Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  The Armenian sat regally among his men, like an evil-eyed Caesar protected by a cohort of Praetorian Guards. From up close the man actually looked somewhat harmless. Rail-thin, his tendons stuck out like thick cords connecting muscle to bone, and his head was always shaved and bare. He used little reading glasses that were invariably tucked into a shirt pocket, and though he wasn’t especially tall, nor was he noticeably short. The Armenian was known for being slow, deliberate, a lover of the finer pleasures. Some thought those little conceits were explained by age; others swore he’d always loved being served and pampered. There were also those who disdained his custom—an open secret—of “protecting” young new arrivals who happened to be handsome; the protection he provided was not free, of course: the boys paid for it by becoming his private prostitutes. Word was, though this was only ever whispered, that he’d become an old satyr, disgusting even to himself but generous to his ever-younger lovers. The entire prison was controled at his whim—and he absolutely despised Arthur.

  The man had a debt outstanding, and he’d sworn to take Arthur’s life as payment.

  Ibrahim’s presence, though, made him cautious. Nothing transpired that night, nor those that followed either.

  * * *

  —

  Arthur wanted very badly to convince himself that the danger had passed.

  “Maybe he’s decided to forget,” he ventured.

  “And the Arabian Sea is about to dry up,” said Ibrahim, disabusing him of that fantasy. “You killed his daughter, a six-year-old girl. If it were my daughter I’d never forget the man who did that, not even if he was dead, not in a thousand lifetimes.”

  Arthur was sorrier about that death than anything else on earth. He relived it again and again. But he couldn’t go back and change what was already done.

  “It was an accident, and I’m paying for it.”

  Ibrahim scrutinized him, taking in every detail. Sometimes he looked like nothing could escape him. Slowly he stroked the deep gash in his cheek, as though exploring it. He’d never spoken about how it happened.

  “Fate is an excuse, Arthur. It doesn’t change the fact that we live with our mistakes because we, and no one else, are the ones who made them. And regardless, the fact that you didn’t do what you did on purpose is not enough in the Armenian’s eyes. Sooner or later he’ll come after you.”

  “I was drunk. It was raining. I lost control of the car.”

  Ibrahim’s expression altered slightly. It might have looked scornful, but in fact he was simply fed up. His eyes instinctively sought the photo Arthur had taped to his headboard. He contemplated Andrea at length, his eyes softening before they closed. Destiny has a strange sense of humor, he thought, evading answering Arthur.

  Aside from haunting memories, the stars were the only consolation they had inside those walls. Looking up, when your feet were dragging, was a marvelous thing. They liked to sit and share a smoke, gazing out their window at the little patch of sky above the barred and fenced cellblock, contemplating the almost violent beauty of the stars twinkling above their heads. When confronted with the grandeur of creation, human pettiness, regret, even the most heinous of crimes seem meaningless. All of those things matter little when you realize that it all comes down to a series of chain reactions, sunspots, novas, icy meteorites, minerals, atoms, energy, matter and antimatter. We all form part of the universe. There is no love, no hate, no emotion, no feeling or predetermination in our existence. We’re nothing but a coincidence that might never have happened, an improbable mathematical projection.

  That was how Arthur passed the time, discussing things and chatting with Ibrahim, reading poetry, on the lookout for any movement of the Armenian’s men, taking refuge in his memories, awaiting news from the lawyers Diana had hired to get him out of there. In the meantime, he curled up with his notebooks.

  During what had so far been three years of captivity, he’d started writing again. It was hard at first, like turning on a tap that hasn’t been used for years and waiting impatiently for the water to flow, when all that trickles out are a few drops; likewise, his first verses were awkwardly constructed, with unclear images, and then little by little the old spirit returned to his mind and the wheels of poetry began turning once more—first timidly, and then with increasing courage. After a few weeks, the young poet whose life Arthur had too soon cut short emerged from the ashes. He struggled to satisfy his hunger with what was available in the prison library, so he had part of his personal collection brought in, savoring especially the poetry of Rimbaud.

  Ibrahim observed that slow, silent invasion of space, overtaken by an army of books and notebooks, with a faintly disconcerted smile.

  “I’d never have guessed you were such a poet,” he admitted.

  Arthur nodded.

  “In one way or another, we all carry within us the totality of all men. Why we allow some to thrive and kill off the others is an unsolved mystery.”

  * * *

  —

  Finally he got word. The request for pardon his lawyers had lodged with the Ministry of Justice was being processed by the Council of Ministers, but in order for it to be ruled upon they were requesting a hearing.

  Before leaving the cell, Arthur perfunctorily adjusted the knot of his tie, sneaking a look at his reflection in the window. He felt strange in those clothes, after so long. The stiff collar of his shirt rubbed against the stubble at his Adam’s apple, and he felt the weight of the jacket on his hunched shoulders. He’d decided to wear a good suit, even though his lawyer had advised against it—especially the tie. “It projects an air of arrogance, and that’s one thing judges and prosecutors do not like.” The lawyer had also asked him not to shave that morning. Bags under his eyes and the gray growing in on a three-day beard would help make him look vulnerable, distraught, as though he’d spent the night tossing and turning, worried about his immediate future. Arthur had refused to follow any of that advice. He flicked a nonexistent speck of dust from his lapel with the back of his right hand, and for a moment his eyes rested on the white-gold band on his ring finger.

