Tyrant Memory (9 page)

“Keep driving, keep driving . . .” Clemen mumbles as if he were
praying.

“Shhh . . .”

The truck has stopped in front of the house. Orders ring out, there
are loud footsteps. Knocks on the door.

“Open up. National Guard.”

“It’s not here,” Jimmy whispers. “It’s the house across the
street.”

Clemen is paralyzed, his face full of terror.

They hear the priest’s bed creaking; they see a ray of light through
a crack in the floor. Then they hear the priest’s slow footsteps to the front
door.

“What’s he doing? Why is he opening the door when they haven’t
knocked here?” Clemen groans.

“Shhh . . .”

The priest has opened the door.

“Why all the racket, Sergeant Marvin? Did something happen?”

“Good evening, Father.” The sergeant’s voice sounds heavy, as if his
words were sticking together. “Sorry for the disturbance, we’re just alerting
the residents because we’ve received information that several communist traitors
are hiding out in this zone . . .”

“At this time of night?”

“Yes, Father. We just got word. Some officers who were at the
Ilopango Airport during the rebellion. They say they came in this
direction.”

“Come over here, Sergeant.”

“Yes, Father.”

From up above, they hear the footsteps enter the living room. Clemen
squeezes into the corner; Jimmy doesn’t budge.

“You have been drinking on duty, Sergeant,” the priest says curtly,
with reproach.

“No, Father Dionisio, just one little drink, I swear, just to make
the long night easier.”

“One drink . . . Don’t swear in vain, Sergeant, and don’t go around
frightening people in the middle of the night, this is Holy Week and it will be
your fault if they get too scared to come out for the processions . . .”

“No, Father. I’m just warning the residents in my zone. I’m just
following orders . . . And the girls?”

Jimmy and Clemen look at each other.

“They are sleeping, son. At this time of night only lost souls stay
awake.”

The footsteps move back toward the front door.

“May God be with you, Sergeant. And rest assured . . . if I hear of
any strangers in the vicinity, you will be the first to know . . .”

“Not all of them are strangers, Father,” he says, lowering his
voice, as if he were telling him a secret. “My lieutenant suspects that one of
the colonel’s grandsons, the one who insulted the general on the radio, came
here to hide out . . .”

Clemen tries to make himself even smaller and opens his eyes big and
round like two saucers; Jimmy gestures with his hand for him to calm down.

“If that happened, the colonel himself would turn him in,” the
priest says, with a slightly indignant, disapproving tone. “The colonel is more
loyal to the general than all the rest of you put together. And don’t you forget
that.”

Now out on the sidewalk, the priest issues a warning:

“Be careful with that truck, don’t go destroying the carpet of
petals the congregation has made such an effort to spread around the
streets.”

They hear the sergeant shout out orders, some running steps, the
truck door slamming, then the engine revving up. The truck pulls away; the
priest stays at the door.

“Good night, Father Dionisio . . . ,” a voice sounds, from afar, not
the sergeant’s.

“It’s the neighbor across the street,” Jimmy whispers.

“Good night, son. Go back to bed . . .”

When the priest closes the door, Clemen lets out a loud fart.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Jimmy looks at him with disgust and brings his hand to his nose.

The priest has crossed his room; his bed creaks, the ray of light
shining through the crack in the floor disappears; after clearing his throat, he
sighs:

“Thank the Lord!”

In the darkness, Jimmy’s eyes shine with the desire to strike Clemen
down.

“You’re disgusting,” he whispers, without removing his hand from his
nose.

Clemen moves very carefully back to his mat; then he whispers:

“Fuck, what a nightmare . . . You think they’ll come back?”

“I hope not.”

“How could that lieutenant have found out I came here?”

“The sergeant said his lieutenant suspected, he didn’t say he’d
found anything out,” Jimmy whispers as he straightens out his mat. “And the
priest warned us about this lieutenant, that he has it in for your grandfather,
though he can’t do anything because of his rank.”

“So, why did they come precisely to this house?”

“They were scoping out the area. You heard him.”

“Too many coincidences . . .”

“Maybe the sergeant made such a big to-do because he likes one of
the priest’s girls,” Jimmy wonders out loud.

Clemen keeps staring at him with astonishment, as if suddenly he too
understood.

“It’s true. He asked about them . . .” he whispers, and then, in a
mischievous tone and bringing his hands to his genitals, he adds, “The one who
served us dinner is just about ripe for the plucking . . . You think the priest
has had her?”

“Shhh . . . He’s going to hear you. The things you think of . .
.”

“She would feel so good . . . ,” he sighs, without letting go of his
crotch.

They grow quiet. The night is cooler. A cricket begins to sing
inside the attic, near the piles of junk.

