Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (19 page)

‘
So, what do I
do?’

Martín led him up a small set
of metal stairs attached to the machine itself. At the top, he
could see the main printing drum, big enough to crush a man.

‘
This is
hungry. Always hungry for ink, but it has a missing part that fill
the ink - the Warden no pay to replace so we have to fill
ourselves. It can’t run out or we stop whole thing,’ said Martín.
He glared at Perry as if he had already let the ink run dry and
caused mayhem.

Perry saw the base of the drum
immersed in an inkwell: waiting to turn, replenishing itself with
ink with each rotation.

‘
So I’m
responsible for filling it up with the ink?’

‘
Asi
es
,’ Martín smiled, clearly glad he didn’t
have to stretch his English any further. ‘I show you new
ink.’

At the side of the workshop,
the store room held everything Perry needed; a big square sink and
tap, filthy-looking watering cans and an old bucket high up on some
shelves. In the middle of the storeroom was a giant barrel, with a
tap at the bottom. Perry pointed.

‘
Don’t suppose
there’s beer in there?’

‘
Ha!’ Martín
laughed. ‘
Ojalá,
if only.’

Perry flipped the tap and
thick, gloopy ink fell into the pouring can. When it was full, he
tried lifting it. It was so heavy he needed both hands to pick it
up.

‘
Right, so
this goes in the inkwell?’

‘
Follow,’
Martín led him to the inkwell. The gauge showed that presently, it
was full. Martín disappeared around to the other side of the Press
and within moments the machine stirred. Clicking and whirring into
life, the hiss of steam was as loud as waves breaking on rock.
Perry would have to shout at the top of his lungs to be heard by
anyone. He was glad Martín had inducted him in the relative quiet.
He just hoped he didn’t have to ask any questions.

The paper ran between the drums
with mesmerising speed, the black columns of ink blurring past.
Perry checked the gauge and saw that already, barely minutes in,
the inkwell was a little over three-quarters full. He couldn’t
believe it and looked around for help. One of the other workers,
Osvlado, was monitoring a control panel of dials and levers and
gave Perry a nod. He hadn’t expected to need to top it up so soon.
He hoisted up the can, poured and kept pouring. His arms shook with
the holding the weight in a fixed position. When the can was empty,
he grounded it, glad for the relief sweeping through his arms. He
checked again: barely over three-quarters. Horror swept over
him.

He sprinted with the can and
filled it up again, returned to the inkwell and poured the whole
lot in as quickly as he could. Still the gauge had barely moved.
Surely he couldn’t keep this up for eight hours on his own? He
repeated the exercise over and over again, all the time the Press
churned out page after page, slowly depleting his supply. Despite
his efforts, the ink level hovered just under the half way mark
when Martín came to check on him.

‘
Bien
,’ Martín nodded.

‘
But I can’t
keep up!’

Martín stood and waved his arms
at two of the machine workers and pointed to the inkwell. Perry,
Martín and the two Press operatives went to the ink store and
pulled extra cans from the shelf. Perry filled his up and the other
three filled theirs. The injection of four cans of ink pulled the
levels back up to the three-quarters mark.

Martín held up a finger. ‘One
hour.’

The men returned to their posts
and with aching arms, Perry continued to do his best to keep
up.

The Press stopped for lunch and
the men trooped out. Perry felt like he’d already done a full day’s
labour. His muscles ached so badly he couldn’t imagine completing a
full day. He wiped his inky fingers onto his pyjamas, smudging the
plain grey of its landscape with black streaks. Give the boys in
Laundry something to do at least, he thought.

At the exit of the Press
workshop, bundles of newspapers were stacked against the wall. He
picked a copy from the top, slightly warm in his hand, and read the
title.

‘
La
Nación,’
he gasped, ‘No bloody way, the
national newspaper printed here!’ He looked around for someone to
share in his amazement but the only person who remained was the
guard at the door, immersed in reading the paper. He had been so
involved in the replenishing of ink; he hadn’t even considered what
they were actually printing. But here it was, thousands upon
thousands of copies of
La
Nación
.

