“Damn right it was a miracle. If it hadn’t been for that sand bank, we would’ve drowned. And luckily the upside-down canoe was floating on the empty water barrel . . . If the canoe had sunk, we wouldn’t have lived to tell it.”
“That’s not what I was talking about.”
“About how long were we floating around holding onto the canoe, adrift and about to drown, until we hit the sand bank?”
“I’m telling you it was a miracle because I prayed to the Virgin . . .”
“At least a quarter of an hour, hovering between life and death. I still can’t believe it.”
“She heard my pleas . . .”
“What the hell are you talking about, Jimmy?”
“The Virgin answered when I cried out, ‘Virgin of Guadalupe, save us!’”
“The Virgin answered you?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re crazy, Jimmy.”
“It was just seconds after I prayed for her to save us, after I shouted out in despair, that we hit the sand bank.”
“But, what . . .”
“You don’t believe me? You didn’t hear me shouting?”
“We were all shouting, scared shitless, Jimmy, don’t be an ass. The one who shouted loudest was that fat oarsman, the one next to me, who didn’t know how to swim and was squealing like a pig . . . He almost pulled me under, the motherfucker. He sure made up for his silence earlier . . .”
“That good-for-nothing, he’s why you didn’t hear me shout.”
“We all asked God to save us and now it turns out the Virgin answered you. I think it was really bad for you to dress up as a priest . . .”
“I’m telling you, it was a miracle. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Okay, so the Virgin was right there, in the waves, waiting for you to pray to her. Really? She appeared to you, without the rest of us seeing her?”
“Stop making fun of me.”
“So stop talking crap. We were lucky we capsized before we’d gotten too far from shore. That’s what really happened.”
“You don’t believe in miracles?”
“Yeah, but the miracle wasn’t for you, it was for all of us, and it wasn’t because you shouted but because we all begged for help. You military guys think that even God is under your command . . .”
“If we come out of this alive, I’m going to go to the Basilica of Guadalupe in Mexico to offer up thanks.”
“Just pass me the water, I’m thirsty again.”
“Here . . . Careful! Don’t fall!
“Calm down . . .”
“. . .”
“Jimmy, about what time is it?”
“I lost my watch in the wreck.”
“I know, but you’re good at figuring out the time. You think it’s about nine?”
“My father gave it to me, before he died.”
“. . .”
“It was my best keepsake from him.”
“I don’t know why we had to get involved in this . . .”
“What are you talking about, Clemen?”
“The coup. The whole thing. Look where we are: in a canal lost in the middle of a swamp in the bay, in this little boat, without the least idea what will become of us.”
“We’re alive, that’s what matters most.”
“You know what would be the worst, Jimmy? If after all this they caught us . . .”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m not going to let them get me. If you want to surrender, go ahead, but I’ve got this gun.”
“That Mono Harris, what a guy, he even left you his gun.”
“We owe him our lives. He got us this boat, he towed us into this canal that is difficult to find, and he came back to bring us provisions. He’s like our guardian angel.”
“My poor mother must be worried to death. And Mila and the kids . . .”
“Truth is, Clemen, I don’t understand why you got involved in the coup. You’re not in the military and you’re not even very interested in politics; you just like to be a radio announcer, work in the theater, drink, the ladies . . . Why did you get involved?”
“Because we have to get rid of that son of a bitch . . .”
“A lot of people think that but they don’t take the risk and participate in a coup.”
“And you, why did you get involved?”
“For me, it was simple: I’m in the military, and I swore to defend the constitution that scoundrel is violating. But you? . . . Don’t start getting nervous again.”
“My father is in prison. Doesn’t that count? There’s no freedom anymore.”
“You’ll excuse me for saying so, Clemen, but you aren’t anything like my uncle. He’s a politician, a serious man who maintains a strong stand in opposition to the general . . . But there’s no way I can see you as a politician . . . Did you think this was some kind of adventure that would turn you into a hero?”
“Man, dressing up as a priest really did mess you up . . . Now you want to confess me . . .”
