Breaking Lorca

by Giles Blunt

  “So it’s fair to say you are not an artist of stature? You are not about to produce letters saying you are a recognized artist? Or a writer?”

  “No, I told you, I’m nothing. An administrator, maybe-not even an administrator. A social worker, maybe you could say.”

  “Forgive me, I did not mean to embarrass you. I have to ask these questions because Uncle Sam is very concerned that immigrants not take work away from American citizens. Certain categories of work-artists, doctors, the ones I mentioned-can be exceptions.”

  “But you also are from El Salvador, by your accent. How did you get to become a citizen?”

  Viera stubbed out his cigarette. “My own case is not relevant.” He sighed, stirring the ashtray with the tip of a pencil. “Unfortunately, Mr. Perez, the United States of America has no shortage of administrators or social workers. You say you have a job at this time?”

  “Yes. I’m a chef’s assistant. I make the salads at a French restaurant-Le Parisien.” The owner was unpleasant and not even French, but it had taken over a month to find the job and he wasn’t going to quit it now. “I also make the desserts. You should try my chocolate mousse sometime.”

  “Oh, my wife would never allow it,” Viera said, and patted his pot-belly as if it were a lapdog.

  “But what if ….”

  “What if what?” Viera said. “Go on.”

  “What if one were persecuted in one’s home country? You know-a refugee. The United States gives sanctuary to refugees, I believe.”

  “Yes, it does. Cuban refugees are very welcome. Also refugees from North Korea or Cambodia. The United States is hostile to those countries and likes to embarrass them by accepting their refugees. The people of El Salvador, however, are another matter. The United States is on friendly terms with the government of El Salvador. Obviously, she could not be on friendly terms with a government that persecutes its own people. Therefore, there is no such thing as a political refugee from El Salvador.”

  Tell that to the real Perez, Victor thought, the dead Perez. “But …. suppose you were tortured. Suppose you were held by the Guardia or the army and they tortured you. What if you could show scars?” His scalp wound. He could say they clubbed him.

  “It makes no difference. There is no asylum for Salvadorans, period. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise. There are people I want to help, and I cannot.” Viera lit another cigarette and regarded his client thoughtfully, assessing the damage his information had wrought. “Don’t be too downcast. Perhaps you will fall in love and marry an American girl. That would solve all your problems. Notice, please, that I am not advising you to fake a marriage, or to pay someone to pretend to marry you. That would be illegal. All I am saying is that if you have a real marriage-a real marriage, notice-with an American citizen, you will get your green card and eventual citizenship. Short of such a marriage, however ….”

  “There’s nothing I can do?”

  Viera spoke more softly. “Don’t take it so hard. People live here illegally for years. The INS does not come looking for individual immigrants. Even if someone were to telephone them tomorrow morning and say Ignacio Perez is in this country illegally, at such and such an address, they are not going to come banging down your doors to deport you. They are interested in sweatshops, factories-places that employ hundreds of illegals. Your job is a good place to be, Mr. Perez. Hang on to this job.” Viera started folding papers and organizing files on his desk, signalling that the consultation was over. There were no other clients waiting, however. Finally he said, “Well, Mr. Perez-was there something else?”

  “Yes. But I–I don’t know how to say it.”

  “Take your time. Say what you want. It’s what lawyers are for. We’re a bit like priests, you know.”

  Victor took a deep breath. “I knew your sister in El Salvador.”

  “My sister.” Viera’s tone suddenly went cold. “Which sister?”

  “Lorca, her name was. Lorca Viera. We were in jail together.”

  “If you are a fucking rebel, you can get out of here right now.”

  “No, no. I was not a revolutionary. Far from it. I told you, I was an administrator. But I was in the same jail as your sister.”

  “Well, then you know what happened to her.”

  “I thought they took her out and shot her. That’s what they said. They said they took her out and shot her. But I heard-I heard a rumour that she was alive. Is it true?”

