Breaking Lorca (9 page)

PART TW0

Forgive me, if you are not living
If you, beloved, my love,
If you have died

—PABLO NERUDA

FIFTEEN

T
HE RAIN THAT FELL
in New York City eighteen months later was of an entirely different character. It was March—the weather was gloomy and rainy—but here the drops were tiny, as if they had been squeezed through a sieve, and seemed to hover in the air rather than to actually fall. This was not the driving natural force of Victor’s homeland, but a thin, dirty mist that clung to his skin.

Living in the vast grey metropolis of New York was like taking up residence inside a colossal machine. It pressed, pulled, squashed, and stretched you with out regard for what you might choose or not choose to do. In this one respect, it was not much different from the army. Victor’s feet seemed to carry him auto matically from the Thirty-fourth Street subway station and through the impossible crowds outside Macy’s. He had thought about coming to this intersection with Seventh Avenue—he had thought about nothing else for the past eighteen months—and yet he could not have said at what moment he had made the actual decision to do it.

Perhaps it was the time of year, with the last chill of winter still in the air, but the city planners of Manhattan seemed to have given no thought whatsoever to trees or flowers. Not in midtown, anyway. In every direction the vistas were grey, grey, grey—an endless monotone interrupted only by the hordes of lurid yellow taxicabs.

The address on Seventh Avenue was not at all what he had expected. The term “New York lawyer” had conjured in Victor’s mind something far grander than this grubby building on this grubby corner. The plate glass of the front door was cracked, and the tiny vestibule smelt of urine. As Victor examined the roster of names peeling from the directory, his heart began to pound. One was a coward at all times and in all places, not just in wartime.

He remained poised before the directory with a sense of foreboding, the sense that he had been carried to this intersection, this building, as part of some cosmic plan, the sense that all his actions were now and always had been out of his control. The same feeling had engulfed him when he had faced the court martial. He had known from the first moment he had faced the tribunal—known with absolute certainty—that he would be found guilty, that he would be sentenced to death.

As Victor stood in the vestibule of this dirty building a world away from the little school, cowardice took hold of him once more. He turned from the roster of names and was pushing at the handle of the cracked front door when the elevator door rattled open behind him and a short, square man—a Mexican, Victor thought at first glance—came bustling out. He was wearing a rumpled shirt and tie and, seeing Victor, he clutched the tie nervously. “Are you by any chance Mr. Perez?”

Victor nodded. Perez was his name now; he had Ignacio Perez’s birth certificate to prove it, and they had been close in age. That was why Victor had stolen his papers from the Captain’s office. The actual Perez, he reasoned, was dead and buried and beyond caring.

“Mike Viera,” the man said, giving him a handshake that was damp but firm. The resemblance was obvious; he had his sister’s hollowed-out face, the same deep lines from nose to chin. “A thousand apologies. I hadn’t forgotten about you, I was just dashing out for cigarettes. My receptionist called in sick today.”

“I will come another time. When your receptionist is here.”

“No, no, please. I’ll be back instantly.”

Viera spoke English so rapidly that Victor hadn’t quite sorted out this last assurance until the lawyer was out the door. But he had no desire to converse in Spanish. Speaking English was part of being a new person; he had committed no crimes while speaking English. A new language was his best disguise.

Waiting for Viera to return, Victor stared at the chipped, discoloured tiles on the vestibule wall, the streaks on the elevator door where someone had tried to clean it with a dirty rag. He reread the names on the directory.

Viera came back, still apologizing. “I know I should quit, but I can’t seem to get up the motivation. You smoke?” he asked hopefully, peeling Cellophane wrap from a pack of Player’s.

Victor shook his head. I am Perez, he insisted to himself. Someday I will be Victor Peña again, when it is safe or when I have courage.

The sour smell of old cigarette smoke clung to everything in Viera’s office. Along one wall, a row of dented green filing cabinets looked near to collapse. Some of the drawers hung open, others were missing entirely. An armless sofa sagged against another wall, its fake leather surface strewn with dog-eared file folders in several colours. Viera’s metal desk was near the window but facing away from it. He sat behind it now and gestured at the couch. “Please, Mr. Perez. Have a seat.”

