“Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .”
The soldiers continue on to the next rows; they order one passenger to stand up and step into the aisle; one of the soldiers immediately pats him down.
“Our Father who art in heaven . . .” Jimmy repeats.
The man has turned white; because of the swaying of the car he can barely keep his balance while he holds his arms out and the soldier searches him.
“ . . . hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . .”
The soldier ties his thumbs together behind him and shoves him forward.
“But I haven’t done anything,” the man cries out, terrified, on the verge of tears, and barely able to walk.
The guard gives him another shove.
“Father, help me,” he begs as he almost falls on top of the woman.
“Careful, Doña Ana María,” Clemen exclaims, rising to protect her.
“May you go with God,” Jimmy says to the man with kindness, his right hand tracing the sign of the cross in the air. “And confess your sins . . .”
The man almost falls on his face with the next shove.
“Saint Michael the Archangel . . . ,” Jimmy prays.
“Protect us,” Ana María and Clemen respond in unison.
The soldiers follow the man out of the car.
“Saint Raphael the Archangel . . . ,” Jimmy prays
“Accompany us always, O Lord, protect us from all dangers of body and soul,” they respond.
“Amen,” all three say. They cross themselves.
The whistle blows.
“What might that poor man have done?” she wonders, still upset.
Jimmy lifts his eyebrows and turns his gaze out the window.
“He’s probably a pickpocket who managed to escape, because they immediately recognized him,” Clemen says in his normal voice, forgetting his role for a moment.
“Brother, do not judge others, our Lord is the only judge,” Jimmy warns him sharply, without even turning to look at him.
Clemen quickly makes himself look like an idiot again.
The woman watches him with curiosity; he looks back at her and grins foolishly.
“We are approaching your city, Doña Ana María,” Jimmy says. “I can already see the first houses.”
She turns to look out the window.
“You’re right, Father,” she says.
Clemen has opened his Bible; he’s mumbling as if he were reading, but he has placed the book on his lap in such a way that he can see the woman’s knees without her realizing it.
“Excuse me, Father,” she says timidly, “what is your name?”
“Justo, my child,” Jimmy answers, and looks at her with benevolent eyes; she lowers hers.
“I’m so lucky to have met you, Father Justo,” she says. “After the fright I had in the capital because of the coup, I don’t know how I would have felt if you hadn’t been here when they took that man away.”
“We must have faith and trust absolutely in our Lord Jesus Christ,” Jimmy says solemnly.
She nods and crosses herself. Then she picks up one of the suitcases from the seat next to her and tries to move it into the aisle, but Clemen quickly stands up and takes it from her.
“I’ll help you,” he says solicitously.
He picks up both suitcases and carries them into the aisle.
“You dropped your Bible,” she says, and bends over to pick it up; she places it on Clemen’s seat.
The train is slowing down.
“I’ll go with you to the platform,” Clemen says, still grinning like an idiot.
Jimmy watches him carefully, then turns to her and says, “Please, my child, make sure this young man gets back on the train. He is very absent-minded, and I wouldn’t want to lose him.”
“Don’t worry, Father,” she responds, smiling and getting ready to stand up, “I won’t budge from the platform until Don Tino has boarded the train again. Right, Don Tino?”
He nods, moving his head quickly up and down.
“Thank you, and may God be with you, my child,” Jimmy says.
Clemen walks toward the stairs in front of her. Jimmy throws him another wary look. Then he nods to the other passengers who are walking toward the exit, an aloof and formal goodbye.
2
“Holy shit, we’ve been sentenced to death!” Clemen repeats, still in shock and forgetting that he is playing the part of a sacristan, now that they are riding alone in a compartment where the conductor brought them.
“What did you expect?” says Jimmy, very worried. “I warned you, that bastard won’t forgive anybody. Even Don Agustín is on the list.”
They speak under their breath, guardedly; Clemen has placed his knapsack and his Bible on the seats facing them to discourage other passengers from joining them.
