Giles Blunt - Breaking Lorca

The address on Seventh Avenue was not at all what he had expected. The term “New York lawyer” had conjured in Victor’s mind something far grander than this grubby building on this grubby corner. The plate glass of the front door was cracked, and the tiny vestibule smelt of urine. As Victor examined the roster of names peeling from the directory, his heart began to pound. One was a coward at all times and in all places, not just in wartime.

He remained poised before the directory with a sense of foreboding, the sense that he had been carried to this intersection, this building, as part of some cosmic plan, the sense that all his actions were now and always had been out of his control. The same feeling had engulfed him when he had faced the court martial. He had known from the first moment he had faced the tribunal-known with absolute certainty-that he would be found guilty, that he would be sentenced to death.

As Victor stood in the vestibule of this dirty building a world away from the little school, cowardice took hold of him once more. He turned from the roster of names and was pushing at the handle of the cracked front door when the elevator door rattled open behind him and a short, square man-a Mexican, Victor thought at first glance-came bustling out. He was wearing a rumpled shirt and tie and, seeing Victor, he clutched the tie nervously. “Are you by any chance Mr. Perez?”

Victor nodded. Perez was his name now; he had Ignacio Perez’s birth certificate to prove it, and they had been close in age. That was why Victor had stolen his papers from the Captain’s office. The actual Perez, he reasoned, was dead and buried and beyond caring.

“Mike Viera,” the man said, giving him a handshake that was damp but firm. The resemblance was obvious; he had his sister’s hollowed-out face, the same deep lines from nose to chin. “A thousand apologies. I hadn’t forgotten about you, I was just dashing out for cigarettes. My receptionist called in sick today.”

“I will come another time. When your receptionist is here.”

“No, no, please. I’ll be back instantly.”

Viera spoke English so rapidly that Victor hadn’t quite sorted out this last assurance until the lawyer was out the door. But he had no desire to converse in Spanish. Speaking English was part of being a new person; he had committed no crimes while speaking English. A new language was his best disguise.

Waiting for Viera to return, Victor stared at the chipped, discoloured tiles on the vestibule wall, the streaks on the elevator door where someone had tried to clean it with a dirty rag. He reread the names on the directory.

Viera came back, still apologizing. “I know I should quit, but I can’t seem to get up the motivation. You smoke?” he asked hopefully, peeling Cellophane wrap from a pack of Player’s.

Victor shook his head. I am Perez, he insisted to himself. Someday I will be Victor Pena again, when it is safe or when I have courage.

The sour smell of old cigarette smoke clung to everything in Viera’s office. Along one wall, a row of dented green filing cabinets looked near to collapse. Some of the drawers hung open, others were missing entirely. An armless sofa sagged against another wall, its fake leather surface strewn with dog-eared file folders in several colours. Viera’s metal desk was near the window but facing away from it. He sat behind it now and gestured at the couch. “Please, Mr. Perez. Have a seat.”

Victor sat and stared at the lights of a peep show that flashed on and off beyond Viera’s shoulder. New York lawyer . Where were the pinstripes and the wood-panelled office? Where was the wisecracking secretary? The alcoholic investigator? Next to the diplomas above the sofa hung a picture of Viera shaking hands with a slick-looking dignitary. Perhaps Seventh Avenue was a fall from earlier success.

“You wanted to talk about an immigration matter, I believe.” Viera lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. “Is it for yourself?”

“Yes. I want to become a citizen. Or to get at least a green card.” Even though the authenticity of the Perez documents was never questioned, Victor had suffered all the usual hardships of the illegal immigrant: the close calls with police or other officials who suddenly demanded identification, the search for affordable housing that turned into a search for an affordable slum, the long hunt for a job ever lower on the social scale. “If I can’t become a citizen, a green card will do.”

“It’s twenty-five dollars for the initial consultation. Cash or money order is fine.”

New York lawyer . Where was the expensive stationery? The discreet invoice? Mike Viera did not seem even a little embarrassed to state his fee, or that it was so low. Nor was he slow to accept the two crumpled tens and the five that Victor handed across the desk. He put them into his drawer, tore off a receipt, then resumed.

“Do you have any friends or family here? In the States, I mean, not just New York. Any relatives at all?”

“Relatives? No. Nobody. Well, I may know some people, but I haven’t looked for them. No relatives.”

“Is there anyone who can guarantee you won’t become a burden to the state? Someone who will pay your way if you fail to get a job or become sick?”

“No. No one like that. But I already have a job, Mr. Viera, I can look after myself.”

“We’ll get to that. For now, the state doesn’t care about facts, it cares about contingencies.” Viera smiled, as if this were a very clever way of putting it. Perhaps he did not resemble his sister so much after all. He lacked her directness; he almost certainly lacked her strength.

“Well, there is no one to support me, no.”

“That’s bad. Now, tell me: you’re not a doctor by any chance, are you?”

“A doctor?” Victor laughed. “No, I’m not a doctor.”

“A physicist or a software designer?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Victor had given his newly acquired background much thought. As an educated person of the middle class, he could never pass himself off to another Salvadoran as a peasant. But he stayed as close to the circumstances of the real Perez as possible. “I worked in the Department of Agriculture. It was my job to inform the campesinos of their rights under Land to the Tiller.”

“So it’s fair to say you are not an artist of stature? You are not about to produce letters saying you are a recognized artist? Or a writer?”

“No, I told you, I’m nothing. An administrator, maybe-not even an administrator. A social worker, maybe you could say.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to embarrass you. I have to ask these questions because Uncle Sam is very concerned that immigrants not take work away from American citizens. Certain categories of work-artists, doctors, the ones I mentioned-can be exceptions.”

“But you also are from El Salvador, by your accent. How did you get to become a citizen?”

Viera stubbed out his cigarette. “My own case is not relevant.” He sighed, stirring the ashtray with the tip of a pencil. “Unfortunately, Mr. Perez, the United States of America has no shortage of administrators or social workers. You say you have a job at this time?”

“Yes. I’m a chef’s assistant. I make the salads at a French restaurant-Le Parisien.” The owner was unpleasant and not even French, but it had taken over a month to find the job and he wasn’t going to quit it now. “I also make the desserts. You should try my chocolate mousse sometime.”

“Oh, my wife would never allow it,” Viera said, and patted his pot-belly as if it were a lapdog.

“But what if ….”

“What if what?” Viera said. “Go on.”

“What if one were persecuted in one’s home country? You know-a refugee. The United States gives sanctuary to refugees, I believe.”