Tyrant Memory

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  Mingo also confirmed that Mariíta Loucel has disappeared; they say she is neither at her house nor at her finca. Now I understand she must have known about the coup, that’s why Jimmy, Dr. Romero, and even Clemen went to see her; that’s why they were speaking French, so the general’s spies wouldn’t understand. I never would have thought she could be so audacious. I hope she managed to leave the country. Nor is anything known of Dr. Romero’s whereabouts; perhaps they fled together. Pericles says that Mariíta would have been a great poet if she hadn’t devoted herself to so many things at once, for she wants to excel as a businesswoman, a defender of women’s rights, a landowner, and a politician. The poem of hers I like best is called “You Are Mad, I Suspect,” I even know it by heart. I love it when Pericles recites it to me in his deep voice:

  Write no more poems, you say? You are mad, I suspect

  as if such a thing were nothing to request.

  I can never please you, try as I will.

  As if you’d asked death to no longer kill.

  As if you’d wished the babe in my womb

  to remain forever as if in a tomb.

  My verse is the offspring of a homicidal pain.

  It’s a beautiful poem, though of course I prefer the ones Pericles has written for me. A little while ago, surrounded by the silence of this somber night, I reread them and felt so wistful . . . The ones he wrote when he was courting me bring back so many memories, but I am more moved by those he wrote during the first year of our marriage. There are many of them, I’ve realized, now that I have gone over each one, written with green ink on marble-colored sheets folded carefully and duly sealed. It’s so vivid to me, how each time he gave me one he would repeat that it was a gift for me alone, nobody else should read it, and they should never be published, each poem is something exclusive, personal, between him and me. This idea is so deeply ingrained in me, I would not even dare to transcribe one into this diary; it would be a betrayal of him.

  I spent all afternoon and part of the night with Mother. We joined the Holy Burial procession for a spell, then returned home. The Club, the Casino, and the Círculo Militar remain closed by order of the general; neither parties nor family gatherings are allowed without prior authorization; a bit more and they’ll forbid the processions. The secret police have been given carte blanche; they are everywhere, listening, spying, even at today’s procession, where they were easily recognizable and it was all people could do not to jeer at them, they were so indiscreet; the ones keeping watch on the house are still there, prowling around. “The man” must be very frightened; we are more so.

  María Elena came to tell me that this has been the saddest Good Friday of her life; I feel the same way. She went to the procession as well, with her cousin Ana, who has to sleep alone at Clemen’s house every night, with the doors locked, trembling with fear, terrified that the police will burst in and rape her. Poor dear. I told María Elena to suggest that she come sleep with her here, but she says that Mila won’t allow the house to be left alone. And I don’t have the strength to take the chance of my daughter-in-law being rude to me.

  Holy Saturday, April 8

  I had a terrible shock this afternoon before leaving for the procession of the Virgin: the colonel showed up at the house without warning. My father-in-law comes to San Salvador under only extraordinary circumstances usually related to his work; at seventy years old, he says traveling aggravates him, puts his nerves on edge. He came to attend a meeting of regional leaders called by the general. He was here for about fifteen minutes, sitting in Pericles’s rocking chair on the porch facing the patio. I was on my guard, watchful, knowing the colonel doesn’t pay courtesy visits; he came solely for the purpose of telling me something. He accepted the glass of tamarind juice I offered him; Nerón came to lie down at his feet. He asked after Pericles; I told him that he is well, that tomorrow I will be able to see him again. He bewailed Clemen’s “stupidity,” that’s what he called it, and said I should pray to God they don’t capture my son; I told him we should all pray for that. He said he would like to be able to do that, but God no longer listens to his prayers. Nerón got up and went out to the patio, suddenly, as if he smelled danger in the air. Then, with no further ado, he came right out with it: the war council will meet, and Clemen will most likely be sentenced to death. I felt as if I had been stabbed in the chest; I was in shock. Then I reacted: I told him my son is a civilian, and war councils are for trying military officers. Not if the charge is treason, he muttered, clearing his throat. I told him what I had heard about the offers of amnesty, the guarantees of mercy. “You, more than anybody, Haydée, know how the general reacts in these situations,” he said categorically. Then I remembered the final days of January 1932, when Pericles would return exhausted from the Presidential Palace, very late at night, and recount his conversations with “the man” regarding the fates of Martí and the other leaders of the communist revolt who would soon be executed. “It’s them or us,” I murmured, my voice shaking, because those were the words the general had used when Pericles asked him if he was going to reconsider the sentence. My father-in-law took a sip of his tamarind drink. I asked him, horrified, if he would participate in the council, if that’s why he had come to the city. He told me he wouldn’t, it wasn’t his duty for he did not belong to that particular organizational structure of the army, nor did the general need to have him undergo a loyalty test of that kind. I asked him if he could do anything to prevent that sentence; he barely even bothered to shake his head. He stood up with some difficulty and said he had to go. As we walked through the living room, I asked him when the council was going to convene; he said he did not know exactly, but soon, very soon, once the holy days were over. I watched him walk to his car, he looked older, with the stiffness of somebody long accustomed to hiding his sorrow. I managed to reach the sofa, where I collapsed, I was a wreck, the tears welling up, forming a lump in my throat. María Elena came to comfort me, she must have guessed what I had just heard.

