Cheers and whistles filled the room.
Victor staggered a little in the centre of the room, thrown off balance by his own violence.
Captain Pena bent over the groaning woman and pulled the watch from her wrist. He handed it to Victor with great solemnity, as if it were a medal of honour. “Good work, soldier. Such work calls for a little bonus.”
Lopez and Yunques gave him a thumbs-up sign, and even Tito gave his shoulder a squeeze. What gorgeous relief, their sudden acceptance of him-like cool water on a burn.
That night, the watch ticked loudly on the wooden crate beside Victor’s bed. It took him a long time to fall asleep, and the night was filled with bad dreams. In one, Tito was playing Submarine with him, half drowning him in the filthy tank. He awoke with a shout, and lay staring into the blackness until his heart subsided. Outside it was raining, the drops rattling on the garbage cans outside his window. The breeze brought smells not of the tank but of the nearby pastures.
The dial of the woman’s watch glowed in the dark: four-thirty. Would she be asleep now? Or was she kept awake by the pain of the beating he had given her? Punching a defenceless woman in the mouth, you couldn’t get much lower than that. He squeezed the watch tightly, and felt it ticking in his fist like a tiny heart.
When they drove into town the next morning, Victor was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. Sunlight poured through the Cherokee’s windows, and even through the tinted glass it felt hot. The heat made Victor even sleepier. This was the first time the squad had driven anywhere since El Playon. They did not usually venture out in daylight, but today was special. They were all dressed in impeccable uniforms, and in the back of the Cherokee they had two bewildered male prisoners, freshly scrubbed and wearing new clothing.
It was a big day. So big that Captain Pena had held a full-dress inspection first thing in the morning. He had yelled at them about the state of their uniforms, yelled at them to shine their boots until they were mirrors, were they a bunch of animals? Now the cleaned and pressed squad was heading into town and, despite his drowsiness, Victor could feel the pride inside the Cherokee. He indulged a fantasy, imagining himself part of a crack unit rolling into town for a victory celebration.
One of the cleaned-up prisoners was Ignacio Perez, whom Tito had nearly drowned playing Submarine. Victor had seen his papers. The other man was much older and had only one arm. Victor recognized him from the group cell that held half a dozen prisoners, but he knew nothing about him. Neither of the men was blindfolded, and they crouched in the back with heads averted from the light.
The square in front of the Presidential Palace was already crowded. Coloured strips of bunting were woven around the iron gates, and off to one side a brass band was playing. Sunlight flashed on their instruments.
Tito showed the guards his pass and they were allowed through. A stage had been set up in front of the palace. Tito drove around behind it and parked.
“All right, you faggots,” he said to the prisoners. “Make sure you smile a lot, you got that?”
The prisoners nodded.
“You got to smile like you love us, understand?” Tito grabbed Perez by the hair. “Understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Perez said.
“You’d better. Otherwise, we’re going to pay a visit to your daughters later-show up at the plantation and cut their tits off. How you like that, huh?”
“Please, sergeant. We will smile the whole time.”
“You make it convincing, though.”
“Otherwise we cut up your daughters,” Yunques said, as if he had just thought of it.
Tito gave Perez several light slaps on the cheek, as if reviving him from a faint. “It should be easy for you to smile! No more Submarine! No more tea party! You should be happy! Today you get to go free-unlike your buddies back at the school.”
A row of seats had been reserved for the squad just behind the front row. They filed in and sat down. Captain Pena turned around and looked them over from the front row. He didn’t smile, just nodded at Tito and turned around again to face the stage.
The stage was not large. Most of the space was taken up by flags: the flag of El Salvador, the flag of the United Nations, the flag of the United States. Several dignitaries sat down in the handful of seats. Victor caught a glimpse of blond hair flashing in the sunlight and recognized Mr. Wheat, the American who had visited the little school.
Members of the foreign media, as glamorous to Victor as movie stars, were there in abundance. Photographers crouched before the stage taking preliminary readings. The air was alive with expectation. The band played another march, and Victor rubbed at his knuckles where the woman’s teeth had cut him.
Then the President of El Salvador came out on stage and took a seat. He waved in acknowledgement of the applause, but he did not address the audience. One of his ministers-a balding man in an impeccable pinstripe suit- stood before the microphone. Victor didn’t know his name, but he had seen his photograph many times.
The minister spoke first on the dignity of labour. He noted how the nation could not survive without the people who worked the soil. It was in recognition of this fact that the present administration was committed to land reform. The President nodded his head in agreement; Mr. Wheat stared impassively at the crowd.
“Today’s ceremony,” the minister went on, “is not a great moment in history. We are not gathered at a great turning point. What we celebrate today is simply a quiet example of quiet justice: under our Land to the Tiller program, those who work the land ….” Here he paused for effect. “ …. will own the land.”
Tito and Lopez escorted the two prisoners to the side of the stage. The one-armed prisoner was sent up first, his features fixed in a grotesque jack-o’-lantern smile.
The minister held up a scroll and spoke not to the prisoner but to the audience. “Senor Bartel, this deed transfers ownership of one-tenth of the land you have worked for the past twenty years to you and your family. On this piece of land you may plant what you want. Or, if you choose, you may sell this land for whatever the market will pay. Any profit from this piece of land goes directly into your pocket.”
Turning to the prisoner for the first time, the minister handed him his deed. The prisoner kept smiling and nodding his head. The document joined their two hands, and a lusty round of applause went up. Camera flashes lit the backdrop.
The one-armed prisoner took his seat again, and then a man Victor recognized as General Damont stepped up to the microphone. Damont was in charge of El Salvador’s anti-terrorist strategy. He had a grave, courteous manner. He thanked the minister and the President for teaching him the wisdom of reform. “Justice and wisdom,” the General said, “will win this war for me.” He was completely unfazed by the stage, the crowd, the cameras, pausi ng between sentences with the confidence of a seasoned actor. “Justice and wisdom will take from the terrorists the very ground they stand on. How do I know this? The proof of this, my friends, is the constant stream of defectors from the other side.”
Ignacio Perez was sent up to the stage.
The General faced him, one warrior to another, and placed the microphone between them. “You were a member of the rebel forces, is that correct?”
“Yes, General. That is true.” Perez seemed much more natural than the one-armed man. Nervous, but natural.
“Could someone lower this microphone, please? I want everyone to hear what this man has to say.”
A technician was produced. He lowered the microphone to the prisoner’s height.
“You were a member of the FMLN, is that correct, Senor Perez?”
“Yes, General, I was a member of the FMLN. But I can no longer fight for these people.”
“And why is that? Why can you no longer fight beside them?”
“The last village we were at. The campesinos refused to give them food. So the rebels burned their village to the ground. They killed the old men with bayonets, and they raped all of the girls.”
The General nodded gravely. “Tell me this. Why did you join the rebels in the first place?”
“I joined the rebels for one reason. I joined the rebels because they promised us we would have land. Not a lot, but a piece of land of our own to work.”
“And now, Senor Perez? Now that your own government has promised you a piece of land?”
“Now I will fight for the government.”
“You are volunteering for the army?”
“Yes, General. I regret I ever joined the rebels. They are the enemy of the people and I want to destroy
