Breaking Lorca

TWENTY-FIVE

The bizarre landscape of New Jersey was behind them. Victor had never travelled on an eight-lane highway before, and he found the intricate turmoil of expressways, parkways, tunnels and bridges frightening-especially at seventy miles per hour. But the vast networks of pipes and vats, the chemical smells and the whoosh and roar of eighteen-wheelers, were over now, and the road that unfurled before them was the most beautiful Victor had ever seen.

Wyatt had borrowed a car for this trip-a cramped, rusted vehicle with a bad rattle in the engine and a powder of cigarette ash and what looked like cat litter covering every surface. Lorca sat in the back, and Victor, feeling it would be rude to leave Wyatt alone up front like a bus driver, sat in the passenger seat besside him.

“It makes sense,” Victor said. “They make the roads to Washington the best possible. You have to give people a sense of importance when they drive to their capital.”

Wyatt glanced over at him. “I don’t get you.”

“We have travelled at least fifty miles, and there has not been a single hole. No patches, no dirt sections. All your highways cannot be so perfect.”

Wyatt had been uncharacteristically subdued ever since they had met at the church. He just shrugged. “Most of the interstates are pretty good.”

“Not like this, I am sure.” The surface was so smooth, the curves and inclines engineered to such perfection, they seemed to waft the car along on a cushion of air.

“Look,” Bob said, in a different tone of voice now. “What I said at the church about Graciella and the others making other travel arrangements? It’s not true. The fact is, they backed out.”

Lorca sat forward in the back seat. “Graciella is not going to testify?”

“No. None of the others is going to testify. There will be a few people coming from Los Angeles. Some from Minneapolis. But they’ll be testifying about village raids, and about the disappeared. We don’t have anyone else talking about clandestine jails. So, Lorca, your testimony is more important than ever.”

“I am the only one from our group?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I misled you.”

“You lied to us,” Victor said sharply.

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt said-quietly, for him. “I was afraid Lorca would change her mind too.”

“She has a right to change her mind. Maybe she should change her mind.”

Lorca was still leaning forward, gripping the backs of their seats. “No, I will not change. I will testify.”

“Good girl,” Wyatt said, and gave the steering wheel a light slap with his palm.

Victor cursed under his breath and looked away.

Half an hour later, Wyatt pointed at the passing landscape. The hills were bigger and deeper green, with patches of yellow and blue flowers. “This is Delaware we’re in now. One of the smaller states.”

They travelled another thirty miles or so in silence.

Then Victor felt Lorca’s hand on his shoulder, the warmth of her fingers through his shirt. He turned in the seat, and she raised her eyebrows in a quizzical expression. “What?” he asked.

But she shook her head and said, “Nothing. Nothing at all.” And sat back to watch the green parade of hills, the dark clouds gathering above them.

“This is Maryland,” Wyatt announced a while later. “Richest state in the union. Great for sailing-not that I’ve ever been sailing. Hope that rain holds off till we get off the highway.”

Victor fixed his eyes on the interstate’s vanishing point that shifted with each hill, each curve. “Perhaps I will write something out, Bob. Something for the hearing.”

“Write what? Instead of testifying, you mean?”

“I could tell them what I did at the little school.”

“If you want to testify, Ignacio, just testify. A piece of paper isn’t going to do it.”

“Why not? It is the same as the things I would say.”

“It’s not, I’m afraid. The committee allows written testimony, but it’s not as effective. They can’t question a piece of paper. They can’t test its credibility.”

“But suppose there was another witness. Another person who saw all of the things I wrote down. Who could say, ‘Yes, this happened. Yes, that happened.’ Who could swear that every word I wrote was true.”

“They could corroborate it, you mean. That would help. That might work.”

“What do you mean?” Lorca said from the back seat. “There was another prisoner with you? Someone who will give evidence before the committee?”

“There was someone there. Someone who can testify to the truth of what I write. I don’t want to say any more right now.”

