Giles Blunt - Breaking Lorca

“God,” Wyatt said. “The committee needs to hear about this.” He produced a box of Kleenex from somewhere and held it out to Victor.

The woman who had made the accusation was sulking now, arms folded tightly across her chest. Victor was astonished at the lies he had told, the amount of detail. He had not planned it. It was as if sheer wanting to have been on Lorca’s side had convinced him it was so.

Lorca was looking at him, her mouth open a little and an expression in her scorched-out eyes that Victor had never seen before.

“You think you did something wrong, don’t you,” Wyatt said. “You think by playing along with them, by playing their game, you committed a terrible evil.”

“I did,” Victor said bitterly. “It was a terrible evil. You don’t know.”

“No, Ignacio. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. It’s the people who did these things to you-the Guardia-they are the evil ones. Not you.”

Around the room, pale, shaken faces nodded agreement. As Victor lowered himself to his seat, Lorca put her arms around him. Her breath was hot and moist on his neck.

Monday nights were always slow at the restaurant. Victor had already read both the New York Post and the Daily News , and now he was trapped in his kitchen cubicle with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. He stood with arms folded, reading the labels on his packages of flour and oil and icing sugar over and over again. From time to time curses came from the main part of the kitchen, where Fidel was listening to a baseball game.

In desperation, Victor set about reorganizing the utensils on his wall rack. But this could not distract him from the feeling that he had compounded his evil by provoking Lorca’s sympathy under false pretences. It was one thing to simply not tell her the truth; it was another to get up in front of a crowd and actively pretend to be a victim. He had no right to any sympathy from Lorca. Victor considered fleeing: he could disappear one night and leave no forwarding address. Still a coward, he thought. Still running away.

He could not continue his deception much longer. Lorca’s new look of tenderness was unbearable, almost worse than any anger could have been. Sooner or later he would have to reveal himself, and the outcome would be the same as running away: he would never see her again. He imagined the horror on her face when he told her. She would spit on him.

The owner appeared at the kitchen door. “Someone here for you, Ignacio. A woman.”

Fidel, the chef, let out a whoop. “Ignacio has a girlfriend! Ignacio has a girlfriend! Bring her back here for all of us to see.”

Victor ignored him.

“This woman must be blind or crazy!” Fidel shouted after him. “You give her one for me, eh?”

The dining room looked deserted. The bartender had gone home, and the owner was entering the night’s paltry receipts into a ledger. A last couple lingered in a corner banquette, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. Their waiter stood nearby, leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed.

Lorca hung back, just inside the entrance, as if fearing she would be thrown out. “I could not sleep,” she said. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble by coming here.”

“No, no. It’s okay. It’s fine.”

She raised her eyebrows at the banquettes, the rich tablecloths. “You never told me you worked in such a high-class place.”

“Oh, yes,” said Victor. “Very high-class.” I will tell her everything tonight, he thought. As soon as there is a good moment.

It was midnight, it was Monday, and it was raining. The avenues were busy, but the cross streets were slick and deserted. A faint mist clung in webs to the street lights. Victor and Lorca walked several blocks in silence, Victor trying to work up his courage to speak. But he began to sense that Lorca too was working herself up to something, and he decided to let her speak first.

They were heading west toward Sixth Avenue, without having discussed where they were going. They crossed the avenue, and when they reached the far corner, Lorca suddenly stopped. Somewhere in the shadows a bottle smashed.

“What’s wrong? Was there somewhere special you wanted to go?”

Lorca curled one hand around his neck and kissed him. Her tongue darted between his lips and out again. “I want to go home with you. Will you take me to your apartment?”

“I thought you didn’t want to be kissed,” Victor said, feeling a foolish grin spreading across his face.

“I was mistaken,” she said earnestly. “Will you take me to your famous Royal Court?”

“We can go there, if you want.”

“You don’t want me to come?”

“No, no, of course I do. It is not the most pleasant place, that’s all.”

“I have seen worse places, I am sure.”

Silence claimed them once more for the walk uptown. Victor became more nervous with each block.

“I will make some tea for us,” he said when they were inside. He didn’t want tea, he didn’t even like tea; but it was an excuse to turn his back to her, to hide his nervousness by fiddling with the kettle and the hot plate.

Lorca stood in the middle of his single room, looking around. Victor was acutely aware of the peeling paint, the mildewed rug he had found on the street. “How much you pay for this place?”

“A hundred and fifty a week.”

“Ignacio, you have no kitchen. And where is the bathroom?”

“Down the hall. Believe me, for Manhattan this is not such a bad deal.”

Lorca sat down on the bed. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about rent.”

“No. And I don’t want any tea.”

Victor switched off the hot plate and stood with hands on hips, facing her. He felt like a trapped chess piece, unable to move without causing loss.

“I don’t blame you for hesitating,” Lorca said. “I know I am ugly.”

“Don’t say that. I think you are beautiful.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh.

Victor sat beside her on the bed. “You are very beautiful. It’s the truth.” He held her hand, stroking her forearm. He felt the ridged scar on her wrist.

“Don’t look,” she said. “It’s ugly.”

He held his hand over the old wound as if he could soothe it. He traced the jagged scar with his thumb.

“It was handcuffs. They were so proud of these handcuffs. Like children with a new toy.”

He remembered the blood coursing down her body, the scarlet pool on the floor.

She stood up. “Ignacio, would you close your eyes, please? I’m going to get undressed. I don’t want you to see me.”

Victor turned over on his side and faced the wall. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm himself. She thinks she loves me, he thought. Lorca thinks she loves me, because she believes I suffered. That would be in her character. After all, it had been the suffering of another, and not her own, that had finally broken her at the little school. He pressed up against the wall so she could slip under the covers.

“Does it have to be so bright in here?” she asked. She had pulled the covers up, almost completely hiding her face.

Victor switched off the light and got undressed. Street light poured through the window, bathing the room in a cool metallic glow. Lorca turned on her side, facing the wall, when he got under the covers. He put a hand on her shoulder, feeling the small muscles tense.

After a time he exerted a gentle pressure, pulling on her shoulder. “Lie back.” The command was gently expressed, but it was still a command, and it seemed to hang in the room like a garish sign.

Lorca hesitated, then lay back against the pillow, clutching the covers up to her chin.

“Let go.” His voice was nearly a whisper. He stroked her forehead with one hand as he spoke. “I want to see your body, Lorca. I want to see your beautiful body.”