block slip. De Zedegui sought him among the men gathered by the oil drum and spread his hands in a show of helplessness; then he beckoned, and Mingolla, committed to a concept of forth-right challenge, walked over to his side. The drumming of the rain seemed to be issuing from within his body, registering his rush of adrenaline.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said de Zedegui in a soft, cultured voice.
Mingolla said nothing, afraid that speech, that any interaction would undermine his determination.
‘I knew they’d eventually send someone, and I knew it would be someone strong. But you’—de Zedeguis smile was thin and rueful—‘it seems they’ve adopted a policy of overkill.’ He rubbed his jaw with his middle finger as if smoothing away some imperfection. ‘You have come to kill me?’
Mingolla maintained his silence.
‘Yes, well…’ Again de Zedegui held out his hands palms up. ‘I promise you I won’t resist. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have a chance… I’m sure you’re aware of that.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘So unless you’re in a rush, why don’t you come inside, let me have a last smoke, some wine. I’m a stickler for the formalities, and I’ve always been of the opinion that a man’s death should be an occasion of rigorous formality.’
Nothing was going as Mingolla had imagined. De Zedegui’s surrender had disconcerted him, and he could not help sympathizing with the man.
‘Nobody’s hiding in there,’ said de Zedegui. ‘Check through the window if you want.’
Mingolla went to the window, flung open the shutter, and peered inside. Cot against the rear wall, cushions on the floor in the opposite corner, and hung from a ceiling hook, a kerosene lamp that shed an unsteady orange glow. Stacked on the floor were canned goods, bottles, and a large number of books. Everything was very clean.
‘All right,’ said Mingolla. ‘Let’s go.’
Once inside, de Zedegui turned the lantern flame down to a crescent, throwing the room into near darkness. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘No tricks. I prefer it dark.’ He picked up a wine bottle and sat on the cot. ‘I won’t offer you anything, I’ve no wish to compromise you. As a matter of fact, I’ve been impatient for you to arrive.’
‘You want to die?’ Mingolla asked, taking a seat on the cushions.
A match flared, the coal of a cigarette was puffed into life, and de Zedegui lay back, merging with the shadows. ‘Not exactly. It’s just that I no longer care to be who I am.’
Mingolla felt disadvantaged, realizing that he had enlisted in the problem of de Zedegui’s existence; he wondered if he could go through with the act.
‘You may reach the same conclusion someday,’ de Zedegui went on. You’re no different from me.’
The rain was slackening, the drumming dwindling away, and the brutal music of the Barrio was regaining dominance. ‘What made you come here?’ Mingolla asked.
‘I understood that I had become a criminal,’ said de Zedegui. ‘I should have understood it long ago, but I was too’—he laughed—‘too much in love with my criminality to recognize it as such. But when I did, I wanted to be at the heart of the law, subject to its lessons, its wise institutions. As I told you, I’m a stickler for formality.’
‘Penance?’ said Mingolla.
‘Justice. Of course justice has always been confused with punishment. Men have exerted their creativity to contrive just punishments for ages. Did you know, for instance, that an author named Bexon once proposed an entire tableau of penitential heraldry? He suggested that condemned prisoners be brought to the gallows dressed in red or black, that parricides should wear black veils and embroidered daggers, and the shirts of poisoners be decorated with serpents. Astonishing! What would it matter to me the color of my shirt at death? I merely want the justice my crimes demand, and now’—he toasted Mingolla with the bottle—now you’ve come.’
‘If you feel so strongly, why didn’t you kill yourself?’
‘You haven’t been listening. I want justice, and I would certainly be more merciful than you.’ De Zedegui had a long swallow of wine. ‘There’s no point telling you anything. You’re too young, too inexperienced. But when you reach Sector Jade, you’ll understand… though perhaps you won’t care. Most of us don’t.’
‘Sector Jade? What’s that?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said de Zedegui. ‘And I doubt you’d believe me now.’
‘I can make you tell me.’
