The night will be long, p.13
The Night Will Be Long, page 13
Between two giant gas stations, a red warehouse with a corrugated metal roof announced the church: New Jerusalem.
Julieta and Johana got out of the taxi and found that even at that time of day, eleven thirty in the morning, there was an impressive crowd lined up. Ordinary people from the lower and middle classes. With a few exceptions, the church staff came from the populations hardest hit by economic crisis, unemployment, and violence: single mothers, internal refugees, parents of drug addicts, recovering alcoholics, domestic workers, battered women, and also regular people, of course, people who lead repetitive, arid lives, but who are there, smiling and eager, full of aspirations, seeing the future not as a protracted sentence of forced labor, even if in practice that’s precisely what it is, but as a blank page on which, with a bit of luck, great things could still be achieved. The old dream of being seen by someone up on high, and receiving their mercy; of having a hand appear and pluck us from the mud. Being discovered, being saved. The obstinate human hope that insists on believing that the best is yet to come, and allows us to bear our heavy burdens.
They saw people of all ages and races. Women in flip-flops with stretchy shorts, miniskirts, blue jeans; young people in athletic clothing, Colombian soccer team jerseys with ‘James,’ the nation’s idol, emblazoned across the back; older men aided by a nephew; elderly women; children dodging in and out through the line; workers, laborers, policemen, security guards. And countless impoverished Venezuelan immigrants, the ones that have been selling whatever they can at the stoplights of Colombian cities ever since their country fell into ruin. An expectant crowd chattering endlessly or talking on cell phones that, even if they weren’t high-end models, still connected them to other people. Johana saw a familiar reflection and recognized herself in them. Whereas Julieta, bourgeois and from Bogotá, found herself in an environment that clashed with her own. Just the idea of wearing those flip-flops was inconceivable to her, much less a sweatsuit or tank top. But she was adaptable.
The worst aspect of life in the provinces and among the lower classes was their obsession with listening to music constantly. It drove her nuts! A characteristic of those who live below two thousand meters above sea level: an indelible conviction that silence is sad and dull; for most of the population, silence produces discomfort, unease, or annoyance, and so must be suppressed at all cost. A metaphysical terror of silence! One young man was listening on his telephone, not with earbuds but through tiny speakers that distorted the music. She was forced to endure this demented invasion, to allow herself to be irritated by it. Even with a faint hangover still lingering in her system.
At any rate, it was a tricky situation. Julieta hated evangelical churches, but she felt compassion for their believers, whom she viewed as hostages. Most of them had little education and, thanks to circumstances or ignorance, were easy prey for the nonsense, slogans, and quackery that these calculating, smooth-talking gurus put in their heads. She knew that tithing was obligatory and strictly monitored; followers had to present paystubs to calculate their contributions. Ten percent that was supposed to be for the Lord, but that instead remained in the pastor’s pocket, funding his luxuries and comforts.
And all of it untaxed.
She wasn’t a fan of normal religion either, the kind with priests and missals, but at least it didn’t extort its flock.
The line advanced slowly. Security guards were searching each person. The women had to open their purses, backpacks, and bags as well as their water bottles and lunchboxes. Even the children were scanned with the metal detector.
Julieta and Johana were behind a family carrying a couple of babies and pushing a stroller. The grandmother was talking to the mother. The father, in a sweatshirt and red América de Cali jersey, was on the phone, talking loudly to somebody who was supposed to have come and hadn’t shown. All were in flip-flops. It was hot, and Julieta was starting to relive the drinks from the night before. Up to this point she’d been submerged in a soothing wash of Alka-Seltzer, aspirin, and ibuprofen. With the heat, the vapors were rising once more to her brain.
Then she saw him.
On the other side of the chain-link fence, at the top of an exterior staircase that led into the warehouse.
“Franklin!”
She raced toward the entrance, jumping the line, but when she got there three guards blocked her path.
“Where are you going, ma’am?” One of the men, an Afro-Colombian who seemed to be higher ranking than the others, removed his mirrored Ray-Bans and looked at her sternly. A white cable snaked out of his ear.
“Do you have a problem standing in line or something? Everybody has to wait their turn or they don’t get in.”
“I just saw a missing boy! Let me through, it’s important!” She didn’t know how to explain.
“Wait your turn, wait your turn!” The crowd, once calm and happy, turned in a moment to angry shouts.
She tried to explain. She pulled out her press pass but then realized that showing it would be a dumb move if she wanted to go unnoticed.
When she turned around, she found the agitated mob glaring at her.
“Line jumper!”
“Respect the line, bitch!”
Realizing she was on the verge of ruining the plan, she quietly apologized and returned to her place in line.
“I saw Franklin, I swear. He was at the top of those steps.”
She pointed. He was gone.
“The kid? You’re sure?”
“Yes, damn it, I don’t know. I think so. And I think he saw me too.”
“What was he wearing?”
Julieta concentrated. The crowd kept moving toward the entrance like a school of fish pulled by the tide. The sun was getting hotter.
