Johannes Anyuru

A Storm Blew in from Paradise

Translated from the Swedish by Rachel Willson-Broyles

World Editions

breda 2015

Published in Great Britain in 2015 by World Editions Ltd., London

www.worldeditions.org

Copyright © Johannes Anyuru, 2012

English translation copyright © Rachel Willson-Broyles and World Editions, 2015

Cover design Multitude

The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published as En storm kom från paradiset in Sweden in 2012 by Norstedts, by agreement with Norstedts Agency, Stockholm

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

isbn 978-94-6238-004-2

The cost of this translation was defrayed by a subsidy from the Swedish Arts Council, gratefully acknowledged

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Phone: +31 (0)76 523 3533. Email: info@worldeditions.org.

#

He opens his eyes. The floor is shaking. He has the feeling that the area has very recently been full of voices and laughter. Maybe he was just dreaming. He’s lying between two rows of seats. The stars move slowly in a window above him. He is lying in a train compartment. He gets up and sits in one of the seats. His body is sore; his joints are stiff. He looks down at his hands, at his knuckles, his thin fingers; he turns his head, tries to get a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. He doesn’t remember what has happened to him, what he’s doing on this train. The full moon hangs low above the horizon, a grey disc. He can see the craters, the sandy seas. He doesn’t remember who he is. The moon, it reminds him of something. Of clouds. Of the wind. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember his story.

I

#

‘Why did you come back?’

P has been sitting with his chin on his chest; he raises his eyes and looks across the table again. ‘I’ve already told you,’ he says. The room is windowless, and despite the fact that both men have unbuttoned several of their shirt buttons, they are sweating profusely; there are large wet spots on their backs and under their arms. The interrogator spreads out his fingers and drums his fingertips against each other. P looks down at the floor again. The concrete looks rough and desolate, like a photograph of the moon’s surface.

‘I was promised a job at a company outside Lusaka.’ P doesn’t understand why they’re holding him here, why they have brought him here at all. ‘I was going to fly a crop duster.’

‘You were going to fly a crop duster.’ The men are speaking Swahili with one another. The interrogator looks through the papers on the table. His body is wiry, his face is fleshy and his features crude, his moustache is sprinkled with grey, he is nearly bald. His facial expressions are amused, cruel, sometimes artificially friendly. ‘A Ugandan fighter pilot travels from Rome to Zambia to fly a crop duster over fruit plantations?’

P wipes the sweat from his brow. They brought him here straight from the airport, and he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink all day. He is tired; he has the sense of being caught in a dream that is far too long, of swimming underwater, of being outside himself. The walls of the room are blue. Tendrils of bare cement appear where the paint is flaking. They look like continents on a map from another time, another world.

‘Send me back to Rome if you don’t believe me.’

A guard is standing in the corner of the room to the left, behind P’s back; his presence makes itself known only by the scraping of shoes against the floor. The interrogator changes position, rests his chin in his hand, places an index finger over his lips in reflection. He refuses to believe that anyone would return to this devastated continent without aims beyond the one P has given time and again: that he wanted to fly, that his only chance to fly was at a small company outside Lusaka in Zambia that sprays fruit plantations using propeller planes from colonial times.

P screws up his eyes and feels the exhaustion rising in his head like a white roar. He feels ill.

‘It’s time you realize you won’t be allowed to return to your contact in Rome.’

‘My contact?’

The interrogator pounds the table with his hand. ‘Who sent you to Zambia? Who do you work for?’ The guard behind P moves; his shoes scrape against the floor. ‘Well. How could we send you back to Rome? Officially, you already went back there, from Lusaka, didn’t you? You signed the deportation order yourself.’ The bald Tanzanian points at a document, then takes out yet another piece of paper and places it on the table. ‘Right here, you signed a statement to attest that you have been sent back to Lusaka, from here.’

P stares straight ahead, trying to think of something to say. He hasn’t been beaten, but violence is hanging in the air.

‘You ought to be more careful about where you put your signature. You no longer exist. It’s time you start answering our questions.’

Many of the papers that have already been placed on the table belong to P: his passport, his plane tickets. The interrogator takes yet another document out of a folder and looks at it, pretending to be considering something. He places it on the table and pushes it over to P, who picks it up.

P looks at the Greek letters. His name and rank. The insignia of the Hellenic Air Force: a man with wings, white against a sky-blue background. His diploma.

‘You were trained at the Hellenic Air Force Academy in Dhekelia outside of Athens; then you went to Rome, and from there to Zambia. Why?’