“I’m not tired anymore,” Jimmy mutters.

The priest is snoring again.

“She’s going to turn us in . . . ,” Clemen whispers, suddenly quite
agitated.

“Who?”

“The little Indian girl who served us our dinner, the one who’s
ready to be plucked . . .”

“She doesn’t even know we’re here.”

“I bet the sergeant will come to court her when the priest isn’t
here, and she’ll tell him that two strangers had dinner here.”

“I’ll warn the priest, but he said they were completely under his
control.”

“Nobody controls women, least of all when the priest is out of the
house at the processions all week.”

“You’re right.”

“If that sergeant starts sniffing around the house,” Clemen
whispers, anxious, “it won’t take him long to find us.”

“We’ve got to leave here as soon as possible.”

“But, where?” Clemen moans.

“The colonel and the priest will find you someplace more remote,
further up in the mountains. And I should continue with my own plans . . .”

“What plans? You don’t have any plans . . . Go out there and let
them find you? Get on a train so the National Guard can nab you? Stop pretending
to be some kind of hero . . .”

Jimmy turns to look at him, at first in disbelief, then with
disdain.

“I’m not going to bother explaining it to you. Of course, I have a
plan. What I need is fake ID or a disguise so I can ride the train without being
recognized, just like you got out of the capital dressed as a housemaid.”

“Even if you dress up as a whore, they’ll find you.”

Jimmy sits up; he picks up his glass and takes a sip of water.

Suddenly Clemen stares at him with astonishment.

“I have an idea,” he mutters.

Jimmy lies down with his back to him, annoyed, as if he weren’t
listening.

“I have a great idea . . . ,” Clemen repeats, sitting up,
increasingly excited.

Jimmy remains quiet.

“Did you hear me? I have a great idea for how you can ride the
train without anybody recognizing you and I can get to a different hiding place,
no problem . . .”

“Wow . . . ,” he mumbles peevishly.

The priest coughs; his bed creaks.

Haydée’s Diary

Ash Wednesday, April 5

Clemen has not been captured, and I pray to God he
manages to escape altogether. As to his whereabouts, all we know is that he left
the radio station on Monday, moments after he spoke to me, a few hours before
the rebel officers surrendered; since then, nothing. My whole being trembles
just imagining that they might capture him. The rumors are gruesome. They say
officers are being savagely tortured to get them to reveal the names of
everybody who collaborated with them, the general himself is in the Black Palace
overseeing the interrogations, they’ve already begun to prepare for the war
council, and soon they will begin ordering executions. There’s a desperate
stampede. They also say the Peruvian embassy is full of people requesting
asylum; apparently things didn’t go well for those who sought refuge in the
Mexican embassy, they didn’t know that Ambassador Méndez Plancarte is a fervent
admirer of the general — he has boasted of it more than once right in front of
Pericles — and he would never open the doors to any rebel officer. They also say
Colonel Tito Calvo arrived at the American Embassy in a tank, certain that the
United States would give him political asylum, but when he descended from the
tank to enter the compound, the Marines blocked his way; the colonel had a
shouting match with them, rained curses down on them, then returned to the tank
to go to another embassy, and that’s when the general’s troops fell upon him and
took him away.

I went to the Central Prison twice today, demanding that they let me
see my husband, but I had no luck. Colonel Palma refused to see me, and Sergeant
Flores didn’t even come out so I could give him the provisions I’d brought for
Pericles. Outside the Central Prison, I met up with the mothers of Merlos and
Cabezas; we shared our concerns and fears. Thank God my mother-in-law called me
before dinnertime to tell me we must pray for Clemen but that nothing will
happen to Pericles, the general will not retaliate against those who did not
participate in the coup, the colonel is certain of that — the president himself
knows that General Marroquín and Colonel Tito Calvo have always had grudges
against my husband. I felt greatly relieved. I called Doña Chayito, Merlos’s
mother, right away to tell her what my mother-in-law had just told me; she
promised to tell Doña Julita, Cabezas’s mother, tonight. We agreed to meet
tomorrow at nine o’clock in front of the Central Prison.

Pati called to tell me that she and Mauricio are trying to
pull strings to get Clemen asylum at the Costa Rican embassy. I explained to her
that the problem now is that all the embassies are surrounded by the general’s
police, and nobody can go in or out without them knowing; I was going to tell
her not to worry, we are dealing with the problem from here, then I remembered
Father’s warning. Pati suggested we send Betito out of the country, have him
spend some time in Costa Rica. I told her that Betito is a teenager, he is not
involved in politics, so nothing will happen to him, even though the truth is
that at this moment nobody in this country is not involved, even the children
are talking about it.

