Only sticklers for detail, and the most determined, dared to defy the anonymity of Ravine’s torturers. To differentiate if not distinguish a faceless ghost whose body is reduced to a pair of feet—for that is all that is visible, under certain angles and at rare moments—requires unflagging patience. Heroic, flawless vigilance. I spent hours on the trail of those insignificant little details which could identify a person’s walk. The way they took their momentum, then the position of the foot, before, during, and after each kick delivered to my side, or another woman’s. The symmetry or asymmetry of the feet—spread, together, parallel—when the guy began to piss on me or my neighbor . . . I can recall the pedal identity of some of them. The dragging slide of the least ferocious guard, whom I eventually managed to win over. He brought me paper and a pencil, and I would write down stories about djinns for him, something he couldn’t get enough of. For the best stories I was entitled to a blank sheet of paper. For me alone. They fired him after three months. I swallowed all the sheets with the poems I had written for Del. One day a garden will grow in my belly. With bushes and flowers made of recycled paper, page after page of ragged words of love, words that have been flayed, and I fear they are repugnant, scribbled with tears of blood. I also recall the jerky, careless walk of the three rapists—criminals who were pardoned in return for services rendered—and whom I infuriated with my silence. I could recognize them today by their footsteps alone. I had the time, ample time, to observe the awkwardness of men unused to military boots. Consequently, they were the only ones who walked around barefoot after they’d done their job. To relax. To stretch out their arches, which were numb and needy after all the kicks they’d delivered. Toward the end of my imprisonment, by means of a multitude of painstakingly classified details, I could anticipate their depraved mood, and how they would set about breaking me. Just one glance at the knots in their shoelaces, or the absence of knots, was enough to inform me how the roles had been distributed. Who would beat me, who would rape me or masturbate, with his prick in my face, who would stand back and have a smoke and play the voyeur. I could tell down to the last detail which one would use my body as an ashtray. Whether he would decide to stub out his cigarette on my navel, or whether he would go for the anus.
But the passage of the man who had come into the interrogation room a few hours before my transfer was too brief. His feet only crossed the demarcation line of my visual field for an instant. I noticed, or thought I noticed, the particularity of his walk because his right foot was slightly twisted. This image, the last one granted to me to see in Ravine, remains blurry. A rather vague memory of the feet of a lame duck. But a persistent memory. Shaped, perhaps, by imagination. It’s not impossible.
Sitting astride, hands bound by handcuffs behind my back, the blood pouring from me. From everywhere. From every hole in my benumbed body. My nose. My ears. My mouth. My vagina. There were three of them laying into me. Beating me. Taking turns. I was waiting for whatever was next. One of them might masturbate between my breasts, the other would piss on me, or the other way around. The door creaked open. Someone snapped his fingers. I had blood in my eyes but I could see his boots. Perfectly polished. The laces tied American-style. I saw that he was holding his feet the way an actual soldier would. He snapped his fingers again. My torturers in their grubby slippers disappeared from the few square centimeters that were visible from under the blindfold. The boots of the finger-snapping man reappeared. Planted there before me. I picked myself up, to prepare for the next round of blows. Nothing. No brutality. Just steps creaking behind my back. All four of them were behind me. Moving around. One of them grabbed my hands. The other removed my handcuffs. The sound of metal thrown on the floor was stifled by a roar. The head rapist. The one who opened the ball, announced the news, got the ball rolling. You’re going to be transferred, you filthy whore. Good riddance. You were starting to piss us off. You don’t talk. You refuse to confess. Too bad for you. I felt like shouting in his face, To hell with you! That would be too great an honor. I said nothing. I thought, Better to die than to betray. What did you expect, you little rat? That I would hand my love over to you? I’d rather disappear. They put the hood over me. Then the burlap bag on top of that, stinking of blood, piss, cum. Out you go. They shoved me outside. I could hardly stand. The man with the boots stopped me from falling, helped me out. I thought, The silent woman of Ravine is going to die. They don’t need her anymore. They’ve already killed her love. Del has been executed, that’s all. That’s why there’s all this commotion. From the hell that is Ravine you can only be transferred to the devil. That’s what this is all about.
