criminals

 The dungeon smelled of bleach, of urine, and of the stale sweat of bodies barely visible in the darkness. Lidia, twenty-two years old, with faded red hair and nails bitten to the cuticle, sat on the wooden bench, her back pressed against the cold wall. Beside her, Sara, with her perfect ponytail and her expensive brand-name sneakers caked with mud, kept twisting the only earring she had left.

—I can't believe it —Sara whispered for the umpteenth time—. We're in a dungeon, Lidia. Like criminals.

—We are criminals —Lidia replied, without taking her eyes off the metal door—. We peed on the facade of the Culture Center.

—It wasn't the Culture Center, it was the town hall! —Sara shrank back—. Well, same thing. The point is, I did it out of desperation. I couldn't hold it anymore. Everything was closed, the street was empty, and there was nowhere to go...

—You wanted to do it behind some dumpsters, Sara. You said: I'm going behind those dumpsters. But no, the young lady was afraid of rats and decided that a corner of the town hall facade was more hygienic.

—It could have been worse —Sara said, not looking at her.

Lidia did look at her. She saw her friend's profile, the perfect ponytail, the expensive sneakers, the small bloodstain on the hem of her pants. That stain that neither of them had mentioned all night.

—I know —Lidia replied.

—We could be here for the nightclub thing. But we're not.

—No.

Sara turned to face her. Her eyes were bright.

—Do you regret it?

Lidia took a moment to answer. She thought about the blaring music, the guy who kept getting close to Sara, his hands, her push, the broken glass, the blood, the flight, the sirens, everything and nothing.

—No —she finally said—. I regret not slashing his face sooner.

Sara let out a short, bitter laugh.

—Well, I do. I regret not holding you back. Or not running away faster.

—We ran.

—We sprinted. It's not the same. Until we found ourselves alone in the town hall square.

The rest of the cast of that mandatory gathering watched them with a mix of curiosity and condescension. In the left corner, three drunks reeked of red wine and hummed traditional songs in a failed attempt at harmony. To their right, two young girls, their eyes still swollen from crying off their mascara, were telling each other, in vivid detail, how the brawl at the club had started (a butt in the wrong place, a poorly thrown drink, a confused boyfriend... who knows, they didn't even know why they were there). Across from them, a woman in her forties, with a split lip and a bruise on her cheekbone, stared fixedly at a spot on the wall. No one dared ask her anything, although it was obvious she was the one from the fight. At the other end of the bench, a nun in an immaculate habit and serene face clutched a rosary so hard her knuckles were white; she had tried to kill her lover, with a knife, while he slept.

Next to her sat a lanky kid with pimples on his face and a blue folder of Law notes. He kept repeating: —But the car was identical! Same model, same color! That's a mistake of fact, no criminal intent... this is an illegal detention, I can assure you, I'm studying Law! —No one paid him any attention.

Until the nun spoke.

—And what did you do? —she suddenly asked him, her voice so sweet it sounded like velvet.

The student swallowed hard. Until that moment, no one had asked him anything. They had only ignored him or, at best, looked at him with that mix of pity and sarcasm reserved for those who act smart in a dungeon.

—Steal a car, sister —he finally replied, shrugging—. But it was a mistake. I confused it with my cousin's. They're the same. A four-seater Renault, sand-colored.

The nun nodded understandingly, as if every day she heard confessions from parishioners who had taken the wrong clunker.

—I made a mistake too —she said—. I mistook the glory of God for the love of a man. And when he wanted to leave, I mistook a kitchen knife for a solution.

The ensuing silence was so thick that even the drunks fell quiet.

The Law student opened his blue folder. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again, surely looking for some article in the Penal Code that covered that.

The woman with the split lip broke out of her trance and for the first time showed a grimace that could have been a smile.

—Damn, sister —one of the nightclub girls blurted out—. Well, we only caused a bit of trouble.

Lidia turned to Sara. —See? It could be worse. We only... peed...

—On the Culture Center.

—Fine, on the damn Culture Center.

Hours passed. The drunks fell asleep hugging each other. The nun prayed silently. The woman from the fight had joined the conversation with the nightclub girls and it turned out she wasn't so bad; her business partner had simply cheated her, and she had broken a chair over his head. The Law student offered free legal advice to everyone, in exchange for letting him do mock interrogation practices.

And then, when the police station clock struck seven in the morning, footsteps were heard in the hallway. Firm footsteps, of authority. Footsteps that Sara recognized instantly. She had heard those footsteps in the hallways of her house, on the stairs of the courthouses, at the opening ceremonies of the judicial year.

The door opened. The officer, a large, mustached man, poked his head in.

—Miss Sara —he said, addressing her—. Someone has come to pick you up.

Sara and Lidia sprang to their feet. The first to speak was Lidia, who let out all the air she had been holding in for hours.

—Are we leaving? Now?

But the officer shook his head.

—Not you. You wait.

Lidia stopped mid-motion, her bottom just about to leave the bench, her mouth open.

—What do you mean, no? —she protested—. But we both...

The officer didn't reply. He simply held the door and waited for Sara to come out.

Sara avoided looking at Lidia. She left the dungeon without saying a word. Behind the officer, in the dimly lit hallway, she saw the silhouette of a man. Dark suit, robe still hanging over his arm, gray hair, well-polished shoes. He wasn't very tall, but his presence filled the space. The man looked at his daughter, Sara, with a mix of disappointment and infinite disdain. Then he surveyed the overall scene: the drunks, the club girls, the bruised woman, the nun, and the student.

—Dad —Sara began—, I just...

He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. Then he addressed the officer. —Is there any problem with the charges?

The officer shook his head. —No, Your Honor. It's all been sorted out.

The word "Honor" hung in the air. The drunks sat up as if electrocuted. The nun raised an eyebrow. The Law student opened his mouth and then closed it, probably thinking about the résumé he was wasting and the possibility that this man had presided over some court where he dreamed of pleading one day. Lidia stared at Sara, wide-eyed.

—Honor? —Lidia whispered—. Your dad is a judge?

—From a court in Madrid —Sara murmured, blushing—. A small one...

The officer closed the dungeon door again, and with a half-smile, placed a hand on Sara's shoulder and guided her toward the exit, while the judge walked on his daughter's other side, impassive.

—Don't worry, miss —the officer said under his breath—. The other one gets out in a couple of hours. It'll pass.

Upon reaching the station door, with the grayish light of dawn already filtering through the entrance, Sara turned one last time. From the hallway, only echoes came: the drunks laughing, the nun praying, and Lidia's voice, still indignant, mingling with it all. The image of the dungeon blurred behind the hallway they had just crossed.

Inside, Lidia remained. The woman with the split lip. The nun with her rosary. The Law student, who was probably already offering Lidia his legal services, likely asking her if she knew a good lawyer specializing in minor offenses. And the dungeon smell, which Sara was taking with her out into the street.

She stepped outside, feeling, in the morning air, utterly free.

The judge let out a laugh, the first of the day.

—There's a café that opens soon. They make excellent omelettes. And you're going to tell me exactly why you decided that the town hall facade was the most suitable place to pee. Afterwards we'll assess whether that constitutes a crime of damage to heritage, a minor offense of disrespecting authority, or simply monumental stupidity.

Sara swallowed hard. Freedom was a dream that had just lasted exactly three seconds.

 

mvf.