How strange this sensation of being an experienced veteran in the face of my neighbors’ anguish and grief; I know it is sinful to feel superior, but I can’t help it. Even stranger is this hint of pleasure at others’ pain that puts us all in the same boat, a dreadful emotion I should never allow in my heart.
Thanks to my nap in the afternoon, the discomfort of my period has lessened and I can sit and write in this diary. I was missing Pericles so much a short while ago, I opened his wardrobe to make sure Betito had put his black tie back in its place: there it was, hung up perfectly. A few moments later I found myself touching and smelling his suits, his guayaberas, his underwear. My poor husband must be in a sorry state indeed.
(11:30 at night)
I haven’t been able to sleep. I got into bed and soon found myself in the grips of great uneasiness, a horrible foreboding, as if something very terrible were happening to Clemen. I am riddled with fear so intense I had no choice but to get up and start writing. God willing, I am wrong, and my Clemen is not suffering; God willing this is merely a panic attack, the fruit of my imagination. I will find solace in praying for my son.
Thursday April 20
We human beings are bound together with invisible ropes. It was one in the afternoon when Mila phoned; I feared the worst, that my forebodings had come to pass and news of Clemen’s demise would reach me from the mouth of this treacherous woman. But no, she called to tell me — again, excited and tipsy, according to what I deduced from her tone of voice — that she hasn’t a penny to feed the children, they eat thanks to help from her parents, all because of Clemen’s irresponsibility, she has no idea how she will pay the rent on the house at the beginning of next month, most likely she will move out and go to live with her parents, because the general will never pardon Clemen and if he’s caught he’s a dead man. She said all this with such malice, as if she really didn’t care, or even that deep down this is what she is hoping for. I was outraged, but all I said was that she could bring my grandchildren to the house any time she wanted, that unfortunately I have no money to give her because I am in the same situation now that Pericles is in prison, I survive thanks to help from my parents, but these are the circumstances I have been called upon to live and it is no reason to dismantle my home. Then she exclaimed that my case was different, because Pericles might be set free at any moment, but in her case it was like waiting for a dead man, she was not willing to ruin her chances for the future for something so senseless and that’s why she has decided to make a new life for herself, because even if Clemen manages to leave the country, she would never consider going to live abroad. “As if the general were eternal,” I muttered without thinking, quietly, almost as if I were talking to myself. Mila got quiet for a few seconds. At that moment I felt like asking her what her Colonel Castillo had proposed to make her be in such a hurry to get out of her marriage to Clemen, but all I said was that I hoped her decisions were the result of reasoned reflection and not momentary upset, and I hung up. Chelón says the best method for calming the spirit is to try to put oneself in the place of the person who has upset us, attempt to mentally project oneself into the other person and understand his or her attitudes, but I must confess that this is impossible with my daughter-in-law — the more I think about her cowardice and treachery the more furious I become.
I recounted to María Elena my conversation with Mila, just to let off some steam, unburden myself of those injurious feelings. María Elena said that the best thing for me would be to accept that Clemen’s marriage is over, perhaps then it would be easier for me to deal with my relationship with “Señora Mila,” with ironic emphasis on the “señora,” as she said it. I asked her if she knew something I didn’t know, something she had recently heard from Ana. She answered that the love birds see each other every day at noon, the hour of day most convenient for Colonel Castillo, and that Mila returns full of sighs and with her eyes all glassy after each encounter. I asked her not to tell me more, because my blood was beginning to boil again; María Elena speaks about all this with a certain contained delight, as if her words concentrated the scorn of everybody who had always insisted that marrying Mila was my son’s worst misstep. But now that I am alone and thinking about it, now that I see so clearly how irreparable that marriage is, I tell myself that María Elena is right, I must find a way to let Mila know I am aware of her relationship with Colonel Castillo, because what infuriates me is that she thinks I am some kind of idiot, and for the future of my grandchildren it is in my interest to force her to lay her cards on the table. The only thing I pray for is that Clemen not find out about this vile treachery until he is safe and sound outside the country, my son is already suffering enough trying to save his own life on the lam, he doesn’t need to carry the additional burden of knowing that his wife is betraying him with the very man who is hunting him down so ferociously.
