Tyrant Memory

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  Riding in the car, crossing the city on our way to the San José district, where she lives, Merceditas told me she was twenty-three years old, the mother of two children, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if they execute her husband. Her mother-in-law has taken to her bed and hasn’t eaten a bite of food since Monday, Antonio’s execution has destroyed her. Merceditas says she still has hope her husband will be pardoned because of pressure from the Americans, for he received the highest possible marks in the training course he attended in the United States, where several military leaders had taken a real liking to him; she explained that the Gavidia brothers had been persuaded to participate in the coup by Captain Manuel Sánchez Dueñas, whom they executed along with Antonio. I realized Merceditas knows a lot about the coup, details only people in the military could know; I also discovered she is a young lady of very strong character (for a moment she reminded me of Pati), determined to do everything in her power to stop them from executing her husband and her brother-in-law, and if she seemed so withdrawn during the meeting it was because her grief is so devastating. Merceditas told me that this Captain Sánchez Dueñas, whom I’d never heard of, was the real organizer of the military coup: he was the top student in his graduating class and had been demoted for insubordination two years ago, and then there had been an order for his arrest, which forced him into exile; but he had returned clandestinely last Christmas to organize the conspiracy. My surprise was great when Merceditas said that this Sánchez Dueñas had been hiding out at an estate north of the city, where he’d been joined by other captains from his class, including, of course, her husband, Captain Gavidia, and that the estate is known as “La Layco,” and is owned by Mariíta Loucel . . . I didn’t have a chance to respond because at that moment we arrived at Merceditas’s house, but after saying goodbye to her, and while Don Leo was driving me home I kept thinking, with astonishment, that maybe Mariíta was the one who had organized the coup, and not the late Captain Sánchez Dueñas. Don Leo brought me back to the here and now when he said that a car with plainclothes policemen, according to him, had been following us at a prudent distance the whole way from Doña Chayito’s to Merceditas’s house.

  Friday April 14

  Doña Chayito dropped by at ten this morning; she was carrying a copy of the communiqué hidden under her slip. She reminded me that I needed to make as many copies as possible to distribute among my acquaintances, it was the only way to spread the word about us, and the printing presses are all controlled by the general’s spies. I told her I had tried to speak with Colonel Palma to find out if they were allowing visits on Saturdays, but he still wasn’t taking my calls; we agreed to meet tomorrow in front of the Central Prison. Doña Chayito stayed only a very short time. I suggested she be very careful, my house as well as hers was under surveillance. I immediately got down to work: I sat down in front of Pericles’s typewriter and churned out a dozen copies. At noon I went to my parents’ house. I asked Don Leo to come pick me up and take me there; I was carrying four copies folded up in an envelope, stuffed into my stockings on the inside of my right thigh. I told Father what I’d been up to; I listed who the copies are for: one for the business attaché at the British embassy, one for the board of directors of the coffee-growers association, another for him to take to Santa Ana, and another for him to keep; I asked him to make as many more copies as he could to distribute among his friends and acquaintances, especially in the diplomatic corps. He asked me if we’d already sent one to the American Embassy. I told him not yet, but I would find a way to personally give one to Mr. Gardiner, the vice-counsel, considering his friendship with Clemen. Father said he was impressed by my initiative; he said that the decision to sentence Don Agustín Alfaro, Dr. Guillermo Pérez, the director of Banco Hipotecario, and so many other respectable people to death has convinced everyone that we must overcome our fear and find some way to get rid of that criminal warlock. He then promised to send a copy to the American Embassy through his own contacts. He warned me to act with the utmost discretion.

