Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  One coach, with gilded gold on its sides, made its way down a tree-lined avenue. The two fine draft horses found purchase with their heavy hooves and tugged the carriage and its three passengers forward, as if they alone were unzipping the grimy underbelly of the city.

  The coach took a right down Callao and then a left onto the grand Avenida de Mayo. The few pedestrians cowered under umbrellas, scurrying like beetles. The avenue opened out into a wide square, the Plaza de Mayo; its pyramid centrepiece peering above a rank of drowning palm trees. The carriage pulled to a stop outside a grand building, the pink government house. The coachman hopped to the floor with a splash, wiped the carriage handle with his sleeve and opened the door.

  The archbishop poked his head out. ‘Couldn’t you have got us nearer the door?’

  ‘Sorry your holiness.’

  The archbishop shook his head disapprovingly and turned to the two companions in his carriage.

  ‘Imbecile.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Perry agreed, though he couldn’t see how the carriage could have gotten closer given there was a stone staircase in the way. The archbishop turned his attention to outside again.

  ‘Look at that ground, I can’t walk through that! And why aren’t those fools in the doorway coming down to receive us? It’s just a bit of rain.’

  Perry wiped the window of the carriage with his sleeve and peered through the threads of grey. It was hard to make out, but there were a group of people loitering, the reception party he assumed. Perry glanced over at Santi, his expression reflected his own thoughts - time to get away from here.

  The archbishop dithered awkwardly at the carriage door.

  ‘Perhaps we could carry you, your holiness?’ Perry offered, hoping to speed things along, ‘and see you safe and dry to the Casa Rosada.’

  The archbishop looked down at his expensive robes. ‘You and the coachman lift and you, tall one,’ he pointed to Santi, ‘you guard against the rain.’

  ‘Of course, your Grace.’

  Perry manoeuvred himself in front of the formidable archbishop and stepped from the carriage. The water was ankle deep and cold, but he was glad to be outside again.

  ‘Hurry up,’ the archbishop bundled Santi out of the carriage. Perry and the coachman positioned themselves at the foot of the coach step, crouching with their hands ready as if to offer a bunk over a wall.

  Archbishop Aneiros trod delicately onto the coach step, the movement of a heavy man scared of falling. Perry’s weeks in the Press had left him strong and fit, but this was no can of ink he’d be lifting. He looked to the coachman.

  ‘How we do we er…best lift him?’

  The coachman tweaked his beard. ‘Let’s link our arms together and make our arms like the seat of a chair. He can then sit back.’

  ‘Right, archbishop. On the count of three, sit back onto our arms and we’ll lift you over.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘One, two,’ Perry tensed his arms, ‘three!’ the archbishop sat back, and it was all he could do not to topple over with the weight. Desperately, he re-arranged his footing and grip.

  ‘Quick!’ the coachman sounded like he was about to pop. ‘Let’s go.’ Perry’s arm muscles burnt with the burst of action and he was glad to see the coachman having a worse time of it; his cheeks puffed out and a vein pulsated on his forehead. They huffed and groaned like piano movers with Santi doing his awkward best to keep the umbrella’s coverage in time with their shuffling, wading, quick-step to the stone staircase.

  ‘One, two…’ Perry lowered him onto the sheltered bottom step, ‘three,’

  The archbishop inspected his robes. ‘Well done.’

  Perry and Santi followed the archbishop up the staircase, where six uniformed men formed two lines as if expecting a procession.

  ‘My satchel.’

  ‘Your holiness,’ Santi handed it over.

  ‘May we request your leave?’ Perry asked. ‘We are dressed for our humble duties at the penitentiary, not the fineries of the seat of this great nation’s government.’

  The archbishop opened his mouth to speak and stopped, distracted by the sound of footsteps approaching.

  ‘Archbishop!’ the man came towards them. He was short, trim, in a fine suit and had a large twirly moustache.

  ‘Presidente,’ the archbishop said.

  ‘Incredible storm, I wasn’t sure you would make it,’ the men shook hands.

  Perry felt a nudge from Santi.

  ‘I know!’ he whispered as loud as he dared. ‘But it’s the damn President, we can’t very well run.’

