One Damn Thing After Another (30 page)

“I generally have some tea about this time; will you join me?” A goddam teaparty …

“So you don't really think that Argentina has anything to learn from the rest of the world.”

“I emphatically do not: find me one place where the poor are not oppressed by the rich.” And Indians; she'd blithered a lot about Indians: the being in America, no doubt. The
General was entertained – now the Don Juan books; did she feel able to take those seriously? The Castaneda boy was South American, as she doubtless knew; must have made a lot of money.

A literary teaparty, in the sixth arrondissement: they always talk there about a lot of money somebody's made.

She couldn't see anything very difficult about ol' Juan's ideas. All very turgidly and confusedly expressed perhaps, but what would one expect of a young fellow filled with anthropological rubbish by the University of California? – no wonder old Juan had so to laugh. Those girls he trained had no trouble understanding things. Going on about their wombs in a very primitive fashion, but that was to be expected. She herself came from Provence; was there all that much difference to the province of Somora? Both ruined by that disastrous Roman Empire. She'd been filled up too with a lot of rubbish at school: Aix was just as bad as the U. of Cal. But then, of course, she was a woman and had therefore more sense.

Oh dear, she'd gone on chatting like Molly Bloom on the pot.

It must have been the woman stuff that shocked General Renard.

That was what she had failed to take sufficiently into account. Army officers were so easily shocked: they were so dreadfully inexperienced. Women were good, meaning reluctant wives; good mothers, meaning indulgent to the boys and teaching them that a woman is a dreadful, cursed, revolting object: losing no opportunity of reminding the females that they are responsible for all men's frailties, and are Here to be Punished. She knew those wives, the sallow faces pinched around the mouth and nostrils, the candlegrease complexion, saying the rosary interminably in their long white nighties as penance for their sins of the flesh. Olivewood rosary, heirloom, blessed by the last Pope but four.

All other women, including herself, were Whores. Utterly shocking to generals who had always led such sheltered, protected lives stamping out whoredom in Aldershot.

She had shot off her stupid mouth. As Arthur always told
her never to do, and Commissaire Casabianca, and Sergeant Subleyras and oh, everyone. She got so impatient with the silly blind asses.

And what would her cleaning-woman say now? She'd shake her head, and go cluckcluck with her tongue, and say el rio pasado, el santo olvidado. River once passed, you forgot the saint who brought you over …

Ask any of the Generals where she'd gone wrong they'd smile, tight and distant, and say it was not enough to be good. No basta ser bueno – sino parecerlo. One had also to appear good.

How much time had passed? A day – two. Nice and restful, so good for the nerves. No illtreatment. Just complete silence. And total indifference. A limbo. Neither a Carmel nor a Home for Fallen Women (it had features of both; she'd have settled for either) but a place of nothing, a nowhere. She'd asked for it … Arthur would never find out. Poor Arthur, who had uncomplainingly accepted something so flagrantly against his better judgment.

She had been just barely out on the street, blinking a little in the sunlight after the stained-glass, muted, filtered feel of General Renard's Palace, standing on the pavement enjoying it, wondering whether after all she might not try for an opera ticket at the Colon for that evening.
Turandot
after all is quite something. It might even be well done: there were lots of extremely outstanding Argentinian musicians one had scarcely or never heard of, in Europe.

A man had come up to her: heavyset, a baldish tanned skull, large yellow teeth, a big wide grey tweed jacket with patch pockets – why did she remember those? The jacket looked much too heavy for this warm weather. He had been perfectly quiet, showed her the palm of his half-open hand with some sort of badge in the hollow, and said “Please accompany” in a low neutral voice. He had turned without looking at her again. The youngish one, whose face she had never properly looked at, had given her a tiny, gentle prod in the back to indicate “follow”. She had followed, not thinking to yell or
run or do anything – what use would it be? The young one opened the back door of a car parked at the pavement, got in wordlessly beside her; the old one got behind the wheel, settled himself heavily, started the motor, drove a few blocks at a slow, unhurried pace, turned a few corners, nothing much, just enough to lose her totally. Came out on a dreary grey street of dusty concrete, turned in behind a faceless, meaningless block of the same, into a sort of small parking lot. Out, and in at a door, a passage with grey vinyl tiles. She remembered they had been freshly mopped, and smelt of wet mop and disinfectant. The place was clean, and very silent. A grey door, a small grey-painted room, a metal table and chair, and another of the same where she was bid sit.