  By the afternoon, I’d made a decision: I wouldn’t go to the embassy but rather to Mr. Gardiner’s house, where Clemen spent the night after the coup, the last place he was seen; that way I wouldn’t compromise Pericles, who doesn’t like the gringos at all (and they don’t think highly of him, either). I called Doña Tracy, Mr. Gardiner’s wife; she knows me from certain social events and also thanks to my family, though we have never been particular friends. I asked her if she might have a moment to spare for me this afternoon, I wished to converse with her in person. Surely she thought this had to do with news about Clemen, for she responded very politely: she said she was at my disposal. I left right away for her house. I had the impression that the servant who opened the door for me, a brunette girl with delicate features, had been eagerly waiting for me: she led me into a living room, where Doña Tracy was talking on the telephone, and offered me a glass of myrtle juice. The vice-counsel’s wife is an outgoing young woman, platinum blonde, who once dreamed of being an actress and likes to socialize with young Salvadoran artists. After our greeting, she asked me if I spoke English, for she prefers to converse in that language; I told her I am quite out of practice, even though I studied it as a teenager. Then I told her the purpose of my visit; she told me she would gladly give a copy of the communiqué to Mr. Gardiner, and she would personally make more copies to distribute among her women friends in the diplomatic corps because it is unacceptable for that “evil man” to remain in power, ruining the country and assassinating its best men. I was surprised by her vehemence. Then, without further ado, she asked me if I had any news about Clemen. I was prepared to broach the subject only if she brought it up, because one never knows what secrets or complications there are in such a situation. I told her the truth: that I know nothing about my son’s situation, and I pray he has managed to leave the country and find a safe haven. Then she asked me, with a mischievous look on her face, if I had heard that Clemen had hidden in that house after the coup failed; I answered that I had heard something to that effect, but that I understood one mustn’t inquire, one must be discreet about such delicate matters. She recounted the long night they’d spent, she and Mr. Gardiner, conversing with Clemen about the ins and outs of the coup; she went into great detail about how they snuck him out disguised as a domestic servant; she made affectionate reference to his wonderful sense of humor and his thespian talents. At that point the servant girl, whom she called Indalecia, entered; she served us more myrtle juice. It was because of Indalecia’s friendship with Clemen, Doña Tracy said once she’d left the room, that he’d had no trouble getting into the Gardiners’ house. On the way home I felt lighthearted, happy, content, not only because I had carried out my duty effectively but also because those affectionate words regarding my son soothed my spirit, so wounded by Mila’s infamy.

  I invited Carmela and Chelón and Mingo and Irmita to dinner. I told them to come early, at six, so we would have more time, because the curfew begins at ten. María Elena and I made the ripe plantain empanadas filled with refried beans that Chelón is so partial to; also chipilín tamales and pupusas stuffed with cheese flavored with loroco flowers. I suppose I longed for some conviviality in the midst of so much misfortune, needed to feel my husband through his closest friends, even if he couldn’t be present. Pericles has always said that Mingo is an excellent poet pretending to be a journalist, and Chelón a great painter pretending to be a poet. We dined to the tune of political gossip, nobody talks about anything else in this city; we also laughed at Serafín’s expense, the poor man still hiding out at the Guatemalan embassy. Carmela brought some delicious cashew-apple butter for dessert. After dinner, Mingo told a story that made all our jaws drop: Major Faustino Sosa, the air force squadron commander who was executed by a firing squad on Monday on the patio of the Black Palace along with General Marroquín and Colonel Calvo, was, in fact, innocent, had absolutely nothing to do with the coup; the rebel officers who took over the airport under the command
of Jimmy, Angelita’s son, had even locked Sosa up in a barracks because he refused to support them and was critical of their disloyalty to the general. So why did they execute him? we asked. Nobody knows whose idea it was to include his name among the rebel leaders that were listed on the circular they sent to the regional commanders to demand their support, Mingo explained, and the poor man remained locked up, never suspecting that he was implicated in a rebellion he opposed yet would nevertheless cost him his life. Once the coup had already failed, Mingo continued, and the cavalry troops Jimmy commanded were being forced to retreat from the airport by the contingents loyal to the general, Major Sosa was freed, but nobody knows if he was warned that they had used his name in the communiqué; in any case, the innocent man went happily to meet the government troops, not knowing that they would immediately place him under arrest. Carmela said she simply couldn’t understand: if Sosa hadn’t participated, and if everybody knew he hadn’t participated and that the rebels had used his name without his consent, why was he executed? Mingo shrugged his shoulders: he said it seems the general wanted to make him pay for the betrayal of the pilots who had flown into exile, taking all the planes with them, and leaving the general without an air force.

  Not a single meal with Mingo and Chelón can end without them getting embroiled in a discussion about the occult, while we wives, who are Catholic, barely pay attention and carry on with our own concerns, especially because they make sour faces if we offer our opinions on the subject. Pericles greatly enjoys playing the role of devil’s advocate and provoking them. Mingo knows a lot about theosophy and is now an implacable critic of it, whereas Chelón declares himself an agnostic, affirming that all theories regarding the spirit are pointless, and the only thing that matters is one’s own personal experience. Last night, fortunately, they didn’t get into thorny subjects, discussing instead the general’s malevolence: how can a man who pledges to respect all things spiritual be such a cruel and perverse murderer? I maintained what I always do: there must be some hell where this man will pay for all the evil he has done us.

