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MARCHING POWDER

Everything Ricardo said was making me more and more disoriented; one minute he was pretending to be my best friend, the next he was making fun of me and deliberately trying to start a fight. Then he was nice again. I hadn’t done anything wrong but I felt extremely uncomfortable.

‘So, do you miss London much?’ he asked.

‘Not too much.’

‘Well, you should. You really should miss your own country, don’t you think? Or do you want to go back to the United States?’

I said nothing, convinced that he was playing games to test me out. I decided it was definitely time to leave. I was glad to have finally found someone in the prison who spoke English, but I felt I was being led into some kind of trap.

‘Ricardo, it was very nice to meet you. Thank you.’ I put out my hand to say goodbye.

‘Where are you going?’ He looked surprised and, once more, refused to take my hand.

‘Just back down there,’ I pointed towards the filthy passageway. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired.’

‘Do you have a room already?’

‘No.’

‘Then where do you sleep?’

‘Just down there on the ground. In a building.’

‘Which building?’

‘The one with all the water.’

‘You can’t go down there. That section is dangerous. They’ll kill you. Everyone thinks you are American.’

‘Where else can I stay, then?’

Ricardo stared at me while he thought about this for a while.

‘How much money do you have?’

‘None.’

‘Don’t lie to me, inglés! I’m trying to help you. Your friends in the interview gave you money. That’s where you got that blanket from.’

‘I don’t have anything. I promise you.’

‘You must have some money, otherwise you can’t survive. You’ll die here.’

‘I promise. I have nothing. The police took everything.’

‘The FELCN?’

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