sk.everythingseventual-第25节

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e　the　English…language　portion　of　the　weather　on　the　city　television　station。　When　he　did　this　he　invariably　got　fan　mail。　In　a　suit　he　didn't　look　greasy；　just　roly…poly。　Fletcher　knew　all　this。　He　had　done　three　or　four　stories　on　Escobar。　He　was　colorful。　He　was　also；　according　to　rumor；　an　enthusiastic　torturer。　A　Central　American　Himmler；　Fletcher　thought；　and　was　amazed　to　discover　that　one's　sense　of　humor…rudimentary；　granted…could　function　this　far　into　a　state　of　terror。
　　'Handcuffs？'　the　guard　asked；　also　in　Spanish；　and　held　up　a　pair　of　the　plastic　kind。　Fletcher　tried　to　keep　his　look　of　dazed　inprehension。　If　they　cuffed　him；　it　was　over。　He　could　forget　about　one　chance　in　thirty；　or　one　in　three　hundred。
　　Escobar　turned　briefly　to　the　woman　on　his　right。　Her　face　was　very　dark；　her　hair　black　with　startling　white　streaks。　It　flowed　back　and　up　from　her　forehead　as　if　blown　by　a　gale…force　wind。　The　look　of　her　hair　reminded　Fletcher　of　Elsa　Lanchester　in　Bride　of　Frankenstein。　He　gripped　this　similarity　with　a　fierceness　that　was　close　to　panic；　the　way　he　gripped　the　thought　of　bright　light　on　the　river；　or　his　sister　laughing　with　her　friends　as　they　walked　to　the　water。　He　wanted　images；　not　ideas。　Images　were　luxury　items　now。　And　ideas　were　no　good　in　a　place　like　this。　In　a　place　like　this　all　you　got　were　the　wrong　ideas。
　　The　woman　gave　Escobar　a　small　nod。　Fletcher　had　seen　her　around　the　building；　always　garbed　in　shapeless　dresses　like　the　one　she　wore　now。　She　had　been　with　Escobar　often　enough　for　Fletcher　to　assume　she　was　his　secretary；　personal　assistant；　perhaps　even　his　biographer…Christ　knew　that　men　like　Escobar　had　egos　large　enough　to　warrant　such　accessories。　Now　Fletcher　wondered　if　he'd　had　it　backward　all　along；　if　she　was　his　boss。
　　In　any　case；　the　nod　seemed　to　satisfy　Escobar。　When　he　turned　back　to　Fletcher；　Escobar　was　smiling。　And　when　he　spoke；　it　was　in　English。　'Don't　be　silly；　put　them　away。　Mr。　Fletcher　is　only　here　to　help　us　in　a　few　matters。　He　will　soon　be　returning　to　his　own　country'…Escobar　sighed　deeply　to　show　how　deeply　he　regretted　this。　'。　。　。　but　in　the　meantime　he　is　an　honored　guest。'
　　We　don't　need　no　steenkin　handcuffs；　Fletcher　thought。
　　The　woman　who　looked　like　the　Bride　of　Frankenstein　with　a　very　deep　tan　leaned　toward　Escobar　and　whispered　briefly　behind　her　hand。　Escobar　nodded；　smiling。
　　'Of　course；　Ramón；　if　our　guest　should　try　anything　foolish　or　make　any　aggressive　moves；　you　would　have　to　shoot　him　a　little。'　He　roared　laughter…roly…poly　TV　laughter…and　then　repeated　what　he　had　said　in　Spanish；　so　that　Ramón　would　understand　as　well　as　Fletcher。　Ramón　nodded　seriously；　replaced　his　handcuffs　on　his　belt；　and　stepped　back　to　the　periphery　of　Fletcher's　vision。
　　Escobar　returned　his　attention　to　Fletcher。　From　one　pocket　of　his　parrot…and…foliage…studded　guayabera　he　removed　a　red…and…white　package：　Marlboros；　the　preferred　cigarette　of　third…world　peoples　everywhere。　'Smoke；　Mr。　Fletcher？'