She had recovered, by then, enough to start the ‘What is it', the ‘But why', the ‘Please tell me the meaning'. He had said nothing, done nothing, but put his thick yellow finger to his mouth in a Sssh gesture, sat down. Rummaged in her shopping bag, held his hand out wordlessly for her handbag, rummaged in that. Paid no attention to the knife, taken her identification, written her name at the head of a roneo'd form. There seemed plenty of spaces for entries on it but he left them blank, signed at the bottom, turned the form round, signalled with the yellow finger for her to take the pen and write her own name. There was something Indian in his face. Indians were great believers in silence. White people always talked too much.

“What is it you want me to sign?” she asked, not able to concentrate upon the blurry, pale grey letters.

“Just receipt,” he said patiently. “Personal property.” He took the shopping bag, put the handbag in it open, pointed at her watch, ear-rings, wedding ring: she had no other jewellery. He signalled her to stand up, patted her empty pockets, pointed at her shoes: she took them off and he put them in the bag. “Come,” he said.

Bemused, she followed down the passage, round a corner. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling was a strong steel grille on hinges. He unlocked this with a bunch of keys he took from a pocket. Along the passage was a sort of landing, an open space with a table and a chair, at which a man in uniform sat reading a
comic, who barely glanced up and nodded vaguely. Three or four doors opened off the landing.

The second passage was a classic cell-block of some eight or ten doorways, of which she noticed nothing but that it seemed clean, and was quiet. Her guide took her down to the end, chose the last but one, unlocked it, switched the light on, motioned her in, switched the light out, relocked: she heard his footsteps die away, and a jangle of keys at the far end. There was complete silence.

She examined herself for traces of shock: she felt none. There had been no brutality, no blows, no harsh words. A startlement, at being abruptly separated from the world – this was akin to falling off a bicycle. A bruise or two, in this instance to the ego. She was startled at the suddenness, the arbitrariness – the simplicity. Startled at her own helplessness; at her passivity. At her own lack of protest – but should she have demanded a lawyer, a doctor, a consular official? – to what end? There was a Constitution, guaranteeing rights and liberties to the subject, but she felt quite sure there was an emergency law of some sort, enabling authority to hold whoever they fancied, for unspecified time, upon unspecified grounds. In any case her eyes had been open, she had been warned, she had nobody to protest to. She did not know a single soul here. Had not the Counsellor at the Embassy told her in as many words that he would not intervene?

She could consider herself absolved from her promise to M. Laboisserie – whatever this was, it was force majeure. But what good would that do?

There was nothing with which they could charge her that international law would accept. But they didn't have to charge her. They didn't give a damn.

When she did not come home, and no news of her was heard, Arthur would act. It was as well not to think about this, because hopelessness could well be added to helplessness. Meantime, her situation could be a great deal worse: this in itself was ground for hope. She applied herself to stop standing there like a ninny.

The cell-block was clean and quiet, and seemed newish. It
was lofty and there was a small window of thick glass high up on the corridor side. Through this filtered a dim daylight, adequate now that her eyes were used to it. Low down was a grating that admitted air; at the top was a ventilator. The temperature was mild, dry, warmish. This could not be called cruel and unusual punishment. There was no smell, beyond that already noted, faint, of disinfectant. If this was a police station it was well kept. As far as she could make out, there were no bugs or other nasty animals. Just her.

There was little of anything. There was a low concrete block of approximately the dimensions of a bed. Next to the door was a lavatory with no seat. It was clean; she sat on it. The concrete of the floor was smooth, and only slightly dusty. She saw no point in wearing her stockings out, and took them off. There was nothing uncomfortable about bare feet. The walls were painted a medium grey, and recently. They seemed free of scratches or inscriptions. Had she wanted to scratch something she had nothing to scratch with, bar her fingernail.

