Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (20 page)

N.F Saldrup

Buenos Aires

11
^th
March 1891

Dear Mr Scrimshaw

I read your letter with
interest. My delay in responding was due to your dispatch being
delivered c/o Sr. Villanueva’s offices at Julio Station.

To business.
Whilst I have my doubts about your guilt, Señor Villanueva does not
- he has no wish to investigate further and my services are no
longer in demand. I confess to a soft spot for you boy, so I shall
give you this advice. Sr. V has many friends, some of whom are
judges. Innocent or not -
you will be
found guilty
. Do not for one minute think
otherwise. That is the way of things here. I tell you this not to
be cruel but to prepare you for the likelihood of years spent
inside - little can crush a man’s soul as fully as false
hope.

I regret that there is little I
can do. Life, Mr Scrimshaw, is long. I beg you not to despair.

Yours truly,

Niels F. Saldrup

He felt
punched numb. His eyes anchored onto the underlined writing:
you will be found guilty.
The absolute bastards! He would not, could not even
contemplate spending years in here.
Do not
despair.
What did that idiot know? This
wasn’t the robbing of a year or two of his existence; this could
cost him Eva, the chance to see his father again. This was all that
mattered. The sun dropped behind the guard tower, stealing away the
warm orange glow and with it went his last hope.

The next few days passed in a
daze. Unthinking, Perry followed his fellow inmates from cell to
Dining Hall, to Press, to Patio Rest and back to the cell again for
another sleepless night. He conveyed ink from store to inkwell,
food from plate to mouth in a dull spell. Every day, he found
himself in the same spot by the herb garden where he’d read the
letter, as if this patch of wall were a monument to his personal
despair.

It was here later that week
that Martín came to see him.

‘
Amigo
.’

He looked up to see his cell
neighbour.

‘
You realise
is raining?’

Perry shrugged.

‘
Refreshing
no? I sit with you?’ Martín slid down next to him with a groan,
apparently not needing an answer.

‘
So mister,
what happened with you?’

Perry stared at the ground
between his feet. The earth was darker in the spots touched by the
rain. A trio of ants scrambled towards the shelter provided under
his bent knees.

‘
You know. I
see you, reading a paper some days ago.’

Perry met Martín’s gaze. If
he’d seen him here, why hadn’t he said anything before?

‘
Mira
Perry. I see you. The paper, he was bad news, ok.
Is hard to accustom yourself here Perry, I know this. But is no so
bad in here, most spend their lives here. Is named
La Tumba,
the
grave,
for a reason you know.’

‘
And that’s a
good thing?’ Perry was surprised by the anger in his own voice.
‘I’m sorry but-’ Perry couldn’t stop his eyes from swimming with
tears. ‘I can’t waste any more-’

‘
Sh sh sh
sh,
tranquilo
, is
ok.’ Martín’s arm gathered him in.

It felt strange, feeling the
embrace of another human after so long without it. As if the
comfort, the genuine care it harboured only exaggerated its
hitherto absence. The rain pattered down around them in thick
drops. Perry opened his mouth to try to explain about Eva, about
how he had to get home, that he was innocent, but all that came out
was a croak.

‘
I know, I
know,’ Martín said, ‘he gets better here,
te lo prometo
. God is in here with
us.’

Perry stayed like that for a
while, letting Martín pat him on his arm. He took a deep breath and
righted himself.

‘
I’m sorry
about that.’

‘
No sorry. We
all do bad thing. We all have to pay in here,’ he pointed to the
floor, ‘and here,’ he pointed to his heart.

There was a glint of sadness in
Martín’s eyes and Perry saw some kindred pain, some understanding
in there perhaps.

‘
I’ve never
asked you, why are you in here?’

Martín sighed. ‘I did a
terrible thing.’

‘
What did you
do?’

‘
I kill four
persons.’

‘
Four!’ Perry
wiped his nose with his sleeve.

‘
Sí,’ Martín
looked at the floor. ‘An accident, I don’t like to talk about it.
Maybe I tell you someday.’

‘
Blimey.’

There was a
pause. Martín’s straggly hair was deadened by rainfall, his round
face weathered. Perry was starting to like
el sapo
and couldn’t imagine him
killing anybody - accidentally or otherwise
.

Martín stuck his tongue out and
caught a few drops of rain. ‘I will die here, and I probably
deserve it.’

Perry didn’t know what to say
to that. His own fate now seemed dwarfed by Martín’s acceptance of
his own destiny. He had to remind himself that there was one key
difference between them. Perry was innocent.

‘
Perry. You
need to realise you deserve to be here too. It help you to get used
to it.’

‘
I don’t want
to get used to it.’

‘
Trust me you
do, or you go crazy. And I tell you what help you.’

‘
What?’

‘
Confession.
On Sunday.’

Perry rolled his eyes. ‘Come
on, really?’

‘
Inglés
, how you think I find peace
here?’

‘
Martín. Look
at where I am. God hasn’t worked out so well for me has He? If
anything, that bugger should be confessing to me!’

‘
You no say
that!’ Martín looked up to the heavens and made the sign of the
cross over his chest. ‘Is in here we most need Him. And you are
right Perry; look at you, look at where you are. It is now you need
His help no? What you have to lose?’

‘
I’ll think
about it,’ he said, knowing already that he wouldn’t.

22

‘
Every Sunday
I encourage you to open your hearts to the Lord’s forgiveness.’
Dressed in coal-black robes, the chaplain steepled his hands
together. ‘In three weeks, we have the particularly special time of
Easter,’ a smile crept over his face, ‘and for a second consecutive
year, we have a special treat for you. On Easter Sunday, Federico
León Aneiros, Archbishop of Buenos Aires will be accompanying me in
taking confession after Easter service!’

