Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  That was what led to the argument they’d had the last night they spent in that hotel. Fourteen years ago. The fateful night had actually begun earlier in the evening, beneath the spikey fronds of a palm tree, when Diana began complaining—in Spanish—that she was just a fulana, a tart. Normally they spoke in English, removing themselves even further from real life. The heat that day was as thick as hot chocolate, though without the humidity of the coast. They were surrounded by dry pebbles, desiccated creek beds, the parched earth of what was once a pond baked and cracked. Bluebottles buzzed nearby, attempting to sip at flowerpots.

  It was Arthur’s fault. He should never have given in to the snake-charm of intimacy, to his own deceit. They had made love pressed up against the wooden doors of an armoire, imprinting their own sweaty skin with the designs carved into the wood. Then they’d lain down, still naked, on the cold ceramic tile floor.

  It was the delusion of believing you inhabit the real world that led him to commit a serious blunder—when Diana asked him what he was thinking about, he told her. What he should have said was something like, I’m thinking of you, of how perfect this is, I’m in heaven. Something Diana’s ears were prepared to hear, something that didn’t go off-script. But he didn’t. He told her something far worse. The truth.

  “I was thinking about a little inn on Rue Al-Mansur in Algiers, by the port. It had a fan like this one, though the air there was different—salty, almost wet, it got under your skin and left you smelling like algae, and oil, and the docks. The light was different, too, it streamed across the furniture like the gentle hand of a giant caressing its possessions. From the window you could hear the sound of the waves, truck horns on the loading dock, stevedores shouting, children laughing—Algerian kids’ laughter is unlike any music in the world, you should hear it. I was thinking that my heart used to pound in that bedroom, too, because I was younger, more impetuous, more naive. I was thinking about Andrea, lying beside me, against me, the two of us all steamy and stuck together like half-eaten candies that are starting to melt. I was thinking about the road that led me from that bedroom to this one.”

  He was also thinking about ending the affair he was having with Diana, with all the Dianas in his life, about putting a stop to his weekend escapes and going home, and holding Andrea.

  He was thinking that on the way home he’d stop off somewhere to buy her flowers. And a little something for Aroha, too. Maybe one of those little nightlights with bears on them.

  The baby had come between them like a wall being erected slowly, brick by brick. He’d first sensed it when he saw her in the delivery room, as the doctor tied the umbilical cord. Astonishingly, Arthur had trembled in a way that more resembled fear than awe. He’d wondered what that tiny bundle of flesh was, shrieking as if the whole world were hers for the asking, and she was asking for it. What kind of thing—that was the only word that came to him—fitted in a pair of gloved hands, hands that scooped it up like water from a bowl. She’s all yours, the doctor had said, handing her over like an offering, like a gift. And that power scared him.

  He couldn’t help but think of his father in his dress uniform, a decorated lieutenant in the paratroopers—tall, strong, redheaded, a tattoo on his neck proclaiming loyalty to the homeland, an indelible mark proving where his priorities lay. Country before all. Was he like that too? Was he like his father, or just a hollow shell?

  He couldn’t avoid that sick, horrible association. Every time he saw Andrea give her breast to a mouth that was not his, he felt like an intruder. He hardly dared to touch the baby, who stared at him unseeingly, searching for his voice like a blind man with wild eyes, wrinkling her little nose in recognition when he approached the rocking chair. It was as though he didn’t want to contaminate her, as though he couldn’t admit that jealousy and tenderness had been waging a fierce battle inside him from the moment she was born. And it was still unclear which of them was going to emerge victorious.

  That’s what he was thinking as he watched the fan blades rotate slowly, while Diana stroked his chest. So he told her.

  “It’s over between us.”

