‘Go to hell, Valencia.’
‘No, that’s not it, is it? That’s not it. She’s the least of it, Javier, what matters least to you is what happened to her. You want to confirm that you didn’t make a mistake, isn’t that it? You want to be convinced. It’s idiotic, Javier, think it through, you have to see. We were all there. All of us, we were all there: are you going to cast doubt on what happened, when all of us were there? But let’s suppose it didn’t, suppose that didn’t happen. Tell me, what do you want to change? It can’t be changed now, Javier, that’s all done and finished. Cuéllar jumped from the fifth storey of a building: nothing more irreversible than that. And can I tell you something? No one’s missing him. We haven’t missed him in all these years. We’re better off without him. More than that: we’ve all forgotten him. He’s forgotten. The country forgot him. Even his party forgot him. Back then they were ashamed of him, Javier, you think anyone’s interested in his name appearing in the newspapers again? He was a despicable guy, that Cuéllar. You on the other hand are important: you’re important to the newspaper and important to the country. This country is a jungle, Javier. We count on a few people to help us get to the other side, safe and sound, without being devoured by savage beasts. And the beasts are everywhere. You look up and you realize. Everywhere, Javier. And they’re disguised, they’re where you least expect them. Let’s say you were mistaken. Let’s say we were mistaken. In any case, the guy was despicable. He’d demonstrated it a thousand times, he would have demonstrated it a thousand more. Now you’re going to turn him into a martyr, even if only for his widow? You’re going to go and confess that you did that drawing without really having seen, without being really sure. Very well. And then what? Can you imagine what the beasts could do with that? Can you imagine what will happen when the beasts realize they can cut your head off? And for something that happened so long ago, besides. Do you think they’re going to spare you? Well, they’re not. They’re going to cut off your head, the beasts of this beastly country are going to cut your head off. Everyone who hates you, who hates us, all the fanatics are going to go for the jugular. When they realize that you have doubts, that you’re not sure any more, they’re going to be all over you. No one can afford doubt these days, Javier. This is not a world for doubters. You have to look tough, because if not, you’ll get killed. You want to stand in front of them, take off your bulletproof vest and tell them to fire. And they’re going to fire, believe me. They’re going to shoot you. What good is that, Javier? Tell me, explain it to me, explain the utility of this whole ridiculous thing, because I can’t see any, I swear by my fucking mother I can’t see it. I don’t know what good this is going to do and I need you to tell me. Clearly, without any stupid metaphors, without any nonsense. Tell me, tell me in two words what good it’s going to do?’
‘None for you,’ said Mallarino. ‘But it might do her some good.’
Silence.
‘To hell with you, Javier,’ said Valencia. ‘To hell with you both.’
And he hung up.
So what he could have found out in twenty minutes he ended up finding out in two hours: Mallarino had to get out his yellowing address book that was falling apart, poor mangy little thing, and call a court reporter and some journalists at other papers — the national, news and police desks — and even a Member of Congress who owed him several favours. In a few minutes they were calling him back, each and every one of them, bending over backwards to meet Javier Mallarino’s immediate needs. His name helped, he had to admit it, but he was not the least bit concerned about abusing his reputation to achieve these modest ends, for, after all, were not these journalists and politicians the ones who had given him this reputation and the power that went with it? One thing for sure, Mallarino would have got the information much more quickly if the people he asked had been in possession of that information. But they weren’t: some of them had a hard time remembering Cuéllar; others didn’t even know he’d ever existed. Valencia was right: the man had been swallowed up by oblivion. Not surprising in this amnesiac country obsessed with the present, this narcissistic country where not even the dead are capable of burying their dead. Forgetfulness was the only democratic thing in Colombia: it covered them all, the good and the bad, the murderers and the heroes, like the snow in the James Joyce story, falling upon all of them alike. Right now there were people all over Colombia working hard to have certain things forgotten — small or big crimes or embezzlements or tortuous lies — and Mallarino could bet that all of them, without exception, would be successful in their endeavour. Ricardo Rendón had also been forgotten. Not even he had managed to be saved. Maybe Rodrigo Valencia had also been right about that: it was no use. What good would it do? he’d asked, and he meant something else, of course, but he’d managed to get Mallarino to retain the question and ask himself now, with some melancholy: what good would it do?
And now his four-by-four was entering the city, and the mountain road turned gradually into a suburban road and then the avenue, and the rain clouds seemed to pass them going the other way, stubbornly returning to where they’d come from: the house in the mountains. Mallarino detested this stretch where one found oneself suddenly surrounded by horrendous brick buildings, the temperature went up two or three degrees and drivers, who didn’t expect the change, began, in risky manoeuvres, to take their jackets off while driving. He had never had to take his jacket off: unlike most of the rest of the people who lived in the mountains, who left their houses all wrapped up in overcoats and scarves (and it was not unusual to see someone driving in leather gloves), Mallarino tended to dress in light clothes, no more than a shirt and corduroy blazer which changed colour when he brushed it with his hand, and preferred to leave his raincoat on the back seat of the car, ready for any eventuality. Samanta Leal, sitting beside him, had complained of the cold and ducked her head between her shoulders, like a chick, and had only recently started to relax. The sheet with the information was a tube of coiled paper; the woman’s hands gripped the tube as if she were pushing a lawnmower. Mallarino looked at them out of the corner of his eye, looked at the white knuckles and the delicate ring that was their only adornment, and then looked at Samanta’s profile, the strong angle of her jaw, the shoulders of an attentive student pressed against the back of the seat, the seat belt that crossed between her breasts like a hunter’s quiver. There, in the roll of paper, were the address and telephone number of Carmenza de Torres, who once was the wife of Adolfo Cuéllar and the mother of his sons and then his widow; Carmenza de Torres, who found herself obliged, after the death of her husband the congressman, to complete her studies in hostelry and tourism, which she’d given up at the time of her first pregnancy, and eventually ended up working at a travel agency, distinguishing herself in sales, becoming the owner’s personal assistant, marrying him and starting a new life with a new surname: a clean surname, a surname without memories. All this Mallarino found out with the help of his admirers. He also found out that the agency was called Unicorn Travel, and that the office was located across from the Parque Nacional and that Doña Carmenza went there every afternoon, from two till six, but never in the mornings (‘Every afternoon?’ Mallarino asked; ‘Yes, every afternoon,’ he was assured). Now, driving towards the ring road at forty kilometres an hour, Mallarino outlined the day’s itinerary for Samanta. He’d drop her off at her house so she could rest a little and change her clothes; he’d keep an appointment he had in the centre; they’d meet at the travel agency at three o’clock. Did that seem good to Samanta? She, staring straight ahead, nodded the way a condemned prisoner might nod.