Part 29 (1/2)

The man who had put Flak in the ropes two days ago came forward. He had small oval eyes like those of a pig. He spoke Vietnamese words soothingly and in a comforting tone to Flak as he approached. He began placing inch-wide green straps flat and even along his arms. Flak roared in anger and pain when Pigeye stood on the small of his back, pulling on the straps to get them tighter on his arms, and to get his arms parallel with each other all the way to his shoulders. He felt like his chest would split down the middle and his shoulders dislocate.

Then Pigeye pa.s.sed a rope from Flak's bound wrists under his b.u.t.tocks, up through his crotch and around the back of his neck. From behind, Pigeye jerked and tugged the rope until Flak's face was pressed into his own crotch.

Flak's pain was electric and hot and streaming from every nerve end.

What little water his dehydrated body possessed was flowing from his nose and eyes and every pore. There was no counting, no mantra. Nothing but overwhelming, shocking pain and agony. He felt sobs and screams pus.h.i.+ng against his larynx from the inside, trying to get out, but unable to because his throat was so constricted from his bent-over and contorted position. He couldn't talk and soon he couldn't breathe. He lunged and bucked against the pressure of Pigeye's body. In seconds he saw red in front of his eyes, then blackness.

Moments later, when he came to, he saw Pigeye standing over him with an empty bucket dripping water. The pain was still there, but the rope pulling his face into his crotch had been loosened. His face was level with his knees.

”Now,” he heard Rabbit, or someone, say into his ear, ”will you agree to meet with your countrymen?”

”Untie me ... and I'll . . . talk ... about it,” Flak gasped.

There was no answer. Twenty minutes pa.s.sed. He was not set loose. The pain went on and on. It was excruciating. Flak just knew his chest was splitting down the middle and his arms were slipping from their sockets.

”Yes, YES,” Flak screamed. ”YES.

”Yes, what?” Rabbit asked close to his ear.

”Yes, yes. I'll see them,” Flak groaned. In the back of his mind, a little voice said, ”See them doesn't mean talk to them.”

Pigeye undid the straps. Flak rolled over and tried to ma.s.sage his arms. They were at first without feeling, just wooden blocks. Then new pain started as the denied blood circulation began. Pins, needles, fire, vises, boiled alive. But not as bad as the ropes and straps.

They gave him ten minutes to compose himself, then Pigeye brought him to the small table.

”Drink,” he said, giving Flak a large thick gla.s.s full of water. Flak gulped it down. ”More,” he croaked.

”Oh, no. First we must talk about what you say, how you perform with your countrymen. They will ask you questions.

You will say you are happy and well, and you are being treated well. You will say you are sorry for your crimes against the peace-loving people of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.” Rabbit examined Flak's arms and hands. They were without scars where the ropes had been. Yet his left arm was twisted and bent inward where the bone had been broken and healed without a cast. ”We will give you clothes.

You will leave your sleeves rolled down,” Rabbit said in a voice thick with menace. ”You will see them tomorrow.”

They took Flak back to his cell. This time no one locked his ankles in the stocks. Before the sun was at its zenith, Crazy Face came in, threw a clean rag at Flak, then prodded him outside to an old shed where there was a shower head.

Crazy Face gave him a sliver of soap and pointed at the shower.

Flak didn't need any encouragement. This was his first bath or shower since he had been shot down. Not knowing how much time he had, he did a hasty overall wash. Then he used the rag to scrub and grind away at the acc.u.mulated scabs and dried waste between his legs, and his b.u.t.tocks, and down his legs. The water was cold, and the soap yellow with naphtha and lye. Soon his skin was raw and tingling. He decided not to sc.r.a.pe too hard. It might break the skin and cause a rash that would soon infect. Then he scrubbed his head and the rest of his body once more.

Back in his room, two covered metal dishes rested on folded cloth on his concrete slab. Crazy Face pushed him in and went out without putting him in the stocks. Flak examined the metal dishes. They were full of hot rice and steaming vegetables. A large spoonful of sugar had been spread over one portion. He tried not to wolf it down. He ate slowly, savoring every bite. When he was done, he carefully felt with his tongue around his mouth for the last morsels and grains.

