Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  He wrote for twenty minutes, hardly even pausing to consider his words, simply transferring them onto paper as they gurgled forth chaotically, like hemorrhaging blood.

  When he was done he felt no better. He slipped the paper into an envelope and collapsed onto his cot, eyes open. He could still get an hour’s sleep.

  But something made him sit up. He heard the metallic sound of the bolt in the cell door sliding back.

  Arthur turned to the small square of light on the floor and suddenly knew that something was wrong. This was not the time for a headcount, and even if that’s what it was, no guard showed up inside a cell without announcing his arrival. Silently, he woke Ibrahim and pointed to the door. In the crack of light coming in, they could see someone’s shadow.

  Slowly, cautiously, as though attempting not to be heard, the intruder pushed the metal door ajar. The enormous figure in the doorway, its shadow projected onto the cot, was certainly not a guard: guards aren’t skinheads, guards don’t have spiderweb tattoos on their faces. The man held something in his right hand—an icepick or sharpened piece of glass. He must have been thrown off by seeing his target standing there before him, and that brief moment of hesitation was enough to allow Arthur to dodge the man’s first thrust. After lunging at the air, his attacker froze for a split second.

  This fleeting moment of hesitation allowed Arthur to reach the man’s side and, before he had a chance to react, punch him in the kidneys—hard. Like some surreal scene out of a silent movie, the attacker’s hands flew to his side and he opened his mouth wide in a silent howl. A blow like that would have felled a normal man, but the giant wasn’t about to submit. He clenched his teeth and charged Arthur, pinning him to the wall. Arthur was bigger than most of the other inmates in the cellblock but looked a wimp compared to this guy. He pummeled the man’s head, punching his ears and trying to jam his fingers into his eyes, but it did nothing to diminish the strength and impact of this brute, who was grunting like a wounded boar, thrusting his blade at Arthur’s face as Arthur tried desperately to dodge him.

  And then, suddenly, his attacker opened his eyes wide, his pupils dilating as if something inside him had exploded. He gurgled briefly and spat a sludgy clump of blood onto Arthur’s face before collapsing sideways, lifeless on the floor. From the other side of the cell, Ibrahim watched the slow death rattle wrack the man’s body, an icepick sticking out of his neck. Ibrahim trembled with the exertion of that thrust still coursing through the muscles in his neck. He wiped bloodstained fingers across his face—for a moment making the dry hollow of his scar look like a crimson river—and crouched beside the body to check his vitals.

  “Is he dead?” Arthur asked, panting.

  Ibrahim nodded, thinking fast.

  “The guards will be here any minute, we need to get rid of it somehow, and quick. If they connect you to this, you can forget about walking out through the big door.”

  They quickly hatched a plan. Acting in total silence, they lifted the motionless body, put it down on a sheet, and then dragged it outside their cell. The cellblock had three corridors forming a U-shape, and theirs was in the third. Each of them overlooked the same light shaft, into which prisoners threw cans, cigarette butts and other rubbish. So Ibrahim rolled the body out and then pushed it off the third floor, like a sack of potatoes being dropped onto a cart. Then they went back to their cell, taking care to not make any noise.

  “That must all have been caught on tape,” Arthur said, devastated. He cared nothing about the man they’d just tossed out like garbage. The only thing he cared about right then was his freedom.

  “I doubt it,” Ibrahim said, calming him. “That was one of the Armenian’s henchmen, so the boss probably bribed the nightshift guard, who must have flipped the switch to let our cell be unlocked. He wasn’t from our block, so the guard will be waiting for him to come out before he turns the cameras back on.”

  “But what will happen when they discover the body?”

  Ibrahim shrugged. He was annoyed by Arthur’s naiveté, his thin skin, too delicate to survive in the prison world on his own.

