We women who get sentenced do our time in Tepepan Prison. The court, the hope of hearing the words, "Not guilty. You’re free to go," are all behind us. After a brief reception, we find ourselves in a labyrinth of a different kind of time, a very long time, much longer than time outside, a time in which only our thoughts and the images of our lives survive. And, al-though I say "we," each of us is alone, very much alone. Even those who fall in love and become couples.

Once past the many bars, gates and entrances, you reach depression, the intense desire to die, because this can’t be true. Luck can’t be this cold-eyed beast reminding you day after day that, "You’re here; you’ll never escape my jaws." And you can’t even die, being so sad, like anesthetized.

I used to talk to Angel Miguel, to Angel Miguel’s spirit, and I would ask him why it was he could be good and quiet in his grave, why it was the soldiers managed to shoot him, what pact had he made with the bullets? Then I would hate him because he’d left me all alone, because he’d betrayed me, because I was left holding the whole bag of trouble, the isolation, the short memories of the other crews of traffickers, and the rancour caused by his absence. All the punishment came down on me, the beatings and the manhandling by the judicial police, the commandant raping me, and all the other violations, then as a tip for services rendered, they warned me I’d better not say anything to the Human Rights Commission. I was numbed against any pain life could inflict. Because without Angel Miguel I’d been left with nothing.

My mind blown, I didn’t give a damn about anything. If at times I cried, it was because I’d been left alone, still dreaming of a life like we all dream about: happy, without any worries. But what I got was that I bore all the presumed and supposed guilt – possession of weapons restricted to military use, resisting arrest, aggravated assault, transporting illegal drugs, and homicide – guilts which one day became charges at the judge’s discretion, and finally turned into a sentence. Into thirty years in prison. An enormous sentence.

To console me, the other girls would say, "Don’t worry, you get time off for good behaviour; they’ll reduce your sentence. And Merle said, "Give me a hand. Take this little ribbon, tie a bow, like this, a small one. Good. Now this one, again, the same way. Good." So we tied bows, lots of bows. At times gazing at the top of the wall with a blank stare, trying to catch a glimpse of the horizon. At other times my eyes brimmed with tears, because life was outside, and I was in here, making bows with Merle, for cigarettes, for a shampoo that wouldn’t ruin my hair, for some face cream. And I kept right on feeling sad.

I didn’t care about those silly bows. Merle did, because it was the only thing she knew how to do. She got a kick out of tying them, as she invented stories, thinking out loud:

"This one will go on a teeny pink bikini, an almost invisible tanguita. The girl who wears it will have a romantic affair, her first romance, with a singer from the coast, who’ll whisper in her ear, ‘I’m going to unleash your passion.’ And she’ll let herself be touched. She’ll help him strip her, and with her singer she’ll romp all over a big white bed, happy, bathed in sunshine. She’ll never forget my little bow."

She would tell a thousand stories like that, one for each bow she tied, as though each ribbon had to have its own in-escapable, secret spell cast upon it.

But Merle never talked about herself, never told her own story. Why was she here with me and the others?

 

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