This is a fictional story depicting images of violence, rape and torture. Don't read if these are likely to offend, or if you are not an adult. Although this story is loosely based upon the notorious Villa Grimaldi in Santiago, Chile, remember, the story is fiction. A Red Hot Chile by Grim Williams Copyright 2000. All rights reserved. Part Two "What's your name?" She scowled. "You know my name." "Of course I know your name," I answered patiently. "But this was your idea, remember. You wanted to know what happens to women inside the Grimaldi, exactly what I do with them. This is where it begins, in reception. I need your details for the files." "I see." "So tell me, what is your name, my pet?" She spoke confidently, looking me in the eye. "Francesca Rodriguez." I winced, my pen hovering where her name was to go. "No, my Chiquita. That won't do. It won't do at all. I need your maiden name. If it's seen that our names are the same, then someone is bound to suspect." She sighed. I think she still thought this a cruel game and that I was toying with her. Nevertheless, conscious of her part, she played along for now. "Francesca Fuella." Her long blonde hair had become somewhat disheveled since I had last seen her. She'd been roughed up a little on the journey: I'd lay odds on it. There are very few perks open to a young police officer serving in Chile, but this was one of them. Some fondling of the breasts, a quick hand job: it's all within the job description of your average police officer. His superiors will wink and turn a blind eye. This is Santiago, my friend, what can you expect? This is Chile. After her arrest, my angel had been taken first to the local police station, and so I'd arrived at Grimaldi ahead of her. I'd waited in reception for almost an hour, waiting in fear, waiting in dread. And then it had happened; the little gray van had rolled quietly through the menacing wrought-iron gates. It had come to a stop in the middle of the prison compound; its engine had died and then two officers had bundled her out. It had been such a bittersweet moment when I'd first set eyes upon her. They'd shoved her in, through the large swing doors, with her hands cuffed behind her, two men, unshaven and coarse, their uniforms untidy and the front of their shirts beer-stained. I'd rushed up before anyone else could get near. "Good evening, officers," I'd said. "I'm Captain Rodriguez. I believe this one is for me." They'd asked me to fill in their forms: that's procedure. Only then would they hand her over. But while I'd written, they'd played. "Give me a kiss," the first one had demanded, hooking his arm round her neck and pulling her sweet ruby lips to his own. "Show me how much you love me, sweetheart. Show me how much you'll miss me." "Please, sir. No. I'm married," my Chiquita had objected, struggling to evade him as he'd forced her lips apart and had thrust his long tongue into her despairing mouth. She'd gagged, begun coughing, spluttering. "Look what I've got here," the second one had bantered, casually placing the end of a long bamboo stick under the hem of her skirt. She'd stepped back, kicking the stick away. "I think there's something you're hiding," he'd smirked, sticking the bamboo back under her skirt. This time he was helped by the first man who took hold of her arms, preventing her from retreating. "What is it? What are you hiding? What's under your skirt? Let's see, shall we?" the second one had grinned, lifting the stick and with it her skirt, hiking it first to her knees, and then on, higher and higher, lifting her skirt, up her long shapely legs towards her panties. Stop it! Stop! Stop! Stop! They weren't going to stop! I saw it at once. They weren't teasing. They were going all the way. They were going to humiliate my Chiquita in front the clerical staff and the passersby, in front of everyone. They were going to expose what was hidden under her dress, her secret, inside her panties. "Here," I'd growled recklessly, jumping up. "It's done." I'd grabbed the form, and frenetically scrawling a signature, had thrust it into a hand, any hand, and then pulled my dear wife from out of their grasp. I'd wanted to kill them, to drive a long knife deep into their gullets. I'd wanted to wrap my beloved in my arms, to protect and comfort her, to tell her that things would be all right now. But I couldn't, because I'd known this to be a lie. My Chiquita and I, we tell the truth. We promised each other, a long time ago. And there was no way that I could protect her from myself. You see, all the time I'd been yearning for her presence and her caress, there was this demon within me rubbing his hands with glee, that was glad she was here, in the Grimaldi, that hoped to see her writhing in agony, and howling in pain. Such a dilemma. What should I do? "Thank you," I murmured, recording her name. "And where do you live, my sweet one?" I paused, regurgitating my question, tapping my pen haphazardly on the black Formica desk. "Again," I added. "I think it best if we don't use our home address. Tell me, please, tell me where your parent's live." She threw me an ugly look, brushing the long hair from off her face. You see, her parents don't like me: they say that I'm an agent of the Devil. She replied: "Puorto del St Miguel 35. Santiago." "And you are in good health?" "As far as I'm aware." "And you are how old?" "I will be twenty six in April. On April 19." My conscience was roasting me alive. I was wrung out with guilt, and yet simultaneously, I was consumed with such lust. I wanted both to cuddle her and to crucify her. How bizarre! How could I rationalize such conflicting emotions? She sat on the other side of the desk; her body very deliberately turned away from me, a vase of shriveled white roses and an unlocked pair of handcuffs between us. She had on a knitted sweater. It was patterned, one of her favorites. It was short