  “Nothing will happen. Nothing ever happens. They’ll fake an investigation for the sake of appearances, maybe find a scapegoat, but more than likely it will all just be forgotten about. Either way, by that time, you’ll be long gone and no one will be able to tie you to anything that went down—so relax.” Ibrahim was at the sink washing the blood off his hands; then he bundled up the sheet he’d used to drag the body out and stuffed it down at the bottom of his mattress. Suddenly he was moving with surprising vigor. He seemed to know just what to do and how to do it.

  “You saved my life. When I get out of here I’m going to do everything in my power to return the favor.”

  Ibrahim made a face, and his scar deepened.

  “Yes, I’m sure you will.”

  * * *

  —

  By that morning everyone knew what had happened, absolutely everyone: from the guard who’d been bribed to open the cell, to the newest inmate, who’d been watching through the slats of a barred window when Ibrahim and Arthur dragged the corpse down the corridor and hurled it into the light shaft. They knew that that bear of a man had been one of the Armenian’s enforcers. But no one would say a word. There would be no whispering, no gossip. But there are always currents flowing beneath the surface. Currents that flow like the truth but are never stated, currents comprised solely of sidelong glances, half-gestures, unspoken understandings. The guards searched each cell top to bottom; Ibrahim was brought in for questioning, brought before the prison warden to make a statement; then came Arthur, and other prisoners. No one said a word. Everyone was playing dumb. And slowly, a superficial sense of normality returned to the cellblock, a tense waiting game in which inmates placed bets on Arthur and Ibrahim’s days, which were surely numbered. Only someone incredibly naive could actually believe that what had happened would have no consequences. And in jail there’s no such thing as naiveté.

  On 3 February, a female civil servant led Arthur to the administrative block. The warden wanted to see him. Ordóñez was, at the time, one of the youngest prison wardens in all of Spain. He was seen as a man of few words, a hard worker with little fanfare, discreet and efficient, honest and just, but intransigent—a man with very clear ideas and the determination to bring them to fruition, regardless of whose feathers he might ruffle. In addition to all that, he was an exceedingly elegant man. When Arthur walked into his office, the warden was looking over some papers, leaning against a bookcase. He shot Arthur a quick glance—gauging, sharp—and extended a hand toward a chair as he motioned for the civil servant to take her leave.

  “Take a seat.”

  Arthur remained standing for a minute, hands in his trouser pockets. He wondered what kind of relationship he might have had with Ordóñez outside those walls; they’d probably never have been friends, but there might have at least been some degree of mutual respect.

  “Please, take a seat,” he repeated, this time less peremptorily.

  Reluctantly, Arthur perched on the edge of the chair.

  “I suppose asking you about the inmate found dead in your cellblock again would be of no use.”

  Arthur glanced at the ceiling; it had been recently painted and the office still smelled of fresh paint. He glanced around the room, the metal bookshelves, the files in various colored folders, the phone on the desk nestled between a portrait of the king and a photo of the warden posing with two little girls so fair they looked albino. Just a regular guy, Arthur thought. “A guy with twin daughters, a guy who eats orange candy,” he said to himself, noting the ashtray full of wrappers.

  “I’m so broken up about it I can’t sleep, if that’s what you mean.”

  The warden’s neck flexed involuntarily. He didn’t like sarcastic types. He didn’t like Arthur.

  “Don’t be an ass. You’re not in the block
now, there’s no need to be cocky.”

  “I know nothing about it, I already told you that, and I told the investigators that. I know absolutely nothing about the death of that thug, all I know is that he was one of the Armenian’s. Why are you so concerned about that sack of shit? He was one serious motherfucker—the man raped little girls, shoved glass up their vaginas. The world’s a better place without pigs like him on the loose.”

