Semmant (26 page)

So, I fought as hard as I could, but this lawyer Pedro was a tough nut. He turned everything upside down, looking for a con and retooling it to his design. Being a skilled demagogue, he exposed me as a demagogue. He made me out as a dreamer and a liar, a fantasist who could not accept that illusions cannot be fulfilled. He was as indomitable as an army of “luminaries” in a city strangled by smog. Like the lead “expert” from Basel, who could not be deterred by any “grueling interrogation.” Again I felt how the chaos of the universe was rudely interfering in my life. Inescapably, washing away all boundaries, confounding all truths and all meanings.

“And so!” Don Pedro now moved from the general to the particular. To yet another innocent who had fallen into the clutches of a despot. To Lidia Alvares Alvares, who had had the misfortune to hook up with a savage foreigner. With me – a roughneck, an unprincipled sexist, mad with jealousy.

“Of course,” the lawyer sighed, “it was only an oversight at Immigration that allowed him to cross the border unhindered. But now that this has happened, and he’s here with us, Spanish law should not give him clemency. Look…” and Pedro enumerated my misdeeds: I insinuated myself into Lidia’s trust, pressured her into cohabitation, then threatened and frightened her; and when she finally got free of me, I committed an act of aggression – the logical climax, crossing the line! All one after the other, beyond any doubt. The matter was clear: before them was a foe who had issued a brazen challenge to the social order!

I objected again, nervously and vehemently, but they interrupted to shut me up. I yelled in despair, “It’s all a pack of lies. Lidia spun this whole tale because she was jealous of the maid!” I wondered out loud, “How can you not see it? This is a setup. It’s slander, defamation!”

But Pedro held all the strings tightly in his fingers. He tied me up hand and foot while my “defender” kept silent, as if the cat had his tongue. The police chief listened, flexing his muscles, and also said not a word. He was not to be deceived; he knew the cost of everything and was now estimating how to avoid complications. He compared, evaluated Pedro and me. Of course, the lawyer looked convincing. It was clear to all: this one really knows how to create problems.

“Okay,” the chief finally said, “let the judge decide. No objections?” he turned to Campo. “No. Well, that’s good. The preliminary charge is as follows…” and he read a long paragraph of legalese from an official-looking paper. Then he called the guards and barked out, “Let’s detain him. Take him away and lock him up!”

Thus I became a prisoner in a Spanish jail.

Chapter 28

I spent four days incarcerated – with little food, water, or sleep. And utterly stupefied at the world’s imperfection. At the heinousness of the world, at the contemptible way it was arranged. At the horrible injustice that had befallen me. I tried to grasp how a guiltless person could be held in jail, and I feared losing my mind to impotence, to powerlessness extending to the absolute. I was being run over, crushed, by the multi-ton truck of state bureaucracy. And I could do
nothing
about it.

Concerning imprisonment, I learned the most important thing: I was not cut out for it. Prison and I were alien to each other; the deepest internal strife instantly arose between us. Everyone around me sensed this – that’s probably why I was never beaten by the guards, even though I was occasionally defiant. My cellmates kept their distance; there was hardly anyone with whom I exchanged even a single word. When asked what had happened to me, I answered simply: the universe has taken up arms against me. Because, I added, my arrogance passed the limits. This was enough for the curious to hold their tongues. Only Romanian Petru, a small-time dope dealer, listened attentively and glanced at me furtively from time to time. He ran the cell; there, he was the boss. But even Petru could not fathom what was going on in my head. There, thousand-watt bulbs flashed – and exploded with deafening claps. An infinite line, winding like a viper, fled away from itself – into nothing. I could have tried to divine its path. I could have sketched a clever fractal with my finger on the dirty floor. But this would hardly have explained anything.

There were ten of us in the ten-man box, which would have been tight even for five. Three were, like me, bewildered as to how they fell under the statute of
maltrato
by the easy hand of conniving femmes. One of them, a balding, overweight, fifty-year-old accountant, sobbed into his mattress for days on end – until Petru finally gave him a kick. Obviously, the world seemed even more flawed to him than it did to me. The wife he had lived with for thirty years called the police after they had an argument at home. While watching the TV, they got into a dispute over the remote. For better effect, once she had put down the receiver, the wife banged her cheek against a door jamb.

The accountant was pathetic and evoked no sympathy. Besides that, to tell the truth, his situation surprised no one. That same Petru, the expert on prison norms, regaled us with dozens of other stories that were no less absurd. Surprise is quite irrelevant if the worst has already happened to you. My “colleagues” glumly kept silent as they pondered their own fates. Only two strapping Hondurans who had been arrested for a bar fight wagged their tongues each time. Perhaps their own troubles didn’t upset them too much.