He sat with
the Press workers at lunch, which consisted of tomato slop with
beans and bread. He listened to the workers talking about the
commotion the night before. One of the men from Laundry called
Santi had apparently been overheard talking of escape and been sent
to
La Cueva
. A
bloody fool all agreed. Perry nodded along, mopping up the last of
the sauce with bread, he was as hungry as when he survived The
Sick. He returned early to Press and used the time to top the
inkwell up to the brim while the machine was still off.

The afternoon was as hard as
the morning and his arms were sore, shaking with the burden of each
can. Martín came every hour to check the levels and helped top up
the inkwell when needed. When finally, the Press was switched off,
he wanted to leap for joy, but could only offer a tired grin.

Martín slapped him on the
back,

‘
Bien
Perry. Is good.’

‘
Thanks,’ he
mustered.

‘
Now we
have
baños
and you
sleep like never before.’

‘
Baños
? But bathing night for our
floor is Tuesday?’

‘
No Perry.
Look at yourself. Look at me.’

Perry gave himself a once over,
and then Martín.

‘
We look like
chimney sweeps!’

Martín looked puzzled.

Perry groped for some words to
explain what a chimney sweep was. ‘It’s a job where you get filthy
and need to wash.’

Martín nodded
sagely. ‘Ah
sí
, a
brothel.’

Perry let it go.

‘
When you work
Press you have bath
adicional
.’

‘
Makes sense I
suppose. I bet Laundry have a hard enough time getting our pyjamas
clean, let alone our bedsheets.’

There were bathing areas on
both floors but the Press workers queued for the ground floor
station. Three prisoners filed out, towels wrapped around their
midriffs and handed their bucket to the guard.

‘
Next!’ the
guard barked, handing it to the next in line, who padded in with
two others.

When it was Perry’s turn, he
went in with Osvaldo and Martín. The washroom was tiled floor to
ceiling with two water pumps in the middle of the room. There were
thirty or so men clustered around the pump taking the water direct
and scrubbing down, or doing so from their filled buckets in the
washroom corners. Black and red smudges of squashed mosquitos
streaked the walls.

Perry wasn’t sure what was
colder; the icy water on the surface of the floor or the floor
tiles themselves. He couldn’t imagine having to do this in winter.
He stepped over the washroom effluent; a river of drain-bound
lathered soap bubbles, grimy water and gristly hair. He draped his
pyjamas on a peg and wearing nought but his undies, slung his towel
over his shoulder and carried the bucket to one of the pumps.
Martín and Osvaldo had soap and sponges, but Perry had to make do
scrubbing his skin with his hands. He would have to earn these
items through working on the Press. He was glad at least to wash
off the worst of the dirt and grime. The cold water was refreshing,
soothing the fire in his muscles.

Before lights out, the mail
trolley man did the rounds and Perry made sure his letter to
Inspector Niels Saldrup was collected. Happy it was done; he let
tiredness engulf him. As his head hit the pillow he wondered if
perhaps this was all part of the warden’s plan; wring out the
prisoners’ energy until none was left for disobedience. The lights
went out. He closed his eyes. The prisoners’ pavilion fell
relatively still but for the guards’ rounds. The volume of their
footsteps rose and fell steadily with their orbit, flowing like
long breaths, easing Perry into a deep sleep.

21

Perry worked the Press the next
two days and enjoyed the relative luxury of getting to bathe every
evening. He figured his trial would be relatively soon and washing
regularly gave him a better chance of appearing reasonably clean
and appointed before the judge.

No news of his trial date, nor
response from Saldrup came until the following Sunday. It was after
chapel. Perry was in his cell, legs resting up against the wall
when he heard the mail cart doing the rounds. An envelope shushed
along the floor of his cell.

He scrambled to pick it up. It
was brown, official-looking with the flap already loose. The guards
had probably read it. The bastards would know anything before he
knew it himself. He slid his finger inside the envelope. The bell
sounded. Time for afternoon Count and Patio Rest. Reluctantly, he
pocketed the letter.