Exactly what I feared has happened to Chente: neither Raúl nor Rosita nor the appointed lawyers from the university were allowed to meet with him at the Black Palace. The same thing happened to the families of the other five students who were arrested. Raúl says Colonel Monterrosa informed them that orders came from the top to keep the young isolated for a certain period of time in order, that cynical man said, for them to reflect on their bad behavior, but he also guaranteed them that they were fine and would not be mistreated. Rosita is inconsolable. I stayed with her for a while this afternoon, to keep her company, share with her some of the difficulties I have faced every time my husband has been imprisoned; at a certain moment she said she now understands the burden I bear, she thinks it is admirable how I have been able to live through such situations. I answered her with a sentence Pericles often said: “Man is a creature of habit; woman is, too.” And I realized I wasn’t able to understand Rosita’s suffering when she lost her daughter; although Clemen has been sentenced to be executed by firing squad and death is relentlessly pursuing him, my heart refuses to imagine the pain his loss would cause me.
Toward evening my mother and sister and I went to the Polyclinic; I accompanied them to visit Dr. Ávila’s mother, and then they came with me to Don Jorge’s room, where we stood outside for a long time chatting with Teresita. I sensed a different atmosphere in the hospital among the doctors and nurses; I don’t know how to describe it: they seemed to move with a different level of intensity, a certain urgency and commitment. I suppose the capture of Dr. Romero, and the efforts to prevent his execution, as well as the general’s attacks on the association, have endowed them with the strength of solidarity, and a new kind of zeal.
Fugitives (III)
1. THE AFTERNOON
Jimmy and Clemen, lying in hammocks side-by-side, are snoring through an after-lunch, after-whiskey, and after-conversation siesta. Suddenly, Sóter, the dog, jumps out of the lounge chair where he’s been dozing and runs off barking.
“Someone’s coming,” Jimmy says, stretching.
Clemen is in a lethargic stupor.
The blades of the ceiling fan squeal overhead.
Jimmy stands up: he looks through the large picture window into the sea’s shimmering glare; he can see some men jumping off a boat at the small dock.
“It’s Mono Harris,” Jimmy says. “He’s come with somebody.”
He goes out onto the terrace.
Clemen babbles something incomprehensible, his mouth full of saliva; he shifts around in his hammock.
With quick energetic steps, Mono Harris walks toward them along the gravel path through the sand under the almond trees. Sóter trots by his side, wagging his tail. The other man walks behind them, as if hiding under his straw hat.
“Get up, Clemen,” Jimmy shouts to him from the terrace. “Something’s going on.”
Clemen opens his eyes; he tries to rouse himself.
“Hey there,” Mono Harris says to Jimmy as he holds out his hand. “This is Adrián,” he adds, pointing to the man with the hat then asking him to wait on the terrace.
They walk into the living
room; Sóter leaps around between them and barks playfully.
Clemen places his feet on the floor, still dazed, still unable to shake off his drowsiness or find his way out of the hammock.
“What’s going on?” he manages to articulate, his mouth all gummed up.
“You’ve got to leave, now,” Mono Harris says. “National Guard soldiers are on their way here.”
Clemen leaps out of the hammock.
“Shit!” he cries. “The Guard!”
Mono Harris asks them where the whiskey is; he needs a drink.
“What are we going to do?” Jimmy asks as he takes a bottle and a glass out of the cabinet.
“We’ll get you to Punta Cosigüina, once and for all,” says Mono Harris.
Jimmy looks at him, suddenly excited.
“Fantastic!” he cries. “It’s about time.”
“That guy outside, Adrián, is your guide. He says you can shove off this afternoon.”