I collapsed. I would have so liked to believe in the hereafter. That way my death would restore me to my love . . . Were they taking me directly to the slaughterhouse? A summary execution in the middle of the night? Like thousands of others sent to the devil by the snapping fingers of the Supreme Commander. No one would be any the wiser. That was what I hoped with all my strength. I wanted to get it over with. Someone, down here, or up there, or with the devil, had heard me. They were going to shoot me in the mouth. That was how they executed those who refused to confess to their crimes. Yes, I was going to die. I felt calm. At peace. The thought of my mother scarcely affected me. She would receive a certificate, stamped by a coroner in the pay of the regime. My death would be certified authentic. And I would sleep. At last. For a long time. With or without Del. It hardly mattered now. The lack of sleep had driven me crazy. I wanted to rest. I wanted to know the serenity of oblivion. Silence, I would sleep for all eternity. Peace in my body and in my mind. No more rape. No more cigarettes on my nipples. No more urine and sperm in my face.
I was curled up in a ball on the back seat of a Patrol. I recognized the sound of the engine. We were going incredibly fast. Destination: deliverance. Was it the finger-snapping man who was driving? Had he been assigned to finish me off? Or had he entrusted me to one of his underlings? I couldn’t hear him. It was as if he wasn’t breathing. As discreet as a Sioux, driving like a madman. Fine by me. Let him hurry. Fast. Faster. I can’t remember anything else. I must have passed out.
Tell me how you walk and I will tell you who you are. The Colonel has returned from the toilets. I am trying to concentrate. I’m staring at the ground, following his steps. His left foot, not his right, slightly turned out . . . No, it’s the right foot. I’m getting muddled. It’s hard to tell. I can’t concentrate. I’m out of practice. My eyes have gone lazy. He sits back down. The boss tells him we have nearly finished. The Colonel doesn’t react. He’s resigned. And I feel calm again. I must have been hallucinating. Yes, that’s it. I should never have agreed to fill in for someone else.
It’s been a rotten day, my Vima. Quite a blow. I wish I could swap my life for a few hours with you. I don’t like the way things are going. That cop from before never opened his mouth, and I have a bad feeling about him. Not a word at the end of the interrogation. Other than the usual bullshit: We’ll keep you informed. When? Will it take long? Can you give me a rough idea? Nothing. The man knows nothing, and won’t decide a thing. A rotten day, my Vima. And then, what am I to think of this incredible coincidence? What to make of it? Why have I found myself face to face with 455 from Ravine? Isn’t it a sign? Of course it is. But it’s not a good sign. I’m not particularly paranoid. No one could suspect me of any connection with this woman. No one. Her, of all people. But I believe in signs. Unlike you. If these human rights gentlemen found out that their translator owes her life to us, I could view this coincidence, which is not a coincidence, as a good omen. A good point for me. But can you see me saying to them, Hey you, do you know where your colleague is from? Do you know how she landed in this country? And even if they do know. Even if they did listen to me, they would never believe that I was her savior. As for her, it would be astonishing if she could envisage such a thing. I’m depressed, Vima. I’m afraid I’ll never see you again. I wish I could turn back the clock. I even envy the murderer I use
d to be. The happiest of men, when he took you in his arms. I have a fever. The way I always do when I relive the inseparable events of my redemption and my misfortune. Five years already, as if it were yesterday. Five years I’ve been in a coma. Sick with missing you.
