This public display of contrition—it had the aspect of Wing IV. Maybe I was being paranoid, but it was damn well worth checking out. No sense leaving Strate with the wrong impression. After the meeting, Mario arranged for another talk with the child-director. I was no longer surprised at her youth; it was obvious that Strates could be any age from ten on up. A fifteen year old could be a three-year veteran, and this one was.
"I'm not clear exactly how this works," I said carefully. "I heard the Strates talking, but none of them said how they were cured. What do you do the rest of the day, when you're not at the big meeting?"
"Nothing," she told me. "To succeed here, you have to change. You have to realize what a jerk you are, being hooked on drugs." I shook my head dubiously. "A lot of kids I know would never voluntarily admit they were jerks." Would Ilunga's brother Danny admit it, or would he laugh derisively at the very notion? No need to ask.
"It works," she insisted. "All you have to do is walk through that door." She gestured toward the far aperture of the warehouse, where a Strate staffer stood guard. I realized that no one could pass through that door, either way, without being challenged.
"This is something I understand," I said, thinking again of Wing IV. What was behind that door? "If I were an addict, and I walked through that door; would I be cured?"
"We don't handle adults," she said. "You would have to go to another program."
"What other programs are there? For adults?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
This was a director? Curious. "What is your program? What happens to a person—behind that door?"
Her reply was another shrug. But then she said, "I just told you. He comes to realize what a jerk—"
I sighed. I had heard of revelation, religious and otherwise, in which a person came to realize the error of his ways and resolved to change. Some really did change. But that was not my question. There had to be some inducement, some lead-up, experience to make that person alter the habits of a lifetime. This child would not, or could not, tell me what that was. And I suspected I knew why.
Strate, in whatever wholesome guise, was practicing brainwashing. With a guarded controlled environment and strenuous group pressure, it was able to tame all but the most adamant subject. Teenaged youngsters were still suggestible. They could be molded in a fashion hardened adults could not.
But brainwashing was an extremely dangerous tool. It did not turn out free-thinking individuals, it turned out conformist automatons, all parroting the prescribed line. That line could be "I love you" or "I hate you"—they would say it and believe it. Perhaps that was the only real cure for incipient drug addiction. But in my mind, the cure might well be worse than the ailment.
No, I would not send a boy like Danny here, had I the option. My student Mario might swear by Strate, but I knew him to be a narrow, limited personality. He would never make a really good judoka; he lacked the initiative and imagination, and most of all he lacked the sheer fight. He had a positive attitude, certainly, but I saw now, more clearly than ever before, that this was not enough. Later, I followed up with a little private research into the statistics. They were not optimistic. Of those who graduated from programs like Strate and returned to the open world, approximately ninety per cent were back on drugs within six months. The only sure way to stay straight was to stay with the program—either as an inmate or as staff, as Mario was.
I had not learned what I expected or wanted, and I had not found Danny or Ilunga, but I had learned. In future, I would stick to my martial arts.
Danny slumped in the dark cell. He had no idea whether it was night or day, or how long he had been there. He was naked and thirsty. They fed him irregularly so that he could not keep track of the time. There was no place to urinate or defecate except where he was and his hands were tied behind him. The cell stank of his own refuse. He was also in the throes of a mild withdrawal from his minor drug habit.
Only his mind remained bright, his passions, his memories. He was a coward, and knew it, but somehow, when Blakrev had actually tried to kill him, he had gained courage. Now there was no doubt of their nature, no doubt at all. If he believed in anything, anything at all, it was the sanctity of human life. His sister had fought them and taken him to a doctor, and then somehow she had gone and he was here, and one thing he knew was that she would never have betrayed him. She must be dead, and now there was no one to protect him, no one to lean on. No one to uphold her honor except him.
They had told him he was in Blakrev. He had lifted himself off the bed despite the agony of his wound. "I'm not with you, you motherfuckers!" And then he was here. His wound still hurt, but now it was a badge of honor, a vital evidence that they had done their worst.
Light bathed him blindingly. Someone untied his hands, cleaned him up gently. It was a woman, dark-skinned like him, attractive. He was embarrassed as she washed off his privates, the refuse on his legs, but he suffered it without protest. She guided him to a pleasant room with a picture window opening out onto a tropical landscape: palms, shrubbery, sand. He relaxed in a comfortable chair.
A man entered—brown, handsome, casually well dressed. "Sorry about the misunderstanding," the man said. "Those fools thought you were an impostor. When we checked out your references, we knew you were of good black stock. Your sister may have deceived you."
"Never!" Danny exclaimed.
The man took no notice. "Smoke?" he inquired, proffering a cigarette. It had the look and smell of a reefer, and Danny wanted it badly, but he shook his head no. "Drink?" the man asked next, bringing out a bottle. But Danny distrusted this too. The moment he accepted any drug from Blakrev, he was done.
The man shrugged. "She's been telling you lies about Blakrev, trying to turn you against our interests. But of course you know there can be no peace with the honkies. They have to be put down."
Danny carried no brief for the white man, but that didn't make Blakrev his friend. "Go suck your ass," he said. He knew about the Tarzan-Jane approach; he had seen the police use it. One interrogator would be harsh, tough; the other gentle, friendly. This one was Jane, and not be trusted.
