Tyrant Memory

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  Father dropped by in the evening to give me an envelope full of money for me to give to Chente, so that the strike committee can distribute it among those who need to support their families. I was amazed, surprised by the speed with which he had collected so much money. He explained that the warlock is digging his own grave, not when he executed the officers who had betrayed him but rather when he sentenced Don Agustín, Dr. Pérez, and Dr. Romero to death. He insisted I make it very clear to the students that they will never learn the names of the donors and that there should be no receipts or any other compromising paperwork. Minutes later I went to find Chente, but he wasn’t there. I put the envelope away in my trunk and went to Mass.

  As we were leaving church, under the strict surveillance of the soldiers, our fear subdued by our outrage, Doña Chayito told me that the government must know by now about the campaign to support the interns who have gone on strike in the hospitals and government offices, because this morning both government newspapers carried a furious tirade against them, and she said that perhaps he ordered the Mass cancelled for the same reason, just so we wouldn’t get our hopes up that his resolve was weakening. What one hand gives the other takes away, as the saying goes.

  A short while ago, just as I was about to go to my bedroom and María Elena had already gone to hers, Chente came over. We discussed the warlock’s wickedness, his apostasy. He asked after Betito; I told him he was out with his friends but would return at any moment. I noticed he was nervous. I told him to wait for me in the living room; I went to get the envelope full of money out of the trunk, and I gave it to him. “What’s this?” he asked as he opened it with amazement. “A contribution for the students who are on strike,” I said. His face lit up; he was about to count the money, but I repeated the warning Father had given me. Before leaving, he gave me a carbon copy of a new leaflet, which I have here on my desk and looks like it was just written, which asks all to “pray together for our humble, saintly, and beloved archbishop, who has been repeatedly humiliated by the tyrant, a theosophist who does not believe in God and works in devious ways to persecute the Catholic Church.” Betito came home later; he claims that enthusiasm for the strike is growing everywhere. I told him I would go visit his grandmother Licha in Cojutepeque tomorrow, and I would take María Elena with me, and if he doesn’t want to eat lunch alone he should go to my mother’s house. I repeated that he should be very careful.

  Friday April 28

  I was out of San Salvador for only ten hours, but when I returned I had the feeling that much more time had passed. Betito greeted me with the news that there were practically no classes at his school because most of the professors were absent, and next week will be worse, he says, because the entire teachers’ union will be on strike. Then I found out, at Raúl’s house, that Dr. Romero is recovering and, if nothing changes, in one week they’ll release him from the hospital and the general plans to execute him immediately; Raúl said with absolute conviction that the Salvadoran Medical Association will do everything possible to prevent his execution. Events are hurtling forward: the students have formed committees to persuade diverse sectors to support the strike, and people seem to be slowly losing their fear, so much so that Mother told me that some of her friends are considering closing their shops starting next week and keeping them closed until the warlock is gone. The government is pulling out all the stops: Betito brought home a leaflet from a pretend committee that supports the government, saying the strike is being promoted by the wealthy who are outraged that the general has taken measures that benefit the poor. He is not only criminal but also shameless.

  And there I was, as if coming from another world, because I love traveling by train; as soon as the engine whistles and the cars begin to clatter along the tracks, I get swept away into memories of my youth and adolescence, a sensation of idleness washes over me, as if the landscape rushing by were lifting me out of reality. I was also coming from a different world because my mother-in-law lives in her memories, talking to her is like climbing into an old attic, or rather, opening a chest full of stories; she always pulls out a couple of new anecdotes about Pericles, curious stories about his childhood and adolescence. I greatly enjoyed my visit to the market with María Elena and Petronila, my in-laws’ old servant, to buy chorizos, cuajada, and pepitoria. The only thing I don’t like is eating lunch with the colonel: the atmosphere is so silent, martial, like being in a mess hall with a commander who doesn’t allow talking at mealtime; that’s where Pericles gets all his manias. I noticed that in that city, merely one hour away from San Salvador by train, one doesn’t feel any of the political agitation we experience here, as if the struggle to depose the general had nothing to do with them. Only when I spoke with Father Dionisio, the parish priest of Nuestra Señora del Carmen Church, who dropped by in the afternoon to have a cup of coffee with my mother-in-law, did I feel the excitement of the political situation. Father Dionisio asked about Clemen, whom he has known since he was a child; I told him I had no news. He crossed himself and muttered that he prays daily for the Lord to keep him safe and sound; he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. My mother-in-law gave me a basket of food for me to take to Pericles tomorrow. The poor dear was sitting down most of the time because of her arthritis; it was difficult for her to even take a few steps.

  What really soured my mood upon my return, however, was to find two suitcases and a few boxes of Clemen’s belongings, which Mila, taking advantage of my absence, had brought over in the afternoon, and which Betito had moved into what had been Pati’s bedroom, which I now use as a sewing room. Tomorrow I will have to tell Pericles all about this, I wouldn’t want him to be released one of these days soon and have his return spoiled by his sudden discovery of Mila’s betrayal; better for him to know now, for he has said himself that in jail all other problems seem “like when you take off your glasses and everything shrinks.” Ana spent the night in María Elena’s room, for Mila has already moved out, and she wouldn’t let her come stay at her parents’, so she just threw her out in the street; they will both leave tomorrow early for their village. I have prepared some gifts for Belka.

