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Wrath

Alfredo Bravo de Rueda

“I can’t listen to you. I can’t listen to your voice. It’s as though I’d drunk a bottle of anise and fallen asleep wrapped in a quilt of roses. It pulls me along – and I know I’m drowning – but I go on down.”

Federico Garcia Lorca, Bodas de Sangre

    Another night that might have been any other night. Same dark room. All those places always feel the same, even if the prisoners’ bruised faces are different under the only light bulb hanging over them. After all, that’s how interrogation rooms look everywhere, and Abu Ghraib is no exception. Even in 2004. Especially in 2004.
    The prisoner’s ankles and wrists have been handcuffed to a chair and his middle-eastern face shows bluish inflammation, a split lip, and swollen eyes not to mention that there is blood over half of what is left of his shirt. Another Arab. Middle-aged, bearded, average complexion, average everything. The short reprieve ends soon though. One of the interrogators, John Wilson, angry, slaps him brutally when the captive seems to be losing consciousness. The prisoner passes out nonetheless and the interrogator throws a bucket of water at him. A black Belgian Shepherd, sitting at the side of the interrogator, follows the prisoner’s struggle with unusual attention.
    Without giving the prisoner a chance to collect his thoughts, John, with crazy eyes fixed on him, yells at a few inches of his face.
    “I don’t have the whole day, Ali Baba. Where the fuck’s Mustafa Al-Jabbar?” And then, yelling louder, “Where?!”
    The detainee doesn’t show signs of feeling John’s saliva splattering on his face. Coming out from the dark background, the interpreter translates John’s questions to the Arab while John, still agitated, steps back into the background. Once there, John appears to be assessing the evidence at a table, but he really seems to be making an effort to restrain himself more than assessing the items before him. Only after a while, he turns a lamp on, whose light creates a small circle on the tabletop, and starts opening the files. From the other side of the room, another interrogator glances at him and frowns.
    When John comes back to the spotlight, the other interrogator steps forward, intercepting him on his way back to the prisoner, apparently trying to stop him. That’s when he notices the piece of paper in John’s hand and moves out of his way. And John restarts his yelling at the prisoner.
    “This your sister? She’s nine, right? I haven’t tasted yet some Iraqi cunt. But I’m going to start with her, in front of you, if you don’t give me the fucking place, comprende?” And, having said that, John turns to the interpreter, who looks as if he could not understand what John has just said. John looks uninterested in the interpreter’s reaction though. “And you? I don’t hear you translating. That’s what we pay you for here, don’t we?”
    Reluctantly, the interpreter translates the threat. The detainee appears to be too beaten to understand it though.
    That’s when finally the other interrogator says something, but to the prisoner, not directly to John.
    “I think you had enough for now. We’re giving you an hour to think about it. Make this easier for yourself. Speak!”
    Now, while the interpreter translates the second interrogator’s warning, the latter turns to John. “Time for a break.”
    John has the aire of being hesitant for a moment but finally nods. Both interrogators leave the room while two soldiers come inside to take the prisoner back to his cell. And, whereas they leave the dark room behind them, the two of them start their way through a long corridor with worn, faded walls that transpire despair.
    “Go easier on the prisoner, John. We want to inflict him pain, not kill him. Dead prisoners don’t talk... And, mentioning the little sister... I don’t know....”
    That’s when, as if the other interrogator’s words had outraged him, John gets angry again. To him, bruising the poor devil handcuffed to the chair is not just for show.
    “Well, do you want him to talk? Then, bring the sister.”
    “John... Are you serious about...?
    Agitated once again, John’s reply sounds like an attack.
    “Should I bring her myself? Bring the fucking sister! End of the story. Damn it!”

    In his windowless small room, John is sitting on his bed in front of his laptop. A military room without sentimental attachments. Clean but lifeless. And John is not going to the recreation room. He never does. That’s not part of the job, so stays in his room. He has more important things to do here than hanging out with strangers.
    And then he starts talking via Zoom with a woman. For him, this is important, and yet, at some point, he starts getting agitated.
    “I’ve served my country since 2001, from the very beginning, while others were scratching their balls, Cindy. And then this CACI firm offers me a contract to interrogate bad guys. Something on which we can build our future. And you want me back home now just because you miss me?” He is hearing the woman’s voice without listening. Apparently, he doesn’t like what he believes he’s hearing. “What? Don’t you follow the news over there? I am doing this for us, for both of us! And now these fucking libs are closing Abu Ghraib...”
    The woman answers something. John appears to consider her words for a moment and now seems more relieved.
    “Yes, I guess I could take it as a vacation. I haven’t had one since I joined Operation Enduring Freedom; since I came to Afghanistan to settle scores with the fucking towel-heads who attacked our homeland!”
    The woman keeps speaking and John gives her a chance to do so uninterruptedly.
    “Yes, I could apply to Black Water too. They could use guys like me. You right on that. See you soon, sweetie. I’m going to give you that house you dream of all the time, two kids and a dog. Two dogs! Everything’s going to be okay. You’ll see. Bye.”

