Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (27 page)

The archbishop dithered
awkwardly at the carriage door.

‘
Perhaps we
could carry you, your holiness?’ Perry offered, hoping to speed
things along, ‘and see you safe and dry to the
Casa Rosada.’

The archbishop looked down at
his expensive robes. ‘You and the coachman lift and you, tall one,’
he pointed to Santi, ‘you guard against the rain.’

‘
Of course,
your Grace.’

Perry manoeuvred himself in
front of the formidable archbishop and stepped from the carriage.
The water was ankle deep and cold, but he was glad to be outside
again.

‘
Hurry up,’
the archbishop bundled Santi out of the carriage. Perry and the
coachman positioned themselves at the foot of the coach step,
crouching with their hands ready as if to offer a bunk over a
wall.

Archbishop Aneiros trod
delicately onto the coach step, the movement of a heavy man scared
of falling. Perry’s weeks in the Press had left him strong and fit,
but this was no can of ink he’d be lifting. He looked to the
coachman.

‘
How we do we
er…best lift him?’

The coachman tweaked his beard.
‘Let’s link our arms together and make our arms like the seat of a
chair. He can then sit back.’

‘
Right,
archbishop. On the count of three, sit back onto our arms and we’ll
lift you over.’

‘
Fine,’ he
said impatiently.

‘
One, two,’
Perry tensed his arms, ‘three!’ the archbishop sat back, and it was
all he could do not to topple over with the weight. Desperately, he
re-arranged his footing and grip.

‘
Quick!’ the
coachman sounded like he was about to pop. ‘Let’s go.’ Perry’s arm
muscles burnt with the burst of action and he was glad to see the
coachman having a worse time of it; his cheeks puffed out and a
vein pulsated on his forehead. They huffed and groaned like piano
movers with Santi doing his awkward best to keep the umbrella’s
coverage in time with their shuffling, wading, quick-step to the
stone staircase.

‘
One, two…’
Perry lowered him onto the sheltered bottom step,
‘three,’

The archbishop inspected his
robes. ‘Well done.’

Perry and Santi followed the
archbishop up the staircase, where six uniformed men formed two
lines as if expecting a procession.

‘
My
satchel.’

‘
Your
holiness,’ Santi handed it over.

‘
May we
request your leave?’ Perry asked. ‘We are dressed for our humble
duties at the penitentiary, not the fineries of the seat of this
great nation’s government.’

The archbishop opened his mouth
to speak and stopped, distracted by the sound of footsteps
approaching.

‘
Archbishop!’
the man came towards them. He was short, trim, in a fine suit and
had a large twirly moustache.

‘
Presidente,’
the archbishop
said.

‘
Incredible
storm, I wasn’t sure you would make it,’ the men shook
hands.

Perry felt a nudge from
Santi.

‘
I know!’ he
whispered as loud as he dared. ‘But it’s the damn President, we
can’t very well run.’

‘
No, not
that,’ Santi murmured through gritted teeth.

What?
Perry mouthed.

‘
Neck!’ hissed
Santi.

Perry instinctively wiped it
and his hand came back smudged black.

‘
Oh God, what
do I do?’

‘
Pull your
collar up a bit,’ Santi whispered, ‘and calm down.’

‘
Is mine
ok?’

Perry nodded that it was. Santi
had been holding the umbrella – lucky bastard. They had to go.
Perry motioned for them to backpedal discreetly down the stairs.
They were barely down the second step, when the archbishop’s voice
locked them on the spot.

‘
It was lucky
I had these two with me, keeping me dry. These statues of yours
were no help, they cowered under the roof and watched me be carried
here!’

President Pellegrini took Perry
and Santi in, his eyes thoughtful, calculating. Perry kept his neck
tucked in case the ink was showing and did his best attempt at a
modest grin.

‘
I apologise,’
Pellegrini said, ‘perhaps your assistants would care to dry off in
the bathroom?’

The archbishop nodded his head
vigorously, as if the President were making amends.