All along
Perry’s row, nobody but Martín seemed to care.
El sapo
nodded vigorously to the
chaplain’s every word. Perry didn’t know the archbishop, what did
he care? His curiosity was more piqued by the logistics. How would
it work? He had images of some papal figure and the chaplain
squeezed together in the same box, the chaplain perhaps sitting on
the archbishop’s lap. Then Perry remembered there were two boxes,
one on either wing of the chapel and the farcical image of the two
clergymen dissolved.

‘
It is a great
honour,’ the chaplain insisted, ‘that on so holy a day the august
archbishop has
chosen
to see us a second time. He’ll be here with his normal
entourage
of religious helpers to tour the
cells and speak with you all should you wish it. He said unto me:
“Those with the largest sin must seek the largest repentance from
the Lord.” And he is here to prove just that.’

The service finished with a
prayer. Perry hung around with a handful of other prisoners and
lined up outside the confession box. Martín had been good to him,
the least he could do was go in once, then he could say he tried
and it just wasn’t for him.

When it was his turn, he found
it was a much smaller space than it looked from the outside, with a
headache inducing smell of wood and polish. The grille separating
his side from the other was thick and he could barely make out the
silhouette of the chaplain.

‘
Hello? Father
are you there?’ Perry rapped on the grille with his
knuckle.

‘
Yes, of
course,’ the chaplain’s voice was muffled. ‘Why are you knocking
like that?’

‘
Er…I’m sorry.
First time.’

‘
Then you have
taken the first step on the path to righteousness.’

Perry sighed; it was this kind
of talk that he didn’t want.

‘
How do I do
this then?’

‘
Well,’ the
chaplain’s voice was gentle, reassuring, ‘you may choose to kneel
or sit.’

‘
I’m
sitting.’

‘
Very well.
You are here to speak to God through me, to tell Him what it is you
seek forgiveness for and why. I will listen and consider a path of
forgiveness for you and give you your penitence.’

Wasn’t he already doing
penitence by being in a penitentiary?

‘
Should I say
anything to start or-’

‘
Forgive me
Father for I have sinned
, is a good way to
start,’ the chaplain urged. ‘Now, my son, share your worries with
our Lord, unload them from your conscience.’

Perry took a deep breath.

‘
Forgive me
Father for I have sinned. I’m not long inside. And I suppose I’ve
been struggling to understand how it is that I could be
here.’

‘
Good,’ the
chaplain encouraged.

Perry leant forward, resting
his elbows on his knees in thought, ‘I’m innocent, I mean really
innocent but you probably get told that all the time Father.’

‘
At confession
people tend to admit more than they deny. There is no point lying
to God. He knows.’

Perry stirred. ‘He knows?’

‘
Of
course.’

‘
If that’s
true Father, then I’m here not because of theft - but because I
must deserve to be in here.’

‘
Why do you
think that?’

He rubbed his temples, sifting
through his own logic. ‘I’ve done some terrible things. Not here
mind, but back home. I stole from folk, blackmailed and scammed
people to make ends meet.’

‘
And that is
why you think you’re here?’

‘
It must be,’
Perry replied, surprising himself, ‘God or whatever is out there
must be punishing me for those other things. The charge of theft is
neither here nor there.’

He heard the chaplain’s steady
breath on the other side. Perry wasn’t sure where this was all
coming from, but hearing his niggling suspicions out in the open
suddenly made them more real, more likely.

‘
And then I am
thinking, if that is the case, why now? I mean I feel like I’ve
been punished plenty. I got sent here against my will and I’m away
from the girl I love. I can’t see my friend Joel, or visit my Pa…
that to me felt like a lot to take. So when I got here, I tried to
work hard, do things the right way. It feels like I get punished
for living the wrong way and then punished some more for trying to
do it the right way!’ he heard the exasperation in his own
voice.

‘
Think not of
these as punishments from God, but as tests.’

Perry rubbed his eyes, raw from
lack of sleep. ‘Tests do me no good.’

‘
But seeking
forgiveness does. Are you prepared to swear before the Lord our
saviour, that you will live an honest life hereon in and do good
unto others?’

He wasn’t sure what honest
meant anymore, but he agreed anyway; ‘I do, Father.’

‘
Then go. Your
conscience is heavy, let the Lord’s forgiveness lighten your
soul.’

‘
Thank you
Father.’

As he got up to leave, he did
feel lighter, freer somehow. Perhaps Martín was right about all
this.

Resting in his
cell, the numbness of the previous days gave way to something else.
He reread Niels Saldrup’s letter.
False
hope can crush a man.
Carrying the burden
of his future when he had no say in it was pointless.

‘
Knock
knock.’

Perry lifted his head up.
Martín’s arms were behind his back.

‘
No guards
about?’

‘
They just
passed, we have five minutes maybe more.’

‘
Don’t just
stand there then, come in.’

Martín stepped inside, took his
hands from behind his back and held out a plant in a pot.

‘
How on earth
did you get that?’ Perry sat up on his bed.

‘
Old timer
like me, run the Press, keep my head down and give the guards no
trouble. They ignore these small
privilegios
.’

‘
Lucky
you.’

‘
Tell me. You
go to confession?’

‘
I
did.’

‘
And?’

‘
And
what?’

‘
Did it
help?’

Perry chewed his lip for a
second, he didn’t want Martín to start thinking he was right about
everything or he would be assaulted with advice.

‘
I’m not sure
about it all really. It must have helped a little to talk about it
I suppose.’