The woman was led-handcuffed, blindfolded, at gunpoint-to the Cherokee. The filthy tank top clung to her breasts, making the nipples stand out. Victor guided her into the back of the truck. The boy, unconscious and feverish, had to be carried. His pants were torn to the knee. A rough end of shin bone poked through the skin.
Even with the wipers flapping back and forth, the rain reduced visibility to a few yards, and Victor had to drive at a snail’s pace. He knew the way to Puerto del Diablo-not because he had been there as a soldier, but because it was on Lake Ilopango, where he had gone swimming many times. Diablo was a high cliff east of the beaches where he had sunned himself as a teenager.
The windows fogged up and he had to slow down even more, wiping them off with the back of his hand. He was afraid that Tito, slouched in the seat beside him, would start to scream about not taking all night to get there. But nobody spoke. The atmosphere in the Jeep took on a thick, damp solemnity. The boy groaned whenever they went over a bump.
Victor could see Lopez in the rear-view. He wore an abstracted air, as if his mind were switched off. If Lopez felt any guilt about the murder he was about to assist in, the heavy features gave no clue.
They came to a sign that pointed to the public beach one way, Puerto del Diablo the other. Victor made a right, and they drove now in a slightly tenser silence.
“Stop here,” Tito said.
“My name is Lorca,” she had told them. Ten days of screams and tears had left her nearly voiceless. “Lorca Viera.”
“Lorca? Lorca is not a first name. You want me to drag that boy in here and snap his arm too?”
“My name is Lorca,” she said again, and Victor wrote it down. He was writing everything down. “My father loved very much the poetry of Federico Garcia Lorca. He named me after this poet. It is a strange name, I agree.”
“And this father of yours, tell us about him. Who is he? What does he do?”
“He’s in his grave. He has been dead eight years. His name was Paul Nunez-Viera.”
“Oh, no. You have to be making this up. You are telling me your father was
“General Viera, yes.”
“My God, I knew him! Isn’t that amazing? I took a night-tactics class under him! General Viera! He was a wonderful soldier. A wonderful warrior! My God, you didn’t mess with that man-he was one of the most intelligent, respected-can you really be related to him?”
The woman shrugged. “He was my father.”
“Until the terrorists killed him. What a loss that was. What a catastrophe.”
“For you, maybe. Not for the country. My father killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people. His death was a victory for El Salvador.”
“You’re disgusting. Your own father.” The Captain asked about her mother then. Her mother was also dead.
“Will you get the boy a doctor?” she asked suddenly, catching the Captain off guard.
“Maybe we will get him a doctor. It depends how things go with you.”
“The bone is through the skin. He will die of infection.”
“Tell us more about your family.”
Her relation to the famous general had changed the Captain’s view of her, Victor saw. Even if she had hated her father, she could not deny the blood in her own veins, and the Captain was a great believer in blood. He spoke to her now as if they had struck up an acquaintance on a long train trip.
“You have a sister, do you not?”
“I have a younger sister. Teresa.”
“Teresa works with you?”
“She works with me, yes. She helps feed the children at the church.”
“Address, please.”
She gave an address. Victor knew as he wrote it down that it would be the correct one. The sister would not be there now; the prisoner had won that battle. But she might be found eventually.
“But you don’t just feed the children at the church, do you, Miss Viera. The food you were carrying was meant for the FMLN, wasn’t it. Tell the truth, now. I really don’t want to hurt that boy any more.”
“Part of the food was for the children. The rest goes to the rebels.”
“Thank you. Now we are making progress. Tell me how the schedules were arranged-we only caught you by accident, you know. It was just a random check.”
She told the Captain what he wanted to know. The thin mouth, the drawn cheeks, her broken tooth-her features were a picture of exhaustion.
The questions went on. Coffee was brought, pads of paper were filled. The three of them took breaks and smoked cigarettes, Victor silent, Captain Pena chatting about inconsequential things. As the afternoon wore on, the Captain addressed the woman as if her own destruction had been a project they had worked on together-a tough job on the verge of completion-and now they could sit back and relax together.
He imagines that he has won, Victor said to himself, but this woman, this Lorca, has defeated us all. Because of her strength, the Captain and his men, all of us, have degraded ourselves. Her tank top is filthy, her face streaked with blood-the boy’s, probably-and her hair is matted, but this woman is cleaner than we will ever be.
Victor’s forearm cramped from scribbling all the things Lorca Viera told them. She told them how she dropped the food, a large box with a smaller box inside, at the church. She told them who sent her messages; his code name was all she knew, but she told them where she picked them up and the code names of those she relayed them to. More names, more addresses. So many addresses, but she had held out long enough that they would all be empty now.
Sometimes, as she paused to remember something, the tip of her tongue would touch the jagged edge of her front tooth. And then her words would emerge like small metallic objects, colourless and cold. All animation was gone from her, all passion, all hope, leaving just the voice, dry as blowing grass.
Even if we release her, Victor thought, this woman will be a ghost. Who could afford to be seen with her, a known detainee? What man would want her? It would be known she had been raped many times, and men had trouble forgiving the victims of rape. The woman had been extinguished. That was the object of the enterprise, he saw now, and they had achieved it. I have done that, he admitted to himself. I have done that to this woman because, unlike her, I am without courage.
“I believe you said earlier you have a brother,” the Captain said. “Where is he, now? Is he with the rebels also?”
She shook her head.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“Miguel hid from the war. He went to law school in the United States. My father thought he would come back, but Miguel stayed there. I hated him for it, running from the war like that. He married a North American woman and he stayed. Now, I don’t care. I am happy he is safe.”
“Address, please.”
“His office is on Seventh Avenue, I don’t remember the exact address.”
“We aren’t about to pay him a visit, you know.”
“I know. I did not write to him much. I don’t remember the address.”
“Home address?”
“I don’t know. Some boulevard in New York City.”
Victor’s impressions of New York were shaped by movies. He imagined tall buildings, flowers, fountains, and beautifully dressed people.
Captain Pena circled back from family matters to her connection-slight though it was-to the rebels. Gradually, the gaps in her knowledge were established as consistent and thorough. After three or four hours it was clear she had nothing else to tell them.
“All right,” the Captain said. “Thank you very much. Your troubles are over now. No more pain for you. Tonight we take you to Puerto del Diablo and shoot you.”
“I see. Even though the President has been denying that Diablo is an execution site.”
