Childhood of the Dead (11 page)

“They haven't fed us since they put us here. Every week they take away those who die.”

“Who's doing this?”

“The Inspector General.”

Dito tried to raise the boy, but realized he couldn't help him. What mattered was to get him some food. For him and for the others who could still move. He would go back to the infirmary. If his plate were still there, he would have a chance.

He moved cautiously, after turning off the light. The wood stick he had found close to the solitary would be used as cane for his broken foot was very sore and his arm was beginning to swell.

He found the infirmary in almost complete darkness, he advanced in between the beds up to the stool. The tray with the food plate and the water jar were still there. He drank a little more water, and left carrying the tray. Now, he was in even greater danger. Had he been able to fool the guards, or were they just letting him move around only to show up later on? It wasn't that. He observed carefully each angle of the building and couldn't find the slightest movement.

He followed through the veranda to the low building with its iron gate. He gave the tray to the listless boy who could barely keep his eyes open. The boy began to eat with a faint smile on his lips.

He kept the wooden stick for support, and thought of the Inspector General, and wished to surprise him before leaving that place. But where would he find him, with so many sinister- looking buildings around? He was sure, however, that he would find him. Who knows if Smokey would not be found stretched on the floor of one of those cells? That's what the Inspector General would have to explain.

He walked away, without knowing exactly where he was going. He came close to two doors where he could read
storage
and
closet
. He pushed the first one, but it was locked. He went around the back. A barking dog showed up, but soon quieted down. The back door gave in. Dito passed by shelves and cabinets, feeling the musty smell of locked up objects. In one of the cabinets he found what he'd been looking for: a knife. He put it in his waistband and began again to search for other lodgings. They would probably be at the other end of the compound. His wrist was painful, his cast heated up his leg. Even so he had to go on. They were so sure no one could escape, they were inattentive in their security. This was his opportunity, his and all the others who were dying of hunger. He had to gather his courage to cross the open space. The buildings were lined up far away and some had lights on. That's where they were, he was sure. He crawled on the ground, slowly. He could feel the smell of the earth, of the grass, coming through his nostrils. At the slightest noise he would stop and remain frozen for a few moments. He got to the side of one of the buildings, hiding himself in the doorway. He observed the written signs, the posted material which he could barely distinguish, the warning posters, a broken water fountain, the corner where barrel carts were parked and the other corner with bush axes and tillers. So, this was an prison farm! It was exactly that. He had been in such bad shape when they brought him in, that he didn't understand where he was. When he came to his senses he was already in bed, handcuffed to the metal frame. The boys in the cells must have been paying for mistakes made at work. It had to be this; there was no other explanation. And he advanced, eyes and ears alerted.

Close to the light post there was a door, two lit up windows and he could hear laughter and joking coming from the inside. On a narrow plaque in well painted letters he saw the expression he sought: Inspector General. He had to go in there. He would look for the darkest place and would hide out, until he could discover the boss. He wouldn't be interested in anyone else. He was making all that effort to meet with the boss; to meet the person who ordered those boys to die of hunger. It was a long death, one that slowly makes you crazy until you are demented, overcome by sleep and by a brain which refuses to think. It had been happening to himself, as they wanted it to be, until he decided to point a finger at Crystal's friends.

He forced open a narrow door under which he could see no lights. He stumbled over tables and chairs. He could now hear better what they said. There were three men talking. One of them laughed more than talked. One recounted tales in his quiet voice, while the third one added his observations.

“She will be a foxy woman. I'm already training her in what I want.”

“And she doesn't complain?”

“In the beginning she didn't want it, but later realized she had no options.”

The one who spoke the least, laughed loudly.

Dito could look in from the keyhole. He wasn't able to see all of them, but he knew that one sat at the edge of the table, the other was comfortably installed in a swivel chair. The third one was at his side.

“And the little black girl in building 3? Have you already been with her?”

“Hey man, do you think I'm going to waste time with the ugly ones?”

