Garcia's Heart Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  To Florence, Niall, and Julia

  Every angel is terrible.

  And still, alas

  Knowing all that

  I serenade you.

  RILKE

  ONE

  “Going to see the Angel?” the cab driver said, and smiled like a man who knew for certain he’d won a bet.

  All Patrick Lazerenko had done was to get into the cab and ask to go to the tribunal building at Churchillplein. The real destination was obvious to the cab driver. At this time of year, with the hotels catering almost exclusively to dark-suited people on official business, Patrick had the look of a tourist. Standing among a group of businessmen in the lobby of the Hotel Metropole and watching them disperse into the Den Haag drizzle, he had already begun to feel conspicuous, almost wishing he could pick up a briefcase and join their ranks for a day of bloodless regulatory triumph. Other than business, there wasn’t much reason to be in Den Haag in November. What was left of the tulips had been interred for weeks, and the jazz festival was a memory of someone else’s summer. Patrick wasn’t surprised by what the cab driver said. The only public spectacle was taking place at the War Crimes Tribunal building where a man who had come to be known as the Angel of Lepaterique was on trial. It annoyed him to be so easily gauged, and he almost leaned forward to tell the cabbie to mind his own business, but instead he just nodded and said “Yes” in a squeaky voice, a bubble of last night’s sleep still clinging to a vocal cord.

  Patrick didn’t enjoy travelling and this trip hadn’t begun well. He’d slept poorly on the flight from Logan–sometimes extra legroom isn’t the issue–and the attentions of the first-class stewardesses, which he thought he’d gotten used to, felt like the clumsy interventions of a special-needs teacher. There had been delays with the trains from Schiphol, saddling him with an extra hour to study the fairly limited palate of greys offered by the skies around Amsterdam. He’d assumed it was raining but hadn’t bothered to go up to the window to check. By early evening he had arrived in Den Haag and a half-hour later found himself propped up against the reservations counter of the Hotel Metropole, trying to stay awake through the surprisingly elaborate process of check-in, craving the chance to close his eyes, hallucinatory bursts of REM sleep intruding and almost tripping him up as he concentrated to sign his name. Hours later, he awoke in a dark, compact room, got up to undress and then went back to bed, returning to a dream where everything seemed to slowly spin. He awoke again, coming to the surface of sleep’s muddy pond for a breath of air that was really the voice of his wake-up call. It was past ten when he finally got out of bed.

  As if obliged to point out that Den Haag had more to offer than genocidal criminals, the taxi driver mentioned a few local landmarks worth seeing as they stopped and started through traffic. “The old city,” the driver said for clarification, taking pains to make eye contact with Patrick in the rear-view mirror. Patrick thought he must have seen some of this already–cobbled streets and a foreign style of architecture, the theme-park reassurances of European cities–details glimpsed on the ride from the train station. But maybe that was Amsterdam. Or Brussels, from last year. Here, along Johan de Wittlaan Boulevard, the taxi driver explained that it was mostly hotels. Many looked nicer than the Metropole.

  The traffic was made up almost entirely of trucks, other taxis, and what appeared to be a scattered fleet of black S-class Mercedes. Every time he looked through the windows into the back seats of other cars, he saw people talking into their mobile phones. He could remember when the sight of all these people talking on their phones would have seemed sophisticated, but that was another time. Now the world was filled with people for whom the choice of ring tone was the truest declaration of personality. Even his mother–every digital clock in her house perpetually blinking 12:00, the Greenwich Mean Time of the technologically impaired–had a phone. Now, seeing someone just sitting in a back seat doing nothing made him wonder what was wrong, if they’d lost their phone or had no one to talk to.

  A light rain began to fall and the brake lights of the taxis ahead blurred between swipes of the wiper blades. He wondered whether all roads leading to the courthouse were similarly crammed, full of taxis ferrying people with purpose, pouring toward a place where the truth was wrung out. In Boston, he spent almost all his time at work, where he had become used to being the most focused person in the room, the most highly trained, with the most declared competency, so travelling north on Johan de Wittlaan he felt detached, a guest species accidentally transported into the midst of a bustling, exotic ecosystem. If not for the circumstances, it would have been refreshing.

  The cab manoeuvred to an outer lane and without warning pulled into a parking lot. A tall, black iron fence with a gateway stood in front of them.

  “This is it?”

  The taxi driver tilted his head and pulled his shoulders up into a shrug that acknowledged the anticlimax of arrival.

  “You’ll need your passport.”

  Patrick fished some new Euros out of his wallet. He got out of the cab and thanked the driver, who said, “Good luck in there” in a tone bleached of any sarcasm or sympathy. The rain had stopped and Patrick took his first good look around. He faced a fence of wrought-iron bars, a cartoonish accessory to the moment, lacking only the clang of a cellblock door being slammed.

