Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  He watched Zinoviev take the boy’s hand and begin walking toward the gray water of the lake. The boy turned back to the car, and the young man waved confidently. Through the flicking of the wipers he could discern the wooden boardwalk and gazebo. It was almost entirely dark. Disobeying Zinoviev’s order, he got out and approached. Dry leaves crunched beneath his feet and soon the wet ground penetrated the soles of his shoes. When he reached the gazebo he saw Zinoviev’s broad muscular back, his hands in his pockets and a spiral of bluish smoke swirling over his shoulder.

  The Russian turned slowly and gave him a look. “I told you to wait in the car.”

  “We don’t have to do this, there’s got to be another way.”

  Zinoviev took the cigarette from his mouth and blew on the tip.

  “It’s already done,” he said, starting back to the car.

  The young man walked to the edge of the lake, its calm waters glimmering like brass. Come, the darkness beckoned, Come, forget about it all.

  The boy was floating facedown like a starfish, and rain blurred his body, which slowly began to sink.

  * * *

  —

  Eight months later, Zinoviev was concentrating on his breathing. He liked to go for a run in the mornings, eight or ten kilometers at a decent pace, listening to music on his headphones for motivation. This morning it was Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. As he ran, jumbled thoughts cluttered his mind, things impossible to articulate in exact sentences. He was thinking of all the men he could have been, if he wasn’t who he was.

  Spiders were to blame for everything. Zinoviev’s biggest fear had its roots in the basement of his childhood home—a cold cellar, full of spiderwebs. Small spiders, tiny really, colonized the darkness by the thousands. He could feel them crawling all over his legs, his arms, his neck, into his mouth. Attempting to wriggle away from them was useless; they were everywhere, touching his skin with legs like hairy fingers, trying to ensnare him in their sticky silk traps. Had it not been for that cellar, he’d probably be another man today. He’d learned to conquer his fear, to turn it into a strength. His spider tattoos were a declaration of intent: Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  The last stretch of his run was the hardest. As soon as he could see the house through the fog, he clenched his teeth and picked up the pace. Behind the fence he heard the familiar gruff bark of Lionel, his Doberman.

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” he said to himself, trying to catch his breath as he checked his GPS watch. His heart rate began to slow. Opening the front gate, he gave Lionel a friendly kick. The Doberman was still limping—an American Stafford had almost ripped off his hindquarters in the last fight. Zinoviev stroked the dog’s square head, his powerful jaws. He should get rid of it. What the hell was the point of a fighting dog that could no longer fight? But he was fond of him.

  “What do you say, warrior? Any visitors today?”

  He walked to the porch and sat on the front step, rummaging in his belt pouch for his cigarettes. He loved smoking, even right after a run, before his heartbeat had fully recovered. The tobacco hit his lungs like an avalanche. Wiping his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he exhaled a mouthful of smoke. Renting this house had been a good idea. Isolated, quiet, a portrait of bucolic countryside. Surrounded by dense pines, it was almost invisible, even from the top of the hill. If anyone got lost and approached the gate, Lionel dissuaded them from doing anything but carrying on their way. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always the Glock he kept hidden behind the TV.

  Zinoviev took off his muddy running shoes and walked across the creaky wood floors. The fireplace was lit and its heat quickly warmed his damp socks. He turned on the TV and smiled, seeing the cartoon channel. He was using Disney cartoons to learn English, but the truth was he really liked that big mouse. Every time he saw Mickey, he wondered at the fact that he had once been eight years old. That was a long time ago. Too long. He looked away from the plasma screen and went into the kitchen to make a protein shake, still listening to the television.

  Suddenly, over the sound of the TV, he heard the dog growling. Retracing his steps, Zinoviev looked out. He’d forgotten to close the front door. The dog growled, hackles raised, paws pressed into the floor, staring at the fence. Zinoviev inhaled sharply.

  “What’s the matter, Lio…?”