“You are mistaken. I had her for about two hours and almost stayed for the night.”

“I prefer the little blond one, who looks like a crying doll.”

“From which building?”

“Seven. She takes it in the front and in the back without complaints.”

Dito perceived that this place was much bigger than he had imagined. From what they said, there were buildings for girls and for boys. In his understanding they were probably in the male section. He would know the location of the other buildings only after getting hold of one of these guys. His hope, now, was that at least one of them would remain behind, when the others went away. Or would they all be on call? He couldn't know, unless he stayed and paid attention to their conversation, which appeared endless.

The man in the swivel chair, whom Dito saw very well from his back, laughed shaking his entire body. He was a voluminous type, with big arms. He was blond, dressed in a pair of dark pants and a light blue shirt. At first he thought this might have been the guy who brought him the tray, but he realized he was mistaken. It was someone else. So this place had many employees, and probably, all men. At least he had not seen a single woman yet. Unless they stayed in the girls' buildings. He would have time to find that out. The first one he got would end up making a complete description of how this prison worked. He might even be able to find Smokey's whereabouts and leave this place in his company. He was not in a hurry to finish off his mission, nor did he have the strength to control the anger that swelled in his veins. The cut above his eyes began to burn again, but he no longer felt any irritation on his plastered leg and his wrist had stopped hurting. Before any converstion took place, he would knife the man. And he would then watch his complaining. Then he would demand the entire story about that place and about the Inspector General. He wouldn't sleep that night until he found the inspector. He should be somewhere in there, in some building, perhaps closer to the girls the three men talked about.

The man seated at the edge of the table stood up, and left Dito's angle of vision. When he reappeared he was drinking from a glass. He didn't sit anymore. The one he could barely see laughed again, while the blond man spoke in low tones:

“Cause problems? No way, man! The only thing that can happen is for an inquest to be opened.”

“And who would direct the inquest?” the fat man asked.

There was general laughter. The man who had been seated at the edge of the table emptied his glass.

“I'm going for a walk,” said the man Dito could barely see.”Aren't you gonna fuck the black girl?”

The blond one shakes his body with laughter.

“I'm going with you,” he said, leaving his glass on the table.

The room remained silent for some moments. The fat man then stood up, closed the door and went back to his chair, supporting his feet on the table. He opened a newspaper, letting some pages fall to the floor. He didn't seem attentive to what went on around him. That's exactly what Dito had hoped for. He opened the door. He waited only for the moment to surprise him. What if all of a sudden the others came back? He would have to act quickly. He would stab him and pull him into the room with the tables and chairs. But he believed the man's companions wouldn't come back soon, mostly because they left together. They probably had gone to the girls' building. There was nothing else to do there, in that God forsaken place, as they themselves had said. Dito only needed a couple more seconds to make sure of his plan, he would trust his instinct. He took the knife from his waist, pushed the door ajar silently, stepped forward and thrust the knife. The blade sunk in between the man's ribs, he fought back, falling to the ground. Dito repeated the strike again, this time into the man's chest. The guy tried to stand up, moving about but falling afterwards. Dito held him by the hairs and kept the knife in the man's neck.

“Where am I, you son of a bitch?”

The man's eyes had rounded up, and his words were almost inaudible. But slowly Dito began to have confirmation of his suspicions: it was prison farm for delinquent minors, from where no one ever left alive.

“And who is the Inspector General?”

The man appeared as if he didn't want to say, opening and shutting his eyes, while his blood stained the floor. Dito, afraid that his friends might turn up, that they might have heard the man's shouts, puts more pressure on the knife, hurting the fat man's muscles, who at once begins to explain that they were in the Inspector's office but that the inspector would usually sleep in the girls' building. Either in ward three or ward five.

“What does he look like?”

The man's strength was vanishing fast, Dito wanted quick answers.

“He is short and strong. He wears sideburns and has thick eyebrows. He always has his shirt sleeves folded up.”

“And you, you piece of shit, what do you do?”

