Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  The bartender rubbed a tankard dry with a cloth, placed it on the shelf. Perry felt better now he was off the street.

  ‘Hey, you got any rooms here?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘Sorry pal, not here, there’re some hotels that aren’t too bad on Corrientes, or if you’re on a budget there’s a street of lodging houses not six blocks from here.’

  He knew all that already. ‘Thanks anyway,’ Perry took a long draw on his beer. He felt uncomfortable and couldn’t work out what his next move should be. He didn’t have enough money for a voyage yet, the police were crawling the docks making stowing away seem like a ridiculous possibility.

  Helplessly he looked about him, as if the answer to his problems might miraculously lie in the bar. His gaze rested on sharp blue eyes of one of the patrons sitting at the other end of the bar. The eyes grew wide in recognition. He knew the face too, it took a second or two to place, a second in which Perry’s confusion broke into surprise and gave way at once to a wave of horror that broke over him all at once. He rose from his stool. The man did too. Perry was unsure what to do next, but the decision was made for him. Inspector Niels Saldrup made a dash for the door.

  35

  Perry caught him before the end of the lane and slammed Saldrup against the wall, surprising himself with his own strength. The Dane grunted and struggled while Perry pinned his arms behind his back and pushed his face against the wall.

  ‘Don’t move a muscle!’ Perry ordered through gritted teeth.

  Saldrup’s legs were shaking. ‘Help!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Quiet!’ Perry twisted his arm further.

  ‘Arggh.’

  Perry checked up and down the lane, nobody had left the bar to check on them.

  ‘Listen. Just be quiet. I’m going to let go of you now alright?’ Perry loosened his grip. ‘Real easy now, you run or scream and I’ll have you.’

  Niels Saldrup slowly turned to face him and massaged his wrists. He looked scared.

  ‘You got out,’ Saldrup’s voice was small.

  ‘Evidently.’ Perry poked Saldrup in the chest. ‘No thanks to you!’

  ‘Ow! Get off!’ Saldrup pushed him away. ‘How did this happen? The trial…I thought…’

  ‘What? That I was stuck in there? Well I escaped. And what sort of inspector are you? The whole city’s after me and you don’t even know! You’re getting sauced in a bar!’

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ Niels said defiantly, ‘it’s my day off!’

  ‘So why run when you saw me?’

  ‘I thought you might hurt me.’

  ‘And why might I want to do that? Come on, tell me.’

  ‘Look,’ Saldrup glanced up and down the lane, ‘what happened to you…it was out of my hands.’

  ‘And that money you found on me at Julio station was my nine months of hard toil, money I earned through the sweat of my brow, money put aside to earn me a bloody passage home! I bet that found its way into your hands alright.’

  Saldrup went to say something but no sound came.

  Perry shook his head. ‘You make me sick. Did you spread that money round the department? Or keep it for your own grubby self?’

  Niels Saldrup was silent, his head hung down. Perry could smell the stench of whisky on his breath.

  ‘Then there’s this,’ Perry unfolded what was left of the letter he’d received from Saldrup in prison. It was tattered, the ink run but he pointed to the words, ‘Right here – “I have my doubts about your guilt,” and then, “I regret that there is little I can do.” Tell me inspector. What sort of person steals from an innocent man and leaves him to rot in prison?’

  Saldrup pulled a hankie from his pocket and held it over his face, as if too ashamed to look at him.

  ‘You’re a spineless piece of shit.’

  From underneath the hankie, Saldrup squeaked.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry just won’t cut it,’ he yanked the hankie to the ground, ‘you’re a blinkin’ sop you, how much have you had?’

  ‘Don’t hurt me, please!’

  Perry took a step back, giving Saldrup some room.

  ‘I could. But I’m a man of God now. He helped me escape see. And now I’m going to give you the chance to do right by Him and me, to earn forgiveness.’

  Saldrup looked to the Heavens. ‘What must I do?’