  “Where did you hear this?” Viera asked sharply.

  “It was just a rumour. Prisoners hear things from new prisoners.”

  “Bullshit. How do I know you’re not from the Guardia yourself?”

  “The Guardia-me?” Victor laughed.

  “You said you worked for the government. Exactly what branch of the government?”

  “Agriculture. I told you.”

  “Then tell me why-if you worked for the government-would you be a prisoner?” The lawyer in Viera came alive now, cross-examining him, badgering him even, but Victor had rehearsed his answers.

  “Why was I a prisoner?” He looked Viera in the eye as he spoke. “I made the mistake of taking my job seriously.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “In El Salvador, there is no land reform. For a campesino, to be given a deed of land is a death warrant.”

  “True. I have heard this.” Viera sat back, looking Victor up and down, as if trying to judge his weight. “Frankly, Mr. Perez, I find it hard to believe you were in the same place as my sister. You are in much better condition.”

  “So she is alive, then. The rumour was true?”

  “I did not say that,” Viera said harshly, and turned away, clearly angry at himself.

  “I understand,” Victor said. “You are right to be careful.” The Captain would have been proud of him for catching the lawyer out, but he felt a little ashamed. He had tripped a brother up in his love for his sister-where was the achievement in that?

  As if to compensate for his lapse, Viera fired a volley of demands across his desk. “Describe the jail, please.”

  “It was a former school. A good one, built of brick. By missionaries, I believe.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “Six cells, a guardroom, a kitchen, an office, I think. And the interrogation room.”

  “How many soldiers?”

  “I believe only four. The squad was four soldiers and a captain. There were regular soldiers guarding the perimeter, but they never came inside, as far as I know.”

  “What was your cell like?”

  “Concrete blocks. I think the cells were an addition to the school. Maybe six feet by four feet.”

  “How many prisoners?”

  “I don’t know. At least eight. There may have been many more.”

  “Where was it located?”

  “The school? A little way west of San Salvador. Maybe fifteen miles.”

  “Very good, Mr. Perez. But prisoners were blindfolded at all times. How could you possibly know all these details-unless, of course, you were a guard, not a prisoner?”

  A tremor went through Victor. “On my last day there, they took the blindfold off. Cleaned me up. Gave me new clothes. They used me in a show they set up, pretending to give away land. The press was there, everybody. They even promised me a deed, as if I had been working on a plantation or something. I knew what that meant. Several of the men I had helped to press such claims had been murdered. When I realized my job was a fake-worse than a fake, a trap-that’s when I quit. And that’s when they threw me in jail.”

  “If you were in that stinking place with my sister,” Viera said, “kindly explain for me why you are in such good condition.”

  “Your sister suffered. Me, they just wanted to soften up for that show of reform.”

  Viera lit yet another cigarette, squinting at him through the smoke. “My sister never mentioned any Perez.”

  “We were not acquainted. Mostly I was in a cell across from her. She would not have known my
name.”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “Later, I was thrown into a cell with others. We whispered to each other. We promised that any of us who lived would contact the others’ families. Do you know what it’s like to know that your parents, your wife, your children, have no idea what happened to you? We promised to help each other this way.”

  “I see. Well, you had a bad time there, I’m sure.”

  “Everybody did. Your sister, though-your sister was brave.”

  “Is that some kind of joke? You think that’s funny?”

  “I would not joke about such a thing. Your sister suffered for days and days and told them nothing. All the prisoners knew this. She was the bravest person in that place.”

  “Really,” Viera said. “Interesting.” He lapsed into a silence.

  Fine, Victor thought. Her brother doesn’t want us to meet. That’s fine. Victor had made his attempt to meet her, get to know her, somehow make amends. Few men would have done as much. Perhaps now the nightmares would stop. Perhaps now he could live his new life with a-if not a clear conscience, then a viable one. He rose to leave. “Thank you for your help on the immigration, Mr. Viera. Perhaps you will tell your sister that one who admires her courage was asking after her.”

