screaming.
Adán can hear the man moaning, choking, puking, praying but saying nothing.
“Now I believe,” Navarres says, “that he doesn’t know.”
Adán feels the comandante coming close. Can smell the coffee and tobacco on the man’s breath as the federale says, “But I believe you do.”
The hood is jerked from Adán’s head, and before he can see anything, it’s replaced with a tight blindfold. Then he feels his chair being tipped backward so that he’s almost upside down, his feet at a forty-five-degree angle toward the ceiling.
“Where is Don Pedro?”
“I don’t know.”
He doesn’t. That’s the problem. Adán has no idea where Don Pedro is, although he profoundly wishes that he did. And he’s confronted with a harsh truth—if he did know, he would tell. I am not as tough as the campesino, he thinks, not as brave, not as loyal. Before I let them break my leg, before I heard that awful sound on my bones, felt that unimaginable pain, I would tell them anything.
But he doesn’t know, so he says, “Honestly. I have no idea … I am not a gomero—”
“Hm-mmm.”
This little hum of incredulity from Navarres.
Then Adán smells something.
Gasoline.
They jam a rag into Adán’s mouth.
Adán struggles, but large hands hold him down as they pour the gasoline up his nostrils. He feels as if he’s drowning and, in fact, he is. He wants to cough, to gag, but the rag in his mouth won’t let him. He feels the vomit rising in his throat and wonders if he’s going to suffocate in a mixture of puke and gasoline as the hands let him go and his head thrashes violently from side to side, and then they pull the rag out and tip the chair back up.
When Adán stops vomiting, Navarres asks him the question again.
“Where is Don Pedro?”
“I don’t know,” Adán gasps. He feels the panic rise in his throat. It makes him say a stupid thing. “I have cash in my pockets.”
The chair is tilted back, the rag shoved back in his mouth. A flood of gas goes up his nose, fills his sinuses, feels like it’s flooding his brain. He hopes it does, hopes it kills him, because this is unbearable. Just when he thinks he’s going to black out, they tilt the chair back up and take out the rag and he vomits on himself.
As Navarres screams, “Who do you think I am?! Some traffic cop who stops you for speeding?! You offer me a tip?!”
“I’m sorry,” Adán gasps. “Let me go. I will contact you, pay you what you want. Name the price.”
Back down again. The rag, the gasoline. The awful, horrible feeling of the fumes penetrating his sinuses, his brain, his lungs. Feeling his head thrashing, his torso twisting, his feet kicking uncontrollably. When it finally stops, Navarres lifts Adán’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“You little traficante garbage,” Navarres says. “You think everyone is for sale, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, you little shit—you can’t buy me. I’m not for sale. There’s no bargaining here—there’s no deal. You will simply give me what I want.”
Then Adán hears himself say something very stupid.
“Comemierda.”
Navarres loses it. Screams, “I should eat shit? I should eat shit?! Bring him.”
Adán is yanked to his feet and dragged out of the tent to a latrine, a filthy hole with an old toilet seat thrown across. Filled almost to the top with shit, bits of toilet paper, piss, flies.
The federales lift the struggling Adán and hold his head over the hole.
“I should eat shit?!” Navarres is screaming. “You eat shit!”
They lower Adán until his head is completely immersed in the filth.
He tries to hold his breath. He twists, squirms, struggles, again tries to hold his breath, but finally has to breathe in the shit. They lift him out.
Adán coughs the shit out of his mouth.
He gulps for air as they lower
Adán can hear the man moaning, choking, puking, praying but saying nothing.
“Now I believe,” Navarres says, “that he doesn’t know.”
Adán feels the comandante coming close. Can smell the coffee and tobacco on the man’s breath as the federale says, “But I believe you do.”
The hood is jerked from Adán’s head, and before he can see anything, it’s replaced with a tight blindfold. Then he feels his chair being tipped backward so that he’s almost upside down, his feet at a forty-five-degree angle toward the ceiling.
“Where is Don Pedro?”
“I don’t know.”
He doesn’t. That’s the problem. Adán has no idea where Don Pedro is, although he profoundly wishes that he did. And he’s confronted with a harsh truth—if he did know, he would tell. I am not as tough as the campesino, he thinks, not as brave, not as loyal. Before I let them break my leg, before I heard that awful sound on my bones, felt that unimaginable pain, I would tell them anything.
But he doesn’t know, so he says, “Honestly. I have no idea … I am not a gomero—”
“Hm-mmm.”
This little hum of incredulity from Navarres.
Then Adán smells something.
Gasoline.
They jam a rag into Adán’s mouth.
Adán struggles, but large hands hold him down as they pour the gasoline up his nostrils. He feels as if he’s drowning and, in fact, he is. He wants to cough, to gag, but the rag in his mouth won’t let him. He feels the vomit rising in his throat and wonders if he’s going to suffocate in a mixture of puke and gasoline as the hands let him go and his head thrashes violently from side to side, and then they pull the rag out and tip the chair back up.
When Adán stops vomiting, Navarres asks him the question again.
“Where is Don Pedro?”
“I don’t know,” Adán gasps. He feels the panic rise in his throat. It makes him say a stupid thing. “I have cash in my pockets.”
The chair is tilted back, the rag shoved back in his mouth. A flood of gas goes up his nose, fills his sinuses, feels like it’s flooding his brain. He hopes it does, hopes it kills him, because this is unbearable. Just when he thinks he’s going to black out, they tilt the chair back up and take out the rag and he vomits on himself.
As Navarres screams, “Who do you think I am?! Some traffic cop who stops you for speeding?! You offer me a tip?!”
“I’m sorry,” Adán gasps. “Let me go. I will contact you, pay you what you want. Name the price.”
Back down again. The rag, the gasoline. The awful, horrible feeling of the fumes penetrating his sinuses, his brain, his lungs. Feeling his head thrashing, his torso twisting, his feet kicking uncontrollably. When it finally stops, Navarres lifts Adán’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“You little traficante garbage,” Navarres says. “You think everyone is for sale, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, you little shit—you can’t buy me. I’m not for sale. There’s no bargaining here—there’s no deal. You will simply give me what I want.”
Then Adán hears himself say something very stupid.
“Comemierda.”
Navarres loses it. Screams, “I should eat shit? I should eat shit?! Bring him.”
Adán is yanked to his feet and dragged out of the tent to a latrine, a filthy hole with an old toilet seat thrown across. Filled almost to the top with shit, bits of toilet paper, piss, flies.
The federales lift the struggling Adán and hold his head over the hole.
“I should eat shit?!” Navarres is screaming. “You eat shit!”
They lower Adán until his head is completely immersed in the filth.
He tries to hold his breath. He twists, squirms, struggles, again tries to hold his breath, but finally has to breathe in the shit. They lift him out.
Adán coughs the shit out of his mouth.
He gulps for air as they lower
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