waved at me, brief and dismissive. “Oh, it’s fine. He’s into me.” She giggled and sipped her Fanta, then asked how things were going with Manuel.
Grinning, I told them he knew what he was doing, and it was better than I had ever imagined. “But he insists sex is a sin, that he won’t,” I said.
“Are you kidding?” Gracia said. “I give you a month at the most. Just be sure you use something, or else.”
A beat of silence hung in the air. We all knew what she meant. Only two options existed for a pregnant teenage girl in Colombia—either to drop out of school and life, marry her novio, and give birth to the first in a long line of babies, or seek out one of the illegal abortion doctors.
“So our sexy guitarist Manuel is hard to get,” Ana said. “That means he lives his faith.”
“Oh, please,” Gracia said, rolling her eyes. She set down her soda can; it scraped the glass. “There’s nothing more beautiful than sharing that experience with someone you love,” she said to me. “And you don’t have to be married. The Church is wrong.”
“Manuel won’t agree,” Ana said, her chin tensed. She toyed with her soda tab. “If you take the pill, don’t tell him. Just have him pull out and believe that works.”
At noon, Ana handed each of us a T-shirt printed with the titles of a dozen groups with names like La Maria Juventud Para Justicia Social, some affiliated with Catholic Churches, others with Cali universities. Across the front, the words LIBERTAD and COLOMBIA blazed in bold black lettering, a Colombian flag in the backdrop. Then the three of us piled into the family’s Land Rover and the driver whisked us off to the Plaza de Cayzedo. I was expecting something larger than the youth group meeting, but more formal: Manuel and Emilio each leading the demonstrators in a few rounds of chants, and then everyone would disperse. We would have the rest of the day to ourselves.
When the armored Land Rover trailed behind the edges of the gathering three blocks away, the size of the crowd astonished me. A group of young men hoisted a large banner overhead: VIVA LA PAZ, and on the other side, COLOMBIA SOY YO. A pair of older women frantically waved miniature Colombian flags in yellow, blue, and red, their arms linked around each other’s waists. A father paraded a toddler on his shoulders. Just beyond the thousands of demonstrators, a white tent and stage had been erected next to the cathedral steps. TV cameras formed a horseshoe in front; an anchorwoman fluffed her hair in front of a hand mirror. I had never seen the square so filled with people.
We moved through the crowd and up the cathedral steps. On the portable stage Carlos adjusted sound equipment. His pudgy middle poking out the flag on his T-shirt’s front. He grabbed each of our hands and pulled us up; below, the city police pressed back at the crowd’s edge. The square swelled, alive with whistles and chants. Our spot seemed ideal, until I looked up. Atop a roof a sniper in black uniform crouched, the stage and its speakers an easy target for someone with a rifle or a bomb. And where was Manuel?
He emerged from the mobbed cathedral steps moments later and bounded onto the stage. He didn’t say hello at first, just took my hands and squeezed them. Singing broke out over the rising chants and claps, and electricity charged the air. We stood there for a moment, staring at each other and swaying. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, and added, “I’m nervous. Only just a little.” He tilted his head toward the crowd, grinning. He let go of my hands and quickly brushed his palms on the sides of his jeans.
I cupped his shoulder. “You’ll be great.” He paced a few steps, scratching his head, then bent over and lifted his guitar from the case. He checked the strings. I told him I had driven the property with my father the day before and visited the encampment of desplazados. But I stopped short. I couldn’t bring myself to divulge further.
“Did you?” he remarked, rising. “You’re brave.” He drew me to him and kissed my head. His scent mixed with the factory odor of the new T-shirt. When he stepped back, he smoothed my hair and said, “I’m so in love with you, Mercedes.”
When Emilio stepped up to the mike and thanked those who had assembled, Manuel let go my hand and stood alongside his brother. The multitude quieted to a murmur.
“Today is independence day,” Emilio said. “I want to invite you all to celebrate this day in the spirit of freedom—freedom from fear and violence. Think about each moment, and how we can make ourselves more and more free in that way.”
The ponytailed young man from the social justice meeting spoke, halting but convicted, from notecards. He turned out to be the leader of the Universidad del Valle peace organization. Then a priest, obese and commanding, led a prayer for Colombia and other nations that suffered atrocities. I had rarely thought about the world outside before, but now I pictured countries like ours, in Africa and Asia, with jungles, refugees, guns. I recalled the eyes of our desplazados and tried to guess at the numbers of people who lived that way on our planet: so many Colombias, countries I couldn’t name, worlds without end. On stage the same light shone in Manuel’s eyes as when he lay back in bed with me, talking of his dreams, telling me that he loved me.
I had thought that Manuel would speak to this gathering like he did at the youth group, but after the speeches concluded, Emilio led the demonstrators in a chant. “LIBERTAD! LIBERTAD!” we cried in unison. From the back of the stage, Ana, Gracia, and I pumped our fists in the air, the flags fluttering in the breeze. Manuel said, “This is a song we want to play for anyone who worries,” and the whistles and cries died down. Manuel and Carlos began playing, voices soaring in harmony; the loudspeakers crackled. Thousands sang along. Ana wiped a tear from my cheek; I hadn’t even realized it was there.
Afterward, Manuel approached with his guitar case, rubbed the back of his head, and stretched. I liked his forearms, muscular from maneuvering furniture. Ana caught my eye, her brow raised; time to leave. “Will I see you tonight?” I asked him.
“Sorry,” he said. “But I’ve got to stay and clean up, and I’m exhausted.” He touched my chin. “Soon. I want to hear what happened with your father.”
I nodded, disappointed. I had hoped that we could at least meet in Ana’s neighborhood for a walk before Fidel came to pick me up and the busy school week started. At the far end of the square a few groups lingered, carrying on their chants for peace. Manuel kissed me good-bye, our fingers entwined. Someone called out for him. Was this how things would always be with us, his causes always tearing him away? At last I climbed down from the stage with Ana and Gracia, the two of them jabbering and me silent. As we crossed the square I marveled at how quickly its everyday filthiness had returned, with the magical efficiency of a circus that had performed, dismantled, and left town. Nothing remained on the ground but some abandoned cardboard signs, a trampled miniature Colombian flag, and trash.
CHAPTER FIVE
One afternoon following the rally, I stepped out of school to find Papi on the sidewalk. In the crook of his windbreaker he cradled the bulky folder of applications; he approached me at a clip. Several letter-sized white envelopes fell out, hitting the toe of his oxford. He squatted and gathered them, careful not to let his crisp slacks brush the gritty sidewalk. “What are you doing here?” I asked. My stomach somersaulted even though Manuel and I hadn’t arranged to meet.
He waved the letters. “Sister Rosemary contacted your teachers to write you letters of recommendation for the schools. I needed to pick them up. We can mail everything right now.” He’d squeezed his pickup onto the side street. I climbed in and as we shut both doors, the locks sounded. How odd to see him out of his rubber boots during the day. The outline of his gun bulged from beneath his pant leg; when he left the hacienda he wore it on his ankle.
He