  Inspector Niels Saldrup’s place was on Piedras, a half dozen blocks from the bar. They’d not gone far when they ran into a pair of patrolling policemen. Perry tensed up, keeping close to the side of the inspector. All it would take would be for the inspector to change his mind and that would be that.

  ‘Buenas noches inspector.’

  ‘Buenas,’ he mumbled in reply.

  Perry exhaled and realised he’d been holding his breath as the policemen passed.

  ‘Well done,’ Perry said when they were safely out of earshot. He didn’t trust Saldrup one bit; he was drunk and an emotional wreck but he’d managed to get through to him. Now he had to make sure the spell held.

  At the next crossroads they ran into some more police, and Niels Saldrup passed the test again, but Perry still didn’t feel safe, he doubted he would until he was far away from here. He strolled in time with Niels, strange to be walking for a second time that day with a cloak of irreproachability afforded by a respectable companion. He thought of the archbishop, how would he react when he found out he’d brought two fugitives to have tea with President Pellegrini? So embarrassed that he would probably do everything in his considerable power to see to it that the President never found out. And maybe just maybe Martín would get his pardon. They reached Piedras.

  ‘Right,’ Niels pulled out his keys and opened the front door, ‘wait in the hallway will you, I just need to explain to my wife that we have a guest.’

  ‘You’re married?’ Perry said with surprise, he’d figured Niels for a solitary figure.

  ‘A daughter too.’

  Perry scuffed his feet on the mat, crept into the hall and rested his ear on the door. Niels was talking to a woman in some gooseberry language that he couldn’t make head nor tail of. Whatever she was saying, it didn’t sound like she was happy. He stepped back into the hallway and Niels opened the kitchen door.

  ‘Have you got any food?’ Perry asked.

  Niels motioned to the kitchen table where two places were set.

  ‘She always makes plenty.’

  Perry entered the kitchen and saw who she was. Mrs Saldrup had dirty blonde-grey hair and the type of contorted face that persuaded a man to spend his time in a bar rather than home. A small child bounced up and down on her knee. She looked too old to have conceived it, but he wasn’t about to risk his fragile alliance with Niels by asking.

  ‘Hola,’ Perry said and she replied with a curt nod and shooed the child off her knee.

  ‘She doesn’t speak much Spanish I’m afraid. Or English for that matter.’

  Perry took a seat at one of the places and Niels the other. Mrs Saldrup rose and busied herself at the stove, ladling steaming liquid into two bowls. She placed the bowls down in front of them with a cob of crusty bread ripped in two. Onions, carrots and greens swirled around three islands of dumplings. Niels’ wife took off her apron and threw it on the counter, scooped up the child and left the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s she going?’

  Niels shrugged. ‘Upstairs I expect,’ he got up from his seat, ‘I need some coffee with this, want some?’

  ‘Can I trust her?’

  ‘Of course! She’s my wife, how can you ask me that?’

  ‘What did you tell her about me?’

  Niels placed a kettle on the stove. ‘I told her you are a witness in a trial and you need a safe place to stay for a couple of days,’ he returned to his seat.

  ‘And to that she said what exactly? She seemed a bit…huffy.’

  ‘Oh, pay her no mind, she’s always like that,’ Saldrup replied wearily.


  He heard floorboards creaking upstairs. Good, at least she’s not out on the street running to the police.

  ‘Come on, let’s eat,’ Saldrup said.

  Perry dipped the bread in the broth and tore off a soggy bite with his teeth. Delicious. He greedily lopped off a slither of dumpling, equally good. They ate in silence until the kettle began to whistle.

  After dinner, Niels showed Perry his room, a simple but clean space on the third floor.

  ‘I’ll need some more clothes tomorrow,’ Perry said, looking down at his ill-fitting suit.

  ‘I’ll bring some,’ Niels said, ‘goodnight.’

  Alone, Perry went to the window and bunched the curtain to make a hole the size of an overhand knot. It was raining again, lightly now. Dots of lamplight, moved down the street, fuzzy in the drizzle, the outline of an overcoat and some black beasts on leashes. They’d surely search every hovel, lodging house and warehouse on the costanera looking for him. He hoped Santi and his family had made it out of the city in time. He let the curtain fall back.

