Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  “Stop it. Come on, stop that shit.” Her voice was thick and sticky, like a piece of gum you can’t get off the bottom of your shoe and that stretches longer and longer, becoming ropey, tangled, twisted, incomprehensible. She was high. She’d shot up—maybe her inner thigh, which might explain why her zipper was down. Or maybe on the sole of her foot, which would explain the missing shoe. Any unexpected place, which would hide the track marks, so her parents wouldn’t see. Fathers stop looking at certain parts of their daughter’s bodies after a certain age. If the door is accidentally open and they see them in their underwear, they turn away in shame, stammering excuses. Mothers are different. Mothers know.

  “Say something to the camera,” the voice behind the lens hissed.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell them you’re going to be a little late to your riding class,” someone else said, emerging slowly from the shadowy corner and standing in front of her. He, too, wore a ski mask.

  “Okay, enough of this shit. I want to go home now,” Aroha was becoming alarmed, fearful, dragging herself toward a filthy corner.

  “Not yet. First we’re going to play a little game. Like the other times.”

  Aroha was a moving target. The camera followed her across the ground to where she’d pressed her back to the wall. Suddenly the recording juddered involuntarily, the shot changed. Then it went dark.

  When it came back on, the camera was focused on a lopsided bedframe on the ground. Aroha’s hands and feet were tied to it with twisted wire. Her naked body curved to the side, but she wasn’t putting up a fight, wasn’t struggling to free herself from the wire bonds. Her expression was lax, her arms and legs shiny in the artificial light of the camera. Her limbs looked almost polished, surreal, like a porcelain doll. The guy with the hairy chest was kneeling beside Aroha’s head, stroking her sweaty hair with almost freakish tenderness. Arthur could have sworn his fingers were trembling as he stroked her cheek. But maybe it was the cameraman’s hand shaking. The man glanced furtively at the camera, as though awaiting an order.

  “Do it,” the other ski-masked figure said from off-screen.

  The first one climbed on top of her and began simulating having sex with Aroha. At first, she seemed to experience nothing but mild displeasure. She looked at the camera and murmured something Arthur couldn’t make out, since she was stammering. She sounded transfixed, her voice had an almost liquid hiss about it, like a fountain, or a leaky tap. Her pupils were dull, but little by little her confusion and irritation settled into resigned acceptance. It was clear that Aroha had been through this before, and not by force. But now, it was all going too far.

  The other man pushed the old guy aside.

  “Not like that. I’ll show you.”

  He unzipped his fashionably-ripped designer jeans and bent over her, the slender, delicate fingers of his right hand walloping her with a violent slap.

  Seeing her image in freeze-frame for a moment, Arthur’s throat ran dry and he felt as if he’d swallowed an enormous dragonfly that was now fluttering against his trachea, trying to get out.

  “You’ve got to be violent. If you want it to look real, it’s got to be real.”

  In a flash of lucidity, Aroha realized what they were going to do. She shook her head from side to side in a cold, near-passive, drug-induced desperation.

  “What are you doing? Stop. Stop it. You’re hurting me.”

  But he didn’t stop. He picked up a stick that looked like a policeman’s baton. Aroha opened her mouth wide and howled as loud as she could as it entered her vagina.

  “Close your eyes,” Arthur whispered, his voice breaking, eyes stinging with tears.

  It was absurd. Everything he was seeing had already happened. But by hitting play he felt like it was occurring all over again, and he wanted so badly for Aroha to close her eyes. Soon it would all be over. Everything would be forgotten. Even her unspeakable suffering.

  The music blared, drowning out his daughter’s cries, as the man’s back filled the camera lens.

  Who can say where the road goes

  Where the day flows?

  Only time…

  and who can say if your love grows,

  as your heart chose?