  He looked like a different person. Everyone looked different. But they were all still the same, and that must have given him the courage he needed as he held the metal door handle, momentarily unable to turn it.

  “It’s going to go well,” said Ibrahim. He’d helped him dress and was now calming his nerves.

  “You think so?”

  The Muslim man nodded, displaying his gum disease.

  “Of course. It always goes well for the rich, and you’re rich, right? Well then, nothing to worry about.”

  Arthur embraced Ibrahim.

  “You’re a real friend.”

  Ibrahim made no reply, but his hooded look did it for him. He diverted his attention to the half-open cell door.

  “You have to make a good impression on the outside.”

  His court appearance had been scheduled for eleven o’clock, but the transfer was taking place more than an hour ahead of schedule to avoid his being mobbed by the press.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” his attorney warned him, already gowned. His prominent cheekbones stretched the pale skin on his face taut, giving him the air of an edgy anorexic. The man was constantly flicking his hair back with a nervous gesture, jiggling his expensive watch as though it were a bell bracelet. Lefthanded, he wrote with a gold pen, and exuded a subtle lemon scent with the faintest hint of coffee and blonde tobacco. He spoke slowly, enunciating carefully as though he were at a business meeting, going over each agenda item one by one. He had them all written down in his planner and followed the list with the tip of his pen as he spoke.

  “That’s what you’re getting paid for, to make it easy,” Arthur replied. The lawyer’s affected mannerisms and excessive theatricality annoyed him.

  “The fact that the deceased were both so young—especially the girl—goes
against you, Señor Fernández. What’s more, just today I was informed that the boy’s mother’s lawyers lodged an objection to the pardon. The mother is asking that you serve your entire sentence.” He periodically glanced at Arthur over his stylish glasses, to ensure his client understood what he was trying to say. He wasn’t really seeing him. Arthur was just an object, a problem to be solved in the most brilliant way possible.

  Arthur tightened his jaw.

  “So what do I have going for me?”

  The attorney cleared his throat.

  “To begin with, the fact that I’m defending you. With a little luck, I’ll get the judge to impose some precautionary measures and you’ll be able to leave prison until the final ruling is issued. As shocking as the case is, these were indeed accidental deaths—involuntary manslaughter—and you’ve served three quarters of your sentence.”

  The lawyer tossed his head for the nth time, forcing his wayward hair into place, and gave a little shrug, as if he’d forgotten one minor detail.

  “Another thing that might play in your favor is mentioning the Aroha situation—only if it’s strictly necessary, of course.”

  “Not a chance,” Arthur whispered, eyes boring into the attorney. “I thought I made that very clear. My daughter is off limits.”

  The lawyer gave Arthur a disconcerted look, as though he didn’t understand why the man was unnecessarily complicating the situation.

  “Listen, you want to get off, right? That’s why you’re paying my firm’s retainer, which isn’t cheap, and that’s why they asked me to represent you here today. The judge might need to be reminded of your pre-existing circumstances, of what led to the fateful day of the accident.”

  “Forget it. End of subject,” Arthur repeated, unyielding.

  The lawyer shook his head in resignation. Whatever, his expression seemed to say.

  The courtroom was small, with creaky wooden floors and a long prefab table at which sat the judge, prosecutor, and a court clerk. To the left a young woman was taking notes and consulting a small red book that must have been the penal code. She was the lawyer involved in the private suit being brought by Gloria A. Tagger, the dead boy’s mother. Representing the six-year-old girl, Rebecca, who had also died in the accident, there was no one. Her father, the Armenian, had sent the judge a letter stating that he didn’t believe in the justice of the state, he believed in his own justice. And one way or another, he was going to see that it was served.

  At an identical table sat Arthur’s lawyer and an intern, whispering something into his ear and casting glances around like a conspirator. They were all wearing the long black gowns designed to instill fear or imbue authority, or both. On the wall before them hung a picture of the king formally opening the judicial year, and two flags. It was all clinical, silent, procedural. There was almost no one in the public gallery: a couple of kids who might have been law school students, spiral notebooks at the ready so as not to miss a single detail of the show.

  The hearing began, opening statements were heard, and when it was Arthur’s lawyer’s turn, he addressed the judge with a somewhat condescending smile. He removed his glasses slowly, with exaggerated theatricality, and tut-tutted, looking annoyed.

  “My client was sentenced to four-and-a-half years for the deaths of Ian Mackenzie Tagger and Rebecca Luján Montes, and has already served well over half that time, with favorable recommendations from the parole board. He has paid the millions imposed as compensation to both of the families affected by the tragic fatal accident, which he caused and for which he was charged with involuntary manslaughter on January 18, 2001. My client is a respected member of society, a well-known entrepreneur with no prior convictions. He has a permanent address and sufficient funds to meet any guarantee this tribunal might require—whether handing over his passport, paying any bail the court might set, or accepting other control measures imposed upon him. My client has most definitely, profusely and publicly, made known the remorse he feels. For all these reasons—bearing his personal circumstances in mind—it is our consideration that his appeal for pardon be granted by the Ministry of Justice. Thank you.”

