Tyrant Memory (2 page)

When I returned home, I called my mother-in-law to tell her what
Pericles had told me, hoping she would pass it on to the colonel, who has
privileged access to the general. Mama Licha said she would do so without delay,
she said it’s unheard of that her son should be kept in jail because of a silly
piece of gossip, and it’s high time he be released. My father-in-law belongs to
the military old guard, those who supported the general’s coup d’état twelve
years ago and have remained loyal to him ever since; both my husband and my
mother-in-law call him “colonel,” never his given name, even I stopped calling
him Don Mariano, or Father, years ago, and now I also call him only colonel.

This afternoon I went to the Estradas’ haberdashery. I am going to
knit a sweater for Belka; the poor dear surely suffers from the cold, that’s why
she comes down with the flu so often. The eldest Estrada, Carolina, was in
school with me. She showed me a skein of beautiful crimson-red yarn; then she
asked after Pericles, she said it’s unacceptable for respectable people to be
treated so poorly and that nobody agrees with that evil man’s latest whims. Then
I stopped by Mariíta Loucel’s shop, located in the same building, the Letona,
next to the Estradas’ shop. To my surprise I ran into my nephew, Jimmy, the son
of Angelita, Pericles’s first cousin. Mariíta and Jimmy were whispering
secretively in French. When they saw me enter, they stopped, as if I had caught
them in flagrante, but then they immediately greeted me, asked after Pericles,
and told me a few bits of news and gossip as if everything were perfectly
normal. I was still suspicious, however, may God forgive me for thinking badly
of anybody; Mariíta is, after all, a year older than I am, and Jimmy is the same
age as Clemen. What I mean to say is that Mariíta is known for the positions
she’s taken against the general, and Jimmy is captain of a cavalry regiment.

As I was leaving the Letona Building, I ran into César Perotti, the
maestro. He asked after Pati, expressed his regrets that her wedding had been in
San José and not here, where he would have been delighted to take part, sing his
best songs. The maestro used to be Pati’s piano and singing teacher; he gave her
lessons twice a week for five years and always praised my daughter’s discipline
and musical talents. At times it’s difficult for me to understand that mixture
of Spanish and Italian he speaks so haltingly. This time he abstained from
moving his hands about so extravagantly, and right there, sotto voce, he told me
not to torment myself over Pericles for soon things would change; he said that
in all the good homes where he gives classes, people are speaking out against
the general, and a situation like this cannot possibly last long. In Plaza
Morazán I took the taxi that belongs to Don Sergio, Pericles’s driver, a man of
few words, something quite unusual for someone in his profession.

Betito and I ate dinner at my parents’ house. I told them what
Pericles had told me. Father said the Nazi warlock is a scoundrel, that he’s now
pretending to adopt socialist ideas so he can remain in power and fears my
husband will expose the farce; then he again started railing against the
increased coffee export tax, a subject that drives him completely mad and makes
me fear he will have a fit while he’s eating; he also mentioned rumors
circulating about the growing discontent among younger army officers because of
their low salaries. Then we started talking about the new house my parents are
building in the Flor Blanca district. My father would like to bring stonework
directly from Italy, the land of his father, but that won’t be possible because
of the war, and he will have to make do with what he can find at Ferracuti’s
warehouse. I love the new house, but I am sorry it is out in the suburbs — it’s
so much more difficult to get there by foot.

At night, Betito came to my room to give me a notice from school
requesting Pericles’s presence to discuss some problems related to my son’s
conduct. Wasn’t he ashamed, I asked him, causing such problems while his father
was under arrest? He told me it wasn’t his fault, the principal has it in for
him. Pericles is extremely strict about discipline, and it infuriates him that
neither of our sons has inherited this virtue; only Pati resembles him in that
way.

