The night will be long, p.33
The Night Will Be Long, page 33
E. I also include here the story of Yismeny Laura, who emigrated to Cali from Corozal, Sucre: “Oh, yeah, that guy took me into the bathroom and flattened me over the sink. I was wearing a miniskirt, which is your best bet at those parties, so the man stuck his hand in, pulled my thong to one side, and started really plowing me, massive cock he had, and I was watching him in the mirror, like in the rearview: he popped in a little blue pill and chewed it like a mint or a Coffee Delight, then sprinkled a line of coke across my ass, and I think the stuff ended up getting me too, with all the writhing and rubbing, because after the pastor finished, I was shrieking and hopping around until six in the morning with the other guys—not the security guys, I know them, but real fancy dudes, sophisticated and totally loaded—they looked like business partners.” I asked for some details about those “partners,” and Yismeny said, “They’re almost always staff from other churches, pastors or people who work for them, in marketing or accounting; there are also government officials or people from the mayor’s office or even the police, who help them resolve problems, because the churches bring in a lot of money and they’re closely watched. The pastor knows those people like a bit of debauchery. And you know what I found out?” the informant asked, her tone changing, becoming almost fearful. “But you have to swear you won’t tell anyone about this, because if the pastor finds out he’ll send them after me, OK? You won’t say anything? The other night we were with these bigshot guys, and I walked in the wrong door looking for the bathroom, and instead of the bathroom there was a dark room with a guy in front of these screens that showed the living room and bedrooms, and the man told me, ‘Scram unless you’re looking for trouble, cunt, bathroom’s through the other door,’ and when I stumbled out, pretending like I was wasted, the guy locked it behind me, but I’d caught a glimpse of what they were doing in there, you know? The pastor films the VIPs while they’re screwing the girls, how about that?” This account of presumable blackmail, however, could not be pinned down further, as the informant did not recall the professions, much less the names, of the people in attendance that night. As a result, there is suspicion of a second set of crimes.
F. The other stories are very similar and can be reduced to three activities: drinking, doing drugs, and having sex with people whose close association or collaboration could serve the church’s interests. It is strange that on the one hand they help women get off drugs through the word of Christ, and on the other they invite them (though not all of them, only a select few) to those kinds of parties. The third testimony is of additional interest, as it describes Pastor Fritz’s relationship with one of his so-called priestesses, the Brazilian Egiswanda Sanders, whom everybody describes as the pastor’s life partner, wife, or something along those lines. The woman who provided this testimony is a thirty-four-year-old Afro-Colombian known as Piriqueta, a former prostitute who’s never had a drug problem: “The night I was there, the most bizarre part was something really weird and twisted—look, picture like four of us girls there, ready for whatever. He’s there with his bodyguard, and then, ding-dong, the doorbell rings; I thought he was going to shush us in case it was somebody important, but no, he opened the door without checking who it was. I flushed when I saw Wanda coming in, and since we’d already downed two boxes of sugar-cane liquor, plus I’d sneaked three fat lines of blow, I was high as a kite, you know. I thought Wanda was going to blow a gasket and we’d have to take off running down the stairs, but no. I was surprised to see her sit down with the rest of us, not the least bit upset, pour herself a shot of cane liquor, and set up a couple of lines for herself, like she was alone with her husband after a day at work.”
At this point Jutsiñamuy grabbed his phone and called Laiseca.
“What’s up, boss?” the agent said.
“I want to ask your advice. There are some new suspicions, serious ones, based on Wendy’s reports, so I’m going to request a tail on Pastor Fritz and have people keep an eye on New Jerusalem.”
“So what’s the advice you’re looking for?” Laiseca asked.
“I want to know what you think of that, dumbass. Why else would I be telling you?”
“I think it’s totally the right call, boss,” Laiseca said hastily. “The pastor seems like real piece of work.”
“Thanks, officer,” the prosecutor said, “but there’s something else: Wendy’s report says the guy throws these incredible parties where he invites the authorities—people from town hall, the regional government, and even the police, so we need to tread carefully.”
There was silence on the line.
“There’s no problem as far as investigating goes, boss—we can request that from Bogotá,” Laiseca said. “What we can do, at least for now, is put me and Cancino on his tail this weekend. That way we keep it quiet till we have more information.”
“All right,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Do it. And I want reports every hour.”
“Overnight too?” Cancino asked.
“Until two A.M., and then starting up again at six.”
“Understood, boss. Over and out.”
That Saturday, Jutsiñamuy spent some time getting on top of the postal mail and other things that had arrived at his office. He had two large piles and treated it all the same, even the junk mail. His theory: everything a person sees generates hunches, questions, hypotheses. Wielding a letter opener shaped like a Toledo sword, he opened and sorted, but he found nothing of interest. The only upside was making it to lunchtime with the illusion of doing something useful. A little while later he saw that a cycling race was on TV in the waiting room. A huddle of agents was yelling at the front riders. Was Nairo Quintana in there? Why wasn’t he making a move?
Before going down to lunch, he called Wendy.