I was asleep. A sudden weight pressing on my chest. Metal. Cold as death. A weapon? I woke up with a start. You were leaning over me. Furious. Your face distorted. A grimace of rage. With your palm you slapped the laptop you’d pressed on my chest. I immediately understood. You’d seen the film of 455’s interrogation. How could I have forgotten to switch off the computer? Was it subconsciously intentional? Surely. I must have been fed up with the lies. I was petrified and relieved at the same time. Now you knew everything. You had unmasked me. I begged you to let me explain how . . . You shouted, Shut up. You disgust me. The film doesn’t need any explanation. Let’s watch it together, this live porn show of yours. And you can tell me whether you raped this poor girl before your worthy colleagues, or after. You must be their boss. You’ve always been the boss. Isn’t that right? My hero, with his medals at the age of seventeen, has a new job: boss for a gang of rapists. Of violent murderers. There’s no stopping progress. Meteoric rise! You should have died at the front. I would have been proud to be the widow of an authentic hero, rather than the mother of two children conceived with a murderer! You’re lucky they’re not at home. But I’m going to call them. We should watch your exploits together, the whole family. Maybe they’d be proud of you after all. Everyone in this fucking country is so proud of the father’s heritage! Isn’t that right? I’m going to ask my father to go with the children. What do you think? Go on, tell me how you went about it with that poor woman . . .
455 was the prisoner’s number, in Ravine. For such a wreck, she was imposing. A heroine, her comrades praised her to the skies. The symbol of the maximum-security section. The Iron Woman of Section 209. A legend who drove the Sardive brothers round the bend. They were criminals who’d been sentenced to death for serial killings. And who were pardoned no sooner than they’d been arrested. Transferred to Ravine from Alabi, the prison for common law detainees. They were retrained as model torturers. Put in charge of Section 209. Where the hard cases and the silent ones are kept. The ones who take their time before cracking. A luxury they pay for, dearly. They all end up confessing to everything and its contrary. Denouncing friends and strangers. The Sardive brothers’ shock treatment can’t be beaten. They never fail, with anyone. Even the most stubborn, they can break them down. Make them sign confessions the authorities have typed up ahead of time. 455 was the only one who stood up to them. They let her have it. To no avail. Her silence was driving them up the wall. This girl’s silence was the kind that could make you crazy, even some of the other female inmates. She spoke to no one. No one heard her shout. In spite of the torture. She must have been screaming her suffering inside. She was a mystery to everyone, this woman with her gaping wounds. They called her the Crimson Woman—mute, a tombstone, a bleeding ghost. The only one who didn’t moan. Because she had nothing of the compliant victim about her. She wasn’t the kind that ordinary decent people might eventually help. The silence of 455 denied the torturers of their right to exist. Her silent scorn was of the kind that merely enraged those who were already overexcited, and made them shout louder than ever. And also made them lose their hard-on. This skinny little woman, standing up to them. While others begged, and hoped if not for clemency at least for an ounce of pity, she opposed her absolute silence. No one had ever seen anything like it. The only word anyone had ever heard from her was no. Addressed to no one in particular. A no that was ejected from deep in her guts. That escaped from telluric depths. From the bowels of mother earth. 455’s no was not an answer but a call. Wolves baying at the full moon. A warrior’s thunder. An invitation to an ancestral combat. This fury’s no caused Ravine to tremble from the very first night of her imprisonment. In the middle of the night. A no like a brass band, intermittent, high pitched, shattering the darkness. A voice that carried. The first no, delivered in that stentorian voice, grave and clear, shook Ravine until they had to lock the woman up, her feet and wrists bound, an adhesive bandage over her mouth. Since then, the salvos of 455 have haunted the entire establishment. It is as if the walls of Ravine—the solitary cells, the torture chambers, the corridors and latrines—have been impregnated with that no. As if Ravine were no more than a sound box for the echo of this extraordinary woman’s absolute refusal. A no against the intolerable. That was what her co-detainees affirmed. Some of the jailers said Ravine would never erase it from their memory. Just as I could never erase your screams of indignation. Like 455, your anger is proof against time.
