by Kim Ekemar
Suddenly the radios came alive with urgent news that Charlie was rapidly closing in. No chopper could be sent to us in time to get us out for some reason I never could understand. After a hasty conference Lt. Montana barked orders we should hide the dead and wounded, and then ourselves.
Charlie arrived less than an hour later. There must have been over two hundred of them, and we were hiding in ten or twelve hooches with perhaps seventy villagers as hostages. Our own casualties – two dead, one dying and two wounded – lay hidden among bags of rice and other food supplies behind one of the main buildings. We made the villagers throw dirt and cow dung on the blood left by the dead. Then we propped up the dead Viet Namese inside the huts in such a way that in case the gooks hastily looked inside we hoped they would think they were just going about their normal chores. How naïve. The flap covering the hooch where I hid was drawn aside and two of the Viet Cong looked inside. They jabbered at the people, dead and alive, sitting inside. Then no one spoke. A brief, incredulous pause followed when birds could be heard twittering outside. I lay in the back with my finger on the trigger of my machine gun, covered with a gray filthy blanket stinking of fish. For a brief moment I thought this was the day I was going to die.
One of the elderly villagers finally responded at the questions they had posed. The others just kept their heads low with their eyes on the ground. I don’t know why the VC didn’t spray a burst of bullets through the huts. It was not out of consideration for their own. It was common knowledge that they went after the enemy even if a couple of civilians had to be sacrificed. Perhaps they didn’t realize we were there. Perhaps they had orders not to shoot for political or humanitarian motives, although I doubt it very much. For some obscure reason they walked away and let us slip out of the trap without a single additional casualty.
When they had left Lt. Montana snarled at the remaining villagers to begin burying the bodies of their dead and screamed at us to continue the search for arms. Man, is that Billy Montana always in a mood! There was a lot of weeping, but all considered it was really less than could be expected. They dug a wide pit and begun the heavy task of dragging the dead from the huts. To spread the bodies evenly in the common grave Montana screamed at Ap Noi to translate that they had to swing them before letting go. In all I counted 32 corpses. They finished just in time before the chopper arrived to finally get us out.
We never found the secret cache of weapons. Perhaps the VC left with the arms while we were hiding in the huts, and perhaps that was more important to them than starting a battle with a mere handful of their enemy.
Last diary entry: February 26, 1973 [second entry]
When I came downstairs I heard Xavier remark that he wondered where his sister was. I told him I too found it strange she wasn’t around. I went to look for her. Then I remembered that the Inocencia I had known had never existed. The woman taking her place had been violated and killed. I miss Inocencia’s laughter and her humming in the kitchen during her endless chores. I told Xavier I vaguely remembered hear her saying she would leave early to pick up Dan. Xavier raised an eyebrow, then nodded distractedly to show he had heard me. Now that I noticed I could see that Xavier was extremely jittery this morning. He walked back and forth eyeing the phone that never rang. I suppose he was waiting for some confirmation to act upon. Again and again and again he asked me about his sister in that condescending way of his, snarling with his teeth visible. His thoughts were somewhere else, though, and despite his probing for the whereabouts of his sister I understood it wasn’t very important to him at the moment. I insisted again I was sure I had overheard her mentioning she was going to pick up Dan but not where. He finally dismissed me with a ‘Yes, yes, okay, okay!’ and waved as if I were a bothersome fly. Abruptly he left for the living room, where Lorena was watching TV in a dirty bathrobe that came with a faint but peculiar smell as if she had never bothered to wash it. ‘Where have you left the Greyhound timetable?’ he demanded irritably. As if Lorena had either studied the bus departure times or bothered to tidy the place. Ha ha.
Then the phone suddenly rang and he grabbed it before anyone else would think of it. He began jabber – no, fire away – in staccato Spanish, which I couldn’t follow although I picked up words he repeated, like ‘la merca’ and ‘la plata’.