sleeved and with a narrow scooped vee at the neck. Like her hair, this also was disheveled. Why? What had happened to it? I didn't dare ask. Had they made her take it off? Had they made her remove it and show them her bra? Or had they gone further? God, what had they done? Around her neck hung a heavy gold cross that she wore for protection. Oh God, please let that have worked, please let them not have abused my little one! If anyone was to hurt her, then it should be me, her husband, no one else. I completed the second round of form filling, signing my own name at the bottom. "Thank you, my love," I sighed, closing her file and setting it neatly on the desk between us with the flowers and the cuffs. "Now you do understand the charge, my Chiquita? You do understand why you are here? Let me summarize it for you, so that everything is quite clear. You have told me that on March 24, 1975, yesterday, you were asked in your capacity as a registered nurse, to treat the wounds of a known revolutionary, Manuel Carras. You were taken in a taxi from the hospital here is Santiago, to a small village where Carras was hiding. Is this correct?" She nodded. "Yes. He was there with his brother, and his sister, Maria." "Very good. Now when you arrived there you found that he had a bullet wound in his leg. He had lost a lot of blood. You were able to clean the wound and dress it with a bandage, after which you left, returning to the hospital. As far as you are aware, no one had missed you, and so you finished your shift normally. Have I missed anything? This is your confession, what you told me earlier." Again she nodded. It was a tired anxious nod. "Yes, that's exactly what happened." I yearned to reach across the table and take her hands, clasping them firmly within my own. And yet my muscles were as lead. "Now, as an officer of the law," I said softly. "I first have to caution you that by aiding a renegade you have acted both illegally and foolishly. You leave yourself open to prosecution. This is a serious matter, my love. By way of reparation, the state expects you to provide us with a complete account of your visit to this village, to tell us everything that happened." "But I have!" "You haven't, my dear. For instance, you haven't yet told us the name of the village. Neither have you told us anything about the two men that were responsible for taking you there. Who is this first man that asked you to go with him? I'm sure that you know: I don't believe that you would leave Santiago in a car with a total stranger. And what about the man that drove you? We would also like to know the identity of the taxi driver." She glared at me scornfully. "How can I tell you about the taxi driver? He was a taxi driver. That's all I know." I shook my head sadly. She was too confident; too assured. This is not the wise way to be inside the Villa Grimaldi. This is not the way to survive. "My dear," I warned. "This is no game. Please. If you make a full confession now, providing me with all the information I need to satisfy my superiors, then I can arrange for an end to this matter. I can have you transferred out of here to a Recovery Center. However, if you refuse, then I won't be able to help you. You will be admitted for interrogation." I was pleading with her, begging her to be sensible. And yet, despite my best efforts, I just couldn't seem to reach her. "So what happens in a Recovery Center?" she asked dryly. "Is that just another excuse to assault me?"" At last my arms were freed from their invisible bonds. They shot across the table, clutching at her little hands and grasping them tightly. My heart was breaking. "Is that what happened, my love? In the van? Is that what they did? Please. You must tell me what they did to you?" "Why?" she cried sarcastically. "Aren't you my tormentor now? Should I tell you so that you too might exult in my misfortune? How could I bear that, my Captain?" "Please," I begged, squeezing her slender fingers into my own. "That isn't fair, my love. Please. Please tell me what happened." Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, and there was a twitching in her cheek. "It was nothing," she said, working hard to control her voice. "I wasn't raped, so you have nothing to fear." "What then? What happened?" "Please," she begged. "I'd rather not talk of it right now. Can't you see that it's upsetting me? Please, something else. Tell me about the Recovery Center." I was choking as I spoke. "They're prisons, my Chiquita. Nothing but ordinary prisons. You have nothing to fear there. We send people to Recovery following their interrogation. It's a place where bruises can fade and wounds can be cared for. No one can go home until the evidence of torture is lost." She shook her head. Her voice was still unsteady and her mind was elsewhere. "I don't understand. I've only just arrived. I haven't been tortured. So why would you send me to one of these Recovery Centers?" I managed a very weak smile. "Don't you understand, you beautiful fool," I confessed. "I'm offering you a way out. I want to take advantage of my position here to bend the rules and let you go free. Can't you see? I'm not going to hurt you. I can't. I love you too much. I won't do it. It would break my heart to destroy our marriage." I had been hoping for an ecstatic reaction. I was expecting her to be happy, relieved, to rush round the desk and hold me tight. However, I was disappointed. She did none of these things. Instead, she sat with her face like stone. "I can't believe you would only bend these rules for me, your wife," she said icily. "Suppose, for instance, a woman that you had been questioning was penitent. Suppose that she came to you in tears, sobbing for mercy. She wanted to confess and tell you everything that she knows. Surely you wouldn't hurt her any more? Not given these circumstances. You would have to take her statement and send her