فصل بیست و پنجم

25

Tarta

Vidal was taking his time. To question a prisoner was a complex process. It resembled a dance, one slow step back, then a fast one forward, and back again. Slow, fast, slow.

His prisoner was shaking and his face was streaked with sweat, though they had only roughed him up a little. His fear was doing most of the work so far, the fear of what was going to come. It would be easy to break him.

“Damn, this cigarette is good. Real tobacco. Hard to find.” Vidal held the cigarette so close to the boy’s face he felt the heat of the burning tobacco.

Tarta tilted his head back when his captor pressed the cigarette to his trembling lips.

“G-g-go to hell.”

“Can you believe it, Garces?” Vidal turned to his officer. “We catch one and he turns out to be a stutterer. We’ll be here all night.” “As long as it takes,” Garces replied.

Tarta could tell this officer didn’t enjoy the situation as much as his capitán, who was the kind of uniform-wearing devil Tarta had always dreaded meeting. He was in their hands and he knew what those hands would do. If you’re ever caught, think of someone you need to protect, Pedro had taught him, when they’d practiced how to stay silent even under torture. Someone for whom you’d die. It may not help, but it doesn’t matter. Think of someone, Tarta. Who? Maybe his mother. Yes. Though thinking of her might make it worse as he could just imagine how she would cry if she lost him.

Tarta lowered his head. If only his limbs would stop shaking. Even if Pedro’s advice could help his mind escape, his body betrayed his fear.

“Garces is right,” the capitán said. “As long as it takes.”

He opened his shirt, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Tarta wondered whether he’d take it off to not ruin it with his blood. “You’d do better to tell us everything. But to make sure you do, I brought along a few tools. Just things you pick up along the way.” Vidal picked up a hammer. He had lined up his tools very orderly on an old wooden table.

Shaking. Didn’t people say one could die from fear? Tarta wished he knew how to make his fear kill himself.

“At first I won’t be able to trust you.” The Devil weighed the hammer in his hand. He was clearly proud of his torturing skills. “But after I use this, you’ll own up to a few things. Once we get to these—” He picked up a pair of pliers. “We’ll have developed . . . how can I put this . . . ?” Tarta detected a hint of discomfort, maybe even compassion on the other officer’s face. He had the same mustache as Tarta’s father.

“Let’s say it this way.” The Devil opened and closed the pliers. “We’ll have grown much closer by then . . . like . . . brothers. And when we get to this one—” He held up a screwdriver. “I’ll believe anything you tell me.” Tarta started sobbing. He tried so hard not to, but there was so much fear in him, so much loneliness and despair. It all had to take some kind of shape, even if it was just tears.

His captor took another satisfied puff from his cigarette and put the screwdriver back on the table. Then he picked up the hammer again and approached Tarta.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, pressing the hammer’s heavy head against Tarta’s trembling shoulder. “If you can count to three without stuttering, you can go.” Tarta lifted his head to look at his torturer even though he knew his eyes would give away how desperately his terrorized heart wished for a glimmer of hope. He also looked for it in Garces’s face . . . Garces, yes, that was his name. Tarta was glad the rebels didn’t tell each other their true names; he was too good at remembering them.

Garces’s mustached face was drained of any expression.

“Don’t look at him!” the Devil snapped. “Look at me. Above me there’s no one. Garces?” “Yes, Capitán.”

“If I say the asshole can leave, would anybody contradict me?” “No one, Capitán. If you say so, he can leave.” Garces returned the shaking boy’s glance. That’s all I can do for you, his eyes seemed to say. That I don’t look away.

Vidal took another puff from his cigarette. Oh, he enjoyed this so much.

“There you have it.” He brought his face once again close to Tarta’s. “Come on. Count to three.” Tarta’s trembling lips tried to form the first number, while his body cringed in fear.

“. . . One.”

“Good!”

Tarta stared at the ground, as if he could find some last shreds of dignity there. His lips tried again, and then he pushed the syllable out.

“. . . Two.”

Vidal smiled. “Good! One more and you’re free.”

Tarta’s mouth twitched with the effort to speak clearly—trying to deliver unbroken words to the man who would break him. But this time Tarta’s tongue wouldn’t obey. All it uttered was a stuttered “T-t,” the tremor of a broken thing.

He looked up at the Devil, his eyes pleading for mercy.

“Shame,” Vidal said, summoning a note of compassion to crown his performance.

Then he drove the hammer down into the pleading face.

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