I left and went to my room to work on my book the rest of the day. The work captivated me so much I didn’t even go downstairs to eat. Well, perhaps I didn’t because I realized Inocencia wasn’t there to prepare it for me. The only time I left my chair was when I heard the entrance door slam distantly. Through the staircase porthole window, I could see Xavier as he trundled down the street, carrying a small suitcase in his right hand and grasping his overcoat by the lapels with the other. The weather was suddenly astonishingly clear. On an impulse I opened my attic window and stuck my head out. The air was still very cold and stung my lungs as I inhaled it. I had a rare view of the port in the slanting rays from an afternoon sun. A ship I had not seen before was steaming into Harbor using the channel through the ice kept open by orders issued from Dan’s office. The brief sunlight will soon be over. From the sea dark clouds are gathering for a renewed attack on Harbor.
Later the doorbell rang, and of course I couldn’t count on Lorena to answer so I went to open the door myself. Judging by the hour, it would be Lockwood insisting on his daily peek at the wonders inside the McPherson household in exchange for our mail. There would be no cocoa for Mr. Lockwood today, I promised myself.
The mailman looked surprised at the information that Inocencia wasn’t around. Intrigued, he eyed the hall from the doorway where I blocked his entrance to the house. He hemmed and hawed for a good while when I insisted that both Inocencia and Dan were away on business. He finally understood he wouldn’t get any special treat and reluctantly handed over the mail. I noticed there was a letter from JP in it. Lockwood had a suspicious air about him when he finally left, I could tell.
I am exhausted from the last days’ work. I tremendously need another night of deep delicious sleep.
The Ship: Chapter VI
THE DEBAUCHERY
The wind howled and hammered through my thin clothing while I tried to decide what to do next. Return to the van? It was of course the only thing left to do. In my present condition, however, I felt uncertain whether I would make it, even if I by some lucky chance could find the van. What held me back was the thought of Oona. I could not, would not, give her up. My weariness and the killing I had witnessed made it hard for me to put together my thoughts. My instincts guided me; I simply had to get on board again.
The same instant my prayer was answered. In the midst of the cacophony of the nasty weather I indistinctly heard what must have been the cabin door being slammed open, and I thought I saw the light from inside the ship. A voice called down for me but I was too tired to distinguish any words. I mustered my last strength and screamed back. The sound that came out was a wordless guttural primitive plea from the depth of my soul, begging to be taken back on board.
The rope ladder bounced down toward me and I felt an indescribable relief at having access to the ship again. Stiff and clumsy I climbed the ladder. The gusts threw me unpredictably back and forth, but I continued with a determination that I did not know I possessed. When I finally reached out for the rail, Porfirio was there to welcome me with a diabolic grin. He allowed me to walk before him into the cabin and the blessed warmth that awaited me.
To the warmth that awaited me, yes, but also a shock. Oona was standing naked in the middle of the room, paralyzed by fear, her eyes bluish-black and wide open. In front of her Gordon danced with unexpected grace, waving some of her garments. His broadly smiling face wore glossy streaks of fat and revealed two uneven rows of brown teeth. He gurgled complacently, ecstatically, goaded on by the men encircling the pair.
“Hurry up, it's my turn after you, it's my turn after you!” Wayne shouted in his thundering voice. He clapped his hands out of time and rocked back and forth.
>
Even the usually wavering gaze of Gary rested steadfastly on Oona. Porfirio maintained his proud carriage with his neck slightly bent backwards. His nostrils, however, fluttered with excitement, and the light in his eyes showed that he was not as unconcerned as he wished to appear. Stuart was the only one who still refused to demonstrate any interest.
Porfirio looked at me and pointed imperiously to a chair in front of Oona. He wanted me to watch Gordon ravish Oona from the front row. I obeyed his order.
Gordon ceased his dancing movements and pulled off his trousers. He wore nothing underneath. Again he danced around Oona. His obscene body was naked except for a greasy undershirt. The pale skin quivered, shimmering blue in the light from the cabin lanterns. Oona stood apathetic before him.
