Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  Today he didn’t mind though. He wanted to get to the docks first thing. He sat on the edge of his bunk and gathered his trousers and felt for the hidden pocket stitched on the inside. Banknotes crinkled under the fabric. He pulled on the trousers and snapped on his braces. Before slipping on his shoes he stood on the ends; something his fellow roommates did - for the scorpions, they claimed - though he’d never seen one.

  Perry left, startling a brace of cockroaches in the corridor, sending them darting into holes in the wall. Slimy alien things they were, double the size of the ones he’d seen in England. He went down the rickety stairs and out into the open air.

  It was a fine morning, likely to be another scorcher. Down the street a couple of men stumbled past, leaning on one another, staggering this way and that until they landed in a heap of laughter on the floor. It made him feel good, seeing two friends like that. It reminded him of the boys and Joel.

  At the end of the street he turned onto Defensa. The street had short orange trees planted in rows along the pavement. The houses were mostly three-storey, stacked in a neat line on either side of the road with brightly painted shutters over the windows and balconies. Mud, fish and salt on the breeze were signs enough that the Rio de la Plata was only a few blocks away.

  A pony and trap trotted down the street towards him. On the back was a stack of sick-looking carrots covered in flies. They looked awful, but he still found himself salivating. He was saving hard and had skipped dinner the night before, but he knew he had better eat something. A block further there was a cheap patisserie he knew, and he bought two croissants. They were still warm, and he ripped one open, letting steam puff heavenwards from the white flesh within. He stuffed it in his mouth, salty, buttery and delicious.

  When he arrived at the port, he was surprised how busy it was - being so early. Two passenger liners were being loaded and the docks were hectic with people. He threaded his way through porters wheeling luggage and passengers. At the ticket office, he was brought up short.

  The queue was so long that there were people snaking around the pillars. Perhaps he should have come even earlier or not stopped at the patisserie. All the same, the prices were notoriously unstable and he wasn’t about to wait in line only to find out he didn’t have enough. He pushed his way to the front, cutting between the lines.

  ‘My brother’s at the front,’ he lied in his best Spanish and pushed and barged his way until he was close enough to the counter window. From there he could see the poster advertising the passenger liner he wanted. It was like a long black nose coming out of the picture, backdropped with orange sun-rays. The price advertised for Southampton was the equivalent of thirty-six pesos for Steerage, two higher than a month ago. That would take him another three weeks to put aside! Why could they not just keep the prices steady for a while, give him a fighting chance. He bunched his fists up in anger.

  ‘Hey, get in line, there’s a queue here!’ someone yelled. Perry barged past him, face hot with anger.

  ‘I was just checking the prices you idiot.’

  ‘Idiot? Me? You didn’t need to go to the counter to find that out, they’re listed over there!’

  A few of the crowd within earshot laughed and Perry shoved his way back out. When he got to the railings he gave them a kick.

  ‘Damn it!’ he seethed. He took a deep breath, tried to calm down. Three or four more weeks, he told himself. Just be patient.

  The following day, Perry went to church. It was standing room only at the back. Rain pattered on the roof and dripped from the eaves. The priest’s voice was deep and it was hard to gather up his words, but it hardly mattered, he had nowhere better to be.

  That afternoon he visited three other lodging houses on America Street. They were all more or less in the same state of disrepair as his. One had a proper toilet but was an extra peso a week. The next was marginally cheaper but had an unnerving number of flies and mosquitos. Begrudgingly he had to accept that his current lodgings were probably best for his current means.

  In the evening he took his turn to bathe. The bathroom was shared with the lodging house next door. It was cramped the air clammy with rot; but it did have a tin bath - just like the one he’d used at Mrs Donnegan’s. He’d washed in the river a week ago, but it was a fortnight since he’d had a proper bath and he was black as a beetle. He folded himself up; knees tucked to his chin and scrubbed his skin hard with a brush. He cleaned himself thorough. He wasn’t like the other lodgers, scabbed by pox and reddened with infected callouses. When he got out he towelled down until his skin was pink and raw. The tin bath lapped with water, black and oily.

