Because of Circumstance
By Lorraine Caputo
Clouds still fill the sky enough to disappear the stars, but not the three-quarter moon. Its light slithers across the blackened water. I lean against the green and white railing of the balcony. Reggae songs flow from the Tiburón II. Scattered groups of people hang around outside the club, talking, drinking, laughing. A somewhat quiet night for Tela, here on the Caribbean coast of Honduras, where cocaine still drifts along the old Contra supply lines … where a father gives his son a gun for his sixteenth birthday. And yes, where a “decent” woman does not go out on the street unescorted.
“I don’t know if I’m imagining things.” At her words, I turn to Deysi, the newlywed from Yoro. She shakes her head. In the light of the one streetlamp, her face is mosaicked with concern. “Do you see a couple down there on the beach?”
I move closer to her and follow her thin, dark arm pointing down the beach. “Yeh, I see a couple.” They seem to be lying on their backs, resting on their elbows, at the water’s edge. Ribbons of silver moonlight fray across the water in front of them.
“I think he’s raping her. I heard a scream and saw her struggle with him. He then hit her and she fell.”
I put my foot into one of the openings of the concrete-block balustrade. It feels cool against my bare feet. I strain to see through the half-light and distance. They seem to be sitting, legs stretched out. The surf rolls towards them, filling the night with its wash.
Deysi shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I am just imagining things. Perhaps it’s the marijuana I smoked.”
“No, no. I do see a couple down there. But it looks like they’re only sitting there.”
“I could have sworn I saw what I saw.” She leans over the balcony, squinting into the darkness.
“Well, if you think she’s being raped, why don’t we just take an ‘innocent’ walk by there—just fifteen, twenty feet away—to disrupt the moment?”
She pulls away from the balcony and looks straight into my eyes. “Oh, no. That would be too dangerous.” She vigorously shakes her head. Her dark hair brushes her shoulders. “It is better to let the police handle it.”
“And, of course, the hotel has no phone. Nor is there any place near here, to call the police.”
“No.”
“Where is the police station?”
“You know that road that goes by the gas station? Past that … on top of the hill.”
“So—probably close to a mile from here.”
“Yeh—about a half-an-hour walk.”
I mutter a damn under my breath, leaning once more over the balcony in hopes of closing the distance a bit between me and that couple. They move a little. Over the steady wash of the waves, I hear … so faintly … a scream.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t want to take just an ‘innocent’ stroll? We don’t need to say anything, just walk on by.” I glance over to her.
Fear brims her eyes. She silently, rhythmically shakes her head.
I breathe deeply, exhale slowly. “I was raped. And I wish someone could have helped me. Have you ever been raped?”
She quietly answers yes.
“Didn’t you wish someone would have helped you?”
She nods slightly. “But …”
The word floats from her lips. The night drifts between us as we silently watch the couple on the beach.
I turn away from her and walk up the balcony. My hand slides along the smooth, concrete railing. Down below, three men sit on a bench in the circle of the streetlamp’s light. Further up the beach, two couples run to the waves. They laugh as the water sprays their legs.
Rubén, the sixteen-year-old night desk clerk, comes onto this common balcony. I hear the bride telling him her speculations. He leans over the balcony, looking at the couple. “Oh, they’re just making love.”
“Hello, dear.” The Honduran woman turns to her husband, Jürgen. His blonde hair catches the streetlight. “I’ve got dinner here.” Deysi distractedly takes his free hand in hers and draws him close to her.
“I think there’s a woman being raped down on the beach.”
He tilts his head in question. Then he squints down the beach.
“I heard a scream and saw her struggling with him. He hit her and she fell.”
Jürgen sets the bag down on the table. His brows draw together.
“Oh, they’re only making love down there,” says Ruben, lighting a cigarette.
We hear a scream, barely audible above the surf. No one says a word. Rubén moves away from the railing and leans against the wall. Shadows cover his face.
“Wouldn’t anyone be willing to take a stroll past there with me? We don’t have to do anything—just pass by. Perhaps our mere presence would stop the rape.”
No one says anything. The German groom sits at the table and opens the bag. He pulls out the plate covered with a napkin. He silently hands his wife a plastic fork. She peels the napkin from the food.
I leave them to their dinner and walk down the balcony. As I pass Rubén, I look into his dark eyes. He takes a steady drag from his cigarette. The orange coal lights his face. He shrugs.
I reach the far end of the balcony. Down below on the side street, a couple walks out of their house. The woman wears a light night shift. She crosses her arms against her bosom. Her mate wears only shorts. They look over at the couple on the beach, less than a hundred feet from them.
Deysi leans over the balcony, a French fry dangling between her fingers. She calls out to the neighbors, “I think she’s being raped.”
The man down below walks towards the beach. His plastic sandals kick little sprays of sand against his ankles. He stops and stands in the shadow of his house. I see him tightly ball his right hand. After a few minutes, he walks back to his wife. He puts his arm around her shoulder.
I lean over the balcony. “Would you be interested in walking by there with me? We don’t have to do anything. Just our presence. Perhaps it would distract him and make him stop.”
The man looks over at the scene. Looking up at me, he calls up loudly, to be heard over the waves, “Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I run to my room and stuff my tennis shoes on, not even bothering to tie the blue laces. I clamber down the staircase, letting the momentum carry me across the sparse lobby, to the wrought-iron gate. I grab the slide to open it. It won’t move. I reach for the padlock. Damn. My hands slap the grillwork.
I run up the steps two at a time and to the balcony. Everyone is leaning against the railing. They are silently, intently watching the couple down the beach. I stand in the doorway. “Rubén ….”
We see the couple stand up. The man adjusts his belt.
“See? They were just making love.” Rubén lights another cigarette.
A scream cuts above the surf. She pulls away from him. He jerks her towards him.
The night is heavy with our silence. I suppress my words: “You call that ‘making love,’ Rubén?” I look coldly at him.
The couple walks along the water’s edge. The woman pulls away from him again.
Rubén walks away, to return to his desk downstairs.
Anger gnaws within me. At Rubén for his machismo, his denial. They were only making love. At the bride, for her fear. At the groom, for his silence.
The newlyweds sit down at the table. They stare at their now-cold dinner. The German gently forks the piece of chicken.
Down below, the man in the shorts puts his arm around his wife’s waist. They enter their home, heads bowed.
Frustration rolls within me, like the sea. Damn, I so wanted to help her. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Was it because of my own weakness? Was it because of circumstance, because of where I am?
I walk to the opposite end of the balcony, nearer the Tiburón II. Out of its open doors flows a ranchera song. I close my eyes tight and grip the railing. Beneath my breath, I express my regrets. “I’m sorry. Please—I wish I could let her know we tried to help her.” My mind wants to reach out to her, to comfort her, to let her know she’s not alone.
I shake my tears away. My teeth nip my bottom lip.
Would it have been any different any place else—back home?
Down in the circle of the streetlamp’s light, the three men still talk. Out at the water’s edge, the two couples still play.
I glance down the beach. The man grips her tight around the waist. I see her, once more, pull away from him.
I hear her scream.
Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator, and travel writer. Her works appear in over 400 journals on six continents; and 23 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles, and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful travel companion, Rocinante (that is, her knapsack), listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at Facebook or WordPress.