For the last five years, 29-year-old Bernadette’s been clocking in at The Bank of New York promptly at 8am, processing deposits and loan payments, cashing checks, and issuing savings withdrawals until her lunch break at exactly noon. In the spring and summer, she takes her ham and cheese on rye in its brown paper bag and the latest issue of The Atlantic or Harper’s Bazaar to the bench in what her small town passes as a park across the street—which is nothing more than a small square of land with a statue of a long-dead and long-forgotten mayor at its center. In the colder months, she crams into the small staffroom, inhaling the stale odor of her aging coworkers and their tuna sandwiches as she eats her soup, dreaming of the lives she leads on alternate planes. After lunch, it’s right back to her desk where she resumes her duties recording night deposits, selling cashier and traveler’s checks, extolling the benefits of savings bonds, and dealing with customer inquiries. At 5:45 on the dot, she goes home to her dog, a golden longhaired chihuahua named Taco, and the small apartment they share with all of her books one floor above her favorite—and the town’s only—pizza place.
At precisely 10:15 on the morning of April 3, 1984, he approached the chest-high desk she and the other tellers sat behind, slightly raised, designed just so they can look down their noses at their customers.
“Bernadette?” He asked in a soft yet commanding voice that had just the hint of an accent she couldn’t place.
She smiled and tapped the nameplate before her, “In the flesh! How can I help you, sir?”
“Are you Bernadette Alarcón?” He asked, pronouncing her name the way it was supposed to, the way she had long since given up correcting the myriad of people in her life that insist it’s AL-AR-KIN.
She studied his face before answering. His striking green eyes like a furious explosion of color shooting out from onyx pupils stood out against his warm olive skin and salt-and-mostly pepper hair. Though he was clearly in his seventies—like her grandfather—his skin betrayed almost no signs of age. Judging by the finely tailored suit and the large emerald ring on his left hand, she assumed he was wealthy and wondered what he was doing in her small not-quite-upstate New York town.
“Yes, sir. I’m Bernadette Alarcón. May I ask your name?”
“Yes,” he said, removing his hat and placing it on the counter, “my name is Víctor Carranza; I knew your grandfather, Lucho, in Colombia. I would like to speak with you. Perhaps you can take a break?”
Bernadette shifted uncomfortably in her seat, aware that twin busybodies Caroline and Gloria were barely hiding their gawking eyes. Though Víctor was a stranger to her, he used her grandfather’s nickname. To anyone but family and close friends, Lucho is Luis Alarcón Duarte; he must know him. “Hi Víctor! I can’t take a break just now, but I’m happy to meet you during my lunch hour at noon, if that’s alright?”
He pulled a creased photograph from his wallet and passed it facedown through the small opening in the plexiglass between them meant for checks or money and said, “Yes, of course. I will be waiting for you in the corner booth at Maxine’s Diner down the street,” picked up his hat, and walked out of the bank.
She could feel her cheeks burning, heat creeping from her face down her neck, leaving splotches like red hibiscus flowers in its wake as she turned the photo over in her hands. Black and white, it depicted two young men—the taller one was Lucho, the other, seemingly unchanged after all this time, was Víctor—standing with their arms around each other in what she imagined was a lush valley. They were smiling from ear to ear and in their hands they held emeralds.
She loved her Lucho—that’s what he preferred to be called over abuelo, always saying he was too young and handsome for such a title. His stories of Colombia felt so distant to her—like fables belonging to some far off past that she wasn’t possibly connected to in her very American life. But she knew he grew up in Muzo, the world capital of emeralds, in the Western Boyacá region of Colombia, and thus she knew the two young men in Víctor’s photo were holding the gemstones. She knew that he loved his life in Colombia, that he had grown up poor but had struck, well, green, in his younger years scavenging as a guaquero—a treasure hunter—in his teens and early twenties with his friends. She knew that he reluctantly left the country for a more stable life in America when her grandmother found that she was pregnant with her father, and she suspected that he never really lost touch with his past, though he embraced Americana with every fiber of his being.
