The Rapist (6 page)

Ours squeak when they are wet.

The turnkey also has a maddening habit of clacking his master key on all the cell bars as he passes. Other inmates sometimes scream at him to stop his infernal clatter, but he either ignores them or perhaps has simply zoned them out of his consciousness.

I will tell you a story that illustrates how I feel about leaving this life. I had an acquaintance my own age who passed on last year, his ticket out being cancer of some obscure part of the body. He had lived a fast-paced life, moving here, then there, working at first at this profession, then that, cohabiting with this person, then that one, sleeping very little so that he could cram “experiences” into his day. In short, he led a very active life. When I visited him, he cried and blubbered and said he couldn’t bear to die yet; there was so much he had left to do and not enough time to do it in—he felt he’d scarcely been alive five minutes. I pondered this when I left his bedside. I was the same age, had done not one one-hundredth of the things he had, but yet I felt as if I had lived forever and could die at any time with a full and rich life behind me. Isn’t that sad, that he had done so much in the way of amusements and adventures while I had scarcely any, but my life was stuffed and complete and his but a flash of light, a minor super-nova, that had sped by in a blink? Quality, not quantity, has been the cornerstone of my life and if I were to feel pity, which I assure you I do not, it would be for my acquaintance, not for myself.

You think me cold for not mourning the man? Let me tell you about cold. I smoke unfiltered
Camel cigarettes. Many times, I have had total strangers approach me and say, “Say there, you shouldn’t smoke those. They will kill you straightaway.” Or some other such blather. Were they warm, caring human beings concerned with my health and welfare? To be sure, on the surface it appears so, especially to one unsophisticated in the ways of mankind, but no, not a bit. We were unknown to each other, and even if we had been acquainted and they, in fact, detested me, they would have uttered the same mawkish sentiments. What they were really saying was, “Look, I feel I am superior to you because I don’t have that filthy habit, and I want you to be aware that I am not only better than you but infinitely more intelligent. You can die tomorrow for all I really care. Just recognize how vastly superior I am.” They make this big show to others to demonstrate their love for humanity, when all they truly feel is contempt for what they perceive to be a weakness they aren’t afflicted with. Do you really feel they are caring folk? Of course you do, for you say the same things yourself. Do you see how silly your definition of “caring” is now? Well, of course you don’t. You cannot see past the words to the motive.

I, on the other hand, would never presume to offer unsolicited advice to another. They have their business and their life, and I have no business mucking about in it. Why set myself up as some sort of a know-it-all who presumes to know what’s best for others? And yet people do just that, always and always, and consider themselves to be caring, compassionate folk, when the truth is I am a thousand times more the humanitarian. I do not stoop to meddle in other’s lives. I deliver them the respect I wish afforded me. Can you tell me of another more honest than I? I think not. Make your own conclusions of this.

Here comes that damnable turnkey again. I wonder what precious pearls of wisdom or scintillating tidbits of conversation he has to offer this time.
What’s that? Ten hours to go. Why thank you my good man. Am I to understand you will be by here each and every hour on the stroke to give me this priceless information? You will? That makes me so happy that I cannot express with my poor vocabulary the ecstasy that knowledge brings. And you, too, sir. You have a nice day also!

Damnable cur! In the whole of my life I have not once wished for one single, lonely thing, except for this: I wish I were to be executed in an electric chair instead of by firing squad and that my dear friend, the turnkey, would keep me company at that time by sitting in my lap.

And I lied. I am surprised that I said that to you. About never once wishing for something. At one time in my life I did yearn for something. Some well-meaning but misdirected acquaintance (actually, it was my barrister—I wonder what his ulterior motive was?) convinced me, against my better judgment, that I would be well served by taking a holiday. It is the only one I have ever permitted myself or suffered through, and looking back I should have followed my own instincts and remained home. I must confess that in perusing the brochures and listening to them extol the virtues of the Bahama Islands, I experienced a tiny surge of pleasant anticipation, but stupidly I forgot that I was ensconced at the time comfortably in my sitting room and not actually feeling the scorching sun in the photographs. I became convinced that this excursion would be the happiest event of my life, and, yes, I did earnestly and avidly ache for the day to arrive when I could depart on my adventure.

