THERE WAS NO WAY for Mischa to know how long she was there. She couldn't process information---such as how much time had passed---and the basement was shut off from any daylight there might've been. Her head was ringing from having been furiously shaken from side to side, her best defense against the insects that swarmed around her. At least she kept them off her face. Her body was another story. Her muscles were paralyzed, her arms entirely numb, and the insects feasted on her limbs and torso without impediment. Mischa was like a human piñata, hanging from the thick steam pipe by her arms.367Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd3xPwUnunM
She was awake when they came for her. She might've been awake the whole time. She wasn't sure. A waking nightmare, at some point, becomes indistinguishable from a sleeping one.
They had to carry Mischa back to her cell, where her mates were eating breakfast on the tin plates they were provided. French prisons have no mess halls; they bring the food cart around from cell to cell and dish out the food and the prisoner eats it right in his cell.
Everyone recoiled when they got a glimpse----or, more accurately, a whiff----of Mischa.
"Permettez-lui de prendre une douche!" Rosalie, she of the butch haircut, complained to the guards. She was telling them to let Mischa take a shower, but it was more out of self-interest than kindness. I wouldn't want me in her looking and smelling like this, either, Mischa thought.
Mischa wasn't welcome on anyone's bed so she just lay down on the floor. Her arms were like limp noodles. She thought there might be nerve damage. Her wrists bore bloody rings where the handcuffs, aided by her body weight, had torn severe gashes. The rest of her body was so terribly sore that she couldn't find a comfortable position. Her skin was red and swollen, having been ravaged with bites of various kinds. She itched in every conceivable part of her body but she just tried to put it out of her mind, because she couldn't scratch anything with arms and hands that didn't function.
Without a word, following a consenting nod from Rosalie, two of the women came over to her. One was Felice, who had thus far been the only one to address Mischa and seemed to be the only one who spoke English. The other, she knew from what Felice had shared with her last night, was Beatrice, the diminutive one who'd stolen Mischa's toothpaste. Beatrice had set fire to a bookstore in the Latin Quarter of Paris and had five years left on a seven-year sentence. Apparently Beatrice hadn't left cell 524 for the last eighteen months, couldn't speak comprehensible French, and by all accounts was certifiably insane.
Beatrice didn't speak to Mischa, but she bunched up her blanket and sheets and managed to make a comfortable cushion for her to lean against. She smiled at Mischa and she almost burst into tears at the small gesture. Felice offered Mischa apple juice and poured it into her mouth as if she were an infant.
"Tienes hambre?" asked a woman on the bottom bunk. Her name was Adelaida----a dark, complicated young lady, originally from Barcelona, Spain, who had killed her boyfriend three years ago in their apartment in Nice. As Felice had explained it, Adelaida claimed that her boyfriend was abusing her but apparently got nowhere with that defense. She was serving twenty-two years.
She was speaking Spanish, which Mischa knew better than French, having lived and worked in Los Angeles. She was asking Mischa if she was hungry. Same thing Coralie had asked her last night, and it turned out to be a trick question. Besides, Mischa didn't think she could hold anything down beyond a little juice.
Rosalie jumped down from the top bunk and washed her tin plate in the water basin. When she was done, she walked over to Mischa, which in this place took all of six, maybe seven steps. Rosalie's expression and tense posture were as severe as her butch hairstyle; everything about her was angry. Four years ago, according to Felice, she had killed a woman in a bar fight. Assuming Mischa had the story right, Rosalie had beaten the victim with a beer bottle and when the bottle broke, she took a jagged place and slit the woman's throat. That's what happened, apparently if you dared to flirt with Rosalie's girlfriend.
Moral: if Rosalie has a girlfriend, don't flirt with her.
She eyed Mischa now. It felt like some kind of a test. Mischa had taken a few sips of apple juice and was resting in relative comfort----the operative word being----relative---and now the unofficial leader of the cell was sizing her up.
"Comment aimez-vous la prison jusqui'ici?" she asked Mischa. How do you like prison so far?
It was a taunt, delivered with cold eyes and a flat tone. The others retreated. When Rosalie spoke, everyone else went quiet.
"La soupe de poulet est delicieuse," Mischa answered.
(The chicken soup is delicious.)
Rosalie blinked twice, thought for a moment, then turned to Rosalie. For a moment, Mischa figured that this could go either way. 367Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsQX3Z4jMC0
Then Rosalie burst into laughter. The rest of them, the tension now broken, followed suit. Everyone had a good chuckle. Even Mischa managed to crack a smile. Rosalie's eyes made their way back to hers. She nodded with grudging approval.367Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOgmNVFZr7M
Mischa had earned something with her. It was a start.367Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmS3OTVjAkg