    That night John has a nightmare. One of many. One of many vivid nightmares. Somehow he knows it’s night. He is with his wife Cindy in the living room. They are arguing. Everything else looks blurred. Now Cindy is crying. She takes her matrimonial ring off her finger and throws it at his face. Enraged, John grabs her wrist with one hand, pulls her to him, and punches her with the other. She falls to the floor. Blood comes to her lips without delay. She looks confused, afraid. He mounts her on her belly and keeps punching her in the face. Now there are blood drops on his face too, but it’s not his blood. The nightmare jumps to the desert. He’s in the middle of a small barren spot, hard ground, lit only by his truck’s headlights, surrounded by darkness everywhere else. He is afraid, sweaty, but he can’t take a break to rest or think. He is digging a hole with a shovel. He digs and digs without pause. John doesn’t know how he got there or how the shovel came to his hand, but he can’t stop. And when he finishes, he gets out of the hole and drags inside what seems to be a body covered in white sheets stained with blood.
    Then the nightmare jumps again. Now the grave is filled and John moves some rocks and branches to camouflage the spot, to dissuade predators. He’s dirty and sweaty. Even more, he’s afraid. He can feel his heartbeats. Something unusual in him.
    John wakes up in his small military room. It’s been the same nightmare all over again. But he’s relieved now. Just another bad dream. And veterans have plenty of those.

    Another weird dream. John is now back in Los Angeles. Another day at the office. His last day actually. John looks enraged again. Some employees are trying to contain him as he punches and kicks a man on the floor. The man is in a fetal position, covering his face with his hands, behind the desk he has tried to use for protection.
    “You motherfucker wimp! I risked my life to defend this country, to defend your freedom, and you are suspending me? I am chief of security and you are suspending me because I roughed up some fucking shoplifter spic? I quit, motherfucker lib! Fuck you and fuck your fucking sissy company!”
    John spits on the fallen man, who glances at John from behind his fingers as the punishment appears to be over, but his eyes still show signs of disorientation. A female employee, with moist eyes, is pleading with John now.
    “John, please... please! You better leave! Somebody has already called the police. Don’t make this worse. Leave, please!”
    John leaves, but before he does, he gives one last bad stare to the man who, with a broken lip and a still confused expression, looks at him from the floor. John shakes off the arms that only now unconvincingly try to contain him and leaves the office.

    John always liked afternoons like this at MacArthur Park. In this dream, he’s walking one of the walker trails and then, all of a sudden, at some moment decides to make a stop to contemplate the lake. He stays there for some time with a tired, concerned expression. It’s just a moment but at least for that moment the rage is gone though.

    John is back in his small military room, same green walls, sitting on his bed, again talking to his wife via Zoom.
    “Cindy, please understand. I am not cut for civilian life. You saw what happened with those assholes, the so-called security job... That asshole even looked like my father, that good-for-nothing wife-beater, the one I sent to the hospital when I was still sixteen and more than sixty pounds lighter than him. You know it’s not a good idea to mess up with me, Cindy, and that asshole was bothering me about the way I had handled the fucking shoplifter, a spic. I was taking care of his store and it’s as if he cared more for the spic. Can you believe it? You know I’m no bully, but I’m nobody’s fool either.”
    The woman says something and he appears to agree.
    “Yes. Probably the problem is not civilian life, but working for a boss. I’ve never been lucky with bosses. I have a boss here, but it’s not the same. Black Water is kind of like the military. Different from that asshole manager, here we take care of our own. And Bagram is not Abu Ghraib. But still, they know what we’re trying to do here, so they give us some slack.”
    The woman says something else and the wrath is gone. He seems even kind now, not the character he becomes when he is doing his job. And he likes that.
    “Everything will be okay. You know I have loved nobody else in my life, that I want to have a family with you, don’t you? Do you think that I’m going to... get my dick dirty with these dirty Arab cunts...? Never, Cindy! You’re my sweetheart since we were in High School. The only one. I was your first man and you were my first woman. That’s special. That’s forever.”
    The woman says something else and John gives the impression of perceiving some reproach.
    “I’ll make it right. You’ll see. You’ll see I’ll make it right, Cindy.”
    And, with a broken voice, emotional, Cindy responds.
    “The only dream of my life has been to be your wife and to have your children, John. But what’s going to happen to our children if you finally get in trouble because of your temper?”
    Struggling with himself, John concedes, tries to reach her.
    “I know! I know! I promise you that I’ll sign up for Anger Management. This time, I will. I promise that I will. I want to have that family and you are the only one, the only one with whom I can imagine having one. But I need you at my side. I know I can change, but only if I have you at my side. If not, it’s useless. Just one more chance. That’s all I ask: One more chance. As soon as I am back in LA, I’ll sign up for the program. You’ll see. I promise. Military word.”
    “Maybe it’s all that violence over there, John. Maybe, if you stay here, we can open a Mom-and-pop store. No more bosses. Just us. I’ll take care of the clients. You can take care of the rest.”
    “You know what? That’s a great idea. I’m not cut to deal with people, but you are. Who can resist that smile? Nobody. And the way you are nice to people... Everybody will want to shop in our store, sweetie.”
    That’s when a voice can be heard coming from the speakers installed at the top of the room.
    “Well, I have to leave now, sweetie. They’re calling the unit to supper. If I am not there before they say ‘supper’ again, the other guys will leave me nothing, not even leftovers, and then I’ll die of starvation. And you will be my widow. I’ll call you again tonight before I go to sleep, okay? Take care, sweetie. I love you. Bye.”

