by Rusty Young
‘Just back down there,’ I pointed towards the filthy passageway. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired.’
‘Do you have a room already?’
‘No.’
‘Then where do you sleep?’
‘Just down there on the ground. In a building.’
‘Which building?’
‘The one with all the water.’
‘You can’t go down there. That section is dangerous. They’ll kill you. Everyone thinks you are American.’
‘Where else can I stay, then?’
Ricardo stared at me while he thought about this for a while.
‘How much money do you have?’
‘None.’
‘Don’t lie to me, inglés! I’m trying to help you. Your friends in the interview gave you money. That’s where you got that blanket from.’
‘I don’t have anything. I promise you.’
‘You must have some money, otherwise you can’t survive. You’ll die here.’
‘I promise. I have nothing. The police took everything.’
‘The FELCN?’
I nodded. ‘And they took all my clothes and they gave me no food.’ I was hoping that he would take the hint about food, but he didn’t.
‘Can you get money?’
‘I think I can get money. Maybe that woman will come back. Maybe the British Embassy. If I can speak with some friends, they’ll send me money, for sure.’
Ricardo looked me over again, then appeared to come to a decision.
‘OK, Inglaterra. You can sleep on my floor tonight. But you have to pay.’
‘Thank you, but I’m sorry. I have no money.’
‘You can pay me when you get money. Two dollars per night. You can go now. I am talking with my friends. See you tonight.’
‘OK, thank you,’ I turned to leave and the three immediately recommenced their conversation. Then I remembered something. ‘Ricardo. I’m sorry to interrupt, but how can I find you?’
‘In Pinos. You see that gate with the five stars above it? Just next to the Coca-Cola sign? In there. Ask for Ricardo.’ He turned back to his conversation and ignored me.
I wanted to get out of their way before Ricardo changed his mind, so I hurried back down the corridor to my abandoned building. There was now a group of four men inside, huddled together under a blanket against the opposite wall, passing a pipe around. They looked up briefly. One of them muttered something and the others laughed. I only caught the word ‘gringo’. I remembered what Ricardo had said about gringos. However, after that they ignored me and went back to their pipe. I sat down near the entrance, just in case. I was weak from hunger.
Night began to fall and I could feel the air getting colder. I put on the pullover Sylvia had given me, but even with the blanket it wasn’t enough to keep me warm. I wanted to go to Ricardo’s cell as soon as possible, but I was worried he might be annoyed if I went too early, so I decided to wait as long as possible. I pulled my knees up to my chest for warmth and waited patiently for several hours, all the time wary of the men propped against the opposite wall. Someone switched on a light outside, so I could still make out their figures. Every now and then one of them would mumble something, but mostly they stayed silent. I started shivering.
Eventually, one of them stumbled to his feet and left the building. When he returned, they smoked more pipes and started laughing. The smoke smelled really odd, like a strange chemical burning. For five minutes the conversation started up again, then there was some kind of argument. One of the men screamed at his friend, then laughed hideously. The sound bounced off the damp walls into the empty space. Finally, they were silent and I went back to waiting and shivering.
An hour later, I was shaking so much I couldn’t stand it any longer. I got weakly to my feet and made my way out through the door.
‘Chao, gringo. ¡Suerte!’ one of the men called from behind me, and all four laughed. Still wrapped in my blanket, I walked carefully back up the corridor. When a group of prisoners passed me, one of them bumped into me on purpose and the others hissed ‘gringo’ at me. I hurried on through the courtyard and into the section with five stars above its entrance. I thought I might collapse at any moment. I asked the first inmate I saw if he knew Ricardo. He laughed at me.
‘Which Ricardo?’ he wanted to know. I shook my head.
‘¡Ricardo! Le busca. ¡Ricardo!’ he yelled up into the night air, then shrugged as if to say that was all he could do. There could have been fifty men called Ricardo in that section. How would I ever find my Ricardo?
