Chapter 7

THE DEAL

Henry woke to the familiar sounds of Christmas music from Puerto Rico.

“Traigo esta trulla para que te levantes…” José Carlos sang in an obnoxious off-key melody. Henry slowly opened his eyes—realizing he was back inside the interrogation room.

“Morning! Or is it? Heck, I’m not even sure myself. You’ve been out for a while, my friend. But you see, we’re here to help you. We got you a doctor and now you’re all better, Mr. Henry Elias al-Velo.”

Henry looked with confusion at José Carlos.

“If you’re wondering how I got your name, don’t think too much. Your papá gave it to us along with all the other names of your pals and collaborators. It’s kinda funny, when you think about it. We got a hold of your FBI file, but that thing was a piece of crap. Your father’s notes, however, are a work of literary art,” José Carlos said as he picked up a document from the table and waved it around in the air.

“What did you do to my father?” Henry said.

“We did nothing. The question is: what has He done for us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. You really don’t know?”

Henry started feeling the tingling of betrayal.

“Your father’s been helping us since the comandante contacted him,” José Carlos said.

“Bullshit. He’d never cooperate with a coup.”

“Well, my friend, this is the thing about coups: they happen from inside.”

“You’re telling me this thing was my father’s idea?”

“Oh, hell no. Your father’s a stupid humanist. He doesn’t know anything about this place. He’s only partially responsible, I guess, because he’s the friend of the comandante.”

“Who’s the comandante?”

“Where have you been, nene? Take a wild guess…”

Henry grunted. He had just woken up from a concussion caused by his interrogator’s beatings. He wasn’t feeling up for his games.

“Ok, ok. I’ll give you a hint: he’s the leader of the armed forces.”

Oh shit, Henry thought. How did I not figure this out?

It was Jamal’s father, El Comandante, who had concerted the entire take over with the help of the wealthy landowners who had lost their numerous properties on the island during the Property Reform enacted by the Shift government.

Jamal’s father evaded politics since his ideological downfall. But after the revolution triumphed, Henry’s father, who was in charge of the national workers front, needed a general commander to lead the newly formed Puerto Rican Revolutionary Armed Forces. Jamal’s father got the job due to his experience training the SWAP armed forces in the 70’s. Henry remembers Jamal’s disappointment when Augusto told them that Jamal’s dad was going to be leading the armed forces.

“That man’s gonna be the death of us!” Jamal said.

“He’s your father, bro. Augusto knows he’s a good person, and I trust my father’s word,” Henry said.

            “He’s an ideological traitor. He has no commitment. He shouldn’t be in any position of power!”

            “I wouldn’t worry too much. Revolutionary moments inspire people to lead revolutionary lives. He’s one of us. I’m sure he’s no longer a cynic.”

 “I hate telling you this, Henry. But you’re way too idealistic,” Jamal said.

“Whatever.”

“Money, greed, power, can override any revolutionary ideals, especially if there’s no discipline. Revolutionary moments are just that: moments. Strikes, uprisings, victories in the streets—they mean nothing for the long-term foundation of a new society. We’ve had too many moments in our history, Henry, too many moments that have given us hope and then taken us back to the same spot we were in when we started. It’s been that way, all over the World. So many revolutions betrayed, all over the World, Henry! But there have been revolutions that have truly triumphed. They were those led by people with ideals that transcended romantic revolutionary moments. Those people who pushed for change to keep moving forward—even at the most banal of moments when there were no gunshots fired, or explosions, or people out on the streets—those people were the ones who created the long-lasting shifts that have led us to this world we’ve inherited.  True revolutionaries are not guided by inspirational moments; they are led by their long-standing ideals, which they uphold at all times. That man that I call my father is not a revolutionary, and he will never be one. He prides himself on not having ideals! He only pledges allegiance to convenience. Being your father’s right hand is very convenient at this moment. Do you not see that?”

Jamal, almost hyperventilating, had to sit down.

“Calm down, man.”

“Nothing good can come out of this.”

Jamal’s words were chillingly foreboding as Henry remembered them in the interrogation room.

Henry sat silently in the middle of the room, thinking about the past and trying to make sense of the situation. José Carlos looked at him attentively and impatiently swung back and forth on the desk’s chair.

Dónde carajo is this kid’s mind? José Carlos thought. I should say something.