  Perry undressed and rested his tired head on the pillow. He could barely digest the day’s happenings. Since his first confession something had changed within him. If before he was unsure about whether or not there was a God, he was now positive to the very core of his being; there had to be. It was a God who didn’t often make sense, a God that taught during months and years, not hours and days. And knowing that He existed was enough to feel that there was some higher justice. He got out of bed again, knelt on the floor and clasped his hands over the mattress, squeezed his eyes shut and prayed, offering only his thanks.

  The next day, Perry stayed in his room reading an English language copy of Moby Dick he’d found in a bookcase on the landing. He avoided the kitchen, not wanting to pique Mrs Saldrup’s interest in him. It was about lunchtime when he heard a noise outside the door to his bedroom. He hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs.

  Panicked, he quietly got out of bed and tiptoed to the window and slid it up as gently as he could. The everyday noise of a bustling San Telmo barged into the room. He looked down at the horses and carriages below. Such a drop would kill him. There was a knock-knock on the door. Terrified and without any other ideas he slid under the bed. Maybe they’d think he’d climbed out the window. He waited five minutes. Ten.

  When fifteen minutes had passed he took himself out from under and tiptoed to his door, pressing his ear against the wood. He couldn’t hear anything. Painstakingly he eased the door handle and opened it a crack. There was nobody there. On the floor was a tray laden with a bowl of green soup, a ham roll and a vase complete with yellow flower. He rubbed his face with his hands. Get a grip.

  From the window, Perry saw Niels arrive home at six. He rushed downstairs. The inspector had a bag with him and hung his coat on a peg.

  ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘They’re deploying every spare man to the manhunt.’

  Manhunt. It made Perry think of men with rifles out in the woods taking pot shots at him.

  ‘And Santi?’

  ‘The other fugitive? No news.’

  Perry pumped his fist with glee. ‘Good on you Santi.’

  Niels reached into his bag and pulled out a newspaper and handed it to him.

  ‘Front page.’

  It was La Nación Argentina newspaper and Perry instantly thought of Martín marshalling the Press to get these copies done.

  Perry had made the newspaper.

  He read hungrily to see how much was known. He homed in on his own name alongside Santi’s and then started at the top, reading the whole thing again, the vague details about their escape – their disguised but no mention as what, and no reference at all to the Archbishop Aneiros or President Pellegrini.

  ‘It’s the talk of the city. You might need to wait a week or two until it all dies down.’

  ‘No, the sooner I get out of here the better. There’s a boat, the Hamburg line, this Wednesday. You’ve got to get me on it.’

  ‘But how Perry? There’s police all over the docks, checking every passenger onto the ships, you’ve not got a chance.’

  ‘You went down there yourself did you? To the docks?’

  ‘Yes,’ Niels chewed his lip, ‘on my way home in fact.’

  ‘And who exactly were the police checking?’

  ‘The boat passengers.’

  Perry groaned. ‘How thoroughly? Were they checking every single passenger’s documentation?’

  ‘In the Steerage and Second Classes, yes.’

  ‘Really?’ Perry let the thought bloom. ‘What if-’

  ‘-No,’ said Niels, ‘you can’t be serious?’

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  ‘But Perry - the money! It’s too much, I have a family to feed!’

  ‘Come on Niels, how much did you take off me? This isn’t about the money. It’s about doing right.’

  ‘And how would you ever pass for a-’

  ‘-for a what? A gentleman?’ Perry plastered his hair down to one side and did a waddling walk. ‘How do you do? Enchanted,’ he did a mock bow, ‘see?’

  ‘This is a very bad idea.’

  Wednesday morning: and the streets of downtown Buenos Aires teemed with morning business. Cartloads of produce were en route to San Telmo market, pony breath misting the air. Myriad specimens of local man were heading, inevitable as tributaries, to the same final destination; the Madero docks.