‘Hey, Inglaterra! Up here!’ a voice came from above. I looked up. It was him! ‘What are you doing down there? Get your sorry black arse up here!’ He waved his arm to come up. ‘What are you waiting for, Inglaterra? There’s no elevator. This is a prison, for chrissakes. The stairs are right there!’
Ricardo greeted me warmly on the second-floor balcony with a firm handshake. His hair was wet and he smelled of aftershave, as if he had just stepped out of the shower.
‘How was your day, Thomas? Are you well?’ The way he said this made it sound like we weren’t prisoners, but two good friends meeting after work, and I responded in the same way.
‘Not bad, thank you.’
‘Really? You don’t look it,’ he poked me playfully in the ribs. ‘You look sick, actually. Are you sick?’
‘Yes. A little bit. But I’m OK,’ I responded automatically for the second time that day.
That morning I had prepared myself to die and now I was so weak that I hardly had the strength even to stay on my feet. I only had antibiotics for my illness, and the only thing I had eaten were three chocolate bars. The one thing that had changed – in fact, the only thing that was keeping me alive – was the hope that Sylvia had given me and now, added to that, the possibility that Ricardo might be able to help me.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving, man,’ I responded with a smile, trying not to sound too desperate. ‘Where do we go to eat?’
‘Right here in my apartment,’ he pointed upwards. ‘I was expecting you to come earlier for dinner. I’ve already eaten, but I left you some and we can heat it up in the microwave.’ This confused me a little. I suspected that he was trying to trick me, like before, but I decided to ignore it.
‘But isn’t there a dining hall where all the prisoners go for meal times?’
Ricardo burst into peels of laughter. ‘Dining hall? Thomas, this is San Pedro. You have to cook your own food. Or you can go to a restaurant.’
‘Huh?’
‘I know it sounds strange. Come up! You’ll see what I mean.’ With that, he started to climb a wooden ladder that at first seemed to lead only to the ceiling.
I followed him hesitantly up this makeshift staircase. As it turned out, the entrance to his cell was a wooden hatch in the roof, secured by a padlock that he opened with a key that was tied to a leather string around his neck. I thought it was strange that he had the key to his own cell, but I said nothing.
‘I must apologise, Thomas. My apartment is a complete mess. Careful of your head!’ he called down to me when I was halfway up the ladder. ‘I tried to clean it up for you, but it’s no use. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s fine. No problem,’ I assured him. Above me, a light came on and I climbed up the remaining rungs into his cell.
The sight that greeted me was truly amazing. It wasn’t at all like a proper prison cell should have been. I was expecting something tiny and bare, with concrete floors and a metal door, or at least metal bars, to stop him from escaping. I had imagined the only furniture would be a regulation, metal-framed bed with a thin mattress, white sheets and maybe a grey blanket. At most, there might be a shelf with a few clothes and maybe a book or two, if they were permitted. Apart from that, everything would be completely plain. I also thought there would be several inmates sharing each cell.
I was completely wrong. There were no bars, no concrete floor and no white walls. The cell, although small, was more l
ike a studio apartment and Ricardo obviously lived there on his own, because there was only one bed. The floor was made of wooden boards that creaked wherever you trod, except in the middle, where it was protected by a faded blue carpet. The walls were painted green and covered in posters of naked women. To my right was a single bed that had a thick mattress, colourful sheets and several big, puffy pillows sitting on top. On the far side was an open window that overlooked the courtyard below, and through the left wall a narrow doorway led to a tiny kitchenette.
The biggest shock was how many personal possessions Ricardo had crammed into the cell. There was stuff absolutely everywhere. Beside his bed, a night table was littered with all sorts of items: a lava lamp, an ashtray, a few dog-eared books, a statuette of Jesus crucified on the cross and two half-finished cups of coffee. Empty cigarette packets lay everywhere. Two chairs flanked a wooden table, and from the stack of dirty plates on top, I guessed that this was where he ate. A chest of drawers was piled with books, pens and pencils, as well as toiletry items such toilet paper, skin cream, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hairbrush and gel. Dirty clothes were strewn all over the floor, including several pairs of shoes. In the corner was a tiny electric heater. On one wall hung a large mirror. Above it, a clock marked the time. Below it was a power point, from which a messy network of electric cables ran; one up to the roof, one into the kitchenette, one to the lamp, another to a portable stereo. And most incredibly, perched on a large cardboard box at the foot of the bed, was a big-screen television.