  But nothing is ever over. At least not when we think it should be, and not the way we want it to be. Life had taught him that lesson more than once—in the hands of his French cousin; in Cochard’s office; in the winding road that had led him to where he sat now, a king presiding over a vast mountain of poison. But he didn’t want to hear that now, didn’t want to hear that pernicious voice, mocking him. He rushed to get dressed—as if the countdown had started and the apportioned time he had to win Andrea and Aroha back or lose them forever were dwindling—and as he did so, Arthur felt sure he could push back the boundaries of fate.

  * * *

  —

  The road narrowed and he came to a place where cones and construction fencing reduced the road to only a lane. A detour led off to the right, on a secondary road that ran through a deserted town and then continued alongside a creek for a few hundred meters. The water wasn’t visible, but it was audible, gurgling under the embankment. He took the detour without slowing down or stopping at a stop sign partially obscured by brush.

  That was when he smashed into a car that was, at that precise instant, going the same direction he was.

  He slammed against the steering wheel and the seatbelt kept him from flying through the front windshield. For a few seconds he lost consciousness, and when he came to, he wondered what had happened. Had it not been for the evidence of the upside down vehicle on the embankment down below, its wheels spinning the wrong way, he might have thought he’d dreamed the whole thing. He stumbled out of the car, dizzy, and staggered fearfully to look over the edge.

  The creek was narrower to the right. On the opposite side of it lay a body, legs floating in the water. Arthur rushed down the embankment, tripped, fell and sprang back up. He rushed to the body. It was still breathing—a girl whose life was draining away as quickly as the torrent of her blood being washed down the creek, pouring from her ears, her mouth, her nose.

  “Don’t move. I’m going for help.” As if her broken body could have moved an inch.

  He went back to the car for his phone. No coverage. Think, Arthur, think. But he couldn’t keep his head straight, his thoughts were swirling, his brain screaming. It was all going on at once, a series of voices all clamoring to make themselves heard. He thought of the detour, the construction workers. There must be someone back there. They’d know what to do, be able to call an ambulance. He started the car and accelerated. The road was too narrow to turn around and he decided to drive forward until he found a place to turn and go back. People always think they’ll find a place from where they can turn back.

  Fifty meters later the road widened. And Arthur stopped. What are you going to do? They’re dead, the eyes in the rearview mirror told him. You killed them. But it was an accident. Don’t throw your whole life away—not now of all times.

  Many kilometers later, Arthur walked into a gas station cafeteria. The employee paid no attention when, agitated, Arthur asked to use the phone.

  He didn’t call the police. It didn’t even occur to him. He dialed Diana’s number and told her everything, his voice wracked by sobs. No, no one had seen him. Yes, he was almost sure they were dead. No, his car didn’t have any marks on it.

  Then it never happened, Diana had said coldly.

  And his heart felt light. It never happened. Anything can be undone, you just have to expunge it. That was what he wanted to hear. What he needed to believe. She’d take care of everything. Diana always did. And she would that time, too.

  TWENTY

  The Armenian lay in bed for a few minutes, his mind blank. He liked that silent hour of the morning when the coming day still holds the promise of something new—new things that, in the end, would turn out to be the same old things, deep down he knew that, but when he opened his eyes and saw that red horizon, the whole world seem
ed like a mystery waiting to be unraveled. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the fleeting sense of calm, the purity of the silence, the sense of tranquility. Marijuana fuddled his brain, and he sang the chorus of Deep Purple’s “Highway Star,” enunciating each syllable:

  Nobody gonna take my head

  I got speed inside my brain

  He didn’t know why he had that song in his head when he opened his eyes, though he always awoke humming something. It had been like that for years.

  On the floor lay a used condom, and an ashtray overflowing with butts sat in a pool of spilled beer. At the foot of the unmade bed were his pants, a fake passport from Bosnia and Herzegovina, and a duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, and a few thousand euros stashed in a false bottom. He’d be history in a few hours. He was going to lose himself forever in the hazy borders of the former Yugoslavia, a Promised Land for men like him. It wasn’t so bad, not really. He’d been in and out of prisons and detention centers for as long as he could remember, and they were his natural habitat: the smell of disinfectant, the cell walls covered in thick layers of paint, the guards who treated prisoners terribly, the other prisoners’ fear disguised as bravado.