‘I wanted to fly.’ The statement sounds like a lie even to him. He wants to shout, to stand up and overturn the table, shout that he just wanted to fly. He feels the letters with his fingertips. He just wanted to fly. Inside him, a scrap of an image flutters by, a memory that feels like it took place in another life: he’s standing beside a chain-link fence, watching jet airplanes come sinking out of the sky; it’s his first autumn in Greece, and the leaves haven’t yet fallen but the crowns of the trees in the playground have turned a colour like cardboard; he and the rest of the future flight cadets from the Third World study Greek on narrow wooden benches, repeating verbs and nouns all day long, but one afternoon they are picked up by a bus and driven through the barriers around the air-force academy and dropped off at that chain-link fence that faces the airfield, and they stand there and look at the airplanes that they’re going to learn how to fly, later, after their language course is finished—the sleek murder machines move across the runway, far away, slow and wobbly like gulls.

‘Do you want a cigarette?’

P shrugs without looking up from the document in his hands. The interrogator must have given a signal to the guard, because he takes a step forward and holds out a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. P takes one, sticks it in the corner of his mouth; the guard lights it and then backs into the shadows again. P puts down his diploma, waits for a question, or for violence, or for his release, for something; he smokes.

‘What is your opinion of Obote?’

‘Of Obote?’ He lets the smoke curl through his nostrils. ‘I wish he were president of Uganda. He is one of my people.’

‘Tell me what happened when Obote visited your village in the spring of ’69.’

‘I was in Greece in ’69.’ P knows what the interrogator is talking about. John wrote about it in a letter.

‘The spring of 1969.’ The man pronounces the year slowly, syllable by syllable, as though there were a chance that P might have misunderstood it. ‘In the spring of 1969, Milton Obote, your president, travelled around and gave speeches in the countryside. It was a campaign to unite the people after the Buganda kingdom uprising. You are familiar with this?’

‘I was in Greece.’

‘When he came to your village, he was attacked by a mob that tore down the podium, destroyed the microphone, and forced him to flee.’

‘I was in Greece.’

‘But you heard the news from your family, didn’t you? You were all against Obote.’ The interrogator points at P as he says this, as though P were the one behind the general disapproval of Obote’s tendency to favour his own family, his own ethnic group, from the presidential palace. P snorts, ashes onto the floor, shakes his head.

‘My life was destroyed by the military coup.’ He waits for a question that doesn’t come; he tries to remember what he has said and what he hasn’t said, which lies, which omissions, and which confessions measure out the bounds of this conversation. The three men are silent; only their breathing is audible, and the dull hum of a ventilation duct, and far off, outside the room, the occasional sound of footsteps. The interrogator takes a photo album from a box on the floor. P recognizes it; like the documents on the table they have taken it from his luggage.

In 1969 he was in Greece, flying the training planes. In 1967 he was in Greece, studying Greek and watching the training planes land and take off, and in the evenings came a chill that he had never experienced in Uganda and that made him sleep with his olive-green training jacket pulled tighter around his body, made him shiver, and some days a breeze came from the sea and brought with it enormous amounts of sand that blew in over the narrow streets of Dhekelia, sand white as pearly shards, or white as broken bits of sky, sand that lay in thick dunes along the edges of sidewalks and the sides of houses. He went to the sea sometimes, on the weekends, on a civilian bus line that carried tourists in the summer but was nearly empty in the fall, winter, and spring. He wandered alone in the swell with his shoes in his hand and his pants rolled up and felt how something from his childhood, some vague thing, was swallowed by darkness, and maybe by forgiveness. He sometimes thought, then, by the sea, that the people who existed at that time would one day disappear, become limestone on the bottom of another sea.

The interrogator takes a photograph out of one of the plastic sleeves and pushes it across the table. A young African man in a pilot uniform stands on a T-37, supported by the large, grey tail fin, almost twice as tall as a person.

‘This is you.’

‘No,’ he says quickly, without knowing why he is lying.

‘It’s not you?’

The photo is grainy and the face in the picture is shadowed by the pilot’s helmet, blurry. It could be someone else. The situation between Tanzania and Uganda is very tense. Uganda’s military is shooting grenades across the border. Amin claims that Ugandan guerrilla soldiers who want to overthrow his regime have camps in Tanzania.

‘It’s someone else.’ He shouldn’t have lied, but he did and now he has to stick to his lie. He bends down and stubs out his cigarette under his shoe. There are already two butts on the floor from cigarettes he smoked earlier. How long has he been sitting here? ‘It’s one of my classmates.’

