the only ones; I’m not sure how many other students like us there were.
That first day, Fernanda insisted on speaking to the headmaster. Her presence at the school always caused a stir. She knew it and encouraged it. She’d get herself dolled up like back when she was a beauty queen and wear tight blouses so her tits would bounce when she walked. At first it was nice knowing our mother was pretty, but as we got older, the tenor of our classmates’ comments changed. They lusted after Fernanda, or at least that’s what they wanted us to think. That day, she fixed herself up nicer than ever. She needed to show that nothing had changed and put space between all of us and the death of Libardo’s boss.
“You deserve special treatment,” she told us, though I didn’t understand why she wanted them to favor us. Was she looking to turn the tables and have us switch to being victims instead of victimizers? It was a nice concept, but she’d have to persuade an entire nation, the whole world, everybody who was pointing zealous fingers at us.
We arrived in two SUVs, and four of the boys, four of Libardo’s fighters, piled out and opened Fernanda’s door, offering her a supportive hand so she could descend elegantly in her high heels. I felt as if the entire school, students, teachers, and staff, were all turning to stare at us. Some of the youngest kids came up to her thinking she was who knows who. Fernanda tousled the hair of a few of them. She smiled at all of them. Julio and I kept our eyes glued to the floor as we climbed the stairs to the headmaster’s office. Fernanda’s heels rapped like stone on the steps.
“I’m here to see Mr. Estrada,” she announced herself.
They didn’t ask who was making the request. They already knew her. Libardo’s wife. Libardo’s kids.
“If you don’t mind waiting, Doña Fernanda,” the assistant said. “The headmaster’s on the phone just now, but he’ll be with you momentarily.”
She settled on a sofa in the waiting room and signaled for us to sit beside her. I shook my head no; Julio didn’t even respond. I made one last attempt: “Let’s go, Ma.”
“No sir. I need to remind him of several things he has an obligation to understand.”
The obligation she was referring to was a number of commitments the school had made to us in exchange for favors received. A new chemistry lab. Twenty-five computers. New sound equipment for the auditorium. Ten TVs, one of which ended up in the headmaster’s office, to mention just a few of Libardo’s donations in the past year alone.
“You can go in now,” the assistant told Fernanda.
The headmaster couldn’t mask his discomfort. He was so exaggeratedly kind that it was obvious he was faking. Who knows what doubts and feelings were gnawing at him as he watched Fernanda sit down in front of his desk, the two of us by her side, coquettish and serene as if nothing were happening.
“I thought you were still off on a long trip,” Estrada said. “In one of those exotic countries Don Libardo’s so fond of.”
“Duty first, Enrique,” Fernanda said.
“That’s all well and good,” the headmaster said. “But with the country in such chaos . . . A lot of our families have gone to live abroad, and I thought you had too . . .”
He was probing, groping, brazenly weighing us up, smiling, slavering.
“Not at all, Enrique,” Fernanda declared. “Here we are, and here we’re staying. This is the boys’ last year, and it’s better for them to finish their studies in the same place. This school is like home to us now.”