  But he felt old and tired. Younger men were coming to prison, and they had new codes—no loyalty, no respect. They tried to dethrone him the first opportunity they got. He was no longer omnipotent and sooner or later he’d succumb. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen: anyone who’s been emperor has no desire to be ousted and end up petty king of a band of hoods. By making that jailbreak, stabbing a civil guard, he was putting an end to a legendary prison career. And his legend had to remain unblemished for all time—he wasn’t going back to prison in Spain, not ever.

  “This has got to end,” said the woman lying beside him. She was smoking pot, too, and resting her hand on a belly less taut than he recalled. Nor did he recall the bouquet of wrinkles on her eyelids, or the tiny creases on her upper lip. Her eyes were the color of autumn grass; she wasn’t pretty, but he still found her attractive. Her name was Azucena, and on her finger she wore a white gold band engraved with the Armenian’s real name, the one he never told anyone, the one those who knew it never dared pronounce in his presence.

  “It will all be over soon. In a few days some associates of mine who trade slaves and hookers will take me to Sarajevo. They owe me a few favors. And from there, who knows? Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan. There are lots of opportunities out there for guys like me. But first I have to get rid of the son of a bitch who killed our daughter.”

  “It doesn’t matter where you go, Eladio, or what you do. Rebeca isn’t coming back, and you’ll never stop running, never. You’ve wasted your whole life running and you’ll lose me that way, too. Running from your own life.”

  The Armenian felt like he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to think about life. He didn’t want to respond to a woman as lonely as he was, to her fingers, trying to intertwine with his.

  Azucena was a social worker. They’d met at the prison a year before Rebeca was born. She was the only person who’d ever shown him anything resembling love. She took the time and effort to teach him to read and write. And she’d given him a daughter, Rebeca, who he’d seen just once a year, on her birthday, because he didn’t like for his wife to bring her along on her visits—a jail was no place for a little girl destined to become a princess. He didn’t want her to grow up and remember a father behind bars. But he always carried a photo of her in his wallet and he’d show it off to everyone when he was in a good mood.

  He swapped it out for a new one every once in a while, to keep up with the changes as his daughter grew. He’d read some childhood psychology books and he’d attempt to convince anyone who would listen that he was a good father, that he worried about her education. The Armenian had created his own little fiction, that of a normal family, one in which he drilled into his daughter the maxim he’d lived by: Never mess with anyone—but if anyone comes looking for you, you let them find you. He’d pave the way for her, keeping her out of harm’s way, protecting her and at the same time teaching her to bare her teeth and to bite when necessary. He dreamed of one day seeing her go to college—something he’d never done—and become a prestigious lawyer. He even considered the ironic possibility of her wearing a barrister’s robe and making it all the way to the highest rung, the Supreme Court. Why not? Self-deception is a way to survive disappointment. And for six years—as long as she’d lived—that fairytale had kept him strong and determined.

  Azucena was doing up her bra, sitting on the bed. Her disheveled hair covered her face, obscuring the bags under her eyes.

  “You should turn yourself in. I’ve still got friends in the penal service. They can help us.”

  “I’m not turning myself in, Azucena. You can get that idea right out of your head.”

  “So what do you plan to do after you kill the man? How many more will you have to bring down in order to stop hating yourself, stop hating the whole world?”

  When there’s no hope left, you invent it. And if you can’t do that, then you live full of hatred, turning vengeance into a driving force that never rests, that keeps you awake nights. It becomes an objective that pushes you to keep going when there’s nothing else that can. For the Armenian, killing Arthur had become the sole purpose in his life.

  “Leave your sermon for the new inmates. It’s too late to do me any good. I’m already dead inside.”

  Azucena gave him an exhausted look, one that foretold the inevitable.