  “What? Yes. Yes, of course. Goodbye. I’m sorry if I seemed hostile.”

  “It’s nothing. One has to be careful.”

  The elevator-a tiny metal chamber much scarred with graffiti-was still open at the third floor. On the way down, Victor thought, That’s the end of it. I wanted to try and set things right, but it’s too much, pretending like that. I tried, and it’s over.

  A chill, damp wind was blowing when he got outside, but the rain had stopped. He turned uptown rather than face the Macy’s crowds again.

  He had to wait for a red light, and then a fire truck came screaming through, scattering cars and pedestrians before it. Then, as he was crossing Thirty-fifth Street, a voice called after him.

  “Mr. Perez! Wait! Mr. Perez!”

  He turned and saw Mike Viera hurrying after him. A cyclist swerved around the lawyer, cursing loudly.

  “Mr. Perez. I’m so glad I caught you. Listen.”

  He had to wait for Viera to catch his breath. All those cigarettes.

  “Mr. Perez,” he managed at last. “Mr. Perez, I’m sure you don’t want to relive those terrible days. But to be honest, I have long been hoping for something like this. An opportunity like this.”

  “Like what? What do you mean?”

  “Someone who could help my sister. I’ve been hoping that someone who could help my sister would show up.”

  “Help her how?”

  “Not help, exactly. Maybe not help. I don’t know what I mean. Just-Mr. Perez, my sister needs someone who can understand what she has been through. Someone who knows what happened to her. She never talks about it. She refuses to talk about it. You would be doing a great kindness if you would come and see her. Frankly, she is not doing very well. She is not doing well at all.”

  “I don’t know …. Those days …. I agree with your sister, in a way-to speak of those days is painful. One wants so much to forget.”

  “Yes, yes, it’s understandable. Completely understandable. But don’t you think it would help if she saw someone who knew exactly what she’d been through? What she’s suffered? Sympathy is good, is it not? Come with me, just to say hello. It cannot hurt. It might help. Yes, I really think it might. Lorca is not doing well, Mr. Perez. She is not doing well at all.”

  That moment, as if a wheel somewhere deep beneath the concrete had once more been set in motion, Victor felt the sidewalk shift beneath his feet. Once more the implacable mechanism was set whirring, carrying him toward a future he could not avoid, even by changing his country, his language, his name.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” he said weakly. He could barely hear himself over the blaring horns, the squeal of brakes. “How could I help? What happened at that place, the little school, I cannot talk about it. No one can talk about it. I have nightmares all the time.”

  “So does my sister. She wakes up screaming. Sometimes she thinks she has been driven insane! But you seem so well, Mr. Perez. She needs to know this is possible. She needs to know things will get better.”

  “Yes, they will get better for her, I’m sure.”

  As suddenly as a child’s, Viera’s expression changed from eagerness to dismay. “You don’t want to do it. All right, that’s fine, I understand. I shouldn’t have asked. A thousand apologies.” Viera glanced at his watch. “And now I must be getting home. Good luck to you, sir.”

  “No, wait. Please.” Victor grabbed at the lawyer’s sleeve just as he was stepping off the curb. They were jostled by a man with a furled umbrella, then a woman on roller skates. They had to step back onto the sidewalk in the lee of a mailbox. “Of course I will come with you,” Victor said. He could hardly keep his voice steady. “I would be honoured to meet your sister.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Darling! Come meet our visitor! I have someone here who knows Lorca from El Salvador!”

  Viera had driven him across town and through a tunnel to Queens and his home. Assessing the neighbourhood as they drove in, Victor had thought it displayed neither the power of a big city nor the quiet of a small town. The rows of houses had no cheer to them, the strip of ugly storefronts no charm. It was not a place anyone would choose to live.

