The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2013 Page 5

  and if the receptacles are fast enough—and to date they have not been—captured and stored and possibly even reproduced and patented and sold above ground by the Science Ministries of the United Nations, et cetera.

  And so the journalist returns to Denmark and publishes his frontpage feature on the purpose of the science in Siberia

  and its practical applications to marriage counselors and perfume salespersons at Macy’s and the ad-men and -women of Madison Avenue in New York.

  And it is read widely across Denmark where a representative in Parliament proposes a bill to provide greater funding for the particle accelerator at Krasnoyarsk.

  And when the bill passes and the story is picked up on the wire, it is agreed to in Washington

  that we should support sciences like these that have clear and identifiable purposes in mind,

  and so the Americans offer three times the assistance of the Danish in exchange for more slots for their scientists, and more shares of the patents, and more real estate to erect department stores and so on.

  Meanwhile the physicists are trying to catch those tricky little buggers—fortitude, fury, and the newly discovered benevolence—

  in little compartments that can withstand both the cold of the accelerator walls and the immeasurably quick vibrations of its particles.

  And the chemists are hard at work cloning punctuality and temperance, which are the heaviest and least mobile elements.

  And the lawyers are arguing over patent law and intellectual property.

  And husbands and wives are predicting their concentrations of discontent, valor, antagonism.

  And on the six o’clock news, national anchors are charting the inequities between Europeans and North Americans in their concentration of loyalty, capriciousness, and envy.

  And it is postulated in the Cabinet that North Korea is constructing its own accelerator, although no one can be sure.

  And the President delivers speeches condemning his predecessor for permitting Siberia to spearhead such a grand scientific endeavor.

  And there are a couple of factories in the Great Plains manufacturing underground shelters in case of an attack.

  And there are people in all corners of the country buying them.

  And there is a child in Idaho writing MALICE with a Sharpie on his passed-out-father’s forehead

  because he has learned the word from the television and walks around the house reciting it.

  And on October first Punctuality goes on sale and is immediately sold out.

  And when the perfume industry declines the President delivers more speeches about that.

  And by February it becomes clear who his opponent will be in the general election.

  And in the wake of such incredible scientific discovery, everyone knows he will be reelected and he is.

  And funding increases and taxes increase and airlines begin to offer direct flights from Little Rock and Gary and Atlantic City to Norilsk in the Krasnoyarsk Region of Siberia.

  And the airlines advertise no fees for checked luggage because there are generally no checked bags accompanying married American couples flying into Siberia.

  And for two weeks the United Family Counselors of Nebraska picket the accelerator.

  And because of the exoduses of married couples in Indiana, Oklahoma, Utah, and Maryland, massive redistricting takes place and three-quarters of their representatives in Congress are defeated in primary challenges.

  And the House Minority Whip has lost his parents to the particle accelerator in Krasnoyarsk

  and there is a public memorial held on the Mall in Washington.

  And flower sales spike as red, white, and artificially-blue-dyed roses accumulate against a fence erected in memoriam of the Minority Whip’s mother and father.

  And one Mall groundskeeper is fired for taking a blue rose, which he has never seen in his life, home to his wife who has promised him to never fly into Siberia.

  and his face is adopted as the new symbol of the destructive nature of modern science.

  And the Parliamentarian who originally proposed the increased funding for the particle accelerator in Krasnoyarsk is defeated

  and the funding is allowed to expire and Denmark loses its allocation of physicists.

  And the following April Temperance is released by Calvin Klein and does not sell out.

  And the Vice President of Quantum Fragrances is fired and departs with a generous severance package.

  And he moves his wife and his daughter and his live-in cook to Aspen.

  And the cook is overjoyed to walk the streets of Aspen during the Food and Wine Classic.

  And the sous chefs at the accelerator in Krasnoyarsk talk quietly between meals about what the next discovery will be

  and how they will pair their house wines with opportunism, temptation, and generosity.

  And on the basketball court at lunch a physicist from Norway elbows a physicist from Ecuador

  and in the locker room afterward the biochemist from Belarus asks if anyone else saw the drop of blood pause in its descent before

  hitting the ground

  and six months later imagination is discovered.

  And in Texas the state school board is obstructing the inclusion of a new periodic table in the nation’s textbooks.

  And in four years a good-old-boy is elected President and the American funds expire and the British funds expire

  and in a conference room at what was once known as the particle accelerator at Krasnoyarsk

  the maintenance staff will watch a World Cup quarterfinal match and cheer

  as skinny men in shorts run around and smash into each other

  while the fates of their countries hang in the balance.

  Best American Account of Tragedy and Nationality

  SIBYLLA BRODZINSKY, CATALINA HOYOS, AND MAX SCHOENING

  FROM Throwing Stones at the Moon

  For nearly half a century, there has been an ongoing armed conflict in Colombia between paramilitary groups, guerrilla groups, and the government’s armed forces. As a result of this strife, thousands of civilians have been displaced, and many others have been kidnapped, killed, or raped. The following narrative is an excerpt from a book of oral histories that seeks to trace the history of this conflict. The book, called Throwing Stones at the Moon, was produced by Voice of Witness, a nonprofit organization that records oral histories of contemporary human rights crises. Names in this narrative have been changed at the request of the narrator.

