by Giles Blunt
“No, not Panama. The Americans are offering training at Fort Benning. In the United States.”
“I heard it was only the Atlacatl battalion going there.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. I am trying to arrange things. Now, do me a favour.”
“Yes, sir?”
Captain Pena pulled a packet of matches from his pocket and pressed them into Victor’s palm. “Burn that fucking book.”
That sad little bonfire spoiled the rest of Victor’s afternoon. He lay on his bunk until suppertime, the blackened, curling pages vivid in his mind.
Even as he sat in the driver’s seat of the Cherokee, he could still see the title turning brown and then flaring up. He started the truck and waited for the rest of the squad to pile in.
Tito was beside him, clutching the two deeds of property. He had assembled the squad after supper and told them all to change into street clothes but to bring their automatic weapons and side arms. Lopez slid into the back seat, and a moment later Yunques.
“Let’s go,” Tito said. “I want to get this over with.”
“The left headlight isn’t working,” Victor said.
“Fix it later. Let’s go.”
The roads were pitch-dark. Driving with one headlight made Victor nervous. He kept veering to the right, where the one good light wafted over the trees.
In the confined cabin of the truck, the smell of rum was almost overpowering. Tito had spent his free time drinking in town, and now he was in a bad mood at having to cut his festivities short. When Yunques and Lopez started horsing around in the back, he screamed at them to shut up.
They drove to town in a heavy silence. They passed the Presidential Palace, where stray strands of bunting blew from the iron fence.
For the next fifteen minutes the only words uttered in the Cherokee were Tito’s barked commands of left, right here, left. Each time, he jabbed a thick finger into Victor’s line of vision. They were headed in the direction of El Playon, but before they reached the cliffs, they turned up a rutted road at the edge of a plantation.
“Easy, Pena. You’ll rip the tailpipe off this thing.”
“The road is very bad.”
“Easy!”
A mile up the road, they came to a row of shacks, corrugated tin roofs over crumbling adobe walls. The night was as beautiful as the day had been, and men were gathered in groups of three or four around kerosene lanterns in front of the shacks. They stood up at the sound of the approaching truck, their eyes flashing white in the headlights.
“Stop here. As soon as we get out, Pena, you turn this thing around to face the gate. Lopez and Yunques, you cover me. I will deal with these dogs. I want to make this quick.”
“You just want to take out the two?”
“We have orders only for the two. Two only, and to pick up the boy.”
“What boy is that?” Victor asked. Tito hadn’t mentioned any boy in the briefing after supper, but he knew he was often not told things.
“That one there will do.” He pointed to a skinny boy in a long white shirt. He had long hair and a pretty mouth that gave him a feminine look. They got out of the Jeep and Victor turned it around.
Tito leaned in the window and breathed rum over everything. “Keep the motor running.” He walked over to the gathering of men in front of the shack. The kerosene light cast deep shadows in his eye sockets and turned his face dull yellow. “I need Bartel and Perez. I have their deeds for them.”
“Bartel and Perez are not feeling well,” one of the men answered. “Perhaps too much celebrating today. I will give them their deeds.”
Tito brandished the two scrolls. “These are legal papers. They must be personally delivered. Personally delivered and personally signed for.”
“Why do you bring legal papers in the middle of the night? Why are they not in a legal office?”
“You want to make some kind of argument? You want to make trouble?”
“No. We don’t want trouble.”
“As soon as I give Bartel and Perez these papers, these men are landowners. Landowners, you understand? Haven’t you heard of Land to the Tiller?”
“Yes, I have heard of this program. These men own land now?”
“Okay, it’s nothing grand. We’re not talking about a plantation, here. Just the little acre they’ve been working. Now, are you going to let me give it to them or you going to make trouble?”
“I am right here.” It was Ignacio Perez who spoke from the doorway of the first shack.
“Senor Perez! Good to see you again! I have your deed for you. Come out into the light so everyone can see the new landowner. Soldier,” he said to Lopez. “Cuff that boy. The boy comes with us.”
“Why do you need the boy? Just give us the papers.”
“Where is your buddy Bartel?”
“Senor Bartel is sick. He has a fever. Please. Don’t take the boy.”
The boy’s mother came out and went down on her knees in front of Tito. She began begging and crying.
“Get Bartel out here now. We will give him his deed and then we will go.”
“I will give him his deed. I told you, he is sick.”
“Use your head, Perez. You want us to search house to house for this guy? People could get hurt. Houses could get destroyed. A fire might break out. Shut up, you whore.” He cracked the woman on the skull with his rifle butt, and she lay still at his feet.
Nobody moved.
Victor watched in the rear-view mirror as the one-armed Bartel was brought out, barely able to walk. His face was slick with fever.
“Bartel! Good to see you again! We have your papers for you. Your deed of property.”
Tito raised his machine gun and then casually, like a man spraying bugs, flicked his wrist once, twice, and hosed them both down.
Women screamed. Children woke crying. And men ran into the bushes.
“Yunques! Give Senor Perez his deed of ownership.”
Yunques knelt in the dirt and opened Perez’s mouth, set the scroll in it, and closed the man’s jaw on it. He did the same to Bartel. Dead legs twitched.