‘
The servants
will bring towels. I can offer them tea, coffee or
mate
while we have our
meeting?’

The archbishop turned to them
with a devilish smile. ‘What do you say boys, President Pellegrini
is inviting you to dry off and to take tea?’

Perry forced a smile on to his
face. There was no choice.

‘
What an
honour.’

32

A maid provided them with
towels and Perry and Santi dried themselves off in a large tiled
bathroom on the ground floor. Ink stained Perry’s neck and
blackened his ankles. It took vigorous scrubbing to get the worst
off. By the time he was done the towel was ruined and he could only
think to hide it in the bottom of a wash basket.

A servant led them upstairs to
a grand room with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with
leather-bound books. The room smelt of lacquer and age and
President Pellegrini and the archbishop were installed in two large
armchairs in the middle of the room, deep in conversation.

The servants silently showed
Perry and Santi to leather chairs right in front of the fireplace.
Perry eased into the chair and despite his worries, he couldn’t
help but enjoy the give and softness of it - so different from the
wooden chair he’d had to put up with in his cell. Fresh towels were
laid at their feet and two steaming bowls of water were brought to
soak their feet in, their shoes placed to dry on the hearth and a
tray placed before them with tea and hot buttered toast. In the
Argentine fashion, milk was not provided, so Perry drank it as it
came, warming himself inside out.

The conversation between
Pellegrini and the archbishop continued at a low murmur. Perry
reached out and felt the warmth of the fire on his fingertips. The
part in him that wanted to sprint out of there was assuaged by
another, the part that couldn’t help but soak up the wonderful
surrounds after two months inside; the wonderful spitting fire, the
delicious toast and tea and the soft chair in which he sat, the
mantelpiece with its silver figurines, candelabras and the gold
carriage clock…the clock that said three o’ clock. Perry leant
towards Santi.

‘
Count’s in an
hour.’

‘
What are we
doing? We need to be on the way to Pocha’s!’

Perry nodded yes. ‘But calmly,
we can’t arouse suspicion.’

There was just the crackle of
the fire now. The archbishop and Pellegrini had stopped talking.
Despite being toasted by the fire, dread filled his heart; had they
been overheard?

‘
Your shoes,’
the archbishop pointed to the hearth, ‘they look like the same
shoes the prisoners wear.’

Perry’s heart leapt into his
mouth. He gulped. ‘Indeed,’ he said, buying time, ‘that’s because
they are.’

Pellegrini crossed his leg to
better face them. ‘Why would you choose to wear such dreadful
shoes?’

‘
Good
question,’ Santi said.

‘
Yes, very
good question,’ agreed Perry,
think!

‘
May we ask
why then?’ the President urged.

‘
Of course.
Er- we, as you know, spend our days working with prisoners, many of
whom are thieves, many of whom deny God.’

‘
Exactly,’
Santi came in, ‘why tempt them with trinkets or fancy
shoes?’

Perry was pleased Santi had
correctly picked up his lead. ‘Which may excuse, I hope, our plain
appearance before you and the archbishop,’ he finished.

Both Pellegrini and the
archbishop appeared satisfied, nodding as they took a sip from
their cups. Perry kept his relief well hidden.

‘
I trust they
are drying well?’ the President said.

‘
Yes sir,
thank you very much,’ said Perry, ‘we will be on our way
imminently.’

Pellegrini narrowed his eyes on
Perry. ‘Your accent. English if I’m not mistaken?’

‘
Yes
sir.’

Pellegrini twisted the end of
his moustache between his thumb and index finger. ‘London?’

‘
Southampton.’

Pellegrini smacked the arm of
his chair. ‘Close,’ and continued as if Perry had said London
anyway, ‘my grandparents were born in London you know. Been there a
couple of times myself. Such a busy place. Full of idiotic and
short-sighted bankers. But the clubs are first rate.’

‘
He will have
to take your word for it I expect,’ interjected the
archbishop.

Perry nodded, he did have to
take the President’s word for it. Pellegrini’s eyes glazed over and
he sighed.

