Seven
The prison warden was a droll little man with sagging eyes and peppery, dull hair that curled. A soldier and a cherub in a former life, he served his days now as a flabby arm of the state. Sheri examined him warily from the opposite side of a large, gunmetal desk that held its own against ponderous mounds of triplicate copy. He had a single, luxurious eyebrow, and his eyes caught fire beneath it as he spoke. The warden was generally given to laughter rather than speech, but the circumstances of Sheri’s arrival overcame his reticence. Yesterday, he’d left with a cigar in his jowls and dined with his wife—that morning, his officer told him, there was a mute vagrant in the jail and dogs had attacked Balcescu. It was unprecedented. He explained to her the mystery of the Serb, or what he knew of it, and she could hear the extraordinary story in the tone of his voice, which had a tenor of excitement and foreboding. His language, whatever it was, sounded like it should have been written in Cyrillic script. She narrowed her eyes and prepared to interrupt him.
“I’m from the United States,” she managed, when he paused for a breath. He stared at her blankly.
“America. I am an American citizen,” she continued. “My passport is in the stucco house. There are two or three of them, please. I am traveling.”
Her voice sounded tired against her ears, and the warden looked at her closely, as though he were seeing her for the first time. He uttered several more runes in a lower tone, leaned forward and opened his eyes a notch wider.
She tried again. “My name is Sheryl Ann Peary.” The name, which rhymed with Marion Berry, had been a source of hilarity for her college friends, but the warden didn’t laugh. He continued to look at her, frog-like, as though he hadn’t expected her to speak.
“America,” she said, a talisman against his stare. She pointed her index finger at the cleft in her chest. “United States.”
The warden, eyes still wide but blinking, pressed his lips together, waved his hand around his head, and let out an upward-bound whistle. “America,” he repeated, shaking his head. He accented the first syllable. Then he bounced out from behind the desk and handcuffed Sheri to the chair. She was too tired to complain, and she quietly hoped that he wouldn’t call the consulate.
“I’m from the United States,” she managed, when he paused for a breath. He stared at her blankly.
“America. I am an American citizen,” she continued. “My passport is in the stucco house. There are two or three of them, please. I am traveling.”
Her voice sounded tired against her ears, and the warden looked at her closely, as though he were seeing her for the first time. He uttered several more runes in a lower tone, leaned forward and opened his eyes a notch wider.
She tried again. “My name is Sheryl Ann Peary.” The name, which rhymed with Marion Berry, had been a source of hilarity for her college friends, but the warden didn’t laugh. He continued to look at her, frog-like, as though he hadn’t expected her to speak.
“America,” she said, a talisman against his stare. She pointed her index finger at the cleft in her chest. “United States.”
The warden, eyes still wide but blinking, pressed his lips together, waved his hand around his head, and let out an upward-bound whistle. “America,” he repeated, shaking his head. He accented the first syllable. Then he bounced out from behind the desk and handcuffed Sheri to the chair. She was too tired to complain, and she quietly hoped that he wouldn’t call the consulate.
posted by Stephanie at
12:25 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home