  ‘No, not that,’ Santi murmured through gritted teeth.

  What? Perry mouthed.

  ‘Neck!’ hissed Santi.

  Perry instinctively wiped it and his hand came back smudged black.

  ‘Oh God, what do I do?’

  ‘Pull your collar up a bit,’ Santi whispered, ‘and calm down.’

  ‘Is mine ok?’

  Perry nodded that it was. Santi had been holding the umbrella – lucky bastard. They had to go. Perry motioned for them to backpedal discreetly down the stairs. They were barely down the second step, when the archbishop’s voice locked them on the spot.

  ‘It was lucky I had these two with me, keeping me dry. These statues of yours were no help, they cowered under the roof and watched me be carried here!’

  President Pellegrini took Perry and Santi in, his eyes thoughtful, calculating. Perry kept his neck tucked in case the ink was showing and did his best attempt at a modest grin.

  ‘I apologise,’ Pellegrini said, ‘perhaps your assistants would care to dry off in the bathroom?’

  The archbishop nodded his head vigorously, as if the President were making amends.

  ‘The servants will bring towels. I can offer them tea, coffee or mate while we have our meeting?’

  The archbishop turned to them with a devilish smile. ‘What do you say boys, President Pellegrini is inviting you to dry off and to take tea?’

  Perry forced a smile on to his face. There was no choice.

  ‘What an honour.’

  32

  A maid provided them with towels and Perry and Santi dried themselves off in a large tiled bathroom on the ground floor. Ink stained Perry’s neck and blackened his ankles. It took vigorous scrubbing to get the worst off. By the time he was done the towel was ruined and he could only think to hide it in the bottom of a wash basket.

  A servant led them upstairs to a grand room with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with leather-bound books. The room smelt of lacquer and age and President Pellegrini and the archbishop were installed in two large armchairs in the middle of the room, deep in conversation.

  The servants silently showed Perry and Santi to leather chairs right in front of the fireplace. Perry eased into the chair and despite his worries, he couldn’t help but enjoy the give and softness of it - so different from the wooden chair he’d had to put up with in his cell. Fresh towels were laid at their feet and two steaming bowls of water were brought to soak their feet in, their shoes placed to dry on the hearth and a tray placed before them with tea and hot buttered toast. In the Argentine fashion, milk was not provided, so Perry drank it as it came, warming himself inside out.

  The conversation between Pellegrini and the archbishop continued at a low murmur. Perry reached out and felt the warmth of the fire on his fingertips. The part in him that wanted to sprint out of there was assuaged by another, the part that couldn’t help but soak up the wonderful surrounds after two months inside; the wonderful spitting fire, the delicious toast and tea and the soft chair in which he sat, the mantelpiece with its silver figurines, candelabras and the gold carriage clock…the clock that said three o’ clock. Perry leant towards Santi.

  ‘Count’s in an hour.’

  ‘What are we doing? We need to be on the way to Pocha’s!’

  Perry nodded yes. ‘But calmly, we can’t arouse suspicion.’

  There was just the crackle of the
fire now. The archbishop and Pellegrini had stopped talking. Despite being toasted by the fire, dread filled his heart; had they been overheard?

  ‘Your shoes,’ the archbishop pointed to the hearth, ‘they look like the same shoes the prisoners wear.’

  Perry’s heart leapt into his mouth. He gulped. ‘Indeed,’ he said, buying time, ‘that’s because they are.’

  Pellegrini crossed his leg to better face them. ‘Why would you choose to wear such dreadful shoes?’

  ‘Good question,’ Santi said.

  ‘Yes, very good question,’ agreed Perry, think!

  ‘May we ask why then?’ the President urged.

  ‘Of course. Er- we, as you know, spend our days working with prisoners, many of whom are thieves, many of whom deny God.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Santi came in, ‘why tempt them with trinkets or fancy shoes?’

  Perry was pleased Santi had correctly picked up his lead. ‘Which may excuse, I hope, our plain appearance before you and the archbishop,’ he finished.