Victor sat and stared at the lights of a peep show that flashed on and off beyond Viera’s shoulder.
New York lawyer
. Where were the pinstripes and the wood-panelled office? Where was the wisecracking secretary? The alcoholic investigator? Next to the diplomas above the sofa hung a picture of Viera shaking hands with a slick-looking dignitary. Perhaps Seventh Avenue was a fall from earlier success.

“You wanted to talk about an immigration matter, I believe.” Viera lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. “Is it for yourself?”

“Yes. I want to become a citizen. Or to get at least a green card.” Even though the authenticity of the Perez documents was never questioned, Victor had suffered all the usual hardships of the illegal immigrant: the close calls with police or other officials who suddenly demanded identification, the search for affordable housing that turned into a search for an affordable slum, the long hunt for a job ever lower on the social scale. “If I can’t become a citizen, a green card will do.”

“It’s twenty-five dollars for the initial consultation. Cash or money order is fine.”

New York lawyer
. Where was the expensive stationery? The discreet invoice? Mike Viera did not seem even a little embarrassed to state his fee, or that it was so low. Nor was he slow to accept the two crumpled tens and the five that Victor handed across the desk. He put them into his drawer, tore off a receipt, then resumed.

“Do you have any friends or family here? In the States, I mean, not just New York. Any relatives at all?”

“Relatives? No. Nobody. Well, I may know some people, but I haven’t looked for them. No relatives.”

“Is there anyone who can guarantee you won’t become a burden to the state? Someone who will pay your way if you fail to get a job or become sick?”

“No. No one like that. But I already have a job, Mr. Viera, I can look after myself.”

“We’ll get to that. For now, the state doesn’t care about facts, it cares about contingencies.” Viera smiled, as if this were a very clever way of putting it. Perhaps he did not resemble his sister so much after all. He lacked her directness; he almost certainly lacked her strength.

“Well, there is no one to support me, no.”

“That’s bad. Now, tell me: you’re not a doctor by any chance, are you?”

“A doctor?” Victor laughed. “No, I’m not a doctor.”

“A physicist or a software designer?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Victor had given his newly acquired background much thought. As an educated person of the middle class, he could never pass himself off to another Salvadoran as a peasant. But he stayed as close to the circumstances of the real Perez as possible. “I worked in the Department of Agriculture. It was my job to inform the campesinos of their rights under Land to the Tiller.”

“So it’s fair to say you are not an artist of stature? You are not about to produce letters saying you are a recognized artist? Or a writer?”

“No, I told you, I’m nothing. An administrator, maybe—not even an administrator. A social worker, maybe you could say.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to embarrass you. I have to ask these questions because Uncle Sam is very concerned that immigrants not take work away from American citizens. Certain categories of work—artists, doctors, the ones I mentioned—can be exceptions.”

“But you also are from El Salvador, by your accent. How did
you
get to become a citizen?”

Viera stubbed out his cigarette. “My own case is not relevant.” He sighed, stirring the ashtray with the tip of a pencil. “Unfortunately, Mr. Perez, the United States of America has no shortage of administrators or social workers. You say you have a job at this time?”

“Yes. I’m a chef’s assistant. I make the salads at a French restaurant—Le Parisien.” The owner was unpleasant and not even French, but it had taken over a month to find the job and he wasn’t going to quit it now. “I also make the desserts. You should try my chocolate mousse sometime.”

“Oh, my wife would never allow it,” Viera said, and patted his pot-belly as if it were a lapdog.

“But what if ….”

“What if what?” Viera said. “Go on.”

“What if one were persecuted in one’s home country? You know—a refugee. The United States gives sanctuary to refugees, I believe.”

“Yes, it does. Cuban refugees are very welcome. Also refugees from North Korea or Cambodia. The United States is hostile to those countries and likes to embarrass them by accepting their refugees. The people of El Salvador, however, are another matter. The United States is on friendly terms with the government of El Salvador. Obviously, she could not be on friendly terms with a government that persecutes its own people. Therefore, there is no such thing as a political refugee from El Salvador.”

