22
The apartment was small and very dirty, and nothing like what Juan Carlos had expected. For nearly three stinking weeks they had remained here alone, out of contact except for Maria Soleres, the old landlady downstairs, and therefore totally out of touch with what was happening just outside their doorway.
He sat by the window looking down at the tiny rear courtyard filled with trash, holding his knees up to his chest and slowly rocking back and forth.
There had been food and some wine here when he and the others had first arrived with Vance-Ehrhardt and his wife, but within a couple of days it was gone, and the landlady began bringing their meals twice a day. But no wine.
By the sixth day there was no one left except Juan Carlos, Teva, and of course the prisoners. “You will hold them here until your instructions come,” Maria Soleres had told them that day. “They won’t give you any trouble. Just keep them tied up.”
“We are supposed to be on our way to Tripoli,” Juan Carlos had protested.
“I don’t know about that,” the snaggletoothed woman had creaked. “I only know that you are to remain here. You cannot leave them alone. You must remain here. Those are your instructions.”
“Then bring us wine.”
The old woman had laughed. “No wine. You will get drunk and make a mistake. Perhaps you will shoot your guns, and Perés will be here.” She had laughed again, turned, and left.
In the second week it had seemed as if Teva were recovering from her wounds, but then in the tenth night she had had a relapse, and Juan Carlos had begun to fear that she would die.
There will come a time when you are alone, and are expected to hold a position. The words of his instructor had come back to him.
“Then you must be strong,” Juan Carlos had mumbled out loud. “Then you must think of your brothers and sisters in the revolution, and you must be strong for them.”
That night, when the landlady had come with their supper, Juan Carlos had made her promise she would bring some medicine for Teva. “She will die without medicine,” he said. “And if that happens, I will kill the other two, and then come down and kill you.”
Within two hours, she had returned with bandages, antiseptic ointment, and penicillin tablets.
At first, Teva’s condition had remained unchanged, but then on the thirteenth day her fever had broken, and she had woken up, demanding food, although she was still disoriented and somewhat delirious.
“Juan,” she called his name weakly now. He looked away from the window, but he did not get up.
On the very first day, they had made the long tape recording. The little man had written the speech, and Vance-Ehrhardt had dutifully recited it as soon as Juan Carlos had placed a gun to his wife’s head.
In a way it had been a bitter disappointment that he and Teva were not immediately going to Tripoli, yet in another way it was exciting that they were to remain to see the entire thing through.
At least it had seemed that way at first. But now, he shook his head in despair. But now, each day was nothing. Each day his anger rose, his frustration deepened, and his fear solidified that they would never leave this apartment alive.
“Juan,” Teva cried again. Her voice was weak and hoarse. Although her fever had left her, she didn’t seem to regain her strength, nor did the wound in her shoulder want to heal. It was still very tender to the touch, inflamed and draining. He had to pick her up and take her in to the toilet several times a day, and he supposed that was what she was calling him for now. But she would just have to wait this time.
Then there were Vance-Ehrhardt and his whore of a wife. They had both been subdued at first, especially whenever a gun was held to the woman’s head.
But they too had been losing strength. It was the food, Juan Carlos figured; even he no longer felt strong. Now they merely lay in their bed all day and all night, barely moving, even when food was brought to them.
Juan Carlos had kept them tied up until three days ago, when the woman had gotten sick and puked all over herself. Then he had untied them both and ordered Vance-Ehrhardt to clean up his wife’s mess. Since then he had let them remain untied. They were too weak to give trouble.
“Juan, please help me,” Teva cried pitifully, and Juan Carlos finally got up and went into her room.
A stench assailed his nostrils the moment he entered, and he realized with a sinking stomach that she had soiled the bed.
“I am sorry,” she cried, the tears coming to her eyes. “Oh, God, Juan, I am sorry, but I could not help it. I am so weak.”
Juan Carlos could feel tears coming to his eyes too, as he looked down at the pathetic creature on the bare mattress. She was dressed only in a bra and panties, despite the cold; her other clothing was too filthy to wear. And now the mattress was soiled, and he could see where her wound had leaked again, leaving a large, dark stain on the bandages.
In Libya, out on the hot, clean desert, their instructor had taught them to lie for hours without moving, no matter the conditions.
If a snake comes to lie down beside you, then you know you have blended with nature, and your enemies will not see you. Remember that.
But this was not Libya, nor was it the hot desert.
“Please help me, Juan,” Teva cried.
“Uno momento, querida,” he said tenderly, and he turned and went into the bathroom, where he ran rusty brown water into the dirty clawfoot tub. He skipped off his clothes and quickly washed them in the tub, wrung them out, and hung them over the windowsill.
Nude, he went back into the odoriferous bedroom where Teva was babbling deliriously, took a deep breath, and reached over and picked her up. He carried her into the bathroom and laid her gently in the tub.
“Mi querido, Juan,” she said hoarsely, opening her eyes.
Juan Carlos took off her bra and panties, and threw them in the already clogged toilet. There was no soap, but he managed to rinse her off, nevertheless, and then pulled the plug. When the filthy water had all drained, he rinsed the tub and began filling it again with lukewarm water, the hottest it would come.
“We have them,” she said loudly at one point. “They will not get away. The ransom will come.”
‘The ransom will come.” He crawled into the bathtub with her and cradled her in his arms as they sat in tandem.
“My shoulder,” she whimpered.
He shifted to the left so that he would not be touching her shoulder. She had lost a lot of weight; her tiny breasts sagged limply and her ribs stood out. She was no longer desirable, although Juan Carlos could remember in vivid detail their lovemaking over the past months. It had been wonderful.
“When we get to Tripoli,” she mumbled, lying back against him, “we’ll go swimming on the beach. You will take me to the beach?”
“We’ll go swimming on the beach,” Juan Carlos echoed, his heart aching.
“We’re going to get out of here,” she said, stiffening in his arms. “Has he called yet?”
“He has called,” Juan Carlos lied. “We are leaving as soon as we get cleaned up and dressed.”
“We are leaving?”
“Very soon, Teva.”
Somehow she managed to turn far enough around so that she could look into his eyes. Her breath was very bad. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “Let’s do some fucking, Juan. Before we go. Make love to me.”
The tears were streaming from Juan Carlos’ eyes now. “Turn around,” he said gently. “I will begin.”