When they stood once more at the top of the subway steps, the rain had stopped and a warm breeze blew out of the south, tossing Lorca’s hair into a tangle. “The air feels so good now,” she said. “So clean and fresh.”
Victor leaned close to kiss her.
“No,” she said, and with a sudden movement pushed him away. “I don’t want to be kissed.” Then she turned and hurried away from him down the subway stairs, her quick, light steps echoing after.
For days, Victor felt the imprint of her hand on his chest with a mixture of shame and anger. A kiss would have felt like forgiveness. I am in love with her, he told himself tentatively, testing the words.
He stood in front of the pay phone for a full half-hour before he managed to put a coin in.
“No, not a movie this time,” she said. “There is somewhere special I would like to take you.”
“Special? Special how? Where do you mean?”
“Don’t panic, Ignacio. It’s not expensive, and you don’t have to get dressed up.”
“But tell me what it is.”
“You will see.” That was all she would tell him, despite his repeated entreaties. “You will see soon enough.”
He asked her yet again when they met up, outside a dough nut shop in Penn Station. Victor had arrived twenty minutes early and had worked himself into a state of high anxiety by the time Lorca got there. She had taken some trouble over her appearance; she was wearing makeup and a light perfume. She smiled upon seeing him, and yet again he was shaken by the black spark of her broken tooth.
“Tell me now. Where is this secret place you are dragging me to?”
“It’s a church.”
“A church? You want to go to church on a Saturday night?”
“A special church. You will see when we get there.”
It certainly didn’t look special. Our Lady of the Assumption was hidden in a shabby block of West Thirtieth Street. The structure had once been white limestone, but a hundred and twenty years of New York soot clung to the facade in a black film. In a niche by the side entrance, a statue of the Blessed Virgin spread her arms in welcome, though one of her hands had been snapped off at the wrist.
Lorca opened the side door and waved him in.
The basement was all curling linoleum and water-stained walls. Alcoholics Anonymous posters hung next to childish drawings illustrating the alphabet. Another poster showed a cute little old lady raising her fist above the words, Seniors, Rock the Vote! A battered aluminum urn was set up on a trestle table, and the place stank of burnt coffee.
Seven or eight people slouched uncomfortably in rows of metal folding chairs. They were mostly women, all Hispanic, and Victor suddenly realized with panic where he was. “Lorca, no. I don’t want to be here.”
“I didn’t either, Ignacio. Not at first. But it has helped me a lot.”
“I cannot. It’s too much. I don’t know any of these people.”
Lorca took his hand and towed him toward the chairs, but he pulled away. She shook her head. “Really, Ignacio, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Why should you be so scared?”
Because somebody might recognize me, he wanted to scream.
“Everyone is afraid the first time. Just sit quietly. No one is going to bother you.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Please stay, Ignacio. Won’t you stay with me?”
There were only eight people in the place, and none of them looked familiar. My hair was shorter then, he told himself. And I wore a uniform-at least, until I joined the special squad I wore a uniform. Civilians see only the rifle, the sunglasses. They don’t see your face. I don’t look like a soldier now.
A voice boomed out across the basement. “Ignacio! You made it! Good going, Lorca!” Bob Wyatt’s massive frame blocked the doorway, and then he was rolling toward them, hand extended. “Glad you could come.”
“He is not happy about being here,” Lorca said. “He wants to run away.”
“Oh, everyone wants to run away the first time.” Wyatt squeezed Victor by the shoulders and eased him down toward a chair. “Sit down, sit down, take a load off! Just relax and you’ll be fine.”
Wyatt’s entrance had caused a stir. The others in the room had turned to look at them. One woman-a Salvadoran by her heavy features-was staring with intensity at Victor. The man beside her whispered something to her, but she kept her eyes fixed on Victor.
“Evening, all! Sorry I’m late!” Wyatt strode up to the makeshift stage, waving a sheaf of papers. “Some preliminary announcements!” he hollered, and launched into a list of scheduled events that meant nothing to Victor, until he got to the matter they had discussed at the Vieras’. “The congressional hearings are just two weeks away. We need more witnesses. Remember: nothing but good can come of testifying-good for you, good for your country, good for my country.”
“Not so good if you end up dead,” a man with a patch over his eye commented wryly.
“True. That would be a negative thing. But you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve checked out the security arrangements myself. You’ll be completely safe. Any more volunteers tonight?” He aimed his beard first at one side of the room then the other, but there were no takers. Lorca stared resolutely at the ceiling. “Well, all right. No one’s going to force you, that’s for sure.”
“I know who you are.” The accusation shot across the room like an arrow. Victor had no doubt who had said it, and to whom. The woman was still staring at him with black, venomous eyes.
She had spoken in Spanish, and Victor answered her in Spanish. “Well, I don’t know you.”
“You were not a prisoner. You were a soldier.”
“Hold on a second, there,” Wyatt said. “Can we just finish with the announcements first?”
“I was not a soldier. I was an administrator in land reform.”
“You were with the Guardia. You came to our village. You killed people.”
“It was not me. I was never a soldier.” A thick sweat had broken out on Victor’s brow. They can tell. All of them know.
“Please, Yvonne,” the woman’s husband said. “Leave the man alone.”
“I will not. He is Guardia.”
“Why would a soldier come to be among people like us?” he asked her gently. “I am sorry, sir,” he said to Victor. “My wife was mistreated by the Guardia. For this reason, now, she sees them everywhere. Even in the United States.”
“I am not mistaken! I have seen this man in uniform! He came to our village in Chalatenango!”
Victor had never been to Chalatenango. “I was not a soldier. I was a prisoner.”
“You don’t have to defend yourself to this woman,” Lorca said softly.
“They came in the middle of the night,” Victor continued. “They took me to this place, blindfolded-always I was blindfolded. I get there and the Captain kicks me.” He pointed to his crotch. “Kicks me harder than I have ever been kicked in my life.”
“If you were blindfolded,” the woman said, “how do you know he was a captain?”
“I don’t know. Someone called him Captain. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Of course you don’t,” the woman said. “Because nothing you say is true. If you were a prisoner, tell us what jail you were in. Tell us what they did to you.”
“It used to be a school. A little school. They threw me in a cell by myself. They fed me meals full of salt, meals full of bugs. They stopped me sleeping. Day and night, they threw buckets of cold water on me.”
“It’s true,” Lorca said to the room at large. “This is exactly how it works at the little school. I was treated exactly this way.”
“You know this man? You were at the same place?”
“I was with him in the little school. What he says is true. It is exactly how they treat new prisoners.”
“Oh, yes? What else did they do to you, then?” The woman shook off her husband’s restraining hand. “No, let the poor suffering prisoner tell us himself.”