  An Oral History of Catalina Hoyos

  I was born in Tolima province but grew up in Bogotá. I come from a well-off family, but mine was never a normal family that sat down to meals together. My dad was always studying, traveling. He wanted to help make a better society, and his missions included helping children of the Indians of Vaupés province and the poor black communities in Chocó province. He was also a film buff, and he helped found the film school at the National University. He was never one of those fathers who plays with his children, but he was loving with me, my sisters Verónica and Angélica, and my brother Alberto. My mom, on the other hand, is a very tough woman. She was a criminal prosecutor.

  My parents separated when I was fourteen years old, and it was around that time that I decided I wanted to be an actress. I’d go see a movie and for the whole week I’d pretend I was the leading lady.

  When I was fifteen, a friend from school won a beauty pageant in a town called Pacho, about eighty kilometers from Bogotá. She in vited all her friends to go to the party where she was going to receive her sash. Pacho was this small town, and I remember when we arrived at the town hall, the police chief was there with all the municipal authorities. This was a real backwater!

  Then this fat, little, dark-skinned guy came up to me. With the big hat and the jewelry, he had all the look of a traqueto,a drug trafficker. He looked at the cowboy boots I was wearing and asked me where I’d got them. I told him the name of the store in Bogotá, and right there he
told one of his people to go to Bogotá and buy a pair for him. I thought it was funny, but the whole scene was sort of sleazy. Those people were so arrogant, with all the money they had.

  I phoned my mother after that, because she’d told me to call her once I’d arrived. She asked me who was at the party, so I asked some of the people for their names and I started telling her. Then she said, “Get in a taxi and tell them I’ll pay the fare here,” so I left the party right away. It turned out that the guy who’d asked me about the boots was a drug trafficker named Gonzalo Rodríguez Gacha. The place was filled with traquetos.I didn’t really know who they were at the time, but since my mom was a prosecutor who dealt with drug trafficking cases, she knew.

  When my brother and sisters and I were growing up, my mom would tell us that when she took on cases against drug traffickers, plane tickets to Disney World would arrive at her office with the names of all us kids. It was a bribe, but at the same time it was a threat, showing that they knew our names. She’d also get envelopes stuffed with cash. But my mother never accepted a bribe in her life.

  I finished high school in 1982, when I was sixteen, and started studying at an acting academy. When I was seventeen I got my first modeling contract, which was for a local clothing store. After that I was on television and in magazines, and I could make maybe 400,000 pesos in a single photo shoot. From one moment to the next I was suddenly part of the elite, the twenty or so professional models that were working in Colombia back then. I’d travel around the country to runway shows, and at one point I was in about fifteen different television commercials at the same time. I would see myself on T.V. and say, “That’s me!”

  It was a life of parties. In Bogotá, cocaine was passed around like hors d’oeuvres. At any party in Colombia you’d go into the bathroom and there would be lines on the sink counter. I tried it once at the Keops discotheque, which was all the rage then. It was one of the most anxiety-producing experiences of my life. My heart started racing, and I thought I was going to die! I managed to get home, but I sat outside on the steps until the effect wore off because inside the house I felt like a caged animal.

  There were always traquetos at the parties. I’ve sometimes thought that, if I hadn’t had the education my parents gave me, I would have ended up the wife of one of those traquetos, like all my counterparts did. Why would I be any different? But I saw these people differently. I mean, if I went to a party and it was filled with traquetos I didn’t say, “Uy! I’m not going because I don’t mix with those people.” I went, but I kept them at a distance.

  My father never really approved of my career choice. He was an intellectual, and he thought the telenovelas I acted in were trash. But we had a good relationship.

  In 1989, when I was twenty, my dad was working in New York at a development organization. He came back to Bogotá one Sunday in November and we got together at my sister Verónica’s house. My brother Alberto wasn’t there at the time because he was studying at the Naval Academy in Cartagena. At the get-together, my dad, my sisters and I all started planning a vacation together. My dad was going to be lecturing at the Universidad del Valle in Cali for three or four days, and we were making plans to all go to the beach afterward to Cartagena or San Andrés. It was the first time in six months that we’d seen him. By that time, I had moved out of my mom’s house and was living in a big house in La Calera, a wealthy suburb in the mountains above Bogotá.

  During the meal my dad began to speak to each of us sisters about our lives. He also talked to me about each one of my sisters and my brother, telling me to take care of all of them. He said, “You have to take care of Alberto, he’s still young. Take care of Vero.” Vero is Verónica, my little sister who he thought had married too young. He told me to believe in myself and to believe in my instinct. I remember I got a cold shiver; I had the feeling my dad was saying goodbye. I re member thinking, What’s going to happen? Why is he telling me this now and not in Cartagena while we sunbathe and have a few drinks?