Tuesday, March 28

I listened to Clemen’s shows on the radio as I do every
morning. He reads the news on Radio YSP, but he also has artistic, thespian
inclinations, and performs in two radio dramas. Pericles was the chief news
editor of the station, and he got Clemen his job. Thank God, my son seems to
finally be settling down. He didn’t want to study at the university, despite his
father’s pressure, nor at the military academy, where his grandfather the
colonel wanted to send him; he tried working with my father managing the estate
and in the coffee-exporting company, but Clemen has never known how to handle
money, and my father ended up firing him under rather unpleasant circumstances.
Now, gratefully, he’s been at the radio station for two years.

My mother called after breakfast to remind me about the wedding
shower this afternoon for Luz María, Carlota de Figueroa’s daughter, to tell me
I mustn’t forget; and she came by in the late morning so we could go together to
buy the presents. I took the opportunity to go to La Dalia department store to
buy the Cuban cigars Pericles likes; Don Pedro, the owner, is so kind, he made
me a gift of a special cigar to take to my husband.

I got to the Black Palace a little before my visiting hour so I
could meet with Colonel Monterrosa. Don Rudecindo, as many call him, is from
humble origins, like the general, and has a very bad reputation, but he has
always been very kind to me. I told him the time had long come for my husband’s
release, he has committed no crime other than expressing his opinion in a
newspaper article. Don Rudecindo told me his hands are tied, and he advised me
to go and speak directly to the general; he also told me it was perhaps better
for my husband to remain locked up because there are rumors that the communists
are conspiring against the government, and this way Pericles would not be
implicated. Evil tongues say the general will never forgive my husband for
betraying him, for having become a communist agent. But everyone knows the
general accuses anybody who opposes his government of being a communist. I did
not tell Pericles what Don Rudecindo recommended: I know all too well that my
husband would consider asking “the man” for any favor whatsoever to be the worst
possible betrayal. As I was leaving, I gave a few coins to Sergeant Machuca, who
is the one who buys newspapers for Pericles early every morning.

Luz María’s shower was at the Casino. My sister came from Santa Ana
wearing a new celadon green dress, very elegant; Cecilia is Carlota’s best
friend and wouldn’t miss her daughter’s shower for anything in the world. There
was an exquisite raspberry tart; some of us stayed afterwards to play canasta.
My friends expressed their regrets about Pericles’s situation; they shared the
latest jokes about Doña Concha, the general’s wife, a quite ordinary, uneducated
woman who has somewhat oddball ideas and is the laughingstock of society. There
was also a discussion about whether Dr. Arturo Romero is the most intelligent
and handsome politician at the moment; Don Arturo is a gynecologist, urbane and
refined, trained in Paris, and is shaping up to be the leader of the opposition.
Carlota said she found the doctor engaged in a pleasant chat with Mariíta Loucel
in her shop this morning, they were speaking French and the conversation ended
abruptly when she entered; this made me think of Jimmy and Mariíta, though I
didn’t mention it. My sister seemed worried all afternoon; she came from Santa
Ana with Armando, who went straight to Lutecia Bar to drink himself into a
stupor.

At night I called my mother-in-law to ask her if she’d had any news
from the colonel. She told me that he explained to her that the general is quite
angry, furious, in fact, because he is certain that many of his ex-collaborators
are conspiring against him and being paid to do so by a group of rich people and
the Americans, so it might not be helpful to bring up the issue of Pericles
right now and might even make matters worse. Mama Licha said she hopes this
storm passes quickly and the general enters his mystical period and orders my
husband’s release. Sometimes I can’t tell if my mother-in-law is being serious
or speaking in jest. The general is a theosophist, he holds séances, he believes
in invisible witch doctors, and he demands that his close circle of friends call
him “maestro.” At first, people respected his eccentricities, but ever since he
began to give lectures every Sunday in the auditorium of the university, and
broadcasting them over the radio, we realized that “the man” isn’t in his right
mind. For months now, those broadcasts have been the butt of all the after-lunch
jokes at the Club and the Casino on Sunday afternoons.

My sister is spending the night at my parents’ house; Armando hasn’t
shown up nor will he until he is completely inebriated. My father is furious; he
will send her back to Santa Ana tomorrow with his chauffeur. I always remind
Cecilia to offer thanks to God that her children have not inherited their
father’s vice: Nicolás Armando is father’s most trusted employee at the coffee
company, he married well and is a responsible man; Yolanda and Fernandito are
also very decent young people.

