A Prison in the Sun

by Isobel Blackthorn

  We were socialists. I had had no idea about socialism until I started at El Día and mingled at Café El Aguila. I quickly learned of its importance. Of the underground struggle that went on and on in the repressive regime of Franco. Pedro Cabrera was the most outspoken. It was dangerous talk, I knew that much. These were the dissenters. They talked of the appalling conditions among the campesinos and the farm labourers. They talked of oligarchy, a word I had to look up. They talked of uprisings, strikes and other unrest back in the 1930s when I was born. Conditions were still the same in the 1950s. The business class supported Franco's coup d'etat. As did the military and the offices of the administration at all levels. Clandestine migration was rife. Those who could, went to Venezuela. 'Wine, cochineal and bananas,' Pedro was wont to say, 'The wine numbs our brains and the cochineal stains our skin while we slip and fall on our arses on banana peel.'

  I loved mingling among all those important men, radical men, interesting men of conviction. I read Lorca and Ceruda. I discussed Joyce and Orwell and Hemingway. I was respected.

  Frequenting El Alguila were intellectual and creative straight men and intellectual and creative gay men. There were businessmen and businessmen who were gay. There were government officials. And government officials who were gay. Consequently, there was a lot of judging and scrutinizing.

  Was it the barman, the taxi driver, the cleaner, the storekeeper or the tobacconist – both in from across the street – who had called the police that night? The watchers. Everyone knew we were being watched. The young, especially, were watched.

  I was at the bar with a work colleague, Mario. I sipped my coffee, sugar-laced how I liked it, and caught the eye of Alfredo, the old maricon who seemed to have homed in on me as his next adventure. A café regular, slipping from home when his wife was tucked up in bed, Alfredo was a respected and well-connected businessman who pretended to himself and the world that he was entirely heterosexual. I should have looked the other way. The man was ageing, pot-bellied and repulsive. Yet there was that alluring glint in his eye, and I was momentarily fascinated by it. Me, a virgin, taken in by the surreptitious assignations of a man my father's age. I was not a prostitute. I was not a boy for hire under any circumstances, and neither was I about to follow him to the park for a fumble in the shadows.

  None of that mattered, for as I held Alfredo's gaze, he smiled at me and winked. I smiled back as I looked away. I did not return his wink. I swear I did not. Mario was right beside me, and he knew I never winked at old Alfredo. But someone must have said I did. One of those watchers informed the police that I was having relations with some unidentified maricon.

  Yes, unidentified.

  Convenient, for him.

  Later that night, much later when the crowds had thinned and the prostitutes were mingling with the men, only then did the police raid El Aguila. I should have gone home long before then, but Mario was drunk and thirsty and I did not want to leave him alone to stagger back to his house in that state.

  As the front doors flew open amid much commotion, I tried to exit through a side door, but it was blocked, blocked by Alfredo who stared at me with his leery grin before vanishing, the door closing behind him as I felt something clench my arm.

  Or rather, someone. It was a hand. The hand soon became handcuffs after the wizened weasel picked me out of a small group of young men as one of the offenders.

  Before the night was through the interrogations began. No one was interested in the truth or justice.

  One lingering gaze at the wrong man in the wrong place on the wrong night and I lost my freedom and my life. In the days that followed, I and four others that night joined ten more and, after a spell in prison in Tenerife, we were transported by boat to Fuerteventura and then by military truck to the Tefía to be incarcerated in the Colonia Agrícola Penitenciaria.

  A prison farm!

  We were to labour like campesinos, only unlike poor peasant farmers, we would see none of the fruits of our labours. We would enjoy no freedom. We would never, not once, look up at the sky and smile.

  At Tefía, I inherited an altogether different sort of family to the one I had enjoyed in El Aguila. None of us wanted to be in Fuerteventura, the Canary Island closest to Africa and one I knew little about before I went there, other than its shape and its location and the fact that it is bone dry. The authorities could not have come up with a more desolate location – a former military airport in the middle of nowhere.

  Can you imagine that place, raven friend? You, perched here beside me at this cliff edge, pointing your beak this way and that, cocking your head at me as we sit here facing into the breeze. We are neither of us suited to a sun-drenched, wind-beaten clime.

  My feet sway. I sense the void beneath them, and my mood darkens. What will become of the friends I made in prison? Of Ruben and Raphael and Jorge? And Manuel? I fear the most for Manuel. I fear the most for Manuel because I feel the most for Manuel. My Manuel. My love.

  My mind wanders back and hovers above two men, two men in the thick darkness of night, two scrawny sparrows of men, huddled in a loving embrace, our stinking, sweat-coated flesh, bone pressing into bone, our kisses, tongues entwined, our longing, our eventual sex. And we came in the thick of that cold night, we came together, silently, not daring even to shudder, and I became the sinner I had been imprisoned for.

  It was just the once. We took the risk in the days before my release.

  Now Manuel is a lover I can never again meet.