‘
Magnificent
building though isn’t it?’

‘
I’m
sorry,
Señor Presidente, what is? St.
Paul’s?’ Perry asked.

‘
No, I mean
the penitentiary of course. It’s a keen interest of mine: I was a
lawyer before, well you know,’ he gestured modestly to his
surrounds. ‘Tell me, from a European perspective - what are your
thoughts on the National Penitentiary?’

‘
Señor
Presidente
, I hardly think-’ said the
archbishop.

‘
-tsk. Let me
hear what the boy has to say.’

‘
Well, on
behalf of the Europeans,’ he realised how ridiculous that sounded
and blushed and tried to backtrack from answering at all, ‘perhaps
not. My experience of prisons is extremely limited.’

‘
Limited or
not. I’m keen to hear it.’

He opened his mouth, closed it
again. Should he heap on platitudes? Or say what he really
thought?

‘
The building
is impressive, well guarded,’ he said slowly, ‘the fact that each
prisoner has their own cell is a civilised measure…but it does have
one or two failings.’

The archbishop’s face went red,
‘I apologise for the boy- he isn’t one of my n-’

‘
-it is fine,
I asked him to speak freely. Please,’ Pellegrini encouraged, ‘tell
me how you have formed this opinion.’

Perry wasn’t
sure if he’d overstepped the mark,
gotten
too big for your boots
, as Mrs D used to
say. But a thought flashed in his mind, maybe, just
maybe.

‘
The
penitentiary houses convicts
and
defendants. The defendants of course may prove to
be innocent.’

‘
Of course,’
said Pellegrini.

‘
Yet the
trials for these men don’t begin for over a year in some cases.
Imagine a year of your life taken away and you are found
innocent.’

Pellegrini’s eyebrows shot up,
crinkling his forehead. ‘The backlog in the courts was a month at
most I was told,’ he turned to the archbishop, ‘a month is a
horrendous backlog, but a year! More judges isn’t the answer, we
need to stop this at source. Stimulating growth, jobs is what we
need. Stop these poor wretches from resorting to theft in the first
place.’

‘
I quite
agree,’ said the archbishop.

‘
And if I
may,’ Perry went on, ‘I met one man, with a sorrowful story of
repentance. He killed his family in an awful accident on his farm,
crushed by pony and trap coming off the road. He suffers this loss
every day and must live with himself for this tragic accident. Yet
he was sentenced for thirty years for failing to maintain the
vehicle. I see him regularly for prayer - this man has not a bad
bone in his body. I believe the penitentiary is excellent, but is
let down by these minor exceptions.’

The archbishop levelled him a
look like he wanted to clobber him, but Pellegrini looked
thoughtful.

‘
These
exceptions I’m sure are commonplace in every prison system,’ Santi
said.

‘
It shouldn’t
need to be,’ Pellegrini stood up, ‘Carlos. Where is Carlos?’ One of
the servants stepped forward.

‘
Carlos, set
up a meeting please, with José.’

‘
Of
course
Sr. Presidente,’
the servant replied.

Pellegrini addressed Perry. ‘I
will speak with the Justice minister on this very topic. The delays
in court are unacceptable. The name of this man of which you
speak?’

‘
Martín
Santilli,’ Perry said.

‘
Note the name
down, Carlos,’ he turned to Perry, ‘I make no promises but we shall
investigate the case. If all you say is true young man, we shall
see to it that his case is reviewed. Justice, you will see is alive
and well in Argentina. When you return to Europe you can say as
much.’

‘
I certainly
will.’

‘
Well thank
you for sharing that,’ the archbishop said in a clipped tone, and
made a show of staring at the clock, Perry noted its time too,
Count was getting closer.

‘
Perhaps you
would be so good as to notify the coachman it is time to pick up
my
regular
helpers
from the penitentiary?’

Perry and Santi nodded in
unison.

The archbishop then addressed
Pellegrini. ‘Easter Sunday duty, after I take confession I send my
people amongst the country’s most troubled souls.’