  The first shot shattered the dog’s chest, and the animal jerked up into the air with a throaty whimper and then landed heavily on his side. A powerful shot, a sawed-off shotgun, almost point-blank. Zinoviev ran for the TV to grab his Glock. He didn’t see Mickey hand Minnie a bouquet of roses. Snatching his gun, he turned. Had he not hesitated, Zinoviev would have had time to take aim. But for a fraction of a second he stood still, mouth open in shock.

  “You?” he asked

  All he received in exchange was a cold stare, a look that left no doubt as to the man’s intentions. Before Zinoviev had time to react, the butt of the shotgun slammed into his forehead.

  * * *

  —

  How many ways are there to end a man’s life? As many as he can imagine. And the worst of them were passing through Zinoviev’s mind when he opened his eyes to find himself with a wool hood pulled tight over his face. The fabric cut into his mouth, suffocating him. The hood stank of sweat. He was naked and had been handcuffed in an unnatural position, to some sort of post or beam. His arms and shoulders were killing him, supporting the weight of his entire body, his feet barely brushing the ground. Hanging there like a sausage, he felt his muscle fibers tearing, felt the metal handcuffs cutting through the flesh of his wrists.

  “You shouldn’t have killed him. He was a harmless little kid.”

  The voice, coming from behind Zinoviev’s head, made him tense up, as though an invisible rod had been rammed through his spine. He began to sweat and tremble. The worst can always get worse. He shivered as something cold and sharp grazed his back. A knife.

  “How many people have you injected with your poison? Do you paralyze them first so they can’t move while you do horrible things to them?”

  Control yourself. Get a grip. He’s only trying to scare you. Zinoviev was clinging to this idea, but the first slash of the machete disabused him of such a thought. It was quick, between the ribs. He clenched his teeth. Don’t scream. It’s only pain.

  “The innocent don’t fear monsters, did you know that? Children aren’t afraid of evil.”

  Zinoviev felt the machete’s blade being drawn from his clavicle down to his nipple.

  “I’d like this to last awhile. So do me a favor and don’t die right away.”

  Zinoviev knew, now, that his death was going to be atrocious, like returning to the cellar of his childhood with all of those spiders waiting for him. Millions of them.

  He withstood as much as possible. But in the end, he let out a shriek that no one heard.

  * * *

  —

  Laura gazed at the pieces of wood washed up on the sand, the plastic bottles with seagulls pecking desperately, frenetically among them, like vultures on carrion. The previous night’s swell had dragged all kinds of detritus onto the beach. It wasn’t a very bucolic image, but she liked this barren landscape, preferred it to the hustle and bustle of summertime crowds with their umbrellas, and the little biplanes with ads on them that buzzed over her balcony like irritating dragonflies.

  She turned back to the bedroom and saw that he was still sleeping, tangled up in the sheets. Going back in, she sat at the foot of the bed, watched him for a few minutes. Had he told her his name? Possibly, but if so she’d forgotten it immediately.

  Things still weren’t clear in her mind. She’d been out drinking until late the night before. He’d approached her directly, like one of those predators that can pick out its prey from the entire flock with nothing but a glance. The last thing she remembered was the two of them fucking in an ATM booth and then t
aking a taxi here. Traces of cocaine remained on her nightstand. Along with her wedding band. She always took it off when she slept with someone else. Not that she had any reason to; after all, Luis was the one who’d left her. But still, she hadn’t gotten used to his absence.

  She reached out a foot and jiggled sleeping beauty’s shin. He hardly even registered it, letting out a gentle babyish whimper and slobbering on her sheets. He smelled of dried sperm. Judging by the scratch marks on his back, he must have been a good lay. Shame she couldn’t remember a thing.