Your cries were piercing my eardrums. You wouldn’t let up. You condemned me. Again you said, So it’s your business to rape women in your filthy prisons, is that it? You left the Army to become a pimp for the torturers of Ravine? That’s how you’ve earned us this palace. You were shrieking. Relentlessly. We had no close neighbors, their requisitioned villas were fairly isolated. I was all the more afraid that I too might be watched over by another of the Commander’s henchmen. Which would have made perfect sense, and the thought made my blood run cold. I was fit for hanging and you . . . you, the wife of the worst sort of traitor, you would be handed over to the Sardive brothers. Just the thought that anyone might touch you or hurt you drove me crazy. I slapped you, several times. I shouted, Since when have you been spying on me? Have you forgotten who I am? I am the Commander’s soldier! I was waving my arms, my hands pointing to the lampshades, the chandelier, the floor, my terrified gaze was begging you to be quiet. I was trying to make you understand that the house might be bugged. My efforts were futile. You went on screaming and struggling. I tied your hands with my belt. Bound you to the headboard of the bed. Rammed a fold of the sheet into your mouth. Terror was spilling from your lovely golden eyes. Was I going to kill you? Rape you before killing you? No one has ever known how to speak to me with their gaze the way you could. I didn’t have time to reassure you, my love. I sprang to my feet. Left you to your terror and got busy. I went over the villa and the garden with a fine-tooth comb. Computers, laptops, telephones, televisions, household appliances . . . It can be useful sometimes to be really good at your job. I left nothing up to chance. Once I had taken the automatic sprinkler device apart, I collapsed under the arbor and cried like a baby. Uncontrollably. I could rest easy. There were no informers in our house. That took the cake! That pervert Commander’s trust in me was absolute. I couldn’t stop laughing. He was more unhinged than I thought. This was the clue that pointed to his end. The fact that he could trust me, when you didn’t trust me anymore! I was losing my nerves. I started crying again. But these tears were tears of joy. The joy of knowing you were not in danger. I calmed down before I went to join you. You were very upset. Waving your arms like a maniac. You were having trouble breathing. When you saw me you were petrified. Like some sacrificial lamb. But you immediately got hold of yourself. The rage in your eyes as you stared at me, unblinking. Even though your mouth was taped shut I could hear you roaring, Go on, rape me before you bleed me. I looked away and began shouting in turn, like a wounded animal. How could you imagine such a thing. Did you really think I would ever hurt you? Have I ever taken you without your consent? You know very well I need the glue of your desire, a reflection of my own, to make love to you. Your gaze grew harder. The shards of your scorn wounded me. All I inspired in you was disgust and terror. I sprang to my feet. Hurried down the stairs. Rushed into my study. Grabbed my pistol. Standing opposite you with my gun pointed at my heart, I told you that I would not let you go until you had listened to me. If you refused, I would press the trigger. All I wanted was for you to listen to me. Then you could do as you like. You narrowed your eyes. The sign of a cease-fire. I began talking. Non-stop. A torrent of words. Unleashed, they went wild. I pressed the gun against my heart whenever they hurt me. When they betrayed me, or jeered at me, or escaped from me. How
could I find the right words to explain what that invisible snare was like, how I was caught, suffocating, in the mesh of the Lord’s army, under the orders of the Supreme Commander? What good would it do, to chatter away about the ins and outs of the profession to which I had been chained for life? You have to have lived inside the whole padlocked system, to find yourself cornered by it. It leaves you no choice. I spoke slowly. Got it all out. One sentence after the other, weighing every word, every detail which might be fatal for you if I were found out. Anything you must not know I kept silent. You already knew too much. You had seen a film you should never have seen. You were already in danger. And I was prepared to die to ensure your safety. I swore to you that I had never killed anyone, never tortured even the tiniest insect, never touched another woman since we got married. How could I, I was crazy about you. You knew that. Once my long entreaty was over, I fell silent. A septic tank, drained. Yes, that’s exactly how it felt. I’d been relieved of the weight of my bad conscience. I was docile now, prepared to accept whatever fate you had in store for me. You nodded your head. I untied you. Freed your mouth. You coughed. Took a deep breath. Disappeared into the bathroom. I could hear the water running. I could smell your perfume, intoxicating. I could imagine your gestures. I saw them. You were splashing yourself with water, then rosewater, alternately. Abundantly. To dispel the stench of Ravine that clung to your skin. I wished I could do likewise. To no avail. The pestilence was inside me. An integral part of my being. Injected into the pores of my skin. You came back out. Your hair was wet, disheveled. I could die of desire for you. But I knew I was doomed. Love was forbidden to me. In a neutral voice you asked me to leave you alone. You would come and get me.
The Man Who Snapped His Fingers Page 4