Then he unfolded the treasures awaiting him on the concrete slab. There was a mosquito net, a thin cotton blanket, a woven straw mat filthy with dried effluvia, and a pair of pajama-style s.h.i.+rt and pants made of a rough material with purple and gray stripes. He tapped a call to Ted Frederick but got no reply. Rabbit appeared at his cell in midafternoon. He had with him a man who wielded a pair of scissors and set about to cut Flak's hair. Afterward Rabbit handed Flak a wooden handle with half of a razor blade attached to one end. The barber put a small folding mirror on the slab.

Flak examined the razor, then tried it. It was dull.

”I have skin problems,” Flak said. ”This is a bad razor.

I don't want to shave.” Like many black men Flak Apple had tender skin on his cheeks that required delicate care.

”You shave face or be severely punished,” Rabbit snarled.

Flak wet his face and shaved the best he could. Even though he was extra careful, his face felt like he had rubbed sandpaper on it. Rabbit inspected him and gave him a small towel. ”You have cuts,” he said.

”Put on clothes now. You hurry.” Flak put on the striped pajamas.

”We go now,” Rabbit said. ”Be very careful what you say,” he added with steel in his voice. He led Flak out of the compound to a jeep-type vehicle. A driver drove them to an old French colonial residence, faded now and in disrepair.

The whole neighborhood was in disrepair, Flak saw. They were in what had been a prestigious area near the Lake of the Restored Sword. Inside, he was led into a room that had several chairs and a sofa covered with plastic placed around a coffee table. The articles on the low table drew Flak's eyes.

There were apples, and bananas, oranges, and, miracle of miracles, candy and vanilla wafers. His cheek muscles cramped as if he had just bitten into a lemon. He hoped he wouldn't salivate.

A large black man and black female walked into the room.

”h.e.l.lo,” he boomed, sticking his hand out. ”I'm Robert Williams.” He tilted his head toward the woman- ”This is my wife.” He did not give her name. Flak begrudgingly shook hands with both of them. The man spoke American English.

”Sit down,” Williams said as a command. ”Eat up.” He watched as Flak warily put a cookie in his mouth and chewed. Who is this guy? Flak wondered. The cookie simply melted on his tongue. Nothing had ever tasted as good.

What the h.e.l.l, might as well take advantage of this situation.

He began eating ravenously.

Williams stared at him. ”What's the matter? Don't you get cookies where you are?” Flak didn't answer.

”Well, no matter. They'll take care of you. I've been a.s.sured of that.

I'm here in Hanoi with the convention. It's the Peoples of the World against U.S. Imperialist Aggression in Indochina.” He eyed Flak. ”These people here, they wouldn't hurt anybody. The imperialists who bomb and kill women and children here in Hanoi are the same ones who kill and bomb black babies in Birmingham.” Williams watched Flak closely. So far Flak had not looked at him.

”I'm from the States,” Williams said. ”They call it the land of the free, but there ain't no freedom there. That's why I live in Cuba. I have a radio program there called The Voice of Free Dixie.

Flak awkwardly peeled an orange. His fingers would not do exactly as he wanted. They felt numb and encased in thick mittens.

”Listen, brother,” Williams said conspiratorially. ”Would you like to make a tape for your loved ones? Wouldn't your wife like to hear from you? I can do it, you know. Let's make a tape together and I'll broadcast it on my program. What do you say, brother?” So far the man's wife had not said a word.

Flak began stuffing apples and oranges into his pockets.

”Well,” Williams said, leaning forward. ”What do you say?”

Flak looked up at Rabbit. His joints remembered the pain from the ropes. He tilted his head toward Williams.

”You're no American,” he hissed, ”and sure as h.e.l.l not a brother.”

Rabbit bent down to listen to the words.

”I certainly am,” Williams insisted. Rabbit turned his head back and forth as the two men spoke.

”You are not an American,” Flak repeated. ”No American would voluntarily live in Cuba. ” He tried to say it in a conventional voice so that Rabbit wouldn't comprehend the insult.

Williams looked at Rabbit. ”This man is hopeless,” he said to him. ”A criminal.” Rabbit looked confused. Flak decided not to press his luck.

Besides, his stomach and pockets were full. ”I'm tired,” he said, looking down. ”And sick.