Santiago Gamboa - Necropolis

“Father cubillos I know you dont aprove the way I earn my living but I am very grateful to you, and that’s why I want to give you this. you brought me up and the little education I have you gave me and when I was young I got in trouble and you helped me to get out of prison. thank you father cubillos. I prefer not to go and see you because maybe you will pull me by the hair and we will fall out and thats why I am sending you this with my little sister ester. I am leaving you fifty bills of a hundred dollars and a key with a number. that number is the number of a safety depozit box in the banco central of panama, in panama city, where you will find everything you need any time you have a problem or want to help somebody. its the way I want to give back to you all I got from you. thank you, father cubillos, you were the father I never had. Edwin.”

Ramón read the letter several times, then counted the money. There was five thousand dollars. Who was this Edwin? another para? a local drug dealer? It must have been something like that, although Father Cubillos had not gotten around to telling him. Almost certainly a para, well, with that five thousand dollars they were starting to pay him back for what they had taken from him. The next day he went to Bogotá and presented himself at the offices on Calle Cien, showed his ID card and asked for a passport. As he stood in line, he kept looking around. By the afternoon, he had his passport and he went to buy his ticket to Panama. He really wanted to call Soraya but he restrained himself, and what he did instead was say to a taxi driver, take me where the girls are, where are the girls here? Jacinto had been to Bogotá once and had told him that the brothels there were the best, that you could find women of all races, really amazing, gorgeous women, oh boy. The flight was not until the next day, so he wanted to go out for a few drinks anyway. The taxi driver looked at him in the mirror and said, how much do you want to pay? I want one that’s good, but not too expensive either. Right, boss, I know where. He took him to a place on Primero de Mayo called Luceros, he paid four hundred thousand pesos for a 22-year-old brunette and took her to the Paracaídas motel, near the airport. Everything was perfect. He could eat there, have a few glasses of aguardiente and enjoy the girl, who was really good. Jacinto was right, the girls in Bogotá were the best, even though this one was from Cali. That son of a bitch Jacinto, could it have been him? Better not to think about it.

The next day he gave the girl a hundred dollars as a tip and at eleven in the morning he set off for the airport. He had a feeling he was being watched, that somebody was walking behind him, but it was pure paranoia. Who could have followed his trail if he hadn’t dared to speak to anybody? Then something occurred to him that got him really worried: if his mother had reported his disappearance, then there was a strong possibility that the agents of the Security Service would grab him when he tried to leave the country. He walked anxiously to immigration and got in line. When it was his turn, he went to the window and, with his heart skipping a beat, handed his passport to the official. Of course he was from the Plains, which meant he was good at keeping a cool head, so he looked the official in the eyes and said, I’m going on vacation, one week, no more. The man put his name in the computer and a shiver went through Ramón. He had heard that the Security Service people were in league with the paras. But once again Father Cubillos protected him, because the official handed him back his passport and said, have a nice trip, next. He got on the plane and as it taxied along the runway it struck him once again that the kidnapping and all that violence were taking him toward something new, and he remembered the words of the priest when he had said, a person cannot understand the actions of God, because when God does what He does, He is taking into account the totality of a life. It was the first time he had left Colombia and he felt a mixture of euphoria and fear. Would Panama be safe?

In Panama City he took a taxi and as he only had a small case he went straight to the Banco Central. He looked at the avenue, the buildings, the cars, and the people. Just like Colombia, he thought, nothing special. The key had the number B-367. He went to the window marked Customer Service and when it was his turn he said, thank you, I need to see this box. One moment, somebody will go with you. A tall, sophisticated woman said to him, follow me, this way. They walked up and down stairs, past a reinforced door and then another and then an elevator to the second basement. B-367? this is it. She opened the cubicle for him and then left him alone and he took out an attaché case something like an airline pilot’s. He was stunned: brand new bundles of dollars. How much was there? A note on the bills, dated five years earlier, said: “Dear Father, by order of my client Señor Edwin I hereby deposit the sum of three million dollars. If you wish to open an account go to the Balboa Investment Bank and ask to speak with Señor Emilio Granada, who is in charge of offshore accounts. He will not ask you any awkward questions if you say you are a friend of Edwin’s.”

He took the case and went out on the street. To his surprise, the Balboa Bank was just opposite, on a corner. This must be the financial district, he thought. Señor Emilio Granada opened a numbered account for him and issued him with a card for taking out cash and making payments, and said, were you very close to Don Edwin? Ramón did not know what to reply, and said, I’m close to a priest he was fond of. If that’s the case, said the banker, let me give you my condolences, maybe you did not know that Don Edwin passed away last year, four bullets in the back. He crossed some men, and you know how dangerous that can be.

He still had about three thousand dollars left from what he had brought with him, so he did not make a withdrawal, but went to look for a hotel. He chose a Holiday Inn facing the beach, and that same night he sat looking at the ocean and telling himself, what a contradictory life this is, a few days ago I was dead and now I’m a millionaire, I’m here by the sea, I can do what I like. . But I’m alone. Which of the two was it? or was it both of them? or neither? were they bugging my phone? That could have been it, those sons of bitches have their noses in everything.

This is where the story of Ramón Melo García really takes off, because with that money he stayed on in Panama, first one week and then another, until he felt safe. When, after three months, he finally decided to call his mother, it was his aunt who picked up the phone and gave him the bad news. She said, your mother died, or rather, she let herself die, being left alone like that, and people here saying the guerrillas had kidnapped you and that you’d died on the road. Who said that? I don’t know, Ramoncito, that was what people started saying. That Señor Dagoberto came around a few times to talk to your mother. He told her he was going to do what he could to get you back but that she had to help him, keep him informed. Oh, Aunt, don’t tell anyone about this conversation, do you swear? Yes, sweetie, I swear, but where are you? A long way away, Aunt, a very long way away, but don’t worry, I’ll be back.

He preferred not to ask after Soraya, let alone Jacinto. The less he stirred things up, the better. He would have time to find out what had happened. Something had hardened inside him. He felt sorry about his mother but that was all. No tears came out. That was one more thing Dagoberto owed him. They had not seen the last of him.

The director of the Balboa Bank helped him to obtain a residence permit, as he had decided to settle in Panama City and invest. He rented an apartment in Paitilla and looked for premises to set up an auto repair shop, which was his line of work. He found it in the same neighborhood and started setting it up. When he had everything ready, he sat down to wait and the first customer turned out to be a Colombian in a Pontiac. Ramón got down under the car and changed the brake pads and by the time the man had gone, his hands were shaking, the fear had come back, would they come all the way to Panama? did he have to go farther? But he stayed and worked hard, and before the year was out, he already had two shops in the city. He was good at his job, and very reliable. None of his customers could have imagined that he had a fortune in the bank, but his life was here, surrounded by screws and camshafts and carburetors. He didn’t want to have a girlfriend who would ask too many questions, so every Friday he would go to a bar called the Púrpuras, where they had a show, and pick up whichever girl he liked the best, making sure she was not a Colombian.