“You won’t be able to be up there for long without being discovered, son,” the priest warns Clemen, as if he hadn’t heard what Jimmy said. “This house receives many visitors. Then we’d all be in trouble, even your grandfather. We must find a way for you to leave together.”
Jimmy takes a sip of rum.
“With all due respect, Father, I think the military should go one way and civilians another. It would be best if Clemen found a new hiding place and I continued on my way. It won’t be easy to reach the gulf, I might encounter dangerous situations, and my cousin here simply isn’t prepared . . .”
One of the girls enters with more tortillas. They stop talking. She asks the priest if she should bring three cups of coffee. He nods, without looking at her, and keeps chewing.
She leaves quickly, her sandals making the same slapping sound as she walks away.
“Maybe you know a guide you trust, Father, someone who could take back roads to the train tracks in the middle of the night?” Jimmy asks in a low voice, sidling up to the priest, as if he fears the girl has stayed behind the door listening.
The priest wipes the plate with a piece of tortilla, sopping up the remains of the beans and the cream; he scrunches up his face, as if mentally searching through the roster of his congregants to find the man Jimmy needs, then he places the piece of tortilla in his mouth and shakes his head.
“Wouldn’t do you any good,” he says, once he finishes swallowing. “There’s a pair of soldiers on every train, and they inspect every car.”
Clemen nods in agreement with what the priest has said, throws Jimmy an I-told-you-so look, then takes a tiny sip of rum, hoping this way it will last all night.
“What’s up with you?” Jimmy says irritably. “The rum already went to your head, didn’t it?”
“No, I just think you’ve got to be nuts to want to go out in the middle of the night and get caught by a patrol.”
“If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, you hear?”
“Well, just in case you wanted it . . .”
“Boys,” the priest interrupts them, having heard quite enough. “Right now it would be best for you to finish eating, take care of your business, and climb back up to the loft. There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep for the Lord to enlighten us with new ideas.”
At that moment the girl comes in, her head still down, carrying three steaming cups of coffee; Clemen watches her carefully, and as she leaves, he checks her out from behind.
2
“Jimmy, are you awake? . . . What was that?” Clemen whispers.
The other keeps snoring.
“Jimmy . . .”
Clemen gropes around in the darkness until he touches Jimmy’s shoulder; he gives him a few pokes.
“Jimmy . . .”
Jimmy opens his eyes like a frightened animal; it takes him three seconds to realize where he is and with whom.
“What’s going on?” he whispers.
The darkness is almost total: the filthy skylight lets in barely a trace of the night’s glow.
“Did you hear that noise outside?”
“No.”
“Sounded like soldiers marching.”
They are lying next to each other on the mats, a few feet apart.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“They went by while you were snoring, that’s why I woke you,” Clemen whispers.
“Have you been up for a while?”
“I had a nightmare.”
“You sure you heard troops marching by or was it part of your nightmare?”
“The nightmare woke me up a while ago, and the marching happened just a minute ago.”
“Strange . . .” Jimmy whispers.
“Yeah, it is. I’m not imagining it.”
Downstairs they can hear Father Dionisio’s rhythmic snores; above, the wind is whistling through the trees.
“What time is it about?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to see in this darkness,” Jimmy whispers, and he takes his pocket watch out of this trousers.
“I’ve got matches.”
“Are you crazy? The reflection will show through the skylight.”
“You think?”
“We shouldn’t risk it.”
Jimmy sits up and holds the watch face up to the skylight.
“I could light a match close to the floor and shield it with my hands so nobody can see it outside,” Clemen whispers.
“It’s midnight. Twelve fifteen.”
“I thought it was later . . . We came up here really early.”
Jimmy has lain down again; he yawns and turns over to go back to sleep.
“The priest is right,” Clemen whispers. “Anybody would lose their mind stuck too long up here in this attic.”
“You’d better get used to it. It’s not going to be easy to find somewhere else.”
Clemen sighs.
“This is fucked,” he complains. “How could everything have gone so wrong?”
“Complaining won’t do you any good. Let’s just thank God they haven’t caught us.”
“You aren’t married and you don’t have kids, so what do you care? Poor Mila must be having a really hard time . . .”
“I don’t think they’ll do anything to her,” Jimmy tries to comfort him. “They’re not going to involve either her or the kids.”
“And my poor old man, a prisoner . . . Who knows what they’ll do to him . . .”
“He was in jail, so he couldn’t have known anything about the coup. The general wants us, the rebel officers. He’ll never forgive us for betraying him.”
“That damned motherfucking warlock has made a pact with the Devil,” Clemen says angrily, raising his voice.
“Shh . . . quiet down, you’re going to wake up the priest.”
Clemen tosses and turns on the mat, restless.
Jimmy feels around on the floor to make sure his gun is by his side. Then he whispers, talking to himself, as if trying to convince himself of something:
“If they catch me, I’m a dead man.”
“Are you really going to go off on your own?”
“I’m going to rest tonight, recover a little. I’ll ask the priest for detailed information about ways to get to the train tracks. And tomorrow at this time I’ll start off . . .”
“You’re nuts . . . What if you meet up with a patrol?”
“That’s why I have this gun and why I’m a military man. I still have two clips.”
“They’re going to kill you . . .”
“That’s the risk I’ll have to take,” Jimmy whispers. “When you get involved in the affairs of men, you’ve got to have balls . . . I told you Lieutenant Peña and I were surrounded, and we shot our way out. I’m not going to let them capture me.”