  After this statement came others, for and against. Expert opinions were given—findings presented by psychiatrists and psychologists—and guarantees of further compensation to the families of the deceased. The court noted the objections made by the lawyers for the family opposed to granting a pardon, then came a recess and the closing statements. Both sides spoke in legalese, which was like a monotonous drone, the words enunciated with zero emphasis by either party. No one cared about anything but the fastidious following of procedure.

  Arthur closed his eyes, trying to escape. He didn’t feel nervous, nor was he heavy-hearted. Sitting there on the wooden bench between the two police officers guarding him, he got the impression that nothing happening there had anything to do with him. It was as if, despite being the protagonist of the whole event, the bit players had stolen the show, discarding him, and the final outcome didn’t depend on him in the slightest. He gazed at the photos the experts had taken the day of the accident, numbered and pinned on a corkboard, which an officer had wheeled in and positioned so that everyone could see. Specialists spoke of mathematical formulas, calculating trajectories and braking distances, offering hypotheses and numbers that some then refuted and others confirmed, depending on their need to demonstrate his guilt or innocence.

  None of it had anything to do with him. None of them was even close to understanding what had truly happened that rainy morning.

  Two hours later, the hearing was over, the ruling made.

  Arthur’s lawyer smiled on the way out, as though the two of them had just enjoyed a picnic on the beach together.

  “That went well. If I were you, I’d start packing my bags.”

  He was trying to be funny, but the glint in Arthur’s eyes froze his smile.

  “Why are you so happy, counsellor? I killed two people, and now they’re going to set me free. Isn’t the idea that people go into law because they believe in the justice system?”

  “Exactly. I do believe in the system. It was an accident. You were drunk, it was raining hard, and the street was in a terrible condition. Those kids started crossing the street before the light at the crosswalk had turned green. It was all a series of unfortunate coincidences that resulted in tragedy.”

  “Is that the conclusion you’ve come to, after all your reflections?” Arthur asked sarcastically, pointing to the attorney’s planner. “I read the appeal, there’s no need to parrot it back to me. I’m not the judge so you don’t have to keep playing your role on my account. Come on, you can do better than that. You think you can walk in here with a holier-than-thou air like you’re above good and evil and absolve me of my sins just because you questioned me a couple of times?”

  He could see his attorney was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  “I’m not judging you. That’s what the judge does. I acted impartially.”

  “You don’t have a fucking clue.”

  “There’s no need to be vulgar, Arthur.”

  “Oh, yes, there is. It’s the only civilized thing I can do.”

  * * *

  —

  His last few nights in jail, Arthur could hardly sleep. Every minute of every hour was like a reenactment of those other nights—the terrible ones when he thought it would never end. He talked and smoked with Ibrahim, bestowing guilt-ridden affection upon him, tainted by the evidence that Ibrahim’s words were true: Arthur’s money and influence were indeed getting him out of there much sooner than the wheels of justice would ever turn for his cellmate. They never brought up the reasons they were in prison, never tried to proclaim their innocence or guilt. On the inside, certain things were simply not talked about—and when they were released those same things would lose all meaning, so there was no need to express them verbally to begin with.

 
Dawn often took him by surprise, after lying awake all night. And that particular morning—red clouds in the distance—was going to be stormy. The floodlights on the perimeter wall were trained on the empty prison yard and benches lining the wall. A cat prowled the ledge slowly, knowing it was still his domain for a little while longer. To the right, casting his flashlight back and forth, was the swaying silhouette of the guard on duty. There was one hour left until the siren would blare and the world of artificial serenity would vanish into thin air. Other sounds, the everyday sounds that slowly enveloped him, gave it all an air of normality: the clanging of gates on the cellblock, the orderly’s footsteps, the coughing of prisoners in nearby cells…even the sound of a transistor radio filtering under the metal door like a distant murmur.

  Arthur sat on the edge of the cot and placed his bare feet on the green cement floor. Someone must have thought that painting in that color would make it seem like a meadow. The ground was cold. Ibrahim’s body was barely visible in the dark, an arm wrapped around his pillow. Arthur heard him sigh before turning over and going back to sleep, and he took advantage of the solitude that afforded him to write a letter.

  He’d been contemplating it for days, and the need he felt to write it had intensified when he found out he was going to be freed. Common sense told him that whatever words he might scribble were uncalled for, might even be counterproductive. It makes no sense to stir things up once the dust has settled, unless you want the dust to rise once more. He had no desire to reopen wounds that hadn’t even scarred over. So what was it that he was trying to do? He himself was unsure of his intentions, as he leaned toward the window to capture what little light he could from the weak glow of the searchlights and put pen to paper. He could have done it after he was out of jail—but by then the impulse would have faded. He had to do it there, between those four walls, by the barred window, with the smell of incarceration permeating their sheets, their clothes, their skin; he had to do it before it all faded away, vanishing as if it had never occurred.