  On Piedras street a coach took a right onto Méjico, rumbling past the sharp-suited shipping insurers, the chandlers, stocky porters, shipping brokers, dockers, police and barrow-boys en route to Dock Two. The coach ran steady into the docking area, past the porters and dockworkers gathered in flocks on the esquinas, taking steaming mugs to their mouths between smokes, and into the very heart of the dock.

  The coachman pulled the mare up behind a rank of some fifteen or so other coaches and hopped down from his post. He twisted the door handle with his gloved hand and swung it wide. A black and silver cane emerged first, finding purchase on the ground and out stepped a rather fine looking young man, with top hat, woollen frock coat and a rich indigo cravat.

  ‘What a charming morning!’ Perry said, adjusting his cravat.

  The coachman inclined his head, clearly not understanding Perry’s English. All the better.

  ‘Gracias,’ Perry said, elongating the grassy-us in his worst attempt at an Englishman speaking Spanish. He flipped a coin in the air, and the coachman caught the tip with both hands.

  ‘Un placer, Señor Turner.’ A pleasure, Mr Turner. He then whistled a porter to help Perry with his suitcase.

  ‘Travel light! That’s what my old mum used to say to me,’ Perry said loudly and the porter took the valise from him.

  ‘Lead on!’

  The SS Olinda, Hamburg Süd line, black-funnelled and powerful, filled his prospect. It wasn’t as big as he’d expected, certainly one of the more medium-sized screw-steamers that traversed the Atlantic. He approached the entrance for First Class and glanced to the south side of the boat where the Steerage and Second Class passengers were embarking. Two policemen flanked a group of Hamburg employees, checking the register of names before letting each person on.

  ‘Ridiculous, we’ll never sail on time,’ it was a portly gentleman in front of Perry, addressing his wife.

  ‘We shall be back to true civilisation and order soon, my dear,’ she replied.

  Perry was bemused, young though he was; England had offered little in the way of civilisation to him. But then, perhaps civilisation and order weren’t things contained within a nation’s borders but determined by the size of ones bank balance. A Hamburg employee, wearing a suit that looked more expensive than his own, smiled at him and held out an expectant hand.

  ‘Good morning sir,’ he said in perfect English, ‘your passage?’

  ‘Good morning,’ Perry replied, and pulled his pre-paid First cabin ticket and his immigration card.

  ‘Perfect,’ the Hamburg
man replied, returning the documents to Perry, ‘Bon Voyage, Mr Turner. There are twenty five First Class cabins on board, you’re in twenty-three.’

  The porter walked ahead of Perry, catching up with the imperious English couple on the gangplank. As he reached the deck, a Hamburg servant stood with a tray of stubby glasses, full of some fizzing hay-coloured drink.

  He wasn’t sure what to do. The English couple each took a glass and were beckoned forward by their porter, wheeling a trolley full of bags, suitcases and boxed items. He would do the same.

  He stepped onto deck, returned the beaming smile of the servant and took one of the glasses from the tray.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘never too early I suppose.’

  He looked at the porter, waiting to be led, but he didn’t stir.

  ‘Well,’ Perry said, ‘down the hatch then,’ he raised it up to no one in particular and tipped the drink down his neck. It was cold, fizzy and had a rather unpleasant, bready taste.

  ‘Ugh,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and put the empty glass down on the tray, ‘delicious.’

  The servant had the traces of a smirk on his face. Had he done something stupid? ‘Would you care for another sir?’

  ‘God no,’ Perry said, ‘I mean one is quite enough. I say, what is it?’

  ‘Champagne sir.’

  ‘Champagne,’ he said, ‘I shall remember that.’

  He looked at his porter, ‘Dónde vamos?’ he said, and the porter shrugged. God he was useless.

  ‘Follow the deck around to your right and you will see the numbering of the First Class cabins sir.’

  Perry led his porter over the wooden deck, running his finger along the iron walls, such a gleaming white that he expected his finger to come back wet with paint.

  His cabin was right out on the deck, and the porter raced in front of him to hold the door open. Doing more work now it was getting closer to tip time, Perry thought. He peered inside his cabin and nearly gasped.