  A small blonde woman came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Helen Viera’s face had once been pretty-perhaps not so long ago-but plumpness and unhappiness were rapidly claiming that territory. The eyes were cold as chips of Wedgwood, the corners of the mouth turned down in a near grimace. Victor had been expecting Mrs. Viera to be a Salvadoran, but she was American, though not from New York by her accent.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, neither friendly nor hostile. “You’re early,” she said to her husband.

  “My last appointment cancelled.”

  “Uh-huh. Was Alicia off sick again?”

  “Yes. She sounded bad, though. I don’t think she is faking.”

  “That girl’s stealing your money, Michael. She’s robbing you blind.” The pale, puffy features broadcast unhappiness. It occurred to Victor that Helen was not just Viera’s wife, she was Viera’s green card, and years of dismay had been entailed in their transaction of marriage.

  The lawyer’s apparent cheerfulness increased in proportion to his wife’s misery. “Helen, you remember we were saying how nice it would be if Lorca could meet someone who understands her difficulties? Mr. Perez knew her in El Salvador.”

  “Really? I’m not sure anyone can understand that sister of yours.”

  “But Mr. Perez was in the same jail,” Viera said. “He was in the little school. I thought perhaps the connection-”

  “You look a lot better than Lorca, that’s for sure.” Mrs. Viera was the second person to say so in as many hours. Would Lorca notice it too? “Dinner’s ready in fifteen minutes,” she added. “Will you be staying, Mr. Perez?”

  “You are welcome to stay,” Viera said. “I should have asked you before.”

  “Oh, no, no. I wouldn’t want to be any trouble. Thank you, though. A thousand thanks.” Victor’s voice quavered, and he wondered if they heard. She was blindfolded, he told himself. She saw nothing. She cannot recognize me or my voice. I didn’t utter more than half a dozen words in her presence.

  “Darling, is Lorca upstairs?”

  “Of course she’s upstairs. Where else does she go?” Mrs. Viera retreated to the kitchen.

  The house was a small semi-detached in Queens. The rooms were badly proportioned, the windows small. It was three times the size of the house Victor had grown up in, but far uglier.

  “Lorca!” Viera called up a short flight of stairs that led straight off the living room. Victor followed him up the steps. “Come down, Lorca! You have a visitor!”

  Sweat broke out on Victor’s forehead; he had
a sudden need for a bathroom. She was blindfolded, he re minded himself. She saw nothing. She cannot know my voice.

  “Perhaps she didn’t hear. We’ll knock on her door.”

  The upstairs was tiny: two bedrooms, a bathroom, a closet. The hallway was narrow, the doors hollow-core. The clatter of plates from downstairs was audible, the sound of an oven door slamming; obviously, Lorca Viera would have heard her brother’s call.

  “Excuse me,” Victor said. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Of course not. Please.”

  In the bathroom, Victor’s bowels moved quickly and forcibly. His relief was tempered with embarrassment, and he prayed that Lorca Viera would be out somewhere, that there would be no answer to her brother’s continuous tapping on her door.

  “Loud knocks frighten her,” he said confidentially when Victor rejoined him. He leaned against the wood. “Lorca, there’s a man to see you! A fellow prisoner from the jail ….”

  No sound from within.

  “Lorca? Mr. Perez was kind enough to come all the way out to Queens. The least you can do is say hello.”

  “Maybe this was not a good idea,” Victor said. “I should go, I think.”

  Viera shook his head, speaking insistently at the wooden door. “Lorca, dear. You have to see people sometime. You can’t stay cooped up like a pigeon.”

  “Go away, Miguel. Leave me alone.”

  The ugly voice made Victor’s heart shrivel. Memories crawled in his belly like worms.

  “Lorca, please. Won’t you at least say hello to Mr. Perez?”

  “No. Leave me alone.”

  The wires, the dial, her screams. Suddenly Victor was terrified she would recognize his voice, even though he had said almost nothing to her. Even though it had been in Spanish. “I should not have come. No one wants to remem ber that place,” he said, and backed toward the stairs. “I will go. You don’t have to drive me, I will take the subway.”