The block was absolutely silent. Was there anybody in it? She listened, heard nothing. She thought of calling ‘Is there anyone there?' and decided against it. If there were, she would learn in good time.

There seemed to be no rule against lying down, and it would be less uncomfortable than sitting on the lavatory. She folded her jacket carefully, with her stockings inside it, to serve as a pillow. She took off her skirt, spread it under her so that it would not get unsightly creases, while keeping her skin off the concrete. In the mild spring temperature, she was not chilled in her cotton vest and knickers. She put her arms down alongside her body, breathed deeply. Nobody turned on bright lights, nobody came and tortured her, nobody came near her. The sensible thing seemed to be to go to sleep, so she did.

She was wakened, perhaps an hour later, by the snap of the peephole in the door and the sudden noise of the lavatory being flushed. Of course – controlled by a tap in the passage. She was left undisturbed. She had wondered why they had left her stockings, but there was no hook or holdfast for her to hang
herself, supposing she had wished to. The ventilator grating was too high.

An hour or so later, as far as she could judge, a guard unlocked her door. Youngish, silent, indifferent. He beckoned her out, brought her to the end of the passage, unlocked the door. There was an exercise yard of high grey walls: nothing to see. He handed her a pair of huaracho slippers, worn greasy and much too large, motioned her to walk up and down and take exercise. Hygiene was respected. He paid no attention to her underclothes. He stayed by the door, smoking a cigarette. When he finished it, he killed the butt on his shoe and put it in his pocket. The officer in charge of this jail kept it tidy. He wore what looked an ordinary police uniform, and his trousers were pressed. He had not bothered putting his cap on. After as she judged twenty minutes, he beckoned her in. Twilight seemed to be beginning. He said nothing, put her back in her cell, left her. The walking up and down had done her good. Outside, one or two faint sounds reached her, but seeming far away. A car hooting, a child yelling.

It was beginning to grow dark when he came again. This time he turned the light on in her cell, opened a slide in the door, set up a little folding bracket on the outside. On this he put a plate with some brown beans, a peeled raw onion, a small piece of cheese, a kind of cornpone of roughly-ground maize, and a cup of water. The plate and cup were plain brown enamelled metal, slightly chipped.

“Thank you,” she said. He said nothing, but looked at her with no hostility. The beans were tasteless, almost saltless, and she was glad of the onion. The cornpone was good. The water tasted slightly chlorinated. When he came back, he nodded with approval at her eating her food. He let her out. At the top of the passage was a sink with a coldwater tap, and a mop with stiff bristles, and she could do her washing up. He stood there while she worked in her underclothes, but made no effort to touch her. She was grateful for this.

The next time it was another guard; presumably the night shift. Elderly with grey hair, and his cap on. He brought her a light, thin straw mattress, a hard little pillow, a sort of
sleeping-bag made of a coarse sheet doubled over and stitched up the side. He watched her through the peephole while she made her bed up and got into it. He turned the light out then, and left her to sleep, in the stillness. From what seemed very far away she could hear a radio playing. Perhaps it was his. There seemed nobody else there in the jail.

In the Lubianka, she remembered having read, one had to sleep with hands outside the blanket. Nobody bothered her here.

He called her in the morning, at dawn. It was rather nice. He opened her door, and beckoned her to bring her bedclothes. Nobody had spoken to her since she had been here. He unlocked the door to the landing and brought her through. There was a cupboard, where she could stack her things on a slatted shelf with a number. She got a broom, and a dustpan and brush. She might sweep her cell out, and the passage. A mop then, and a bucket. He measured a little disinfectant from a tin, and she could fill the bucket at the tap. She mopped inside the lavatory, and he nodded approval. When she had finished the passage, she rinsed the mop and wrung it out, rinsed the bucket and stood it upside down, and she actually got a smile. This police force was as carefully housewifely as in Holland.

Then she was allowed to wash. One of the doors off the landing led to a washplace, with six washbasins and two showers. He opened a cupboard and gave her a piece of gritty soap and a threadbare towel.