I scanned everything again in complete confusion. It was nothing fancy, but everything was so comfortable and so normal that once more I had trouble believing that I was actually in a prison. Ricardo must have noticed my bewilderment.
‘You look unhappy,’ he said. ‘I told you it was messy. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not that, it’s fine! I just never expected … Well … Is this really your cell? Is this actually where you live?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s small, I know, but you see, I’m not a rich man. This is the only home I’ve got. It doesn’t please you?’ he asked defensively.
‘Oh, yes, I like it. It’s very nice,’ I rushed to reassure him, fearful that he might become angry again. ‘Really nice. It’s beautiful, in fact.’
‘Oh, good,’ Ricardo mimicked a lisp and waved his hand forward like he was a gay interior designer. ‘I did the whole décor myself, you know. You don’t think the colours clash?’ He really was strange, this guy.
‘But, it’s just … I don’t know. It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. You live here on your own? And these are all your things?’ I pointed around the room, once more fixing my gaze on the television.
‘All mine.’ He did a pirouette and bowed.
‘But it doesn’t seem like a prison. Are you actually allowed to have all this? You have your own key and the guards don’t say anything. They let you … I mean … they don’t confiscate anything?’
‘Huh. The guards!’ Once more, Ricardo started laughing hysterically. It seemed to me like a reasonable question, but Ricardo had one of those high-pitched, uncontrollable laughs that made me feel stupid for having spoken.
Eventually, he stopped laughing. ‘The guards never come into the prison. I will explain everything, Thomas. Just wait! I was the same on my first day. There is a lot to learn here. But right now, you must be hungry. Here! Let me take your blanket. Please sit down. You look sick. Are you hungry?’ he asked again. This time I didn’t even try to cover my desperation.
‘Starving!’ I repeated, sitting down on one of his chairs. ‘I haven’t eaten for two weeks. Only bread and tea.’
‘Ah yes, wait right there. Don’t move!’ Ricardo hurried into the kitchen and came back with some food. ‘I remember the FELCN. That is normal. Did you confess?’
‘No.’
‘No? Well done, my friend.’ He congratulated me, placing a large plate of rice and fried chicken in front of me. ‘The FELCN is really tough! I am sorry the food is cold. If you like, I can heat it up. Wait! I will get you a knife and fork,’ he offered, heading for the kitchen.
But it was too late. I didn’t care about knives and forks, or that the food was cold. I had already set upon the meal and stuffed half of it down my throat.
‘Slowly, my friend. There is more. Tranquilo. You’ll be sick,’ he cautioned.
And he was right; suddenly I felt completely full and couldn’t eat another mouthful. A minute later, I wanted to vomit.
‘Tranquilo. Here! Have some water!’ he said, handing me a glass. I took a few sips and the sensation passed.
After that first intake of food, I felt better immediately. Just putting something into my mouth, then feeling it reach my stomach, gave me energy. I waited five minutes before resuming the meal, eating more slowly this time. Meanwhile, Ricardo sat down with me and that made me relax even more.
I couldn’t believe how kind Ricardo was being; it seemed that he was really worried about me. When I had first stepped into his room, I had been nervous and was very careful of everything I said. I had seen him snap without warning that afternoon in the courtyard and I was worried that if I said the wrong thing again, he might get offended and tell me to leave. However, from the moment he called down to me from the balcony, it was as if he was a different person from the tough inmate I had met only a few hours earlier. He still laughed at me and confused me on purpose, but it wasn’t like before. He seemed nicer now and genuine in his concern – he constantly apologised for the state of his ‘apartment’, as he called it.
