Wicked and Weird

by Rich Terfry

  After a clinical strip search, the officer instructed me to get dressed again and remove the laces from my shoes. Clearly this meant I wouldn’t be allowed to leave any time soon. Still confused about why any of this was happening, I was escorted out of the room and handed off to the scariest-looking man of the day—a guard who showed me through a maze of corridors before heaving my body into a cell.

  The cell wasn’t like anything I had seen in the movies. It was small—with not even enough space to swing a baseball bat. There was no bed. No sink. No window. Nothing. It was just an empty concrete cube with a heavy steel door and a pile of human feces in the back corner. I was grateful for one thing only: I had the cell to myself—for now.

  Once inside that cell, there was no way to gauge the passing of time. I found it agonizing to think that what had felt like a full day might have been only a few hours. I asked to use a toilet, not wanting to go on the floor like previous occupants, but the answer was no. The same response came when I asked for a drink of water. My only escape was to try to sleep, except that was impossible with my racing mind.

  Eventually, after what seemed like a long time (I later learned it was the next morning), I was fed for the first time. I received a small paper cone of water and an airline-style tray that contained what resembled dog food. I wanted to save the water to drink after I ate, but there was no way to set it down without spilling. After one swallow of metallic-tasting water and two bites of greenish-brown “food,” I was taken from the cell to an interrogation room. This time the space looked exactly like what I had seen in the movies: a dull, white room; a table; two chairs.

  My interrogator began by asking questions in Russian. In my confusion and fright, my mind defaulted to its only foreign language setting. In French I said again and again that I didn’t understand.

  “Je ne comprends pas!”

  My interrogator quickly lost patience with me and began to shout. I shut down and cried again. After five minutes, the ordeal was over and I was taken back to the cell.

  •

  There were no more interrogations for the next few days. Instead, I was handed one tray of dog food and one paper cone of water per day. I thought about Claire, at home in Paris. She had no idea where I was and must have been imagining all kinds of nightmare scenarios. I was as scared for her as I was for myself.

  On my third night of detention, the luxury of my solitude expired. My dungeon was now overwhelmed by the body and evil spirit of a man who looked like Toots Hibbert of Toots and the Maytals. Anger beamed from him like a buzzing neon sign. Seemingly unaware of my presence, he strode the three paces of the cell, making animal noises. After a few hours of this tiger-like protest—and having worn himself out—he squatted in a corner and fell asleep.

  Some hours later, the food came again. I drank my water but still had no appetite, so I offered my tray to Toots. I regretted this decision instantly as I struggled to endure the sickening mouth sounds of the loudest eater in the eastern hemisphere. I had already been barely hanging on to my sanity, and now I lost it for five minutes or so. Mercy came in the form of a guard who arrived to escort me to my next interrogation.

  I shuffled without shoelaces through the maze of corridors back to the same dull, white room, occupied by the same dull, white interrogator. I could tell that this time he was out of patience.

  “Olesyaisinbayeva” was all he said.

  The sounds were alien. I stared back at him blankly.

  “Olesyaisinbayeva,” he repeated.

  Something flickered in my brain. My tormentor must have recognized the spark by the change in my expression.

  “Olesya Isinbayeva,” he said again, more slowly this time.

  This time I recognized the sounds: they formed a name. But the name meant absolutely nothing to me. My eyes moved from the face of my inquisitor to the floor as I desperately searched my brain. Nothing. My eyes returned to the angry face. I shrugged. He bared his teeth. The interrogation was over.

  Toots was waiting for me back at the cell. His energy was hard to read. He looked at me as if he was trying to penetrate my mind. I closed my eyes, intending only to break his spell, but fell deeply asleep for the first time in four days.

  As I slept, I revisited my nightmare about the evil that used to find me in the woods in Mount Uniacke. I dreamed that I was three years old again. I was at preschool, in a colourful room. I saw Hashy, my teacher. She smiled and said, “Close your eyes and tell me what you see.” I shut my eyes tight and I was big again. My face was painted and I wore feathers in my hair and I was in the backyard of my home in Mount Uniacke. I stood frozen at the edge of the woods, holding my long spear. The evil was hissing. I walked toward it, into the woods. The deeper into the darkness of the woods I went, the louder the evil became. I was lost in the deafening blindness when the evil attacked me. It tore at me with its claws. I could see the white of eyes and teeth. On my skin I could feel the warmth of my own blood and the wind of the evil’s hiss. This was the monster that killed my tribe. I had to stop it. I fought with all my strength. But the beast was too powerful. It had me by the neck. I saw a flash of light and then Hashy’s stricken face, contorted with horror.

  I woke up screaming, face down on the floor. Toots was on top of me. I was blind with pain. A devil flew out of my mouth in the form of the loudest howl that all the years of my life could summon. Within seconds, two brutal guards invaded the cell—one for each of us. Toots and I were kicked and beaten mercilessly. But there was an ecstasy in each strike of the club or boot. Each blow was a promise that the nightmare would soon be over. I offered no resistance; instead, I became a supplicant for death. As I writhed in my blood, laughing and crying hysterically, Toots kicked and twisted like a bull as he was dragged from the cell. I never saw him again.

