human nature - 1. Chapter 1

The prisoner sat with his legs crossed, his forehead pressed against the iron bars. He was the only one in this cell and he took possession of it like a raja over his empire, a god over his realm. Sometimes he lay on the floor spread eagle, looking for faces in the stains on the ceilings, sometimes he paced the four metres he was allotted, sometimes he scratched his fingernails against the walls, trying to etch out a mark, a reminder of himself. Such an awful place and it was all his and no one else’s.

“You drink an awful lot of tea,” the prisoner said. “Have you spiked it with something? You can tell me. I won’t snitch.”

His jailer ignored him and continued to sip his tea, the steam from his delicate little porcelain cup fogging up his glasses. The slurping noises irritated the prisoner; couldn’t he just wait for it to cool?

“Could you do me a favour?” the prisoner continued. “Could you fetch me some water? I’m overcome with thirst.”

His jailer continued to sip at his tea.

“Barring that,” the prisoner said, “could you take those stairs over there on the left? Climb them until you reach the roof. Once there, please jump off.”

His jailer was scowling now. “Will you shut up?” he said.

“Oh, sir,” he lamented, eyes wide. “You know I don’t speak English.”

-

The following day brought the rains. The prisoner watched as a river fell from the sky, watched its waves lash against the cell wall. Water dribbled through the tiny, barred cell window and created a new stain on the floor. It would have been nice if the window was closer to the latrine, he thought; it could use a wash.

“Are you trying to will the storm into breaking down the wall?” his jailer asked. The foreign words were sharp and jagged in the prisoner’s ears.

“Oh, yes,” the prisoner said. “But not just that–-I am far more ambitious. Any second now, the entire building will collapse on our heads. I’ll see you in hell, I suppose.”

A pregnant pause. “So you do understand English. You just refuse to speak it.”

“We’re both stubborn, then,” the prisoner said, eyes not straying from the water puddling beneath the window. It was mucky, the floor was filthy.

But he was thirsty.

On his knees, he bent down, pursed his lips, and drank.

His jailer made a sound of disgust behind him.

-

When breakfast arrived the next day, his steel water cup was the same size as always but it was filled to the brim instead of just halfway. The water was metallic and gritty. The bread was stale. The lentils were cold. He ate with relish and licked his fingertips clean.

His jailer fiddled with a radio. For a moment, the prisoner heard the beat of tablas and a male voice, singing. “Awful, wailing stuff,” his jailer said. Then static as he fiddled some more–-and then a BBC broadcast.

“He wails because he is grieved,” he said, taking care to leave his plate spotless. “You don’t know anything about suffering.”

“A bold assertion.”

“Who’s the one behind bars and who’s the one with his Darjeeling tea in his fancy little teacups?”

His jailer put down the clunky radio and leaned forward, his elbow resting on one thigh. “Have you ever seen war?”

The prisoner gripped the cell bars tight as he leaned forward. He smiled beatifically. “I could. If you let me out, I will wage war. Promise.”

His jailer snorted, leaning back again. “You? Did you forget what you’re in here for?”

The prisoner frowned. “Just because I committed an unnatural act doesn’t mean I’m incapable of natural acts. And there is nothing more human, more natural, than war. Don’t you think?”

His jailer eyed him like he’d just laid out some kind of trap.

“Besides,” he went on, feeling his smile stretch wider, sharp and humourless, “you look like you indulge in unnatural acts yourself. I see the way you look at me–-and at some of the others. You’re the one in charge here: do you think about it? Sticking your cock in between these bars and–-”

“Shut up,” his jailer said, standing, his eyes alight with fury. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to storm off.

But he couldn’t. He was posted here. It was his duty to stay and guard.

His jailer sat back down and turned the radio’s volume up and up. The prisoner laughed.

-

The next day, the water in his cup was only half-filled.

-

The river stopped flowing and the sky was silent except for bird squawks and the distant whines emitted from conch shells. He thought, perhaps, if he contorted himself small enough, he could crawl out from between the bars, or through the gutter, or in between the very atoms of the bricks.

He sat with his knees pulled up, head lolling back. He heard his jailer walk into the adjoining room. “I’m sorry if I upset your sensibilities,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “Could I have some water, please? Barring that–-”

“You’re going to be hanged,” his jailer said.

He snapped his head down to stare at him. He blinked. “For sucking cock?”

His jailer winced, brow furrowing in irritation. “No, you idiot, for treason. Don’t act smart. You know what you did.”

He leaned his head back against the wall. His shoulders slumped. “Ah,” he said. “I suppose I do.” A noose, tight against his throat, the earth falling away under him, snap. “Pity. I quite like my spine the way it is.”

His jailer looked at him as if he were insane.

The prisoner closed his eyes and thought of open fields and sun-warmed wheat.

-

“You’re awfully blasé about your own impending death.”

He shrugged. “I’ll come back as an earwig. I’ll crawl into your ear in the dead of night and eat your brain. After I die, be on guard.”

“Perhaps I should plead your case: you belong in an asylum, not at the gallows.”

“Perhaps you could let me out.”

His jailer looked down at his hands.

“You could let me out,” he repeated, fingers around the bars, eyes boring into the other man.

His jailer’s hands shook, just barely.

-

“I understand,” his jailer said on the morning of his execution, “what it means to love a country–-an idea–-more than one’s own life.”

The prisoner watched the filtered light from the window move across the floor. “Oh, sure. I love everyone in this country,” he said. He met his gaze. “Everyone except you.”

“I must be very special, then.”

Distant voices from outside. “You should be the one in this cell,” the prisoner said.

“Treason carries the death penalty. You knew what you were doing.”

The prisoner closed his eyes. Today he had a pitcher of water, fresh bread, warm lentils. It all sat heavy in his stomach as he watched sunlight play against faraway wheat; if he blurred his vision, he was there.

“I did what I did,” he said. “I did a great many things. What will you do?”

Footsteps approached from outside. The prisoner heard the rattle of keys.