  Both Pellegrini and the archbishop appeared satisfied, nodding as they took a sip from their cups. Perry kept his relief well hidden.

  ‘I trust they are drying well?’ the President said.

  ‘Yes sir, thank you very much,’ said Perry, ‘we will be on our way imminently.’

  Pellegrini narrowed his eyes on Perry. ‘Your accent. English if I’m not mistaken?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Pellegrini twisted the end of his moustache between his thumb and index finger. ‘London?’

  ‘Southampton.’

  Pellegrini smacked the arm of his chair. ‘Close,’ and continued as if Perry had said London anyway, ‘my grandparents were born in London you know. Been there a couple of times myself. Such a busy place. Full of idiotic and short-sighted bankers. But the clubs are first rate.’

  ‘He will have to take your word for it I expect,’ interjected the archbishop.

  Perry nodded, he did have to take the President’s word for it. Pellegrini’s eyes glazed over and he sighed.

  ‘Magnificent building though isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Señor Presidente, what is? St. Paul’s?’ Perry asked.

  ‘No, I mean the penitentiary of course. It’s a keen interest of mine: I was a lawyer before, well you know,’ he gestured modestly to his surrounds. ‘Tell me, from a European perspective - what are your thoughts on the National Penitentiary?’

  ‘Señor Presidente, I hardly think-’ said the archbishop.

  ‘-tsk. Let me hear what the boy has to say.’

  ‘Well, on behalf of the Europeans,’ he realised how ridiculous that sounded and blushed and tried to backtrack from answering at all, ‘perhaps not. My experience of prisons is extremely limited.’

  ‘Limited or not. I’m keen to hear it.’

  He opened his mouth, closed it again. Should he heap on platitudes? Or say what he really thought?

  ‘The building is impressive, well guarded,’ he said slowly, ‘the fact that each prisoner has their own cell is a civilised measure…but it does have one or two failings.’

  The archbishop’s face went red, ‘I apologise for the boy- he isn’t one of my n-’

  ‘-it is fine, I asked him to speak freely. Please,’ Pellegrini encouraged, ‘tell me how you have formed this opinion.’

  Perry wasn’t sure if he’d overstepped the mark, gotten too big for your boots, as Mrs D used to say. But a thought flashed in his mind, maybe, just maybe.

  ‘The penitentiary houses convicts and defendants. The defendants of course may prove to be innocent.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pellegrini.

  ‘Yet the trials for these men don’t begin for over a year in some cases. Imagine a year of your life taken away and you are found innocent.’

  Pellegrini’s eyebrows shot up, crinkling his forehead. ‘The backlog in the courts was a month at most I was told,’ he turned to the archbishop, ‘a month is a horrendous backlog, but a year! More judges isn’t the answer, we need to stop this at source. Stimulating growth, jobs is what we need. Stop these poor wretches from resorting to theft in the first place.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said the archbishop.

  ‘And if I may,’ Perry went on, ‘I met one man, with a sorrowful story of repentance. He killed his family in an awful accident on his farm, crushed by pony and trap coming off the road. He suffers this loss every day and must live with himself for this tragic accident. Yet he was sentenced for thirty years for failing to maintain the vehicle. I see him regularly for prayer - this man has not a bad bone in his body. I believe the penitentiary is excellent, but is let down by these minor exceptions.’

  The archbishop levelled him a look like he wanted to clobber him, but Pellegrini looked thoughtful.

  ‘These exceptions I’m sure are commonplace in every prison system,’ Santi said.

  ‘It shouldn’t need to be,’ Pellegrini stood up, ‘Carlos. Where is Carlos?’ One of the servants stepped forward.

  ‘Carlos, set up a meeting please, with José.’

  ‘Of course Sr. Presidente,’ the servant replied.

  Pellegrini addressed Perry. ‘I will speak with the Justice minister on this very topic. The delays in court are unacceptable. The name of this man of which you speak?’

  ‘Martín Santilli,’ Perry said.