"I don't think I understand you," Jane said. "There are very good things waiting for friends of Blakrev, and very bad things in store for Blakrev's enemies. I would hate to see you hurt."
"Then let me out of here!" Danny cried.
Jane sighed. "It really would be easier if you supported us."
Danny didn't answer. He knew what was coming, and he was terrified, but something in him would not let go. A second man entered the room: short, muscular, and with the head of an animal. His skin was white. Tarzan. Jane faded out.
"Stand!" the beast-man snapped.
Danny, though his body was shaking and sweating, ignored him. Naturally Tarzan was white!
Crack! A fist like iron crashed down on his shoulder, hurling him to the floor.
After that it was vague. When Danny found himself back in his cell, he knew he'd had the worst beating of his life. Every part of him hurt.
Now it was glaringly bright. He sat on the bare metal cot, shuddering, unable to alleviate the pain. What a monster that white beast-man was! Wouldn't it have been better to go along with nice black Jane?
Logically, yes. But still Danny couldn't let go. His sister would never have given in, and now he couldn't betray her. If she were dead, she had died fighting Blakrev.
He lay down, shielding his eyes against the awful light. That must be a thousand-watt bulb! At last he began to relax, to fall asleep despite his pains.
A terrible shock ran through him. Danny cried out in new agony and threw himself off the cot. They had electrified it! That was the beginning of his next ordeal. He could not sleep. Every time he nodded off, something violent happened. An electric shock, a deafening clang, or a swift blow through the bars. Whatever it took to keep him alert and hurting.
He understood, now, what they were doing. They were brainwashing him. If he began to go along with Blakre
v, these harassments would ease. If not, they would continue until he cracked—or died.
Contrary to all his own expectations, he held out. Because it was what Ilunga would have done.
Somewhere in that maze of waking fatigue he was taken back to the room with the picture window. He was put in the chair and made to face the window. The lights went out, so that there was nothing to see except the pleasant view outside.
A man stumbled onto the scene, a black man who looked vaguely familiar. Maybe it was just the type; he looked like one of the Blakrev drug pushers.
"This man tried to cheat Blakrev by holding back part of his sales," the man behind Danny said. "Watch." Danny watched, because he didn't want to be hit again. The pusher was running from something, but what? He kept looking nervously over his shoulder.
Suddenly a hulking animal shape appeared, some kind of huge dog or cat. "The hyena," the voice behind said. The hyena leaped and grabbed the fugitive's leg with his teeth. The man screamed.
Danny heard nothing; the glass was soundproof. But the vision was enough. The pusher fell, but the animal did not let go. It crunched hard on the leg until the bone snapped.
The man was still conscious. He tried to crawl away on two hands and one leg. But the hyena caught an arm, and again crushed the bone with a single vicelike closing of its terrible jaws. Then it went to work on the helpless man's torso. Using claws and teeth, it ripped at the abdomen, tearing away skin and muscle. Finally it dragged out the living intestine and began to feed. For a moment it looked up, as if seeing Danny, a bloody string of entrails dangling from its smiling mouth.
"Delicious!" the man behind him remarked, and smacked his lips.
Danny threw himself off the chair and hurtled into the man headfirst. His forehead struck the man's crotch as the lights came on. Now there was an audible scream! As the man fell, Danny punched him on the nose. Then he lifted his foot for a stomp. Never before had he fought like this!
They dragged him away and hung him up by his feet, naked, his head immersed in a tub of water, almost drowning him. Only by bending his body could he clear his mouth to breathe... and then a standing ring of men beat him in the face and body with leather straps. Tarzan, Jane, and the others—they were all there, even the woman. They swung him around by the rope, each laying the leather into his buttocks, until his rear was a raw mass of bleeding meat. He thought he was going to die, and now he wanted to, but they knew what they were doing, and kept him alive and in constant pain.
At last they took him back to the picture window, still without food, water, or sleep. Now there was salt in the chair, stinging cruelly, but he had to sit. And watch.
Was it to be another kill for the hyena? He didn't care. Nothing further could dismay him. He had won a victory of sorts: he had unmasked Jane, shown the black man up as the torturer he was.
The beast-headed Tarzan came into view. He stopped, turned, and beckoned.
Then Ilunga stepped out.
"Sis!" Danny cried. But it was useless; she could not hear him through the soundproof glass.
Ilunga came up to the man. Tarzan put his hand on her arm and guided her around to face the window directly. Now she could see Danny.
Tarzan said something. Ilunga looked at Danny—and spat at him.
Danny was too shocked to move or speak. Ilunga was alive and well, and she had gone over to Blakrev!
They took him back to his cell. Food and water were there, and there was now a mattress and blanket on his cot. They even let him sleep.
But what use was any of this, now?
Chapter 6
Cuba
We traveled to Cuba via Mexico; no direct flights went to Havana from America. Mexico City, from the air, was a giant bowl surrounded by mountains. It was dusk, and the lights were coming on; myriads of twinkling glows, and the eerie illumination of the oil refineries.
