Tyrant Memory

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  “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.

  (Dawn)

  I just dreamed that Clemen was hiding at Father’s finca, in a shed in the middle of the coffee fields; in my dream, Don Tilo, María Elena’s father, led the soldiers there, and they burst in on my son. I woke up in a cold sweat at the very moment he was fleeing under a hail of bullets. I haven’t been able to shut my eyes again.

  Good Friday, April 7

  S
till no news. The opposition newspapers are still shut down; not even the two that support the general appeared today. The radio stations are broadcasting only Holy Week programming, as if nothing extraordinary were happening, and when there is a brief news report, it consists of a litany of praises for the general and accusations and threats against his adversaries.

  This morning I went to the Polyclinic: Don Jorge remains in critical condition. Several journalists were visiting; they all asked after Clemen and Pericles, all showed great concern. Mingo and Irmita also came. Everyone’s right in asserting that nobody is safe any longer, for if the general dared to perpetuate such brutality against Don Jorge and has gotten away with it with total impunity, the same could happen to anybody. Don Jorge is not only the owner of the newspaper, he also belongs to one of the country’s best families. It’s true, he is rather rebellious, and sometimes irascible, and he does frequently insult the general and make fun of him, but nobody deserves to be tortured and shot down in the street like a rabid dog. I thank God Pericles has always shown restraint, in his columns he has criticized the political measures taken by “the man,” but he has never attacked him personally; he knows him well, he was his private secretary for two years, he knows how spiteful and implacable he can be, hence he has always been circumspect when recounting his experiences during that period. As I was saying goodbye to poor Teresita, a delegation from the American Embassy was coming to visit. Mingo and Irmita offered to take me to my mother’s house. According to Mingo, the general will not execute either General Marroquín or Colonel Tito Calvo: the first because they are old friends, and in the last analysis, he surrendered to him; the second because he was not captured in front of the embassy, as I was told and many were led to believe, rather he managed to enter the foyer where Ambassador Thurston was meeting with others from the diplomatic corps, none of whom offered to give him asylum, at which point Mr. Thurston convinced him to turn himself in after speaking on the phone with the general to request he show mercy. “If the ambassador turned him over to the general, he can’t shoot him,” Mingo said; I hope this is true, and may he also pardon Clemen and all the others who have been accused. When we arrived at Mother’s house, I invited them in to stay and have lunch with us, try the delicious cod and the jocotes in honey, but they had a family engagement.