  “I’m concerned because someone threw that ‘sack of shit’ down my light shaft. I, better than anyone, know the records of all the inmates, so I don’t need you to remind me of what he did, much less lecture me about it. It just so happens that, whether I like it or not, that man was under my custody, he was my responsibility. I’m not willing to let this facility turn into the Wild West, with every man taking justice into his own hands. I know what happened—I know it, I just don’t have proof, so I have to accept things as they are. But don’t for a minute think I’m a fool, Arthur.” The man clearly didn’t have a clue about certain forms of subtlety. “Throughout your incarceration we’ve tried to protect you as much as possible, especially from the Armenian—but there’s no such thing as absolute safety, and I have another thousand inmates to worry about, so, frankly, I’ll be glad to see the back of you. One less headache for me.”

  “See the back of me?”

  “Your pardon just came through from the ministry. You’ve got friends in high places, Arthur.” Ordóñez loosened his tie—blue silk that matched his spotless shirt perfectly. Without asking if Arthur minded, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the edge of his desk, pulling over a crystal ashtray with a few butts in it. He slowly exhaled a dense cloud of smoke, not taking his eyes off him. Arthur realized that Ordóñez was tired of men like him, and that he was making the effort to be polite regardless, which was truly laudable.

  “I don’t think I need to warn you about the Armenian. You’d be dreaming if you thought that when you walk out that gate, you’ll be out of that man’s reach. Quite the contrary, you’re more exposed on the outside than you are in here: the man’s got very long arms. Take your precautions, get a private bodyguard or something—and watch your back.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  The warden nodded, unconvinced, and then glanced down at his watch like a busy executive.

  “Very well. Sign these forms and then you can head to the locker for your personal effects. You’ll spend the night in the access block and tomorrow they’ll transfer you to the Castilla courts. And one more thing—slip up again, no matter how small, and you’re right back here.”

  Arthur signed the papers and made for the door. He had the feeling the warden was watching his movements, and turned suddenly to face him.

  “You think I’m an arsehole, too, don’t you? You think if it weren’t for my money I’d be rotting in here for what I did. Right?”

  Ordóñez examined Arthur curiously. He smiled faintly, as though it were a funny question. Funny in a sad kind of way.

  The same woman accompanied Arthur back to the prison’s communal area. Walking by the open gate of one cell, he caught sight of the Armenian, side-on, leaning over his windowsill. Sensing that he was being observed, the man turned his head, slowly. His eyes met Arthur’s coldly.

  The Armenian smiled. Yes, he already knew. Of course he’d heard about the pardon already. But he didn’t seem bothered by it.

  “See you around,” he said.

  FOUR

  She wants you to do a portrait of the man who killed her son?”

  Eduardo nodded, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the cup of coffee Olga had offered him. She was sitting on the marble countertop, legs crossed, jiggling one bare foot. Her hair was messy, curtaining her eyes in a series of corkscrew curls. A blue silk nightgown had slipped off her right shoulder, and he could see the gentle slope of her breasts, although Olga seemed unconcerned by this detail. She was smoking, and exhaling the smoke toward a sink piled high with dirty dishes from the night before.

  “That’s what she said.”

  “That’s nuts, don’t you think?” Olga asked, smiling skeptically, though much less caustic at that hour—sans lipstick or any other make-up—than she would be a few hours later.

  Eduardo set his cup down on the counter.

  “Doesn’t seem that way to me,” he replied, staring now at the back of the chair, from which a bit of stuffing was trying to escape.

  Olga gave a low whistle of admiration.

  “When you die, make sure to donate your brain to science. It must be as complex as Tagger’s.”

  “Very funny.” Eduardo felt uneasy. He always did around Olga.

  “I’m being serious. It’s perverse.”

  Eduardo took Olga’s reproach stoically, despite the fact that it was coming from a thirty-something with dyed hair—today’s highlights were auburn—and waxed eyebrows. What was the point of waxing your eyebrows if you were just going to pencil them back in afterward? he wondered. Suddenly he felt like he’d been foolish to tell her he’d accepted Gloria’s assignment. In theory she should have been thrilled; after all she was going to earn a hefty commission. But rather than celebrate, she had moved down to the floor, where she sat half-dressed, smoking and staring at him like he was either insane or an idiot, and debating whether to be pissed off or make fun of him.

