Tango (33 page)

William at first felt paralysingly vulnerable, but when he looked at Theresa the feeling left him. She stood simply, passively, unembarrassed. She already had a dignity that made the soldiers at
her side uneasy about holding her. Their hands rested lightly on her arms and the one who was going through her clothes looked awkward.

William’s clothes they went through vigorously and carelessly. A soldier threw his trousers and underpants across to him and the one in charge ordered him to put them on. When he had done
so he looked again at Theresa. They had done nothing with her. He was held apart from her as if they were two people who had been caught fighting. When he tried to catch her eye the soldiers pulled
him back by the arms and pushed him towards the door. He turned and this time caught her eye. She gazed at him without expression or recognition, as if she were not fully recovered from an
anaesthetic. Four of the soldiers stayed with her, the other two pulled William roughly by the arms. The door closed on her.

When they left the building a blanket was thrown over his head and he was made to walk stooping, his arms pushed up behind his back. All he could see was his bare feet on the wet cobbles. It was
raining heavily. His head felt the drops through the blanket and the wind flapped its edges against his legs.

He was pushed into a vehicle and made to sit with his head between his knees. It was uncomfortable and whenever he tried to raise his head a hand pushed it down again. No one spoke. The vehicle
lurched frequently and the gearbox whined. He listened to every change in noise, tried to judge from each change in direction where they were going – he assumed the palace but couldn’t
tell. He wasn’t at all frightened. What was happening to him seemed of little account; it was only him. His thoughts remained with Theresa, with her muted, submerged look, and the four
soldiers.

The car stopped twice in quick succession, then moved slowly over rough ground and stopped again. There were voices and the sound of rain on the roof. A hand was pressed on the back of his head,
keeping it down. After some time he was made to get out. His feet were on rough ground and, just beyond the edge of the blanket, he could see rain spattering into a puddle. Someone took his arm and
he was pushed forward. The ground hurt his feet, he banged his toes on stones and slipped in mud. The soldiers took no account of his difficulties, treading confidently in their boots. Only when
they reached a small flight of brick steps did they make allowances, waiting for him to feel with his feet from one step to the next.

They were in a building, brightly lit and with cold green lino. Mud trickled from his wet feet. Doors opened and closed and there were voices giving orders; then he was pushed forward again,
this time with someone holding the blanket so that he could not see even the floor any more. Once, and then again a few yards further on, they used his head to open swing doors. The lino ended and
they went down steps of brick or stone, then along another corridor with more lino. A telephone rang. They approached and then passed it before stopping abruptly and turning in through a door.

This was a room with different lino. No one was touching him and he stood as he had been left, bowed in the blanket. There was some coming and going, then the blanket was pulled off and he was
told to stand up. It was a green-painted functional room with a radiator, a filing cabinet, a desk and chair and a blanked-out metal window. On one wall was a photograph of Carlos, beneath it
photographs of the generals.

For a moment he thought he was alone but when he tried to turn round, his shoulder was pushed roughly forward. An officer came into view and sat at the desk. He was younger than William and
looked like Ricardo.

‘Undress,’ he said.

William took off his trousers and underpants. He saw then that two soldiers stood behind him. They were very young and looking precociously solemn. He had the feeling that both the officer and
the soldiers were embarrassed by him. He felt vulnerable but not frightened. His vulnerability was complete, he was defenceless, there was no room for pretence. He felt this gave him a strength
which his captors, who had everything to protect, lacked.

‘Face the wall and bend over,’ said the officer. ‘Right down.’

Before his glasses fell off William could see between his legs that the man was still sitting at his desk. One of the soldiers took the glasses away. There was then a face between his legs and a
pair of thumbs pulled his buttocks apart and examined his anus with a torch. He had to force himself not to clench his buttocks. The torch was switched off and the face disappeared.

‘Stand up,’ said the officer.

William stood and went to turn round but was pushed back to face the wall. He could hear movements behind him. The blanket was thrown over his head and he was made to stoop again. A hand took
him by the arm and pulled him towards the door.

There was more lino, more descending stairs, then a cold damp concrete floor and finally a cell. He was pushed in, the blanket was pulled off and the door closed in one movement. The cell was
bare and the walls again were green, the paintwork marked and smeared reddish-brown in places. A single bright light was flush with the ceiling behind wire mesh. Panels of dark glass were set in at
the top of two of the walls, behind which it was just possible to make out camera lenses. The only furniture was a three-legged stool.

The cell was cold and smelled damp. William was more conscious of his nakedness now than when he had been in the office with the soldiers. He walked the perimeter, trying to see whether the
camera lenses followed him, but his eyes were not good enough. His feet were very cold. He sat on the stool, testing it first, and put his feet on the bottom rung. He became colder. Next he
squatted on his feet on the stool, which had by then been warmed. It was uncomfortable and he was about to get off when the door opened and the two soldiers rushed in. He stepped clumsily backwards
off the stool. They snatched it away and went out, slamming the bolts home. He resisted the urge to look up at the cameras and continued pacing the room. After some time he sat on the floor with
his back against the wall; it was very hard and very cold. He pulled his knees up to his chest and put his arms around them but soon started to shiver, so he got up and began pacing again. It was
four paces one way and three and a half the other. He thought again of the woman who had walked from Russia to Paris in her cell.

He had no idea how much time passed. It didn’t
feel
long, but there was nothing by which to judge – no sounds, no change in light. It might have been very little time, since
he was neither hungry nor thirsty nor conscious of his bladder. He would worry about that when it happened. He began to feel that despite the cold, the confinement and the bleakness of his future,
he had a kind of freedom. All that might have worried and concerned him had fallen away, leaving what was essential. He still wasn’t sure what that was but felt he was beginning to find it
out. Perhaps he was to suffer greatly. There was nothing he could do about that. It would happen when it would. Even thoughts of what might be happening to Theresa, what was happening to Ricardo,
what had happened to Box were more bearable now that he was locked up and helpless. He wished they could know he was there and how he felt about them. He would have liked Box to know, too; he
couldn’t really believe he would not.