  •

  I stayed on the floor in a heap for what felt like a day and a half. During that time, I revisited my youthful baseball dreams. And I obsessed over one thought: near no-hitters thrown by major-league pitchers. For a pitcher to make it through an entire game without giving up a hit to any batter in the opposing team’s lineup is a rare and special thing. In any given season in major-league baseball, it may happen two or three times out of 2,430 games. It’s much more common for a pitcher to throw a no-hitter through eight innings, only to lose it in the ninth. I’d seen this happen many times. So many, in fact, that I honestly believed I was somehow responsible for the missed no-hitters—that I had jinxed the pitchers somehow. Perhaps I had jinxed them by watching. Perhaps I had jinxed them by not watching. Perhaps I had jinxed them by being nervous. Perhaps I had jinxed them by accidentally saying the word no-hitter. Consider these facts:

  • I had been watching on May 6, 1981, when Bert Blyleven of the Cleveland Indians gave up a hit to Lloyd Moseby of the Toronto Blue Jays in the ninth inning to lose a no-hit bid.

  • The following year on September 28, I had watched Jim Clancy of the Blue Jays take a perfect game (no hits, no walks, no batters hit by pitches, no batter reaching base on an error committed by a fielder) into the ninth. Randy Bush of the Minnesota Twins led off the top of the inning with a base hit to right. No perfect game. No no-hitter.

  • June 6, 1985. Detroit Tigers vs. Toronto Blue Jays. Tom Brookens leads off the ninth with a base hit off Jimmy Key to break up a no-hitter.

  • Later that same season—August 24—Rudy Law and Bryan Little of the Chicago White Sox hit back-to-back home runs to lead off the bottom of the ninth and rob Dave Stieb of the Blue Jays of a no-hitter.

  • I had seen Tim Raines of the Expos break up a no-hitter in the ninth with a double off Mike Jackson of the Philadelphia Phillies.

  • I watched something similar happen three times in 1988, each time with two outs in the ninth. Wallace Johnson of the Expos broke up what would have been a perfect game for Ron Robinson of the Cincinnati Reds. This had happened to Dave Stieb of the Blue Jays twice: once off a single by Julio Franco of the Indians and another a week later off a single b
y pinch hitter Jim Traber of the Baltimore Orioles.

  • I had watched three more in ’89. The great Nolan Ryan of the Texas Rangers lost one in Toronto on April 23. Nelson Liriano broke it up. He did it again five days later against Kirk McCaskill of the California Angels. Poor Dave Stieb lost yet another one (this time a perfect game) when Roberto Kelly hit a double off him with two outs in the top of the ninth.

  I recounted these instances to myself as I lay in my Russian cell. The list went on and on. Clearly, the no no-hitter had been my fault every time. Certain now that I had affected the outcomes of countless big-league baseball games, I decided that my mind must possess the power to alter other destinies—maybe even my own. As I lay in an unmoving heap, I realized that if I was ever to get out of that jail—not having the help of a lawyer and unable to speak Russian—I would have to will it to happen.

  At last the time came for my next interrogation. I limped into the room to find two people waiting for me: my usual interrogator and a woman who looked to be in her sixties.

  “My name is Maria and I will be your interpreter,” she said.

  I was so overwhelmed with relief that I became dizzy and stumbled before sitting on my steel chair. Maria sat next to me and offered me a weak smile. I drew a deep breath and felt my will to live glow dimly, deep in my core.

  The Russians took turns speaking and nodding. Then Maria addressed me. She guided me through the basics: name, address, date of birth. After these formalities, we picked up where the interrogation had left off.

  “Please think very carefully. What is your relationship with Olesya Isinbayeva?”

  My mind remained blank; despite everything I could remember about my past, I just could not quite recall where I had heard this name. After five seconds of nauseating silence, the interrogator grumbled.

  My interpreter nudged me. “He says your life may depend on your answer.”

  I dropped my head into my hands and thought as hard as I could, but again nothing came. Wind blew across the Siberian tundra.

  “I don’t know. I can’t think.”

  “Take your time. Please try to remember,” Maria said.

  More silence. I shook my head. “It’s hard to concentrate” was all I could manage.

  The interrogator spoke again, glancing back and forth between Maria and me.

  “What can you tell me about Olesya Isinbayeva?” she asked, looking deep into my eyes.

  “Nothing!” I said. “I have absolutely no idea who that is!”

  “It is important that you keep your emotions under control,” she said.

  After one more exchange between the Russians, the interrogator threw me a disgusted look and waved with the back of his hand as if shooing a fly.

  “We will try again tomorrow,” Maria said gently. “Please try to remember this name.”

  “I’ll try,” I said, and then the guard came in to escort me back to the cell. As we slowly made our way, I hoped that there would be no other occupant waiting for me. The door swung open, revealing an empty cell. I felt a wave of relief.

  No matter which way I tried to lie or sit on the concrete floor of the cell, my body revolted in agony. While rest eluded me, I scoured my memory for the name that could save my life. I crawled back through time, city to city, country to country, searching for any connection. At least a full twelve hours must have passed before I jolted upright like Archimedes in his bathtub. Valencia! Burt and Red! The story about the Ukrainian backpacker! The meal! The “meat”! Good lord … Could it be? Could I have eaten the woman they were looking for? No … Surely Burt had been messing with me that night. He must have been.