  Only time…

  Arthur shut his computer down but his pupils remained glued to the screen. There was something feverish, delirious in his look. The terror was reflected in his mouth, which hung open unevenly, as though he were on the verge of shouting and yet frozen, keening silently. Two fat tears, round and perfect, slid down his cheeks. It took him a minute to notice the shadow that was being cast on the screen. It wasn’t coming from inside, but from behind him. Slowly, he turned and saw Guzmán, haloed in lamplight, his silhouette backlit. He didn’t bother to ask the man how long he’d been standing there.

  It was obvious that he’d been there awhile.

  They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, and then Guzmán walked over to the huge window overlooking Madrid. The tiny people down below, in the distance, were like little robots that couldn’t decide which way to go, what to do. The muddy colors on the street contrasted with the orange, lemon, and wine-colored clouds floating above the skyscrapers’ roofs.

  Arthur, still seated at this desk, could be seen reflected in the huge windows, his image superimposed over Guzmán’s. That was the closest the two of them would ever get, Guzmán thought, and he couldn’t say he was sorry about it. Two silhouettes, reflected as one on a pane of glass.

  “I once had an instructor at the directorate, a real professional, a guy who taught interrogation techniques, and for some reason, he liked me—people like us have unusual proclivities. One of the things he believed was that feigning ignorance is a form of intelligence. You have to start from zero, he’d say, take nothing for granted, pretend you know nothing, erase what you think you know in order to find out what you need to know. Otherwise, preconceived notions will trick you, deflect your attention from the obvious. If he could see me now, here, with you, he’d give me hell, tell me I was being an idiot. And he’d be right.”

  Guzmán glanced sidelong at Arthur. The man looked awful. He could imagine the devastating effect it had had on him, watching a video of his daughter being raped. He wondered how many times he’d watched it, and what kind of self-inflicted torture he went through every time he did.

  “You should have told me about that video, don’t you think?”

  Arthur stared off into space, his lips slack, his mouth half-open, eyes wide and shiny. Guzmán walked over to a collection of porcelain figurines—a group of musicians playing instruments—and touched them.

  “It was Olsen, wasn’t it? He tried to blackmail you. And you killed him.”

  Arthur gave him a snide look, full of hate.

  “For someone so smart, you don’t have a fucking clue.”

  * * *

  —

  Magnus Olsen had been no one in Arthur’s life, until one ordinary rainy day in late 2000. Arthur recalled having shaken the man’s limp hand on one occasion, when his American subsidiary was looking for backing from some venture capitalists that belonged to a consortium Olsen represented. The guy looked like a scared puppy and was perspiring, which suggested he was afraid of getting caught in a lie. Olsen appeared surprisingly vulgar and had no visible appeal, despite sporting a gold watch and a very attractive wife.

  Olsen spent the whole meeting staring at Arthur, his face red with swollen veins. Arthur could remember the man’s tie—flopping awkwardly over his open shirt—and his malt whiskey breath. At some point, Olsen managed to lead Arthur away from the others and into a corner. His Spanish was peculiar. He held on to each syllable before releasing it like a bubble. At first he inquired politely about Aroha. The question made Arthur uncomfortable but didn’t surprise him. His daughter’s repeated disappearances and run-ins made fo
r popular gossip, and not just in the tabloid news—in the business world, too. Arthur thought Olsen was trying to ingratiate himself, earn his confidence for future deals, so he attempted to blow him off with a few nominally civil words.

  “I hear your daughter disappeared a week ago.”

  “The police are on it.”

  “Let’s hope it’s just another one of her little escapades.”

  Two days later, Olsen phoned him at the office. He sounded incredibly nervous and pressured Arthur to meet him in Madrid, someplace discreet. Arthur tried to give him the brush-off, but Olsen cut him off, saying he had valuable information—regarding Aroha’s whereabouts. Before hanging up, he warned Arthur not to go to the police, under any circumstances.