    Another day that might be any other day. A gray line of homeless people intermittently, slowly moves and stops, moves slowly and stops, as it approaches the gate of the Hippy Kitchen at 6th Street, Skid Row. Rice and beans. One of the homeless men in the line is John. Another nightmare. One of the recurrent ones. Here, John looks dirty, with long, caked hair and a long beard, and wears a long brown coat that looks black in many parts due to the grime. A dirty school backpack hangs from one of his shoulders. With one hand, he holds a bucket, one of those used for paint. He steps forward every time the rest move forward and stops when they stop. His face’s expression appears to be absentminded.
    Now the nightmare jumps to MacArthur Park. John is sitting among a few trees, away from the passersby. He tries to eat the rice and beans with the plastic spoon they gave him at the Hippy Kitchen but this breaks, so he proceeds to eat with his dirty hands.
    Once he finishes, he opens his backpack and extracts an old laptop. He opens it. His dirty fingers move over the keyboard, but the screen remains dark. The laptop doesn’t work.
    “I’m back. They’ll never be able to cook like you, but that’s all they have. You know? I’m counting the days until this contract ends, to be back with you. Yes, I have been thinking for this couple of hours about what you said and, yes, it’s decided. We’ll have that Mom-and-Pop store. With what they pay me in Black Water for this tour, we’ll open the store. It’s decided.”
    Cindy sounds happy.
    “Then we’ll have two children and a dog, like the Labrador Retriever I had when I was in high school, you remember Dick?” says Cindy amused.
    The dark screen of the laptop reflects John’s nostalgic face. Now the black Belgian Shepherd can be seen at his side.
    “Dick? How can I forget him? He looked as if he was jealous of me... The son of a gun barked at me all the time. But I liked him. He was protecting you and I like dogs. You know what? We’ll have two dogs, a Labrador Retriever like yours and a black Belgian Shepherd like mine. And they’ll be friends.”
    “And a big, strong boy. And I’ll name him John, like his father. John Jr.”
    Playful now, John adds to her wish.
    “And a sweet, pretty girl I’ll name Cindy. Cindy Jr. And she will look like you.”
    “Yes, that sounds like a plan.” Cindy, who had started giggling, changes her tone to a gloomier one. “But... John, you have to sign up for Anger Management...”
    “I know, I know, I know. I promise you... I promise you for our future children that I will. For our dogs too. I will this time. Just give me one last chance.
    “You know what’s to have an angry, abusive father, John. You are a good man, but you have to control that temper of yours before we have children...”
    “I will. I promise. I will obey your commands as if we were in the military. You’ll be Sargent Cindy and I’ll make all the drills you call. Sounds good?”
    Cindy is laughing again, celebrating her promotion.
    “Sargent Cindy. That’s good.”
    “Sir, yes, sir. Well..., yes, madam in this case.”
    “That sounds good...” Cindy stops laughing and sighs. “I was the luckiest girl in high school because you chose me, John.”
    “No, I was the lucky one. You loved me when nobody else loved me. At home, the only one who loved me was my dog, my black Belgian Shepherd. Even the day I stood up to defend my mom, she preferred to side with that bum instead, and she kicked me out of the house. I had to go to the military. Not lots of options for guys like me anyway, even before I was homeless. And I never could see my sister or my dog again. And you know that as soon as I was wearing the uniform, she poisoned my sister against me and he sent my dog to the pound. You see? You’re the only good thing that has happened to me in this fucked up life. You and my dog.”
    “I’ll be your home and you’ll be mine. A happy ending forever and ever.”
    “Forever and ever amen. Yes, madam.”
    “And we’ll have a house. I don’t like apartments. There are cheaper houses in rural areas. I want to have a porch. And I want it to be like in the old sitcoms.”
    “A porch? Sure. And you can decorate the house any way you want. It’ll be your house.”
    “Our home.”
    “Our home too.”

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