Tell that to the real Perez, Victor thought, the dead Perez. “But …. suppose you were tortured. Suppose you were held by the Guardia or the army and they tortured you. What if you could show scars?” His scalp wound. He could say they clubbed him.

“It makes no difference. There is no asylum for Salvadorans, period. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise. There are people I want to help, and I cannot.” Viera lit another cigarette and regarded his client thoughtfully, assessing the damage his information had wrought. “Don’t be too downcast. Perhaps you will fall in love and marry an American girl. That would solve all your problems. Notice, please, that I am not advising you to fake a marriage, or to pay someone to pretend to marry you. That would be illegal. All I am saying is that if you have a real marriage—a
real
marriage, notice—with an American citizen, you will get your green card and eventual citizenship. Short of such a marriage, however ….”

“There’s nothing I can do?”

Viera spoke more softly. “Don’t take it so hard. People live here illegally for years. The INS does not come looking for individual immigrants. Even if someone were to telephone them tomorrow morning and say Ignacio Perez is in this country illegally, at such and such an address, they are not going to come banging down your doors to deport you. They are interested in sweatshops, factories—places that employ hundreds of illegals. Your job is a good place to be, Mr. Perez. Hang on to this job.” Viera started folding papers and organizing files on his desk, signalling that the consultation was over. There were no other clients waiting, however. Finally he said, “Well, Mr. Perez—was there something else?”

“Yes. But I—I don’t know how to say it.”

“Take your time. Say what you want. It’s what lawyers are for. We’re a bit like priests, you know.”

Victor took a deep breath. “I knew your sister in El Salvador.”

“My sister.” Viera’s tone suddenly went cold. “Which sister?”

“Lorca, her name was. Lorca Viera. We were in jail together.”

“If you are a fucking rebel, you can get out of here right now.”

“No, no. I was not a revolutionary. Far from it. I told you, I was an administrator. But I was in the same jail as your sister.”

“Well, then you know what happened to her.”

“I thought they took her out and shot her. That’s what they said. They said they took her out and shot her. But I heard—I heard a rumour that she was alive. Is it true?”

“Where did you hear this?” Viera asked sharply.

“It was just a rumour. Prisoners hear things from new prisoners.”

“Bullshit. How do I know you’re not from the Guardia yourself?”

“The Guardia—me?” Victor laughed.

“You said you worked for the government. Exactly what branch of the government?”

“Agriculture. I told you.”

“Then tell me why—if you worked for the government—would you be a prisoner?” The lawyer in Viera came alive now, cross-examining him, badgering him even, but Victor had rehearsed his answers.

“Why was I a prisoner?” He looked Viera in the eye as he spoke. “I made the mistake of taking my job seriously.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“In El Salvador, there is no land reform. For a campesino, to be given a deed of land is a death warrant.”

“True. I have heard this.” Viera sat back, looking Victor up and down, as if trying to judge his weight. “Frankly, Mr. Perez, I find it hard to believe you were in the same place as my sister. You are in much better condition.”

“So she is alive, then. The rumour was true?”

“I did not say that,” Viera said harshly, and turned away, clearly angry at himself.

“I understand,” Victor said. “You are right to be careful.” The Captain would have been proud of him for catching the lawyer out, but he felt a little ashamed. He had tripped a brother up in his love for his sister—where was the achievement in that?

As if to compensate for his lapse, Viera fired a volley of demands across his desk. “Describe the jail, please.”

“It was a former school. A good one, built of brick. By missionaries, I believe.”

“How many rooms?”

“Six cells, a guardroom, a kitchen, an office, I think. And the interrogation room.”

“How many soldiers?”

“I believe only four. The squad was four soldiers and a captain. There were regular soldiers guarding the perimeter, but they never came inside, as far as I know.”

“What was your cell like?”

“Concrete blocks. I think the cells were an addition to the school. Maybe six feet by four feet.”

“How many prisoners?”

“I don’t know. At least eight. There may have been many more.”

“Where was it located?”