Breaking Lorca (14 page)

“They will not let Lorca testify,” Victor said. “Or any of the others. They will not. You don’t know them.”

“All right. You’re raising a cogent point there, Ignacio. Very cogent. Part of the reason for my trip to D.C. was to organize security. You would not believe the red tape that involved. It all has to be approved by the State Department, of course.”

“The State Department? But you said the State Department favours the military. They provide the liars and experts, no?”

“The State Department employs twenty thousand souls, Ignacio. Not all of them have a stake in seeing your country ruled by a gang of thugs. I
assure
you, every precaution will be taken to ensure the security of our witnesses.”

“Perhaps Ignacio should testify,” Viera said. “Did you know he was a prisoner in the same place as Lorca?”

“That so-called school?” Bob turned to Victor and laid a heavy hand on his forearm. “Well, damn, Ignacio. Maybe you should trundle on down to TVA sometime. Come with Lorca one night.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I just want to forget.”

“Can we
please
stop talking about torture and murder and the military,” Helen said. “I mean, there is a limit. There really is.”

“Okay, that’s it. That’s all,” Bob said, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “Our Blessed Lady of the Table has spoken, and I for one have no intention of violating her wishes.” For the next twenty minutes or so, Bob devoted himself to getting back into Helen’s good graces. He suggested she think about teaching a cooking course at night school, probed her about her childhood in Minneapolis, asked if she had any sisters as attractive as her. My God, Victor thought, you may be dangerously naive, but you sure are a first-class politician.

Viera, too, appreciated his efforts, as men do whose wives are difficult. The lawyer became relaxed and thoughtful—something he could not do when straining to surround everyone in good humour. Gradually Bob steered the conversation back to Washington, and Helen was so charmed she pretended not to notice.

Wyatt told them which congressmen were on the committee, who was likely to vote in what direction, and what other organizations would be likely to produce witnesses. His enthusiasm and absolute belief in the justice of his cause were hard to resist. Lorca eyed him with furtive admiration, and Victor felt a good deal of admiration himself. But as Wyatt talked on, a familiar sense of dread spread inside him like ink. The powerful presence of the man, his booming voice, his big gesticulations—even though he was a vastly different person from Captain Peña—Victor felt a similar loss of control in his presence. Once again, one fate was being sideswiped by another.

Apple pie was brought in, eliciting another fountain of hyperbole from Wyatt. Once or twice Lorca smiled at Wyatt’s remarks, flashing her broken tooth then dipping her head to conceal it. Victor felt the sting of jealousy. Yes, she really admired this man, perhaps even had a crush on him. It would not be a good time to ask her to the movies; Wyatt completely dominated the room.

This was Victor’s fantasy as they sat on at the table: If Bob did not interfere, he would gradually become closer and closer to Lorca. Eventually, he would apologize to her for the hideous things he had done to her. He would get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness. And, all things being possible in fantasy, she would forgive him. Just imagining such a moment sent a thrill of relief through him.

And then? Well, his fantasy grew cloudy beyond that point. But things were going well between him and Lorca. Things were going very well, and there was every chance that eventually …. But now this half-trained grizzly beside him was diverting the flow of events into another direction entirely: Washington, congressional hearings, sworn testimony. It boded ill for Victor, very ill, and he said a fervent prayer for Wyatt’s non-existence.

TWENTY-TWO

V
ICTOR WORKED OUT A PLAN
to ask Lorca the question that he had never got to ask last time. He had been rehearsing it over and over in his head ever since. He would arrive at her brother’s office—casually, as if he had just happened to be in the area, shopping at Macy’s ….

“But where are your packages?” Lorca demanded, when he was standing in front of her desk. She was slotting files into a battered cabinet. Victor was alone with her for once; her brother was in court. “You go all the way to Macy’s and you don’t buy anything?”

“I was looking for—looking for jeans.” Nervousness made him stammer. “They didn’t have my size. They were sold out, unfortunately.”

“You are so fat, is that it? They don’t keep those gigantic sizes?” She spoke without looking at him, slamming one drawer shut and opening another.