  The next day, he had oatmeal for breakfast and headed to Julio station for work. The summer shower had left few puddles of evidence as he approached the freight station. A couple of labourers were standing at the gate.

  ‘Buen día,’ Perry greeted, but the men glared at him, giving no reply. He didn’t know what their problem was. Dozens of dockworkers filled the platform, chatting about their weekends. He picked out Vázquez talking to the Italians. Perry grinned at him and walked over.

  ‘Buenos…’ he trailed off, aware of his own voice. Had he said it too loud? All of the workers on the platform were silent and they were all looking directly at him.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Vázquez grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from the others.

  ‘What the hell are you doing coming back here?’ he hissed.

  ‘Campi gave me the work, why is everyone staring at me?’

  ‘You should get out of here. Run!’ Vázquez’s eyes were wild.

  Perry shook his arm free, ‘Run? I’m not running from anyone. And anyway, why the hell should I?’

  ‘Don’t act stupid, it won’t help. You’re a fool to come back. They know it was you.’

  He had no idea what Vázquez was talking about, but it was clearly no joke. The staring men tipped him into panic. He sized up the exit, a few feet away.

  ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

  A whistle sounded. Vázquez took a few steps back, as if Perry had The Sick.

  ‘Vázquez?’ Perry pleaded. ‘What is it?’ he looked around the other men on the platform.

  The whistle sounded again, accompanied by the march of heavy boots and a rough hand landed on his shoulder.

  19

  Two guards yanked him along the platform. Perry was too confused to struggle; what could he have done to deserve this? His feet scuffed along the concourse, he racked his brains. He didn’t have any papers; technically he’d arrived in Argentina as a stowaway - but why now? He’d been here nine months without any bother.

  The guards shoved him in the station office. Perry regained his footing and noted Campi, the foreman; sat with his arms crossed, a dark frown burying his features. Leaning on a filing cabinet was someone he didn’t recognise: a tall bespectacled man in a black coat. He sensed the silence of a conversation interrupted.

  ‘So this is Señor Scrimshaw?’ the tall fellow addressed foreman Campi, his accent strange.

  ‘Yes Inspector Saldrup. It was him.’

  ‘Inspector? What was me?’ said Perry, exasperated.

  The inspector took off his spectacles, breathed on each lens in turn, rubbed them with his shirt and put them on to better appraise Perry.

  ‘Were you the last person to visit the warehouse on Friday?’ he asked in English,

  Perry felt all eyes in the room appraising him, looking for some sort of give away. But there was nothing to give away. There was just the truth of it.

  ‘Aye,’ he said slowly. ‘And what of it?’

  ‘You see! He admits it!’ burst Campi.

  The inspector held up a hand. ‘He admits to being the last at the warehouse. No more.’

  ‘What’s happened to the warehouse then?’

  ‘Come with me,’ the inspector said.

  Campi also rose from his chair but the inspector motioned for him to sit down. ‘Not you, I’ll take him alo
ne.’

  Perry followed him outside. The workers were at the other end of the platform, lining up the barrows for the 8 o'clock. He was glad he didn't have to face them again.

  The inspector led him onto the trackside pathway, Perry kept close behind. He tracked the rail line to the horizon and saw what looked like a black coat button in the distance. It was the face of the 8 o’clock locomotive coming in.

  ‘Mister?’ Perry said, ‘I have no idea what this is about, so how could it be me?’

  ‘Mister? It’s Inspector Niels Saldrup if you please. And I don’t know what to think yet. I’m still gathering the facts.’

  Perry traipsed after him. A long hoot piped out from the train.

  ‘Saldrup. Where are you from then?’

  ‘Denmark,’ the inspector called back.

  The first of the warehouses opened up ahead. The train was a football pitch away. Perry glanced back. The guards were on the platform, not watching. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  ‘Denmark?’ Perry raised his voice over the din of the approaching train. ‘Where’s that then?’