at once to this Recovery Center, just like you're talking about doing for me? Surely, my Captain?" I think she asked in hope, rather than in expectation. I sighed. "You don't understand, my pet. How could I do what you ask? I'd want to help her, this woman, obviously I would. But she might be lying, she could be deceiving me. How could I possibly tell whether it's the whole truth in her confession, unless I tested her with pain?" She swallowed hard. Her voice was a whisper. "So you would torture her. Despite the fact that she is repentant and wants to confess all that she knows, you would still strip her of her clothes and torment her naked body with your horrible tortures?" "Only until I could be sure, quite certain of her honesty." She turned away from me, disgusted, staring into mid air. "So what's so different about me? Why don't you do these things to me? How do you know that I'm not lying?" I laughed. "You, my sweet one? You could not lie: not to me. We have promised, vowed to tell each another the truth." A tear spilled from the corner of her eye, running in a silvery streak down her cheek. "I want to. I want to so very much, but I can't do it, can I, my Captain? I can't accept your most generous offer." I reached out, confused. I reached forward, and very tenderly, very gingerly teased the tear from her face, letting it run onto the nail of my index finger. "I don't understand..." "I can't accept this olive branch you extend to me." I felt in my pocket for a clean tissue. "But you must," I insisted, finding one and placing her gentle tear upon it. "You must make a full confession." I handed her the tissue and she wiped her face. Then she looked up, with great determination, suddenly assuming great strength of bearing and diction. "I'm sorry, my Captain. I know you mean well, but you forget. I have chosen this path quite deliberately. I have chosen it knowing it to be perilous and despite its likely personal cost. But I have no choice. I have lived with allegation and with innuendo for more than two years now. People point their fingers. They say, there goes the wife of the Beast of Grimaldi: the Deflowerer of Maidens and the Ripper of Fair Flesh. I hear the gossip each day but can neither defend you nor accuse you. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? How depressed that makes me? I bear ridicule and scorn each day that I work. No longer, my love. I have to understand; I have to know. I can no longer ignore the fact that I am married to an actor who plays a wonderful part for me, who cares for me and loves me, but while carefully concealing his darker self. I need for once to see this man whole, to understand his peaks and his troughs, the depths to which he will descend. I won't learn any of these things in a Recovery Center, now will I, my Captain? I sank into my chair, my mind in a whirl. "No," I muttered. I was dizzy. Everything was swirling. "You will learn nothing there." This time it was her turn to take my hand within hers. She smiled a beautiful watery smile through her soft sad tears. "I will not love you any the less for it, my Captain. I have in my mind already suffered far worse than your worst can ever be. But I have to know." She was beautiful, my Chiquita, and braver than I had ever suspected. How could I possibly torment this angel? And yet, in my head, the demon screamed: imagine her! imagine! imagine! She wanted to know; she really wanted to experience the horrors of my interrogation. And so, in my imagination this demon took me on a flight of fancy. It showed her to me in the torture chamber, her naked body quivering in pain and in terror. I saw her twisting and contorting in a vain struggle to escape. Such a dilemma. What should I do? "It isn't your fault," the demon in my head told me. "You tried, you tried so very hard to free her. How can you blame yourself if she insists in forcing the issue?" "You think me evil?" I asked her wretchedly. "I don't know," she answered honestly, looking straight into my eye. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be here. I pray that you aren't, but I fear that you are." I fought back a tear. How could she think that? How could she think it and still claim to love me? Hiding my emotion from her, I quickly rose to my feet, pushed back my chair, and walked across to the window. I stared out reflectively, dejectedly, into the darkness outside. The central compound was bathed with the harsh white brilliance of two floodlights, and yet despite this, there was nothing to be seen outside apart from a heavy blackness and the foreboding shape of the Interrogation Block opposite. Several lights burned brightly from its windows, each one a burning candle for some suffering wretch. That's where I would be soon, I thought, and Francesca too, each of us doomed to fight our own personal demons. We would both pass through a fire tonight, of that I was sure, but I had this premonition that while she might be refined by it and shown to be pure, I was destined to be consumed in its flames and proved to be evil. "You will leave me," I croaked. "Once this is over, there is no reason for you to remain." She crossed to my side and took my arm. "Don't you understand, you stupid fool," she smiled weakly. "I don't want to leave you. If I didn't love you, if I wanted to leave you, I wouldn't be here with you tonight. For better or worse, I'm yours, my Captain." I fought back my tears. Please God. May the candle burn for me tonight, and for the poor tormented wretch I have become, and not for her and the crumpled angel to which I will reduce her. End of Part Two AUTHOR'S NOTE Thank you to everyone who so kindly responded to part one by encouraging me to write more. Thank you to my proofreaders for their invaluable assistance and suggestions. Please feel free to write with your suggestions. I'll use them if I can. Grim Williams grim_williams@my-deja.com