Tyrant Memory

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  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.

  I had planned to go to the bank then to visit Carmela after the worst heat of the day had passed, in the afternoon, but I chose to stay home until Clemen woke up; I feel uncomfortable leaving him alone with María Elena. He woke up an hour and a half later, complained that I hadn’t woken him up earlier, and rushed off to the radio station. I begged him not to stop on the way to quench his thirst with a beer. The reasons we have the children we have has always been a mystery to me: who could have predicted, when Clemen was a baby, that he would have so few of my traits, or those of Pericles or his grandparents, and instead would inherit all the good and the bad of his Uncle Lalo, my father’s youngest brother, charming and scatterbrained, always on the lookout for revels and women? I have accepted God’s will and have made my peace with it; Pericles has had a more difficult time doing so. My father claims that since Uncle Lalo was killed just a few weeks before Clemen was born, his spirit entered him.

  Thursday, March 30

  Pati called to tell me that she is pregnant; the doctor confirmed it this morning. She is happy, though she says that Pericles’s situation casts a pall over the joyous news; I warned her against confounding her feelings: one thing is her sadness over her father’s imprisonment and quite another the happiness that he himself will have when he hears the good news. And so it was: Pericles was delighted when I told him. What I didn’t tell him is that I have hopes he will be freed tomorrow, Friday, two weeks from when he was arrested, because then comes Palm Sunday and the Holy Week, and it is reasonable to expect the general to soften up and order his release before going on vacation; and I didn’t mention this to my husband because he has a particular dislike for creating false hopes, for what he calls weak minds who believe in “pipe dreams,” whereas he believes only in the facts.

  My parents were also very gladdened by the news of Pati’s pregnancy. I stopped by their place after my visit to the Black Palace. My father shares the hope that Pericles might be released tomorrow; he said that if this happens, we’ll have a big party on Sunday at the finca and invite the whole family, to celebrate both events: my daughter’s pregnancy and my husband’s freedom. The next day, on Monday, my parents will leave for Guatemala, where they like to go for the Holy Week; when I was a teenager, I loved going with them to see the carpets of flowers in the streets, the massive processions, especially the one for the Holy Burial.

  When I got back home, I told María Elena we must make the house spotless for Pericles’s return, there shouldn’t be a speck of dust in his study or on his bookshelves; we discussed the best dishes to make for lunch, for I expect they’ll release him in the morning, as has been the case on other occasions. We will make a watercress and bacon salad and the spinach lasagna with cheese that Pericles likes so much; for dessert we’ll have dulce de leche. We’ll finally bring out the new flowered tablecloth my sister gave me.

  I think it’s a splendid sign that the rosebush in the garden has bloomed precisely today; no more being alone. Tomorrow morning early I’ll go to the beauty salon for a cut, shampoo, and styling. I want my husband to find me beautiful and elegant, he deserves nothing less, without a trace of the anguish and loneliness that I can now see on my own face.

  I wonder if tomorrow, when Pericles is again by my side, I’ll have the need and the steadfastness to keep writing in this lovely notebook, and I tell myself that surely I won’t, I must consider this diary a friend who came to visit me from far away, who keeps me company and comforts me during these moments of solitude, and once her duty is done, she’ll leave, though with some wistfulness, the same wistfulness I’ll feel when I return this notebook to my memory trunk.

  Friday of Sorrows, March 31

  Oh, the horror of it! The general has ordered Pericles transferred to the Central Prison. There’s no judicial writ, no legal process, that evil man is simply taking revenge on my husband, who knows for what reason. I found out late this morning after I returned from the beauty salon when I called the Black Palace, hoping to hear of Pericles’s imminent release. There was a tone in Colonel Monterrosa’s secretary’s voice — evasive, and he refused to give me any information — that made me wary, then afraid that my husband was going to remain behind bars; my wariness turned to suspicion when Don Rudecindo refused to take my call. “Colonel Monterrosa isn’t here,” his secretary told me, and by the way he enunciated each word I knew the colonel was there but didn’t want to talk to me. So I hung up and dialed the palace again, but this time I called the receptionist and asked to speak to Sergeant Machuca, for I was certain he would tell me if something had happened, not only because of his respect for Pericles but also because he owes my father-in-law more than one favor. And so it was. The minute he took the phone, he began speaking in an undertone so nobody would overhear him tell me that if I wanted to see my husband I shouldn’t wait till noon, I must hurry to the palace at that very moment, because he heard that Pericles was going to be transferred. I asked him where they were taking him, and why. But Sergeant Machuca said he had to hang up, and told me not to tarry. I didn’t waste a second. I asked María Elena to call my parents and my in-laws immediately to let them know that Pericles was being transferred to another prison, and that I was on my way to the Black Palace to find out what was going on. Fortunately, my mother had lent me Don Leo, their chauffeur, to help with the morning chores; I asked him to drive me there as quickly as possible. He asked me if there had been an accident; as we drove across the city at full speed, I told him about Pericles’s imminent transfer, how on other occasions these transfers had been a way of
masking the general’s secret intention to do away with his political rivals. We soon reached the palace. I ran upstairs to Don Rudecindo’s office; the secretary tried to stop me, but I had already pushed open the door. The colonel was talking on the phone, and his face changed when he saw me. I stood right in front of him and demanded to know where my husband was. Don Rudecindo covered the mouthpiece with his hand, asked me to have a seat and wait a moment, then motioned to his secretary to leave the office. After hanging up, he looked me in the eyes and said, “This morning, the president called me personally and ordered me to transfer Don Pericles to the Central Prison.” I was in a rage, possessed. I told him, between clenched teeth, that this was a travesty, that carrying out an unjust order was an act of cowardice, and I would cling to my husband and force them to take me with him. Then Don Rudecindo, glancing up at the clock on the wall, as if he hadn’t even heard my insults, said that perhaps at that very moment Pericles was entering the Central Prison. I became quite distressed because I had assumed that my husband was still in the cell in the basement, but it turned out that shortly after Sergeant Machuca had hung up, Pericles was taken to the vehicle that transported him to his new location. I stood up and, as if spitting out my words, muttered: “What is he going to do to my husband, that . . . !” I was going to say “so-and-so warlock,” but I controlled myself, even mentioning him was degrading, so I stared with profound disdain at the general’s portrait hanging on the wall behind Don Rudecindo. He told me that nobody was going to do anything to my husband, the president’s intention was to gather in one place all those arrested on charges of acting against the political order while the prosecutor’s office completed the legal procedures and filed formal charges, and I would be able to visit him as prescribed by the law. I turned my back on him and left.