The road was empty. Just the soldiers and the kerosene lamps.
“Anybody else?” Tito called to the bushes. “Any other faggots out there want a little piece of land? A little piece of property to call home? No?”
Lopez shoved the boy into the back of the truck.
As the others climbed in, there was whimpering from the shacks. From the bushes, nothing but the blowing of the leaves.
THIRTEEN
On her tenth day at the little school, the woman broke. By now she was not recognizable as the defiant creature they had dragged into captivity. I have done this to her, Victor thought as he led her into the interrogation room. I have helped in this destruction.
“Today is your lucky day,” Captain Pena said when Victor sat her down. Ten days ago she might have responded with bitterness, but now she only hung her head. Dark, matted hair straggled over her face.
“What’s the matter, whore?” Tito yanked her head back. “You sleepy? Listen to the Captain!”
“As I say, young lady, today is your lucky day. No one is going to hurt you today. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
The woman said nothing. Victor tried to will her to answer. Please reply, he thought. It will go better if you reply.
“I said we’re not going to hurt you today. Doesn’t that make you happy?” the Captain repeated.
“Answer, whore.” Tito pulled on her hair so that her throat was exposed.
“It makes me happy,” she said dully. Her voice was now little more than a whisper.
“Louder, please. I can’t hear you.”
“It makes me happy.”
“We are not going to kick you, today. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“It makes me happy.”
“We are not going to fuck you. We are not going to pull out your hair. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“It makes me happy.”
&nb
sp; “We are not going to hang you from the pipes today. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“It makes me happy.”
“We are not going to stick any rats inside you, not even any cockroaches. What do you think about that?”
“It makes me very happy.”
“And today, the General will not be attaching himself to you. That must make you very happy.”
“It makes me very happy.”
Victor was glad to hear this also, but it was obvious from the Captain’s tone that something else was going to happen. Something unpleasant.
“Good,” said Captain Pena. “Excellent. Because we want you to be happy. We don’t want to hurt you. All we want is for you to tell us your real name. After that, you can fill in the details. Who you report to, who works with you, where you drop off supplies. That kind of thing.”
“But I know nothing of these matters. I’ve told you a thousand times.” The woman spoke into her chest, she did not raise her head.
“Yes, a thousand times,” the Captain said pleasantly. “A thousand times, and a thousand lies. But today it will all change. It is all about to change, and we are not even going to lay a hand on you. Bring him in.”
Now the woman’s shoulders jumped a little. And she lifted her face. It was still swollen, the upper lip puffy where Victor had hit her.
Tito opened the door and shouted the Captain’s order down the hall. A moment later Yunques brought the boy in, soaking wet. Yunques was not soft like Victor; he would have made sure the boy did not sleep.
“I want you to introduce yourself to this woman.”
The boy faced one way then another. It always took the prisoners a while to get used to being blindfolded. They were never sure if they were being spoken to unless they were addressed as whore or faggot.
“Yes, you. Tell this woman your name.”
“My name is Jaime Reyes.” The blindfold emphasized the full lips, his girl’s mouth.
“Very good,” the Captain said. “You’re doing very well so far. Now, tell this woman here where you are from.”
“I live on the Cuzcatlan plantation. Near El Playon.”
“Tell her how old you are.”
“I am thirteen years old. I will be fourteen in October.”
“Bastard,” the woman said quietly.
“Now, now,” the Captain said. “There is no need to insult the boy. We have every reason to believe he is a legitimate child of God-fearing parents.”
“Do not do this,” the woman said. “For your own soul’s sake, I beg you, do not do this.”
“Thirteen years old, Miss Whoever-you-are. Thirteen years old, this boy. Would you like to turn fourteen?”
“Yes, sir. I will be fourteen in October.” The boy was on the edge of tears, and Victor saw that the fabric of his shirt, even though wet, was trembling.
“Thirteen. You must have been confirmed this year.”
“Yes, sir. At the cathedral.”
“Did the bishop give you a little slap on the cheek?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, I never understood that slap. What does that little slap mean, exactly?”
“It means-it means that our faith will be tested. Our faith will be tested, and we must prepare ourselves.”
“Well, I’m glad you are prepared, Mr. Fourteen-in-October. Very glad. As a man of faith, little Jaime, you will be interested to know that this woman here is an incarnation of the Virgin Mary-although I assure you from first-hand experience, she is no longer a virgin. Nevertheless, she has the Blessed Virgin’s wonderful power to protect. You know about this? To intercede. Remember this, Jaime. I am God, and this woman here is the Blessed Virgin.”
The prisoner strained forward in her chair. “You are evil,” she said in her cracked voice. “You are an evil man. The woman does not live who would knowingly bear you a son.”
Captain Pena ignored her. “This woman, little Jaime, this woman can cause you pain, or she can save you from pain. It is entirely in her power, I want you to be clear on this. Whether you are in pain or not, whether you shed tears or blood, it is entirely within her power.”
“Please don’t hurt me, sir. I have done nothing wrong.”
“Don’t be afraid. I’m sure Our Lady will protect you. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Jaime?”