In three days they were transferred somewhere. Then the accountant was finally hauled off. And on the fifth day it was my turn to stand before the judge.

The path to reach him was long – first a ride in a paddy wagon; then I was led, handcuffed, through a building full of people. The security from the
Guardia Civil
excelled at wit. They made fun of my name and my accent. They felt omnipotent; I was fully under their power.

It seemed to me they embodied the immense vapidity of the benighted masses. I despised their smugness with all my soul, all my being. I hated it and thought: well, it’s not in vain that I’m always rooting for the bull in their Spanish
corrida
. Against all odds I always pray: let the bull win today! And someday he will ultimately win – beating all those worthless Castilian males, who are already whipped, even though they don’t believe it yet. He will dominate them – with his balls, with his bovine member!

“That day is not far off,” I said in a barely audible whisper, “when the local
machos
won’t be able to get it up anymore – out of fear. At first, from fear of the ‘worst of the bitches’ who have long forced them to their knees, and then from fear before the bull. Before his unyielding might, his fearless lust. Thus will this country leap to the next rung of the evolutionary ladder. It has already taken the first step – from oppression to liberation, to a hitherto unprecedented triumph of its women. Just a little is left: let the murdering of bulls be replaced by worshipping the bull. And who will bring it about, make it happen? Those very same women, and no one else. From the males driven into a corner to the bull’s balls erect on the altar! And the
macho
men will – again! – fail to comprehend how they’ve been led on, deceived.”

My eyes probably flashed – like those of the chief of the police precinct – with the clear sheen of coming conquest. I knew the future, felt its currents. Passersby, meanwhile, looked stealthily about with bashful, timid curiosity. It was clear to them they had chanced to see something not intended for their eyes. Something from a reality known only through movies and detective novels. Here he is – a public enemy, a criminal, an outcast. They had lifted him from the pit itself, and his path through these corridors led only there, back to the pit!

I must have looked the part. Four days in a prison cell will make anyone look like that. I wanted to bare my teeth and snap them angrily in response. And to yell, “I’m rooting for the bull! Already rooting for it – even if the
toreros
keep celebrating at the moment!”

In the courtroom I took myself in hand – through an extreme effort of will. I had to focus on what was important, forget the abstract, think about my fate.

“Convince the judge you’re not dangerous,” said Campo, the lawyer being paid by the Crown. I just silently looked him in the face. It seemed everyone was against me, but then the heavens smiled: “That’s not true.” And they sent me a helper, a good fairy.

The day before, I had requested an interpreter – exercising one of my few rights. I didn’t trust my Spanish, it could betray me. And here they introduced Susana to me – she was pimply, heavyset, with thick hair and the look of a woman yearning for love. And I gazed into her eyes – as deeply as I could. I straightened up my back and tried to add a sexy huskiness to my dehydrated, rasping voice. Because I saw Susana was my ally.

I was interrogated thoroughly and tiresomely. The judge was unremarkable – he was old and not very interested in the proceedings. Things were directed by a skinny old maid – from the special division on
maltrato
with the district attorney’s office. She knew the enemy was before her, and her duty was to punish that enemy. To expose and convict him. To isolate him, stick him in a cage. Of my guilt she had no doubt, that was her function.

I sat there and thought – this one, from the D.A., she’ll be the first in line for the bull’s member. She’ll dash forward, elbowing the others out of the way. But for now the abnormality of modernity is being created in her office, the poisonous ether of life turned inside out. How many more of them are there – these skinny old ladies recklessly entrusted with power? These leaders of the greedy and the vulgar, these guides of the worst specimens of the female sex, who rock the social boat and set the bearings toward ash?

I wanted to say to her, “
¡Perdone usted!
You’re oversimplifying – unjustly – and emasculating all meanings. Where did you study, in worthless schools? Do you also fear the nonlinear like the plague? Have you lost all sense of reality?”

“You’re not doing your job!” I wanted to say straight to her face. “The iron muscle of the state will not aid those in need of protection. It is only suitable for the ones who tirelessly rove about in search of a forceful arm made of steel. It is for the ‘worst of bitches’ who are seeking a means of attack, not defense. But those from whom the softest ray emanates lose more from the efforts of the shortsighted government. Intimidating the
macho
men is not a solution – they are already intimidated to no end. And everybody knows: when someone is backed into a corner, he’s all the more dangerous and nasty!”

I wanted to say that and much more, but I kept quiet. And I felt, contrary to the spiteful thoughts, that a fervent wave was rising within me. A wave of gratitude to those gorgeous creatures, those most beautiful strangers who number so many. Who are everywhere – and I looked at the plain, chubby Susana, knowing she was one of them. There was something in her that would have moved the exploits of the knights of all times.

I could have revealed to her, “You also are Eve. I have seen many of your sisters.”