Gordon swayed over to Oona and was about to press his crotch against hers. The same instant his gaze fell on a wine pitcher standing on a table, and he staggered from the woman to the wine. Without bothering to put the vessel to his lips he poured the liquid into his wide-open mouth, but so carelessly that most of it ran down his cheeks and chin. His eyes shone from both wine and desire as they unsteadily sought their way back to Oona's body.
Under his gaze, Oona finally reacted. Like a frightened animal she crouched and retreated towards the corner Stuart earlier had set on fire. With her arms extended she flattened herself against the wall.
Gordon gurgled frantically in what Porfirio had earlier described to be a guffaw. Involuntarily, I moved as if to get up and immediately felt Porfirio's hand on my shoulder.
“Sit, boy, sit – the show has hardly begun. Members of the club, exclusively.” His voice purred with contempt. The concealed threat petrified me.
Gordon again started to dance in circles that became narrower as he closed in on Oona. He still held the pitcher in one of his hands, and with no interruption of his ritual motions he repeatedly drank from it. I glanced up at Porfirio who stood by my side, his grip on my shoulder never easing. I wanted to implore him, he who commanded the events, to allow us some respite, to end the nightmare – to stop the defilement. He found me unworthy to look at. Shoulders pulled back, Porfirio towered over me with an amused smile and with eyes only for Gordon’s shamanistic conjuring.
Wayne's wild screams, applause and demands for his fair share of the woman increased the unreality in the room. Gary had joined in with grunts and foot tapping, but I noticed that his eyes now stole back and forth between Oona and her clothes thrown on the floor. He seemed undecided whether his main interest was the woman or her belongings. Stuart started a new game of solitaire.
Gordon stood in front of Oona, writhing and pushing the lower part of his body towards her. Oona's blue eyes had transformed into dark wells with no expression at all. Her body glistened from small exquisite drops of sweat that made her seem all the more desirable. Gordon held the pitcher to his mouth one last time before he discarded it over his shoulder. It broke in a cascade of shards in front of my feet. Gordon grasped Oona's hair, and through his broken teeth he spattered wine over her face and chest. He gurgled as one possessed.
The wine brought Oona back to her senses, and with a sudden gesture she pulled herself free from Gordon’s grip. She bolted up the stairs to the room adjoined to the cabin. We all turned towards Oona's retreat where an oil lantern could be seen through the window. A great number of maps and books lay in piles on shelves fixed to the wall, giving the impression the room was intended for navigation. The light from the lantern made Oona's movements cast long distorted shadows. She desperately tried to release the hasp that kept the opened door in a locked position. The next moment Gordon was standing next to her and drove her backwards into the navigation room with his gargantuan belly. His obese pallid limbs trembled indecently before us until the wall division between the door and the window obscured them. Then only the flickering shadows of their entwined bodies could be distinguished, grotesque and unreal, on the wall behind.
A wild neigh bordering to madness galloped out of the small room. Gordon gurgled with uncontrollable ecstasy. The victim was caged; the game could be felled – time for the final act. Wayne rushed to the doorway, his immense chest groaning from his heavy breathing. In a loud voice he broadcast everything that Gordon carried out.
Now I could also see through the window what Wayne reported. Gordon was pitilessly pushing the terrified Oona, who kept her crossed arms as a protective shield in front of her, against the wall with its bookcase of maps. My sitting position prevented me from getting a clear view. Porfirio's constant grip around my shoulder admonished me not to do anything that would meet with his disapproval.
Gordon pushed Oona down, and for a brief moment they disappeared out of my sight. Apparently there was some desk next to the bookcase. Gordon’s thrusting upper body quickly reappeared in the window, wobbling with contentment. Ecstatic, Wayne relished in relating the details of how Gordon violated Oona in every imaginable way.
