Jeff Vandermeer - Flight Is For Those Who Have Not Yet Crossed Over

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2024-11-24 0 0 31.23KB 14 页 5.9玖币
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Flight Is For Those Who Have Not Yet Crossed Over
a short story by Jeff VanderMeer
The only sounds inside the prison are the drip of water, the weeping of
prisoners, and the chink-chink of keys on Gabriel de Anda's belt as he
limps through his 2:00 a.m. rounds of the third floor. The prison walls
glow with green phosphorescence and, from far below, Gabriel can hear
the
ocean crashing against the rocks. A storm builds out in the Gulf, where
sargasso clings to drowned sailors and does not allow them to sink into
the formless dark of deep waters. Gabriel feels the storm in the
pressure
of air pushing against his face and it makes him wary.
He has been a guard at the prison for so long that he can see it in his
mind like a slowly-turning, dark-glittering jewel. The Indians call the
prison "Where Death Walks Blind of Justice." It is a block of
badly-mortared concrete, surrounded by barbed wire, electric fences,
and
jungle. Resembling nothing less than the head of a tortured, anguished
beast at sleep, a twenty-four hour lamp at the front entrance its
solitary
eye, it hunkers three stories tall, with tiny barred windows checkering
a
brackish, badly-lit interior where bare bulbs shine down on graffiti,
guard, and prisoner alike. No one has ever escaped, for the prison, its
foundations rotting, dominates the top of a cliff on the eastern coast
of
that country known more for its general, El Toreador, than for its
given
name, a name once Indian, then Spanish, but now forgotten.
Gabriel's rumpled uniform scratches his back and fits poorly at the
crotch. He shuffles over the filthy catwalk that leads from one side of
the third floor to the other. Muttering to himself, he fights the urge
to
spit over the side, into the central courtyard, where the secret police
hose down the violent prisoners. His gimp leg throbs.
When only twenty-two, Gabriel was visiting Merida, Mexico, his brother
Pedro driving and jabbering about some girl he knew in Mexico City
"with
thighs like heaven; no better than heaven." Enraptured, Pedro took a
curve
too quickly and careened into oncoming traffic. Gabriel remembers only
a
high-pitched scream and the pain that shattered his left leg, the bone
breaking in two places.
It gave him a limp. It gave him grist to chew as he navigates the
catwalk.
The janitors have not cleaned the catwalk from the last food riot.
Dark,
scattered lumps form an obstacle course, exude the stench of rotted
fruit
and flesh. What sweet relief it would be to press his face up to one of
the outer windows; then he would see, framed by moonlight, the breakers
far below tumbling against a black sand beach. The first refreshing
hint
of summer gales might touch his face in forgiveness, but afterwards, he
would only have to return to the catwalk and the last prisoner, Roberto
D'Souza.
Roberto D'Souza has been held for five days and nights, charged with
aiding the guerrillas who live in the northern mountains and call
themselves Zapata. Gabriel has nothing but contempt for the rebels. If
not
for them, rationing would be less severe and goods would be more
plentiful
in the stores.
Gabriel's pace quickens, for he can leave once he has checked on
D'Souza.
He can drive the twenty miles to his small house outside Carbajal, the
capital, and his wife, Sessina. She has worked late hours setting up
window displays and may still be awake, perhaps even have supper
waiting
for him: huevos rancheros with hot tamales. His stomach rumbles
thinking
about it.
But first, D'Souza.
D'Souza sits in the corner farthest from the bars and the only window,
his
knees drawn up tight against his chest. Gabriel sneezes from the stench
of
shit and piss, wonders yet again if it is necessary to deny political
prisoners a chamberpot. Why haven't the janitors at least hosed down
the
cell?
None of the cells have their own illumination and so Gabriel shines his
flashlight on D'Souza. D'Souza's back is crisscrossed with red and
black.
Where whole, the skin appears yellow. The spine juts, each bone
distinct,
below a ragged mop of black hair.
As the light hits him, D'Souza flinches, hides his head, and tries to
disappear into a wall pitted from years of abuse. Gabriel flinches too,
despite himself. He must remember that this man is an enemy of the
state,
a guerilla, a terrorist.
"Number 255," Gabriel says, to confirm and then leave, limping, for
home.
No answer.
"Your name, please," Gabriel says.
D'Souza does not stir, but when his voice comes, it has a wiry strength,
a
determination ill-matched to the wasted body.
"Roberto Almada D'Souza."
"Good evening to you, Roberto."
"Is it? A good evening?" Weariness in the voice.
"The sky is clear outside, as you could see if you looked. The waves
are
still low. Tomorrow, though..."
"I don't need to see. I can smell it. I can taste it. Rotted wood and
salt
and the last breaths of lost lovers. Can't you feel it? It will blow us
all away."
Unfolding his long arms and legs, D'Souza rises with gangly
imprecision.
He is shrouded in shadow shot through with flashes of skin as he turns
toward Gabriel, who cannot see his eyes.
D'Souza says, "I have children. A father who is blind. How can I feed
them
from in here?"
"My father is dead."
In the coffin, his father still wore the shabby black blazer and gray
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：14 页 大小：31.23KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-11-24

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