‘You persist in lying.’ The interrogator shakes his head, makes a disappointed face, folds his hands over his stomach, and leans back in his chair. ‘It’s not important. We’ll start over from the beginning. The man in the photograph is you. You belonged to the second generation of Ugandan fighter pilots. You were sent to the Hellenic Air Force Academy in Dhekelia outside of Athens, which has produced fighter pilots for a number of African countries since the early sixties.’

The first time they went through this, P refused to confirm any of what the Tanzanians said, but the irrational loyalty he felt toward the two states that have now completely betrayed him disappeared as his exhaustion grew. He closes his eyes and nods slowly; yes, he was sent to Greece to be trained as a fighter pilot and an officer in the Ugandan air force. He sits with his chin lowered, his eyes closed.

He remembers the increasingly chilly autumn days and the shouts in Arabic and French and the crowds in the corridors when they all rushed out to the yard, all at the same time to shove each other and brag about the military education in their countries and the planes they’d already flown during the trials. He remembers the days. He particularly remembers the day when they took the bus to the airfield and stood staring through the fence, how their eyes widened when the afterburners on a T-37 lit and comet tails of welding-flame blue slowly grew out of the jet exhaust, and how the plane jerked and hurled away and up, and that in that moment it felt like it was possible to start over, to leave your past behind, to escape. As though history didn’t exist.

Uganda had recently become independent from British rule, and they had started to build up the nation’s air force by buying MiG-21s from Israel. A first generation of Ugandan pilots had been trained to fly these by Israeli security advisors, but while the Israelis continued to train Ugandan pilots, they began to send small groups of young men to the Hellenic Air Force Academy in Greece. The idea was that they would become familiar with American and French fighter planes and, above all, become officers drilled in the military lifestyle, gentlemen, leaders. While the Ugandan pilots who were educated in their native country only trained for a little more than six months, those who went to Greece would study at the air force academy for three years in order to become the corps and spearhead of the new air force.

They slept in bunk beds and kept their few belongings in grey metal lockers; they were the most promising members of their generation, their country’s future gods of the sky. As they walked from the student quarters to the language-school building, cawing birds ate from garbage cans. P was in a class that was mostly made up of Libyans, Egyptians, and Tunisians, but also students from the Ivory Coast and a young man from Chad.

He received letters from John, his eldest brother; he read them sitting on his bed. He longed for the language course to be over so he could begin his military training and then learn to fly. He jogged in the afternoons, felt his heart beating and his lungs expanding, contracting, expanding; he went to the sea, he bent down and washed his face in the water that tasted of salt, not sweet like the water on the shores of Lake Victoria. Not like home.

On the day when they stood at the fence with their eyes open so wide that the whole sky would fit in them, the sky that would soon be theirs, the sound of the airplanes’ motors were like thunder and when the planes descended they had rated the landings, given their future colleagues two points out of ten, or three points, or sometimes one point, and of course one of them would yell zero then, to be the worst: in Greek, zero. They had boxed with each other and laughed. That was in the beginning. When he was a child he had wanted to be a bird.

‘What did you say?’

The interrogator said something that P didn’t hear. P is sitting with his head in his hand, his elbow on the table. His eyes are still closed. Inside him, the image and the sound of hundreds of hovering birds.

‘I said that I’m quoting one of the air force academy’s own documents.’ The interrogator has another piece of paper in his hand; he folds it, unfolds it, reads: ‘“Ever since airplanes were first used in military operations in 1912, the Air Force has protected the skies of our country against every threat, and it is with deep respect that we turn to the victims and the heroic deeds that have made it possible for Greece and her people to enjoy democracy and freedom as well as the progress of civilization.”’

P doesn’t understand what the man is trying to get at. He reads the words with a hollow tone that makes them seem empty and silly. ‘You recognize this? “Because of their self-sacrifices, the aviators of Greece occupy a prominent position among the country’s sung and unsung heroes.”’ The man puts the paper on the table, smoothes it out with his palm, pretends to disappear in thought. He draws his index finger across his moustache, he looks out into the empty air, he drums his index finger against his lip; then he says, as though apropos of nothing: ‘Are you a fascist yourself?’

The guard laughs behind P’s back.

‘I don’t want to get involved in politics.’

‘You don’t want to get involved in politics.’

‘I don’t want to get involved in the war.’

‘What war?’

