Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  He told his brother he was in love with the daughter of the owner of the Paris Bookstore, said he was going to marry her and move to France.

  “The bookseller? That pig is a collaborator, a police informer—he gives the OAS tip-offs. He’s a murderer!” his brother had shouted.

  What did a word like murderer mean to a twelve-year-old? What breadth or depth could the concept of death have in his young brain? Yes, his father was dead, and he regularly heard shots fired at night, and saw his brother come home in the middle of the night with blood on his clothes that wasn’t always his. He lived surrounded by violence and could chant as loud as anyone the anti-European slogans that leaders of the struggle repeated like mantras; he knew the new Algerian anthem composed by Mufdi Zakariyah by heart: We are soldiers in the name of righteousness. So what? The only thing he truly wanted was for Friday to come so he could go to the beach and swim naked with Andrea. He could see that, in his brother’s eyes, and in the sorrowful silence of his mother, he was a bad Muslim, a bad son, a bad brother, and a bad patriot. But as far as Ibrahim was concerned, the whole world, the whole crazy world, could go to hell. He was happy.

  “I don’t care. I’m going to go with her and…”

  The first blow split his lower lip. The second struck him right in the nose.

  “You’re a traitor to your blood and to your country,” his brother hissed, still clenching his fist like a threat. Ibrahim watched the drops of blood dripping into the palm of his hand and gave his brother a look of deep rage. He felt conned, betrayed by his own kin.

  “Go to your room, Ibrahim,” his mother had said, her voice trembling. Her body seemed to have shrunk, as though she were trying to become invisible.

  “But…”

  “Go to your room!”

  He was miserable and didn’t understand. How could his desire to be happy infuriate them so? Ibrahim’s childhood became the slow monotonous passage of time and the muffled sounds of the street, the passing of cars that frightened his brother if they stopped any longer than necessary close to the door. “Ibrahim, go see who that is,” he’d whisper, always prepared to take off, running through the inner courtyards. Always on edge, waiting, overcome by fear ever since the OAS terrorists had executed their father. Now it was his brother who had taken the mantle. And when he fell, Ibrahim would be the one to continue the struggle. And meanwhile, they waited, listening to the fiery speeches of Boudiaf and Ben Bella, the heroes of the Battle of Algiers, in which his father had fought General Massu’s paratroopers. But he had no desire to be a martyr for his country, like his father and brother. All he wanted was to be with Andrea.

  That was when he’d heard the sound of tires on their unpaved street—a dark car with its lights out;three men emerged. Dark cars arriving suddenly in the night with their lights out meant only one thing. Suddenly, all of their neighbors’ lights went out too.

  They were coming for them. Ibrahim ran to tell his mother and brother. But he got there at almost the same time that the front door—a flimsy composite-wood board—splintered and flew open. In the blink of an eye, his brother jumped out a small window overlooking the back patio, no time to put on his shirt. As he jumped, he lost one sandal, which his mother picked up, turning to face the three men, wielding it the way she did whenever she went to swat Ibrahim for whatever thing he’d done that had riled her—and there had been lots of them. But this time one of the men effortlessly snatched it away, giving her a swift kick in the stomach that dropped her to the floor with a dull groan.

  The other two intruders were too beefy to slip through the window easily and they took some time getting out. The third one stayed with him and his mother. A handsome man, tall, with the olive skin of those who’ve spent a long time in the desert. Redheaded. On one side of his thick wrestler’s neck he had a tattoo of a pair of wings with a dagger piercing them through the middle. And a slogan: Country before all. Rushing toward his mother, who was still collapsed on the ground, Ibrahim blocked his way, shouting his head off. The man hadn’t seen him at first and was thrown off for a moment. But he reacted quickly, with a look of profound disgust. His enormous hand, hairy and calloused, clenched Ibrahim’s face with excruciating force. Ibrahim’s feet were lifted off the floor, and then he was hurled like a rag against the wall, once, twice, three times. Until he lost consciousness.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw his shirt was soaked with blood. His mother had a black eye and her dress was torn; she covered one dark, shriveled breast in shame, but she looked proud, almost smiling, and gazed lovingly at him. She told him to be strong. That everything comes to an end, even the most terrible pain.