  Father returned to the city late in the afternoon: he said a group of soldiers had come to the finca on Wednesday looking for Clemen; they interrogated the workers, entered the manor house, searched the entire property, then spent the night in a nearby hamlet, where María Elena’s family lives; the next morning they came back and scoured the entire property with a fine-tooth comb, asking about caves or possible hideouts. They found nothing, but they threatened the peons. Father told me that several acquaintances who participated in the coup have crossed the border into Guatemala, also some of his fellow coffee growers are on the lam, afraid of the Nazi warlock’s rage. I asked him if Clemen has managed to cross the border; he said we would have heard if he had. That’s when I told him about the colonel’s visit and what he told me. He left the house immediately to go see his friends, to tell them of the tribulations that await us.

  At the procession I spent some time talking to Angelita, Jimmy’s mother. She was with Linda and Silvia, her two daughters, both of whom married quite well and are staying with her during this difficult period; she was widowed ten years ago when Dr. Ríos died, and her other son, Salvador, is a seminary student in Rome. I didn’t want to bring up the war council, as it serves no purpose other than to make someone else worried about what is inevitable anyway. But she already knew. For a short stretch we carried a heavy statue of the Virgin, and we said several rosaries during the procession so that our sons would avoid capture. Angelita harbors the hope that the American military will defend Jimmy if he falls into the general’s hands: Jimmy did a course at the Infantry and Cavalry School in Kansas, then he was stationed for another semester at a base in Laredo; the poor boy returned to El Salvador to rejoin the army only nine months ago. I expressed my doubts about the Americans sticking their necks out for an individual. But Angelita whispered in my ear that she is certain that if Jimmy got involved in the coup, it was with the approval of the American military, she knows for a fact that her son met frequently with Mr. Massey, the embassy’s m
ilitary attaché, with whom he enjoys a close friendship. That’s when I noticed a spy circling around closer and closer, not taking his eyes off us; I warned Angelita. We resumed our prayers.

  Betito will spend the weekend with my sister’s family at their house on Lake Coatepeque. I must think carefully about what to say to Pati tomorrow, as I don’t wish to make her more alarmed than she already is; I hope that after my visit with Pericles my spirits will improve, my mind will clear up. Because today I will go to bed as a lost soul, desolate, with a black cloud hovering over my home, my loved ones.

  (9:30 p.m.)

  Father came over a while ago, unexpectedly, to tell me the incredible news about Clemen’s escape. He says that Monday afternoon, after my son left the station, he took refuge at the home of Mr. Gardiner, the American vice-consul. He managed to sneak in through the service door, thanks to his acquaintance with the servant and his friendship with the vice-consul’s wife; my son’s radio drama is very popular, his charm wins people over, though Father said, who knows what Clemen has going with that servant girl. Mr. Gardiner was at a meeting at the embassy and wasn’t aware of Clemen’s presence in the house until he returned that night. He then warned him that he could not offer him political asylum, but at that point he could not very well throw him out on the street, either, where the general’s police would have immediately arrested him. Clemen spent the night at their house. On Tuesday morning, wearing one of Mrs. Gardiner’s wigs and dressed as a housemaid, they took him in a diplomatic car to another hideout. That’s all I know; Father didn’t want to tell me how he found this out, and he warned me not to utter a word of it to anybody, not even to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.

  Easter Sunday, April 9

  It’s eleven at night. Many of us are awake, our hearts in our mouths. The war council was convened tonight, between eight and nine o’clock, in the Black Palace. The general has not respected the holy day; his apostasy is great, and greater still will be his thirst for revenge. It was meant to be held in the greatest of secrecy, but word spread like wildfire. Everybody knows everything in this city. They say that Tonito Rodríguez and Memito Trigueros are acting as defense attorneys; General Luis Andréu is presiding. The whole city is petrified, sunk in a deathly silence. The ten o’clock curfew and martial law are still in effect. My parents wanted me to stay with them, but I preferred to stay at home. I have said several Rosaries with María Elena. There’s nothing more I can do. And answer the telephone, for we, the families of the accused, can at least offer each other comfort.

  I couldn’t get in to see Pericles. By dawn the streets were swarming with National Guard troops and police. The official newspapers and radio stations claimed the government had received information that the communists were planning an insurrection to commemorate the one-week anniversary of the coup; they called on people to remain at home, reminded everyone that today was not a day of processions, and requested that everyone inform the police about any gatherings whatsoever. It’s madness. And there was no way María Elena and I could get to the Central Prison; we couldn’t get past the police barricades. I was in despair. At one particular moment I remembered what my father-in-law had told me, about the imminence of the war council, but in a situation like this, nothing is certain. My greatest fear is that they will send Pericles back to the palace by mistake, because they say some of the coup participants were at the Central Prison for a while; but I quickly remind myself that there can be no confusion about my husband, by now the general must know every single detail of the conspiracy. I remember what happened to Don Jorge and I tremble.