My sabbatical was to take the space of an entire month. It was dreadful. I endured but one week before I returned. It was then I underwent the excruciating and unfamiliar sense of desiring something so badly I could, to use a vulgar and common expression, “almost taste it.” And what was the object of this desperate longing? Simply, just one small hour in one of our fall downpours. I lusted after it, the feel of a day like that. You know the kind: the wind is brisk, coppery, the wet chill gnawing pleasantly at your joints, everything is black and gray and your bones are raw and bloodless. That is a feeling! That is weather that is honest! That is weather that excites! The sun in the islands is boring, insipid, the sun of women. The same, day after day after interminable day. I went mad. When home I arrived, after a swirl of airplanes and taxicabs, of panic urgency in the hands of tortoise-like public conveniences, I knelt down on trembling knee and kissed the damp, dear sod. Emotions new to my body swept through me as I tarried there, blessing the icy mist that whipped the sleeves of my outer coat and sent my teeth clacking in a happy chatter. My nose ran and the tears froze upon my cheeks as I knelt there, long, delicious minutes, savoring the splendid rain, and never—never, I repeat—have I felt more alive and well with the world.

So you see, I lied. I
have
wished for something before, but it was a lie of omission and that only because I had forgotten it.

My trial. An absolute mockery. A sham. I am sorry not to use more colorful adjectives, but these two words describe what transpired better than two thousand others might.

I acted as my own attorney. I entered the affair knowing the outcome already, understanding society as I do, and what need was there to waste perfectly good money on someone who could only prolong the inevitable and bore me to tears by making me recite again and again the events of the day to be examined? No need at all. I must admit with some pride that although I had never before been inside a courtroom previous to that day, I quitted myself handsomely.

My presentation of the facts was crisp and concise, not to mention unbiased and exact, my vocabulary exquisite and my delivery oratorical: at moments it soared to poetical heights. As proof, I offer an overheard exchange, whispered from some unknown spectator to another, in hushed, reverent tones, a complicated comparison of my stentorian ejaculations to that of the renowned Mr. Clarence Darrow, and, while I held admirable control of my emotions throughout the trial, I flushed with pride at this bit of accidental praise.

The prosecutor was a stunted scrap of a man, creeping and evil, blacksuited like a shiny beetle, and bent upon improving his political career at my expense. No matter that; it is the way of the world. He won the case, as any simpleton would have, but in the doing was exposed as a shallow, posturing simp, contrasted as he was forced to be against my own brilliance in oratory. I am positive my eloquence was not expected; a glimpse of his jaw dropping in awe at my erudition when first I began to speak brought a smile to my lips. My emotions were akin to the person the mugger holds a shining knife to the throat of who refuses to turn over his money as a point of honor. Even as dozens of people swirl about the sidewalks around the mugger and his victim, many of them excited at the possible bloodletting, so did my fellow villagers seated in the courtroom view me. I was just such a victim, in that courtroom, the base villagers surrounding me, my death assured but my spirit undaunted and soaring against those puny nobodies. Death—what is death? I asked the prosecutor, straight out. Is this what you see to threaten me with, scare me? Boo! I exclaimed to those in attendance. Use that word to frighten your children, such as I will fling it back in your faces, for death holds no alarm nor value for me, no more than it does for any brave resister. I take life as it comes, never stepping aside for such as these, no matter the consequence to my safety, and we live as we shall someday die, eyes open and head erect, and do what you will, it matters not. You have your knife at my throat and I laugh at you. It is you that are afraid, not I; even though you manage to murder me you will still be afraid of me the day after I am lowered into the ground. You will dream of me when you are alone in your beds at night and wake in cold drops of sweat, your heart palpitating and your eyes large and round and luminous in the sterile beam of the moon. This and other such remarks I made to the prosecutor and the room at large, and there was silence for a long moment after I spoke.