  To his left across a plaza, in a spot the gods had obviously chosen to take a great jagged crap, the Congress Centrum loomed like a postmodern mother ship. A huge fountain fronted it, its pool duly reflecting the Congress Centrum’s facade and another oblong swatch of grey Dutch sky hanging at an awkward angle. It reminded him of a Zeppelin crashing to earth.

  He turned around and looked through the iron fence again. Had he not been dropped off in front of it, he would have passed the tribunal building without a second thought. It was smaller than he imagined it would be; three storeys of neo-classical granite, a design Albert Speer’s mother would be proud of, without any marking to indicate what went on inside. He had read that the tribunal building once belonged to an insurance company, which now, looking at it, made complete aesthetic sense. Once past the gate, he was ushered into a guardhouse a short distance from the entrance. There, he presented his Canadian passport to a UN official in a kiosk and received a blue ticket stamped with the date.

  He was a physician–at the tribunal that designation alone would make people assume a professional interest in forensics, which he would deny–and as such, he was entitled to a special tribunal pass, a pink ticket, instead of the blue one. But it wasn’t as though a pink-ticket holder was granted any special privileges, no all-access pass to go behind the scenes and meet the star of the show. All the pink ticket meant was having to fill out forms and list credentials, so he’d decided to skip it.

  It satisfied him to come to the tribunal that morning as a nameless citizen, happy to be mistaken for another tourist cruising through the zoo to see what monsters had been let out for
display. He wanted to be a nobody in the gallery, as anonymous as a person can be after showing his passport and declaring an interest in such proceedings. He cleared security–a series of metal detectors and several stern questions as he emptied his pockets and took off his belt; an elaborate exercise, but nothing more strenuous than boarding an overseas flight–and after presenting his passport and the blue ticket again, he was finally free to climb the stairs to the visitors’ gallery.

  Patrick eyed the small radio receivers used for simultaneous translation of court proceedings that sat in a rack just outside the entrance to the gallery. He picked one up and, for the first time since leaving Boston twenty hours before, felt an uneasiness that until that moment had been suppressed by the details of travel. He paused and then went in.

  Patrick braced himself to see his friend sitting there, unspeaking, dressed in that plain blue shirt that the world had seen him wear in the television coverage, but to his relief the booth where the accused would be seated was empty. There were sixty or so spectators in the gallery, and he found a place, dividing the big plush pout of the folded auditorium seat. He put on the earphones and waited to hear that detached form of language known as translator-talk, a cousin dialect to Dutch taximan-speak, but there was only a faint staticky hissing. Below the gallery, a man who looked to be in his fifties was on the witness stand, motionless and silent. Beside the witness, three justices dressed in black robes were reviewing documents. Patrick had memorized their names and was trying to match them with the faces he saw. The prosecution and defence teams were also intently flipping through large black binders. No one was saying anything and it looked to Patrick like a study group of honour students. He recognized one of Hernan’s appointed lawyers, Marcello di Costini, staring down through a pair of dauntingly stylish glasses at the pages before him. Patrick had come across the lawyer’s photo on the tribunal’s Web site, where he’d spent hours reviewing Hernan’s case information sheet, but it didn’t do the man justice. Even in a moment like this, as the lawyer joined his colleague in a search through another binder, Patrick could see that di Costini was one of those for whom charisma was just another dominant trait, like his height, or his wit, or his wind-blown hair that had likely been styled by a ride through the countryside in an Alfa Romeo convertible. He would have been jealous if not for the fact that he had spoken several times to di Costini and found him interesting and good-humoured in the face of his client’s recent turn in behaviour. Hernan García de la Cruz, after entering a plea of not guilty, was refusing to speak to anyone, including Marcello.

  Hernan’s silence–a stance interpreted in various media outlets as either principled, canny, or arrogant–had become the big, inexplicable development of the proceedings. After the initial incredulity and tactical regrouping, Marcello seemed to have taken his client’s vow of silence in stride: “He is the first client I am certain will not perjure himself,” he had said to Patrick about a month before, during one of their first telephone conversations.

  This was not to say that Hernan had disengaged from the trial. On most days that the tribunal was in session, the television camera showed him seated in the defendant’s bullet-proof glass kiosk, scribbling the occasional note that he allowed no one, not his family, not the judges, not di Costini, to see. To Patrick, watching from the safety of an over-designed living room in Boston, Hernan’s recent appearances on the evening news revealed a man who had undergone a radical physical change–a deterioration accompanied his silence, causing alarm and adding urgency to Patrick’s thoughts of going to Den Haag. The man had aged. When he was shown being moved into and out of the courtroom, Hernan walked like a man crossing an icy road. The features of his face were traced deeper, as if by concession to the demands of public villainy, making every expression more severe.

  The lawyers sat at tables arranged into a triangle. They continued to speak quietly among themselves, until one of the justices found the transcript of previous testimony they had all been looking for. Each of the participants kicked into sudden motion, as if the line of text was a power cord restoring current.

