soldados , we do what needs to be done, and we have both lost our fathers to the conflict of Colombia . He said, I will be your benefactor.
Hernando, meanwhile, had disappeared from the gallada . His reputation had increased as a consequence of killing the policeman, and we all assumed he was hiding. Then several weeks later, someone reported seeing him at one of the gringo-led programs in the city that are known to combat violence and drugs and poverty by staging plays in public parks.
I tracked him down and told him about my new job and said that I could ask my agent to give him an office job as well, or at the least, employ him as a soldado . What is this shit? I said, grinning. I gestured at his windowless, white-plastered room, crammed with stacks of cardboard and paper. The room smelled strongly of bleach. Hernando sat behind a scratched steel desk and behind him was a poster depicting a gun with a melted barrel, and underneath, the words: THIS MAKES YOU A MAN?
Forget all this, I said. You can start again. My agent will get you a stainless police record.
Hernando looked at me for a long time. Then he told me he was happy to see me. He had cropped his hair and it changed his face, making his features seem somehow tired, muted. Finally he said, So now you have an office job. What is it like?
I told him about everything: the salary, the bonuses, the weapons. The respect from the barrio. He listened carefully. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. I sat down, watching him, wondering what he did in this room every day. He looked older.
But what is it like? he said at last.
I realized he was asking about the killing. At that point, I had not yet received my first assignment and the question irritated me. It is easy, I said.
Who is your agent?
I told him.
He paused again.
What?
You must listen to me, Ron. The man you know as El Padre is a dangerous man.
I laughed, thinking he was joking.
Listen to me.
Of course he is dangerous. He is a legend.
Yes, said Hernando, speaking slowly. And even so, in the game, he is a small player. Which makes him even more dangerous for you. He leaned suddenly forward, the steel desk wobbling under his weight. Listen, Ron, you must stop. You must quit your office job.
You are being funny, no?
I was embarrassed for him. What had the nero said who had found him? That Hernando, looking like a peasant, had instructed him to return to school or he would surely end up the victim of the never-ending culture of violence – at which the nero had applauded and told Hernando to return to his new faggot friends. I had hidden my uneasiness. No one in the gallada would have dared to talk to Hernando in that manner before.
This is what your gringo friends tell you? I asked.
I do not need a gringo to see with my eyes. He looked away from me. But they are right about some things. About El Padre, for instance, who is a dog of the drug lords. He is a man who kills the innocent to protect the rich.
They are not innocent, I said quickly. He is cleaning the streets of the very people you denounce. I caught myself at the last moment from saying "I." His words affected me. I calmed my breathing. You say this when you do not even know him.
He came to me too, Hernando said.
Neither of us spoke for a while. His clothes were faded and worn, his left shoe ripped at the toe. I became conscious of my Nike shoes, my Adidas Squadra jersey with its mesh panels.
It is dangerous for you to say this shit in public.
Hernando said softly, as though to himself, No one should have to do what you do. He stood up and walked around the desk.
They pay you? Where you work, this program?
Hernando smiled. His smile was heavy at the corners of his mouth. I am happy here, he said.
I can help you. I have made almost one million pesos already.
You are like a brother to me, he said simply, and I want to see you safe. He frowned, trying to follow a thought with words. We cannot help each other, Ron. Maybe
Hernando, meanwhile, had disappeared from the gallada . His reputation had increased as a consequence of killing the policeman, and we all assumed he was hiding. Then several weeks later, someone reported seeing him at one of the gringo-led programs in the city that are known to combat violence and drugs and poverty by staging plays in public parks.
I tracked him down and told him about my new job and said that I could ask my agent to give him an office job as well, or at the least, employ him as a soldado . What is this shit? I said, grinning. I gestured at his windowless, white-plastered room, crammed with stacks of cardboard and paper. The room smelled strongly of bleach. Hernando sat behind a scratched steel desk and behind him was a poster depicting a gun with a melted barrel, and underneath, the words: THIS MAKES YOU A MAN?
Forget all this, I said. You can start again. My agent will get you a stainless police record.
Hernando looked at me for a long time. Then he told me he was happy to see me. He had cropped his hair and it changed his face, making his features seem somehow tired, muted. Finally he said, So now you have an office job. What is it like?
I told him about everything: the salary, the bonuses, the weapons. The respect from the barrio. He listened carefully. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. I sat down, watching him, wondering what he did in this room every day. He looked older.
But what is it like? he said at last.
I realized he was asking about the killing. At that point, I had not yet received my first assignment and the question irritated me. It is easy, I said.
Who is your agent?
I told him.
He paused again.
What?
You must listen to me, Ron. The man you know as El Padre is a dangerous man.
I laughed, thinking he was joking.
Listen to me.
Of course he is dangerous. He is a legend.
Yes, said Hernando, speaking slowly. And even so, in the game, he is a small player. Which makes him even more dangerous for you. He leaned suddenly forward, the steel desk wobbling under his weight. Listen, Ron, you must stop. You must quit your office job.
You are being funny, no?
I was embarrassed for him. What had the nero said who had found him? That Hernando, looking like a peasant, had instructed him to return to school or he would surely end up the victim of the never-ending culture of violence – at which the nero had applauded and told Hernando to return to his new faggot friends. I had hidden my uneasiness. No one in the gallada would have dared to talk to Hernando in that manner before.
This is what your gringo friends tell you? I asked.
I do not need a gringo to see with my eyes. He looked away from me. But they are right about some things. About El Padre, for instance, who is a dog of the drug lords. He is a man who kills the innocent to protect the rich.
They are not innocent, I said quickly. He is cleaning the streets of the very people you denounce. I caught myself at the last moment from saying "I." His words affected me. I calmed my breathing. You say this when you do not even know him.
He came to me too, Hernando said.
Neither of us spoke for a while. His clothes were faded and worn, his left shoe ripped at the toe. I became conscious of my Nike shoes, my Adidas Squadra jersey with its mesh panels.
It is dangerous for you to say this shit in public.
Hernando said softly, as though to himself, No one should have to do what you do. He stood up and walked around the desk.
They pay you? Where you work, this program?
Hernando smiled. His smile was heavy at the corners of his mouth. I am happy here, he said.
I can help you. I have made almost one million pesos already.
You are like a brother to me, he said simply, and I want to see you safe. He frowned, trying to follow a thought with words. We cannot help each other, Ron. Maybe
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