‘Between you and Amin. Between Tanzania and Uganda.’

‘Are you saying that Uganda is at war with us? Is that how they see it?’

‘Who?’

‘The people you’re working for.’

‘Let me go back to Rome. I just wanted to fly.’

The man doesn’t answer. He reads from the paper as though to himself, fascinated; at first he almost mumbles: ‘“The Hellenic Air Force Academy instructs its cadets in the science of flight and develops their military virtue and military discipline. It forms the officer into a man with perfect military and aeronautical knowledge and an advanced education, as well as social, cultural, and political understanding and knowledge of proper conduct, and supplies him with comprehensive professional and scientific training.” Would you say that this is accurate? Did your friends possess what they promise here?’

‘No.’

‘It’s not accurate? You didn’t receive pilot training? Then what did you do in Greece?’

‘They weren’t my friends.’

‘And that’s not you in the picture?’ The interrogator points at the photograph where P is standing by the tail fin of his training plane.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You persist in lying. That’s you in the picture. You completed the air force academy’s fighter-pilot training and now you claim that you returned to Africa to use your—let’s see what it said—your “perfect military and aeronautical knowledge” and your “comprehensive professional and scientific training” to fly a crop duster?’

P pinches his temples with his thumb and index finger. He has been taught how to handle interrogations, how to escape from prisons, how to withstand torture. One must go to a place beyond the body. One must not be in the room.

‘May I have another cigarette?’ The bare cement walls of the room make him sound sharp and tinny.

The thin, wiry man who taught the course on imprisonment and torture, and who was presumably from the Greek security police, said that as soon as you’ve told them everything you know, your life ceases to be of any worth, and this, not loyalty or nationalism, is why you should not talk during an interrogation. P picks up the photo. The interrogator waits for him to say something.

He never thought about the political situation in Greece, even though it was there like background noise: that a military coup had recently been carried out by three army generals and that King Constantine found himself in exile after a failed attempt to seize power from those who had executed the coup. The communists and anarchists blew up cars in Athens, the newspapers were full of articles about the degenerate, atheist youth culture and the democratic-party politics that had almost brought the extreme left to power in the country. P wasn’t interested. They were words in headlines. He would soon learn that the air force, like the navy but in contrast to the army, were royalists and had supported the king’s attempt to take power in late 1967. He would hear this in nervous whispers from the Greek cadets later on, and he also remembered, from the later years, from the time when he was going through the flight training itself, the deep respect that bordered on fear he and his classmates were met with when they were in uniform. He liked life in the military, liked that for the first time it was possible to analyze his life, that there were rules, a system. He didn’t think about politics. His gaze roams. The light bulb on the ceiling starts to buzz. They will never be able to understand. He remembers the white, short-sleeved summer uniform of the Greek air force. He just has to be able to fly again. That was why he travelled to Lusaka.

‘You took language classes before you were trained as a pilot?’

‘Yes. We learned to speak Greek,’ he says. And their language teacher always tried to drag the African students in particular along to bordellos, because apparently that was what the black Americans from the aircraft carriers that sometimes docked in Piraeus wanted to do. He said eiste pala kaidia, ‘you’re good guys’; they called him the Gull, he had tufts of white hair that he was always stroking into place with his left hand.

They had nicknames for one another, too. Hussein was going to be a helicopter pilot, and had only been accepted into the school because several of his relatives had top posts in the Ugandan army, and they said he was going to learn to fly a mosquito, an eggbeater, what else—a dragonfly; they wrestled with each other in the gravel and laughed.

At the time, P had flown only once, during the trials in Uganda. He had sat in the small propeller plane with an Israeli flight instructor who would evaluate how suitable he was for pilot training in terms of his sense of balance, his capacity for spatial orientation, and his coordination, and when he was allowed to fly the plane by himself for a few seconds, he grasped the controls in his hands and glided through layer after layer of light, and it had felt like freedom, a transformative changing of worlds. He thought of it often there in Greece, back in the beginning when he was conjugating verbs and practising dialogues and scratching his nail against the lacquered wood of the school desk and looking out at the clouds. Of flying again.

‘The language course lasted a year?’

