Breaking Lorca (3 page)

“This place stinks, that’s all. Diablo at least you get some fresh air. This place, man, the smell is disgusting.”

Yunques nudged Victor. “You want to cut off his thing?”

“What?”

“Labredo. You want to cut off his thing?”

“Why do you want to do that? The man is dead.”

“Hey, sarge. Peña wants to know why we would cut off the faggot’s
thing
.”

“So tell him,” Tito said.

Yunques breathed garlic over Victor again as he spoke. “We shove that little thing in their mouths so people get the message. You understand? People got to get the message. You don’t join no guerrillas, you don’t protest, you don’t strike, you don’t open your mouth against your country. You open your mouth, we shove your dick in it. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good,” Yunques said. “Come on, kids. Let’s take out the trash.”

The landscape before them rippled with black volcanic hills. Tito left the Cherokee’s headlights on bright; they rimmed the hills with silver. Before the war, the area had been a tourist attraction. Victor remembered visiting it as a child. The bald black hills were a striking sight against a blue sky, and there was a hot spring somewhere. But tourists didn’t come to El Playón any more. In daytime the circling buzzards could be seen for miles.

“Pull your kerchief up, man. You’ll need it.”

Yunques pulled his own neckerchief up over his face like a bandit. Victor did the same.

Lopez lifted Labredo by the arms, Yunques and Victor each took a leg. Sergeant Tito led the way with a powerful flashlight. Steam rose into the beam in lush plumes.

“Fuck this. I can’t see a thing.”

Victor stepped on something soft, which suddenly gave way beneath his foot with a snap. Someone’s rib cage. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Yeah, man. The smell is something.”

“No, I stepped on somebody.”

“Well, watch where you step. You’ll stink up the car. Over this way.”

They swung east, and the lights of the city were flung out below them.

Lopez let go, and Labredo’s head hit a rock with a thud.

“Oh, man, the smell. Let’s get out of here.”

The other two let go and they turned back toward the truck. The smell finally flipped Victor’s stomach right over, and he had to yank his kerchief out of the way to vomit.

“Thanks a lot, Peña. Nice touch.”

“He can’t help it,” Lopez said. “First time I was out here, I did the same thing.”

They headed back to the car, Victor watching where he stepped the whole time.

As Tito backed it up, the lights caught on a bleached face here, an outflung arm there. Wisps of steam clung to the rocks like hair.

“I’m sorry I got sick,” Victor said hoarsely. “The smell ….”

“You’ll get used to it,” Yunques said. “Doesn’t take long.”

“You get used to everything,” Lopez said. “It’s incredible what you get used to.”

Next morning, his uncle found him in the guard room. “Not reading for once.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. You won’t have any time for books now. They’re bringing someone in. And this one you’re going to work on with the others. You’re one of the team, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re either with us or you’re with them, understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

FOUR

S
HE WAS BLINDFOLDED
, of course, they were always blind folded. She stood just inside the door, her hands behind her back. She was a skinny woman, taller than Victor, with thin dark hair that hung straight to her shoulders. A large watch with an expandable band hung loosely about one wrist. She was wearing jeans and a tank top. It was cool in the office and there were goose-bumps on her arms.

“First thing you have to learn is intake procedure.” Captain Peña waved a sheaf of forms at Victor. “Whoever picked her up will fill out a report, but you want to take it down first-hand from the—”

“I want to know what are the charges,” the woman said. She had a harsh voice with a catch in it, the voice of a crow.

Captain Peña looked up at her with an appraising glance. “I’ll get to you in just a moment,” he said politely, then turned once more to Victor. “But you still want to take down the prisoner’s version of events, because—”

“You have no right to keep me here. I want to speak to someone in charge.”

“Young lady, you are going about this the wrong way entirely. Two minutes have not gone by and already you are antagonizing me.”

“Why should you be antagonized by a request for just treatment under the law?”

Victor was surprised by her boldness. None of the other prisoners protested this way. Most never spoke at all; to do so was to risk a rifle butt in the ribs.

“Perhaps you don’t realize,” the Captain said gently. “Under Decree 107 you can be detained up to ten days without charges. And you should also know that I run this place.”

“I want to speak to your superior officer. You think this is how law-abiding citizens are to be treated?” Being blindfolded, she addressed her cawing to a space between Victor and his uncle.

“Miss, you will meet the General soon enough,” Captain Peña said. “Please be patient. Actually,” he said, turning to Victor, “I’ve already given you the wrong impression. Normally I don’t have any conversation with a prisoner on intake. It threw me off, her being a woman.”

He got up from his desk and went over to the woman. He took hold of her elbow. “Excuse me,” he said. “You’re right in the doorway here, could you just move over a little bit?”

The woman moved awkwardly a pace or two, her back against the wall. “I would like to speak to a lawyer. I have the right to representation.”

“Could you just move your left foot, please? You know the ‘at ease’ position? I want you to stand at ease.”