The fat man didn't know how to explain. He tried to surprise Dito with a movement of his body, only to receive another knife wound in his chest.

“I asked you a question, sucker!”

The man explained he was an assistant to the inspector. So were the others who had been in the room.

“What about the boys dying of hunger in the cells?”

“We do what the inspector tells us.”

Dito couldn't suppress a smile of satisfaction.

“And how do we get out of here?”

“It's tough. There are many guards around the bridge. A fugitive has never been able to escape. If they don't get the guy with a bullet, they put the dogs after him. It's worse. Much worse.”

“How long have the boys been without food?”

“More than a week.”

Dito didn't know what else to ask. The man, bleeding profusely, realized this, and with a frown says:

“I helped you, don't kill me!”

Dito smiled again. He felt the same kind of happiness at the time he pulled Deborah by her hair and she began to shout and to implore for her life. Later the happiness changed into hatred, caused by his memories of Crystal's ambush, of the car with its wheel on his foot, of the handcuff holding him to the bed, of his maddening thirst. The cut above his eye hurt. His hand held the knife's handle strongly and the blow was sudden. The fat man only moaned once and closed his eyes. Drops of blood ran down the corners of his mouth.

Dito opened the door to the room with table and chairs widely and pulled him there, placing some furniture in front to hide the body. With a flour bag he cleaned up the floor. It was important that they didn't discover his intentions. In this way he could get to the Inspector General free of worries. The blood stains did not disappear completely, he went to the bathroom and from there he brought a wet rag, for scrubbing. He cleaned up what he could. Now it appeared OK. Soon, it all would be dry.

III

“He is short and strong, has sideburns and thick eyebrows.”

He repeated the description constantly while he walked, supporting himself on his cast leg. He had no idea how all of this would end. This might even be his last night. It didn't matter. He had to go on, to reach the girls' ward, to get into the Inspector's big house. Ah! He was anxious for that moment! It didn't matter if he had to die. He only wished for death to surprise him after he had been able to put his hands on the inspector. He would do the same thing he had done to the fat man. Only, it would be slower. He wouldn't ask questions. He had nothing to ask. He would use his knife as he had never done before, and he would feel the man tremble with fear. This would be the moment he'd regret all the miseries he had inflicted.

He arrived at a shed with several doors, then at the low building, just as the fat man had explained. He entered by a window, his plastered leg knocked about hurting him. He pushed himself through the dark rooms, among some empty chairs, passed some clothes hanging on a closet door, and stepped over socks and shoes. This should be the right place. He would hide and wait. Just like an animal in the dark.

He heard the noise of a shower being turned off. The lights were turned on and then he saw the man he waited for. He was wrapped in a towel, getting ready for bed. Dito wouldn't have much work. He felt he had help from heaven. May be it was due the Mother Dolores' prayers, or perhaps the angels who guided Smokey.

He stayed hidden in a corner, behind the armoire, following the man's movements. The guy stopped in front of the dressing table, straightening his hair and drying it up. He looked to see if the doors and windows were well locked, threw his towel aside and lay down on the bed. Dito never expected to be so lucky. There he was, the man who caused all this evil. And he looked healthy. If someone made him talk he would certainly have many interesting things to say. How funny it would be to listen to his complaints! Dito would demand a case by case account. An account of the boys whom he executed, of the girls whom he prostituted. It would be a long overdue demand. Then he would do the same with Crystal and to the man at the cemetery who had killed Pixote. He had decided: he could no longer avoid what was happening. That was his work; his profession had the color of blood. No more pulling carts in the markets, no more cleaning rich people's windshields, no more selling of newspapers or of lottery tickets. He had been tied to blood early on and could no longer avoid it. Hatred exploded inside of him, his only moment of happiness had been like that one in which Deborah, kneeling on the floor, had begged him; or when the fat man had told him a long story so as not to die; the moment in which Celina had run, desperate, opening up her eyes as if that would scare him off.