Angels in Heaven

Febrero Segundo, which was surely of little or no threat
to the internal security of the United States of America, as far as he knew. Of
course, he had not seen the twelve o’clock news on television—perhaps a small
war had broken out between the two?
    And then it dawned on me what his
motive was: he was being funny was what he was being. But enough was enough, so
I gave him a chilly look and said we were there to have a brief word with his commandante, if such a thing could be arranged.
    Naturally it could, but alas his
commanding officer was away from the prison and would not be back until roughly
five o’clock.
    We were desolate, but did not the
commanding officer leave someone else in charge when he left the prison, and
could we not have a brief word with him instead?
    Naturally he did and of course we
could, he would arrange it immediately. The guard saluted us and went back into
his office. Benny began whistling under his breath. I began sweating under
mine. A few more minutes passed in slow motion, or was it hours? Finally the
guard returned, saluted us again, handed us a temporary pass, told us to drive
straight ahead to el parking, then signaled to someone out of sight at
the far gate, which promptly slid open.
    Onward, ever onward into the depths
of the slammer drove the two gringos, through the second gate and into the
prison proper, or at least the prison yard, which was hard-packed sand on which
had been roughly chalked out a soccer field and also what looked like a
volleyball court and also an area abutting one of the outer walls that must
have been for some kind of pelota, or handball. No grass grew in the
prison yard of Febrero Segundo and no rose budded either and no butterflies
circled in the oppressive noonday heat.
    Straight ahead indeed took us to el
parking; we pulled up beside a dusty Ford that was neatly parked beside
another spanking new Jeep which was neatly parked beside an old but spotless
Dodge two-ton. Beside die truck sat that type of enclosed van that is called a
Black Maria in some parts of the globe and which is used for transporting
groups of prisoners, and beside that an ordinary sedan that had been adapted to
transport just one or perhaps two prisoners. There was a thick glass partition
between its front and back seats, and the handles to the back doors had been
removed; I assumed it took a special key to open them.
    The parking lot was directly in front
of the administration offices, on one side of which was what looked like a
workshop and on the other the kitchens and then a long line of cells. I could
tell they were cells because they all had tiny barred windows cleverly
positioned so far off the ground that no one but Spiderman could look out. All
was quiet in Febrero Segundo; not a creature was stirring except for us and a
lizard or two and the guards, so I guessed that the inmates were! having a
siesta after their mouth-watering luncheon.
    After we’d parked and taken a
discreet gander around, Benny got out, opened the door for me, his better, then
went up to a bell that was set in the wall beside the wooden door labeled
Administration, and pushed it. A few more moments, or decades, passed. Yet
another grille opened. A face peered out. We peered back. The face said
something. Benny held up our pass. The face disappeared. The door opened. We
entered.
    We found ourselves in a small
reception area that contained a desk on one side and a barred and fenced-in
passageway on the other, with a long counter in front of it, presumably where
visitors and their unprovocative goods were searched. The guard who let us in
unlocked a second door behind his desk and bade us follow him. We did, into a
second office where three male secretaries or guards or office workers were
listlessly pecking away at old-fashioned upright typewriters while a fourth,
one of those we’d just seen leaving the beanery next to ours, manned the
equally antiquated telephone switchboard, the kind where you have to manually
connect the caller with who he’s calling by sticking a metal-tipped cord into
the right socket. Next to him was another door on which there was also a sign:
Lt. Joaquín Esparza, Sub-Commandante, it read.
    Our guide knocked twice, smartly. A
voice called out, “Enter.” We entered. The guard saluted, then left us to the
whims and charms of Lt. Esparza, a most handsome gent with a thin, bronzed face
and neatly combed black hair. He was obviously of Hispanic rather than Mayan
descent, as