“If they capture us, they’ll execute us immediately,” Clemen mumbled, swallowing hard.
Two women are walking down the aisle; they look into the compartment: they see the priest and the sacristan, then the knapsack and the Bible on the other seats.
“Forgive us, Father,” one of them says, then they continue on their way.
“I shouldn’t have left my gun at Father Dionisio’s house,” Jimmy says with regret.
“It wouldn’t do us any good . . .”
“Sure it would. I’m not going to let them take me prisoner.”
The train is picking up speed.
“Hopefully those soldiers won’t show up again,” Clemen says.
“Remember the story we’re going to tell them if they ask for our documents, don’t let your nerves get the better of you . . . No, better if you let me do the talking, as we agreed.”
“You really screwed Major Sosa: it’s completely your fault he was executed,” Clemen says, distraught.
Jimmy looks out the window at the dry hills and the bottom of the Jiboa Valley. Then he says drily:
“It wasn’t my fault. He was a moron for letting himself get caught. I told him he was done for, even though he didn’t support us, I told him we used his name in the communiqué calling for the uprising. But he didn’t believe me.”
The train starts descending along the side of the valley.
“Really, you warned him?”
“Uh-huh,” Jimmy says and shifts in his seat. “What hurts most is that they executed Second Lieutenant Max Calvo . . .”
“He was under your command at the airport?”
They can see the Jiboa River through the window, and further on, the wide Lempa.
Jimmy nods vaguely, lost in his thoughts.
“Goddamn warlock: he killed all three brothers,” Clemen says.
“Alfonso and Tito paid for their cowardice,” Jimmy mutters, “but Max could have saved himself if he’d come with us . . .”
A man, obviously drunk, appears at the door to their compartment; he sways back and forth, it looks like the movement of the train is going to throw him flat on his back.
“Good day, Father. May I sit with you for a while?” he asks, his voice slurred.
Clemen looks at Jimmy.
“You mustn’t disturb us, we are about to begin our prayers.”
“Just a little while, Father. All this swaying has made me dizzy . . .”
“Your dizziness smells a lot like alcohol . . . ,” Jimmy replies, and he gestures to Clemen to pick up his Bible.
The drunk falls into the seat facing Clemen; he’s a short, squalid-looking man wearing filthy clothes, as if he’d been sleeping on the streets, with no socks and scuffed shoes.
“Forgive me, Father,” he mumbles, after letting out a loud belch. He looks at Clemen, his eyes unsteady, and says, “What an ugly sacristan you’ve found yourself . . .”
Jimmy smiles; Clemen is again grinning like an imbecile.
“Don’t be misled by appearances, my child, for beauty resides in the soul.”
Clemen turns to Jimmy
, looking even more docile.
“This guy looks like a retard,” the drunk man says, disdainfully, without taking his eyes off Clemen; then he turns to Jimmy.
“Forgive me, Father.”
“My knapsack . . . ,” Clemen says, getting up to grab it and taking the opportunity to stamp on the drunk’s foot.
He lets out a groan. “What’s the matter with this retard!” he exclaims, and gives him a shove.
Without warning, Clemen punches him hard in the stomach. The drunk keels over, his mouth gaping open.
“Brother!” Jimmy shouts.
“He’s going to throw up!” Clemen says, retreating into the aisle.
At that very moment, the two soldiers appear behind Clemen, who doesn’t notice them.
“Officers, please!” Jimmy cries out, and points to the drunk with a look of disgust.
Clemen turns to look at the soldiers; the blood drains from his face, as if he were in shock. They request permission to enter and remove the drunk, who is clutching his stomach and trying to catch his breath with his mouth hanging open.
“You got away from us, Hoot . . . ,” says the taller, darker soldier with wiry hair.
“Forgive us, Father, but this bum always sneaks on in San Vicente and proceeds to harass decent people,” says the other one, chubby with fair skin and a gold tooth.