  A lawyer for the prosecution approached the witness–number C-129 according to the updated docket–and asked him in English how long the electrical shocks had been applied to his feet. There was a pause as the man, weathered skin drawn over broad Indian facial features, listened to the translation. He spoke, another brief silence followed, and then an English translation skipped along after his Spanish reply. “I don’t know how long it took, but it was more than fifty times. I lost consciousness a few times.”

  The witness sat impassively as he was asked to recount his experiences of internment and interrogation just outside the town of Lepaterique during the months of January and February 1982. He described the details of the cruelty he endured in the same way that Patrick had often heard the details of a traffic accident related. A clinical description: what happened, when, and how. Throughout, the witness referred to “the doctor” and when asked for a clarification, García’s full name was pronounced. The details. Facts without any reaction. Patrick was used to this, the facts shouldn’t have affected him–his job demanded a fairly strict detachment–but the lack of anger in witness C-129’s voice, the absence of tears on those cheeks, only amplified the effect of his testimony. Patrick hadn’t expected that he could just sit down and start hearing details like this. He’d thought it would be different, more dramatic; maybe it was the diet of television where adults felt free to cry on camera if they’d so much as been denied an upgrade on a flight to the Caribbean. More likely, Patrick thought, he needed some indiscriminate out-pouring of emotion to undermine the witness’s testimony, to make it attributable to the embellishments of some campesino with a grudge and a faulty memory. There were no windows in the tribunal chamber or in the gallery–a security decision, he thought–and this added to the room feeling sealed and increasingly airless. He became aware of the faintly ridiculous sound of himself panting and made the effort to breathe more deeply, only to revert minutes later to shallow, almost gulping breaths. It was a mistake to come here.

  Patrick removed his earphones and looked around the courtroom in dismay. He’d spent five years hoping it wouldn’t come to this, as though the accusations against Hernan were some sort of illness with a prognosis vague enough to offer hope. But as time passed, the possibilities narrowed until the trial became real and then inevitable. The day had arrived and the arraignment had been set and this place was the only logical conclusion for Hernan García’s story.

  And yet there were moments when he still felt inclined to root for him, the Angel of Lepaterique, a man with a history that had led to the death of his wife and had come to haunt his children. Patrick had not seen Hernan in more than ten years, and since then only on television surrounded by police or immigration officials or captioned by some news channel feed as a war criminal. A real war criminal. In a media cycle gorged with every form of criminality, Patrick could understand how a war crimes trial could seem reassuring, almost nostalgic. Balkan field marshals and Hutu warlords had been publicly tried in the very building in which he sat, the details of their genocidal acts transcribed and deliberated over and a judgment rendered. In the emporium of modern atrocity–airplanes piercing the perfect glass skin of American buildings, the videotaped farewell speech of the most recent suicide bomber–images of war criminals had become a relief, a rare example of evil being called to account for itself and where good was considered to have triumphed.

  And now, in the face of incontrovertible evidence, Patrick was reduced to hoping tortured Hondurans would reveal themselves as less-than-credible witnesses. But the facts of the case were clear. Indians from the mountainous northern regions, university professors, activists from Tegucigalpa, all survivors of the civil war, were lined up and waiting to testify. Other figures from deep inside the regime were also due to appear, many with personal histories in the internecine wars of Honduras so shadowy that it was unclear who should be shown the
witness stand and who deserved the defendant’s chair. But García was the star. In the last five years the world had come to know the story of Hernan García’s life, a life Patrick had not been aware of, one so incongruous with the decent and generous man Patrick had known, the man who had made him want to become a doctor.

  Going to the tribunal had been based on more than just personal considerations; as the founder and chief scientific officer of Neuronaut, a biotech company that offered “the cognitive approach to marketing,” Patrick Lazerenko had faced considerable opposition when he announced that, with little notice, he was going to need three weeks away. In another country. At a war crimes trial. When he told the other four people on the board (the official term for the three MBAs who had started Neuronaut with him and the CEO they had poached from another company), their first reaction was a deep, broadloom silence, the type of silence that his recent entrepreneurial experience had taught him to associate with the imminent decision to contact a lawyer. Then there was shouting. The case for making him stay was presented to Patrick by Marc-André, the only one of his colleagues who could contain himself long enough to speak in complete sentences. Yes, Patrick assured them, he was a team player and yes, he was aware of the tenuous nature of the Globomart deal and the issues involved in the latest campaign. Globomart Inc. was their biggest client, their breakthrough client, and now, according to all involved, their oxygen and water. Globomart, Marc-André said, knowing exactly which card to play, wouldn’t want Patrick to go.

  Famously founded by the Olafson brothers of Medina, Minnesota, Globomart took pains and spent a great deal of money to cultivate a corporate image of success based on hard work and moral probity. The image make-over–the pains and money, the strategically stealthy philanthropy (somehow always discovered in the act)–was necessary because Globomart had a reputation for being “results oriented” in its business approach, which was the diplomatic way of saying it treated its competitors as Genghis Khan treated his enemies. Globomart, simply put, was the biggest retailer in the world and the company acted like it, bare-knuckling across the American business landscape.