Mexico City is one of the great cities of the world, with a population of about eight and a half million; it is second only to New York in the Americas, and second to none in age and beauty. Long before the Europeans came, this mile-and-a-half high metropolis flourished amid Aztec sacrifices.
Next day we flew to Cuba. As we neared the island, the plane's intercom came to life, spouting Spanish. One of my bilingual judokas translated for me and the others. "We are now flying over the infamous Bay of Pigs."
The Bay of Pigs! Where American-backed Cuban exiles had launched their abortive invasion of Castro's regime, only to be wiped out. I remembered the long effort to redeem the prisoners, trading them for 500 monster tractors. It gave me a chill. Had things really changed that much in the past decade or so? Now we Americans were invading again, and our fighters had little better chance of success.
More Spanish, and the translation: "You all know what happened here. A great victory for Democracy over Imperialism..." I tuned it out of my mind. I was no expert on politics, being basically apolitical, and I had never decided on the rights and wrongs of the Bay of Pigs fiasco; but if Castro's Cuba was a democracy, my understanding was backwards. I looked down, watching the landscape change to flat country, first swamps, then plains covered with farms. Finally we landed at Havana International Airport, announced as Jose Marti Airport, and called Rancho Boyeros Airport by the natives because that was the town it was actually in. A bus took us into Havana, through rolling countryside with small vegetable patches: lettuce, cabbage, beans, carrots, gourds, and so on. Gardens seemed to grow the same under communism as under capitalism. We were given a small tour of the city, via the windows of the bus and spot announcements.
The road took us past the big round Sports Complex where the judo meet was to be held. Several roads met in front of it, at a large fountain lit by colored lights. We moved right alongside the Civic Center, with its monument to Jose Marti, a major figure in Cuban history, atop his star-shaped pedestal. Then the Palace of Justice; did they really have justice here, I wondered? And the University complex and the beautiful Church of the Sacred Heart, which looked like a European Cathedral. I'm no connoisseur of architecture, but I enjoyed the whole tour as a simple ignorant tourist.
I saw many Spanish-language posters on buildings and poles, no doubt excoriating the vices of capitalism. We rode along the Malecon, or seaside highway, past the Capitolo or capitol building I was surprised to see that at was an exact replica of the one in Washington. Then on by the Presidential Palace, and through the Havana Tunnel. When we emerged I saw the of the grim Cabanas fortress, the prison filled with political dissenters.
After that it was the Via Blanca, or White Road to Varadero, eighty miles from Havana, where we would stay for our final training. This trip took an hour and a half. Added to the tour, it made a total of three hours from airport to hotel.
Havana was a huge place, almost two million people. In fact, it accounted for about a fifth of the total population of Cuba, a remarkable concentration. But the whole road, through Havana and beyond, bordered the sea, and there were beautiful beaches all along the way.
The International Hotel, where we were staying, was on a narrow spit of land, a lovely peninsula, with beaches on both sides. I could see that it would be a lot of fun here, and I hoped my team did not suffer from the distraction. We had to fit in a lot of last-minute training if we were to make a decent showing.
We trained, and trained hard; but as the sweltering days passed, we had to take some breaks. There is, after all, more to life than judo, traitorous as it may seem to say it.
The last afternoon, before our move to the Havana Libre in Havana for the meet, I walked alone out on the beach to clear my head after a grueling session. The sand was clean and warm, so fine it was like powder, and I was tempted to plunge into the water for a swim. As a part of our training, we ran over this loose sand every morning, much harder than normal running. I had on my bathing suit, like everyone else.
I didn't try to strike up any conversations. The ideal Cuban, I had discovered, is an orator. Despite my ignorance of the language I
could appreciate the rhetorical rhythms of the incessant, loud, fast talk, accompanied by expressive gestures. We Americans lack that zest in our dialogue.
The sea here was shallow and clear, with a great variety of beautiful seashells. I could make out sea horses and schools of little cuttlefish. Give it time, I thought; one day soon Cuba would enter the twentieth century and pollute its waters in civilized fashion, and all this beauty would pass.
A Rubenesque girl accosted me. "Que hora es?" she inquired. She had long brown hair, wore glasses even on the beach—nearsighted, I judged—and had extremely generous breasts that would surely sag before her youth passed.
"No hablo Español," I replied regretfully, using one of the phrases I had learned for such occasions. "I can't speak Spanish. Sorry." In this case I really was sorry, for she had a really voluptuous figure barely contained by her bathing suit.
"Ah, you are Canadian," she said in my language.
"American," I said. "Sorry again."
She looked disappointed, but put a positive face on it. "The Americans are not all bad. Just their government. I am sure the people want our friendship."
"I certainly do!" I agreed; "We're not bad. We're just bad judokas," Less than stunning repartee.
"Oh, so you are with the judo team!"
I confessed I was.
"You will lose," she said confidently. "Our teams will win the championship."
I shrugged. I didn't want to fight with her. "What makes you think that?" Actually I could think of worse ways to relax than talking with a buxom girl, communist though she might be. It was not her politics that showed up so amply in the sun, after all. One deep breath and she would burst out. Voyeur that I am, I wanted to be on hand for the event.