She met Víctor in the corner booth at Maxine’s at noon. He had taken the liberty of ordering her a grilled cheese and tomato soup along with a patty melt for himself. As she slid into the seat across from him, he said, “I just can’t get enough of diner food when I come to America. Look at this—a patty melt!”
She dipped the corner of her sandwich into the soup and they made some polite small talk while they ate. Bernadette had a burning need to know what he wanted to talk about, but he seemed like the kind of powerful man that took his time with things. Luckily, she told her boss she needed the rest of the day for a personal matter, and with the gossip around the bank, his curiosity about the mysterious man had been sparked and he gladly let her take it.
After they ate their dessert—apple pie for Víctor and a root beer float for Bernadette—he sat back, stirring his cup of coffee and said, “This has been a pleasant lunch, but you must be wondering what has brought me here.”
She pushed her glass aside and sat forward, pulling the photo out of her purse, “Yes, and I imagine it has something to do with emeralds.”
“Smart girl. Lucho has told you about Muzo, I see.”
“Just a bit. He really wants us to be American. Hot dogs and Uncle Sam.”
“Assimilation. I can understand. However, the Lucho I know is a stranger to you. We were boys together. We were guaqueros, filtering through the debris dumped from the mines with our bare hands seeking that green shine. Eventually, we went to work in the mines. It was hard work, it was dirty work, and yet what else could we do? There was nothing else for us. No school, no comforts, just the promise of treasure. He was right next to me when I discovered Fura, the world’s largest emerald.”
She knew about Fura. Lucho recounted the story so often that it pumped out of her heart and through her veins. 2.2 kilograms, named for the sacred mountain Fura bordering the Carrare River. She loved the story of Fura and Tena—the parents of humanity according to the Muzos, the Emerald People, her people. Fura and Tena taught the Muzos how to be strong and how to sustain themselves in the rough ravines and high peaks of the eastern ranges of the Colombian Andes. They would remain forever young as long as they stayed true to one another. But their creator, the god Are, tempted them with a beautiful man, Zarbi, in search for a rare flower that could cure any illness. He seduced Fura with the secrets of the exceptional bloom and she betrayed her true love in a fury of passion. Tena immediately knew of her indiscretion when he looked upon her face, cracked with age, when he felt her hair, once lustrous and deep brown now brittle and grey, and he knew she would soon die; he would be alone. So he knelt at her feet and stabbed himself in the heart. For three days, she wept over his bloodless corpse, wept for her betrayal, for her love, for her youth. When Are saw the destruction, he turned her tears into the emeralds that enrich the region, their bodies into the huge peaks that loom over everything, and the Zarbi into the river that forever separates them.
“Lucho told me about Fura and the legend behind it, but I didn’t know he was there when you discovered it.”
“I suspected as much. In many ways, Lucho and I were partners. By day, we mined. By night, we ate and drank, we danced and sang, and when we had the energy, we romanced women, one of whom is your grandmother,” he paused, smiling to himself, “I am now an Emerald Baron, they call me Don Víctor, and I would not be where I am if not for Lucho. He helped me build my empire, and in turn I helped him leave Colombia. At the time, I didn’t understand why he would leave, but when I had a son of my own, I understood. Life in Colombia is hard. My line of work can be dangerous. It is the love he felt for your grandmother and his budding family that won out over his love for the emeralds.”
Bernadette took a sip of her coffee and said, “So why are you here? Do you want to see Lucho? I can call him; he’s only one town over.”
“Bernadette, I will see Lucho in time. It is you I am here to see.”
“Me? Why?”
“You are young. You are beautiful. I need your help.”
Suspecting that they needed more privacy for the next part of their conversation, Bernadette suggested that they go to her apartment. That’s when she realized that Víctor had an extensive security detail planted around the vicinity of the diner. They trailed them inconspicuously as she led Víctor to her apartment, and they searched the place thoroughly before they left them alone, with Taco ferociously yipping at the sudden intrusion into his space.