  There were tufts of overgrown grass around the tracks. On the far side, he made out some small outbuildings. If he could make it that far there were plenty of hiding places; some factories, a stable and more warehouses. If things were really desperate he could always take his chances swimming in the Rio de la Plata.

  ‘Europe,’ the Inspector turned to face him. ‘Really, you’ve never heard of Denmark?’

  ‘No.’

  The train was metres away. The trailing hoppers must have been a kilometre long. Head starts didn't get much better. Perry reckoned he was fast enough to make it across the tracks before the train passed and cut off the gangly Inspector. His knees twitched under his trousers. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to spring across the tracks.

  ‘Perry?’

  If they caught him he'd surely be done for, but the way he had come in that morning, the way the men had looked at him, the way Campi had insisted that it was him all felt like he was being set up for a fall. It was now or never.

  ‘Perry? Are you coming?’

  He didn’t move, and then the locomotive was there, rumbling past. The air billowed out of him. He’d missed his chance. Inwardly he cursed himself, with the train now blocking him - it felt like the wrong choice. He gulped and met the Inspector’s scrutiny.

  ‘Yes, I’m coming.’

  Perry and Inspector Saldrup approached the warehouse door.

  ‘So, what do you see?’

  The padlock was fastened, the swing door shut. ‘Just as I left it on Friday.’

  Inspector Niels Saldrup sniffed, took out a set of keys.

  ‘And is this the same padlock used on Friday?’

  Perry grabbed it, weighed it in his palm. ‘I think so. I mean I didn't really look that closely.’

  ‘How sure are you that you locked it?’

  ‘Not an ounce of doubt. I checked it twice. It was the first time I'd ever done it you see.’

  ‘Really?’

  Perry jumped on the curiosity. ‘I was surprised too. I'm a casual worker, not permanent like some of these. I was last picking up my wages and foreman Campi offered me another week's work, said what a good worker I was and asked me to lock up.’

  ‘Curious,’ the inspector said and unlocked the padlock, ‘Let’s take a look inside.’

  Perry pushed his way in. ‘What the-? Is this some sort of joke?’

  The place was stacked high with lemon crates.

  ‘What do you mean boy?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking to myself, why would anyone nick a load of lemons? It must be a nightmare to shift that lot, hardly worth all that much. And we come in here and the lemon crates are all in here. So what’s with the interrogation, the guards? Nothing’s been nicked! I locked the bloody padlock, but even if I hadn’t there’s nothing gone!’

  The inspector’s arms were crossed.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

  Perry swept the room again. ‘We’d have to do a count to be sure I guess, but it doesn’t look like we’re missing much if any.’

  ‘Eight crates. We’re missing eight crates.’

  Perry grabbed a tuft of his hair and pulled it in exasperation. ‘Has someone lost their marbles? They called in an inspector for eight measly crates! That’s barely a hopper. All this fuss for a few lemons? It…’

  And then he realised. He was right. It didn’t make sense. ‘This can’t really be about lemons. What was in those crates?’

  The inspector’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know. But they were of great value to Sr. Villanueva.’

  ‘Well if I’m being accused of something, I’ve got a right to know what it is I’m supposed to have done.’

  Saldrup looked at him flatly, ‘You have no rights.’

  His mind fizzed - the more he thought about it, the more the whole thing didn’t add up. The padlock hadn’t been tampered with. He knew he’d locked it.

  ‘Who else has a key?’ Perry asked.

  ‘Señor Villanueva and foreman Campi have the only two. It was Sr. Villanueva who brought me in and Campi has an alibi for the whole weekend.’

  Which left what? Just the word of a young, foreign casual worker with no papers. An easy scapegoat.

  They left the warehouse and returned up the path. Perry tried to gauge whether the inspector suspected him or not, but he was a difficult man to read.

  ‘If I was involved, why would I turn up for work this morning?’

  ‘Either a clever bluff. Or you’re innocent,’ said Saldrup, ‘I think I can rule out the third option: stupidity.’

