Butterfly Winter (23 page)

In a nearby alcove Quita found an enclosed statue of a baseball player, a batter in full swing, a man she recognized from childhood as her father’s occasional teammate Javier Porto de Legre, a utility infielder for a few seasons with a number of teams, mainly at the Triple A level.

Sixty feet six inches away was, also enclosed in clear glass, Cedeno Crispo himself, who, having delivered the ball, was falling toward first base as he was famous for doing. Quita walked up to the case and stared at Crispo’s pitching hand, the shortened middle finger rounded and nail-less as a bread stick.

At the center of the half-moon-shaped display area Quita saw a sign over an alcove that read Milan Garza, National Hero. There
was a steady stream of people viewing the contents of the Hall of Baseball Immortals. As Quita headed toward the alcove, two dozen children—first or second graders, all boys—and their teacher passed her, the children two by two holding hands, chattering in excitement.

She understood that each time Dr. Noir had seized power in Courteguay, though he had disbanded the baseball leagues and named soccer Courteguay’s national sport, he did not close, or worse yet, destroy the Hall of Baseball Immortals. It was said that even his strongest supporters, his lieutenants in the Secret Police, being Courteguayan through and through, refused to even consider closing the Hall. They could stand having the baseball leagues banned, for a ban meant very little to Courteguayans, used to political repression regardless of who was in power. The ban simply meant that Jesus, Joseph and Mary Celestial Baseball Palace would be dark for a few years until the reins of power changed hands again.

The baseball games would continue surreptitiously. The baseball stars in the United States, like the Pimental Brothers, would keep their noses out of politics in Courteguay and concentrate on playing baseball, perhaps doing a commercial on American television promoting Courteguayan mangos, guava, and passion fruit, where Julio and Esteban would each be shown drinking a large glass of colorful liquid and smiling wickedly at the camera, while beautiful girls pulled at the sleeves of their baseball uniforms, giving the young men of America the impression that if they drank whatever Julio and Esteban were drinking they too would have beautiful girls tugging at their sleeves.

The walls of the alcove were lined with photographs of Milan Garza in his heyday. His white teeth glittered in the sun and his smile was like a bank of floodlights. Quita gasped as she recognized herself in one of the photographs; she sat on Milan Garza’s knee, her brothers huddled like small dogs at her father’s feet, and he had a sturdy bronzed arm around the shoulder of his smiling wife, Phyllicia. Only happy photographs adorned the walls. There were no photographs of the family in poverty after the state, the state being Dr. Noir, confiscated every asset of Milan Garza. There were no photographs of her
father sick with drink and humiliation, forced to engage in, or at least condone the vilest of acts in order to feed his family.

Quita stood in front of the coffin for a long time. It was made of burled oak with Milan Garza’s head and shoulders visible under a crystal dome. She stared at the square jaw, the deep-set eyes, the furrow between his brows, the sleek black hair combed upward in the glamorous pompadour that was his trademark. Even in death Milan Garza looked as if he were troubled, puzzled by his sudden and horrific fall from grace. Quita wondered how he had died. There were stories, rumors: a suicide, a firing squad, drink or drugs, shot in the back while trying to escape from Dr. Noir, or Dr. Noir’s secret police.

The last of the group of hand-holding children moved along to another attraction. While they were gawking, their teacher delivering a soliloquy on the greatness of Milan Garza, Quita stood behind the coffin, head bowed, tears streaming down her cheeks while the small boys stood at attention and sang the National Anthem of Courteguay, their little caps in their hands, their shrill voices like birds chirping.

Now, Quita stared around, eyes darting, she felt sneaky, as if she was about to shoplift something. Her heart pounded. She felt around the edge of the coffin until she encountered some metal fittings. She checked the alcove again to be certain she was alone, then knelt down and looked at the valves, there were several, one read Pressure, another Air, another had only the number twelve on it. She decided on the one reading Pressure. She wondered if Milan Garza might disintegrate if the coffin was opened. The thought of her father turning to dust before her eyes was not unpleasant, it would be a release for both of them. Milan Garza could go back to being happy in his photographs, his troubled death mask erased.