  Arthur didn’t breathe a word about it to Andrea. He didn’t want to upset her. His wife was hardly even getting out of bed anymore, instead just popping pills and waiting for the phone to ring. Besides, he’d had about all he could take of people contacting him in the hope of earning some cash for tips that always turned out to be dead ends.

  He did, however, talk it over with Diana, who at the time was living in an apartment they secretly shared in the chic Salamanca district.

  “You should go to the police,” was her advice. “I know Olsen. He’ll try to get you embroiled in something for sure.”

  But Arthur hadn’t listened.

  They arranged to meet on the outskirts of Madrid, on the road to Extremadura. Olsen was waiting for him inside his car, parked behind a service station. There were trucks parked at an angle, hiding him from view, but Olsen still looked uneasy. Before opening the passenger door to let Arthur in, he glanced around to make sure no one was spying on them. It was clear that his nerves were shot and he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  “So, what was it you had to tell me?”

  Olsen launched into a sorry tale full of debt, jail threats, and creditors making his life impossible. Arthur already knew part of the backstory—it had made the financial news. For weeks they’d been publishing the gossip, either real or invented: his wife and children’s reactions, the scandal it had all caused at the firm, and all sorts of conjecture about a hidden, sordid private life. Hundreds of investors had put their trust in Magnus Olsen—and hundreds of thousands had, in turn, handed over their assets to the investors’ companies, placing their and their families’ futures in his hands. And he’d failed them. The market had taken a nosedive, and now lots of people were left hanging out to dry.

  But none of that concerned Arthur. He spent ten minutes listening to Olsen’s whining, his sundry excuses and his ludicrous plans to re-launch his businesses. By the time he mentioned needing money—lots of money—Arthur realized that coming had been a waste of time. The guy was a con artist who would just get Arthur tangled up in his web.

  “If you’ve got financial problems, talk to Diana—or to Rueda, my secretary. Set up a formal meeting, and don’t waste my time.”

  He was about to get out of the car when Olsen grabbed his forearm forcefully.

  “I know where your daughter is,” he said, sounding desperate, staring into his eyes with the intensity of a madman.

  Arthur gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Olsen was rubbing his hands together as though he’d broken out in hives. His face was red, and despite it not being at all warm inside the car, rings of sweat were visible around his neckline and armpits.

  “Your daughter is in grave danger, Arthur. And I can help you. I know where she is, but by tomorrow they might have already moved her someplace else.”

  Arthur tightened his jaw, grabbed him by the grimy lapels of his jacket, and shook him hard.

  “What do you mean?”

  Olsen swore that just by having met with Arthur, he was putting himself and his family at great risk, but he needed money. Lots of money, he said.

  “Call me tomorrow, and have a bank transfer ready to go. I’ll send you a code and an account number. When I get confirmation of the deposit, you’ll get an email from an internet café containing the details of your daughter’s whereabouts. And after that you won’t see me again.”

  This, Arthur suddenly realized, was actually full-on blackmail. He let go of the man.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m afraid not, Arthur.”

  Arthur felt his vision clouding over and a burning in his stomach shot up his throat like a ball of fire. Losing control, he punched Olsen in the face, hard.

  “You son of a bitch! You tell me where my daughter is this second or I’ll beat the ever-loving life out of you.”

  Olsen dodged Arthur’s fists as best he could. He opened the car door and managed to get half his body out. His bottom lip was split, his shirt covered in blood.

  “Stop it. Stop it right now—if you ever want to see your daughter again,” he jabbered as Arthur beat him.

  A flash of insight checked Arthur’s rage. No matter how badly he wanted to rip that sick fuck to shreds, he realized that, at least for now, he was at the man’s mercy. He stopped pummelling him and tried to calm down.

  “I’m going to the police.”

  Olsen was trying to straighten out his clothes. He opened the glove compartment and took out a little packet of Kleenex.

  “No, you’re not. The people who have your daughter would find out immediately and get rid of her. The cops would never find her. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about,” he said, gingerly wiping the blood from his lip.