‘Six months.’ For six months he sat in the evenings, cutting pictures of airplanes out of Greek and American newspapers that former students had left behind in the barracks. The F-86s that the Greeks flew, with the air intakes like open mouths hanging under their noses, the T-37s in diamond formation low above a scrap of coastline, in bright sunlight—cross-shaped silhouettes against the breaking waves. His longing redefined him, gave him new contours. On the weekends he and the other Africans in his class walked from bar to bar with their arms across each other’s shoulders, shouting so loudly their voices echoed between the buildings, and the waiter poured out Greek spirits into a big glass and blended it with water so that it turned completely white, like a winter sky. And the winter came and the light over Dhekelia turned white and he walked with his schoolbooks under his arm and turned his face into the wind and his future was like the white light from the sky.

If he held his hand out in the wind, it lifted, slowly.

‘After the language course, you were moved to the air-combat school?’

‘Yes. To the air force academy itself.’

‘So you started flying sometime in the beginning of 1968?’

‘No. The summer of ’69.’

‘The language course began in the fall of ’67 and lasted for six months?’

P goes through the years and the dates in his head so he doesn’t get confused; so he doesn’t give the impression that he’s lying. He swallows. He says: ‘The basic military training started in the spring of ’68. It lasted for a year. In May of ’69 we started to fly.’

A deep, concerned wrinkle appears between the interrogator’s eyebrows. During the interrogation he has been taking notes in a small notebook with a black ballpoint pen, and he flips through them; he says in a friendly, concerned voice, ‘Hadn’t you already undergone basic military training in Uganda?’

None of this is a secret, nothing is information the Tanzanians don’t already know, nothing is anything worth keeping from them.

‘Yes.’

‘Yet you went through basic military training in Greece? Is that what you claim?’

‘That was what happened.’

‘That was what happened.’ And the interrogator quotes again, in English, from one of the papers in the folder. ‘“The military training develops military competence in the flight cadet by increasing his stamina by way of long training sessions, and it develops his ability to act correctly and think in a consistent manner under pressure. This is achieved through proper training in the handling of weapons, survival, and training in military organization and procedures.”’

P wonders how they have gotten hold of these documents. He hadn’t brought them along with him. Maybe they’re the official descriptions the academy uses to attract students from the Third World. ‘Tell me about the Greek cadets. Where did they stand politically?’

‘Politically?’

‘Were they fascists like the Americans and the Greek government?’

Fascists? They came to the academy in September, thirty young Greeks, selected from among thousands. They stepped off a military bus, they tossed their dark manes of hair and whispered to one another as they passed the foreign-language students who were sitting outside the barracks. The language course was over, long shadows fell across the barracks yard, it was morning, the Greek men disappeared into the gym, P sat there and watched them along with his classmates, he smoked, he remembers that he was struck by the thought that he could have been one of them, that he could have been in some completely different country, could have had a different body, a different name, a different life, so strange; he remembers that now, that while he watched the Greek cadets-to-be, his life opened before him for a few seconds and he saw how arbitrary it all was: that he had been born in Uganda, the son of a woman who sent him away and a man who died when he was very young, that his name was P, that he was in Greece because his friend had skidded past on his bike one day and asked him to come along to the trials for the Ugandan Air Force, that he had followed his friend and had treated the tests as though they were a game at first but later, naturally, with increasing earnestness—his friend had been eliminated but P had been asked to stay the night and was then sent away to undergo more trials at a camp in northern Uganda. He drew in the gravel with his tennis shoe.

He finds himself repeating the motion with his patent-leather shoes on the cement floor. He stops. He closes his eyes.

After half an hour the Greeks came out again, in a row, in ill-fitting field uniforms, their hair buzzed down to their bumpy, pale heads. Some seemed not to care that their longs manes of hair had been cut; others were experiencing total breakdowns. P and the others who were sitting and waiting and who had already gone through this, first in their homelands and then a second time here in Greece, laughed at them. That night, after the Greeks had been given lodging in the barracks inside the fence they had once stood outside, they had all been wakened and herded into a gym in only their underwear, and a group of students in their final year had shoved them and spat at them and taunted them, calling them small fry, psarades. This was all part of tradition, of the transformation, of the science of flight.

‘I was a Greek cadet,’ says P.

The interrogator looks up from his folder with an expression of genuine surprise on his round face. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You asked me where the Greek cadets stood politically. We were all Greek cadets.’

‘You mean to say you’re Greek, not African?’

P continually has to fight the sensation that the walls are closing in on him. The ventilation system rumbles.

‘May I have a glass of water?’

‘You may have another cigarette.’ The interrogator nods at the guard, who gives P yet another cigarette. It tastes like thirst and stress, and he smokes it nervously and with a sense of hopelessness rising inside him like dark, murky water. They don’t believe him even when he tells the truth.