Taco eventually settled into a light sleep on Bernadette’s lap as they settled on her couch with glasses of wine—she also rightly guessed she would need to imbibe some alcohol as she imbibed his request.
“This is a lovely home. Many books. You must be very smart,” he said, studying her over his glass.
“Thanks, I really love the way books transport me to other worlds,” she swept her hands in front of her, “Mine isn’t that exciting, except for Taco here.”
“Bernadette, do you know who Pablo Escobar is?”
She took a hard gulp of her wine, “The drug lord? What’s that cartel of his—Medellin?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Um, yeah, he’s pretty dangerous, right? I mean, if we’re hearing about him here, he must be pretty scary.”
Víctor set his glass down on the table and looked her in the eye, “Yes, that is correct.”
She finished her glass and poured another one, “What about him?”
“As you know, my emerald business is very important to me. It is my life. It is my legacy. And it is very difficult for me when anyone threatens it.”
The color drained out of her face and she grew cold. She frantically stroked Taco’s back. Víctor grabbed her hand and held it in the firm but comforting grip she understood was a Colombian trait.
“Bernadette, listen to me. I run a legitimate business. Escobar has started sniffing around. He’s caught on to its reach internationally. He’s caught on to the exceptions I’ve been granted by the authorities and he wants in. He wants to compete with me, but not for the integrity of the emeralds—he couldn’t care less about these precious gems so intwined with our culture—he wants this to be a front for his business. I find the drugs despicable. They contribute to the fall of Colombian society and our status in the world. It is the antithesis of what I am doing.”
She liked the feeling of his hand on hers because it reminded her so much of Lucho, but as he spoke his grip tightened and his fingers turned white. She tried to wriggle out of his clutch but she knew it was fruitless. “What does this have to do with me?”
He relaxed and took a long sip of his wine. “I need you to spy.”
“SPY? On Pablo Escobar? Why me? Why not your secret army guys? They did a pretty good job hiding in plain sight in this predominantly white town.”
“Bernadette, everyone knows my private army. The Carranceros—the Black Snakes—are very recognizable in my circles. Besides, they are men. Escobar doesn’t trust men. But you, he’d trust you. You are young, you are beautiful, you are American.”
“But why does it have to be me?”
“Lucho owes me. I’m sorry, you are caught in the middle. But he left me when I was building my empire, and he has always said that when I need a favor, all I have to do is ask. So I am asking. Will you help me stop Escobar?”
“What about Taco?”
“He is small. You can take him.”
“Will I get hurt?”
“No. I will send a man with you.”
“But you just said everyone knows the Black Snakes.”
“Not this one.”
“Can I call Lucho?”
“When we land in Bogotá.”
She looked around her home, so comfortable, so familiar, so safe, “Do I have a choice?”
“No, sweet girl.”
Within a matter of hours, Víctor’s men helped Bernadette pack and get her life in order. They assured her that they made the proper arrangements for her absence, that she and Taco would be safe. A small part of her felt like she was finally doing something meaningful with her life. She was going to spy on Pablo Escobar. She was going to be a major player in the emerald game. She was going to be so much more than Bernadette Alarcón, the youngest teller at the Bank of New York. She would see Fura and Tena up close, connect with her people, dive into her culture. She would fly on private jets and luxuriate with emeralds gleaming on her fingers, her ears, her neck. She would—
“Bernie? Hey, Bernie? Gosh, is anybody there? Earth to Bernie!”
Bernadette snapped out of her daze to Gloria waving her hand in her face. Her cheek was red from where it rested on the crook of her arm, before her sat the August 2013 issue of The Atlantic open to an article on Colombia’s emerald battle. Víctor Carranza had succumbed to cancer. His rival, Pedro Ortegon, was assassinated in broad daylight. The green wars rolled on.
Marie Hendry 