  ‘A flatterer. I could be thick as a plank for all you know.’

  ‘Well when I walked you along the path you chose not to run. That was a test. A guilty man tends to run.’

  Perry blushed. Had it really been that obvious? He was suddenly celestially glad he had not made a break for it.

  Back in the station office, Campi looked like he’d barely moved since they’d left. Perry felt better, but Campi’s hostile stare put him back on edge. It was clear where he laid the blame.

  In clipped Spanish, the inspector said:

  ‘Creo que dice la verdad.’

  I believe he’s telling the truth.

  No words had ever sounded so sweet. But the foreman was firmly shaking his head in disagreement.

  Perry felt he had to defend himself, ‘Why do you think it was me?’

  ‘I had the key all weekend. It had to be you. Someone must have paid you to leave the padlock unclasped. The thieves got in and then they sealed the padlock when they got what they wanted.’

  ‘But who would have known that I was locking the warehouse? I’d never done it before and you asked me to lock it on the spur of the moment.’

  Campi’s expression slackened an instant as the point landed. Perry smiled triumphantly at the inspector. Saldrup had a quizzical look on his face; Perry hoped he was seeing the foreman in a new light.

  Campi’s face darkened, ‘Have you even searched this smartmouth?’ he barked at Saldrup.

  The inspector shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to?’

  Saldrup looked at him apologetically. ‘If you wouldn’t mind Perry? I imagine you have nothing to hide.’

  ‘No. Go ahead,’ Perry said.

  Saldrup called in the guards. They patted him down, and felt in his pockets. A few coins, a piece of string, a handkerchief.

  Campi watched on, a dissatisfied grimace on his face.

  ‘When are you going to get it? I’ve not done anything wrong.’

  ‘I think we may let him go now,’ the inspector said.

  ‘Take off your shirt and trousers,’ commanded Campi.

  ‘For God’s sake, haven’t we put this poor lad through enough today?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Perry slid off his braces and unbuttoned his shirt. He lifted his arms up and twirled around. ‘See, not hi
ding anything.’

  ‘And the trousers.’

  Perry slid them off and kicked them onto the floor. Wearing only his pants, he suddenly felt embarrassed and cupped his hands over his privates.

  The guards smirked.

  Campi knelt down and gathered up the trousers and ran his hand along the lining. Perry felt the air slide out of his lungs. A crooked smile appeared on Campi’s face.

  ‘What’s this we’ve got here then?’

  The hidden pocket. All his money.

  Campi had it all.

  20

  February ended, but the sky still shook with late summer heat. Perry, used to the cold Februarys of home, found the heat doubly oppressive. With most citizens summering in the south, many of the capital’s estancias, homes and shops lay abandoned ready to be peopled again in autumn. At the town limits, on Las Heras Street, the National Penitentiary neighboured stunted cornfields and yellowed grassland. Cicada chirrups beat ceaselessly against the perimeter walls. A scorched wind puffed up the occasional cloud of dust from the mud-hardened street, tanning the whitewash walls a dirty red.

  Inside, the heat held no bearing on daily life. The prisoner workshops still had their supervisors, the administration offices their administrators, the courtrooms had their judges and the prisoner pavilions their full complement of guards. The main sentry tower, thick as a lighthouse, had an unbroken view of the penitentiary grounds. For the watchers and the watched, the routine remained unchanged.

  It took only a few days to learn the drill. Monday to Saturday, Count was at six followed by breakfast. Then it was Work Time with forty minutes for lunch. Then there was an afternoon Count followed by Patio Rest until seven. Final Count at half-past and lights out at nine. That Perry’s life had been reduced to such a strict routine was annoying, but he could cope with that. It was only a way of structuring a day after all, like school. What he really couldn’t stand was the unfairness; it gnawed at him every waking moment of every day. He no longer even bothered protesting his innocence. Anybody who’d listen had already got tired of it on his first day. He was just another inmate claiming the same thing. His one remaining hope was his trial.