Jennifer Clement - Prayers for the Stolen

There was a sudden quiet in the class as one prisoner walked past toward the sunless patio. I had not seen her before, but I knew she was jailed here. Everyone in Mexico knew about her. She was a celebrity. Four or five prisoners surrounded her, guarding her. Her frizzy black hair was combed upward so it looked like a crown. She was tall and wore navy blue, but I could see it was navy-blue velvet; it shimmered like a furry spider. Her wrists were covered with gold bangles and there was a gold ring on every one of her fingers, even on each of her thumbs. The prisoner was Lourdes Rivas. Her nickname was “the nurse.” She was the wife of one of Mexico’s top politicians. She was caught stealing millions of dollars from the Red Cross, which she had run for over twenty years.

Everyone in the class turned to look at her as she walked past.

I remembered hearing about her on the news. Someone had calculated that, thanks to her theft, thousands of ambulances were not purchased and hundreds of health clinics were not built. Her house was in San Diego, California, and was filmed for a television documentary about corruption in Mexico. My mother and I had watched it. We had even seen her bathroom sinks that were made of gold.

We watched her walk past with the small army of women prisoners that she paid to keep her safe. Everyone hated her. Everyone wanted to kill her. It seemed like every Mexican had a story about an ambulance that had never arrived.

On the table Luna’s collage lay beside my empty piece of cardboard.

From the pages of Vogue, People, National Geographic , and soap-opera magazines Luna had cut out dozens of pictures of arms and had glued this collection all over her cardboard. In the middle of this mosaic of limbs, there were two infants with big blue eyes in diapers that looked as if they had been cut out from an infant formula advertisement. In the dimpled chests of both little girls, Luna had pasted red pieces of paper, cut in the shape of drops, falling from the bodies to a pool of cutout drops. They were like cutout Valentine’s Day hearts.

You killed those children? I asked. I wanted to cover my mouth and take the words back into me, but it was too late. The words were there, in the air between us, and Luna swallowed them.

Yes. I killed them. It was snip, snip, snip. Children are so soft. The knife goes right in like cake.

She answered as if she were giving me a recipe.

Were they yours?

Oh, yes, of course, Luna answered. All mine. My two little girls.

Why?

They were always hungry, Luna answered. They always wanted to go to the swings in the park and I didn’t have time for that. There are enough girls anyway. We really don’t need any more.

Prisoners began to arrive for the classes. In other areas of the room knitting and computer classes were being held.

Georgia and Violeta appeared and sat down on the empty stools beside me. Georgia was dressed in a clean and new blue sweater. She was also wearing new tennis shoes and thick, fluffy white socks that were folded over at the ankle and covered the top of her sneakers. She placed a large red box of chocolates on the table and opened it.

Good morning, Princess, Georgia said. Have some English chocolate.

The chocolates looked like brown marbles. I took one and let it dissolve in my mouth. The creamy milk chocolate coated my teeth and tongue.

Georgia loved the collage workshop because of the fashion magazines. They reminded her of the catwalk world she used to belong to back in London before she and the Cobbler, as Violeta liked to call Georgia’s boyfriend, filled up dozens of wedgies and pumps with heroin.

Violeta took the workshop very seriously. She lined up her glue and scissors with meticulous care. She had to move things around and organize her space with the pads of her thumbs because she did not want to break her long nails. Before she began, she lit up a cigarette and looked at her collage for the time it took to finish smoking the whole thing. By the end of the class she had smoked at least thirty cigarettes one after the other.

In her raspy voice she told me about her work. She told me the story of her life.

Here, she said, pointing to the far right of her collage, is the beginning of my life. See. Look. I was happy.

In this area of the cardboard Violeta had glued photographs of roses and two yellow-and-white furred kittens playing with a ball of wool.

Then my mother and my father began to fight, Violeta said and pointed at a cutout photograph of Brad Pitt, which she had used to be the image of her father.

Don’t leave out how he used to beat her, Georgia said.

He used to beat her badly, Violeta said and pointed to a photograph of an old lady from a cake-mix advertisement. The fighting went on for years and years.

Now comes the sad part, Georgia said. Get out your Kleenex.

Then I met a man, a bad man, Violet said. She pointed to the cutout image of the Marlboro man and his horse. He gave me drugs.

In the space on the collage between the Marlboro man and a cutout fire, which looked like the image of a gas explosion, Violeta had glued images of syringes and pill bottles. Under these drug images she used letters to spell out the word prostitute .

That’s what I was, she said.

After the word she had cut out dozens of men’s faces from shaving cream and shampoo ads. Among these unknown men’s faces, I could make out the face of Pelé.

If you follow the sequence of my collage, Violeta explained, you can see clearly that it was after the fire that I killed my father.

Good for you! Georgia said without looking away from her Marie Claire magazine.

Do you know that man there? I pointed to the face. That’s a photo of Pelé, the greatest football player of all time.

Are you sure?

Of course I’m sure.

Georgia peered out of her magazine and looked down at the collage. Yes, that’s him, she agreed. That’s Pelé.

Oh well, Luna added from where she sat working on the cardboard land of her lost arm and dead children.

Just cover him up with another damn face. Who the fuck cares? Georgia said.

At this moment Aurora arrived like a stray cat that creeps in and rubs up against your leg. She slid onto a stool next to Violeta and folded her arms on the table and rested her head down.

Mr. Roma stood at our table with his hands in his pockets and looked at Violeta’s collage. It’s almost finished, right? he said.

It’s just missing one part.

Oh. What’s that?

You know I’m honest, teacher. You know I’m a delinquent.

Everyone paused and looked up when Violeta said she was a delinquent. Georgia put down her magazine. Luna looked up from her collage where she was applying some fresh glue. Aurora did not move but opened her eyes and looked straight at Violeta.

You know I’m a delinquent, Violeta repeated. When I get out of here I only have one goal, one thing I am going to treat myself to. I want to eat you from head to foot. I want you in my bed, in my arms, smelling your rich, delicious essence, or, in other words, I want to have sex with you.

We looked from Violeta to Mr. Roma to see what he would say.

Yes, Violeta, he said.

I’m serious. I’ll be ringing your doorbell.

I know.

I guessed he’d heard it hundreds of times.

Mr. Roma, Violeta said, you smell like a man, a real man.

Even though Luna had placed a blank piece of cardboard in front of me at the worktable, I could not work on a collage. I could not pick up one of those blunt scissors. Just looking at them made me feel as if I were back in kindergarten.

Instead, I looked through a National Geographic magazine. I opened the pages randomly and found an article on manatees. There were five images of manatees nursing their calves. The sea animals seemed to smile as they held their infants with their flippers.