He sat against the wall again, tired but not sleepy. The cold put sleep out of the question, anyway. Time passed. It was odd to have no measure of it. He could recall no occasion in his adult
life when he had not any idea of the passing of time – no possibility, ever, of dusk or dawn. He realised how his day was hourly parcelled out, how he lived life like someone on a boat, so
busy taking bearings he had no time for sea or sky.

His bladder recalled him and with nothing else to hold his attention, the desire grew stronger. It was not yet as bad as when he had been in the medical centre and he was determined not to let
it get that far. Perhaps he was meant to go on the floor. He got up and knocked on the door.

It was opened abruptly. They must be watching his every movement. ‘I want to go to the toilet,’ he said unthinkingly in English.

The two soldiers stared. He repeated it in Spanish. They threw the blanket over his head, pulled his arms behind his back and pushed him out along the corridor. They came to a junction where he
had to step up, but before he could do so they stopped him.

‘Lie down,’ ordered one.

‘I want to go to the toilet.’

His arms were twisted and yanked upwards, forcing him to his knees. He lay down on the stone floor, his top half still covered by the blanket. He wanted to urinate more urgently now, and not
only that. Perhaps they were going to make him do it there. Perhaps they were going to torture him or pull his legs apart and kick him. The thought made his buttocks quiver, though he did not feel
fear. He felt detached from himself. His chin rested painfully on the concrete and his eyes focused on the tiny ridges an inch or two away. He felt he was more vividly aware of detail than he had
ever been.

A door banged. There was some grunting, a few muttered words and the sound of something being dragged along the corridor in front of him. As it came closer he heard boots on concrete and heavy
breathing with, amidst it, whimpering. The sounds passed, another door banged and there was silence.

‘Get up,’ said one of the soldiers.

The toilet had neither door nor seat but it was clean and there was paper. The two soldiers stood and watched.

Back in the cell there was only cold and silence. No doubt if they made him cold enough, tired enough and hungry enough for long enough he would give in, whatever that involved, but he felt that
by then it wouldn’t really be him who was surrendering: it would be what was left. Everything good and strong would have been used up.

Yet it was the past that interested him more than the future, particularly now that all his past should have come down to this. Until now he had simply drifted with the current. Job, marriage
and South America had followed each other as one thing after another. Similarly, involvement with Theresa, Box and Carlos. He had initiated nothing, had just let it happen. It was the same with
Sally. He had been considerate of her but not really attentive to her. Now, quite suddenly, he was washed up on a rock. Other currents swept onwards, but his had stopped. What was left were
memories and the impressions of personality, particularly of those who had given of themselves. They left more behind. For him it had all just been easy or fun or desirable. It had become serious
with
Señor
Finn. That was when he was first faced with consequence.

The cell now seemed the result of his whole life, not only of the past few days. Layers of habit and illusion, years of accretion, had fallen away with his clothes. He felt that at last he might
know where to begin again, if he were permitted.

‘
Estupido.
You are stupid,
Señor
Wooding, and you are dangerous. Stupid people are more dangerous than clever people. They do things so stupid
that no one would think of them, and sometimes they nearly work.’

Manuel Herrera sat behind the desk with his hands resting on his chest and his fingertips just touching. He looked tired. It was the office in which William had been searched. William stood
before him, still naked, but flanked by two different soldiers. It was much later but he did not know how much; he assumed it was day. He felt hungry, weak, cold and tired.

Manuel looked at William’s body. ‘Why do you let yourself get so fat?’

William did not answer. It was another rhetorical question. He was there to be lectured, perhaps condemned, but not interrogated. So far it seemed they knew all he knew.

‘And because of your stupidity and the stupidity of those who sent you, other gullible stupid people get themselves into trouble. All your people in the tango club, little turncoat
Ricardo, the president’s whore – they will all suffer because of you. Treason is a capital offence here, like espionage. It is not necessary to involve the courts since it is the
prerogative of the People’s Party to decide punishment. All these others will suffer because you did the bidding of your British spy master. Even the British Embassy acknowledges the
stupidity of the affair. They have told us it was nothing to do with them and clearly they do not approve.’

That meant it must be day, thought William. Getting some idea of the time was a small triumph. ‘The people at the club were nothing to do with it, they didn’t know.’

‘That is not possible. It was arranged with them.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘Who knew, then?’

‘Box and me.’

‘Plus at least two. One is too important to be punished and is saying he now regrets his foolishness. The other has got what she deserves.’ Manuel smiled. He added that Ricardo would
also get what he deserved and that El Lizard was being foolishly intractable, trying to deny everything. So were some of the girls. He hoped William would be more cooperative than his colleagues
and would feel able to recall, without too much persuasion, the whereabouts of Box’s secret transmitter.

Manuel’s tone as he said that Theresa had got what she deserved, his playful little smile, distilled all William’s feelings into one. It was a feeling as definite and intoxicating as
desire, an illicit release from the sense, if not the fact, of responsibility. He would do something at last, something all his own. Before he died, he would kill Manuel Herrera. He was as certain
of that as Theresa had been that things would not work out. He wanted to tell Manuel, to watch his expression change, but instead he said, ‘I don’t know where he hid his transmitter. I
know he had one, but he was very security-conscious. He only told me what he thought I needed to know.’

Manuel nodded. ‘Maybe. He did seem to go to great lengths – unnecessary and futile lengths. A strange man. Why did they send him, do you think?’