  And I ache for him, for more of him, yearn to bury my face in his. My mouth hungers for his mouth, my heart for his heart. And he loved me, too, as passionately as I him. But the day I was released, he still had a month of his sentence left and he knew he would be sent to a different island to serve his time in banishment under the ever-watchful eye of a judicial delegate. For a whole year, none of us are allowed anywhere near our own families. For another five, we must report to the authorities each month. If we do not, they will find us and imprison us once more.

  My bird companion preens and ruffles his feathers, and I lift my gaze from the watery void far below to watch. The bird soon sits still, and we lock gazes.

  What would you have me do, then, raven, you who stare into me, staring right into my soul? Do I get up and walk away from this precipice? Do I make my way back to the police station to report as it behoves me to do each month?

  Or?

  A Crisis

  A marathon run at the translation and when the Clen had finally left my system, I fell in a heap and slept for twelve hours straight. When I woke up, the room was bright, and at first, I wondered where I was. When it came to me that I had returned to the farmhouse, I got up and went to the window and stared at the windmill, trying to make out the compound that was the hostel. I couldn't.

  After my shower, I rubbed the scented moisturiser into my dry and flaking skin, gave the bathroom a once-over with a cloth and then went and made my bed. I collected the dirty clothes from the back of the chair and went to the laundry to do a wash. As I dropped my gym gear into the drum, I thought once it was dry I would head to the gym. Having missed the day before, my muscles were already feeling fidgety.

  I swallowed a Clen with my coffee, and after the small bowl of tinned fruit I chose for breakfast, my appetite diminished to near zero. I was swallowing the last sliver of slimy sliced peach when my laptop signalled a Skype call. As anticipated, it was Angela. I hit the accept call button and gazed into her ebullient face.

  'How's the literary tiger?' she said.

  'Not too bad. Yourself?'

  She ignored my question. 'You look different.' She peered at me. 'Have you done something to your face?'

  'I have lost weight, Angela, if that's what you're referring to.'

  'Well done! In just two weeks, too. That's amazing. Are you fasting?'

  'Sort of,' I said evasively. I was not about to tell her about the Clen.

  A serious look appeared in her face. 'What did you end up doing with the
rucksack?'

  'I handed it in, as you suggested.' Lying had become second nature.

  She nodded and leaned in towards the webcam. 'Now tell me, is the muse being kind to you?'

  Ever persistent Angela. I cobbled together a response.

  'I've been deep in research as you can imagine.' Which was the truth and, 'I found some material that was a big help in developing the protagonist and his backstory.' Total lie – I had gleaned all that from the Spanish script. Then, 'I'm easing myself into the prison itself. I have to say, though, it is confronting. I'm having to meet my own resistance to engage with the conditions there.' Wait for it. 'And, of course, not being gay makes it all the more difficult regarding authenticity.' The whopper lie.

  Angela rolled her eyes.

  'Stop going on about not being gay.'

  'I'm not, gay, I mean.'

  'And I'm a monkey's uncle.'

  'I concede I might be bisexual.'

  'That's a start.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'On your path to acceptance.'

  'Stop teasing.'

  'Is that what I'm doing?' She gave me her mocking smile. 'Before I forget, they'll be announcing the winner of the literary prize tomorrow.'

  'Tomorrow! That's come around quickly.'

  'Not really. The shortlist was announced a month ago. I didn't want to tell you until you were safely tucked away in Fuerteventura.'

  'Why ever not?'

  'You were incredibly upset, Trevor. I was worried the news might tip you over the edge.'

  What was she talking about? She made me sound suicidal. I was not suicidal. I have never been suicidal. Anything but. Back then, I was in a slump and that was hardly surprising given the situation. Jackie's lawyer had been ruthless, and I hardly saw the kids. But a month ago, I was on the up. I had bought my little retreat in Norfolk. Life had started to feel promising again.

  I pretended to be distracted with something on the table out of her view and tapped the keys to reinforce the idea.

  'Glad you are still on task,' Angela said and blew me a kiss. 'Gotta dash.'

  Her face disappeared. I heard the washing machine on spin. I browsed the articles I had downloaded onto my desktop. There was a doctoral thesis, in Spanish, concerning Tenerife up until 1945. Various blog posts on the prison, all saying more or less the same. Some newspaper reports. A lengthy review of that novella by the professor who had interviewed Octavio García, whose testimony broke the prison story. Gleaning information from all that text was laborious, but I pressed on, taking notes as I went.

  When the washing machine beeped, I went and pegged out my clothes, making sure my gym gear was in full sun. I would drive into the city after lunch. By then, my shorts and t-shirt and socks would all be dry. And I needed to do a workout. Not that I cared for chest day. I didn't much care for any of my designated workout days, but the effects were already apparent and my muscles craved the punishment. I cautioned myself against letting my new literary fixation override my need to take care of my body.

  I went back inside. In the kitchen, I checked the time on my phone and noticed I had a new text message.

  It was from Claire.

  Where are you? Why did you leave? Worried.