Clemen pounces on the table and grabs the pack of cigarettes.
“Where are the soldiers coming from?” he asks, dismayed.
Mono Harris tells him that starting this afternoon soldiers will begin to “comb” the island searching for fugitives, starting at the bay; he found this out from the commander of the National Guard post on the hacienda.
“There’s nowhere else we can hide around here?” Clemen asks and lights another cigarette.
“Unless you want to hang out in one of the hidden channels in the mangrove swamps,” says Mono Harris, as he tosses back a shot of whiskey. “We’d save the money we’re going to pay the guide, but if they find you, neither Mincho nor I will know you guys from Adam.”
“Don’t pay any attention to this moron,” says Jimmy. “When do we leave?”
“Right now. I’ll take you in my boat to San Nicolás, the hamlet on the other side of the island, where you’ll leave from.”
Mono Harris takes an envelope with money out of his pants pockets.
“The agreement is that you’ll pay him when you get to Punta Cosigüina,” he says.
“Is he trustworthy?” Jimmy asks as he starts counting the banknotes.
Mono Harris shrugs his shoulders.
“Does he know we’re fugitives?” Clemen asks.
“He assumes you can’t leave the country legally and that’s why we’re hiring him, but he doesn’t know who you are. It’s better that way. Keep pretending you’re livestock buyers; let him think you’re rustlers.”
Sóter runs to the front door; he lets out a couple of welcoming barks.
“Good afternoon, Señor.”
It’s Lázaro, the caretaker.
“Our friends are leaving us, Lázaro,” Mono Harris announces.
The caretaker looks surprised, says he’ll miss them, asks them if he can get them anything.
They say thank you; Jimmy promises he’ll drop by soon to say goodbye to him, his wife Marina, and his girls. The family lives in a shack about thirty yards behind the house; she cooked for them and washed their clothes; he took them to look at the livestock and showed them all the nooks and crannies on the island.
“What do we need to bring?” Clemen asks after Lázaro has left.
“Nothing but your knapsacks with your few belongings,” says Mono Harris. “There’s a bag in the boat with canned food and other provisions.”
“Did you bring more cigarettes?” Clemen asks, anxiously.
“There are a couple of packs in the bag,” Mono Harris answers.
Jimmy goes quickly to the bedroom.
Mono Harris says in English that they can take Mincho’s shotgun, he’s given them permission, in case of emergency.
“How about the gun you gave me?” Jimmy asks.
Mono Harris says, of course, and urges them to hurry up.
“How should I dress?” Clemen asks, still confused, and lights another cigarette with the butt of the one before. “These shorts, or should I put on long pants?”
“This guy thinks he’s going to a wedding . . . ,” Jimmy says sarcastically.
Mono Harris reminds them they will still be Justo and Tino, in case they meet anybody on the way; then he goes out on the terrace to discuss things with the guide.
“You don’t think it’s a bit too sudden . . . ?” asks Clemen, while he’s gathering up his toiletries.
“If you want to stay, stay . . . ,” Jimmy says.
Sóter paces around the rooms, excited.
“All I want to say is that for the last ten days, every time Mono has come here he’s said there’s no way we can go by sea, nobody will dare take us,” Clemen says; he picks the bottle of whiskey up from the table and places it in his knapsack. “And now he shows up here with a guide and tells us that some soldiers are on their way, and we have to take off right away . . .”
Jimmy throws his knapsack over his shoulder, sticks his gun under his belt, puts on his baseball cap, and picks the shotgun up in his right hand.
“Let’s go . . . ,” he says.
Clemen puts his straw hat on his head.
They go onto the terrace.
Lázaro and Marina, with the two girls, come to say goodbye.
“We’ll be back in a month,” Jimmy tells them, “to take the livestock we picked out. Thank you for everything.”
Lázaro and Marina wish them luck on their trip; the girls — snotty, barefoot, wearing a few filthy rags — point to Sóter.