The Captain tapped the instep of her left foot with his army boot. She was wearing grubby tennis shoes with red trim. She moved her foot aside so that her feet were about two feet apart.

“Thank you,” said Captain Peña, then kicked her full force between the legs. She fell to her knees and curled up as if she had taken a bullet.

Fear slipped into Victor’s bloodstream like acid.

“The official form of greeting,” his uncle said. “Man, woman, doesn’t matter. You have to let them know right away that here the rules do not apply. This is their welcome to a different universe, where mercy does not exist. You have a problem with that, soldier, you go back and explain to Casarossa.” He shouted for a guard, and Lopez came in. “Put her in a cell, we’ll talk to her later.”

Lopez pulled her roughly to her feet. She was not able to stand upright. She was still gulping for air. Victor suddenly understood another reason for the blindfold: tears would not show.

“Hold it,” the Captain said.

Lopez paused at the door, and Captain Peña reached for the woman’s arm and pulled a watch from her wrist.

“It has a metal band,” he said to Victor. “We don’t want her cutting anything.” When the door had closed, the Captain said, “We’ll give her three days to think about things. We will keep her a little hungry, we will keep her a little cold, and, most important of all, we will keep her a little tired. This will be your responsibility. Three days from now, I want her nerves to be screaming.”

“What has she done? She doesn’t look like a terrorist.”

“You think terrorists look like terrorists? Obviously, the first thing they learn is how to be inconspicuous. Mother of God, if we went by appearances, we’d never catch anybody.”

“Captain, I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

“Not ready? You want to tell Casarossa you’re not ready, I’ll take you over there myself. We are interrogating rebels here—socialist pigs who want to destroy everything we believe in. If you are not ready for that, then as far as I’m concerned you
deserve
to die.”

“But, Captain …. she’s a woman.”

“She is not a woman, she is a terrorist. If we do our job right and get some information out of her, we will save lives. And if you do
your
job right, then by the time we interrogate her we won’t have to use that much pressure. You will save her a lot of pain.”

“First day, you don’t feed her nothing,” Lopez told him. The Captain had instructed Lopez to show Victor the ropes, which seemed to boost the big man’s mood. He was friendlier to Victor than anyone had been since his arrival. “You don’t feed her nothing, understand? You don’t take her to the latrine, you don’t give her no bucket. Nothing. If she speaks, you scream at her to shut up. You never talk, never use your normal voice, always scream. And never use their name, always call them some thing bad: pig, cunt, faggot, whore—doesn’t matter. They have to learn exactly what they’re worth. I’ll be back in a second.”

Lopez went out and Victor remained at the little table facing the corridor of cells. There were eight prisoners in the first cell, ten in the second, and the third, a tiny little chamber hardly six feet square, held only the woman. Across from this there was a solitary cell containing a man named Perez. There was not a sound from any of them.

Victor had not yet recovered from the shock of seeing his uncle kick the woman, hard enough to break the pubic bone you would have thought. He could never have imagined his uncle—so upright, so correct—kicking a woman.

He stood up and yelled, “Blindfold!” The guards always did this, so that any prisoner whose blindfold had slipped could readjust it. And prisoners were anxious to keep the blindfolds in place; to see a guard’s face was certain death.

Victor peered into the first cell, where the prisoners were laid out like sardines, head to feet, on the mattresses on the floor. None of them stirred. The second cell was the same, although at the sound of the peephole opening, one of them moaned for the latrine.

She was curled up on the bed, holding her abdomen. At the sound of the grate she moved her head slightly, but did not speak.

“Soldier!” This was Lopez yelling for him. Guards never called each other by name in front of prisoners. Victor shut the peephole and went back to the table. Lopez was there with a water bucket. “What’s she doing?”

“Nothing. Lying down.”

“Good. Go soak her with this.”

Victor took the bucket without a word. Ice cubes clicked against metal.

“I’ll open the door, you toss it and get out.”

They went down the corridor and Lopez opened the door.

The woman sat up at the sound and waited, breathing through her mouth. Victor hurled the water at her and it caught her right in the chest, completely soaking her shirt, her jeans and the mattress she sat on. She jumped up with a cry and stood gasping.

“Come on, soldier. Don’t hang around.”

Lopez locked the door and Victor followed him back to the guardroom.

“Good shot, man.”

His uncle was away for the afternoon, so Victor felt safe reading. He finished the Steinbeck and moved on to a James Bond story. He didn’t like it, but kept reading to keep his mind off what he had done. Soaking the woman with ice water. Well, it wasn’t torture, he supposed, but he had never done anything mean to a woman in his life. His father and mother had taught him to stand up when a woman entered the room, to offer his seat to a woman on the bus. And now he was expected to soak this prisoner again before he went off duty.

At six, Lopez came from the kitchen with a cart full of the evening meal. The prisoners got beans and tortillas, or beans and bread, always cold. Never anything else, never anything hot.

They passed the food through the slots of cells one and two, and then Lopez said, “Perez don’t get nothing tonight. But we’ll mix up something special for the new bitch.” He went out to the kitchen and came back with a half-pound container of salt. He handed it to Victor. “Go ahead, man. Pour it on.”