  “Did they kidnap her? What did you do to my little girl?” His voice was imploring, but Olsen wouldn’t give in. At Arthur’s temporary show of weakness, Olsen smiled faintly and looked rather smug.

  “Tomorrow. Don’t forget. Now get out of my car,” he said, before starting his engine.

  When he got home, Arthur debated possibilities, over and over again. His first instinct was to go to the police, but he discarded that option almost immediately. This was the first decent clue as to Aroha’s whereabouts he’d had in weeks, and he wasn’t about to let it slip away. He went to the bank, got access to his safe deposit box, and took out part of the money Olsen was demanding—as well as the unlicensed HK pistol, which he slipped into his belt. One way or another he was going to get the information he needed. If he had to flay the man alive, or blow his brains out, so be it.

  The next morning, Arthur sat down by the computer to wait, but he received no email. He waited for hours, until it started to get dark. And then he accepted the fact that the email wasn’t going to come. On the way home, he listened to the news on the radio: Magnus Olsen had committed suicide. His wife and children had found him hanging in their living room.

  Arthur parked on the shoulder and thumped the steering wheel with his fist, cursing. The only hope he had had of finding Aroha had just vanished.

  * * *

  —

  Two weeks later I got an envelope.” There had been nothing special about it, no stamp, no return address, just his name written in block letters. Inside was a clear plastic case with a CD, and a note.

  Arthur showed Guzmán the handwritten note:

  This video was made by Magnus Olsen; he’s the man behind the camera. If anyone knows where your daughter is, it’s him, or one of the other people in the video. I’m sorry I can’t give you more help than that. I hope it’s not too late.

  “So, I didn’t kill Magnus Olsen. And he wasn’t the one who gave me the CD. I don’t know where it came from. I’ve spent four years trying to figure out who sent it, but I still don’t know. Spending the last three years in jail has made it all a little harder. That’s why Diana hired you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that right from the start?”

  Arthur made a fist and pursed his lips, just for a split second. And then he regained his usual composure, putting on his slightly melancholic mask once more.

  “After I saw the video I realized tha
t would be impossible. Olsen’s death closed off that option. I’d automatically have been considered a suspect. Plus, Andrea would have ended up finding out what they were doing to Aroha, and it would have killed her. That’s why I’ve concealed the tape’s existence for the past four years.”

  Guzmán poured himself a snifter of whiskey without bothering to ask permission, and shook his head.

  “That wasn’t your only reason, was it? There’s another one, a more powerful reason.”

  It had dawned on Guzmán when he saw the tape. Dámaso had done everything he could to keep from telling him where it was hidden. But everything he could hadn’t been enough. At first, Guzmán thought the old man’s iron will stemmed from the fact that he was actually the one in the tape pretending to rape Aroha. But when he saw the whole of it, he realized that in fact the old man was trying to hide something else.

  “You already knew, when you hired me, who the three guys in the video were.”

  He eyed Arthur, sitting there at his desk. He was very still, not making a sound, gazing at the wall. His disheveled red hair fell over his forehead, and he was breathing softly, the way a dying man does just before his last gasp.

  * * *

  —

  It took him weeks to ascertain the identity of the man in the video. He watched the sickening recording again and again in search of a sign, anything that might provide a clue as to where they were, or who the people doing that to his daughter might be. In the end he concluded that the scene had not been authentically violent or unanticipated, had not been as chaotic and horrifically brutal as it appeared. Instead it had been staged, and had “artistic” aspirations. To call them artistic was repulsive, of course, but that was the aim. It wasn’t just a porn flick starring a young girl. And it wasn’t exactly a snuff film, full of blood and gore. It was much more than that—or at least it was trying to be. In a sense it was a testament, a declaration of intentions, a horrifying insight into someone’s world, someone who despite being forced to remain anonymous, was seeking some kind of recognition. It was the work of an expert, the work of someone who had inside knowledge about motion pictures.