  But my mind was too terrorized to function properly, and this was the only explanation that made sense.

  I focused on my breathing in order to slow my teeming mind. Then I prepared myself for the next interrogation. I went over everything a hundred times. How much would I say? Would I mention the backpacker or give Burt’s name? What if that night was not what all this was about? I resigned myself to the conclusion that my fate might be resting on what the city of Valencia meant to my interrogator. Knowing that the next day might be the most important of my life, I decided that a rested brain and body was crucial. I curled my body into the least painful shape I could construct and slipped uneasily into sleep.

  My horrifying nightmares were rudely interrupted by the sound of the guard opening the heavy steel door of the cell to deliver my daily dog food the next morning. I took my usual courtesy bite and swallowed my water after letting it rest in my mouth for a few seconds. As my scattered senses began to return to my brain, the deep agony returned to my body. I battled through these curses to steel myself for the interrogation. Valencia. I would give them Valencia. Perhaps Valencia was the frontier between hell and deliverance.

  An hour later, returned to the luxury of the steel chair, I wasted no time telling my interpreter that I remembered something. Maria relayed the information to my faithful interrogator. He sat, as always, with his arms folded.

  “Okay, what do you remember?” Maria prompted.

  “Valencia,” I said carefully.

  The interrogator clearly understood what I had said but was confused.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked through my interpreter.

  “The hand that feeds … Six months ago …”

  “нет, нет, нет!” He pounded the table with his big, square fist.

  Once again, the interrogation was called off and I was returned to my cell in anguish.

  •

  Three days died slowly and painfully. Hope vanished halfway through the second. My panic attacks became prolonged and more frequent. My mind mutinied and sought to escape the scourge of my body. I broke.

  I was sprawled on the floor, convulsing, when a guard finally showed up at the door of my cell. It required muscle and medical assistance to get my body back under control. I was more zoo animal than man when I was finally led to the interrogation room again.

  Gradually it dawned on me that this time was different. It was later in the day than usual. There were extra chairs in the room, but only my interpreter was waiting for me upon my arrival. When I took my seat next to her, she didn’t look at me, but she gave a couple of pats to my knee.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, barely able to speak.

  “You must keep calm,” she whispered. “We’re going to have what is called a ‘confrontation.’ This is good news for you. But it is more important than ever to remain composed. In a moment, your accuser will be here …”

  “My accuser?”

  “Yes. Seeing her could be very emotional for you, but you must not look at her and you must stay calm. This is so important. That’s all I can say.”

  A few minutes later, a young woman was brought thrashing and cursing into the room by a guard who guided her into a chair and remained stationed next to her. I couldn’t help but look at her. My interpreter tried to shield me, but I managed to watch as the woman brushed her hair away from her face with her hand. I didn’t recognize her at first. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks: this was the Russian journalist from the Glastonbury Festival three summers before.

  For the next ten minutes, as I wondered desperately what was being said, a shouting match was fought between Olesya Isinbayeva and the interrogator. When it was over, the interrogator dropped his head in a gesture of disbelief and my interpreter once again patted my knee.

  “You can go,” Maria translated.

  “What do you mean? Go where?”

  “You can go home.”

  “When do I have to come back?”

  “Your case remains open for two weeks, but we hope to never see you here again.”

  Olesya Isinbayeva screamed as I was escorted to the search room, where I was reunited with my shoelaces. I was met there by the soft-spoken officer who had relieved me of my dignity when I had arrived a week earlier. Five minutes later, the interrogator—now with a significantly softened comportment—enter
ed the room with the interpreter. At last, he explained everything.

  Olesya Isinbayeva, it turned out, had had expectations far beyond an interview when she had given me her phone number at Glastonbury. When I didn’t call, she made numerous attempts to contact me, without success. She interpreted my inaccessibility as a personal rejection. Eventually, her feelings of affection toward me turned to bitterness. That hurt stewed in her imagination for years. When she heard I was scheduled to visit Moscow, she saw an opportunity for revenge. She called the police and reported that I had assaulted her. That’s when the police had waited for me outside the venue where I was performing and arrested me. In the end, the interrogator had become quite certain of my innocence and had arranged for the “confrontation.” The interpreter added her own two cents at this point and explained that this is only done as a last-ditch effort when the police smell a rat. They’d never put an accuser and the accused in the same room together if they believed the accused was guilty. They did it to see if “something would give.”

  The interrogator went on to explain that Olesya Isinbayeva’s hostile reaction to being brought in for questioning all but sealed the deal. During the shouting match, he had asked her why she thought I should be kept in jail. “Because he never called me!” was her answer. And that’s when I was finally judged free to go.

  The interrogator then told me that not only was I no longer under any suspicion whatsoever, but my accuser could be kept in that jail, locked up. All that was required was for me to press charges.

  I thought about all that had passed through my mind in that cell. My hands were still shaking. I was being invited to be the evil one who would decide that someone else’s life was over.