The soldiers pick him up and take him out. Clemen moves aside; again his face has assumed a meek expression.
“That retard hit me . . . ,” the drunk mutters, still breathing with difficulty.
“We’re going to hit you harder,” the darker-skinned soldier says, shoving him down the corridor.
Clemen returns to his seat: he takes a deep breath, picks up the Bible, and opens it at random. He sits there reading, and perspiring. Jimmy looks at him out of the corner of his eye.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asks in an undertone.
“That piece of shit pushed me over the edge . . . I’m too tense.”
“Take it easy. Our lives are at stake. We were lucky those soldiers didn’t see you. If they’d come a few seconds earlier . . .”
“I hope they don’t believe anything he says . . . ,” Clemen says, looking scared.
The whistle blows three times. The train slows as it descends into the valley.
Clemen swats at a fly buzzing in front of his face.
“Hoot . . . what a name . . . ,” Jimmy says. “He didn’t look like an owl, did he?”
“Nope.”
“Are you still angry?” Jimmy asks, mockingly.
“God damn piece of shit . . . He even brought flies in here.”
Jimmy looks off into the distance; then, with a touch of apprehension, he says:
“I hope one of the Whites is at the hacienda.”
“Yeah . . . but it’s okay even if they’re not. If we make it there, we’ll be safe. We’ll get on a plane . . .”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Lindbergh. You’ll fly it, then?”
“There’s always a pilot and a plane at the hacienda. I know that for a fact. Either Pepe Dárdano or Moris Pérez can fly us out.”
“Let’s pray,” Jimmy says.
Clemen turns to him in surprise, then says sarcastically:
“You’ve even tricked yourself into believing you’re a priest . . .”
The clattering increases as the train brakes through the descent.
“It feels weird — no mustache after so many years,” Jimmy mumbles, rubbing his upper lip.
Suddenly, one of the soldiers appears in the doorway; it’s the chubby one with the gold tooth. Clemen is caught off guard, but quickly makes himself look like an idiot again.
“Forgive me, Father, but I’d like to speak with you for a moment,” the soldier says, removing his helmet to show his respect.
“Would you like to confess, my son?”
The car sways around the curve.
“Not exactly, Father. I just want to ask you a question . . .”
“Come in, my son,” Jimmy says, and invites him to sit down on the seat in front of him. “But leave your weapon out there, you can’t be armed when you speak to God.”
The soldier tries to lean his rifle between the seat and the wall of the compartment, but the movement of the train makes this impossible. So he sits down and lays the rifle across his legs and the seat next to him, along with the helmet.
Jimmy points to the weapon and says:
“Not like that, my son. I repeat: you cannot be armed if you wish to speak with a representative of our Lord.”
The soldier looks confused, it seems he had a difficult time deciding to approach the priest, and now he doesn’t know what to do with his rifle.
“Don Tino,” Jimmy orders, “take this good man’s gun and hold onto it out there in the corridor. And keep still, I don’t want you to hurt yourself with it.”
The soldier seems relieved. Clemen goes out to the corridor, sits on the floor with his knees up, and holds the barrel of the rifle, resting the butt on the floor.
“Pray speak, son,” Jimmy says.
“Nobody’s listening?” asks the soldier, turning to look at Clemen, then leaning over in the seat to get closer to Jimmy.
“No, my son, not with this racket,” Jimmy answers, also leaning toward the soldier. “Don’t worry . . .”
The soldier scratches his head nervously, his eyes glued on the floor.
“What is your name, my son?”
“Eulalio . . .”
Then he stops; he takes a deep breath, as if trying to muster his courage.
“Why don’t you confess, my son? It’s easier . . .”
“I can’t, Father,” he says, then turns and looks where Clemen is sitting.
“Why can’t you? Of course, you can. I am here. And the Lord always listens to the faithful.”
“It’s just that it’s not something that’s happening to me,” he says, stammering, “but to my brother.”
