So he agreed to work for Jefferson, though he held out the hope that somehow there might be something he could do to save himself. Perhaps Luisa would know.
The paint on the walls in the staircase outside the foundation was tinged with yellow, and clumped in spots. He touched one of those clumps—a bad, lazy job—and looked up to the placard above the door to the offices, a computer printout of the name of the foundation hung crookedly in a cheap frame. Everything looked even cheaper than it had when he’d first come. Luisa ran the office now, and Luisa had no pride in appearances. Unlike Jefferson, who, though he was just as happy sleeping under a tree with a rock for a pillow as in a palace, always took care to let the world see his magnificence.
Abel put his hand out to the doorknob, then drew back. Maybe she wasn’t even in. Maybe she was in Cúcuta, fighting with the administrators of the foundation. He hadn’t seen her around town. Hadn’t spoken to her in months. Perhaps this could be put off.
But then the door swung fully open and Luisa, in all her glory, stomped out to the landing. She was dressed in work pants and an old, ratty polo shirt that fit her awkwardly. She had the expression of a bull about to charge. And then she caught Abel in her sights, stopped, made eye contact, and gave a short nod.
“Ah,” she said. “You know about Jefferson.”
Abel, one foot on the landing, one foot a step down, nodded neither yes nor no, but merely swayed indecisively.
“Not now,” she said. “Not today. I’m busy. But Sunday? Meet at the bakery?”
His sins would have to wait until then.
• • •
Lisette didn’t want to raise Diego’s hopes, but nevertheless felt an increasing warmth as he took her around, showed off his house, a lovely traditional construction on the side of a mountain. There was something innocent in his artlessness, and it gave her a tender feeling toward him. To think that a grown man, with the kind of life experiences Diego had, could get reduced to an awkward, fumbling boy. It made her feel more innocent herself. Diego, she knew, was someone who still believed in the magic of intimacy. It was what she’d liked about him when they were together, until it’d become claustrophobic and boring.
So when the tour ended at the door to her room, she put a hand on the small of his back, smiling as he stiffened. She leaned in, closer than she had to, and said, “It’s really good to see you again.” Which was true. He smiled. She took a moment to enjoy both the awkwardness she provoked in him, and the pleasure. And then she stepped past him into her room, smiled, and shut the door.
There, inside, with a door between her and Diego, she took a breath. She walked to the low, roughly queen-size bed, and sat down on the hard mattress.
“Okay,” she said to the wall. “What now?”
Bogotá had been a disappointment. A two-hundred-dollar-a day fixer who introduced her to politicians, activists, prosecutors, human rights workers, and judges. And, of course, las víctimas. Víctimas of the FARC, or víctimas of the paramilitaries, or víctimas of the narcos, or víctimas of the armed forces. They’d all been activated in the political struggle over whether or not to ratify the coming peace treaty. If you want people to reject the peace, show them victims of the FARC. If you want people to accept it, remind them that there’s blood on the state’s hands, too. It was the same with Iraq—prior to the war, hawks wanted everyone to know the suffering of the Iraqi people. Not so much after the war started.
There is a naive belief among Americans, swaddled from war as they are, that merely to tell the stories of the oppressed and victimized is a political act. Tell the stories, and the appropriate political answer to the suffering will become apparent. Colombians, who’ve lived with war for decades, know better. And they especially know how empathy can be weaponized in the run-up to a vote. But that wasn’t what Lisette was there for.
It’ll come, it’ll come, she told herself as she turned in for bed. Diego, perhaps, could help.
The next morning he made her breakfast. Eggs, arepas, and cheese. And instant coffee with an incredibly sweet hazelnut creamer. He didn’t even ask how she liked it, he just gave it to her that way.
“This is Colombia,” she said, pointing at the cup. “And you’re drinking instant?”
“This is the way Colombians drink it.” Diego smiled mischievously. “The fancy stuff is for export.”
“I hear Blackwater set up a company here to recruit Colombian military to work as mercenaries for the Emirates.”
Diego’s smile disappeared.
“It’s Academi now.”
“I hear they’re going to send them to Yemen. Which, am I wrong in thinking, is the most fucked-up war we’re engaged in right now?”
“Jesus, Liz. Right to business?”
“Well—”
“Hey, how are you? Recruited any Colombians for the UAE recently?”
“I—”
“No, I’m not involved. But really, is that your story? Piddly mercenary shit?”
This was not how she wanted to start things. But before she could respond, he grabbed a Semana magazine and started reading. There’s an old reporter’s interviewing trick—most people can’t deal with silence, so if you just refuse to fill the silence with sound, if you just look at your source like you’re listening but let the empty moments