“Blue T-shirt, gray shorts. Sneakers. But I’m not sure, I was looking straight into his eyes.”
“All right, relax, boss. We’ll look for him inside. For now we just need to avoid calling attention to ourselves, all right?”
“Yeah,” Julieta said. “It was stupid for me to bolt off like that, running and yelling. I don’t know what the hell came over me.”
The secretary called in over the internal line: “Prosecutor Jutsiñamuy, Wendy’s here. Shall I send her in?”
“Send her in, yes.”
Wendy was holding several sheets of paper. Jutsiñamuy invited her to sit down.
“All right, Wendicita,” he said, “tell me what you’ve got.”
The young woman spread some papers out on the table. “The image is from an evangelical church in Denver, in the United States. It’s called the Church of Saints and Sinners. They work with the Lutheran idea of healing. As long as they have the power of God in the body, nothing can harm them. They see a relationship between ‘being healthy internally’ and ‘being healed,’ which of course has spiritual connotations. It’s related to a concept of good and evil. Being healed is being virtuous in goodness and purity, whereas the opposite is pain and sin, impurity. The idea of evil is closely associated with illness.”
“And the hand?” the prosecutor asked.
“A visual synthesis,” Wendy said. “The open hand means stop. It’s a vigorous, healthy hand that stops illness. The good that blocks evil’s path. Honestly, boss, it’s nothing complicated. There are communities that practice religious tattooing and demand it of their followers. You’re saved by getting Jesus tattooed on you. There’s a tradition of images in which good overcomes evil. This is the same thing, but with a really simple principle.”
“Where is this church?”
“Denver.”
“That’s pretty far north, right?”
“Yes, boss. Sort of northwest.”
“OK, and tell me, is there an evangelical church in Brazil that’s associated with it?”
Wendy touched her nose, a sort of nervous tic. “I don’t know, sir, I didn’t find that out.”
“Go look into it, Wendicita. And one more thing: would you be up for an undercover operation? It’s nothing too dangerous.”
The young woman looked at Jutsiñamuy, her eyes fierce. “Of course, I’d love to. And if it’s dangerous, all the better. Ever since I started working here I’ve imagined getting to be part of a Carlito’s Way operation.”
The black eyelids gave the young woman a toughness and surety that she might not actually possess. It occurred to Jutsiñamuy that she might use her getup to mask her fear. Her enormous fear. Like those animals whose only defense is to bamboozle their predators.
Fear, the great theme of human life on Earth.
Could be.
“It has to do with evangelical churches, Wendicita. Are you religious? Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m asking because you’d have to pretend to be devout.”
The young woman again looked at him, her expression hard. “You tell me what you need, and I’ll do it, don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“The thing is, if you’re a believer, you might not have the distance . . .”
“I can do it, sir. Tell me where I need to go.”
“Cali. The church is called New Jerusalem. I need a full report on the pastor who runs it: who he is, where he came from, what he does, how much money he has, what he likes to eat, if he has girlfriends, if he smokes, what diseases he has, what his favorite drink is. Everything. His past too. How he got where he is and where he’s headed. OK?”
Wendy jotted it down and stood up from the table.
“I’ll do some preliminary research and get back to you to tell you what I’ll need, sir.”
“Perfect, I love it.”
“Are you going to tell me what you’re after with this guy?”
Jutsiñamuy scratched his chin. He trusted her, but it was too soon.
“Not yet, Wendy, I don’t want to distract you. For now I’m after everything. I’ll tell you more later.”
The young woman didn’t even blink. “Understood, boss, and thanks.”
In the doorway, she spoke again: “By the way, sir, I don’t believe in anything, nothing at all, so don’t worry.”
“So how do you explain human life on Earth?”
Wendy looked him in the eye, her expression mocking. “The only thing that’s for sure is that we reproduce by fucking, boss, just like all the other animals. Pardon my French. Good afternoon.”
“Bye then.”
Jutsiñamuy called administration and gave them Wendy’s details and the task she would be completing to kickstart securing resources and filing the necessary paperwork. Two hours later, Wendy was back in his office.
“Here’s the mission, sir,” Wendy said. “The form for you to authorize my expenses.”
Jutsiñamuy signed four different documents, each one in triplicate. “When are you leaving?”
“At six this evening. I’m starting first thing tomorrow.”
“Report only to me, Wendy, please. I don’t want anybody else’s nose in this business. Got it?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
When the agent left, Jutsiñamuy lay back on the sofa, shoes off, and lifted his feet against the wall. Seven minutes for the blood to feed his brain. It was good for the mind and for balding pates.
He picked up the list of Chief Cotes Arosemena’s calls and continued analyzing them.
He was struck by the man’s persistence with Yuli; Cotes had spoken to her repeatedly throughout the day but to his wife only a couple of times. Married men’s secrets, he thought. He called the technical investigation unit and asked to speak to Guillermina Mora, who’d been his secretary for more than twenty years and was the person he trusted most in the department.
“Wow, boss, what miracle is this?” she said.
“How’s it going, Guillermina?”
“All good here. I’d love to stop by your office to say hi.”