Jimmy looks at him with a stern expression; he doesn’t speak.
“That’s why I can’t confess . . . ,” he says.
“You’re not hiding behind your brother, are you, son? That would be a very serious sin.”
“No, Father,” he answers, his eyes still staring at the ground.
“Look at me, son . . .”
The soldier lifts his head; he looks Jimmy in the eyes for a few seconds, then turns to look out the window, uncomfortable.
At that moment Clemen jumps up, frightened. They both turn to look: the other soldier rushes into the compartment.
“Hoot’s gotten away,” the dark-skinned guard exclaims in alarm.
“I have to go, Father,” Eulalio says, getting up.
“Come back afterward, son, so we can finish . . . ,” Jimmy tells him.
“Where are you going?”
“Usulután, but first we’re stopping off at La Carrera Hacienda . . .”
“I’ll be back if I have time,” he says, his helmet already on, as he grabs the rifle Clemen holds out to him.
Jimmy takes a medal with a picture of the Virgin out of the pocket of his cassock; he holds it out to Eulalio and says:
“Pray to the Virgin, she will guide you . . .”
“Thank you, Father,” he says and rushes out after his partner, down the corridor.
Clemen remains standing until he makes sure the soldiers have left; then he comes and sits down in his seat.
“What did that jerk want?” he asks anxiously.
“The secrecy of confession is sacred, Brother,” Jimmy says.
“Don’t fuck with me. Tell me,” he insists, raising his voice, “I was shitting myself out there . . .”
Jimmy energetically motions to him to keep his voice down; Clemen turns to look at the door of the compartment: nobody’s there.
“To confess,” Jimmy says. “But he didn’t have the courage . . . or the time.”
“I can’t believe it,” Clemen says.
“Soldiers also confess.”
/>
“It’s not that.”
“So, what is it?”
“Forget it. How much longer?”
The train has descended into the valley. The engine whistles, then takes off full steam ahead.
Jimmy takes out his pocket watch.
“We’ll reach San Marcos Lempa in about half an hour,” he says. “It’s another half hour from there to the hacienda.”
The warm wind of the valley swirls through the compartment.
3
“Very impressive!” Mono Harris exclaims with admiration. “I actually didn’t recognize you.”
They are in a large luxuriously furnished living room, sitting in armchairs around a table where there’s a bottle of whiskey, a pitcher of water, and an ice bucket; through a large picture window can be seen other buildings — sheds, processing plants, sleeping quarters — and a parking lot, and cotton fields that stretch to the horizon. This is the manor house of the hacienda.
“Well-planned, wouldn’t you say?” Clemen brags, gulping down the whiskey left in his glass.
“Very well-planned,” says Mono Harris. “Nobody would have recognized you.”
“Ah . . . this tastes so good,” Clemen says, licking his lips, and lunging at the table to pour himself more.
“Where were you all this time?” Mono Harris asks, still in astonishment. He has pale skin, graying sideburns, a bulbous nose, and green eyes; he’s wearing blue mechanic’s overalls.
“Near Cojutepeque,” Clemen says, “locked up in an attic.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“Yup,” Clemen exclaims, settling back comfortably in his big chair, his glass on his lap. “Six days stuck there.”
“Why didn’t you come sooner?”
A tractor rumbles into the parking lot.
“It was better to wait till Holy Week was over,” Jimmy explains, “so it would seem more natural that we were traveling. And we were hoping to get false papers, but there was no way . . .”
“Anyway, we had to give this one a tonsure and train him to become a priest,” Clemen explains mockingly. “What’s fucked up is that he can’t stop playing the part, and he keeps saying Mass . . .”
“I’m a much better actor than you are, you can’t deny it. . . ,” says Jimmy, rubbing his upper lip where he used to have a mustache.
“You’re excellent,” Mono Harris interjects. “Until you told me who you were, I didn’t recognize you.”
Tyrant Memory Page 11