Quita turned the valve. There was a noticeable whistling and hissing of air as the seal of the coffin relaxed. She stared anxiously at Milan Garza’s face, waiting for something to happen. The corpse remained intact, the only difference Quita noted was an acrid chemical odor. She pried at the crystal dome, it loosened and she turned it back. She intended to examine the body for clues as to how her father
had died. Quita stared around nervously, there was a guard at the entrance of the Hall but this alcove was totally out of his view. There was a momentary dearth of museumgoers. She lifted the oak lid that covered the rest of the body and the seal slowly parted. She gasped in horror. Her father was dressed in his Baltimore Orioles home team uniform, his arms at his sides. Nothing extended beyond the cuffs of his uniform, above or below. He had no hands or feet.

His glove and a pair of cleats were placed carefully at the foot of the coffin. What had happened? Many strange and horrific things went on in Courteguay. Had her father’s hands and feet been sold as medicine, fetishes, charms? Had they been stolen after death or had their loss been a cause of death?

What would she do now? Quita heard footsteps and quickly closed the lids of the coffin. She would wait out a few more visitors then unbutton her father’s uniform searching for wounds.

The crisp sound of boots on the marble floor drew closer. She felt the alcove darken. There was a hissing sound and she thought it was coming from the coffin but instead it was the breathing of the person who followed his shadow toward Quita and the coffin. She instantly recognized Dr. Lucius Noir.

The corpulent Dr. Noir bedecked in a blazing white uniform with an ice-blue sash and a chestful of decorations, including Knight Commander of the Blue Camellia, the Order of Bougainvillea, which spread like a bloodstain over his heart, and the Golden Order of Courteguay, a medal Dr. Noir created exclusively for himself, which consisted of several ounces of pure gold inset with rubies and emeralds. Dr. Noir wore a smart vizored military hat with gold braid and epaulets on his shoulders the size of giant hairbrushes. His cheeks were like black, pockmarked grapefruit halves, so black they might have been polished. A round surgical mask, white as an angel, covered his nose, hiding the huge, slug-like lips Quita knew well from photographs.

“Miss Garza, it is a pleasure to have you visit the Hall of Baseball Immortals,” said Dr. Noir, his voice filtered, deep and threatening, as if it were coming from a distorted echo chamber.

“Dr. Noir,” Quita said in a whisper. She involuntarily bowed slightly in front of the imposing presence.

“You look surprised. I often drop by to welcome illustrious visitors to the Hall of Baseball Immortals. Your father is the greatest baseball player ever to come out of Courteguay.”

Quita considered lashing out at Dr. Noir, screaming into his asthmatic face all the invective stored in her heart, but she sensed, in spite of his soft words, the presence of danger like a shark in shallow water.

“I have always wanted to see my father’s final resting place.”

“And now you have. However, it is unfortunate that you chose to tamper with public property, which, in the strictest of terms is what your father’s remains are.” Dr. Noir pointed to a tiny object high in a corner of the alcove. “You were filmed vandalizing public property.” Dr. Noir’s pockmarked cheeks rose like eyebrows as he attempted a smile behind the convex mast, his breath rattling in his chest like dominoes.

“Where are my father’s hands and feet?” Quita shouted, staring into the malevolent eyes of Dr. Noir.

Dr. Noir was unfazed by the bitterness in her voice. He smiled again.

“You were very young at the time, you may or may not recall that your father, national sports hero that he was, chose to espouse a very unpopular political position. Now in politics, which I doubt that you understand, particularly in a volatile political climate, which is always the case in Courteguay, it is the policy to reward one’s friends and punish one’s enemies. Because of his status as national hero, I was very reluctant to punish your father. Unfortunately, he left me no other choice.”

“I don’t care about politics. What happened to my father’s hands and feet?” Dr. Noir breathed deeply through his porcelain-white mask; he shuddered, coughed, gasped, raised an ebony hand to his throat.

“What have you done?” he rasped, his asthma activated by the gases escaped from the coffin.

“I only wanted to see my father.”

“Guards! Guards!” cried Dr. Noir. “Vandalism!”

He seized Quita by a thin arm. Within seconds museum security arrived. Quita was whisked away to a behind-the-scenes office where she was interrogated, first by museum security, then by military police.

The museum closed. Quita missed the last bus back to San Cristobel. She and her new dress began to wilt. She was denied food, water, and the use of a bathroom.

The military police questioned her about things she had not only never heard of but never even suspected, subversive organizations, guerrilla alliances supposedly set on overthrowing Dr. Noir. They wanted to know about the activities of a few survivors from General Bravura’s followers who might be recruiting in San Cristobel, might be receiving clandestine aid from foreign powers, from traitors like the baseball twins, Julio and Esteban Pimental.