It was foregone that he should win a conviction, so the victory was no victory, save for a straw-snatcher such as he. A hollow win, on points, after being on the ropes for the entire bout. Our match was over fair before it had begun.

Every sentence he uttered was a lie of one sort or the other; as for me, I remained on the side of truth no matter the cost or pain.

Yes, I hit her.

Yes, I fucked her.

Don’t say that word again, said the judge.

I will use any word I choose, said I. It’s a fine, Anglo-Saxon word that means exactly what it sounds like, unlike the prissy French and Latin you employ in this room that deflect from the truth at angles and never hit it straight on. I went on, ignoring his stunned face with its lack of intelligence anywhere in his features.

Yes, she enticed me.

Yes, I saw her fuck three others willingly.

Yes, she was a harlot.

Yes, she slipped and fell, striking her head.

Yes, she drowned.

Yes, I could have saved her.

No, I didn’t try to save her.

And like that, ad infintum.

On and on it went, interminably. The trial wasted three days; by eleven o’clock of the first day, I was done with it. The facts had been presented; they could have stopped the farce at this junction, passed sentence and been done with it. But no, the
law
must be satisfied, and they must go over the same dreary, mind-numbing details until you want to scream or gag or beat your chest, anything to relieve the tedium this great principality requires to consider a circus a trial.

It became so excruciatingly dull that I resorted to picking my nose and eating the snot, with exaggerated gestures, in full view of all, and farting loudly whenever the opportunity arose. Give the peasants a howl, you know. When the judge reprimanded me, face red as a Bahamian sun and eyebrows a’bristle as he stammered out his admonishment, I sneered and pointed out that not only was my behavior assuredly not uncivilized—the old Celtic kings behaved in like manner when exhibiting their disdain for the lower creatures surrounding them—it was my right, if not duty, as a gentleman to comport myself in this manner, considering the company I found myself amid, moral precedent having been well-established.

That unnerved him absolutely. He fixed me with a weak, nelly stare, but it was clear to all present that I was his better and had triumphed.

When finally it came time to pass sentence, I stood proudly at the docket, posture erect, suit cleaned and pressed to a military crease, and stared the judge royally in the eye. It was
his
hand that trembled,
his
gaze that wavered as he spoke the words, “… have been found guilty and are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad or the gallows upon your election,” on such and such a day and at such and such a time at such and such a place, blah, blah, blah. You recognize the form.

What? I cannot hear you turnkey. You have to speak louder, from the diaphragm. Oh yes, ten hours is it? Well, thank you, I am sure. What? Again, you speak too lowly. No. No, thank you. I want to look at them and marvel at what civilization has risen to. You have a nice day too, sir.

Wait a minute. Hold on there. Come here, sir. I’ll tell you what. Take the fries and leave the cheeseburger. I am afraid gazing upon too many of these culinary achievements will frazzle my brain, and I shall grow dizzy with wonder. And you might fetch me a cup of that syrup you call coffee. I wonder what the Colombians might think of your handiwork with the fruits of their labor. Black, please… like my soul. Ha-ha.

There. You see? I shall be filled with joy when ten hours has elapsed. There is a man, two cells from mine on the left, whose date is in three months. Can you imagine? The man on my right, also two cells away, has six months remaining. Three…
six
more months of staring at and listening to the turnkey? I think of him (the turnkey) as Mr. Timex. He’s cheap and no matter what, he keeps on a’tickin’.

Do you know why they keep an empty cell between each of we condemned men and me? It is so we cannot conspire to do each other in. That would be breaking the law and a poor example for other felons, not to mention ordinary citizens. A very serious crime indeed! It is considered a vile thing to try and cheat the firing squad in this principality. I am not sure what the penalty is, if it is a stiff fine or something more corporeal, but I am convinced it to be severe, the way in which they speak of it. Always we are told we will “be in serious trouble” were we to attempt suicide, and I dread thinking of the punishment should we succeed!