　　Fletcher　reached　toward　the　pack；　which　Escobar　had　placed　on　the　edge　of　the　table；　then　withdrew　his　hand。　He　had　quit　smoking　three　years　ago；　and　supposed　he　might　take　the　habit　up　again　if　he　actually　did　get　out　of　this…drinking　high…tension　liquor　as　well；　quite　likely…but　at　this　moment　he　had　no　craving　or　need　for　a　cigarette。　He　had　wanted　them　to　see　his　fingers　shaking；　that　was　all。
　　'Perhaps　later。　Right　now　a　cigarette　might…'
　　Might　what？　It　didn't　matter　to　Escobar；　he　just　nodded　understandingly　and　left　the　red…and…white　pack　where　it　was；　on　the　edge　of　the　table。　Fletcher　had　a　sudden；　agonizing　vision　in　which　he　saw　himself　stopping　at　a　newsstand　on　Forty…third　Street　and　buying　a　pack　of　Marlboros。　A　free　man　buying　the　happy　poison　on　a　New　York　street。　He　told　himself　that　if　he　got　out　of　this；　he　would　do　that。　He　would　do　it　as　some　people　went　on　pilgrimages　to　Rome　or　Jerusalem　after　their　cancer　was　cured　or　their　sight　was　restored。
　　'The　men　who　did　that　to　you'…Escobar　indicated　Fletcher's　face　with　a　wave　of　one　not…particularly…clean　hand…'have　been　disciplined。　Yet　not　too　harshly；　and　I　myself　stop　short　of　apology；　you　will　notice。　Those　men　are　patriots；　as　are　we　here。　As　you　are　yourself；　Mr。　Fletcher；　yes？'
　　'I　suppose。'　It　was　his　job　to　appear　ingratiating　and　frightened；　a　man　who　would　say　anything　in　order　to　get　out　of　here。　It　was　Escobar's　job　to　be　soothing；　to　convince　the　man　in　the　chair　that　his　swelled　eye；　split　lip；　and　loosened　teeth　meant　nothing；　all　that　was　just　a　misunderstanding　which　would　soon　be　straightened　out；　and　when　it　was　he　would　be　free　to　go。　They　were　still　busy　trying　to　deceive　each　other；　even　here　in　the　deathroom。
　　Escobar　switched　his　attention　to　Ramón　the　guard　and　spoke　in　rapid　Spanish。　Fletcher's　Spanish　wasn't　good　enough　to　pick　up　everything；　but　you　couldn't　spend　almost　five　years　in　this　shithole　capital　city　without　picking　up　a　fair　vocabulary；　Spanish　wasn't　the　world's　most　difficult　language；　as　both　Escobar　and　his　friend　the　Bride　of　Frankenstein　undoubtedly　knew。
　　Escobar　asked　if　Fletcher's　things　had　been　packed　and　if　he　had　been　checked　out　of　the　Hotel　Magnificent：　Sí。　Escobar　wanted　to　know　if　there　was　a　car　waiting　outside　the　Ministry　of　Information　to　take　Mr。　Fletcher　to　the　airport　when　the　interrogation　was　done。　Sí；　around　the　corner　on　the　Street　Fifth　of　May。
　　Escobar　turned　back　and　said；　'Do　you　understand　what　I　ask　him？'　From　Escobar；　understand　came　out　unnerstand；　and　Fletcher　thought　again　of　Escobar's　TV　appearances。　Low　bressure？　What　low　bressure？　We　don't　need　no　steenkin　low　bressure。
　　'I　ask　have　you　been　checked　out　of　your　room…although　after　all　this　time　it　probably　seems　more　like　an　apartment　to　you；　yes？…and　if　there's　a　car　to　take　you　to　the　airport　when　we　finish　our　conversation。'　Except　conversation　hadn't　been　the　word　he　used。
　　'Ye…es？'　Sounding　as　if　he　could　not　believe　his　own　good　fortune。　Or　so　Fletcher　hoped。