Lázaro sees Don Mincho’s shotgun in Jimmy’s hand; he says nothing.
Mono Harris and the guide have started walking toward the jetty. Sóter trots along behind them.
Clemen jumps into the boat; he sits down, apprehensively, facing Jimmy.
“It’s been so nice here,” he mumbles, but nobody hears him because Mono Harris has started the motor with one pull, and Sóter is barking from the jetty. He’d rather not leave, he’s gotten used to the place, all the fear of their flight transformed into a peaceful vacation by the sea. And now, again, anxiety and fear.
“Are these the provisions?” Jimmy asks, shouting, as he rummages through a large paper bag.
The guide, curious, turns toward them from the bow; his tanned face, slanting eyes, and shaggy beard peek out from under his broad-rimmed hat.
“It’s enough food for the trip,” Mono Harris answers.
Clemen stares at the house, the silhouettes of the girls, and Sóter running on the beach as it all recedes; the bright light hurts his eyes.
“How long will it take to get there?” Jimmy asks the guide.
The boat suddenly lurches. Clemen grabs onto the side; his hat flies off his head, but Jimmy manages to catch it with a quick swipe.
“To Cosigüina?” the guide asks. “Depends on the current and the winds. If we leave before two thirty, we might catch the current.”
Jimmy looks at his pocket watch: it’s two o’clock.
“Will we get there before midnight?”
The guide shrugs his shoulders.
“Are we going in this boat?” Clemen asks, holding the hat Jimmy handed him between his knees.
“No,” Mono Harris says, “in Adrián’s canoe.”
Clemen shoots Jimmy a sidelong glance.
“You wouldn’t make it in this boat for long in the open sea,” Mono Harris explains. “Anyway, it needs to look like one of Adrián’s normal fishing trips . . .”
They are advancing parallel to the coast, not far beyond the breaking waves.
Clemen realizes the house is merely a spot in the distance, a blotch against the green of palm trees, almonds, and coconut groves; then he turns and looks forward, and the sea wind blows in his face.
“The canoe is strong. It hasn’t failed me yet,” the guide says from the bow.
A flock of seagulls fly over the waves in the opposite direction.
“You think he’ll turn us in?” Clemen asks, looking at half a dozen abandoned-looking shacks lined up along the beach under the glaring sun; he’s smoking frantically, compulsively, one puff after
another.
They are standing on the small broken-down jetty where Mono Harris has left them. He gave them each a hug, wished them the very best of luck, and asked them to send word once they’d reached the American base in Punta Cosigüina; then he rushed off. The guide showed them the canoe tied to the jetty, and asked them to wait; he’d go get the two oarsmen and bring the rest of the equipment needed for the crossing.
“I don’t think . . . ,” Jimmy starts to say, carefully checking out the canoe: he wonders if it is strong enough for the high seas; he figures it’s about fifteen feet long; inside, over a net spread out on the floor of the boat, the guide has placed the bag of food, and they have put down their knapsacks and the shotgun.
“There’s something about him I don’t like,” Clemen says.
“What?”
“The guide . . .”
“I told you, if you don’t want to go, you can stay here.”
A couple of young women are walking down the beach, each with a basket on her head; they’re following the line of foam the waves leave behind as they retreat, stamping their bare footprints into the wet sand.
“I don’t trust this canoe,” Clemen says, then turns to look at the women. It’s been exactly twenty days since he’s slept with someone; the night before he counted while sitting in the sand, alone, facing the dark sea, wanting to scream like a madman or jerk off. He throws the cigarette butt into the water.
“What do you know about canoes?” Jimmy asks.
The women walk toward the jetty; a gust of wind blows their white dresses tight up against their bodies. They walk past.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Clemen wonders out loud without taking his eyes off them.
“The things you think about . . . ,” Jimmy says in a tone of reproach.
Tyrant Memory Page 16