Giles Blunt - Breaking Lorca

“At ease, soldier,” the Captain said, and lifted his bottle of chocolate milk as if to say, You see? I know how to relax and take a break. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. A wonderful day, sir.”

“If only it were peacetime, I would take the family for a picnic somewhere. The twins love a picnic. They get so excited.”

“I can imagine. They are beautiful girls.”

Captain Pena gestured with his milk bottle toward Victor’s book. “Reading again, I see.”

“Yes, sir. It was free time. I never thought-”

“You’re right. I did not forbid you from reading on your own time. Still, you disappoint me, Victor.”

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Look, things are very cozy with the Americans right now. You remember Mr. Wheat? Mr. Wheat and I get along very well. We understand each other’s needs. There’s a chance I may be able to get you into a training course with the Americans.”

“In Panama?” Victor’s heart began to pound. If he could get to Panama, he might be able to escape altogether. He could escape to the North.

“No, not Panama. The Americans are offering training at Fort Benning. In the United States.”

“I heard it was only the Atlacatl battalion going there.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I am trying to arrange things. Now, do me a favour.”

“Yes, sir?”

Captain Pena pulled a packet of matches from his pocket and pressed them into Victor’s palm. “Burn that fucking book.”

That sad little bonfire spoiled the rest of Victor’s afternoon. He lay on his bunk until suppertime, the blackened, curling pages vivid in his mind.

Even as he sat in the driver’s seat of the Cherokee, he could still see the title turning brown and then flaring up. He started the truck and waited for the rest of the squad to pile in.

Tito was beside him, clutching the two deeds of property. He had assembled the squad after supper and told them all to change into street clothes but to bring their automatic weapons and side arms. Lopez slid into the back seat, and a moment later Yunques.

“Let’s go,” Tito said. “I want to get this over with.”

“The left headlight isn’t working,” Victor said.

“Fix it later. Let’s go.”

The roads were pitch-dark. Driving with one headlight made Victor nervous. He kept veering to the right, where the one good light wafted over the trees.

In the confined cabin of the truck, the smell of rum was almost overpowering. Tito had spent his free time drinking in town, and now he was in a bad mood at having to cut his festivities short. When Yunques and Lopez started horsing around in the back, he screamed at them to shut up.

They drove to town in a heavy silence. They passed the Presidential Palace, where stray strands of bunting blew from the iron fence.

For the next fifteen minutes the only words uttered in the Cherokee were Tito’s barked commands of left, right here, left . Each time, he jabbed a thick finger into Victor’s line of vision. They were headed in the direction of El Playon, but before they reached the cliffs, they turned up a rutted road at the edge of a plantation.

“Easy, Pena. You’ll rip the tailpipe off this thing.”

“The road is very bad.”

“Easy!”

A mile up the road, they came to a row of shacks, corrugated tin roofs over crumbling adobe walls. The night was as beautiful as the day had been, and men were gathered in groups of three or four around kerosene lanterns in front of the shacks. They stood up at the sound of the approaching truck, their eyes flashing white in the headlights.

“Stop here. As soon as we get out, Pena, you turn this thing around to face the gate. Lopez and Yunques, you cover me. I will deal with these dogs. I want to make this quick.”

“You just want to take out the two?”

“We have orders only for the two. Two only, and to pick up the boy.”

“What boy is that?” Victor asked. Tito hadn’t mentioned any boy in the briefing after supper, but he knew he was often not told things.

“That one there will do.” He pointed to a skinny boy in a long white shirt. He had long hair and a pretty mouth that gave him a feminine look. They got out of the Jeep and Victor turned it around.

Tito leaned in the window and breathed rum over everything. “Keep the motor running.” He walked over to the gathering of men in front of the shack. The kerosene light cast deep shadows in his eye sockets and turned his face dull yellow. “I need Bartel and Perez. I have their deeds for them.”

“Bartel and Perez are not feeling well,” one of the men answered. “Perhaps too much celebrating today. I will give them their deeds.”

Tito brandished the two scrolls. “These are legal papers. They must be personally delivered. Personally delivered and personally signed for.”

“Why do you bring legal papers in the middle of the night? Why are they not in a legal office?”

“You want to make some kind of argument? You want to make trouble?”

“No. We don’t want trouble.”

“As soon as I give Bartel and Perez these papers, these men are landowners. Landowners, you understand? Haven’t you heard of Land to the Tiller?”

“Yes, I have heard of this program. These men own land now?”

“Okay, it’s nothing grand. We’re not talking about a plantation, here. Just the little acre they’ve been working. Now, are you going to let me give it to them or you going to make trouble?”

“I am right here.” It was Ignacio Perez who spoke from the doorway of the first shack.

“Senor Perez! Good to see you again! I have your deed for you. Come out into the light so everyone can see the new landowner. Soldier,” he said to Lopez. “Cuff that boy. The boy comes with us.”

“Why do you need the boy? Just give us the papers.”

“Where is your buddy Bartel?”

“Senor Bartel is sick. He has a fever. Please. Don’t take the boy.”

The boy’s mother came out and went down on her knees in front of Tito. She began begging and crying.

“Get Bartel out here now. We will give him his deed and then we will go.”

“I will give him his deed. I told you, he is sick.”

“Use your head, Perez. You want us to search house to house for this guy? People could get hurt. Houses could get destroyed. A fire might break out. Shut up, you whore.” He cracked the woman on the skull with his rifle butt, and she lay still at his feet.

Nobody moved.

Victor watched in the rear-view mirror as the one-armed Bartel was brought out, barely able to walk. His face was slick with fever.

“Bartel! Good to see you again! We have your papers for you. Your deed of property.”

Tito raised his machine gun and then casually, like a man spraying bugs, flicked his wrist once, twice, and hosed them both down.

Women screamed. Children woke crying. And men ran into the bushes.

“Yunques! Give Senor Perez his deed of ownership.”

Yunques knelt in the dirt and opened Perez’s mouth, set the scroll in it, and closed the man’s jaw on it. He did the same to Bartel. Dead legs twitched.

The road was empty. Just the soldiers and the kerosene lamps.

“Anybody else?” Tito called to the bushes. “Any other faggots out there want a little piece of land? A little piece of property to call home? No?”

Lopez shoved the boy into the back of the truck.

As the others climbed in, there was whimpering from the shacks. From the bushes, nothing but the blowing of the leaves.

On her tenth day at the little school, the woman broke. By now she was not recognizable as the defiant creature they had dragged into captivity. I have done this to her, Victor thought as he led her into the interrogation room. I have helped in this destruction.