by Puig, Manuel
CHAPTER 8
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MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR OF THE ARGENTINE REPUBLIC
Penitentiary of the City of Buenos Aires
Report to the Warden, prepared by Staff Assistants
Prisoner 3018, Luis Alberto Molina
Sentenced July 20, 1974, by the Honorable Judge Justo José Dalpierre, Criminal Court of the City of Buenos Aires. Condemned to eight years imprisonment for corruption of minors. Lodged in Pavilion B, cell 34, as of July 28, 1974, with sexual offenders Benito Jaramillo, Mario Carlos Bianchi, and David Margulies. Transferred on April 4, 1975, to Pavilion D, cell 7, housing political prisoner Valentin Arregui Paz. Conduct good.
Detainee 16115, Valentin Arregui Paz
Arrested October 16, 1972, along Route 5, outside Barrancas, National Guard troops having surrounded group of activists involved in promoting disturbances with strikers at two automotive assembly plants. Both plants situated along said highway. Held under Executive Power of the Federal Government and awaiting judgment. Lodged in Pavilion A, cell 10, with political prisoner Bernardo Giacinti as of November 4, 1974. Took part in hunger strike protesting death of political prisoner Juan Vicente Aparicio while undergoing police interrogation. Moved to solitary confinement for ten days as of March 25, 1975. Transferred on April 4, 1975, to Pavilion D, cell 7, with sexual offender Luis Alberto Molina. Conduct reprehensible, rebellious, reputed instigator of above hunger strike as well as other incidents supposedly protesting lack of hygienic conditions in Pavilion and violation of personal correspondence.
GUARD: Remove your cap in front of the Warden.
PRISONER: Yes, sir.
WARDEN: No need to be trembling like that, young man, nothing bad is going to happen to you here.
GUARD: Prisoner has been thoroughly searched and has nothing dangerous on his person, sir.
WARDEN: Thank you, Sergeant. Be good enough to leave me alone with the prisoner now.
GUARD: Shall I remain stationed in the hallway, sir? With your permission, sir.
WARDEN: That will do fine, Sergeant, you may go out now . . . You look thin, Molina, what’s the matter?
PRISONER: Nothing, sir. I was sick to my stomach, but I’m feeling much better now.
WARDEN: Then stop your trembling . . . There’s nothing to be afraid of. We made it look like you had a visitor today. Arregui couldn’t possibly suspect anything.
PRISONER: No, he doesn’t suspect anything, sir.
WARDEN: Last night I had dinner at home with your sponsor, Molina, and he brought me some good news for you. Which is why I had you summoned to my office today. Oh, I know it’s rather soon . . . or have you learned something already?
PRISONER: No, sir, nothing yet. I feel I need to proceed very cautiously in this kind of situation . . . But what did Mr. Parisi have to say?
WARDEN: Very good news, Molina. It seems your mother is feeling a lot better, since he spoke to her about the possibility of a pardon . . . She’s practically a new person.
PRISONER: Really? . . .
WARDEN: Of course, Molina, what would you expect? . . . But stop your crying, what’s this? You should be pleased . . .
PRISONER: It’s from happiness, sir . . .
WARDEN: But come on now . . . Don’t you have a handkerchief?
PRISONER: No, sir, but I can just use my sleeve, it’s no problem.
WARDEN: Take my handkerchief at least . . .
PRISONER: No, I’m really okay. Please excuse me.
WARDEN: You know, Parisi is like a brother to me, and it was his interest in you that led us to come up with the present option, but Molina . . . we’re expecting you to know how to manage things. Do you seem to be making any headway, or what?
PRISONER: I think I’m getting somewhere . . .
WARDEN: Was it helpful to have him weakened physically, or no?
PRISONER: Actually I had to eat the prepared food the first time.
WARDEN: Why? That was certainly a mistake . . .
PRISONER: No, it wasn’t, because he doesn’t like rice, and since one plate had more than the other . . . he insisted I have the bigger portion, and it would have been suspicious had I refused. I know you warned me that the prepared one would come in a new tin plate, but they loaded it up so much I had to eat it myself.
WARDEN: Well, good work, Molina. I commend you, and I’m sorry about the mixup.
PRISONER: That’s why I look so thin. I was sick for two days.
WARDEN: And Arregui, how’s his morale? Have we managed to soften him up a little? What’s your opinion?
PRISONER: Yes, but it’s probably a good idea to let him begin to recover now.
WARDEN: Well, that I don’t know, Molina. I think the matter had best be left to our discretion. We have here appropriate techniques at our disposal.