“There’s no way to have a serious conversation with you.”
“The only thing I know is that I’ll never get involved with anything to do with the military again. You guys are a fiasco.”
“Don’t let’s start on this again.”
“Defend the constitution . . . ? Don’t make me laugh, Jimmy. You think I’m going to believe you that a turd like Tito Calvo or that mama’s boy General Marroquín got involved in the coup to defend the constitution? Who knows how much money Don Agustín offered them, not knowing they wouldn’t have the balls to do it right . . .”
“Stop defaming the dead.”
“I hope that strike works, the one Mono Harris told us about.”
“If we couldn’t bring him down by force, there’s no way it can be done with a strike.”
“So then what? The motherfucker will be in power for the rest of his life?”
“That’s why we should leave any way we can.”
“What about the gringos? Why don’t they get involved once and for all and finish off that Nazi?”
“I already told you what Captain Masey told me: ‘You put him in, you take him out.’”
“How convenient for them, as if they didn’t have anything to do with it . . . Look at those clouds, Jimmy: really weird . . .”
“You’re right.”
“A storm . . . That’s all we need.”
“No. It’s fog, a fog bank’s coming this way.”
“Along the coast? That’s strange. That only happens in the mountains.”
“Well, here it is.”
“Now there’s a breeze. I really can’t see anything, Jimmy. It’s so dark . . .”
“Shhh . . . Quiet . . .”
“What’s going on?”
“Listen . . .”
“What?”
“A noise . . .”
“It’s the waves.”
“No, listen.”
“. . .”
“I’m going to row us into the mangroves.”
“Go on, then.”
“Lower your voice . . .”
“I don’t like this foggy air; it gives me goose bumps.”
“We’ll stay here behind the branches. Here we’ve got cover and we can see if anyone is coming up the canal.”
“Jimmy, I can’t see anything.”
“Keep your voice down. Don’t you understand?”
“This is like a nightmare. I’ve never been somewhere like this, it’s so creepy . . .”
“It’s just fog. Try to control your fear . . .”
“At any moment some vermin can attack us from these branches. They say the bats in the mangroves are savage.”
“Something’s approaching . . .”
“Where?”
“Over there, at the entrance to the canal.”
“Fuck!”
“Shhh . . . Sounds like a canoe. You see the glow? They must have a lamp on the floor.”
“Maybe it’s the soldiers?”
“I
told you, Clemen, we can’t trust . . . Let’s hide.”
“They might be fishermen . . .”
“I don’t think so. They’re staying on the other side of the canal. If they were fishermen, they’d go down the middle.”
“Don’t shoot, Jimmy.”
“Shh . . . Here they come.”
“I can’t see anything.”
“I can only see one silhouette. That’s it.”
“The soldier with the gold tooth?!”
“If it were him, there’d be two of them. A soldier never goes alone, they’re always in pairs . . .”
“I saw him, Jimmy!”
“Maybe the other one is hiding on the floor of the canoe. That’s it: we can’t see the other one, but he must have his rifle at the ready in the bow and we can only make out the one in the rear.”
“It’s not a soldier, it’s a woman . . .”
“How could it be?”
“Look at that hair.”
“It’s a helmet.”
“No it’s not, it’s a woman’s hair.”
“You’re hallucinating, Clemen.”
“Did you hear?”
“I hope they leave . . . I hope they leave.”
“It was a laugh . . .”
“Quiet . . . They’re going past us.”
“The woman is laughing.”
“Luckily, they’re going toward the other end of the canal. If they come back this way, I’ll take them by surprise.”
“Didn’t you hear the laughter, Jimmy?”
“What laughter? You’re nuts.”
“This makes my hair curl . . .”
“That’s from the humidity. You’re letting fear get the better of you . . . They’re leaving.”
“I swear I heard a laugh.”
“I just hope they don’t come back . . .”