A few minutes before eight I went to the servant’s room to look for
María Elena, to tell her that the radio broadcasts were back to normal and
invite her to listen to a new Cuban comedy show with me — we need a bit of
distraction in the midst of so much misfortune. I found her on her knees, her
face buried in the bed, as if she were praying, but she was actually crying
inconsolably. I asked her what had happened. She said it was nothing and she was
sorry, she’d soon be fine, and she got up and wiped her face off with a towel. I
was very touched by the sorrow in her eyes. I told her not to worry, Clemen
would weather this misfortune, God is watching over us. Sometimes you must
pretend to be strong, full of faith and hope, even if inside doubts and fears
are tearing you apart.

Holy Thursday, April 6

No news of Clemen. Everybody reminds me that no news is
good news. But we mothers want some proof that our fugitive child is well, a
word from someone who knows he is safe; without that, anguish festers in my
heart.

My mother-in-law dropped by unannounced this morning, accompanied by
my sister-in-law Bertita, Pericles’s younger sister. They explained that they
had left Cojutepeque on the first train, at five in the morning. Mama Licha
urged me to quickly prepare everything I wanted to take to my husband; they had
come from the station in a hired car that was waiting in front. We soon left for
the Central Prison. We had no problem getting in; Sergeant Flores was expecting
us. They brought Pericles into the room where we were waiting; I couldn’t
control myself, I ran up to embrace him and whispered in his ear that Clemens
had managed to escape, and that Don Jorge was still alive; his eyes looked
heavy, his clothes were a bit soiled, but he seemed to be in good spirits. “And
you, what are you doing here with your rheumatism?” Pericles asked his mother,
affectionately and with apparent surprise. All she said was that she’d had an
urgent need to see him, to be certain he was doing well, and thanks to God the
opportunity had arisen to pay him a twenty-minute visit, but she didn’t mention
the colonel’s good offices. During the entire visit Pericles talked as if he was
certain that somebody was taking detailed notes of our conversation: he asked
after the family, Pati and Betito, Mila and the children, my parents and my
sister, but not a word about the colonel or Clemen; he told of the hours of
uncertainty he’d spent inside the Central Prison during the coup, prisoners and
guards listening to every word broadcast over the radio, and wagers even being
placed on who would win, the rebels or “the man”; he mentioned how tense the
officers in charge were, how they kept expecting an assault at any moment; under
his breath he cheered the outbursts of enthusiasm of a group of guards who
dislike the general; he declared scornfully that anybody in his right mind
wouldn’t even dream that a couple of cowards like Marroquín and Calvo would be
able to defeat “the man”; he expressed sorrow at the fates of some of his
acquaintances, and he made reference to several arrests I didn’t know about. I
realized that more information is available inside the Central Prison than
outside, and my husband, though he spoke in generalities, was surely right in
the center of it all. I would have liked to finally ask him if he had
foreknowledge of the coup, of Clemen’s participation, but he would never have
forgiven such imprudence. We drank coffee and ate sweet rolls; Pericles ate a
few bites of the provisions we brought him. The minutes flew by. Colonel Palma,
the director of the Central Prison, came personally into the room to inform us
that our time was up: he greeted my mother-in-law with a deep bow, then turned
to me and Bertita; he exclaimed in a stentorian voice that Pericles had no cause
to complain about how he was being treated, and he announced that now that the
vicious traitors had been defeated, things would slowly return to normal, adding
that next Sunday, Easter Sunday, as proof of the general’s magnanimity, I would
be allowed to visit again; then he said it would be his honor to accompany us
out. Mama Licha stood up and gave Pericles her blessing. When we embraced before
parting, he whispered in my ear that I should tell Merlos’s and Cabezas’s
families that they are both well, and he kissed me on my ear lobe, which he
knows I love. As I watched them lead him out, I held back my tears and felt my
heart clenching, as if I had found him after having lost him for a long time,
and now they were taking him away from me again. At the large front doors, and
with the same false obsequiousness, Colonel Palma sent a respectful greeting to
my father-in-law and also to my “dear parents,” as if he knew them personally. I
looked around for Doña Chayito and Doña Julita, the students’ mothers, but it
was early, and they still hadn’t arrived. My mother-in-law asked me to accompany
her to Clemen’s house, she wanted to see her great-grandchildren and say hello
to Mila; we all got in the same car, which was waiting for us. As we were
driving, I suddenly felt lighthearted, as if a great sadness had lifted; my
mother-in-law made a few comments about the procession, about how pretty the
carpets of flowers were in the streets of Cojutepeque. A contingent of secret
police was posted at the intersection in front of my son’s house; a couple of
them approached to sniff around when we got out of the car. Ana, Clemen and
Mila’s housemaid, opened the door for us; she said the señora had just gone out
and the children were playing on the patio. Mama Licha asked her if Mila would
return soon; Ana, who is María Elena’s cousin, said she didn’t know, though I
had a feeling there was something she was keeping to herself. Marianito came
running up to us, such a lovely child, my favorite, and shouted with joy;
Alfredito and Ilse ran up behind him: they’re still upset about Samba’s death;
they led us to the patio, showed us the exact spot where the police had killed
her. We stayed only a short while. Then my mother-in-law and Bertita dropped me
off at my house; they were going to pay a couple of other visits, then return to
Cojutepeque on the noon train so they would arrive in time for the procession of
Jesus carrying the cross. María Elena greeted me with a message from Doña
Chayito, who had been waiting for me in front of the Central Prison. I called to
tell her what had happened.