“My problem is the opposite,” Victor went on, trying for a jaunty tone. “A thirty-two waist is very common. They sell out of this size very—”

Lorca answered the phone, informing a caller that her brother was in court and would not be available until tomorrow. She went back to her filing, and Victor tried to think of something else to say, but he was too nervous, alone with her like this.

Lorca had trouble closing the bottom file drawer. She yanked at it, and suddenly the whole drawer came free, crashing onto the floor, sending files slithering. She kicked at the cabinet, swearing violently in Spanish.

Victor knelt to pick up the drawer. He had to stack the files neatly on a couple of chairs first. Lorca was leaning back against the wall, covering her eyes with one hand.

“Objects,” he said quietly. “Objects can drive a person crazy sometimes.” He leaned past her to stack some files. He could feel the heat of high emotion from her skin. He fetched her some water, rinsing out her coffee cup at the drinking fountain down the hall. “Go on, take it.”

She took the cup from him with a distracted scowl, as if she had never seen such a mug before. Tears shone on her face. He handed her a Kleenex from a small box on the desk, and waited a few moments until she seemed calmer.

“I know it’s not a good time now, Lorca. You’re upset. But I wondered if you would like to go with me to a movie this Saturday. A comedy called
Fat Tuesday
.”

“No.” She took a sip of her water, put the mug down. She tore another Kleenex from the box.

“All right. Okay. Maybe another time. Maybe when you’re feeling better.”

“I’m never going to feel better, Ignacio. This is how I am. I used to be a strong person, you know? Not anymore. Now, a file cabinet can make me cry like a baby. That’s what I am. I am not going to feel better. Don’t waste your time on me. I don’t know why you would, anyway.”

“I thought you might enjoy seeing a movie. And I would enjoy your company.”

“Go away, Ignacio. You don’t want to know a person like me. I am not a person. I am a ghost.”

Victor walked to the door. He stood there for a moment with his hand on the knob. Finally he said, “I too was sentenced to death once, Lorca. I too was saved at the last minute. Why shouldn’t two ghosts see a movie together? Maybe together we would make up a whole person.”

“Please, Ignacio. Just leave me alone.”

“The movie is at six-thirty, if you change your mind. The corner of Eighth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. Not far from here.”

That was Wednesday. For the rest of the week Victor consoled himself with the thought that it was the file cabinet Lorca had been angry with, not him. Her tone with him had been—not angry, exactly—but weary. He even began to hope that she might show up at the theatre, and Saturday afternoon found him in his room at the Royal Court worrying about what he should wear.

He selected a tapered, dark brown shirt with white piping on the collar, cuffs and pockets. He had found it at the Salvation Army for five dollars—five dollars, brand new, still in the package—and a week later he had bought himself a pair of white trousers at the same place. Together, set off with a wide belt and brass buckle (also from the Salvation Army), they made him look pretty sharp.

He showered, shaved for the second time that day, and polished his shoes even though he had worn dime-sized holes in them.

He dawdled on his way down Broadway, stopping at the curbside displays of books and magazines. At one of these he examined a Louis L’Amour novel with an interesting cover. A young couple were leafing through art books at the other end of the table. They looked almost like twins: both wore white T-shirts and denim shorts, both were blond, both wore sunglasses. There was a suggestion of opulence about them. As they walked past him, the young man said, “Did you see that guy’s shirt?”

“I know,” the woman answered. “Straight out of the rodeo.”

Victor examined his reflection in a store window. That white piping everywhere—he should have realized. Only a fool would buy such a shirt. No wonder it was in the Salvation Army. Someone with better taste had got rid of it.

Lorca must see in him the same simple-minded wetback those gringos saw. He’d been kidding himself; there was no chance she would show up. A scattering of fat raindrops smacked onto the pavement, and Victor quickened his pace. To get soaked on top of everything else, that would complete the ruin of his Saturday.

As he neared the theatre, he saw Lorca coming from the opposite direction. Despite the clouds, she was wearing dark sunglasses that hid her eyes completely. Below the sunglasses, the sharp downward turn of her mouth was almost a caricature of anger. She looked like she was going to kill someone.

Victor hurried to buy the tickets so that she wouldn’t see how cheap they were. Then he waved at her and Lorca hurried toward him—responding, as always, without the faintest trace of a smile. To make her laugh, Victor thought, now that would be a real victory.