Haydée’s Diary
Friday April 21
Doña Chayito came over very early this morning, just as I was sitting down to breakfast. I wasn’t expecting her. I asked her if there was an emergency. She said this was the best time of day to shake off the police who are tailing her, even the ones prowling around my house hadn’t come on duty yet. I invited her to have breakfast with me; she said she’d already eaten, but she would love a cup of coffee. She explained that the time had come to show our opposition to the general’s intransigence, that if we allow ourselves to be intimidated, who knows when we will see our imprisoned family members again, we must seize the opportunity, take advantage of this climate of deep unrest the students’ arrests have generated throughout the society. She then said that we must call all our supporters to join the protest march from the El Calvario Church to the Central Prison on Sunday after ten o’clock Mass, but we must be sure to spread the word as discreetly as possible, keep it a secret, so we can take the general by surprise. She said it would be best if those who attend the earlier Mass or go to a different church not change their plans, to avoid raising suspicions, and they should arrive at El Calvario at precisely eleven o’clock, the time the march will begin. She explained the plan with excitement and great precision, as if she’d gone over and over it in her head. She said we should all wear black, and the men should wear black ties; we should all carry a piece of folded white cardboard in our handbags as well as a thick marker to write our slogans demanding freedom for our family members during the last few minutes of Mass without running the risk of being stopped by the authorities and caught red-handed on the way from our houses to church, and that after the march we can leave the signs in front of the Central Prison. I asked her whom we will ask to join us; she said everyone who supports our cause, but it is important we invite each person individually, not en masse, that way each person will take it upon him or herself to come and the secret will be kept, and we should never talk about it over the phone.
In spite of her doubts, Rosita has agreed to join the march. We went together to talk to Dr. Moreno’s wife, Doña Juana, who not only seemed excited about it but also acted like a seasoned veteran and had very strong words against the general; then we went to see Dr. Salazar’s wife, Doña Cleo, who was exactly the opposite and rekindled Rosita’s doubts, afraid that her participation in the march would hamper her son’s release. I had to remind them of my experience with Pericles, and especially that of Doña Chayito and the other mothers who have suffered with their sons, who are also students, being in jail for weeks now already; I tried to help them understand that the situation of our loved ones has gone from bad to worse, and the general has turned a deaf ear. I warned all three not to speak on the telephone about our plans or mention anything to anybody else, as there are spies and informers everywhere.
I had two surprises this afternoon. The first was a call from Angelita, Pericles’s first cousin; we console each other over our lack of news about Clemen and Jimmy. It was a normal conversation, chatting about this and that, until she asked me if I knew anything about plans for a protest march in support of political prisoners. She caught me off guard, but I managed to react appropriately: I said no, I had heard nothing about it, and I asked her to tell me what she had heard. She told me that a rumor had reached her, and she thought that since I was in the group of families of political prisoners who had met with the ambassador, I would know about it, and she said if she heard anything more she would call to let me know. I told her that so many political rumors are circulating one no longer knows what to believe.
The other surprise came in the evening at Mother’s house, where the Figueroas and my sister Cecilia were also visiting. They spoke excitedly about Luz María’s wedding, which will be held in a month at the cathedral in Santa Ana, and about the party afterward at the Casino Santaneco. Carlota showed me a sketch of the gown her daughter will wear and compared it to the one she wore and those Cecilia and I had worn at our respective weddings, and she complained that because of the war in Europe it is well-nigh impossible to order an exclusive design from Paris. She told me there’s been a disagreement in her family about the guest list, in the wake of the attempted coup and the executions, because Carlota’s mother’s family has always been involved in politics — her grandfather was once the president of the republic — and now several members of her family are repudiating the general and vow not to attend the wedding if old family friends who have remained loyal to the government are invited. I also found out that Nicolás Armando’s sons will be groomsmen, about how excited Cecilia is to make her grandchildren’s suits and attend the wedding rehearsals; I felt a stab in my heart to think what my poor grandchildren might suffer because of their foolish mother. Later, while I was in the kitchen making tea, Carlota came to tell me she is worried about Fabito, her eldest, who is studying medicine, and who has become deeply involved in organizing protests against the general, she fears he’ll be arrested at any moment. I told her how surprised I was, I knew nothing about Fabito’s political involvement, though I did not think it so odd considering the fact that the general has been attacking the medical society and medical students. But the conversation didn’t end there: very secretively, so nobody else would hear, Carlota revealed that Fabito was a member of a delegation of students who traveled to the hospital in San Miguel to meet with Dr. Romero and prepare a plan for his escape, he could speak with him in French (Fabio senior took Carlota and her children with him when he went to Paris for a residency) and that way outwit the two soldiers stationed in his hospital room, but Dr. Romero convinced him that the escape plan wasn’t viable, that it was, in fact, suicidal. I told her it was fortunate Fabito had escaped the sweep Chente and his fellow students had been caught up in. Then she told me that’s precisely her fear: Fabito is organizing a march next Sunday to protest the arrests of the students, and she’s afraid that this time he won’t escape, and they will take him straight to jail. It was a pity that at that moment Mama and Cecilia came into the kitchen, along with other friends who had just arrived, and we couldn’t continue talking.