“You know, Henry, we have nothing against the revolution. Puerto Rico could’ve never continued to survive as a nation under colonialism.” He postured himself as if he were going to give a speech. “Nuestra cultura, nuestro patrimonio, nuestra identidad.” José Carlos paused and neared his face to Henry’s. “Nuestro lenguaje, puñeta… It would’ve all been lost. And that’s not mentioning the horrible economic state in which we were under colonialism. Ha! Remember? It was better for a Puerto Rican to live in the United States than to live in his own homeland. Nobody could make anything of themselves on this island.”

He moved away from Henry and looked out the window-wall toward the people in the stadium.

“So you see, Mr. Enriquez, we’re not against the independence of our madre patria, we just don’t agree with the way things were being run. We are patriots, and we hate seeing this country go down the gutter as Cuba did.”

“What does Cuba have to do with anything?” Henry said.

“They made a lot of the same errors we’re trying to correct over here. They forgot to listen to Tío Sam.”

“Goddamn you, man, this is not the fucking Cold War.  The shift is an international revolution. It progresses and moves…”

“Ha,ha,ha!” José Carlos interrupted Henry. “You’re so idealistic, it’s funny,” he said.

Henry rolled his eyes and stared with rage at his interrogator.

“The shift has no car to run anymore, my friend.”

“What a horrible analogy,” Henry said.

“Ay, bendito. Look, I’m not here to ‘hablar mierda’ with you. Believe me, I have better things to do.”

Henry started seeing José’s weakness: his self-absorption. Henry would rather have a pointless frustrating discussion than be coerced into talking about the movement.

“When did you learn to speak English so well?” he said.

“Hehe. Bueno, mi pana, five years studying in Georgia will help anyone become fluent.”

“You still have a disgusting accent.”

“Fuck you!”

A knock on the door interrupted them.

“Cállate, cabrón” José Carlos ordered to Henry. He opened the door.

Two militiamen stood in front of him.

“What is it?” he said.

“The general instructed us to aid you in your interrogation,” one of the men said.

“I don’t need any help.”

“We had strict orders.”

 “¡Maldita sea!

He called the general on his cell phone.

“I can handle it myself, ¡por el amor de Dios!” he said.

“Have you made the deal yet, or what?” the general said.

“Well, not exactly. We’re working on it, sir.”

“Well, the other men stay there until he makes a decision. Don’t fuck this up José!”

José Carlos hung up and signaled the men to sit next to Henry.

“Okay Henry, these men and myself will help you make a couple of decisions very soon. Okay?” One of the men tightened his muscles as the other took out a black bag.

“What are their names?” Henry tried to keep the conversation under his control.

“Ha, bueno, este es…”

“That doesn’t matter.” One of the men interrupted José Carlos, and looked at him aggressively.

“Um, yeah,” José Carlos said.

The man punched Henry on the face. His nose bled.

“Was that necessary?” José Carlos said. He was mad that the situation was getting out of his control, but he stopped questioning his back up interrogators out of fear of being demoted by the general.

“Okay. This is what we want:  We need your full cooperation. We understand you have a lot of influence in the student movement and were their primary leader during the revolution.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your father said you’d be a tough one to convince.”

“You’re lying.”

“He told us how hard it was for him to convince you that organizing the workers in a giant union would work to push the revolution forward.”

“You’re never going to be able to control the students.”

“Look, we don’t have to convince anyone. This was your father’s request. If we just killed every one of them, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about, right?” José Carlos noticed Henry started sweating when he mentioned killing the students. He looked at the man with the bag of items and nodded. The man pulled out a sharp knife and slit the blunt edge of it against Henry’s cheek.

“But you don’t want your friends dead, do you? I can see it in your eyes. You care, huh?”

“I’m never going to cooperate. Torture me, kill me, do whatever you want. I’m not going to betray the movement.”

“Yeah, okay. I don’t think we’re going to be touching you much anymore.” He signaled the men sitting next to Henry to come meet with him outside the room. Henry sat in solitude for several minutes, wondering what they were going to do to him next.

They can beat me as much as they want; I’m not talking, he thought.

 When they came back into the room, he was prepared for the worst. The men pulled him up and made him walk out of the room.

“We’re gonna let you go. Rest a little, and think about things. See ya soon, neighbor!” José Carlos said.