Posted by: Sk | February 14, 2009

Chapter 10: The courtyard

Two days before the three weeks are over. I’ve studied the place and have a somewhat clear idea of how it works. It’s in fact a second floor T. A second floor. What an idea. Put a prison on a second floor. The torture rooms must be downstairs, I always say to myself, and in any case, it is the psychological impression it awakes. But I don’t think so. There is a long corridor with a heavy door at the end and two offices at the very entry. One is occupied by guards, there are not many but there isn’t much to keep, either. The other belongs to Sask, just in front. Then there are bathrooms and showers and a washing machine you have to pay for if you want to use it. Then there are a series of cells all along the corridor. At the other end there is the coffee machine to the right and the tv room to the left. If you go into the coffee machine room, there is a window to the right, and there, there is a courtyard with cars. To the left though, there is another window, and from there you can see another courtyard, the one with the guy last day. If you go to the left of the tv room there is another door that seems to link to this courtyard. The young man who brings the food every day arrives from there.

As far as I have been told, I will be allowed to go down to the courtyard in two days. Not for the courtyard itself. It seems there is some kind of shop there, where you can even buy toothpaste. Which is interesting, after all. The telephone is in the guard’s office. Such lonelyness.

I have been thinking about all the happenings last weeks and of course I considered the fact that Sask would have refused the accusation she would have left the door open. Such a lier. She had already left the door open. She actually went and picked up my cd – isn’t that to leave the door open? It’s obvious, she came back later, what she sometimes does and profited of the calm of the night in order to get into my room. If I had been waiting for her, blankets make a good type of rope. And she had the keys in her pocket, for sure. And guards are none at night. So? Still say no?

That’s what I said. Wicked stroke. Say ‘that one’ and you’ll be sure she’ll try to show how powerful she is. Of course there is no violation of private space – isn’t that a wicked induction? – because civil rights are none here. But, isn’t there a regulation explicitely forbidding to enter cells at night for, yes, reasons of security? There you are. Sliding banana skins those regulations.

That’s why she disappeared, after. Did you know, did you not know that I knew? That costs you your career. Don’t say no. Of course I attributed the whole to some humanitarian tendency arising from hers being convinced I’m innocent. But that’s because I’m polite – I wouldn’t think such deep considerations may have invaded her mind in reality. But, be honest. What do you prefer – to live in a world where your guards are nothing but wicked torturers or in one where you may think they may be contagiated by some deep attachment to human feelings? I prefer to live in the second even if reality is constantly trying to prove me the contrary.

In any case you’re thrown out of your cell at seven – such timetables (!) after having heard some ringing bell at 6.30. You’re supposed to be ready for some control – that does not exist here factually – at 7.30 and when you have passed a sharp determination of your presence you’re allowed to eat something for breakfast. Cells are closed, so, if you want to change your pullover during the day – kind you want to seduce the guy in front, you have to think about it before leaving it. Then you may spend an eternal day passing from the coffee machine to the tv, where you can play with the computer, too.

It’s well done, finally. The guards, who are, I must say, of deeper social nature, are at the same side than the coffee machine and the spy engines at the same than Sask’s office. You have just to consider these evidences in order to know what you have to take care of.

That’s my identity for a while. A T without tea but with some bitter lemon inside. As long as I don’t get out of it, there is no risk some sudden irruption of frozen orders leads me to the suspicious ground floor. Which in my mind may be nothing but some interdiction falling suddenly on my head. My treasures are the coffee machine, the computer and the tv. I will have to try keeping them. And the window. There may be an expansion of territory in a few days. But I have to be careful – new territory is always possible risk.

I don’t talk to the guards very much. It may look suspicious. But I really insist in looking as if such a job would be horribly boring and as if the realization of the human could not but be the communication in depth with others. If they start talking, possible implications are less.

Sask seems to have disappeared in contemplations on international terrorism. She’s not silly. Certainly she’s thinking of how to take some profit out of the whole – seen already the amount of false steps made by herself. As long as she doesn’t decide to shoot me, it should be all right. My scaled strategy should be having some effect. To leave days pass is better: information does slowly fall into the depth of the unconscious and our immediate awareness having slightly any memory of it, it is still working in the back of our brain.

I have to go on with my plans. After so many days of thought, I decided the best would be to refer first to things having nothing to do with it. It’s not only a question of strategy, it is a psychological feature. I hate people who make of their own destiny the need of imposing it to half the world. Now, that’s my destiny. A long list of accusations. And you should never loose main features of your character even in those situations. So. Contemplations on national behaviour – perhaps she gets the point. If she doesn’t, it’s done for me. But that’s the only narrow path out.

Texts left in the computer


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