Father was not surprised that we were granted permission to visit
Pericles so unexpectedly, thanks to my in-laws. He says that right now the Nazi
warlock doesn’t trust any of the younger officers, so he is relying heavily on
the older officers like Colonel Aragón, who have always been loyal to him; he
also reminded me that the general claims that the wealthy are now his enemy, not
those with socialist ideas, and he includes my husband among the latter. Father
left at noon for Santa Ana with Betito, who will stay with Cecilia and Armando
for a few days; mother insisted on staying with me to keep me company, in case
there is an emergency. Father complained that yesterday he had to obtain a pass
from the Black Palace; the authorities now require one for all cars leaving the
city.

Mingo dropped by this afternoon for a cup of coffee. I told him
about our visit with Pericles; he told me that Colonel Aragón’s support had been
vitally important to the general during the coup, and surely my father-in-law
wants to guarantee that there be no reprisals against Pericles, knowing, as he
does, that there is little he can do for Clemen. He confirmed that Serafín has
sought refuge at the house of the Guatemalan consul, he is very frightened, the
poor thing, afraid the general’s troops will burst in and arrest him; it’s
anybody’s guess when the newspaper will appear again. He then began to recount
one story that is spreading like wildfire: the general managed to save his own
life and defeat the coup because of the efforts of Father Mario, a Guatemalan
priest who I think is a good man but Pericles believes to be scheming,
ambitious, and unscrupulous. They say that Father Mario was the first to call
the general at his house at the beach to inform him of the uprising and warn him
of the ambush planned by Lieutenant Mancía, even advising him to return to the
city in a different car so he could slip by unnoticed. And that is not the end
of it. Mingo asserts that Father Mario himself drove to where the ambush had
been laid and convinced Lieutenant Mancía to let the general pass, and that is
how he was able to waltz right into the Black Palace. Unbelievable. According to
what Mingo said, Father Mario also took it upon himself to convince General
Marroquín and Colonel Calvo, not only to call off the tank assault against the
palace but also to negotiate with the general through his own mediator, as well
as to surrender with the guarantee that the general would spare their lives. How
I miss Pericles whenever I hear political gossip such as this: he knows so well
how to discern the truth from the fantasy.

Carmela and I went to the procession in the afternoon. Both our
husbands are nonbelievers, both have ideas neither of us understand even if we
do respect them; this strengthens our friendship. Mother had a headache and
preferred to stay home. We caught up with the procession in the Candelaria
district. The ritual was the same as every other year, but there was a different
atmosphere, there was fear in people’s eyes. I met the mothers and wives of men
who had participated in the coup; we exchanged embraces and shed tears. I felt a
claw digging into my throat, and I found it difficult to repeat to everybody who
asked that I was grateful to our Lord that Clemen had not been captured. People
who recognized us offered their support, patted us on the shoulder. Angelita,
Jimmy’s mother, was with mothers of other young officers who are already under
arrest. Some had turned themselves in, trusting the promise the general had made
to show mercy, but it has now been announced on the radio that they will be
court marshaled. Fortunately, Jimmy has not been caught, either. Nobody has been
allowed to see those locked up in the basement of the Black Palace, and the
rumors about torture are getting worse and worse. There is enormous
uncertainty.

Where is my son at this very moment? I look at his photo on my
dresser and tears come to my eyes . . . I asked María Elena to stay with me on
these days of the Holy Week; father will go to the finca and give Belka her
sweater and some other gifts. I think there are many of us, women alone,
burdened by the sorry fates of our men. Mila and the children are staying at her
father’s house; the poor thing was traumatized by the search. Nerón has howled
several times tonight; at first it frightened me, I thought somebody was trying
to break in, then I told myself that animal has a sixth sense and knows about
Samba’s death; then, when I heard the howls of other dogs in the neighborhood, I
remembered it was a full moon.