Daniel Alarcón - At Night We Walk in Circles

It was true that Rogelio couldn’t read or write, but that said more about his schooling than it did about him. His attorney assured him that his ignorance would work to his benefit at trial. “And don’t go learning,” he told Rogelio, without clarifying if this cynical piece of advice was meant seriously or as a joke. In any case, it didn’t matter, since Rogelio would die before having an audience with a judge.

When Henry arrived in Collectors, Rogelio had been waiting more than eighteen months for the hearing in his case. Waiting, that is, for an opportunity to affirm that he was a victim, that he knew nothing about the laws of the country, that he’d never been educated, and could not, therefore, be held accountable. He’d laugh as he said these things to his new cell mate. They were neither exactly true nor exactly false, but when he rehearsed his testimony aloud in their cell, Henry was more than convinced. He was seduced.

That would come later, and almost by accident; at first, they were friends. But even before that, they were strangers. Henry’s family had tried to arrange a private cell, but none were available. He knew he should be grateful for what he had — many others were in far worse condition — but under the circumstances, he found it difficult to muster much gratitude. For the first few days, he hardly stirred. He didn’t register Rogelio’s face or his smile, and he knew nothing of his new home, beyond what he’d managed to glean on that initial terrifying walk. Henry was given the top bunk, and for three days he slept long hours, or pretended to sleep, facing the wall. Thinking. Remembering. Trying to disappear. He didn’t eat, but he felt no hunger. The night of his arrest had been cataloged, divided into an infinite series of microevents: he remembered each flubbed line of the performance, the expressions on the faces of the audience members who’d expected and hoped for better, every heated word that had been exchanged immediately after the show between him, Diana, and Patalarga. Could any of those details shift slightly, just enough to alter the outcome? Was there a light revision one could make to that evening’s script so that it would not end with him — he was Henry Nuñez, for God’s sake! — here, in Collectors?

Those three days, Rogelio, with whom he’d hardly spoken, came and went, seemingly uninterested and unconcerned by Henry’s well-being. But by the fourth day, Rogelio had had enough. He tapped Henry on the back.

“You’re allowed to get up, you know.”

These were his first words, and Henry could hear the smile with which his cell mate had said them. As a director, he’d often found himself exasperated with the performance of an anemic actor who refused to bring his character to life. He’d say, “I want you to recite this line with a fucking smile! I want to be able to close my eyes and hear you smiling!”

Now Henry turned.

“You’re alive,” Rogelio said.

“I guess.”

“You can get up. You can walk around. You can talk to people. This isn’t solitary confinement. People live here, you know. If you’re going to stay, you’re going to have to realize that.”

That afternoon Henry took his first real walk through the block. He met a few people who would later become friends, or something like friends; and he saw much to remind him of the danger he was in. There were men covered in scars and blurry tattoos, men whose faces seemed congenitally unable to smile, men who locked eyes with him, and spat on the ground. When he shuddered, they laughed.

Rogelio wasn’t talkative, but he was helpful, and explained many things that day. According to him, Henry was lucky — it was clear he wouldn’t have to work (“You’re rich, aren’t you?” Rogelio asked), but almost everyone else inside did. Rogelio did plumbing, repaired broken plastic chairs (he shared a workshop on the roof with a few other men), and made pipes out of bent metal scraps, which he sold to the junkies. The junkies were everywhere, a miserable lineup of half-dead who roamed the prison, offering sex or blood or labor for their fix. Rogelio wasn’t proud of this work, but without it, he wouldn’t survive. His brother sent money only occasionally, enough to cover the cost of the cell and little else. Otherwise he was on his own. His mother hadn’t even come to visit, he said, and though his voice was firm as he spoke, Henry could tell this weighed on him.

Neither Henry nor Rogelio owned the cell where they slept. It belonged to the boss, Espejo, who made extra money on visiting days by renting it out so that men could be alone with their wives. Those days will be difficult, Rogelio warned. They’d have to be out of doors all day, and in the evening, the room smells different, and feels different. You know someone has made love there, and the loneliness is infinite.

Henry nodded, though he couldn’t understand; would not understand, in fact, until he had to live through it himself. There was a lot to learn. There were inmates to steer clear of, and others whom it was dangerous to ignore. There were moments of the day when it was safe to be out; others when it was best to stay inside. The distinction didn’t depend on the time, but on the mood, which Henry would have to learn to read, if he hoped to survive.

“How do you read it?” Henry asked.

Rogelio had a difficult time explaining. It involved listening for the collective murmur of the yard, watching the way certain key men — the barometers of violence in Block Seven — carried themselves on any given day. Small things: Did they have their arms at their sides or crossed in front of them? How widely did their mouths open when they talked? Could you see their teeth? Were their eyes moving quickly, side to side? Or slowly, as if taking in every last detail?

To Henry, it sounded impossible.

Rogelio shrugged. “Remember that most of us here are scared just like you. When I first came, I didn’t have a cell. If there was trouble, I had nowhere to go.”

They were sitting in a corner of the yard, beneath a dull gray winter sky. The light was thin, and there were no shadows. Henry had been inside a month now, and still didn’t understand quite how it had happened. Nowhere to go — he understood these words in a way he never could’ve before. He wrote letters to his sister every day, but they were cheerful, utterly false dispatches that didn’t account for the gloom he felt, or the fear. His letters were performances, stylized and essentially false outtakes of prison life. Inside he was despairing: This is what it means to be trapped . To be frightened, and to be unable to share that fear with a single soul.

“You’ll get it,” said Rogelio. “It just takes time.”

The frenetic daily exchange of goods and services went on about them. Two men waited to have their hair cut, sharing the same day-old newspaper to pass the time. A pair of pants, a couple of sweaters, and T-shirts stolen from some other section of the prison were on sale, the items hanging on a line strung between the posts of one of the soccer goals. Three junkies slept sitting up, with their backs against the wall, shirtless in the cold. Henry saw these men, and felt even colder.

“Where did you sleep back then?” he asked. “Before you had a cell.”

“Beneath the stairs,” Rogelio said, laughing at the memory. “But look at me now!”

Henry did look.

His new friend had a bright smile, and very large brown eyes. His skin was the color of coffee with milk, and he was muscular without being imposing. His clothes were mostly prison scavenged, items left by departing men, appropriated by Espejo or some other strongman, and then sold. Nothing fit him well, but he seemed unbothered by it. He kept his black hair very short, and wore a knit cap most of the time, pulled down low, to stay warm. These dark winter days, he even slept with it on. His nose was narrow, and turned slightly to the left; and he had a habit of talking low, with a hand over his mouth, as if sharing secrets, no matter how mundane an observation he might be making. His eyes sparkled when he had something important to say.