“I have tickets,” he said, holding them up. “We can go right in.” He hurried her past the box office to the escalator. “So, you changed your mind after all. I’m glad you did.”

No smile. Just a glum nod.

Her silence felt like an accusation. “You want some popcorn? Something to drink?”

“No. Nothing.”

As they took their seats, Victor couldn’t think of a thing to say. Perhaps his shirt was to blame for her mood. Maybe she was embarrassed to be seen with him. He asked her what was the last movie she saw.

“I don’t remember. It was years ago. I was a little girl. I don’t go to movies.”

I should have thought of something else for us to do, he scolded himself, she hates movies.

The feature turned out to be a funny story about a man who believes, erroneously, that his wife is cheating on him. His jealousy drives him to ever more idiotic lengths—first to preserve his wife’s virtue, then to prove her false. One scene, involving an expensive restaurant and a mouse, had the audience howling with laughter. And yet, on Lorca’s face, there was not a flicker of a smile.

“Do you want to leave?” he whispered. “We can go, if you want. We don’t have to stay.”

Lorca just scowled and kept her gaze on the screen. His own enjoyment withered, the way it had with the shirt. Suddenly the trumped-up situations onscreen, the exaggerated faces, seemed juvenile, trivial, not remotely funny.

“I am sorry you hated it,” he said when it was over and they were heading through the lobby. “I thought it would be funny, but it wasn’t funny at all. Not after the beginning.”

Lorca shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”

“You did? But you didn’t laugh once. You didn’t even smile.”

“I don’t, Ignacio. Not anymore.”

They came out onto Fiftieth Street and turned east toward Eighth Avenue. Rain hung in the air in a fine mizzle, and Victor felt water seep into his shoes. As they waited for the traffic light to change, Lorca said, “It’s wonderful the movie only cost three dollars.”

Victor was plunged into gloom. They walked the next long block in silence. When they reached the subway entrance, Lorca touched his arm. “You are angry with me?”

“No, I am not angry with you.”

“Yes, you are.” The injured, disapproving eyes searched his. “Is it because I mentioned the three dollars? You’re embarrassed about this?”

“I’m just feeling quiet now, that’s all. Look at him,” he said desperately, pointing to a black man playing an electric guitar across the street.

But Lorca would not be distracted. “Why, Ignacio? You think I would like this movie better if it cost more money? I assure you, the opposite is true.” She grabbed his arm, squeezing hard. “You were smart to discover such a place. I am glad you took me there.”

Her gravity only increased his mortification. He wanted to dive into a manhole.

“It’s much better to be careful with money than to throw it away. It’s the difference between a husband and a clown.” She let go of his arm. “There. That’s the most conversation I’ve had with anyone since I left El Salvador. That’s good, yes? See, Ignacio? You’re very good for me.”

“Good for you? I just seem to upset you.”

“Everything upsets me. I can’t help it. Everything
hurts
, Ignacio. I’m always on the edge of crying or screaming—every minute of every day. It’s as if they peeled my skin off in that place. All my nerves are exposed.”

I’m sorry
. The words rose to his throat and choked him. “I wish I—” He broke off.

“Wish you what? What do you wish?”

“I wish—I understood you better.”

“What is there to understand? There is nothing. I went to a school where they taught me how weak I am. How pathetic. How small. How afraid. Perhaps you learned something else in that school.”

“No. No, Lorca, I learned exactly the same things.” He looked away from her, toward the hurrying crowds on Broadway.

“But I feel better around you, Ignacio.” She pulled at his sleeve until he faced her again. “Maybe because you were there too. I know you understand. And that makes me feel better. So you
are
good for me, you see?”

“You really think so?”

“You really think so?”
she mocked him, too harshly for it to be funny. “Yes, I think so. Even if you are so stupid.”

The rain had started up again. Pedestrians pushed by, cursing, hurrying down the subway stairs.

“Listen, are you in a hurry to go home?”

“Oh, yes. I miss my sister-in-law so much when I am not there.”

“You want to go somewhere cheerful and cheap for a Coca-Cola?”

“No, Ignacio. I would rather stay here and get soaking wet.”