Pan's Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun(45)

Mercedes stared at the wooden walls of the barn. That would be the last thing she’d see. The dead flanks of trees, while the living forest outside was out of reach. Garces closed the barn doors behind him.

“That’s what you always thought. That’s why I was able to get away with it. I was invisible to you.”

Mercedes continued staring at the wall so her captor wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes. But Vidal stepped to her side and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

“Damn. You found my weakness. Pride.” He examined her face like it was a piece of beautiful meat. All his to make it bleed. “Luckily it’s my only one.”

Liar. Mercedes felt his fingers pressing into her cheeks. How he enjoyed her helplessness, how he enjoyed making her beauty into something he could own by destroying it.

“And now let’s find out about your weakness.”

Vidal let go of her face and strode to the table that held his tools.

“It’s very simple,” he said, turning his back to her as he picked up the hammer. “You will of course talk . . .” He laid the hammer back on the table, surveying the other tools as if not sure which one to use. “But I have to know that everything you say”—he picked up an iron hook, scrutinizing it tenderly—“is the truth.”

Keep talking, Mercedes prayed as her fingers searched silently for the knife hidden in her apron. Would it be sharp enough? Sharp enough to cut rope instead of carrots and onions?

“Yes, you will talk. We have a few things here strictly for that purpose.” He still had his back turned to her.

Mercedes was sure Tarta had heard the same speech. Vidal liked to boast. After all, a capitán stationed at an abandoned mill in the middle of a Galician forest didn’t have much to boast about except his cruelty. Pride? No, vanity—that was his weakness: the urge to constantly prove to himself and to others that nothing and no one could withstand him and that his heart didn’t know either fear nor pity. Liar. He was afraid of everything. Especially himself.

Mercedes kept her eyes on his back as she cut the fibers of the rope.

“We use nothing special . . . it’s not necessary. One learns about these things on the job.”

Oh yes, he liked to hear his own voice. He was proud of the fact he could keep it calm even when his heart was beating fast with rage or excitement. Mercedes was sure it was beating faster at the prospect of using that hammer on the face he’d gazed upon so often, on the hands he’d touched so casually whenever she came close. Invisible. Yes. Mercedes, sister of Pedro and of another sister who’d died far too young, daughter of parents long dead . . . her true Self had been invisible to him. But Vidal had always noticed the beauty of her body.

There. She felt her knife’s blade against her skin. Her hands were free. But there was more to cut.

“At first . . .” Vidal held up a pair of pliers. “Yes, I think this one will do.” He still hadn’t turned.

Mercedes silently loosened the rope from around her legs. Her feet sank deeply into the straw as she tiptoed toward her captor.

She thrust the knife through the white shirt into his back. She used all the strength she had left, but the slim blade was short, and muscles and flesh are not as easy to cut as the fibers of a rope. Vidal moaned and grabbed at the wound, while Mercedes stumbled back, trying to catch her breath. She’d never driven a knife into human flesh and her weapon felt as fragile as her body.

How wide his eyes were with disbelief, when he finally turned to face her. Just a woman. This time Mercedes plunged the knife into his chest. He collapsed as she yanked it out, but she’d caught him underneath the shoulder, far too high for his heart—if he had one—and the blade was just too short. Mercedes thrust it one more time, although her fingers were already slippery with his blood. This time the knife went between his opened lips and Mercedes pressed the blade against the corner of his mouth.

“You see? I’m not some old man, hijo de puta,” she hissed at him. “Nor a wounded prisoner.”

She slashed the knife up into his cheek. Then she peered down at him, on his knees, pressing his hand against his bleeding mouth.

“Don’t you dare touch the girl.” She barely recognized her own voice. “You won’t be the first pig I’ve gutted.”

Her knees spoke another language. All her fear seemed to have gathered in them, but she made it to the barn door and pulled it open. Mercedes didn’t even notice that she still had the bloody knife in her hand when she stepped outside. She managed to hide the blade once again in her apron and she began to walk. Past the soldiers in the yard. None of them paid attention to her.

Invisible.

Only one turned his head. An officer. Serrano. He stared after her, but Mercedes kept walking. A radio was blaring in front of the stables, announcing the winning numbers of the lottery the cook always spent her money on.

Keep walking.

“Hey, did you see that?” Serrano called over to Garces, who was frowning in disappointment at the rebels’ lottery ticket he’d kept after picking it up in the woods. “Can you believe it?”

Serrano’s face was blank with bewilderment. “He let her go.”

He pointed at Mercedes. Garces crumpled the lottery ticket in his hand and threw it to the ground. “What are you talking about?”

Mercedes walked faster. She felt Garces’s eyes on her back. Maybe he didn’t enjoy torture as much as his capitán but he for sure didn’t mind killing.