Arturo Fontaine: La Vida Doble

The shouts wake me up, the questions, blows from a rubber hose on my thighs, on my arms, my stomach; more shouting. “Go on, Rat, turn it up, shit! This fucking cocksucker still hasn’t understood anything. .” His booming voice moves into me and fills me up as if I were an empty balloon. He doesn’t have a face or body, only that booming voice that’s connected to the instruments connected to my body in pain. The next charge hits hard. I am a sack that takes on shape according to his orders. I am a glove that fits his hand, mere femininity waiting for the structuring vector, the solid rod. The metal springs that wound my raw back, the gag that steals my animal cries, my piglike squeals — because that’s what they’ve turned me into, a sow that squeals with her snout muzzled as they set about killing her. The jolt makes me howl again behind the rag and my body thrashes; then it is onslaught, shit, convulsions.

I enter into a petrified state, far removed from myself. I see myself as a child at the seaside in El Quisco, I smell the salt on the breeze, I see the reflections of light on the water as it washes over the sand, I hear the soft whisper of the foam near my feet. . All this happens fast, very fast, and it’s as if it is hanging outside me. As if parts of me were breaking off, parts of my memory, and the person I had been could now observe me from outside. Because I’m going, that’s what I tell myself; this is dying, I tell myself, and I wander unstuck from my body, and it’s a relief to die. . A bucket of freezing water wakes me, frightened, and I’m back in my body. They won’t let me die.

The other one is talking, the serene one, the one with the falsetto voice. It pacifies me. I wonder if the “truth serum” has softened me or given me some kind of brain damage. My heart is pounding. It’s hard to breathe. That scares me. He wants to know if I know Bone. I tell him no. I’m exhausted and it feels better to tell the truth. My thirst is desperate. He asks me if Canelo knew Bone. I tell him I’m not sure, that I think maybe he did, but he never talked to me about him. The other one, the one with the hoarse voice, starts to laugh. “Fuck this whore. I’m bored, Gato.” And that’s how I found out they called him Gato. “The contact above is Canelo, dead; the contact below, a man reading Las Últimas Noticias in the Café Haití who was never even at the fucking Café Haití. This one’s trained, man, can’t you tell? She’s a trained terrorist. . She’s carrying a Beretta when we pick her up, after a robbery and shootout where three men died, she’s got thirty thousand stolen dollars on her, but no, she doesn’t know anything. . This fucking bitch is squeezing our balls, man. And it’s fine if she wants to touch them, but I don’t want the bitch counting up the wrinkles. .” Laughter, several masculine laughs. I want to placate them and I think: How? And him: “I’m bored. She’s all yours, Gato. You know where I’ll be. Bye.”

A door slams.

Then the calm voice became nervous and told me that Ronco, and that’s how I found out they called him “Ronco,” was crazy, capable of anything, you know; that Ronco was one to watch out for, see? He was out of control; I had to be responsible; I was going to regret this later; that all this effort and suffering, see, was for nothing, nothing.

They make me sit down again. The same woman helps me. Then Gato, in his calm falsetto voice, asks me why in our newsletters there is never a photo of Bone and there are so many photos, but all almost the same one, of Commander Joel. Gato doesn’t insult me. It’s a question I wasn’t expecting. I don’t know how to answer. “Didn’t Canelo ever tell you what commander Joel Ulloa looked like? And you want us to think you’re not lying to us. And he never described Bone to you? Why don’t you just talk, already?” he insists in his soft little voice. “Why not? What difference does it make? We’re all in this together, don’t you think?”

I let out a “No!” I say: “It’s not true! Your side doesn’t have ideals. We’re fighting for a world. . a new world. Your side is only fighting so that we don’t win.” Silence. That silence frightens me. From a distance, as if I were hearing it from underwater, it seems like a door opens. I’m sitting, naked, on a hard chair. I must have been some three steps away from the bed frame. He repeats:

“Did Canelo ever meet Commander Joel?”

“I don’t know. I assume so.”

It was the pure and simple truth.

“But you didn’t?”

“No.”

It was hard for him to believe. I was tricking him, he told me. “How do you keep the allure, the unity, of a movement that never meets with its highest leaders? The members of a cell are contacted by the head of the group, and sometimes, they only meet to go over a mission and, later, during the operation itself. OK. We know that. But the leaders of the movement, how can they lead if no one or almost no one ever sees them or meets them in person? You could all be a shadow movement that Central agents invented. .” He laughs.

A crash in my ears. I’m stunned. No. Two simultaneous, awful blows have fallen, one on each ear. I take a step. My eardrums are buzzing terribly and I lose my balance. I’m blind and deaf. The room comes unmoored and spins away from me. I can’t find the chair. Something. . something sudden and horrible.

I’m terrified. Why did I stand up? Someone came up behind me and I didn’t hear it. I’m confused. I’m going to fall down. I feel nauseated. If I could only sit down. Where? I’m lost. No. Now I start to retch. I’m no good to them anymore. They must be looking at my exposed flesh, dirty, foul smelling, doomed. Why is that woman trying to put clothes on me? These men have seen my breasts that I used to find pleasing and that some men, like Rodrigo, found marvelous, and my deep belly button, and my long legs with their soft skin that I used to care for with lotion, and my behind, my good-looking ass that was still high and firm. But now I don’t feel like covering myself with anything. Because I’m nothing else besides my body, and they have subdued my body and turned it against me. By dressing me, they only humiliate me again, because they’ve had me naked.

I think while they put shoes on me. I think, hooded, trying to think. Or maybe I don’t think. But I believe I’m thinking about something or feeling something. That’s why I tell myself: I’m still alive. Surely I think: What’s going to happen now? They’re taking me out of here. There is an abrupt change in the temperature. It’s cold. Are we outside? My legs won’t respond. They pick me up. They carry me.

I don’t hear the sound of cars. It must be the middle of the night. I hear a turn signal. I think it comes from the front of the car. They’ve thrown me into the back of a van. I don’t hold out any hope. That is to say, I do. A change. That’s something in itself. I am terribly thirsty. I should count so I can figure out where they take me. That’s what we’ve been taught to do. One, two, three. . twenty-four, twenty-five. . At some point I get distracted and lose count. I think I got to seventy-eight. I think. It’s useless at this point. It’s all useless. I am terribly thirsty. We’re going up and the car barely slows down at what, I assume, must be corners. Silence. We stop. A red light, I say to myself. The handcuffs bother me. I try to rub my head against something so the blindfold will loosen, but it doesn’t work. Suddenly, a dry bump and we’re on a dirt road. We go up a steep incline. The van stops, but no one gets out. Now we’re moving more slowly; the road is full of holes and the van jounces like a cocktail shaker. The nausea comes back. We’ve arrived, it seems. I hear voices outside. The van is stopped with the motor still running. They keep talking. I should be afraid. I’m very thirsty. Are they debating? Impossible. This was decided before they took me out. What can they be discussing? What they should do with my body? But that must also be decided beforehand.