PRISONER: But if he gets any worse there’s no way he can remain in his cell, and once he’s taken to the infirmary, there’s no chance left for me.
WARDEN: Molina, you underestimate the proficiency of our personnel here. They know exactly how to proceed in these matters. Weigh your words, my friend.
*
PRISONER: Excuse me, sir, I only want to cooperate. Nothing else . . .
WARDEN: Of course. Now another thing—don’t give out the slightest hint about a pardon. Hide any sign of euphoria when you go back into your cell. How are you going to explain this visit?
PRISONER: I don’t know. Perhaps you can suggest something, sir.
WARDEN: Tell him your mother came, how does that sound?
PRISONER: No, sir, impossible, not that.
WARDEN: Why not?
PRISONER: Because my mother always brings some bags of food for me.
WARDEN: We have to come up with something to justify your euphoria, Molina. That’s definite. I know now, we can requisition some groceries for you, and pack them up the same way, how does that strike you?
PRISONER: Fine, sir.
WARDEN: This way we can also repay you for your sacrifice, over that plate of rice. Poor Molina!
PRISONER: Well, my mother buys everything in the supermarket a few blocks from the prison, so as not to have to carry everything on the bus.
WARDEN: But it’s easier for us to requisition everything from supplies. We can make the package up right here.
PRISONER: No, it would look suspicious. Please don’t. Get them to go to that market, it’s just down the street.
WARDEN: Wait just a minute . . . Hello, hello . . . Gutierrez, come into my office a moment, will you please.
PRISONER: My mother always brings me the stuff packed in two brown shopping bags, one for each hand. They pack it for her at the store, so she can manage everything.
WARDEN: All right . . . Yes, over here. Look, Gutierrez, you’ll have to go buy a list of groceries which I’m going to give you, and wrap them up in a certain way. The prisoner will give you instructions, and it all has to be done in . . . let’s say half an hour. Take out a voucher and have the sergeant go make the purchases with you according to the prisoner’s instructions. Molina, you dictate whatever you think your mother would be likely to bring you . . .
PRISONER: To you, sir?
WARDEN: Yes, to me! And quickly, I have other things to attend to.
PRISONER: . . . Guava paste, in a large package . . . Make it two packages. Canned peaches, two roast chickens, still warm, obviously. A large bag of sugar. Two boxes of tea, one regular and the other camomile. Powdered milk, condensed milk, detergent . . . a small box, no, a large box, of Blanco, and four cakes of toilet soap, Suavísimo . . . and what else? . . . Yes, a big jar of pickled herring, and let me think a little, my mind’s a complete blank . . .
CHAPTER 9
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—Look what I’ve got!
—No! . . . your mother came? . . .
—Yes!!!
—But how great . . . Then she’s feeling better.
—Mmm-hmm, a little better . . . And look at what she brought for me. I mean, for us.
—Thanks, but all of that’s for you, no kidding.
—You be quiet, you’re convalescing, remember? Starting today a new life begins . . . The sheets are almost dry, feel . . . and all this food to eat. Look, two roast chickens, two, how about that? And chicken is perfect, it won’t upset your stomach at all. Watch how fast you get better now.
—No, I won’t let you do that.
—Please take them. I don’t care for chicken anyway. I’ll just be glad to do without any more stink from you and your barnyard . . . No, seriously, you have to stop eating that damn stuff they feed us here. Then you’ll start feeling better in no time. At least try it for a couple of days.
—You think so? . . .
—Absolutely. And once you’re better then . . . close your eyes, Valentin. See if you can guess . . . Come on, try . . .
—How do I know? I don’t know . . .
—No peeking. Wait, I’ll let you handle it to see whether you can guess.
—Here . . . feel.
—Two of them . . . packages . . . and heavy ones. But I give up.
—Open your eyes.
—Guava paste!
—But you have to wait for that, until you feel okay, and you can be sure you only get half of that . . . I also took a chance and left the sheets alone to dry . . . and nobody walked away with them, how about that? They’re just about dry. So tonight we both have clean sheets.
—Nice going.
—Just give me a minute while I put this stuff away . . . And then I’ll make some camomile tea because my nerves are killing me, and you, you have a leg of this chicken. Or no, it’s only five o’clock . . . Better you just have some tea with me, and some crackers here, they’re easier to digest. Delicadas, see? The ones I had as a kid whenever I was sick . . . before they came out with Criollitas.
—How about one right now, Molina?
