explaining the situation to Nadal, he offered to help me. He loved doctoring official paperwork, he said. It reminded him of his finest working days. We made a copy of the original certificate and then corrected it so that the name was mine. We changed the address, the birth date, and typed the particulars of my height and weight on a beat-up Underwood Nadal had inherited from his days in customs. He whistled the whole time, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ve made an old man feel young again,” he said. We reprinted the form on bond paper, and with great ceremony, Nadal brought out a dusty box from beneath his desk. In it were the official stamps he’d pilfered over the years, more than a dozen of them, including one from the OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY GENERAL OF THE PATRIOTIC FORCES OF NATIONAL DEFENSE—that is, from the dictator himself. It had a mother-of-pearl handle and an intricate and stylized version of the national seal. I’d never seen anything like it. A keepsake, Nadal told me, from an affair with an unscrupulous woman who covered him, twice weekly, in bite marks and lurid scratches, and who screamed so loudly when they made love that he often stopped just to marvel at the sound. “Like a banshee,” he said. She maintained similar liaisons with the dictator, and according to the woman, he liked to decorate her naked body with this same stamp. Nadal smiled. He could reasonably claim to have been, in his prime, extraordinarily close to the seat of power.
“Of course, the king is dead,” Nadal said. “And me, I’m still alive.”
Each stamp had a story like this, and he relished the telling—where it had come from, what agency it represented, how it had been used and abused over the years and to what ends. Though Malena was waiting for me, we spent nearly two hours selecting a stamp, and then we placed the forged document, and the target that I’d removed from my wall that morning, in a manila envelope. This too was sealed with a stamp.
Nadal and I embraced. “There’ll always be a job for you here,” he said.
Malena and I rode home that day on a groaning interprovincial bus. She fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, and when I saw the city disappear and give way to the rolling plains and gentle contours of the countryside, I was not unhappy. The next morning I presented the documents at the bank in the town just across the bridge from mine. “We’ve been needing a security guard,” the manager said. “You may have heard what happened to our last one.” He blinked a lot as he spoke. “You’re young, but I like the looks of you. I don’t know why, but I like the looks of you.” And then we shook hands; I was home again.
MY SON WAS BORN just before Christmas that year, and in March the papers began reporting a string of bank robberies in the provinces. The perpetrators were ex-convicts, or foreigners, or soldiers thrown out of work since the democratic government began downsizing the army. No one knew for certain, but it was worrisome and new, as these were the sorts of crimes that had been largely confined to the city and its poorer suburbs. Everyone was afraid, most of all me. Each report was grislier than the last. A half hour upriver, two clerks had been executed after the contents of the vault had disappointed the band of criminals. They hit two banks that day, shooting their way through a police perimeter at the second one, killing one cop and wounding another in the process. They were said to be traveling the river’s tributaries, hiding in coves along the heavily forested banks. Of course, it was only a matter of time. The bank I worked for received sizable deposits from the cement plant once a week, and many of the workers cashed their checks with us on alternate Friday afternoons.
Malena read the papers, heard the rumors, and catalogued the increasingly violent details of each heist. I heard her tell her friends she wasn’t worried, that I was a sure shot, but in private, she was unequivocal. “Quit,” she said. “We have a son to raise. We can move back to the city.”
But something had changed. The three of us were living together in the same room where I’d grown up. She smothered our son with so much affection that I barely felt he was mine at all. The boy was always hungry, and I woke every predawn when he cried, and watched as he fed with an urgency I could understand and recall perfectly: it was how I’d felt when I left for the city almost exactly a year before. Afterward, I could never get back to sleep, and I wondered how and when I’d become so hopelessly, so irredeemably selfish, and what, if anything, could be done about it. None of my actions belonged to me. I’d been living one kind of life when a strong, implacable hand had pulled me violently into another. I tried to remember my city routines, but I couldn’t.
The rest of the world had never seemed so distant.
By late summer the gang hit most of the towns in our province. It was then my father suggested we go out to the old farm. He would teach me how to use the pistol. I began to tell him I knew, but he wasn’t interested.
“You’ll drive,” he said.
We left town on a Saturday of endless, oppressive heat, the road nothing but a sticky band of tar humming beneath us. We arrived just before noon. There were no shadows. The rutted gravel road led right up to the house, shuttered and old and caving in on itself like a ruined cake. My father got out and leaned against the hood of the car. Behind us, a low cloud of dust snaked back to the main road, and a light breeze brushed over the grassy, overgrown fields, but provided no relief. He took out a bottle of rum, drank a little, and pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes. The light was fierce. He was seven years old when my grandfather died and my grandmother moved the family from this farm into town. He passed me the bottle; I handed him the weapon. He loaded it with a smile, and without saying much, we took turns firing rounds at the sagging walls of my grandfather’s house.
An hour passed this way, blowing out what remained of the windows, and circling the house clockwise to try our onslaught from another angle. We aimed for the cornices just below the roof, and hit, after a few attempts, the tilting weather vane above so that it spun maniacally in the still afternoon heat. We shot the numbers off the front door and tore the rain gutter from the corner it had clung to for five decades. I spread holes all over the façade of the tired house. My father watched, and I imagined he was proud of me.
“How does it feel?” he asked when we were finished. We sat leaning against the shadowed eastern wall.
The gun was warm in my hand. “I don’t know,” I said. “You tell me.”
He took his cap off, and laid it by his side. “You’re no good with that pistol. You’ve got to shoot like you mean it.”
“I don’t.”
“It’s all right to be scared.”
“I know,” I said. “I am.”
“Your generation isn’t lucky. This never would have happened before. The old government wouldn’t have allowed it.”
I shrugged. I had a postcard of the dead general buried in a bag back home. I could show it to my father anytime, at any moment, just to make him angry or sad or both, and somehow, knowing this felt good.
“Are you enjoying it?” he asked. “Are you enjoying being a father?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“It’s not a kind of question. It is a question. If you’re going to take everything your father says as an insult, your life will be unbearable—”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “If it isn’t already.”
We sat, watching the heat rise from the baking earth. It seemed strange to have to deny this to my father—that my life was unbearable. I mentioned the bridge, its new color, but he hadn’t noticed.
He turned to face me. “You know, your mother and I are still young.”
“Sure you are.”
“Young enough, in good health, and I’ve got years of work left in me.” He flexed his bicep, and held it out for me to see. “Look,” he said. “Touch if you want. Your old man is still strong.”
He was speaking very deliberately now, and I had the feeling that he’d prepared the exact wording of what he said next. “We’re young, but you’re very young. You have an entire life to lead.