  “It doesn’t seem that hare-brained to me.”

  Olga tugged between her knees at her nightgown, which was short enough to reveal her shapely legs.

  “Well then explain it to me, because I sure don’t get it. If someone had killed my son, the last thing I’d want to have is a portrait of the killer. Kill the guy, maybe, rip him to shreds, or erase him from my memory entirely, but I certainly wouldn’t want his face permanently on hand.”

  Eduardo let his gaze drift down to the worn, gray floor tiles. Olga’s bright red stilettos, cast off in a corner, seemed out of place with the filth crusted into the grout.

  “You don’t have kids, so you can’t lose them. That’s why you don’t understand.”

  Olga smiled nastily, the snarl on her face discredited by teary eyes.

  “You don’t have to be a dick. I’m fully aware of the fact that I don’t have kids and never can. Besides, I’m your agent and I’m planning to earn a bundle on this—I got you the job, so it’s not like I’m questioning your actions, just trying to understand them.”

  “This isn’t just any old portrait, that wouldn’t do the trick. What Gloria’s looking for is for me to give that man a soul, to map out his personal geography so she can overcome her son’s death.”

  “Tell her to get a self-help book, do some yoga or something, for God’s sake…”

  “She needs to understand everything about him, no holds barred—don’t you get that? And in order to paint him, I’ll have to get to know him, get close to him in a way Gloria never could.”

  Olga remained pensive. She understood enough about painting to pick up on the tricks Eduardo employed in order to sell optical illusions—not what his clients actually saw with their own eyes, but what they wanted to see. Eduardo helped them believe whatever they wanted to believe. If a plain-faced daughter was looked upon with a mother’s love, he could achieve that same effect with no clear alterations to the model’s appearance; by adding a glimmer to the beloved’s dull eyes, he made her seem rapt, instilling physical beauty in an unattractive subject, elevating the play of shadows to an art form and thus always delivering the desired results. The portrait Gloria wanted, however, was entirely different. She was asking Eduardo to lock a man inside a cell made of brushstrokes, a man who would surely struggle to rebel against the painter and jump out of the canvas.

  She looked away. She had a feeling Eduardo was judging her with his eyes, mocking her feigned indifference. She wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words to do it. After thinking it over fo
r a minute, Olga faltered, like someone who’s decided to jump into a river without knowing whether they’ll be able to swim their way out, leaving their fate to chance.

  “You like her, don’t you? Gloria,” she murmured, as though asking herself the question, then she leaned onto her knee and struggled to stand.

  Eduardo blushed, visibly uncomfortable.

  “That’s not any of your business.”

  “Yes, it is. You were very good when painting was the most important thing in your life, and you got even better when you met Elena. But this woman you’re inventing, Gloria—whatever it is you’re trying to do, it’s not real. Elena’s dead, and no optical illusion is going to bring her back.”

  Eduardo glowered, furious.

  “So you want to psychoanalyze me, too? Fine, you can come to my next appointment with Dr. Martina on Thursday and expound all of your theories.”

  Olga waved her hands in front of her as though to erase what she’d said.

  “Calm down, would you? I just think there’s something insincere about that woman; there’s something fishy, too many coincidences. First you run into her at the park, then a few days later she shows up at my gallery…” Ever since she’d seen Gloria A. Tagger walk into the gallery, Olga had had a vague presentiment hanging over her, the sting of long-forgotten danger. Objectively, there was no reason for the knot in her throat, the heaviness in the pit of her stomach, but something—something strong—told her not to let her guard down.

  She felt uncomfortable, or maybe silly, like she regretted having brought up certain subjects with Eduardo.

  “Does she know you lost Elena and Tania in an accident?”

  “Yes, she does, and I assume that’s why she wants me to be the one to paint the portrait. I’ve been through the same thing, so she’s hoping I can help her make it through a dark tunnel.”

  “And can you? Have you yourself even made it out of the dark tunnel?”