—Okay, just one, with a dab of jam, but orange for the digestion. It’s lucky, almost everything she brought is easy to digest, so you can have lots of it. Except for the guava paste . . . for the time being. Let me light the burner and presto, in a few minutes you’ll be licking your fingers.
—But the leg of chicken, may I have it now?
—Come on, a little self-control . . . Let’s save it for later, so when they bring us dinner you won’t be tempted, because, lousy as it is, you gorge yourself every time.
—But you don’t realize, my stomach feels so empty when the pains stop that it’s like all of a sudden I’m starving.
—One minute, let’s get this straight. I expect you to eat the chicken, no, chickens, both of them. On condition, though, that you don’t touch the prison chow, which is making you so sick. Is it a deal?
—Okay . . . But what about you? I won’t let you just sit around and drool.
—I won’t, cold food doesn’t tempt me, really.
—Oh, it definitely agreed with me. And what a good idea to have camomile tea first.
—Calmed your nerves, didn’t it? Same with me.
—And the chicken was delicious, Molina. To think we have enough for two more days still.
—Well, it’s true. Now you sleep a little, and that will complete your cure.
—I’m not really sleepy. You go ahead and sleep. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.
—But don’t you start dwelling again on some nonsense like before, or it’ll interfere with your digestion.
—What about you? Are you sleeply?
—More or less.
—Because there is one thing that’s still lacking to complete the usual program.
—Christ, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be degenerate here.
—No, no kidding. We should have a film now, that’s what’s missing.
—Ah, I see . . .
—Do you remember any others like the panther woman? That’s the one I liked best.
—Well sure, I know lots of supernatural ones.
—So let’s hear, tell me, like what?
—Oh . . . Dracula . . . The Wolf Man . . .
—What else?
—And there’s one about a zombie woman . . .
—That’s it! That sounds terrific.
—Hmm . . . how does it start? . . .
—Is it American?
—Yeah, but I saw it eons ago.
—So? Do it anyway.
—Well, let me concentrate a minute.
—And the guava paste, when do I get to taste it?
—Tomorrow at the earliest, not before.
—Just one spoonful? For now?
—No. And better I start the film . . . Let me see, how does it go? . . . Oh, that’s it. Now I remember. It begins with some girl from New York taking a steamer to an island in the Caribbean where her fiance is waiting to marry her. She seems like a very sweet kid, and full of big dreams, telling everything about herself to this ship’s captain, really a handsome guy, and he’s just staring down at the black waters of the ocean, because it’s night, and next thing he looks at her as if to say, “This poor kid has no idea what she’s getting herself into,” but he doesn’t say anything until they’ve already reached the island, and you hear some native drums and she’s like transported, and then the captain says don’t let yourself be taken in by the sound of those drums, because they can often as not be the portents of death . . . cardiac arrest, sick old woman, a heart fills up with black seawater and drowns
—police patrol, hideout, tear gas, door opens, submachine-gun muzzles, black blood of asphyxiation gushing up in the mouth Go on, why did you stop?
—So this girl is met by her husband, whom she’s married by proxy, after only knowing each other a few days in New York. He’s a widower, also from New York. Anyway, the arrival on the island, when the boat’s docking, is divine, because her fiancé is right there waiting for her with a whole parade of donkey carts, decorated with flowers, and in a couple of carts there’s a bunch of musicians, playing nice soft tunes on those instruments which look like some kind of table made up out of little planks, that they whack with sticks and, well, I don’t know why, but that kind of music really gets to me, because the notes sound so sweet on that instrument, like little soap bubbles that go popping one after another. And the drums have stopped, fortunately, because they’d sounded like a bad omen. And the two of them arrive at the house; it’s pretty far from town, off in the countryside, under the palm trees, and it’s such a gorgeous island with just some low hills, and you’re way out in the middle of these banana groves. And the fiancé is so very pleasant, but you can tell there’s a real drama going on inside him; he smiles too much, like someone with a weak character. And then you get this clue, that something’s wrong with him, because the first thing the fiancé does is introduce the girl to his majordomo, who’s around fifty or so, a Frenchman, and this majordomo asks him right then and there to sign a couple of papers, about shipping out a load of bananas on the same boat that the girl arrived on, and the fiancé tells him he’ll do it later, but the majordomo, he’s like insistent about it, and the fiancé looks at him with eyes full of hatred, and while he’s busy signing the papers you notice how he can hardly keep his hand steady to write, it’s trembling so much. Anyhow, it’s still daylight, and the whole welcome party, which rode back there in those little flowery carts, is out back in the garden waiting to toast the new couple, and they’re all holding glasses full of fruit juice, and at this point you notice the arrival of a couple of black peons, sort of delegates from the sugarcane plantations, with a keg of rum to honor the master, but the majordomo sees them too and looks furiously at them, and grabs an ax that happens to be lying around, and he chops away at the keg of rum until it all pours out on the ground.