‘Why don’t you? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re feeling sorry for me… or if not sorry, you’re feeling something. And you’ve been so stripped of feeling by the process that birthed you, you want to hang on to any feeling, no matter how inconsequential. But in the end you’ll do your duty. You’re a creature of power, and now you’re too enamored of its usage to understand the damage’—his voice grew strained—‘the horrid self-inflicted damage you will incur.’
Mingolla, angered by de Zedegui’s description of him, was made afraid by the passion embodied by this last statement.
De Zedegui threw himself off the cot, and Mingolla tensed. But the Nicaraguan only paced back and forth, passing from shadow into dim light and back. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Prisons… fascinating subject. Books have been written on the psychology of their construction. Bentham, for example. The Panopticon. A marvelous design! A circular building with a tower at the center of an interior courtyard, and the tower has wide windows that face the inner wall of the ring, and the cells in the ring are backlit so they can be viewed from the tower like thousands of little stages. And of course the watchers in the tower, they’re hidden from the eyes of the prisoners. Their invisibility guarantees order. Who’s going to try to escape when they’re being watched all the time? The Panopticon is similar to the carceral concept being developed in Sector Jade, though not half so effective. But the truth of the matter is that Sector Jade is a joke… the joke power has played on itself.’ He shook his forefinger. ‘Wait till you get there! You won’t believe what’s going on! The little family feud this war involves. The Madradonas and the Sotomayors.’
‘I’ve heard those names before,’ said Mingolla, plumbing his memory. ‘In a story I read… I think.’
De Zedegui laughed. ‘‘It’s no story, believe me. You’ll find that out.’ He continued to pace, planting his feet forcefully as if stamping out small fires, and his words came in impassioned bursts. ‘Did you know that confession was once considered a primary form of justice? Men declaring their guilt from the gallows. “Oh, Lord! Forgive my execrable deed, my lamentable sin!” Here in Honduras we keep the tradition alive. Rustlers are photographed holding strips of beef, their guilt published in the press. Myself, I once saw two murderers supporting the body of their drowned victim. What a horrible sight! His eyes were like hardboiled eggs, all white and bulging… the little children who passed by were probably afflicted for life. But who would believe my confession? What evidence should I hold?’ He flung the wine bottle against the wall, and the splintering glass wired Mingolla’s nerves. ‘We’re living in the Dark Ages! The countryside’s beset with pillories and gibbets and wheels. A fiesta of punishment! And I helped to…’ He stopped pacing, stood by the door. ‘I think you should go ahead now, I really do.’
Mingolla lowered his head, defeated. The Nicaraguan was insane, pathetic, his sensibility scoured raw by guilt, and there would be no battle, no gunfight. To kill him would be an act of extermination.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Let it alone, all right,’ said Mingolla.
‘Oh, have I touched your soul?’ said de Zedegui in a tone of mock concern. ‘Dredged up some scrap of humanity? Having a little trouble with our motivation, are we? Here, I’ll help you.’ He walked over to Mingolla and kicked him hard in the thigh.
Mingolla cried out, grabbed the injured spot.
‘Want more motivation?’ said de Zedegui. ‘All right.’ He spat in Mingolla’s face.
Revolted, yet restraining a reaction, Mingolla wiped his cheek on his sleeve.
‘What control!’ De Zedegui clapped his hands. ‘Why, you’re a remarkable likeness of the human! But’—he dropped his voice to a nasty whisper—‘you and I both know you’re not. Come on, asshole! All that power crawling around in there, all that sick wormy juice, and you’ve never really used it. You know you want to… so come on! Here I am! Blind me with your lightnings!’ He broke into a giddy laugh that went sky high and kicked Mingolla in the hip.
‘Dammit!’ Mingolla rolled away, came up into a crouch, his eyes narrowed in a hateful squint.
‘Marvelous!’ said de Zedegui. ‘The hound snarls, his eyes redden!’
Mingolla’s anger was building to critical, fed by the self-loathing that de Zedegui was making him feel, and he thought how appropriate it would be to return the favor. The Nicaraguan spat once again, catching Mingolla with the spray. It’s so amusing to stand here and see you trying to pretend you’re a real boy, when you’re nothing but a filthy little spider about to spew poison on one of his weaker brothers.’ Another kick. ‘Don’t hold back! Just think of
