Giles Blunt - Breaking Lorca

Wyatt told them which congressmen were on the committee, who was likely to vote in what direction, and what other organizations would be likely to produce witnesses. His enthusiasm and absolute belief in the justice of his cause were hard to resist. Lorca eyed him with furtive admiration, and Victor felt a good deal of admiration himself. But as Wyatt talked on, a familiar sense of dread spread inside him like ink. The powerful presence of the man, his booming voice, his big gesticulations-even though he was a vastly different person from Captain Pena-Victor felt a similar loss of control in his presence. Once again, one fate was being sideswiped by another.

Apple pie was brought in, eliciting another fountain of hyperbole from Wyatt. Once or twice Lorca smiled at Wyatt’s remarks, flashing her broken tooth then dipping her head to conceal it. Victor felt the sting of jealousy. Yes, she really admired this man, perhaps even had a crush on him. It would not be a good time to ask her to the movies; Wyatt completely dominated the room.

This was Victor’s fantasy as they sat on at the table: If Bob did not interfere, he would gradually become closer and closer to Lorca. Eventually, he would apologize to her for the hideous things he had done to her. He would get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness. And, all things being possible in fantasy, she would forgive him. Just imagining such a moment sent a thrill of relief through him.

And then? Well, his fantasy grew cloudy beyond that point. But things were going well between him and Lorca. Things were going very well, and there was every chance that eventually …. But now this half-trained grizzly beside him was diverting the flow of events into another direction entirely: Washington, congressional hearings, sworn testimony. It boded ill for Victor, very ill, and he said a fervent prayer for Wyatt’s non-existence.

Victor worked out a plan to ask Lorca the question that he had never got to ask last time. He had been rehearsing it over and over in his head ever since. He would arrive at her brother’s office-casually, as if he had just happened to be in the area, shopping at Macy’s ….

“But where are your packages?” Lorca demanded, when he was standing in front of her desk. She was slotting files into a battered cabinet. Victor was alone with her for once; her brother was in court. “You go all the way to Macy’s and you don’t buy anything?”

“I was looking for-looking for jeans.” Nervousness made him stammer. “They didn’t have my size. They were sold out, unfortunately.”

“You are so fat, is that it? They don’t keep those gigantic sizes?” She spoke without looking at him, slamming one drawer shut and opening another.

“My problem is the opposite,” Victor went on, trying for a jaunty tone. “A thirty-two waist is very common. They sell out of this size very-”

Lorca answered the phone, informing a caller that her brother was in court and would not be available until tomorrow. She went back to her filing, and Victor tried to think of something else to say, but he was too nervous, alone with her like this.

Lorca had trouble closing the bottom file drawer. She yanked at it, and suddenly the whole drawer came free, crashing onto the floor, sending files slithering. She kicked at the cabinet, swearing violently in Spanish.

Victor knelt to pick up the drawer. He had to stack the files neatly on a couple of chairs first. Lorca was leaning back against the wall, covering her eyes with one hand.

“Objects,” he said quietly. “Objects can drive a person crazy sometimes.” He leaned past her to stack some files. He could feel the heat of high emotion from her skin. He fetched her some water, rinsing out her coffee cup at the drinking fountain down the hall. “Go on, take it.”

She took the cup from him with a distracted scowl, as if she had never seen such a mug before. Tears shone on her face. He handed her a Kleenex from a small box on the desk, and waited a few moments until she seemed calmer.

“I know it’s not a good time now, Lorca. You’re upset. But I wondered if you would like to go with me to a movie this Saturday. A comedy called Fat Tuesday .”

“No.” She took a sip of her water, put the mug down. She tore another Kleenex from the box.

“All right. Okay. Maybe another time. Maybe when you’re feeling better.”

“I’m never going to feel better, Ignacio. This is how I am. I used to be a strong person, you know? Not anymore. Now, a file cabinet can make me cry like a baby. That’s what I am. I am not going to feel better. Don’t waste your time on me. I don’t know why you would, anyway.”

“I thought you might enjoy seeing a movie. And I would enjoy your company.”

“Go away, Ignacio. You don’t want to know a person like me. I am not a person. I am a ghost.”

Victor walked to the door. He stood there for a moment with his hand on the knob. Finally he said, “I too was sentenced to death once, Lorca. I too was saved at the last minute. Why shouldn’t two ghosts see a movie together? Maybe together we would make up a whole person.”

“Please, Ignacio. Just leave me alone.”

“The movie is at six-thirty, if you change your mind. The corner of Eighth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. Not far from here.”

That was Wednesday. For the rest of the week Victor consoled himself with the thought that it was the file cabinet Lorca had been angry with, not him. Her tone with him had been-not angry, exactly-but weary. He even began to hope that she might show up at the theatre, and Saturday afternoon found him in his room at the Royal Court worrying about what he should wear.

He selected a tapered, dark brown shirt with white piping on the collar, cuffs and pockets. He had found it at the Salvation Army for five dollars-five dollars, brand new, still in the package-and a week later he had bought himself a pair of white trousers at the same place. Together, set off with a wide belt and brass buckle (also from the Salvation Army), they made him look pretty sharp.

He showered, shaved for the second time that day, and polished his shoes even though he had worn dime-sized holes in them.

He dawdled on his way down Broadway, stopping at the curbside displays of books and magazines. At one of these he examined a Louis L’Amour novel with an interesting cover. A young couple were leafing through art books at the other end of the table. They looked almost like twins: both wore white T-shirts and denim shorts, both were blond, both wore sunglasses. There was a suggestion of opulence about them. As they walked past him, the young man said, “Did you see that guy’s shirt?”

“I know,” the woman answered. “Straight out of the rodeo.”

Victor examined his reflection in a store window. That white piping everywhere-he should have realized. Only a fool would buy such a shirt. No wonder it was in the Salvation Army. Someone with better taste had got rid of it.

Lorca must see in him the same simple-minded wetback those gringos saw. He’d been kidding himself; there was no chance she would show up. A scattering of fat raindrops smacked onto the pavement, and Victor quickened his pace. To get soaked on top of everything else, that would complete the ruin of his Saturday.

As he neared the theatre, he saw Lorca coming from the opposite direction. Despite the clouds, she was wearing dark sunglasses that hid her eyes completely. Below the sunglasses, the sharp downward turn of her mouth was almost a caricature of anger. She looked like she was going to kill someone.

Victor hurried to buy the tickets so that she wouldn’t see how cheap they were. Then he waved at her and Lorca hurried toward him-responding, as always, without the faintest trace of a smile. To make her laugh, Victor thought, now that would be a real victory.