  “Hey, Adonis. I’m sure you’ve got some other place to keep snoring, and I’ve got things to do.” He gave a hint of a smile without opening his eyes and reached out a hand, trying to grab Laura’s wrist and pull her back into bed, but she freed herself from his unsteady fingers. One mistake per night was enough. She decided to give him a little reprieve while she showered. After sequestering herself in the bathroom, she turned on the water and took off her T-shirt and panties before the mirror. She looked awful, and it wasn’t just because, after a certain age, going overboard takes a crueler toll than it did when you were twenty. Her eyes stared back at her with a look of defeat far more devastating than anything caused by sex with strangers and too much booze and drugs.

  “Can I come in? I really have to piss.”

  Laura opened the door and stood aside. She saw his erect penis and felt not one iota of desire, just a vague queasiness.

  “Sit down to pee. I don’t want you spraying the toilet with that hose.”

  How strange, to share the intimacy of hygiene, bathroom routines, the excretions of another man who wasn’t Luis. When they first started living together, she had found it shocking, Luis’s hang-up, the way he insisted on locking himself in the bathroom to defecate. She didn’t care about seeing him sitting there with his boxers around his shins, but something about it upset him. It was as though this facet of himself was somehow incompatible with weekends on the ski slopes, dinners at fancy restaurants, evenings at the Liceo, and making love on a catamaran docked in the bay of Cadaqués. Luis never realized that he didn’t have to be perfect in order for her to love him. In fact, she was sure now that it was actually his weaknesses, more than anything, that had kept her by his side all those years.

  The man in the bathroom realized that it wasn’t him Laura’s gray eyes were gazing at. It was time to grab his clothes and get out of there, before the bitterness starting to show on her pretty lips turned into something much worse.

  “I’ll just get dressed and get out.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Laura got into the shower and pulled the flowered curtain closed. She could hardly fit in the little tile-floored stall and yet somehow the two of them had apparently found a way to do it together the night before. Four handprints were still visible on the tiles. Feeling a wave of nausea roil her stomach, she wiped them away and let the water stream over her.

  Laura exited the bathroom in the hopes of finding herself alone. The guy had gotten dressed but he was still there. His evening attire—shiny tight black shirt, leather pants to emphasize his bulge—seemed out of place in the cold light of day. He was snooping around in the corner of the living room she used as an office.

  “You didn’t tell me last night that you were a cop.” In among her books was a framed photo of Laura in her dress uniform: Deputy Inspector Laura Gil. In one corner of the frame hung a police decoration of merit.

  “There are probably lots of things I didn’t tell you,” Laura responded, annoyed that the man was rummaging through her things.

  “You also neglected to mention that you’re married,” he added, pointing to her wedding photo.

  The verb tense pricked Laura’s skin like a needle. She almost smiled, seeing herself with Luis, the two of them so young, him in a tux and velvet bow tie, her in a pretty tulle dress with no veil but a beautiful long train. Other times.

  “You should go. Now.”

  The man nodded, slightly disappointed. He made a move as if to stroke Laura’s damp neck, and she stopped him with a look that left no room for doubt. There was nothing he could do. The guy clucked his tongue, though it wasn’t so much in disappointment as it was wounded pride. He flexed his biceps and puffed out his chest as though attempting to point out what she’d be missing, then headed for the door. Before walking out, he gave her a snide glance.

  “You should get some help, Deputy Inspector. You fuck like a praying mantis. Plus, I don’t think you’re too stable, and in theory people like you are supposed to protect people like me. As a citizen, that concerns me.”

  Laura repressed the urge to make his muscular body double over with a well-aimed kick to the balls.

  “If I fuck like a praying mantis, you should thank me for not biting your head off. And as for you, keep practicing. There are exercises you can do to help with premature ejaculation, you know.”

  Once she was alone, Laura opened the armoire in search of clean clothes. Luis’s were gone, his polos and summer shirts, the Bermuda shorts he wore on weekends, his loafers and flip-flops. The empty plastic hangers were a metaphor for the spaces Laura didn’t know how to fill. She put on a long-sleeve Nirvana T-shirt with a V-neck damask sweater on top, and slipped a CD into the player. The opening of the Pathétique filled the air like an infectious virus.

  There came a knock at the door.