  The men who had gone after his brother were frustrated and sweating. One of them wielded a .38 and said that he’d shot at him but wasn’t sure if he’d hit him. His brother knew the nearby labyrinthine alleyways like the back of his hand, knew every cul-de-sac and plaza and wall in the neighborhood; he was smart and fast and hadn’t been caught. And Ibrahim was happy that those bastards hadn’t been able to lay a hand on his brother. They’d been thwarted and were now angry.

  It didn’t occur to him that that made things worse for him and his mother.

  The man with the tattooed neck stepped forward.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, wrapping his hands around Ibrahim’s neck and rattling him back and forth as though attempting to shake his head off. He took Ibrahim’s chin in one hand and stared into his face, sneering. Ibrahim wrenched his head away and managed to free himself of the cold fingers. But the redhead just grabbed him again, tighter, and forced him to show him his teeth. Teeth that until that moment had been beautiful, full of songs and stories.

  “Where’s your brother, handsome? I know he’s around here, hiding in a pile of shit like the rat that he is. If you scream loud enough, if I make you scream, do you think he’ll come out of his hiding place, or will he stay hiding and just watch you suffer? What if I start on your mother? What do you say? You love your mother. Will you ask him to turn himself in?”

  Ibrahim didn’t reply. He couldn’t, with that hand clamped over his mouth. He didn’t know what came over him, why he did it, but all of a sudden he bit the huge hairy hand as hard as he could—a hand that smelled of gunpowder and cigarettes and military shoe polish. He bit it as hard as he could until he tasted blood.

  The redhead let out a howl of pain and punched Ibrahim in the face with his other hand, but the kid was like a leech, he wouldn’t let go. And then the man took out a machete, which he kept in a sheath strapped to his calf. It was a long military knife, with a sharp serrated blade that curled back at the tip. The steel handle had a compass on it. Ibrahim felt the impact of that steel like a medieval club destroying his teeth. Whipped into a frenzy, the tattooed man straightened up, holding his injured hand. One of the other men kicked Ibrahim and he tasted the dog shit on the sole of his military boot. Then the tattooed man dropped to his knees as hard as he could on Ibrahim’s chest while another held him down, and the third beat his mother senseless.

  The child within him died that night, as two strangers held him down while the curved tip of the machete tore through the muscles in his face, shredding his skin. There—shouting through the rivers of blood clouding the dilated pupils of his eyes—the boy inside him died, staring uncomprehendingly at the trembling mass that was his mother, who no longer screamed but simply gazed at him lovingly, sacrificing herself, as though soaking up all of her son’s pain, not only the pain he was already feeling but also that to come.

  * * *

  —

  Mutilated children grow into incomplete men, incapable of truly feeling anything, experiencing only counterfeit love, passion, and joy. They find fleeting moments of happiness which are always hanging by a thread, lest a nightmare, a glance, or a memory suddenly pop into their heads and reopen the wound, letting it air.

  Ibrahim looked at Arthur.

  “That’s
why anyone who steals a person’s childhood has to be destroyed. Because the worst crime you can commit is to steal someone’s hope, destroy their soul. That’s what your father, Lieutenant Luis Fernández, did to me.”

  Arthur sat looking petrified, his mouth ajar. He was staring at Ibrahim, searching his eyes, shocked and frightened.

  “That can’t be true,” he said, his voice broken. Ibrahim pointed to his scar.

  “Here’s your proof.”

  Still, Arthur shook his head and swallowed.

  “This is ludicrous, it makes no sense at all.”

  It made perfect sense, it was destiny, and destiny is a sort of justice.