  I was about to hit reply when my phone sprang to life with a call. I swiped green without paying attention to who was calling. When I heard Claire's voice, I sensed that oversight was at the very least foolish. Now I would need to fudge and lie on the spot. At least texting gave me a chance to think about how to tackle the rats story. It occurred to me to hang up and text her later saying my phone had died, but who would believe that?

  'Hey, Claire,' I said, casual as you please. 'How's it going?'

  'We heard you leave, and then we read your note. What's happened? Didn't you like the apartment?'

  'The apartment was lovely.'

  'It obviously didn't suit you. Where are you now?'

  'Tefía.'

  'At the farmhouse? What about the rats?'

  'The owner got straight onto pest control. They've dealt with the problem by blocking the access points and setting some traps.' I was relieved I had had the presence of mind to research the matter.

  'Wow, that was fast!'

  'I think they were worried about the review I would leave if they didn't expedite the matter.'

  'True. Even so.' She paused. 'About the sheets.'

  'I stripped the bed. Thought I'd wash them.'

  'There really was no need. We would have done that.'

  'I can't have my hosts left with all that cleaning. It was the least I could do.'

  'Only, we were wondering why you left the pillow cases. Didn't you use them.'

  What on earth could I say? 'An oversight. I realised when I got back here.'

  'And the key. Do you have any idea where you left it?'

  I cringed. I'd left it on my keyring. 'I have it,' I said.

  'Would you mind…' Claire broke off. I heard voices, muffled, and then, 'We were planning to visit the garden centre. We can swing by yours on the way. Say, in about an hour.'

  'An hour?'

  'Were you planning on being out?'

  'No, no. An hour's fine.'

  I raced out the house and almost ran to the supermarket. The woman behind the counter looked up in surprise as I burst through the door. I located the household items on the hunt for traps and was relieved to sight four, displayed on their sides beside the fly spray. They seemed small, but the word “ratón” reassured me and I grabbed all four, hurried to the counter to pay the woman and left. The phrase '¿tienes ratónes?' trailed behind me.

  Back at the farmhouse, I set the traps with a small crumb of cheese and placed one in the kitchen, one in the laundry, one out in the internal patio and another in a storeroom where there was a gap under the door. I stuffed the gap with scrunched up newspaper. Satisfied I had done all I could, I went and fetched the sheets and popped them into a plastic bag ready for Claire, and then I removed her apartment door key from my keyring.

  They arrived in under an hour. In fifty-three minutes, to be precise, which I knew as I had been keeping an eye on the oven clock ever since I hung up. I went to the door, bag of sheets in hand and her door key in the other, thinking I would thrust them both at Claire, close the door and that would be the last I would ever see of the strange couple, but it wasn't to be. The wind caught the door and blew it wide open. Paco seized the chance to push his way inside, and I had to step aside to let him pass. Claire followed, eyeing the sheets in my hand as she went by.

  I felt invaded.

  I almost slammed shut the door before trailing them to the kitchen, where I proffered her key. This time she took it. 'Cheers,' she said.

  'Can I get you tea or coffee?'

  'Coffee would be nice,' she said and sat down on one of the stools at the bench. I filled the kettle as I noticed Paco looking around at the floor. He disappeared into the small dining room that led on to the living room at the front of the house. Next, I saw him go by on his way through to the other rooms in the house. The kettle boiled, and I scooped coffee into the plunger and added the water.

  Leaving the plunger to stand, I grabbed three cups from the cupboard beside the stove and asked Claire if either of them took milk or sugar.

  They didn't.

  Paco came in as I was pouring the coffee.

  'Increíble,' he said in Spanish. 'Who did your pest control?' He eyed me with suspicion.

  'I have no idea,' I said. My eyes darted to the bin, betraying me in an instant. Paco followed my gaze, went to the bin and extracted the rat trap packaging.

  'Ratónes,' he said, holding the cardboard up for Claire to inspect.

  'Mice?' she said doubtfully. 'But you said you had rats, Trevor.'

  'I thought I did, too. That was what I saw. The owner told me they were mice.'

  'Mice.'

  'And pest control came and set mouse traps?' Paco said. 'And left you with the rubbish?'

  'Evidently.' />
  'And stuffed newspaper in the gaps under doors?'

  'I saw that,' I said.

  'Tell me who these people are. Did the owner give you a name?'

  'Leave it, Paco.'

  Paco turned to Claire. 'Go and look at those mouse traps. They are cheap rubbish. The sort of trap you buy at the local shop. Not from pest control. Whoever did this needs to be put out of business. It is unprofessional.'

  'I have no idea who did it.'

  Paco swung around and glared at me.

  'Then, you must ask.'

  The heat rose in my cheeks, and I felt a sudden urge to release my bowels. The Clen. I looked from Paco to Claire, gave her a sheepish grin and excused myself and raced to the bathroom.

  Upon my return, as I neared the kitchen door, I overheard a conversation being conducted in low voices. I paused and hid out of sight to listen.

  'If he's lying about the rats, what else is he lying about?' That was Claire.