“Afternoon, boss. What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Sorry for calling, Wendy. I don’t usually do this when we’ve got an undercover operation. Are you OK to talk?”
“Of course, boss, otherwise I wouldn’t have answered, or I’d have said something so you understood.”
“Look, Wendicita, first of all, I want to congratulate you on your reports. As I said, they’re excellent. Second, thanks to your information we’ve decided to place the pastor and his church under surveillance and investigation. Crimes were committed in Cali, and we want to see if there’s any relationship between all of this, which just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and anything we’ve already got.”
“I’ll keep an even closer eye on what goes on in there, boss,” she said.
“One more thing,” the prosecutor said. “For now I’ve only got two of my agents on this. In your report you say that the authorities attend the pastor’s parties, right? So I’d rather not ask the Cali police for anything at the moment, not until I’ve identified his friend at the top, the one who’s blocking the investigations. How have things been for you?”
“Good, boss. The women trust me, and since I’m there every day, nobody’s suspicious.”
“Fantastic. Take care of yourself and we’ll be in touch.”
“Bye, boss, thanks for the call.”
He left his office, went down to the street, and walked to the Corferias convention center. None of his usual lunch spots struck his fancy, so he hailed a taxi and went to the Gran Estación mall instead. He enjoyed being surrounded by families, couples, packs of teenagers, and single-minded youngsters looking to hook up. He wandered into several shops selling things he didn’t need and studied the displays carefully. He bought a box of Chiclets to freshen his breath. A young woman in a bodysuit and skates invited him to buy a raffle ticket to win a Chevrolet, so he patiently filled out a little form with all of his information. He tried several eyeglasses frames at Lafam Optical. He recalled his old fantasy of going to the gym when he walked past the Adidas sales, but when he saw that a discounted T-shirt cost 250,000 pesos, he kept going. He looked at pens, entered two computer shops and an appliance store. How much is that washing machine? He examined it seriously and requested all the specifications. Then he decided to go into the grocery store and do a lap of the aisles. He liked looking at how much things cost. Onions, broccoli, condensed milk . . . Chocoramo cakes and Poker beer were on sale.
Finally he decided to have a hamburger. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a McDonald’s, so he went to Corral Gourmet and requested an Argentine sandwich with chimichurri. That’s where he was when the phone rang.
It was Wendy.
“Hey, boss, real quick, I wanted to tell you Pastor Fritz just suggested I go to one of his parties tonight. According to his assistant, they had some spots to fill and called me, since some of the girls are out of town this weekend.”
“Oh, hell,” the prosecutor said. “That’s your call to make, honey. Given his record, I don’t want to expose you to anything ugly.”
“I’m an agent in the prosecutor’s office, boss. Don’t forget that. I may be a woman, but I’m an officer too. One of the guys we’re trying to identify might come tonight. I’m letting you know I’ll be there; make sure the guys tailing Fritz are aware. We’re supposed to meet at the church at eight tonight, and they’ll transport us from there.”
“Where is the party going to be?”
“It’s not in Menga as usual, it’s at his private apartment,” Wendy said. “That’s why I think somebody important is going to be there. I don’t know where it is, but if our guys have been following him, they’re probably already familiar.”
“Right, right,” Jutsiñamuy said. “OK, get ready. I’ll tell them to look sharp in case something happens.”
“I’m fully trained, boss, don’t panic. It’s not like the pastor’s a dangerous murderer, is he?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Wendy. I hope not.”
He hung up and immediately dialed Laiseca.
“Hello? Everything’s quiet here, boss. The man is shut up in his office.”
“And where are you?” the prosecutor asked.
“I’m watching him from a service station a little ways up the street. There’s a café area on the second floor with a clear view.”
The prosecutor told him about the party that night. He said he was worried and told them to keep a sharp eye out.
“I hadn’t heard about this, boss,” Laiseca said. “He hasn’t mentioned it on the phone, or I would have been told about it. But don’t worry. Cancino is watching from another spot, so we’ve got it all under control. It’s great about the party, that way we can get close to him.”
Jutsiñamuy kept walking around the mall, faster now to stimulate his digestion. He needed to take at least a thousand steps. It was the rule for a healthy life. Mall walking for exercise was popular in the United States, where they’d even mark routes on the floor tile with information about distance and water fountains. It wasn’t like that in Colombia, but he tried to keep up a fast pace, which was unusual here.
He was anxious—what time was it? Past four in the afternoon. During his third loop around the mall, feeling impatient, he realized he needed to do something to distract himself. He decided to go to the movies; that would kill some time. He bought a ticket for a Norwegian film, thinking, How strange, a Norwegian film here? At the concession stand he bought a medium popcorn and a Coca-Cola Light, more out of habit, since he’d just had lunch. When he walked into the theater, he was startled to discover he was the only one there. Of course—who else would go to a Norwegian film at the Gran Estación shopping center in Bogotá? Then something occurred to him: he would like to live in a country where lots of people went to see Norwegian films at the mall. The lights went out, and he lolled back in his chair. He ate a piece of popcorn and thought it had too much butter. He took a sip of his Coke, which struck him as cold and watery.