  The next day, November 27, 1989, I went to the gym early like I always did. I always called my mom early in the morning but that day I called my godfather first. He asked me if I’d spoken to my mom and when I told him I hadn’t he said, “Call your mother.” I asked him, “What happened?” and he just insisted, “Call your mother.” I called my mom and she told me the news. The plane my dad had taken to Cali had exploded over Soacha. The plane had taken off at 7:10 a.m., and five minutes later it blew up, killing 110 people.

  I got in my car and rushed to my mom’s house. In the car, I turned on the radio, and the announcer was reading out the passenger list. The presidential candidate César Gaviria was apparently supposed to be on that flight. The radio announcer said a bomb had blown up the plane, and that Pablo Escobar and Rodríguez Gacha were suspected of ordering the attack. At that moment, I remembered that I’d met Rodríguez Gacha at the party in Pacho years before. I had met my dad’s executioner.

  I went to my mom’s house and my two sisters were already there. It was chaotic. Everyone screaming, crying. I spoke again with my godfather. He had an air transport company that chartered planes and helicopters for oil companies and he asked me if I wanted a helicopter to fly over the crash site. But I said no. I wanted to be on the ground to see what happened. I grabbed my two sisters and we set out in the car through Monday morning traffic toward Soacha. I told them, “Do you want to live with the doubt? Not me.” We could have waited quietly at home to get the notification of my dad’s death but I needed to see. When we got to Soacha, the residents there guided us to the crash site because the plane had fallen in a mountainous part of Soacha, not in the town center.

  It was about nine in the morning when we got to the crash site, and we saw that it had been cordoned off by the army. They weren’t supposed to let anyone into the site but I said to one of the soldiers, “What would you do if it were your dad on that plane?” He saw us three girls—I was twenty, Verónica was nineteen and Angélica was twenty-one—and he took pity on us. He asked me, “What did he look like?”

  I told him, “My dad always wore a turtleneck and corduroy pants.” The soldier said, “I know where he is.” We walked uphill about a kilometer and saw pieces of clothing on the ground, a briefcase and body parts. There were body parts everywhere; we walked among heads, limbs, and guts. I have never forgotten the scent.

  After a long while, the soldiers came up to us with a huge black bag and they shook a body out. I almost fainted. My dad was a handsome man; he looked like Jack Nicholson. But the face of the dead person was frozen in a scream that he must have let out from way up there. His mouth was completely open, and the expression of distress on his face was clear. His skull was open and his brains had exploded. I looked at my sister Angélica. She was a beautiful woman, like a Colombian Pocahontas, but when she saw the body fall out of the bag she became disconnected from the planet and she didn’t speak.

  I couldn’t believe it. Eight or ten hours earlier we’d been with him. At three in the afternoon the day before it had been all about planning a vacation, the beach, laughter, delicious food, wine. At 7:45 a.m. the next day: death.

  The soldiers asked us, “Is it your father?” It looked like him, but my sisters and I began to doubt it, especially my little sister Verónica. She said, “I don’t think it’s him.” It was very difficult. I felt that it was him, but I wanted to be absolutely sure. Verónica said, “Look at his hands. They don’t look like his hands.” My dad’s hands had been very pretty. He was a vain person, and his hands were spotless. This man who fell from three thousand meters, his skin was intact, but every inch of bone in his body must have been broken to pieces because his hand was like rubber; it bent this way and that.

  I thought, What do we remember about my dad that was unique? And it was his feet. When he was little his mother made him lace up his boots really tight and it deformed his instep; it was really high. So in the end we recognized him from his feet.

  The whole time Angélica was s
ilent. She just looked at us and said nothing. She was completely gone. Through all of this process I was the one who stayed completely sane. My dad had always said that I was the crazy one—his nickname for me was “La Loquita.” I was the one who drove really fast, I was the model, I did what I wanted. He thought the sane one was Angélica, but no. I realized then that I had to take the reins because no one else would.

  Then a doctor came, and without saying a word, he knelt down and sliced my dad open. He looked at the organs and then he said, “Okay, let’s close him up.” He took a needle and thread and sewed four big stitches. Then he handed us a little piece of paper with a number, like the kind you pull at a butcher shop to wait your turn. The piece of paper had “438” written on it. The doctor said we could use that to claim our dad’s body at the Forensic Medicine Institute in Bogotá.

  My sisters and I stayed and watched as the rescuers threw the body bags into a muddy dump truck. The relatives of other passengers had also shown up at the site, and the rescuers were piecing bodies together to present to them. We were lucky to have a full body; others were content with just an arm or a leg. We stayed for five hours in the hot sun, watching, because I wanted to make sure that they put my dad in the dump truck, that they weren’t going to leave him. We finally left at about two in the afternoon and went to my mom’s house. She was hysterical, screaming. Even though my parents had separated, my mother was still in love with my dad. A fortune teller had once told her that my dad would come back to her, so she was waiting for him. We got to her house and we gave her medicine to calm her down.

  It was raining when my sisters and I went to the Forensic Medicine Institute at about five in the afternoon. But when we got there we were told that the bodies hadn’t arrived yet. We said we’d wait. We finally left at ten, after the officials at the Forensic Medicine Institute told us they wouldn’t hand over the bodies that night. It was still raining.