I dined at Carmela and Chelón’s house.
I told them about the plan for Sunday, how desperate we are because the general is still keeping us away from our family members at the Central Prison, that this protest march is a last resort to pressure the government. I asked Carmela to accompany me to ten o’clock Mass, though I made it clear I was not asking her to join the march, because I know that she and Chelón abstain from any political activity, but my best friend’s presence at church would bring me comfort and give me strength. She said she would, of course, she would be there. I said to Chelón teasingly that he was off the hook, for if Pericles found out that he had attended Mass, even to demand his release, he would never forgive the betrayal.
A while ago María Elena told me Betito has not been home since school let out. It seems he has something cooking with Henry and his other friends; I wouldn’t be surprised if they too were planning for Sunday, together with the university students. I will speak with him tomorrow morning early. With so much commotion, Doña Chayito’s appeal for prudence and secrecy will surely be to no avail.
Saturday April 22
An intense day, as if there had been electricity in the air. Seems like everybody and his brother knows about the march, though almost nobody speaks about it openly. Around mid-morning I ran into Mingo at the Americana drugstore. Irmita is doing very poorly; I promised to stop by to see her in the afternoon. Standing at the counter, while the pharmacist was filling our prescriptions, I was dying to ask Mingo if he had heard about the march, but I refrained. When we got outside, he beat me to it and told me under his breath that the university students were planning a protest against their classmates’ arrest, that the situation is very tense; he then told me the good news that yesterday the government finally gave Serafín safe passage to leave the country for exile in Guatemala, apparently the Americans applied strong pressure on them to grant him authorization, and on Monday he will leave under the protection of the Guatemalan consul. We agreed we’d continue our conversation when I stopped by his house in the afternoon.
Then I went to my parents’ house for a while. Father, Uncle Charlie, and Güicho Sol were drinking coffee on the patio; I joined them. I wanted to know if Father had heard about the march tomorrow. I didn’t even have to ask: Uncle Charlie spoke about the need to organize other forms of protest to remove the Nazi warlock, he said the university students are preparing a strike, and it would be best to support them, their idea is that everybody will join the strike until the general understands that nobody in this whole country wants him; Güicho disagreed with him, he said the warlock understands only the language of force, and what’s called for is another military uprising but this time led by officers who aren’t as stupid and cowardly as those who let the general prevail, and if such officers don’t appear the only choice will be for American troops to invade. My uncle insisted that the idea of a strike is not unreasonable, but Güicho replied that with a strike one runs not only the risk of it being infiltrated by communists but also of them taking over. Then Uncle Charlie asked what time it was. I told him it was ten to eleven. He asked me to please move my watch ahead ten minutes, he was desperate for a shot of whiskey, and he had made a solemn vow not to have his first drink until after eleven in the morning. That meant that I should stand up and go to the kitchen for the ice bucket, mineral water, and booze, because they were going to discuss men’s subjects, which would be inappropriate for me.
Tyrant Memory Page 18