He was getting old.
First was a short by a Colombian director that was all about fishermen on the Pacific coast and how their shrimp boats pulled the plump crustaceans out of the sea. Then the film started.
A young piano teacher was giving private lessons to two little girls in a town. The girls’ father was dead. The mother was a middle-aged woman who, while the young man was teaching her daughters, would go out to a roadside bar to pick up men. Jutsiñamuy figured it must be a thriller; maybe the woman was seducing them and then murdering them. But no, she just chatted with them while she drank gin and then returned home, all amid an unsettling darkness. But there was something else: a persistent silence. A silence that the prosecutor deemed “very Norwegian.” The movie had no music, or very little, which sometimes made it feel long and tedious.
One afternoon the young man has to cancel the music lesson since his girlfriend has left him for another man (his best friend), and he decides to go to a bar for a few beers to try to forget her. Jutsiñamuy figured he’d go to his piano students’ mother’s bar, and they’d see each other and something beautiful would blossom between them despite the age difference, but no. The bar turned out to be even dimmer and more sordid. There was nobody around, just an old man with a long beard and a red nose at the end of the bar. He drank three beers waiting for something to happen. Since the young man hadn’t been to the bar before, he sat down in the far corner, near the TV. That’s where he was when he saw his own father come in, holding another man’s hand. Then more people started arriving, all men, as if work had just let out, which in fact it had. He spotted his father and saw that he was talking and laughing, leaning in close to his drinking buddy. Everybody else was doing the same, and the young man swiftly realized that it was a gay bar. He considered leaving, but he was afraid his father would see him and things would get awkward. He had no idea what his father was doing at a gay bar. He started thinking back on his life. His parents had gotten divorced when he was a teenager, and their relationship had grown chilly after that. In fact, he hadn’t seen his father since Christmas, more than three months ago. Was this why his father had left his mother? Because he was gay? He timidly ordered another beer, to give himself strength, and when he looked over again after that moment of distraction, he discovered that his father was staring straight at him. He’d seen him. Finally a bit of music played in the movie as the father started walking toward his son. At that point, the prosecutor couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.
He was exhausted.
When he opened them again, a young man in a movie theater uniform was saying, “Sir, sir, you need to leave now.” The movie was over, and the theater lights were up. What had happened between father and son at the gay bar? He’d have to watch the film again to find out. He got up from his chair, aching and somewhat shamefaced. Christ, how long had he slept? He checked the time on his phone: seven thirty. He figured Wendy must be leaving for the church. He took a taxi back to his office, ready for any eventuality.
This was Wendy’s account of the events that Saturday night:
Statement by undercover agent KWK622:
I arrived at the entrance of New Jerusalem Church at five to eight. Because of the kind of party I was going to, I was wearing a short skirt and ripped fishnet stockings, something you don’t see much of in Cali because it’s so hot, but everybody knew I was from Bogotá. I opted for a goth look for self-protection at least at first. The other women started arriving, all in miniskirts and ridiculously high heels. Piriqueta, Yismena, Cindy Raquel, and two others I didn’t know, Lorena and Dorotea. I smoked a cigarette with them, waiting for eight o’clock, but our ride didn’t show up on time. Piriqueta pulled a carton of Del Valle aguardiente out of her purse and said, “Look, girls, let’s get some drinks in since these guys are late,” and everybody took a swig. It tasted like shit to me. Finally, at about eight thirty, a Nissan Discovery showed up, and we got in. The girls were pretty hammered and were singing and telling dirty jokes, so much so that when we got to the apartment, in a fancy building in Juanambú, the drivers asked us to be quiet and not cause a scene. The SUV drove straight into the garage, and the area has lots of trees, so I didn’t manage to see where we were. We went up in the elevator to the fourteenth floor, and when the doors slid open I saw the living room of the apartment and several men on the sofas.
“The Marías are here,” one of them said, and they got up to say hi. We filed in. Each of us said her name and shook hands with the four guests.
Pastor Fritz was dressed in black from head to toe. He looked like a member of the Indian government, not an evangelical minister. When I saw him, I felt embarrassed about my vulgar outfit. It seemed like this party was going to be different from the ones I’d heard about, which was a relief. Somebody important must be coming. The Brazilian woman, Egiswanda, greeted us in an adjoining living room after we’d all said hello. She told us we could put down our purses there and have something to drink. There was a bar and trays with typical local foods: pork-stuffed fried green plantain, fried ripe plantain, plantain cheese fritters, empanadas with guacamole, pork rinds, rice stew. It was after nine, so I served myself a large plate and a glass of lulo juice, which looked delicious. Doña Egiswanda was very kind and treated us as if we were the wives of the men who were in the living room with the pastor, so I started feeling curious. I couldn’t imagine how such a serious, formal dinner could turn into what the women had described. I quietly asked Cindy Raquel about it, and she said, “Just wait, they all start out like this.”