  I know nothing about Clemen’s whereabouts. Father insists that if they haven’t captured him by now, he must have managed to escape. I pray this is so. And I try to tell myself that this horrible experience will at least serve to get my son to settle down once and for all, nobody can stare death in the face and then continue along the same path as if nothing had happened.

  My trepidation is too great; I find it impossible to continue writing.

  (Midnight)

  I’m still awake. My nerves fell like red-hot coals. I know I won’t know anything until daybreak, but I cannot sleep. I am certain Pericles is also awake, knowing that the war council is in session, because in the prison they get news directly from the palace that we sometimes never hear. How I would love to hear your voice, my love, explaining what must be going on at the trial, calming my torments . . .

  Monday, April 10

  They’ve sentenced Clemente to death! And they executed General Marroquín, Colonel Tito Calvo, and eight more officers! The radio repeats the news over and over again. This is a heavy blow. We are all filled with dismay. The executions were carried out at eight this morning: Marroquín and Calvo were put in front of the firing squad on the patio of the palace, and the others were executed in the cemetery. I thank the Lord my son has not been captured! At this very moment I would be mourning him! Accursed warlock. . . As soon as they started reading the list of the condemned over the radio, I knew my son would be on it. And there he was. It’s impossible to describe my anguish at that moment. We were in the living room, María Elena and I, listening to the radio. She began to sob, quietly; I simply threw myself back in the armchair and begged Our Lady with all my heart to please help Clemen flee the country . . . Nobody believed that monster would murder his own people so mercilessly. Not only did he kill Marroquín and Tito, but also their younger brother, Captain Marcelino Calvo. Three sons of the same mother! That poor old woman! That poor family! And here I thought I was the most unfortunate woman because my son is a fugitive and my husband is in jail . . . They also sentenced Jimmy to death, as well as Dr. Romero, Don Agustín Alfaro, and many others who have so far managed to escape, including Dr. Mario Calvo, Marcelino and Tito’s brother. That brute will exact his blood revenge.

  They had only just finished broadcasting the news on the radio when friends and acquaintances began to offer their support. The Alvarados arrived immediately; the phone didn’t stop ringing. The same thing happened at my parents’ house and at my in-laws’. Everybody tells me I should trust in God, Clemen will manage to save himself; some advise me to get Betito out of the country. Father assures me the general will not lash out at a minor who has not done anything; I want to believe him, but at moments I am assailed by doubts. Mother insists we should immediately send Betito to Guatemala City, to my Aunt Lola, who has been living there for many years; she says the border is so close to Santa Ana, and my brother-in-law Armando could drive him. Pati also is begging me to get her brother out immediately, either to Guatemala or San José. Only my mother-in-law reassures me, telling me that nothing will happen to Betito, if I am worried I should send him to their house in Cojutepeque, the colonel will guarantee his grandson’s innocence. I spoke with Betito this afternoon: he said he doesn’t want to leave the country, he doesn’t want to leave me alone under these circumstances, tomorrow he is coming home, my sister and Armando will bring him from Santa Ana.

  It seems Mila has completely taken leave of her senses; Ana told María Elena she has been drinking like a fish for several days. I called to ask her to bring my grandchildren here, but I couldn’t reach her; Ana told me they are staying at her parents’ most of the time. But the worst part isn’t that Mila finds solace in drink during such a catastrophe; much more serious is what María Elena told me with shame and sorrow, because she is afraid I will think she is a gossip, but it was with the best of intentions, to spare me from a bigger shock later: she said that Ana told her that the señora talks on the telephone to a colonel by the name of Castillo and frequently goes out with him, and that she speaks disparagingly of Clemen in front of him, and on one occasion she told him on the phone that she believed her husband, “the coward,” was hiding at Father’s finca. I want to find excuses for my daughter-in-law, I want to tell myself she simply isn’t prepared to deal with a situation as extreme as the one we are now facing, but what María Elena has told me tonight defies any justification. Mila is a scoun
drel, a traitor. My hand is shaking as I write this. Pericles said as much a long time ago, when Clemen first started seeing her, he said the girl was “shifty” and not to be trusted; Pati also never took to her. I’ve always been the one to remind them not to be so judgmental, to accept people as they are. I’ll make an effort not to think about her until Clemen is safe and sound, I don’t want to be devoured by bitterness.

  Mother says that Clemen’s jocular, disrespectful, wild character has been his downfall; he never should have ridiculed the general on the radio, much less insulted him — mocking his personal defects, repeating jokes about him that are told on the street, even making fun of Doña Concha. That’s why many other professionals and radio announcers who spoke on the radio in support of the uprising have not been sentenced to death, only Clemen — he even joyfully broadcast the news of the general’s supposed demise. According to Father, it is the curse of Uncle Lalo.

  In this city, we are breathing anger, mourning, and fear. Father managed to speak to Memito Trigueros, a member of the condemned men’s legal defense team, who told him it was a summary trial: each lawyer had only ten minutes to argue his case, sentences were dictated at two in the morning, and by five the general had rejected requests for an appeal. Memito confirmed that the war council has not been adjourned, that they will meet again tonight to pass judgment on the rest of the coup participants, for the list is long and includes many who are in custody and others who are still at large.