  “Do you remember the first time I saw you in our cell? It was like looking at your father. You’re almost identical. And when you told me about your past, I knew you were the son of the lieutenant who ruined my whole life. I’d have killed you right then, but you pulled out your honeymoon picture and put it up on the wall. You smiled and told me your wife’s name. And then I saw that Allah is wise, and no matter how long the road, it always leads someplace. You brought her back to me.”

  Ibrahim stood and looked at him coldly.

  “The Armenian is outside. I told him you’d be here.”

  Arthur tensed and then ducked sideways, cowering. The Armenian stood in the entrance with his back against the door, and behind him rose the shaved head of a giant with a tattooed neck. Arthur whipped back to Ibrahim, livid.

  “You can’t punish me for something I didn’t do. I could never do what he did to you. I am not my father.”

  “Of course you are. We’re all our fathers. I look at you and I see him, and my blood boils. You have the same expression, the same red hair, the same way of twisting your mouth. You can’t escape that.”

  Arthur stood.

  “You have no right to judge me!”

  Ibrahim grabbed his arm.

  “You can try to run, but if you do Andrea will never find out what really happened to Aroha. The Armenian knows all sorts of people involved in human trafficking. Nobody disappears without leaving a trace, and these men can find anyone. I made a deal with him: your life in exchange for the information leading to Aroha.”

  Arthur frowned. He went pale. All he could do was glower at Ibrahim.

  “Who do you think you are, making deals on my life? Guzmán is going to find Aroha, I don’t need the Armenian for anything.”

  Ibrahim didn’t lose his cool. He let go of Arthur’s arm and spread his hands to show he wasn’t going to stand in his way. The decision is yours, he seemed to say: back door, or front door.

  Arthur’s eyes, wild with fear, glanced quickly at the door. The Armenian was ambling over, hands in his pockets, casual-like.

  “It’s you or Aroha,” Ibrahim repeated.

  Arthur chose the back door. Fear propelled him through the kitchen door as fast as he could go. The Armenian’s skinhead thug went after him. Almost immediately came the sound of plates crashing to the floor and the cook shouting, asking what the hell was going on.

  “Why’d you tell him? That’s not what we agreed,” the Armenian asked, half-angry and half-smiling. The regulars were eyeing him warily. He wasn’t one of them; he stuck out like a black stain on a white shirt, a stain that ruined the fabric.

  Ibrahim gazed at the photo on the wall of the shepherd and his dog.

  “We’ve all got a right to prove what we’re really made of. Now Arthur knows what he’s made of. He won’t get far, regardless. I know exactly where he’s headed.”

  The Armenian gave him a curious look, maybe even with a flicker of envy and admiration.

  “So it’s true, you really do have principles.” He said it as if Ibrahim were a leper, suffering his disease with dignity. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. On it was an address with map coordinates. “You’ll find the girl here.”

  Ibrahim read what was on the paper.

  “Alive?”

  The Armenian made a noncommittal face.

  “Possibly. Some things it’s best not to ask too insistently. I called in enough favors as it is to get this paper. There are certain circumstances that even people like you and me shouldn’t get involved in. You should go, Ibrahim. Go back to your village and don’t look back. That’s my advice.”

  Ibrahim put the paper away. The only advice he’d ever listened to in his life had come from a man who was buried on a hill beside his father.

  “I’ll tell you where Arthur’s headed.”

  * * *

  —

  Since she was a little girl, Aroha had had trouble waking up. She was slow to get moving in the mornings and spent ages in bed, yawning and lolling around; the minute her mother turned away she’d fall back asleep as though nothing outside of her bedroom were of any interest. Irritated and tired of calling her, Andrea would ask Arthur to get her up. He’d go into her room without turning on the light, run his fingers through her disheveled hair and kiss her forehead, whispering quietly until, little by little, she emerged from her dream and her grogginess. He was the only one who’d had the patience required to make his daughter get up without grumbling, so she wasn’t late to school every day. Aroha preferred that he be the one to take her to school, too, and back then she didn’t mind holding his hand all the way up the school steps. Her friends would be there waiting, eating sunflower seeds and spitting shells all over the ground. They were a gaggle of uniforms—red polo shirts with the school’s gold emblem embroidered over the chest, plaid skirts, and gray knee-socks—that swarmed like a wasp’s nest when he arrived, straining to see Arthur hand his daughter her notebook and give her a bear hug, wrapping his arms around her tiny body with only part of her head sticking out.

