7. THE MAN WHO GOT AWAY
José Maturana slumped forward across the table, with tears in his eyes, and was immediately buried beneath an avalanche of applause. It was strange to see him with his long gray mane of hair, his unkempt beard and his tough guy tattoos, so moved by his own words; he stood up, took a few steps toward the proscenium and gave a simple bow that earned him more applause, in fact a standing ovation. I was impressed and, to say the least, inhibited; could my text hope to arouse a fraction of this enthusiasm? of course not. . mine was supposed to last no more than twenty minutes, the time that, according to the form, every speaker was allotted, but Maturana had spoken for nearly an hour, although I had not kept count. What was more, his talk had not been read but improvised, which was an amazing feat, something only a real professional could have achieved. I again looked for his biography in the form that the ICBM had given out at the door, but the information was the same, and extremely concise: nothing on his childhood and nothing on the years since the end of the Ministry of Mercy. There was not even any mention of something as simple as his country of residence, was he still living in Miami or somewhere else in the United States? The dossier mentioned that he had published other books under a variety of pseudonyms, and there was no photograph.
I left the lecture hall trying to digest what I had heard and saw that there were other activities going on in the side rooms. In one, the poet from Benin and president of the Circle of African Poets, Joseph Olalababa Jay, was speaking; at the end of the corridor, in an adjoining hall, the round table Concentric Circles of Modernity was in progress, chaired by Professor Aparajit Chattoppadhyay from Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi. But I kept going. What with the ravages of the previous night’s alcohol and Maturana’s words, my head was overloaded; better to look for a place to be alone, in silence, so I went down to one of the inner gardens of the hotel.
It was like stepping back in time.
The path that wound past the bushes was of sandstone, like many of the buildings in this part of the city. I sat down on a bench and watched a robin peck at a puddle of water, then a dragonfly. I remembered my days in the mountains, my long, long soliloquies with the stones, the dragonflies, and the robins. There was a certain language in things, a language that had spoken to me in those days. Now I tried to hear it again, but my ears were as hard as stone. Standing by one of the ornamental fountains was a short man with a gray beard. As I passed him, he turned and said, are you the writer? His accent sounded familiar so I asked, Kaplan? Yes, he said, I’m Kaplan, pleased to meet you, it’s nice to find a fellow countryman in such a remote place, come, let’s walk together for a while, I think there are orchids along that path.
The war that is destroying this place has deep roots, he said, so unlike our sad war. I told him that I had been outside the country for a long time and that I had been ill, but Kaplan replied, it isn’t necessary to keep up to date, it’s the same war that’s been going on for forty years, or is it fifty? Things never change: boundless ambition, rivers of blood, hatred, ignorance; I wanted to know if he had been a direct victim, and he said, come, let’s carry on as far as that fountain and I’ll tell you the story.
My family is from the city of Armenia, in the department of Quindío. We’re Jews. For a hundred years we’ve been in the clothing and wholesale fabric business, and we’ve done well, with branches in Medellín, Pereira, Cali, and Bogotá. Kaplan’s Tailors, maybe you’ve seen some of our advertisements. Three hundred employees and a seven-story building in Armenia. A hundred stores throughout the country. The work of four generations, because the first Kaplan arrived in Colombia in 1894, from Polish Galicia; he escaped to avoid military service and got on a ship he was told was going to America. South America, as it turned out. Seven years later, he went back to Poland to fetch his wife, and with her he opened his first tailor’s shop. Three generations have passed since then, we’re Colombians. The problem started in the middle of the year 2001. The paramilitaries of Quindío started sending us messages: we had to pay them a large sum of money every month in return for protection; we said no, no thanks, we’re peaceful people, we provide work and progress, we don’t have enemies. We told them we didn’t think it was right to give money to murderers. We’re Jews and we can’t deal with murderers. A family meeting was called, us three brothers and our brother-in-law, and we confirmed our decision; there will be consequences, we said, but we just have to keep firm; they asked for money again and again we said no. What they were asking us for we spent on bodyguards and bulletproof cars. A couple of months went by until they put a bomb in one of our stores in Pereira, an assistant was killed, and three loaders were seriously wounded. That night they called again and said, you see? you need protection, but we refused. The following month, they attacked my brother Azriel on the highway to Medellín, fortunately he was in a bulletproof car with three bodyguards. One of the paras died, and that was the start of the war. The family met again and we said, we need to be stronger, redouble our security, buy weapons, be prepared. Our brother-in-law went farther: I have contacts in Israel, they can help us, but I said: let’s wait.
It was distressing not knowing where the next blow would come from, like protecting yourself from a mosquito in the dark. We spoke to the police but they couldn’t do anything; they said they’d increase their patrols, tap our phones, have people followed. They didn’t do a thing and one day the attack came. A car bomb on the building in Armenia; it destroyed the first three floors and left nine people dead, innocent people who were just passing by. We met again and took the decision: part of the family would go to New York and Tel Aviv, and we brothers would stay in Armenia and fight. Reason was on our side, we thought, God would have to help us. I made inquiries and found out the names of some politicians who were friends of the paras. I summoned them to a restaurant and said to them, why are the paras treating us like this? don’t we pay taxes and create work? don’t we deserve respect? But the politicians said: you’re businessmen, hardworking and honest, you should support them; the paras are defending the businessmen and the hardworking families of this country. I said: we don’t need that kind of protection, we have to respect our history, haven’t you ever heard of the Holocaust? we can’t negotiate with murderers, we’re Jews. The politicians looked at us gravely and said, we’ll study the case and pass it on, of course all that comes at a price, but you can pay it, you’re wealthy; I said: aren’t you elected by the people? you already have salaries, that’s your income, why should I pay you? They looked at me in surprise and their expressions gradually began to decompose; first a soft laugh, then a noisy peal of laughter that distorted their faces, turned their cheeks red, inflamed their eyes. One of them said, you’re funny, you know, do all Jews have such a good sense of humor? You really are very funny, said another, wiping away his tears of laughter. They took a few seconds to recover their composure. Good, said the one who seemed to be their leader, now seriously, the day after tomorrow we’ll tell you how much our mediation is worth and then you can decide, but I can tell you right now that it’s advisable to accept because this country is becoming very unsafe, with all those guerrillas everywhere, cooperate with the country in which you’ve made money, show some solidarity. The other politicians stood up saying, yes, it’s highly advisable, give that to Colombia, be patriots even though you’re foreigners, don’t be such bastards. Before they went out, they threw a piece of paper on the table. We’ve left you the check, to accustom you to being friendly: a bottle of Buchanan’s and some meat snacks, you kept us waiting a long time; and six Absolut with tonic because the fat man is well-bred and only drinks vodka, not much for you, Mr. Kaplan. But I stood up and left without paying.