“Otoniel and the boys—are they doing OK?”
“Yes, boss, mercifully. Ricardo graduated in business administration from Tadeo University, and Alfonsito is finishing up his pilot training in the air force. You know he’s always been obsessed with flying. And Otoniel retired with his pension from Catastro; he keeps himself busy getting on my nerves and watching Netflix. Everyone’s great.”
“Guillermina, I need something extremely confidential, and I don’t dare request it through official channels to avoid unwanted eyes and ears. Understood?”
“Of course, boss. Go on. What is it?”
“There’s this police lieutenant. Argemiro Cotes.”
“Bogotá?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Am I looking for anything in particular?”
“Relationships with Cauca politicians or Christian churches. And any priors related to corruption.”
“All right, boss. I’ll get on it and call you later. Or even better: I’ll go by your office, and we can have coffee.”
“Perfect. Thanks so much.”
He raised his legs back up against the wall. He had a custom-made seven-minute hourglass, and he watched the grains of sand fall through the funnel. He’d done it so many times he almost recognized each one. When he stood up, he went to the window and stared out at the city. A front of clouds, unusually dark, was arriving from behind Monserrate. Soon the drizzle would turn into a furious downpour, with lightning and everything.
The telephone roused him from his thoughts.
It was Piedrahíta.
“I’m calling about the tattoos on those stiffs.”
“Oh, yes, what’s up?”
“One of the experts here says that, in fact, they could have been done after death. It’s not for sure, just a possibility. Here’s the deal. The skin obviously becomes less elastic in death, but it can be treated with chemicals to make it absorb the ink. But the molecular density of the ink is hard to measure because it gets compromised by the embalming fluid, you know? Nothing you can do about it. According to the expert, it’s getting more common. He says there are postmortem tattooists who call themselves ‘dermatological artists.’ The technique of tattooing on a cold, stiff surface is booming. People like the idea of the body being marked for the wake. The loved ones choose motifs or phrases that evoke the deceased’s life. There’s a real religious valence to it.”
“Wow, interesting,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Excellent work, Piedrahíta. Anything on the John Doe?”
“Not for now. Identifying him is taking longer than we thought. But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out in the end.”
“When do you hand the bodies over to the families?”
“We planned to transfer them to the Cali morgue this afternoon.”
Jutsiñamuy pulled on his mustache. “Wow, seems like everybody’s going to Cali today.”
“What’s that?”
“No, nothing, just thinking out loud. Thanks a lot. I’ll await an update on Mr. Doe.”
“As soon as I find anything I’ll let you know.”
By the time he hung up, the downpour looked like it was made of thick cords of rain. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon yet, and already it was as dark as six o’clock.
Jutsiñamuy went to his road map, studied it, and murmured, “Laiseca, Laiseca.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number.
“What’s up, boss? Laiseca here. Over.”
“How’s it going questioning the family members?”
“I’m actually with Nadio Becerra’s widow and son right now. They’re telling me about him. There’s a sister here too.”
Feeling too far removed from the action, Jutsiñamuy made a decision. “I’m on my way there. Keep them busy for a while. And tell Cancino to come pick me up at the airport. Is he there with you?”
“Right next to me, boss. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No, send him to wait for me.”
“Aye aye, boss.”
ORPHANS
When she walked in and saw the warehouse’s interior, Julieta was reminded of Bogotá’s indoor coliseum, beside the soccer stadium, where she’d once attended a Joaquín Sabina concert. Long benches made of plexiglass screwed to metal bases, fifty rows in a hexagonal shape. Concrete floor. The vaulted ceiling was at least fifteen meters tall, and industrial fans were deployed to combat the heat. There were also a dozen air conditioning units in the corners.
It was jam-packed.
Kids were running up and down the stairs through the crowd. At the front was a minimalistic stage, with just a lectern and microphone stands. Vivaldi music. The Four Seasons. Spring. They found seats in the back, and as soon as they were settled, Julieta went off to look for the kid. She was absolutely certain of it: she’d seen him. For a second their eyes had met—and the more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her there’d been a strange glitter in his eyes.
It was him, no question.
She made her way through the crowd toward the dais, but it wasn’t easy. She was constantly being stopped by security guards and asked where she was going. The surging tides of humans prevented them from maintaining strict control, and they seemed nervous. As she fought her way through, Julieta decided she needed to revise her theory: if the kid was with Pastor Fritz, that changed everything. It was even possible that Fritz wasn’t the man in black from the attack, since the kid would have recognized him. The fact that he’d run away to the pastor added a new twist to the story, if he had actually run away voluntarily and hadn’t ended up there some other way. Some kind of coercion. But she couldn’t deny it. The kid she’d seen a moment ago on the steps hadn’t seemed to be looking for help. He wasn’t being held against his will.
According to her mental map, the steps where Franklin had been should connect up to the rear part of the dais. Maybe he was in a special room right now, or in the pastor’s dressing rooms. It wouldn’t be easy to gain access, so she made her way back to where Johana was sitting, other people’s sweat and odors swirling around her body.