  Before they left, while I was serving cognac to the men and cherry liquor to the women, I told them about my adventures with the Committee of the Families of Political Prisoners and showed them the communiqué. They looked at me in astonishment, almost admiration, I would say. I suggested they take a copy, especially Mingo, who is in contact with foreign journalists, whose presence in the country we should take advantage of because the newspapers that oppose the general are still closed. He told me it was very dangerous for him to walk around with compromising papers at that hour of the night, and said he’d come by tomorrow to pick it up; Chelón folded a copy and gave me a wink as he stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Both made me promise to let them know when visits to the Central Prison were allowed, so they could go talk to “the old man,” as they like to call Pericles.

  Betito called to report that he was at the home of his friend and classmate, Flaco Pérez, and would spend the night there to avoid being in the streets after curfew; I asked him to come home early tomorrow to accompany me to the Central Prison to visit his father. María Elena warned me that “little Betito”— as she sometimes calls him in spite of how much this bothers him — and his friends are organizing protests in the high schools, she said she was telling me not to gossip but because she thinks it better for me to know; she also again brought up the subject of my visit to the Gardiners’ house, which I had told her about while we were making dinner, and it had greatly amused her to hear how they had dressed Clemen up as a housemaid, but now she wanted to know more details about Indalecia’s uniform and what she looked like.

  Before coming to bed to jot down these words, I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time: I think new wrinkles have appeared around my eyes, I look pale and disheveled. How much have I changed in these nine days I haven’t seen Pericles? And how might he be after such a long confinement? I hope with all my heart we can see each other tomorrow.

  Saturday April 15

  I couldn’t visit Pericles. No visits are allowed. We were a motley crowd in front of the prison at eight o’clock this morning: families of both political prisoners and common criminals. Many from the lower classes. I didn’t realize that visits to common criminals have also been suspended since the coup. Fortunately, Betito was with me; crowds frighten me. People were indignant, the atmosphere was tense, they were taunting the guards, demanding they open the doors once and for all. I had difficulty finding Doña Chayito and Doña Julita; they were both there with their husbands. We stood talking next to a cart selling oranges and mangos. The insults being hurled at the guards became sharper and sharper. Doña Consuelo arrived with her children, a look of disgust on her face; she complained about the rabble. I feared that at any moment there would be an altercation. Then two squads of National Guard troops arrived to protect the entryway: silence fell over the crowd like a thick cloud of fear. But a minute later the taunting and cries of protest resumed. I heard one woman, her voice hoarse and defiant, shout: “The warlock wants to execute our sons.” It was like detonating a bomb. It incited the crowd, they began to chant louder and louder and more and more defiantly: “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” At first I was afraid, but when I turned to look at Betito and the women, I saw they were also shouting and shaking their fists. I joined in. And as I shouted with increasing fervor, I felt a mixture of anger and joy, as if finally I could express the bitterness that had been eating away at me ever since Pericles was arrested. Then the guards pointed their rifles at us: in a moment of panic I looked around for Betito and saw that he was still chanting, and just like the others, not backing down. Fortunately, at that moment, a military officer and several functionaries of the prison came out the gate: they ordered the families of the common criminals to get into one line with their documents in hand, visits would begin in fifteen minutes. There was a great uproar, shouts of joy, pushing and jostling for a place in line. That’s when Doña Chayito shouted to the officer, asking where the families of the political prisoners should form their line. The officer responded rudely that no visits would be allowed to the political prisoners today, perhaps tomorrow. “Scoundrels!” the shout burst from my lips, and even now, I don’t understand how. The families of the common criminals jeered at the officer, whistled and called out insults, and they shouted from where they were standing in line, “Murderers! . . .” Some offered to relay messages and carry in what we had brought, they said they would give them to their own family members who would pass them on to ours. Pericles had told me that the political prisoners were in a special section and had no contact with the common criminals. In any case, there was no harm in trying, so I gave my bag of provisions to a stout woman wearing an apron, obviously a vendor in the market, who said I had no reason to worry, her husband was an honorable man and would give the bag to “Don Pericles,” as if she already knew him, and she said that she and her friends prayed every day that the warlock’s henchmen wouldn’t capture Clemen or any of the other “heroes.” I was astonished, but just at that moment the line started moving, and pandemonium broke out. We withdrew to the sidewalk across the street; there were about fifty of us, the families of political prisoners. Doña Chayito said we must do something, but the officer returned to order us to disperse, we could no longer remain there. I had a sudden attack of weakness, a lightning-fast switch from outrage to despondency; I clung to Betito, who was still mumbling angry insults. Before we had all dispersed, Doña Chayito and Doña Consuelo passed out copies of the communiqué; we agreed to meet tomorrow at the same place at the same time. Doña Chayito walked with me a short ways: I told her I had gotten the communiqué to the embassy; she told me there would be a meeting that afternoon at four o’clock at Doña Consuelo’s house, and she gave me a piece of paper with the address.