“You’d have died,” I said. “You’d have died and then I’d have been sad for the rest of my life.”
And that was the birth of my child.
4
JUAN PABLO 2015–2016
The next morning I sit behind General Cabrales in the National Capitol as he briefs the representatives in the Second Commission on the coming change in force posture. “All assuming the nation votes yes,” he adds. Of course, it’s a foregone conclusion that they will. Every bit of polling says the yes vote is the only outcome. Peace is inevitable. It’s an odd thing for a military man to concede.
Afterward, Colonel Carlosama pulls me aside and asks if I know or have had any dealings with Representative Ana Maria de Salva.
“She wants to have lunch with you. You, specifically. By name.”
“I don’t know her, sir,” I say, though I remember seeing her basic information on the handout detailing the members of the Second Commission.
“Liberal Party, but keeps her distance from President Santos. Possibly not a friendly lunch. The general is curious what she wants, so make a note of what she bites down on.”
Strange. And troubling. Why me, and not the general, or at least Colonel Carlosama?
He hands me a piece of paper with an address. “La Hacienda. If it’s the place I think, it has terrible food. At one.”
“One? Sir, I’ll miss the—”
“Afternoon session. Yes, lucky you.” He looks down the corridors of the Capitol building, at the men and women hustling by, pretending they’re deciding the fate of the nation, when it is really decided by men like us. Or if not decided, caused by men like us.
“She’s from Norte de Santander,” he says. Immediately I think of my conversation with Mason about the Mil Jesúses and Operation Agamemnon, and I worry that I know what this meeting will be about.
“Careful,” he adds. “The women from that department . . . they’re tough.”
• • •
I have enough time before lunch to check in with Captain Maloof, the smart young officer who’d given us our briefing on the new members of the Second Commission and, typical of an eager new captain briefing a general, had clearly gone far deeper in his research than necessary.
“De Salva,” he says, smiling. “She’s interesting.” Which is not what I wanted to hear. And he rattles on about her “low funds” fortune and her “eccentric” voting record, how she runs Chiva buses stocked with liquor to bring people to the polls on election days, how she modernized her gambling operation after Law 643 made the whole thing legal, how she used to drive a bus. Each piece of information is more useless than the last.
“Okay. She’s unusual. Is she corrupt?” I say brusquely, annoyed I have to spell it out.
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “No, not at all, I don’t think.”
“Son of a bitch,” I say. If she were corrupt, I’d have a better sense of how to handle her.
• • •
The restaurant is a cartoon version of a finca, with white stucco walls and framed portraits of Colombian expressions like, “You’re going to teach your father to make kids?” “When you’re going I’m coming,” and “The devil knows more through his age than through being the devil.” I’m not sure whether the restaurant is targeted toward nostalgic Colombians or foolish tourists, but whatever the marketing strategy, neither group has shown up. I’m the only customer.
Exactly at one, Ana Maria de Salva walks in. She’s a strong-featured woman with straight black hair, eyes of a brown so dark the iris drowns the pupil, high cheekbones, and a haughty manner you wouldn’t expect from someone with her peasant background. I stand up to greet her, but she clucks at me in a way that makes me feel I’m being scolded by my mother.
“Good,” she says, looking around at the empty restaurant.
She sits and buries herself in the menu, a colorful array of pictures of typical fare—bandeja and church empanadas and lentil soup. I feel I should say something.
“Is anything good here?” I ask.
“This is the worst restaurant within a mile of the Capitol,” she says. “Nothing is good.”
When the waiter comes, de Salva orders sancocho and I order the steak. It’s hard to ruin a steak. “Just warm it,” I say. And then for some reason I repeat the instructions I once heard an American soldier give in a restaurant near Tres Esquinas. “I want it to moo.”
When the waiter leaves, de Salva looks at me disapprovingly. “I want it to moo? Is that supposed to impress me? I’d think a military man would prove his courage combating guerrilla, not bacteria.”
“I’ve fought my share of both.”
“Man discovered fire tens of thousands of years ago, and it has worked out well for him. Maybe you should take advantage of the technology.”
“You Bogotános and your modern ways,” I say.
“I am not, and will never be, a Bogotáno.”
There’s not much to say to that, and when our food arrives she stares at me intently, judgmentally, as I pick up knife and fork, cut into my steak, and the juices run.
“Disgusting,” she says, as I pop a piece of steak in my mouth and do my best to enjoy it.
She slurps her soup, makes a face, and slurps some more. And then she sits up straight.
“I heard you had a meeting with a lawyer from Cúcuta last week.”
I become very still. How does de Salva know about the meeting? It’s possible she’s connected to the Mil Jesúses, too. I can’t be the only person in this rotten city they’ve reached out to.
She slurps more soup.
“A loathsome man,” she says. “With a loathsome list of clients. And when I heard that a senior officer in the special forces was meeting with this man, I thought to myself, why?”
“I’ve had a variety of meetings while here in the Capitol,” I say. “Are you asking in relation to your duties as a member of the Second Commission?”
The lawyer from Cúcuta, loathsome or not, arranged for