Quita’s head swam. When she began to doze she was awakened by a sharp slap to her right cheek.

“A terrorist,” said one interrogator to another. She was slapped again. “If you confess and name your conspirators Dr. Noir may display mercy. You may be imprisoned for life but be allowed to live.”

“I only came to San Barnabas to see the corpse of my father in the Hall of Baseball Immortals.”

The interrogator struck her again.

The door opened and Dr. Noir entered. He was in a fresh uniform, his breath wailing like a north wind. The clock on the office wall said 3:00
A.M
.

“I will take charge of the prisoner,” said Dr. Noir, placing a large, cold hand on Quita’s shoulder.

“I want to go home,” Quita whispered, her bravado extinguished.

Dr. Noir’s breath rattled.

“We have done all that we can here. Perhaps a practical demonstration,” he said, snapping his fingers. Two lieutenants appeared, gliding into the room behind Dr. Noir, boots glinting, guns drawn.

“No,” cried Quita as Dr. Noir seized her. But Dr. Noir paid no attention.

“Please come with me, Miss Garza.” Dr. Noir remained firm but calm, though his grip bruised Quita’s arm.

Having no choice, Quita, feeling very small, followed along behind the labored breathing of Dr. Noir, while the guards, guns still drawn, walked behind her, pushing the cold snubs of their guns into her back every few steps.

At the curb was the longest limousine Quita had ever seen. It was a creamy white with painted bougainvillea blossoms flowing down both sides and across the roof. The Courteguayan coat of arms was on the door. One of the guards opened the door for Quita.

“After you, Miss Garza,” said Dr. Noir.

Inside, the limo was like a small house. Dr. Noir had a desk and chair, there was a bar, a television, though it didn’t appear to work, the screen covered in gray snow. One guard drove while the other occupied a small space at the rear of the limousine. He peered through a sliding window that when closed would be opaque glass, his gun still trained on Quita’s chest. Dr. Noir took a Coca-Cola from the bar refrigerator. Quita’s mouth watered.

Dr. Noir, his breathing less labored in the cool car interior, snapped the cap off the bottle with his fingers, slipped his surgical mask aside, and drank deeply. He noted Quita’s amazement at his feat of strength, though if he noticed her thirst he ignored it.

“A little something I learned while developing my medical skills in the United States,” Dr. Noir said, nodding toward the Coca-Cola cap that lay on the carpeted floor of the limousine, displaying his large hands with their short, powerful fingers.

Dr. Noir glowered at Quita, eyes boiling above the mask.

“I have my own ways of dealing with terrorists,” Dr. Noir rumbled during the brief ride. “I should have known that anyone associated with someone as power-mad as Milan Garza would be trouble.”

When they arrived at the Presidential Palace, he marched Quita in the side door near the bullet-gouged wall where General Bravura and many others had died, and down marble stairs, long hallways, and more stairs until he unlocked a wide wooden door and, pushing Quita ahead of him, entered a vast mostly open area.

The smell was unbearable. Quita gasped as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light. The large gymnasium-like room was full of cubicles and unfamiliar apparatus. There were barred cells along one wall, some occupied, some empty. There was an eerie whining in the air, which after a moment Quita recognized as keening, moaning, the sounds of men and women in great pain.

“This is where we deal with terrorists,” said Dr. Noir. “You’ll forgive the unpleasant odor, such inconveniences are sometimes unavoidable. Perhaps a brief tour of the wound factory.” He paused, allowing Quita to assimilate what he had said. “It is really a medical facility where we study the effects of certain stresses and traumas on the human body so that we may better understand how such misfortunes may be treated for the greater good.

“The odor that assails our senses is of cooked flesh. Does that shock you, Miss Garza? Come here, don’t be afraid, the oven is quite empty now, though there is still some residue to be cleared away. See, what we have here is a 4′×6′ oven, quite large enough to hold a patient. What we do is observe the patient, studying his reactions to see how those reactions may advance medical science. For instance, a patient is placed in the oven and the temperature turned rather low, say 110 degrees. The patient is given two, three, sometimes as many as four small pieces of non-heat-conducting material, somewhat like coasters. It is very interesting to see how imaginatively the patient uses the tools given him in order to protect various parts of his body from the heat, and of course, what parts he chooses to protect, and how those perspectives change as the temperature rises.