The painter with a bullet in his head

Part One: The Ulrika-Colt couple

The radio that laid next to the couch where Fausto Marcelo Ávila slept first uttered a dry, brief electronic whistle and then the distorted voice of a man. It was one of the two men that were to travel with Ávila, that early morning, to Bogotá.

—‘morning there, mr....it’s time, now. See you down stairs by the truck in fifteen...

Fausto woke up with the whistle and could make up a bit of what the man said, but it wasn’t until some seconds later that he understood where he was and pulled himself together to answer. He was near a town called Facatativá, a couple of hours or so south from Bogotá, Colombia’s capital city. He had been sleeping in the second floor over the slaughter house of the food company that had hired him to escort a truck full of chicken back to Bogotá. It was the 23rd of December. He was going to get paid the $40.000 pesos he still needed to buy his little daughter’s bike. Therefore, it must have been around 2 a.m., which was the time that had been agreed upon with the driver and the food engineer for everyone to wake up.

—Ok -, said Fausto, his mouth dry and still dumb with drouziness-, In fifteen, then.

The bodyguard got up with determination. Getting the bike for his daughter was mandatory; otherwise, his ex-wife wouldn’t let him see his children on Christmas eve, and not visiting his four year old Juliana and his two year old Sebastián that night was out of the question.

That morning, however, there was something else. Fausto had been feeling a little nervous the night before, just as the three men arrived to the slaughter house from Bogotá, at around 11 p.m. So much had he felt funny, that after having something to eat and before going to sleep at the small chamber upstairs, the man called his mother, Mireya Ávila, and asked her to pray for him.

But there was no time for nervousness anymore: The truck had to be at the company’s office back in the city, at 6 a.m. So Fausto dressed up, tightened his bulletproof vest over his robust chest, fastened his Colt 9 mm gun around his waist and, finally, covered it all by putting his broadcloth jacket on. As he walked towards the bathroom to wash his face, he stopped as though remembering an important detail. He went back to the bed, rummaged through the blanket till he found Number 17 of a poetry magazine called Ulrika, and tucked it in his jacket inner pocket.

Fausto didn’t carry the magazine to read it, he knew it’s pages almost by heart. He had taken it just before setting out to Facatativá, in a common urge always to carry something related with his treasured past life as a poet. Ulrika magazine had dedicated it’s Number 17 to the First Hispanic Poet Encounter of the end of the century, which had taken place in Bogotá in 1995. The bodyguard’s name was printed among the acknowledgments of the magazine, because, when he was 25 years old, he had collaborated with logistic support. Fausto felt a significant longing as he remembered those long since gone poetry sessions when, warmed by tequila and vodka shots, he had had the opportunity to meet admired colombian poets and intellectuals like Maria Mercedes Carranza, John Fitzgerald Torres, Juan Manuel Rocca and Rafael del Castillo. “The kid poet”, was how they called Fausto among the illustrious party, whose members he had listened to, and who had been his most honorable public. Now Fausto was 30, and it certainly was uncomfortable how Ulrika’s number 17 struggled for a corner of his body against the heavy Colt that hung from his leather belt. Difficult as it might have been, the poet-bodyguard managed to make them fit, though.

Twenty minutes passed and, loaded with chicken and with the three men inside the cabin, the truck made a strenuous effort as it climbed the hill that led to the Alto de la Tribuna, between Facatativá and Bogotá. It was 2:45 in the morning, and the only thing that could be seen through the windscreen was the weak light that emanated from the car lights and that gave way to the vehicle through the thick tropical mist.

By the time the truck slowly passed by a curve, Fausto saw a black, tubular shaped object approaching his side window. There was a bright sparkling light and the bodyguard felt a heavy blow on his forehead that nearly made him lose consciousness. He felt his face wet, so he touched it, and the black stain he saw over his hand confirmed he had been hit. Even though he wanted to, he couldn’t move to repell the attack. The shooters wouldn’t have given him time either: Seconds after the shot, while Fausto faught against a growing numbness all over his body, they took away his weapon, removed his bullet proof vest, tore his clothes, and pulled him off the vehicle. Between several men, whose agitated faces he could barely see, they dragged him and finally threw him in a nearby ditch.

Although he didn’t faint, from that moment onwards everything passed before Fausto’s eyes like brief, selected images from a motion picture. First, he tried to stand on his feet, but his legs did not respond to his commands. Then, Fausto pissed kneeling before a tree, quivering head to toe. It was then when he realized his right thumb was nearly shot off. The bodyguard had managed to raise his arm to protect himself from the shot, and the bullet had gone through his finger before hitting his forehead. Why couldn’t he stand up? He was fat, he thought, too fat.

Fausto crawled up to the road with difficulty. A long while passed, during which he only saw the asphalt’s texture, millimeters away from his eyes. Suddenly, he heard a car approaching slowly. Itgrinded thousands of pebbles under it’s tight tires. The vehicle stopped and Fausto experienced horror, genuine panic as he heard one of the doors closing followed by steps approaching him. One of the attackers, surely...he was going to get finished off...now what? He managed to waken his stomach up and howl:

— Don’t do anything to me! I saw nothing, I heard nothing! I AM UNARMED!

— Calm down, mr. –answered a man-, we’re road police. We were looking for you.

Minutes later, Fausto’s robust body jolted in a pick up’s trunk. Then, it did the same inside an ambulance, wherehe felt exhausted, but a man beside him kept him from sleeping.His drowsiness went away, though, as he heard the siren howling on top of the vehicle, andsuddenly Fausto felt terror of having lost his body.

He heard, later on, the surprised voice of a doctor, in a hospital.

—This one’s brain is coming out! Bring cotton and a bandage, fast!

Fausto boiled in fever and felt a suffocating heat. A strong, high-pitched pain tortured him as they cut off the wound’s surrounding hair, just over his forehead. Why didn’t they put him to sleep? Why couldn’t he just faint? Then, he felt his skull being cut into pieces with a small, electric saw. The pieces were being carefully put on a metallic tray beside him.

They rummaged his brain.

— The bullet can’t be removed. If we do... –it was the doctor’s voice, again-. No. Let’s take whatever we can off from around it...

Then, they put every bone piece back in its place in Fausto’s forehead, the man was sewed up and finally taken to a hospital room in a strechbed. A while later, when Fausto heard his parents voices somewhere near, probably in the same room, he could finally rest. His heart lept and warmed up, he did not know if he spoke aloud or to himself: Nothing will happen to me now.....I’m home.....They can’t do anything to me...I’m alright now...

The next day, in the afternoon of the 24th of December, Mireya, Fausto’s mother, was buying a red bike for her grand daughter, with grief stuck up in her throat.

Part two coming soon.....