Victor poured a few tablespoons into the beans.

“Not like that, man. You got to really pour it on!” Lopez grabbed his wrist and twisted so that salt poured onto the plate in a white heap. “Stir it, man. Mix it in there!”

Victor stirred the mixture until it was thick as plaster. He delivered it to the cell and came back without waiting to see if she ate it.

“We don’t want them to say we don’t feed them.”

“What about Perez?”

“Take him something if you want, he won’t eat it. The sergeant was playing dentist with him this afternoon.”

As if hearing his name, Sergeant Tito arrived for a surprise inspection.

“Blindfold!” He strode right past the guardroom to the cells. He glanced in one after another, not pausing for more than three seconds before any of the doors. “Soldier! Outside!”

Victor followed his sergeant out to the yard. Tito screamed at him. “Your orders are to keep that woman wet at all times. Ice water every two hours. Can you explain why she is dry?” Before Victor could answer, Tito slapped the side of his head. “You going to make up your own rules now? Who do you think you are?” Again the open hand connected with his ear.

Victor’s head was ringing. “No one told me every two hours. I was going to do it again later.”

“You want to take a swim in the tank, Peña?”

“No, sergeant.”

“You want to play a little Submarine?”

“No, sergeant.”

“Then get a bucket and soak that bitch right now. You soak her and you keep her soaked. If that bitch gets so much as thirty seconds of sleep, I’ll cut your prick off, you hear me?”

Victor fetched a bucket of water. The woman backed toward the wall. He didn’t hesitate this time. He threw the water at her, and she shrank from him but made no sound.

His nights in the barracks were miserable. The other members of the squad had their own apartments in the city. That was part of the privilege of working for the squad, you didn’t have to live in barracks, you got to have your own place. But Victor was still on probation. For now, he lived in a tiny room at one end of the little school. It had five sets of iron bunk beds—all, except for his, with mattresses rolled up at one end.

He read late that night; books were the only thing that kept him sane. On his last day off he had ventured into the city and bought a stack of ten American novels from a used-book store. The Hemingway disappointed him because it was set in Europe, not North America, and Faulkner was too difficult. Victor finally settled on a detective novel, and it absorbed him completely. He didn’t have to look up too much vocabulary, and it was set in New York. The story took him from the luxurious apartments on Fifth Avenue to the sweatshops of Chinatown.

When he awoke the next morning, he thought there was a red dog lying on his chest. Try as he might to shift it, the dog would not get off. As his mind cleared, he realized the weight on his chest was fear.

He thought of the new woman prisoner. If
he
felt isolated and fearful, how must
she
feel? She would not have slept. She would have been too cold, too wet, too hungry. He had soaked her thoroughly before he went off duty, and when Yunques relieved him, he had added his own bucket right away. “Tits are too small,” he said with a grimace. Yunques was always saying tough things, but sometimes Victor wondered if he wasn’t putting on a show of bravado. Perhaps Sergeant Tito could be that carelessly cruel, but Victor wondered about Yunques and Lopez. Maybe under the macho talk they were just as scared as he was.

—

“Please. I want to see a lawyer,” the woman said. Victor had just thrown a full bucket of ice water on her, and rivulets streamed down her face. “I have done nothing wrong. I was simply taking food to the church basement.”

Victor stood in the door of her cell, breathing hard. Prisoners were supposed to be struck whenever they spoke. He locked the cell door and went back to the guard room.

She called after him in her unpleasant voice: “And I would like some food, please.”

“Special treat for the new bitch,” Lopez said. “Take a look at this.” He opened the lid of a small cardboard box, revealing the cockroaches.

“You going to put them in her cell?”

“Her cell?” Lopez looked truly puzzled. “Why would we put them in her cell?”

“For a joke?”

“We are not joking here, soldier. You should’ve figured that out by now.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get the hang of things, I’m sure.”

“Put these in her food and serve it to her.”

Victor did as he was told.

“Well?” Lopez said when he came back. “How’d the bitch like it?”

“She felt the bugs,” Victor said. “Then she just put the plate on the floor and lay down again.”

“Really? She didn’t cry or nothing?”

“No.”

“You know, I think she may be a real hard-ass terrorist, this one. Most women scream like a motherfucker when we give them the bug dinner.”

“That doesn’t make her a terrorist.”

“I’ll bet you, Peña. She’s too hard for a civilian.”

The woman didn’t touch any food they brought her that day. When Victor threw the bucket of water at her, she did not cry out, even though he aimed it well to make sure she was good and soaked in case Tito should stick his ugly head in again.

The next day, she ate a plate of heavily salted beans and asked several times for water, but no water was brought to her. Later, when Victor checked on her through the peephole, he saw her sucking water out of her shirt, the way an infant sucks a beloved blanket.

Sergeant Tito came for her that afternoon. “Bring her out, soldier. Don’t tell her nothing what’s going on. She will learn soon enough.”