I could have disclosed the secret, “One and the same quality unites you all.”

I could have even added, “Believe in your light!”

Bound in handcuffs, maligned, slandered, I called the elusive phantom to my aid, even though I knew this wasn’t his jurisdiction. Here soared other spirits and the demon of hate summoned by Lidia. They were as much in charge here as Petru was in the prison cell. But the phantom still resided somewhere, it was present someplace; and here was Susana exerting her utmost.

She interpreted slowly and distinctly; what’s more, she achieved a synchronicity of emotions. All my logical points of emphasis reached the audience precisely and without loss. I sensed they would believe her – a Spaniard and a woman – and, therefore, they might believe me. My brain worked like a powerful computer, outputting the most correct phrases. Indeed, Semmant would have been proud of me.

Having learned from my experience at the police station, I knew I was surrounded by enemies and morons, so I no longer tried to explain the details. I made no reference to beautiful strangers, or even to the Light of Eve. Keeping my words simple, I stuck to concrete facts and emphasized one thing: Lidia and her goal of revenge.

“What was she angry at you for?” the skinny lady asked, peering with hostility over her glasses.

“For dumping her,” I replied and then added, “And… because I’m not capable of love.”

Susana shot me a look; the judge wrinkled his brow as though he had swallowed a bitter pill. And the woman from the prosecutor’s office pointed with her index finger in my direction.

“Not capable – is that true?” she asked threateningly, and I said, “Yes.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” I repeated. “But people aren’t arrested for that, or put in a cell, or subjected to interrogation. I may be guilty, but of nothing more than she herself is – or everyone else, for that matter.”

Then we spoke of things easy to understand. “Did you live together?” the judge inquired.

“No,” I answered, shrugging my shoulders. “
No
,” Susana translated.

“Were you planning to get married?” the thin lady persisted.

“My God, no!” I grinned. “
No, no, no
!” The interpreter’s voice was firm and clear as a bell.

“Then why was she angry at you?” the judge circled through the labyrinth. And Susana and I circled through it with him, question after question, not giving up, not allowing ourselves to be confused by a single word.

Thus passed a long hour and a half and then they set me free. I was released until the trial, which I did not want to think about yet. The judge prohibited me from being anywhere near Lidia, calling her, writing her letters. I listened to all this with a stone face, holding back a derisive laugh. And Susana – perhaps she remembered me that night. Maybe she even named her favorite vibrator after me…

Soon I was on the street – with a haggard look and no voice. I probably reeked like a bum, with the peculiar stench of prison that even dogs fear. My strength suddenly left me. I sat on a step at the main entrance, rested my elbows on my knees, and clasped my head in my hands.

People crowded around, each with their own hopes, their own expectations and distress. I looked into their faces; determination was there. The ones who waited here believed in those close to them, even against the whole world. They considered their own rightness to be absolute, even though I knew it was of little value. The world would prevail, and the same ones they held dear would betray them – or they themselves would commit a betrayal. But this would all happen later. And you can never convince anyone of anything beforehand.

A dreadful emptiness loomed ahead – somewhere out there, beyond the crowd at the entrance, beyond the sidewalk and the street. The stress of these last days seemed to have burned up everything inside me. Somehow I forgot immediately about Petru and the guards, and even about Susana. Just terrible humiliation, like a tattered scar, the ugly remains of the torment of being deprived of my liberty, would remain in my memory forever.

I sat on the steps. There was no one for me to call, with whom to share the news: I’m free. Still, I saw all as it was. I understood Lidia would not be deterred from her path; she would take vengeance for the destruction of the very core of her illusions. Like the people who waited here, she had also once dreamed she was for me, against the whole world. And in this world there is not – nor has there ever been – any force to persuade her to the contrary.

That’s why no small price could ransom me from her hatred. She would pursue it to the end – prison, torture, poison, the guillotine. I had offended the essence of her faith – as funny as it is to speak of the essence of her petty beliefs – and this merited an
auto-da-fe.
A burning in the square – nothing less. A needle, dagger, or snakebite – an inevitable, agonizing death. Our conflict, at the heart of it, was that we had faith in very different things. And we were both sincere, to the bottom of our hearts.

I laughed – hoarsely, almost inaudibly. Then I got up and made my way home, to the
barrio
of Salamanca – along the boulevards, the Avenue Ríos Rosas – not directly, but traversing a wide circle. I could tell all the circles would close soon now. But I did not want to guess how the game would end.

The sun shone right in my face. I blinked and, through the spots of color, saw the chasm that separates each soul from every other – the abyss between the worlds that reside within us. I understood the nature of hate and the essence of all hostility. Where wars come from. How governments fall. And also why no one – well, almost no one – can genuinely love.