‘I’m sorry for all this mess,’ he kept saying. ‘It doesn’t worry me …’
He also asked me continually if I was feeling OK, if I was warm enough, or if I needed anything – anything at all – and he went out of his way to make me comfortable. While I was waiting for the food to settle, he set up a small bed on the floor using a mattress borrowed from one of his neighbours and gave me the thickest blanket from his own bed. During the course of the evening, I realised that Ricardo’s behaviour that afternoon had all been an act. With none of the other prisoners around, he was completely relaxed and treated me like an old buddy. The only things that didn’t change were how he laughed at me, the funny way he spoke and how he forgot what I had said all the time.
‘You know, sometimes I miss speaking English. I have almost forgotten how to speak. I am thinking in Spanish and have to translate in my head so it comes out all wrong all the time.’
‘But you speak perfectly.’ I complimented him. He seemed to like this.
‘So I should. I am an American citizen. But sometimes I forget, so I need to practise with you, if that is OK.’
‘Of course.’
I was still hungry, but my stomach had shrunk. After a few more small mouthfuls, I couldn’t eat any more. Even though I had only eaten a tiny amount, as the food began to enter my system properly, I felt the strength returning to my body and I pushed the plate away.
‘You need to eat more,’ declared Ricardo, thrusting the half-finished plate back towards me. Moments before, he had been telling me to be careful; now he wanted me to eat until I was sick. ‘Eat it! You will feel better.’
‘I can’t. I’m totally full.’
‘Force yourself. You need to get your strength back. I’ll leave it on the table. Try to eat some more during the night.’
‘Thank you!’
Despite the fact that I was fighting tiredness, I already felt a hundred times better and wanted to show my gratitude, so I started to stack the dishes on the table, readying them for washing up.
‘Just leave them. You need to rest. You should go to bed,’ insisted Ricardo. ‘I can clean those plates tomorrow.’
‘It’s fine. No problem.’
There was no tap in the kitchenette, but I found a bucket of water, some soap powder and a sponge, and I began to scrape the food scraps off the plates. As I did so, I looked around the small room; it was crowded with all the things a norma
l kitchen contains: cooking spices, knives, frying pans, a salt shaker, and many different pots. In the corner, there was even a small refrigerator and on top of it, a tiny microwave. He hadn’t been lying, after all.
‘You have a refrigerator!’ I exclaimed. ‘This place is amazing!’
‘After a while you will forget you are in prison. Well, I mean, you will always know that you are in prison, but as far as prisons go, San Pedro is not bad. Just make sure you never get sent to Chonchocoro. Now, that is a prison,’ Ricardo replied.
I finished cleaning up and returned to my seat at the table. Ricardo looked at me and smiled.
‘Feeling better now?’
It was the happiest I had felt for weeks and I didn’t know how to express my gratefulness, but I think he could see it in my eyes. He smiled and held out some freshly ironed pyjamas for me to change into. I suddenly remembered that I still must have smelled of sewage, but Ricardo kindly hadn’t mentioned it.
‘Hey, man, thanks a lot.’ I smiled back at him. It was the first time I’d smiled properly in a long time; with all the misery I’d been through, I’d almost forgotten how.
Yeah, I was feeling better, all right. If you had asked me at the time, I probably would have said I’d never felt better in my life. It is impossible for anyone who has never been starved to understand the joy of having a full stomach and knowing you are no longer going to die. When you get the feeling that your life has just been saved, nothing else matters. Thirteen days in the police interrogation cells had almost killed me. So, for that moment at least, I didn’t care that I was in prison or that I was still very sick.
‘I’m glad. You should get some rest now,’ advised Ricardo, in a fatherly voice, bending down to turn back my blankets for me.
With my body now working overtime to digest the sudden intake of food, a heavy tiredness came over my body. This time I didn’t fight it. I was absolutely exhausted, but it was a happy tiredness. I swallowed three of the antibiotic pills that Sylvia had given me with a glass of water and then lay down on the bed Ricardo had made up for me. With his thick blanket, and Sylvia’s blanket on top, comforting me, I instantly fell asleep.