“But there’s only the two of us, Bob said. Who else do you know?”

“It’s not a soldier, is it?” Wyatt asked hopefully.

“No. Not a soldier.”

“Man, that’s what we really need. A Guardia deserter. Someone who knows all about these jails from the other side. That would blow this thing wide open.”

There was some confusion at the hotel, which was a Quality Inn high up on Connecticut Avenue. Only one room had been booked for the three of them, and it took Wyatt twenty minutes to straighten things out. Victor and he ended up sharing a room on the third floor; Lorca got a corner room at the end of the hall.

Although the room was very plain, all of the furnishings looked new. “Have you seen the bathroom?” Victor asked Wyatt with excitement. “Take a look at it.”

Wyatt dropped some socks into a drawer and went to look. “What about it?”

“It’s so clean! I’ve never seen such a clean place.”

“Hotels are like that, Ignacio.”

“And they have put soap and shampoo out for us. Isn’t that nice?”

“Real thoughtful. I better check in with security. Told them we’d be here by noon, and it’s nearly three now.” Wyatt was already dialing the phone.

Victor went down the hall and knocked on Lorca’s door.

“Ignacio, look at this place!” Lorca’s corner room was three times the size of the other. “Have you ever seen a bed this big? It’s like something for a giant. Two giants.”

“Truly. That is a big bed.”

Lorca had pulled the covers back, so that the crisp white sheets resembled an acre of snow. She knelt on the white expanse and trailed her fingers over the material as if it were a tapestry.

“Bob and I have two normal beds. Very good quality, though.”

“Come and try it.” She patted the bed, and he sat beside her. The bedspread, he saw, had been draped over a large mirrored vanity. Noticing his glance, she said, “I hate mirrors. I don’t like to see myself.” She lay back, propped against four pillows.

Victor lay on his side. He was about to touch her when she pointed at the windows. “I have a balcony too. Do you have a balcony?”

“Yes. A small one.”

Lorca jumped up and pulled back the balcony door; a damp gust blew in, carrying sounds of traffic and the smell of imminent rain. Victor joined her outside. The hotel faced another hotel across the street-much bigger and grander than the one they were in. “Very nice,” he said. “Bob says the White House is on the other side of those hills. The White House, can you imagine?”

“The White House,” she said softly. “It sounds so pretty.”

“Bob says we can take a tour. They let people visit.”

“The map says there is a zoo just up the street, too. I think I would rather go to the zoo.”

To the east, storm clouds had massed into a dark wall. The wind tugged at Lorca’s hair, flicking strands across Victor’s face. He stood behind her, placing his hands on either side, gripping the guardrail. “Now you’re trapped,” he said, but she didn’t move.

“Are you really going to write about what happened to you at the little school?”

“Yes. Tonight, I will write it all down.”

“Why don’t you just testify, Ignacio? That is much simpler, no?”

“Perhaps I will testify. I have to work myself up to it. Writing things down may help.” The first heavy raindrops hit the balcony. By this time tomorrow, Victor thought, she will hate me. This was the way it should be; it had been stupidity to expect anything else. “I love you,” he said in Spanish. “Te amo.”

Lorca stiffened slightly, saying nothing. She raised an arm and pointed to a black bird that hovered in the air, hanging motionless on an updraft. Victor kissed her hair, so gently she did not feel it.

She said something he did not hear.

“What was that? What did you say?”

“Si muero,” she repeated. If I die.

“Don’t worry, sweet one. You are not going to die.”

“Si muero,” she said again. “Dejad el balcon abierto.” If I die, leave the balcony open.

“You are not going to die. Not while I am here. I promise.” This might even be true, he realized with a kind of wonder. He would rather die than see her harmed again. Was this where bravery had its roots, then, in love?

“It is a poem, Ignacio. A poem by the real Lorca-Feder ico Garcia. ‘Si muero, dejad el balcon abierto’!”

Goosebumps had formed all up her arms.

“You are cold,” Victor said. “We should go inside.”