“You should stay here a few days until the situation clears up,” Clemen whispers, cautiously.
“The situation is already very clear. I’d rather take my chances on the move than holed up here like a rat.”
They hear noises in the street; heavy footsteps approach the house.
“Listen. They’re coming back.”
Jimmy has now sat up, wide awake, clutching his gun on his lap.
They remain silent while the marchers pass by; then they hear the voice of the commanding officer repeating as they march away: “One, two, one, two . . .”
“It’s a patrol,” Jimmy whispers.
“National Guard . . .”
“No, local forces,” Jimmy explains. “Didn’t you notice that some were marching out of rhythm?”
“Fuck, I’m scared shitless.”
“Shh . . .”
They’ve gotten used to the darkness: Clemen can make out Jimmy’s hand pointing down, toward the room where the priest was snoring a moment before and that is now totally silent.
“Why are they out marching at this time of night?”
“Emergency patrols. There’s a curfew.”
“Don’t you think they’re tryi
ng to tell us they know we’re here?” Clemen groans.
“Calm down and lower your voice,” Jimmy orders in a whisper. “If they knew we were here they would have already come in and gotten us.”
Jimmy keeps listening intently, but the priest has started snoring again.
“Let’s keep quiet for a while until the priest falls back to sleep.”
“He must be scared to death, like we are . . .”
“Shh . . .”
Jimmy has lain down again; he places his gun next to the cushion he’s using as a pillow. They each have sheets and a glass of water. And they swept the floor.
“I’m not going to be able to fall asleep,” Clemen whispers.
“At least let me sleep.”
“I need whiskey.”
“Drink water.”
“It’ll just make me have to pee. And in this darkness, I might miss the can and it’ll end up all over the floor.”
The priest coughs, clears his throat, then turns over in bed.
“I told you: shut your trap,” Jimmy whispers, irritated. “Let us sleep.”
Clemen sits down. He feels around for his glass of water; he takes a sip. He stares at the dirty skylight.
“I wish we could see the sky,” he whispers. “Looking at the stars would distract me.”
Jimmy has turned his back to him.
Clemen stretches, then lies down, clasping his hands behind his neck.
Jimmy’s breathing becomes heavier, more rhythmic; he seems to have already fallen asleep.
“The minute I found out that the ambush had failed, and the warlock had managed to get to police headquarters, I had a premonition everything would fall apart . . . ,” Clemen mumbles, bitterly, talking to himself. “But it wasn’t my fault.”
Suddenly, an owl hoots very close by, as if it were on the roof of the house. Clemen listens carefully: he hears a buzzing from afar.
Jimmy moves around on the mat.
“What wasn’t your fault?” he asks, curious.
Clemen sits up anxiously.
“I need a smoke,” he whispers.
“You know the priest asked us not to smoke up here.”
“But I’m really anxious . . . Did you hear that buzzing?”
“Sounds like an engine . . .”
“Sounds like it’s coming closer.”
They both concentrate on the distant buzzing.
“It comes closer, then moves farther away,” Jimmy whispers. “But anyway, what were you talking about?”
“That it wasn’t my fault the son of a bitch went to police headquarters.”
“Who said it was?”
“That bastard Juan José, because I announced over the radio that only the police and the National Guard weren’t supporting the coup, and that’s why the bastard went straight to the Black Palace . . .”
“I heard you say that,” Jimmy whispers.
“But everybody was saying it. And that bastard Juan José was the first to go on air when we took over the station, and he claimed that the general had been killed in the ambush on the highway to the port . . .”
“You civilians always run off at the mouth.”
“And you military men don’t do jack shit. First you duped us with your deadly ambush that never was, then you supposedly had the Black Palace under siege, and then you let him slip right through your fingers like water . . .”
“Shhh . . . keep your voice down.”
“That Juan José . . . accusing me . . . even Dr. Romero announced on the radio that the general was dead, and the National Guard and the police weren’t supporting us. We were all left in the lurch by you people.”
The priest clears his throat again.
“It’s a truck and now it really is coming closer,” Jimmy whispers.
Clemen cups his hand behind his ear.
“You’re right,” he whispers, then swallows hard. “It’s the National Guard . . .”
“Or the army . . .”
“It stopped . . . It’s about two hundred yards away.”
“Troop transport,” Jimmy murmurs, wide awake now. He sits up, pushes off his sheet, and picks up the gun.
“You think it’s coming here?”
“I hope not,” Jimmy whispers.
“Why did it stop?”
Jimmy remains alert; he barely shrugs his shoulders.
“They keep revving it, as if they’re waiting for someone,” Clemen whispers; he is squirming, anxious. “Could they be doing a house-to-house search?”
“We must be prepared . . .” Jimmy says.
“How? What do you plan to do?”
“If they come in the house, we’ll retreat into that corner,” Jimmy whispers, pointing to a spot in the back of the attic.
“Don’t go shooting off your gun or they’ll kill both of us,” Clemen whispers, right then scurrying toward that corner.
As he moves, nervous, his knee hits the glass of water.
“Shit . . . the water spilled.”
“Was it full?”
“No . . .” Clemen whispers, curled up in the corner.
“I hope it doesn’t seep through the wood.”
“I don’t think it will . . . Here they come. Listen.”
The roar of the engine approaches the house.
“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?”
Tyrant Memory Page 7