The cell doors slid back with a
metallic thud that echoed around the cavernous space. Like an
unruly army stamping to attention, the prisoners stepped out of
their cells, all in grey like pigeons lining a ledge.

Martín gave Perry a nod in
greeting. He managed a smile back and stuffed his hand in his
pockets. The envelope paper crinkled. It wouldn’t be long before he
could read it. He’d find a quiet spot by the herb garden and read
it there.

The top floor guards, armed
with clipboards, began Count. Nausea rose in his tummy. When would
his trial be? He might not have long to prepare, he just hoped it
was long enough to get Saldrup to look a bit deeper into his
case.

Count took forever.

‘
Hurry up,’ he
said through gritted teeth.

The guards
were having a conference on the lower floor comparing their sheets
and numbers. Bleach, sharp to the nostrils just added to his
nausea. Although talking was forbidden, the guards appeared busy
enough, distractedly running through their registers. Their voices
carried up, speaking in thick
lunfardo
,
local slang. He glanced over at Martín.

‘
What’s going
on?’

Martín kept staring straight
ahead, his lips barely moved. ‘Bad maths, who knows?’

Perry thought about stepping
back into his cell, sitting on the bed and reading the letter, but
two guards were making their way up the steps to his floor again.
Just a little longer, he told himself, hardly worth losing any
privileges over.

The two guards began a second
count, taking their time now, ticking off every single prisoner in
turn.

‘
Hands out
your pockets
Inglés
!’ the guard sneered as he passed.

It was another twenty minutes
before the guards reconvened on the ground floor. Again, they were
scratching their heads and pointing at the list. Perry found
himself shuffling with impatience on the spot.

‘
Christ’s
sake, how hard can it be?’

‘
Shh!’ Martín
shot him a warning look, but others were murmuring too, looking for
some sort of explanation. The guards were too absorbed to stamp out
the talking.

‘
Vamos!’
someone yelled from Perry’s
floor. The guards all looked up to try and spot the culprit, but it
would have been impossible.

‘
Quién
falta?
’ yelled another. Who’s missing? It
was the most sensible thing Perry had heard in the last
half-hour.

‘
Quién
falta?’
he copied, cupping his hands around
his mouth. His outburst drew a disdainful look from Martín, but
soon another voice yelled
‘Quién
falta?’
Who was missing?

Martín pulled a face. ‘Maybe
someone escape.’

Perry felt the buzz in the
prison; everyone was thinking the same thing. The guards blew
whistles, cutting through the yelling, slicing it to silence once
more. Head guard Torro stalked around below, his big shoulders
heaving up and down.

‘
Silencio!’
he yelled, even though
everybody was already quiet. He stabbed his finger on the
clipboard.
‘Faltamos Santiago
Guerrera,
’ he barked. We’re missing
Santiago Guerrera.

A collective
moan went up around the prison
,
idiotas, boludos, payasos.
Perry gathered the insults being slung at the guards for
future reference
.

‘
Está en La Cueva
,’
someone shouted.
And Perry got it. The
missing inmate from Count was in
La
Cueva.

The guards all looked at each
other as if to say, ‘Oh shit, how did we forget?’ and one actually
laughed. He and Martín shook their heads in disgust. Unbelievable.
Perry sensed the mood plummet. No escape. He tapped his pocket, the
envelope, like a weight, tugging on the hope of his being. There
were other ways out of here.

Perry formed a line with the
other prisoners and filed down the steps, past the Dining Hall and
out onto the Patio. Daylight hit him like a warm hug as he made a
beeline for the herb garden. He found a sunny spot against the
perimeter wall, rested his back against it and slumped down on the
ground. It was as private a spot as could be had in here. He pulled
the envelope out and upturned it, letting the letter spill onto his
lap. His hands were shaking with anticipation as he unfolded it. He
shielded his eyes from the setting sun.