The rape lasted half an hour, if not longer. During the whole time the sounds of Gordon’s gurgles and Wayne's droning voice carried over the storm. Oona's silence was heartrending. Now and then Gordon forced her to shift position, which made them alternately visible in the window frame. She kept her eyes closed and her face passive. Wayne's descriptive words became mingled with exasperated demands to take over the woman. Agitated he began to pace about in the doorway. Gordon ignored Wayne's goading. He was frantically concentrated on his abuse of Oona in the most humiliating ways. Increasingly he used physical violence. Tearing at her hair, he forced her head backwards and then sank his teeth into her bared throat. He bored his fingers with their long, soiled nails into her breasts and clawed deep furrows which rapidly reddened with blood. The blood seemed to stimulate him and he greedily drank the droplets. Oona moaned in agony and hopelessness and utter despair.
Finally, a roar rose from Gordon overriding all other sounds. Porfirio dispassionately made a snide remark that Gordon’s orgasm was obviously close at hand. Oona was the one framed by the window as, unseeing and unresisting, she straddled the howling Gordon. Gordon released a new prolonged scream. In the yellowish light from the oil lantern we could see Gordon’s arm being raised. The hand gripped the same knife Everett had used to hack Lewis to death.
Although the motion was too rapid for anyone’s reaction, every microsecond of the act became etched on my mind. In a perfect parabola the knife pierced the air with the blade swimming in yellow light. The impact with which Gordon slit the throat of the unprepared woman was immense, and for a short while everything was still, and for a while everything inside the ship was silent while the blood on the window blotted out Oona’s beautiful face forever.
The seconds that followed felt like a flock of ravens clawing with their talons inside my chest. I heard how Gordon shoved the dead woman's body off his own and land on the floor with a dull thud. I could see how the passion of the others cooled with each beat of the heart, and how their passing yearning turned into disinterested detachment. Gordon was responsible for the only sounds uttered, a strange mixture of screeches and his eccentric complacent gurgling.
Everybody in the room must have been affected by the murder, but I was the one who had anything to fear. I had followed the performance with the same fascination as the others, but it had been a fascination filled with dread and distaste and nausea. I had been unable to do anything but accept the role of the spectator, because I had been ordered to. The repugnance I felt at what I had witnessed was with every heartbeat enhanced with the terror of what would befall me, the sole survivor of the trespassers. I trembled beneath the relentless grip in which Porfirio kept me captive. In that instant desperation, revulsion and uncurbed fear for my own life permeated my whole being.
Gordon appeared in doorway where he stretched and yawned. Sweaty, bloodied, with odors and body fluids stuck to him, he elbowed his way past the open-mouthed Wayne and waddled into the cabin. Unconcerned, he scratched his crew haircut and studied the table where he had previously taken hi
s meal. Ignoring the rest of us he placed two fingers into the congealed lard on a platter and greedily licked them.
Wayne stirred nervously behind Gordon. His constant swallowing made his breath irregular. Evidently he made an effort to gather his impressions into a clearly expressed thought instead of a fit of rage. His failure to do so became obvious when a horrible grimace distorted his dark red face.
Porfirio noticed this and let out a short laugh. ‘Gordon certainly knows how to reach a high point,’ he said in a meaningful voice.
Gordon sat down and nodded thoughtfully, never ceasing licking his fingertips.
“But then again, from the summit the only way is downhill”, Porfirio concluded.
Then Wayne's patience snapped.
February 27, 1973
Transcript from the police interrogation of Paul Crimson, taped on March 2, 1973
A distant but insistent ringing of the doorbell woke me up. I looked at my watch as I descended the stairs and realized it was past one o’clock in the afternoon. From previous experience I knew that Lorena wouldn’t bother to answer the door, no matter how persistent the caller was. Since she rarely left the house I assumed that no one else was around except for she and I.
The caller was Mr. Pringle from the bank. I couldn’t avoid noticing his quick reproach of my ruffled hair and that I was still in pajamas. He chose to ignore these unfavorable facts about me, however, because it was obvious he had more important things on his mind.
“Paul. Paul Crimson. Just the one I wanted to see!” There was this hypocritical note in his purring voice to convince me of my importance. I gathered he had to come about the investment account he had insisted I should open with his bank. He briefly referred to some old bank statements of mine when my book earnings were good, and I suppose he thought things had only gone uphill ever since.