—Please, no more talk about food or drinks.
—And don’t you be so impressionable then, crybaby. Anyhow, the girl turns to the fiancé as if to ask him why all the hysterics, but just then he’s busy nodding to the majordomo how that’s exactly what he should do, and so, without wasting any more
time, the fiancé raises his glass of fruit juice and toasts the islanders there before him, because the next morning the two of them will be married, as soon as they go sign the papers at some government office there on the island. But that night the girl has to stay by herself, in the house, because he has to go to the farthest banana plantation on the whole island in order to show his gratitude to the peons and, by the way, to avoid any gossip and thus protect the girl’s good name. The moon is marvelous that night, and the garden surrounding the house just stunning, with all those fabulous tropical plants which seem more fantastic than ever, and the girl has on a white satin chemise, under just this loose peignoir, it’s white too but transparent, and she’s tempted to take a look around the house, and she walks through the living room, and then into the dining room, and twice she comes across those folding type of frames with a picture of the fiance on one side but with the other side blank, because the photo is gone, which must have been the first wife, the dead one. Then she wanders around the rest of the house, and goes into some bedroom which you can tell was once for a woman, because of the lace doilies on the night table and on top of the dresser, and the girl starts rummaging through all the drawers to see if some photograph might still be around but doesn’t find anything, except hanging in the closet are all the clothes from the first wife, all of them incredibly fine imports. But at this point the girl hears something move, and she spots a shadow passing by the window. It scares the daylights out of her and she goes out into the garden, all lit up with moonlight, and sees a cute little frog jumping into the pond, and she thinks that was the noise she heard, and that the shadow was probably just the swaying of the palm trees in the breeze. And she walks still.farther into the garden, because it feels so stuffy back in the house, and just then she hears something else, but like footsteps, and she spins around to see, but right at that moment some clouds blot out the moon, and the garden gets all black. And at the same time, off in the distance . . . drums. And you also hear more steps, this time clearly, and they’re coming toward her, but very slowly. The girl is suddenly quaking with fear, and sees a shadow entering the house, through the same exact door that she’d left open. So the poor thing can’t even make up her mind which is scarier at this point, to stay out there in that incredibly dark garden, or to go back into the house. Well, she decides to get closer to the house, where she peeks in through one of the windows but she doesn’t see a thing, and then she hurries to another window, which turns out to look in on the dead wife’s bedroom. And since it’s so dark she can’t make out much more than like a shadow gliding across the room, a tall silhouette, moving with outstretched hands, and fingering all the knickknacks lying around inside there, and right next to the window is the dresser with the doily and, on top of that, a really beautiful brush with the handle all worked in silver, and a mirror with the same kind of handle, and since the girl is right up against the window she can make out a very thin deathly pale hand, fingering all the bric-a-brac, and the girl feels frozen on the spot, too terrified to even budge; the walking corpse, the treacherous somnambula, she talks in her sleep and confesses everything, the quarantined patient overhears her, he’s loath to touch her, her skin is deathly white but now she sees the shadow gliding out of the room and toward who knows what part of the house, until after a tiny bit she hears footsteps out there on the patio once more, and the girl shrinks back, trying to hide in all those vines clinging to the walls of the house when the cloud finally passes by so that the moon comes back out again and the patio’s lit up once again and there in front of the girl is this very tall figure wearing a long black duster, who scares her half to death, the pale face of a dead woman, with a head of blond hair all matted up and hanging down to her waist. The girl wants to scream for help but there’s no more voice left in her, and she starts backing away slowly, because her legs don’t work anymore, they’re just rubber. The woman is staring straight at her, but all the same it’s like she doesn’t see her, with this lost look, a madwoman, but her arms stretch out to touch the girl, and she keeps moving ahead very slowly, and the girl is backing away, but without realizing that right behind her there’s a row of dense hedges, and when she turns around and finally realizes how she’s cornered she lets out a terrible scream, but the other one keeps right on coming, with her arms outstretched, until the girl faints dead away from terror. At that point someone grabs hold of the weirdo lady. It’s that the kindly old black woman has arrived. Did I forget to mention her? a black nurse, old and kindly, a day nurse, at night she leaves the critically ill patient alone with a white nurse, a new one, exposing her to contagion