　　'You'll　be　on　the　first　Delta　flight　back　to　Miami；'　the　Bride　of　Frankenstein　said。　She　spoke　without　a　trace　of　Spanish　accent。　'Your　passport　will　be　given　back　to　you　once　the　plane　has　touched　down　on　American　soil。　You　will　not　be　harmed　or　held　here；　Mr。　Fletcher…not　if　you　cooperate　with　our　inquiries…but　you　are　being　deported；　let's　be　clear　on　that。　Kicked　out。　Given　what　you　Americans　call　the　bum's　rush。'
　　She　was　much　smoother　than　Escobar。　Fletcher　found　it　amusing　that　he　had　thought　her　Escobar's　assistant。　And　you　call　yourself　a　reporter；　he　thought。　Of　course　if　he　was　just　a　reporter；　the　Times's　man　in　Central　America；　he　would　not　be　here　in　the　basement　of　the　Ministry　of　Information；　where　the　stains　on　the　wall　looked　suspiciously　like　blood。　He　had　ceased　being　a　reporter　some　sixteen　months　ago；　around　the　time　he'd　first　met　Nú？ez。
　　'I　understand；'　Fletcher　said。
　　Escobar　had　taken　a　cigarette。　He　lighted　it　with　a　gold…plated　Zippo。　There　was　a　fake　ruby　in　the　side　of　the　Zippo。　He　said；　'Are　you　prepared　to　help　us　in　our　inquiries；　Mr。　Fletcher？'
　　'Do　I　have　any　choice？'
　　'You　always　have　a　choice；'　Escobar　said；　'but　I　think　you　have　worn　out　your　carpet　in　our　country；　yes？　Is　that　what　you　say；　worn　out　your　carpet？'
　　'Close　enough；'　Fletcher　said。　He　thought：　What　you　must　guard　against　is　your　desire　to　believe　them。　It　is　natural　to　want　to　believe；　and　probably　natural　to　want　to　tell　the　truth…especially　after　you've　been　grabbed　outside　your　favorite　café　and　briskly　beaten　by　men　who　smell　of　refried　beans…but　giving　them　what　they　want　won't　help　you。　That's　the　thing　to　hold　onto；　the　only　idea　that's　any　good　in　a　room　like　this。　What　they　say　means　nothing。　What　matters　is　the　thing　on　that　trolley；　the　thing　under　that　piece　of　cloth。　What　matters　is　the　guy　who　hasn't　said　anything　yet。　And　the　stains　on　the　walls；　of　course。
　　Escobar　leaned　forward；　looking　serious。
　　'Do　you　deny　that　for　the　last　fourteen　months　you　have　given　certain　information　to　a　man　named　Tomás　Herrera；　who　has　in　turn　funneled　it　to　a　certain　munist　insurgent　named　Pedro　Nú？ez？'
　　'No；'　Fletcher　said。　'I　don't　deny　it。'　To　adequately　keep　up　his　side　of　this　charade…the　charade　summarized　by　the　difference　between　the　words　conversation　and　interrogation…he　should　now　justify；　attempt　to　explain。　As　if　anyone　in　the　history　of　the　world　had　ever　won　a　political　argument　in　a　room　like　this。　But　he　didn't　have　it　in　him　to　do　so。　'Although　it　was　a　little　longer　than　that。　Almost　a　year　and　a　half　in　all；　I　think。'
　　'Have　a　cigarette；　Mr。　Fletcher。'　Escobar　opened　a　drawer　and　took　out　a　thin　folder。
　　'Not　just　yet。　Thank　you。'
　　'Okay。'　From　Escobar　it　of　course　came　out　ho…kay。　When　he　did　the　TV　weather；　the　boys　in　the　control　room　would　sometimes　superimpose　a　photograph　of　a　woman　in　a　bikini　on　the　weather　map。　When　he　saw　this；　Escobar　would　laugh　and　wave　his　hands　and　pat　his　chest。　People　liked　it。　It　was　ical。　It　was　like　the　sound　of　ho…kay。　It　was　like　the　sound　of　steenkin　batches。
　　Escobar　opened　the　folder　with　his　own　cigarette　plante