‘You don’t even know whether you’re African or Greek, but you expect us to believe you when you claim that your only agenda in Lusaka is to work as a crop-duster pilot?’

‘Yes.’

‘You may have a glass of water when you stop trying to hide the fact that you took courses in intelligence techniques, espionage, and sabotage during the time when you claim to have completed a second basic training.’

They ran through the spring and the growing shadows of afternoon, into the evening that came sweeping over the barracks. The only thing the freshly buzzed cadets did during their military basic training was run. They ran around and around the barracks yard in their grey sweatsuits. The gravel crunched under their feet; they ran while night fell and the summer veered away and the leaves once again turned yellow and fell, a second Greek year. They ran and heard their instructor shout: ‘The primary purpose of military basic training is the proper cultivation of the flight cadet’s personality. He is initiated into a military lifestyle, a military sense of duty, and the habits and traditions of the academy.’ They ran and their breath rose like smoke from their mouths and dissipated into the evening sky and he tripped over his own feet and his gaze was thrown upward and he saw snowflakes unfurling above them. That’s how he remembers it now. That they ran for a whole year without ever stopping. He remembers one day when a group of second-year cadets were walking across the barracks yard in their khaki winter uniforms, that they stopped and pointed at the small fry who had always been running there, who would always be running there, but he doesn’t know whether, in this image, he is one of those running or one of the older ones looking on, if it’s later. He doesn’t remember. He holds the cigarette in his hand, his hand against his forehead; the interrogator shoves yet another picture across the table, he looks at it, and the interrogator knocks on it, hard.

‘Do you deny that this is you?’

In the photograph he is dressed in the summer uniform of the Greek air force. A short sabre hangs from his waist. He is wearing a uniform cap.

‘That’s me.’ He picks up the photo, holds it up in front of him. ‘That was me.’

‘Tell me what you did during your basic training.’

‘We ran.’

In the spring he collapsed on the ground and lay with his back against the throbbing earth, against the rustling gravel. Clouds glided by up there, and now, as he remembers them, he thinks: Nimbostratus: rain clouds that gather in a single layer and are blurred by continuous precipitation. They took a basic course in meteorology later; alongside their flights, they learned about the sky, winds, rain. Things were happening for him. The photo in his hand captures the light from the bulb on the ceiling; a ray of grey light slides across the young cadet’s face and he knows that these men will never be able to understand, that they see these photos without understanding the power of the sky and the sun that made him return here, to these wars, to this danger. Cumulonimbus: vertical clouds whose upper parts are striated and flattened and widen into the shape of anvils and giant plumes. He looks up at the interrogator for a moment, then down at the photo again. He leans back in the hard wooden chair, the photograph still in his hand. From the base of the cloud comes precipitation in the form of falling streaks that never reach the ground.

‘We ran,’ he says a second time, and he laughs suddenly, snuffling through his laughter and shaking his head. He grows silent, stares down at the table.

The sound of a sudden movement behind his back. A buzzing numbness, like carbonation, spreads through his arms and legs, he feels himself sliding off the chair and it seems to happen slowly, like in a dream; somehow it has already happened even as it is happening.

He is lying on the floor, looking up at the light bulb on the ceiling. Sharp, flashing pain in the back of his head; it radiates down along his spine. His shoes scrape feebly against the cement floor as he tries to get up.

Darkness.

The guard hit him in the back of the head with a weapon, probably the butt of his pistol.

He hears the interrogator speaking but the words have no meaning; they’re just sounds, noises.

Darkness.

His head throbs. His body is clumsy; it doesn’t want to obey him.

‘Sit up.’ The interrogator speaks in a tone that one might use when instructing a less-than-gifted student to perform a dance step. P is still lying on the floor; his shoes scrape, scrape against the floor. The chair has tipped over; it’s lying beside him. The guard rights the chair and P curls up on himself because this quick movement makes him think he is going to be struck again. Then the guard lifts P’s arm, roughly and simply, and sits him up. His tongue is swollen. He feels the back of his head carefully and gets something sticky on his fingers. He looks at them, smears the blood around with his thumb for a moment, in a sort of shocked fascination. He remembers his childhood. He remembers a man who wasn’t his father, a man he lived with for many years. He closes his eyes, hard. The taste of iron in his mouth.

‘Shall we continue?’ The interrogator wipes his forehead with his shirtsleeve and looks down as his folder, somehow bureaucratic and thoughtful. ‘Take off your shoes,’ he says. ‘Take off your shoes and take off your clothes.’