  “My friends think you’re cool.” Cool, said with a strawberry candy stuck in her mouth, her braces turning each smile into a glinting metallic scene of torture.

  His daughter’s voice came to him now from far away: You’re the best father in the world, she’d say. The world? he’d ask. The whole wide world and part of the universe. And he would respond, That’s better. When she was a little girl, he was her hero.

  But at some point she had stopped needing him to go wake her up because she was doing it all by herself, before the alarm went off, before Andrea even had to call her. There were little changes, like when he asked her to sit and talk with him for a while, she’d make up any excuse not to and then immediately lock herself in his office to talk on the phone, sharing secrets that he wasn’t privy to with a stranger. Who? he wondered. At first Arthur would tell himself that these things were tolerable defeats, changes that all kids go through as they grow up and move on.

  He shouldn’t have accepted her growing detachment without a fight. He should have paid more attention to the alarm bells that started going off that summer. I need money. And he’d give it to her as long as she’d just chat with him, or give him a kiss, or a hug. He was buying her affection, but any fondness on her part was increasingly scarce—and expensive. He’d ask her how school was going. Fine. Ask her what books she was reading. Whatever. Are you going to give me the money? If he asked too many questions, she’d get upset—so he stopped asking. You’d better at least pass, he told her. Get off my case, I will. Are you going to give me the money or not? He often wanted to know why she needed so much. It was always a trip to Valencia with her girlfriends, a weekend of horseback riding in the mountains, a new personal stereo. And he’d give it to her.

  It was as she neared adolescence that slowly the real problems began: running away from home, them having to call the police, derelict boyfriends who were always much older, constant rebellion, arguments, fights, slammed doors, the early signs that she was flirting with drugs. Useless trips to the psychologist. Multiple expulsions from school.

  Suddenly, he’d lost her, without even realizing. She was no longer his little girl, no longer
belonged to him. And in her eyes he began to see reproach and accusation. She’d figured out what kind of man her father was, knew that he was cheating on her mother, realized he tried to make up for prolonged absences with material gifts.

  He wasn’t home the day Aroha disappeared. He didn’t see her brush her teeth—by then freed of their metallic corset—didn’t see her brush her hair and walk out the door, never to return. At the time, there was a different woman he was seeing in the mirror, in a hotel room. A glimmering naked body that smiled at his reflection in the mirror and offered herself to him. While his daughter was on the road to her perdition, he was screwing a woman he’d never love—not the way he loved Andrea and Aroha—up the arse. And that tortured him. Why? Why had he done it? he wondered. He’d thrown his life away, aware of what he was doing at every step. He’d never know for certain, but maybe the answer was to be found in that inner voice, the one that called him a phony every time happiness seemed on the horizon. Maybe he didn’t deserve to be happy.

  * * *

  —

  It wasn’t too late, he said to himself, blinking at the sun in his eyes. He got out of the car feeling convinced that Andrea still loved him, unable to believe what Ibrahim had told him was true. She wouldn’t betray him like that. He just needed to see her one more time, to look into her eyes, to make her realize how sorry he was about the past. He could change—people change. Guzmán had finally found out where Aroha was, they didn’t need the Armenian at all. They’d go away together, the three of them, and start anew—this time for real.

  His eyes feverish, his mind racing, he strode across the residence parking lot, not noticing the two silhouettes that appeared between the cars until it was too late.