said you were, right?’
‘ Guess I dabbled. Wouldn’t call it dealin’ though.’
Kieran started to roll another joint.
‘ We better open the window. Bit obvious, isn’t it, when the maid comes?’
‘ Oh yeah.’
‘ You’re used to buying this stuff, Kieran, right? The coke, I mean.’
‘ Yeah. Should be twenty or thirty a gram here, you know. Cheap.’
‘ Is much cheaper than that’, said Juan Andres. ‘You be surprised what five dollars can get you.’
‘ You’re shittin’ me?’
‘ No. Five American dollars, one gram eighty per cent pura cocaine .’
‘ Ohmigod.’
Juan Andres smiled and shook his head.
‘ You never get it out of Colombia. Lots of people try, extranjeros, turistas, gringos, they all think they clever, but Suares will not be happy. If you take it out, is less money for him, and if he catch you, his men get promotion.’
‘ This is that guy, right? The one you told us about?’
‘ Si , Kieran. The guy you don’t wanna meet. The guy I don’t wanna meet. You guys buy off the streets, he find you. My advice: don’t do this.’
I had to admire Juan Andres’s logic, which seemed to have an effect even on Kieran, even though I suspected he would ignore it. It had a similar effect on me, but then I already had an unbreakable Perspex jar full of white powder from the opthamology department of La Universidad del Cauca hidden inside a bottle of contact lens solution in my padded washbag, next to my razor and my condoms.
9
The funeral cortege moved slowly along the dusty road, the large stones catching the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage. Black suits, moth-eaten and ill-fitting, black bonnets, tired and limp, and black shoes, creased and uncomfortable. There were only six people in all, apart from the family, and one of those was Felicio Suares. He kept an even pace at the rear, watching the mourners in front of him, head bowed, hands clasped tightly behind his back. It was a very sad day, so unfortunate, so unnecessary. He had been so young, with so much ahead of him, a bright future, perhaps one day even Suares’s job. ‘ Brilliance swiftly quenched ’, Suares had intoned to the family earlier that morning, ‘ an utter waste of a good man and a fine policeman .’ The obituary that Suares placed with the local press together with a black and white head-shot ran as follows:
“ This young man, caught in his prime, was beloved to us all in the district of Manizales. Juan Andres was a strong man, a gentle man. A man of honour who cared for his family, his wife, his son, his mother, his sisters and his brothers. They, in turn, cared for him. He was a farmer by birth, like so many of us. A good rider, a good worker, a sound financial head on young shoulders. A scientist and a soldier. In the famine of ’79 he worked tirelessly to introduce a different soil composition into the land requiring less irrigation. He could dance well, strong of foot although slightly built and not a tall man, he could light up the floor with his dancing and he often graced the dance-halls of Manizales.
Juan Andres died on the fourteenth of this month, perishing in a traffic accident on a visit to the south of our country. He will be sorely missed by those that loved and cared for him. There will be a service in the Church of the Holy Virgin in three Sundays to commemorate his life. Donations to the Guild of Retired Farmworkers.”
Juan Andres's family would have been proud to have had the head of Colombia’s narcotics intelligence operations attend the funeral of their dear departed son, if, that is, they had known that that was his job title. He introduced himself simply as Juan Andres’s immediate superior, his mentor and, lastly, his friend.
The climb was harder now, the hill becoming steep, and the metal-rimmed carriage wheels rattled noisily as they bounced their cargo towards its final resting place. The cargo was encased in a plain wooden coffin, painted black. It had
‘ Guess I dabbled. Wouldn’t call it dealin’ though.’
Kieran started to roll another joint.
‘ We better open the window. Bit obvious, isn’t it, when the maid comes?’
‘ Oh yeah.’
‘ You’re used to buying this stuff, Kieran, right? The coke, I mean.’
‘ Yeah. Should be twenty or thirty a gram here, you know. Cheap.’
‘ Is much cheaper than that’, said Juan Andres. ‘You be surprised what five dollars can get you.’
‘ You’re shittin’ me?’
‘ No. Five American dollars, one gram eighty per cent pura cocaine .’
‘ Ohmigod.’
Juan Andres smiled and shook his head.
‘ You never get it out of Colombia. Lots of people try, extranjeros, turistas, gringos, they all think they clever, but Suares will not be happy. If you take it out, is less money for him, and if he catch you, his men get promotion.’
‘ This is that guy, right? The one you told us about?’
‘ Si , Kieran. The guy you don’t wanna meet. The guy I don’t wanna meet. You guys buy off the streets, he find you. My advice: don’t do this.’
I had to admire Juan Andres’s logic, which seemed to have an effect even on Kieran, even though I suspected he would ignore it. It had a similar effect on me, but then I already had an unbreakable Perspex jar full of white powder from the opthamology department of La Universidad del Cauca hidden inside a bottle of contact lens solution in my padded washbag, next to my razor and my condoms.
9
The funeral cortege moved slowly along the dusty road, the large stones catching the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage. Black suits, moth-eaten and ill-fitting, black bonnets, tired and limp, and black shoes, creased and uncomfortable. There were only six people in all, apart from the family, and one of those was Felicio Suares. He kept an even pace at the rear, watching the mourners in front of him, head bowed, hands clasped tightly behind his back. It was a very sad day, so unfortunate, so unnecessary. He had been so young, with so much ahead of him, a bright future, perhaps one day even Suares’s job. ‘ Brilliance swiftly quenched ’, Suares had intoned to the family earlier that morning, ‘ an utter waste of a good man and a fine policeman .’ The obituary that Suares placed with the local press together with a black and white head-shot ran as follows:
“ This young man, caught in his prime, was beloved to us all in the district of Manizales. Juan Andres was a strong man, a gentle man. A man of honour who cared for his family, his wife, his son, his mother, his sisters and his brothers. They, in turn, cared for him. He was a farmer by birth, like so many of us. A good rider, a good worker, a sound financial head on young shoulders. A scientist and a soldier. In the famine of ’79 he worked tirelessly to introduce a different soil composition into the land requiring less irrigation. He could dance well, strong of foot although slightly built and not a tall man, he could light up the floor with his dancing and he often graced the dance-halls of Manizales.
Juan Andres died on the fourteenth of this month, perishing in a traffic accident on a visit to the south of our country. He will be sorely missed by those that loved and cared for him. There will be a service in the Church of the Holy Virgin in three Sundays to commemorate his life. Donations to the Guild of Retired Farmworkers.”
Juan Andres's family would have been proud to have had the head of Colombia’s narcotics intelligence operations attend the funeral of their dear departed son, if, that is, they had known that that was his job title. He introduced himself simply as Juan Andres’s immediate superior, his mentor and, lastly, his friend.
The climb was harder now, the hill becoming steep, and the metal-rimmed carriage wheels rattled noisily as they bounced their cargo towards its final resting place. The cargo was encased in a plain wooden coffin, painted black. It had
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