  “I can’t do this anymore. I have to move on with my life. We buried her four years ago. But you won’t let her go. You cling to us to keep yourself from drowning, but you’re taking me down with you.”

  The Armenian glanced at Azucena, indifferent. He’d lost her now, too. He didn’t care, though; he’d always been alone.

  “I’ll do what I have to do and then clear out. Forever. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  * * *

  —

  When he realized the Armenian was just a few centimeters behind him, Ibrahim didn’t bat an eyelid. Ever since Ordóñez had given them the tip-off, he knew it was just a matter of time until the man showed up. The Armenian had a giant of a man—maybe thirty years old—with him. An overgrown kid, really, with his head shaved except for one strip of dark curls down the middle that made him look like a fierce Mohican. The goon had huge eyes—bulging and watery, his pupils like black holes. He’d just done a line of coke and seemed never to blink, so it looked as if someone had sewn his upper eyelids to his thick bushy brows. His arms were tattooed—a full sleeve, not a centimeter of bare skin to be seen.

  “Can we speak peacefully for once?” the Armenian asked.

  Ibrahim looked the thug up and down and weighed his options. He’d have a hard time taking him down and there was little chance he’d be able to do it without getting hurt in the process. So he didn’t have a lot of options. Ibrahim slipped a hand into his pocket and the bruiser growled like a rabid dog. He pulled a few coins out and put them on the bar, where he’d been having a beer. Then he held up his hands in a sign of peace, and the Armenian yanked his dog’s chain to rein him in.

  “Let’s step outside.”

  The thug positioned himself to the right of the Armenian, eyes sweeping back and forth between Ibrahim and the surroundings.

  “It’s the simple pleasures you really miss when they’re gone, don’t you think? I’d forgotten what it’s like to stroll through the center of Madrid.”

  “How did you escape prison?”

  The Armenian lifted his shirt and showed him a nasty knife wound, about where his liver was. It had only just begun to heal and the stitches hadn’t scarred over yet. That had been a close call.

  “If you hurt yourself, the bastards pay attention. They can’t let you bleed to death; it’s against the law. So the deeper the wound, the more attention they pay. Did you know that,
in the Middle Ages, self-laceration was seen by the mystics as a way to attract God’s attention? Bleeding is good, it purifies. So I started a fight, purposely let them get me, and they had to move me to the hospital. Humala and his colleagues did the rest, they owed me a few favors.” He smiled, pointing to the goon.

  “So what do you want?” Ibrahim cut to the chase.

  “I want to start over. You know? Look, it’s not like anyone ever actually decides to be a bastard—a soulless motherfucker. Things just happen and you end up getting swept up.”

  The Armenian paused for a moment, scrutinizing Ibrahim with two huge eyes that seemed to take up his entire face, as though waiting for him to do or say something. But Ibrahim didn’t know what to do or say.

  “Sometimes I talk a lot. It’s weird because I don’t usually have anything to say, but I don’t like silence, you know?”

  For once Ibrahim could agree, though he’d never felt comfortable talking that much.

  “Why don’t you just say what you’ve come to say and stop beating around the bush?”

  The Armenian pointed at him and gave a complicit smile. He had gaps between his teeth, which were small and brown and pointy, like the teeth of a saw.

  “I heard your boss hired a real badass, a pro who’s asking a lot of questions about his daughter. They say the guy’s fast, no bullshit. I’m touched by his interest. But that’s not going to keep me from ripping the bastard to shreds. He killed my daughter. He can put an entire army in my way, as far as I’m concerned. But Arthur is a dead man. Nothing and nobody is going to stop me. I wanted you to know.”

  Ibrahim looked up calmly, unflustered. He noticed his adversary’s wrinkles. Like everyone else, that old fighter, too, had started to wither and was trying to pretend time had not taken its toll. He thought of the photos Ordóñez had shown them, the ones with Ian and Rebeca.