Wednesday, March 29

Pericles’s friends called this morning, one after the
other, as if they’d planned it, all asking the same questions, all receiving the
same answers. The first was Serafín, who is running
Diario Latino
while
Don Jorge remains in jail; then Mingo called, the poor man told me he was laid
up with a migraine all day Sunday and Monday; and finally, Chelón, Carmela’s
husband. All three repeated their regrets at not being able to visit Pericles
because of the general’s orders that he be kept in isolation.

Serafín says he feels a bit guilty because he should also be in
jail, he’s the one responsible for the newspaper, though Pericles is the one who
wrote the article. I responded just as my husband had to Don Rudecindo, when he
arrived at the palace under arrest: the authorities should have locked up Don
Hermógenes, the censor, for not having done his job more diligently. “Your old
man is incorrigible,” Serafín said, laughing, because it sometimes seems as if
poor Don Hermógenes is Pericles’s employee, he is so intimidated by him. And
Serafín knows as well as I do that neither he nor the censor really has anything
to do with this, this is an issue between the general and my husband. Before
hanging up, he said we should remain alert, many rumors are circulating in the
city, and many people’s nerves are on edge.

It worries Mingo that Pericles is locked up in a cell in the
basement. Years ago, Mingo was held for a few days in the room next to the
police chief; at that time, he was the owner of the newspaper
Patria
,
where my husband began working after he resigned as ambassador and we returned
from Brussels. Mingo is a highly sensitive poet, his health is precarious, and
he still trembles when he remembers his arrest; but the general showed him a lot
of consideration, because Mingo also was practicing theosophy at the time,
though he has now returned to the church. I told him not to worry about
Pericles’s spirits, he is tough and resilient, it’s not for nothing that he
graduated from the military academy as a second lieutenant; then I asked after
Irmita, his wife, who suffers from chronic lung disease, some kind of asthma she
got while living with Mingo in Geneva.

I told Chelón that if he was calling, it was because he had nothing
better to do, surely he was lazing about, waiting for inspiration for his next
painting. He knows better than anybody what is going on, thanks to Carmela, for
she and I speak every day. Then I told him that my mother-in-law is hoping the
general will enter his mystical period so he’ll free Pericles, and since he,
Chelón, is also a mystic who believes in invisible forces, he should conjure
them up and instruct them to enter the general and dispel all his anger at my
husband. Chelón is a dear man, and an artist, but he knows nothing whatsoever
about politics.

There is no news to report from my visit with my husband. I brought
him the books he asked for. He gave me a letter for Serafín, who sent someone to
pick it up at my house as soon as I told him about it. I told Pericles that my
father is still pressuring Judge Molina, the president of the Supreme Court — a
spineless coward who’s completely subservient to the general — to define his
legal status, for it is illegal to hold someone under arrest for an unlimited
amount of time for an alleged violation of the anti-defamation laws. Because Mr.
Pineda, my husband’s and the newspaper’s lawyer, has come up against a brick
wall in the courts. “Excuse the expression, Doña Haydée, but the law doesn’t
mean a damn thing to that warlock,” he said, discouraged, the last time we
talked. I asked him to keep applying pressure, to not give up, but inside I know
that Pericles will never be set free until “the man” cools off.

Clemen dropped by this afternoon, tipsy, talking up a storm, as he
always does when he has too much alcohol in his blood and is on the verge of
doing something foolish. He assured me something is brewing, the general is
going to have to leave, his days in power are numbered because the Americans are
sick and tired of him. For a moment I suspected Clemen had some specific
information about a plot or even that he might be involved in one, because his
tongue starts wagging when he drinks, and he might just end up in jail like his
father; then he told me he had come from a journalists’ luncheon held at the
American Embassy. I made him a strong cup of coffee, but he started nodding off
anyway and fell asleep in the armchair. My poor son, so like his Uncle Lalo. I
let him sleep even though his absence from work might cause him problems;
anything’s better than seeing him drunk.