  What does that idiot want now? She wondered.

  She went to open the door, prepared to show the guy just how unpleasant she could be when pissed off, but the man before her was not the one she’d been expecting.

  “I just bumped into some maniac going down the stairs, hurling insults that not even you would want to hear. I don’t know what you did or didn’t do to the guy, but he’s really pissed off.”

  Alcázar was leaning against the wall, wearing his standard cynical smile. Laura frowned, annoyed.

  “Just one more asshole. What are you doing here?”

  She liked Alcázar. His huge gray military-style mustache hadn’t changed in fifty years, and she found this comforting, despite his unpleasant habit of sucking it under his lower lip when he was pensive. If he twisted his mouth, the mustache moved like a curtain, left to right, so you could never actually see all of his teeth.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Alcázar asked, peeking over his top student’s shoulder. Behind her he saw clothes strewn on the floor. He also saw the remains of coke on a mirror on the nightstand, and the empty bottles.

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  Alcázar nodded, taking out a toothpick and sticking it between his teeth.

  “I’m not surprised, with that music. What’s it called, ‘Invitation to Suicide’?”

  Laura shook her head. “You should try listening to something besides boleros and rancheras. Could you stop digging around in your gums with that thing? It’s foul.”

  “Everything about me is bothersome and foul. That’s why I’m being retired. That’s all us old fogies are—black marks and dark clouds on the horizon of the young and their delusions.”

  “Don’t be a cynic. That’s not what I meant.”

  Alcázar put away his toothpick.

  “I saw a little beach café on the other side of the cove. They have breakfast specials.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Laura protested, but Alcázar stopped her with a raised index finger. He used to do the same thing at the station, when discussions had gone on so long that he lost patience and decided it was time to lay down the law. When Alcázar raised an index finger, that was the end of all democracy.

  “A table has already been reserved, with tablecloth, candles, and flowers. I’ll meet you on the beach in five minutes.”

  * * *

  —

  Wind buffeted the faded awning. Inside, the café smelled of tackle and fish that was none too fresh. There was no one there except the ow
ner, a bored-looking man reading the paper, one elbow leaning against the bar. He didn’t look very happy to see the two of them walk in. Alcázar ordered coffee. Laura ordered nothing; her head hurt and her guts were churning. Even though she’d brushed her teeth as if attempting to obliterate them, the taste of Cointreau was stuck stubbornly in the back of her throat. Alcázar ordered for her: a cheese sandwich and a Coke Light.

  From their table they could see a stretch of beach and the rocks along the bluff. Seagulls hovered against the wind. Some floated lightly, others folded their wings and dove, skimming the crest of the gray waves.

  “How did you find this place? It’s depressing.” That was Alcázar’s opening gambit. He was a city man, a man who liked crowds, the smell of gas, and pollution.

  Laura liked the sea because she could disappear into the horizon simply by looking at it.

  “It’s as good as any other place. Why did you come, to make sure I’m not doing anything stupid?”

  The owner brought over their order and deposited it carelessly on the table before them. Alcázar laced his fingers on the tabletop, as though waiting to bless the cheese sandwich that Laura had no intention of even tasting.

  “Zinoviev is dead. More than dead, I’d say. They really did a job on him before finishing him off.”

  Laura paled. She tore at the crust off her bread, oblivious of her own actions.

  “What kind of job?”

  “Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Flayed him alive, strip by strip. Cut off his balls and stuffed them down his throat.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry. In fact, I almost feel the urge to jump for joy.”

  Alcázar’s skeptical look made Laura uncomfortable, like when she was a rookie and he—her boss—would offer her a piece of candy from the glass jar on his desk. She hated those candies, they were always stale, gummy, and stuck to the wrapper, but if he gave a slight nod she had no choice but to smile, pop one in her mouth, and hide it under her tongue until she walked out of the office, where she could covertly spit it into her hand. It left a bad taste in her mouth for days. But the next time she was in his office she always accepted another.