  ‘Note the name down, Carlos,’ he turned to Perry, ‘I make no promises but we shall investigate the case. If all you say is true young man, we shall see to it that his case is reviewed. Justice, you will see is alive and well in Argentina. When you return to Europe you can say as much.’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘Well thank you for sharing that,’ the archbishop said in a clipped tone, and made a show of staring at the clock, Perry noted its time too, Count was getting closer.

  ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to notify the coachman it is time to pick up my regular helpers from the penitentiary?’

  Perry and Santi nodded in unison.

  The archbishop then addressed Pellegrini. ‘Easter Sunday duty, after I take confession I send my people amongst the country’s most troubled souls.’

  ‘A noble cause,’ the President observed.

  Perry gathered his shoes and slipped them on. They were dry and crisp already.

  ‘He can drop you wherever you need,’ the archbishop said.

  ‘Most kind,’ said Santi.

  ‘It was an honour to meet you both,’ and Perry meant it, pumping first the archbishop’s hand and then the President’s. He and Santi followed the servant Carlos from the room, down the carpeted stairs and into the marbled hallway. The entrance door was already open.

  Outside the toilet, a maid was holding up a blackened towel with reproof.

  ‘Quick, let’s go.’

  Carlos bowed his head and Father Hood and Father Pedro stepped into the light of the afternoon – silvery as a wet coin. Perry lifted his face to the sky, the rain nibbled pleasantly on his face. Now they were truly free.

  33

  ‘Stop here!’ Santi yelled.

  Through the rain-spattered window Perry recognised the part of town; the tightly packed houses, streetgrocers cowering under tarps. It was the Boca. Maybe a half dozen blocks from his old lodging house, close to the docks and full of his old co-workers.

  The coach came to a stop.

  ‘Here? Really?’ the coachman shouted

  ‘Yes, here,’ Santi pushed the door open, ‘come on Father Hood.’

  Perry stepped straight into a puddle that came halfway up his shins.

  ‘So much for drying off!’

  ‘Gracias!’ Santi waved at the coachman and watched him bring the carriage around to point north. It took off, a small wake of road water snaking behind. In a few moments the coachman was the size of a toy in the distance.

  From nowhere, Perry was grabbed and in that second, struggling to work out what was going on, he had an intense moment of déjà vu. Like when he’d been watching Eva wa
iting on the docks and he was hit, sacked and hit again. But now, as his reflexes kicked in and he struggled, he realised he was not being hit, no sack was coming to cover his head, he was in fact being squeezed. No…he was being hugged.

  ‘You little-’ Santi said, ‘I can’t believe it!’

  Perry stopped struggling and caught his breath. ‘We did it.’

  ‘Ha!’ Santi clapped his hands together. ‘In front of the President too!’

  Perry drew his robes up to his neck. ‘Plenty of time to celebrate Father Pedro, where does this cousin of yours live? We need to get out of these clothes before we turn completely negro.’

  ‘Pocha’s place is a few blocks walk. I didn’t want the coachman to see where, just in case.’

  They splashed through the sidewalk puddles, Perry kicking the water with joy.

  ‘The first people to ever escape La Tumba!’

  ‘I know!’ Santi said and took a left turn, ‘Well…not quite the first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone escaped last year.’

  ‘What! And you didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘Well this guy, Sampiño swapped clothes with his girlfriend during visitation and walked out disguised as her. It’s not like we could do that is it?’

  Perry shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘He did look the butterfly I suppose. Look Perry, everyone knows about that. The guards hate it when we talk about it because it made them look stupid - that’s kind of why I got thrown in La Cueva.’

  Perry stopped. ‘Whoa, I thought you were put in there for planning to escape?’

  ‘I wanted to, of course, but I wasn’t planning anything,’ Santi looked up and down the street, ‘come on let’s keep moving, it’s only a little further.’

  They crossed the road and walked onto the next block; the houses were indistinguishable from the last, all drab stone and shuttered windows. Perry was soaked, the fabric itchy.

  ‘Why did they throw you in La Cueva then?’

  ‘I did something very stupid,’ Santi shook his head, ‘one of the guards on my floor, the Italian guy, you know which?’

  Perry nodded, he knew who Santi meant; a squat fellow whose belly sagged over his belt and thick black eyebrows formed a single straight rule.