“Two. Two sisters. They are younger than me.”
“No brothers?”
The boy swallowed. Beneath the wet shirt, his breathing was as fast as a rabbit’s.
“Answer the Captain, faggot.”
“I have one brother, but I don’t know where he is. I believe he is with the rebels in Chalatenango.”
“A brother with the rebels in Chalatenango. Well, this is an unexpected bonus. What is your brother’s name?”
“Dario.”
“Dario Reyes. The Blessed Virgin here may be personally acquainted with him. But we don’t know, little Jaime, because Our Lady will tell us nothing. That is going to end very soon. Is there anything you would like to say?”
“Please don’t hurt me, sir. I am not a rebel. I have done no wrong.”
“I believe you. I am sure you are a good boy. That is the whole point. Soldier,” he barked at Tito, and the boy’s shoulders jerked up to his ears, “what shall we do with him?”
“Hard to say, Captain. There are many possibilities.”
“Give me your thoughts. What would be most effective, in your view?”
“How about we cut his thing off. We cut his thing off, we cook it, and then we feed it to the Virgin here. Make her eat it.”
“Very imaginative.”
“Please don’t hurt me, sir. Please-I will do anything you say. Anything you want me to, I’ll do.” The boy was crying hard, his words wildly distorted.
“Or we could pull his fingernails out. That’s very painful.”
“It’s a little bloodier than I had in mind. And a little slow. I hate to make a mess in here. Look at that, he’s pissing his pants.”
“You fucking little faggot, I’m going to make you lick that up.”
“Leave it for now. Give me some ideas.”
“Cocksucker. Pissing on our clean floor. How would you like to meet the General, huh? How about I introduce you to the General right now?”
“Leave him alone,” the woman said. “Please. Just let the boy go, and maybe I can tell you some things you want to know.”
The Captain, Tito, all the soldiers looked at her. Silence fell over them as they realized that she had offered to talk. The only sounds were the boy’s.
“She’s talking,” Victor said hurriedly. “Let me drag this little faggot back to his cell.” He grabbed the boy by his soaking collar.
Captain Pena shrieked, “Leave the boy where he is!” He slapped the woman full force across the face. “You think you make bargains with us? You think maybe you will negotiate with us? You whore. I will show you how we negotiate. I will show you exactly how we negotiate. On your back, faggot. Get down on the floor.”
The boy was handcuffed, but he began to kick out blindly. His foot connected glancingly with Victor’s groin, and he doubled over and groaned, as if the injury were great. Lopez and Tito wrestled the boy to the floor, pinning him down on his back.
“Get his leg up on the bed frame. Just the heel. Get his leg up.”
They dragged him across the floor, the boy begging please, please, please the whole way. Victor had sunk to his knees with eyes closed. He could hear in the knife-edge of his uncle’s voice, in Tito’s silence, in the sharp, near-hysterical cries of Lopez and Yunques, that a threshold had been crossed. Violence had been launched. Violence had been launched and was now as impossible to recall as a missile that has been fired.
“Listen to this,” Captain Pena yelled in the woman’s ear. “You listen close to this sound! If you weren’t such a whore, this would not have happened.”
The boy’s leg was propped up on the bed frame at a forty-five-degree angle to the floor. Captain
Pena took one step and jumped onto the leg with his full weight. Victor’s gorge rose at the sound it made and he nearly vomited. The boy was shrieking uncontrollably.
“You hear that, whore? You hear? This boy’s leg is broken. That’s what you’ve done. You’ve broken his leg. You could have stopped it, and you didn’t. Next time you beg for mercy, I want you to think about what you did to this boy.”
Tito kicked the boy in the head and the shrieks turned to moans.
“Put them together in her cell. Keep them both wet. Nobody gets any sleep until this bitch has told us everything she knows: brothers, sisters, grade school teachers, past lives, everything. This bitch is going to sing.”
“Shit, boss,” Tito grumbled, “I was hoping we could set the little faggot on fire.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” Captain Pena shrugged as he went out the door. “It all depends on the Virgin.”
FOURTEEN
It was not necessary to torture the boy further; the woman was quite broken. The next day she sat across the table from Captain Pena and Victor and she told them everything they wanted to know.
And now it was over. The torture was done, the questions were done, it only remained to kill her.
It was nine o’clock, the night was black and violent. The sky had opened, and rain thundered around the little school in chestnut-sized drops that clattered on the hood and roof of the Jeep. The soldiers wore their plastic ponchos, beneath which their heavy arms bulged as if they were pregnant.
The woman was led-handcuffed, blindfolded, at gunpoint-to the Cherokee. The filthy tank top clung to her breasts, making the nipples stand out. Victor guided her into the back of the truck. The boy, unconscious and feverish, had to be carried. His pants were torn to the knee. A rough end of shin bone poked through the skin.
Even with the wipers flapping back and forth, the rain reduced visibility to a few yards, and Victor had to drive at a snail’s pace. He knew the way to Puerto del Diablo-not because he had been there as a soldier, but because it was on Lake Ilopango, where he had gone swimming many times. Diablo was a high cliff east of the beaches where he had sunned himself as a teenager.
