The Flight of the Condor: Stories of Violence and War from Colombia

The Designator

The Designator Roberto Montes Mathieu I crept up behind him and firmly touched his shoulder. Pallid, he slowly turned around only to find my smiling face. “Oh, it’s you!” he said, and he tried to laugh but only managed to produce a ridiculous grimace. I took him by the arm and we walked under the harshness of the mid-afternoon sun. I was going to say, “It’s hot, isn’t it?” But when I saw he was dressed in tweed, indifferent to the climate, I stopped myself. “How’s it going?” he asked, and with a movement of my hand I told him so-so. We went into a café and ordered coffee and water. Watching him bring the cup to his lips, a strange feeling came over me that seemed to be compassion. And if what they said about him wasn’t true? Maybe they had exaggerated; he didn’t look like such a bad person. But still, appearances can be deceiving. Seeing him up close, with his well-groomed black mustache in contrast with the two-day-old stubble on his face, and the somewhat listless look in his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, he didn’t stand out in the least. Except for his solitude, the constant urge to be alone. He always greeted everyone at the office, out of pure deference and because of that Andean penchant for appearing to be respectful and polite, but none of us would call him a friend. He was obliged to speak to us because we worked together, and even then we only talked about the particular job we were doing. He never spoke of his private life, nor did he allow any intrusions into it on anyone else’s part. 68 69 The Designator Soon after starting to work with us, someone who had known him at another time and in another place told us who he really was. It was then that, driven by a morbid curiosity, I decided to try to get closer to him. A difficult task, considering how elusive and guarded he was. I imagined him swathed in a tight raincoat, with the collar turned up and a hat tilted to one side like a gangster out of a movie, entering a restaurant, observing all of the tables, and then leaving to tell the hit men that the man they were looking for was seated next to the window dressed in gray with a red tie, then walking away while behind him the muffled detonations of the revolvers did what they had to do. Only he knew how many innocent people he had condemned to absurd deaths, and now perhaps he was afraid to end up like those poor wretches. That’s why he didn’t have any friends, that’s why his interactions with people were limited to a simple greeting and on rare occasions, like with me, a cup of coffee and a casual chat about the office. Anyone could be out there seeking some overdue revenge. Although I tried on several occasions to break through his hard shell, I only managed to get out of him that he was about to retire, that he was of the age and had put in enough years to do so, that he planned on using his pension to move to Venezuela where he had been told one could live more comfortably. “You wouldn’t have a woman over there, would you?” I said, trying to establish some intimacy , but as always he laughed halfheartedly out of obligation and changed the subject to something trivial. My friends thought I was going too far and they were amazed that I could sit and chat with him, or walk with him out of the office until at some point he would stop to say good-bye and continue on by himself. “What a strange guy,” we remarked. “He’s scared of his own shadow.” “I bet he doesn’t even sleep.” And trying to understand his way of life, we put ourselves in his place and realized that death could be lying in wait for him anywhere, even in an encounter with a complete stranger. When I would surprise him from behind and put my hand on his shoulder, he would go rigid and cold and turn as white as a sheet. I would experience an unspeakable satisfaction, which...