What do you mean?’ He was speaking quietly.
‘
It is accomplished
,’ said Gardo. ‘
Go to the house now, and your soul would sing
.’
The old man worked his lips, and stared. ‘I need you to tell me what is accomplished,’ he said. ‘You have to explain yourself, I think.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gardo. ‘I don’t know what it means. But I am told that if you could visit Senator Zapanta’s house right now, your soul would sing because it is accomplished.’
The old man opened his mouth, but he said nothing. He looked at me, and then at Gardo. His eyes had becomeluminous again, and he was leaning forward in his chair. He took hold of Gardo’s wrist and said – very softly: ‘Who are you, boy? Please stop playing games now. You know things that are very important.’
‘I am from Behala dumpsite.’
‘Yes. A street boy, I knew it.’
He held Gardo tight. ‘And that is one of the … darkest streets, I think. I worked for many years with street children, my son also. You will think I am being cruel, Olivia, but under these new clothes I can smell the street. It never, ever goes away. Why are you here, boy? Please tell me.’
Gardo said: ‘Because I have found a letter from Mr José Angelico, sir. We found it in a station locker. It is a letter that the police are looking for, and it is addressed to you, and it says that you must rejoice because it is accomplished.’
‘Give me the letter.’
‘I did not dare to bring it, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘For fear it would be taken, sir.’
‘José writes to me each year. Why would you have a letter he wrote to me?’
‘We think he wrote it just before the police took him. We found it, and—’
‘Why did the police take him? Where is he?’
‘The police killed him, sir. He was killed when they were questioning him.’
Gardo spoke softly, but the last words still fell like a blow. I saw the old man wince again and buckle, and Gardo stood back from him. He talked softly to the old man in his own language, and the man seemed to take yet more blows – I watched his old hands clench into fists. When the gentleman looked up, his face was wet and all I could see was pain.
We watched the old man shake. Something deep inside was shaking him, and there was nothing we could do but watch.
8
This is me, Raphael.
Sister Olivia was a good friend to us that day, and – for reasons that will be clear soon enough – we did not see her again to say thank-you. Writing this is a way to say thank-you, and one day maybe we will meet again and say it the way we need to say it.
I am so sorry for deceiving you, Sister.
I must talk about what we did while Gardo was in the jail – which was important. Then I will hand over to Rat, and write for him. You see, he and I decided to do something too, because it was hard sitting waiting and waiting all day, and I have not felt right since the police station – I cannot stay still, and everyone is looking at me always. We took the letter again, and stole off by the canal to a place nobody goes – a place I felt safe in, where you could see people coming. We squatted down and went over thenewspaper cuttings again, me reading them out, all the way through. I read the letter too, which was coming apart in my hands by now. We both knew it almost by heart, since we’d been helping Gardo remember it – even the jumble of numbers stuck on at the end. Those names again, coming at us: José Angelico, the man killed in a police station. He felt like a brother to me now and I was dreaming about him. Gabriel Olondriz, his friend in Colva Prison. And now the fat senator, Zapanta … When I read the line about Senator Zapanta, Rat stopped me and made me re-read it: ‘
If only you could go to Zapanta’s house now: it would make your soul sing
.’
‘What’s that mean?’ said Rat.
I didn’t know. We’d all been saying that every time we read it:
I don’t know, don’t know, don’t know
.
‘Where’s his house,
‘
It is accomplished
,’ said Gardo. ‘
Go to the house now, and your soul would sing
.’
The old man worked his lips, and stared. ‘I need you to tell me what is accomplished,’ he said. ‘You have to explain yourself, I think.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gardo. ‘I don’t know what it means. But I am told that if you could visit Senator Zapanta’s house right now, your soul would sing because it is accomplished.’
The old man opened his mouth, but he said nothing. He looked at me, and then at Gardo. His eyes had becomeluminous again, and he was leaning forward in his chair. He took hold of Gardo’s wrist and said – very softly: ‘Who are you, boy? Please stop playing games now. You know things that are very important.’
‘I am from Behala dumpsite.’
‘Yes. A street boy, I knew it.’
He held Gardo tight. ‘And that is one of the … darkest streets, I think. I worked for many years with street children, my son also. You will think I am being cruel, Olivia, but under these new clothes I can smell the street. It never, ever goes away. Why are you here, boy? Please tell me.’
Gardo said: ‘Because I have found a letter from Mr José Angelico, sir. We found it in a station locker. It is a letter that the police are looking for, and it is addressed to you, and it says that you must rejoice because it is accomplished.’
‘Give me the letter.’
‘I did not dare to bring it, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘For fear it would be taken, sir.’
‘José writes to me each year. Why would you have a letter he wrote to me?’
‘We think he wrote it just before the police took him. We found it, and—’
‘Why did the police take him? Where is he?’
‘The police killed him, sir. He was killed when they were questioning him.’
Gardo spoke softly, but the last words still fell like a blow. I saw the old man wince again and buckle, and Gardo stood back from him. He talked softly to the old man in his own language, and the man seemed to take yet more blows – I watched his old hands clench into fists. When the gentleman looked up, his face was wet and all I could see was pain.
We watched the old man shake. Something deep inside was shaking him, and there was nothing we could do but watch.
8
This is me, Raphael.
Sister Olivia was a good friend to us that day, and – for reasons that will be clear soon enough – we did not see her again to say thank-you. Writing this is a way to say thank-you, and one day maybe we will meet again and say it the way we need to say it.
I am so sorry for deceiving you, Sister.
I must talk about what we did while Gardo was in the jail – which was important. Then I will hand over to Rat, and write for him. You see, he and I decided to do something too, because it was hard sitting waiting and waiting all day, and I have not felt right since the police station – I cannot stay still, and everyone is looking at me always. We took the letter again, and stole off by the canal to a place nobody goes – a place I felt safe in, where you could see people coming. We squatted down and went over thenewspaper cuttings again, me reading them out, all the way through. I read the letter too, which was coming apart in my hands by now. We both knew it almost by heart, since we’d been helping Gardo remember it – even the jumble of numbers stuck on at the end. Those names again, coming at us: José Angelico, the man killed in a police station. He felt like a brother to me now and I was dreaming about him. Gabriel Olondriz, his friend in Colva Prison. And now the fat senator, Zapanta … When I read the line about Senator Zapanta, Rat stopped me and made me re-read it: ‘
If only you could go to Zapanta’s house now: it would make your soul sing
.’
‘What’s that mean?’ said Rat.
I didn’t know. We’d all been saying that every time we read it:
I don’t know, don’t know, don’t know
.
‘Where’s his house,
Similar Books