  Saturday April 29

  They might release Pericles at any moment. God heard my prayers! Betito and I went this morning early to the Central Prison; there was a throng of visitors because it was also visiting day for common criminals. I don’t know if it was just my impression, because I am very susceptible to suggestion, but there was something different in the air, as if people were feeling more optimistic, less afraid. Doña Chayito said we should talk afterward, many things are happening and she wanted to bring me up-to-date. Carmela and Chelón joined us in the line going in. Pericles was very happy to see them. Then Mingo arrived, and my brother-in-law, Toño, who came from Cojutepeque. It was the first visit like in the old days, when my husband used to be held in the Black Palace, in a room near the director. We drank coffee and ate sweet breads (everybody brought food for Pericles), we gossiped, we laughed at the latest jokes about the general and Doña Concha. My husband said that by the time he gets out of jail he’ll have enough jokes and salacious stories to fill a book. Carmela and Chelón were the first to leave; then Toño and Mingo said they also had to go, but Pericles told the latter to stay with me for a few minutes because he wanted to discuss something. Betito said goodbye to his father and said he’d wait for me outside, using as an excuse that we were going to discuss issues he had no business hearing, as if I hadn’t noticed his interest in Leonor, Doña Julita’s daughter, while we were lining up to go in. Pericles revealed that Dr. Ávila had visited him yesterday afternoon, Friday, to make him a proposition: they will release him if he goes straight to Mexico and establishes contact between “the man” and Don Vicente Lombardo Toledano, the most influential workers’ leader in the Mexican government, a man Pericles befriended during our years in exile. Dr. Ávila specified that this was just to test the waters, an initiative of his ministry, but now that the general is interested in promoting social
programs to improve the lives of the poor, he may well be receptive to considering an initiative that would establish a closer relationship with the experience of the Mexican revolution, and Pericles would be the right person to do it. “What did you say?” Mingo asked him, looking quite surprised. “I said I have no desire to go from being a prisoner to being a messenger boy in exile, that if they wish to establish contact with Vicente, they have an ambassador, and that’s what he gets paid for,” he said. He then made it clear to Dr. Ávila that they should free him immediately, for there has been no crime and no trial, only an arbitrary arrest, and that once he returns to being an ordinary citizen, with rights and legal guarantees, he would be willing to listen, in the living room of his own home, to the government’s social plans and any reasonable request they make of him. “What did he say?” I asked, because Don Ramón is quite sensible and I know he is fond of us. “What could he say, he doesn’t make the decisions . . . ?” he answered in that typically derisive tone he uses when his meaner self overrides his intelligence. But I am hopeful that Dr. Ávila’s gesture is a sign that my husband will soon return home. What leaves no room for doubt, Pericles added, “is that they’re up to their eyes in you-know-what now that the gringos have thrown them overboard,” and for the first time he has the impression that “the man” is going down a blind alley. Mingo was perplexed by the news; he muttered that not only was he being abandoned by the gringos, but he also had all the bankers and coffee growers against him, the students and teachers were on strike, and the medical society would be applying strong pressure starting next Tuesday for him to decree an amnesty to prevent the execution of Dr. Romero. Pericles asked after Don Jorge’s health. Mingo said he was with him yesterday at the Polyclinic, Don Jorge is out of mortal danger, but nobody knows for certain how fully he will recover; then he looked at his watch, he said time was flying, there were only ten minutes left to visit, he would leave us alone and wait for me outside so he could accompany me home. I told him not to worry, I had already arranged to meet some friends on my way out. Then I mustered my courage and without any preambles I told Pericles, in a very low voice, that Mila had moved out of her house and intends to divorce Clemen and is the lover of Colonel Castillo, the prosecutor of the Military Court that sentenced my son to death. While I was tripping over my tongue trying to tell the story, I felt terribly anxious, as if I were to blame for what had happened, but once I’d finished, as Pericles screwed his face into a look of disgust, I suddenly felt lighter, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. I told him I thought it better that he knew now so as to avoid spoiling his return home. He asked after our grandchildren; he asked if Pati, the colonel, or Mama Licha knew. Then, chewing on his words as if he were going to spit them out, he simply said, “Every cloud has a silver lining.” As we said goodbye I had this feeling I still carry with me, that we would soon be together again.

  By the time I left, Betito had already hightailed it out of there, surely in hot pursuit of Leonor. I walked a couple of blocks with Doña Chayito; the sky was cloudy and for a moment there was a light breeze, which made me think we would soon get the first rain of the season, and we did, a few hours later. Doña Chayito told me that the struggle to free our family members had taken second place, and we must now put all our efforts into supporting the general strike called by the university students, we must convince our friends and acquaintances to join the strike, close shops and offices so that the country would cease to function as soon as possible and so the warlock will be forced to leave. I told her to count on me for anything I can do to help. She explained that it would be best for me to take advantage of my relationship with Chente, for the students are taking the lead and it is no longer an issue of protesting in the streets but rather turning the city into a ghost town, everyone should remain at home and then only policemen and soldiers will be left in the streets, wandering about like lost souls.

  Lunch at my parents’ was hectic. Uncle Charlie and some of Father’s friends discussed the negotiations they were holding with the chambers of commerce and the business owners’ associations to get them to keep paying their employees even though their places of business remain closed. Monday is May 1, anyway, a holiday, so the strike will begin on Tuesday, with the bankers taking the lead in the private sector. I confessed to Father that I feel quite lost in the maelstrom that has been unleashed. He told me not to worry, I can continue participating as I have been, passing funds to the student committee so they can distribute them to bus drivers, taxi drivers, government employees, train operators, and others, so they can buy food and survive day to day for as long as the strike lasts. As I was leaving my parents’, I crossed paths with Juan White, together with Mono Harris and Winall Dalton, who were stopping by for a visit, rather tipsy for so early in the day. Winall is always quite flirtatious with me, though respectful, and he always seems like a gentleman to me, though Pericles says he is nothing but a “lecherous gringo” around whom I should never lower my guard.

  This afternoon, after visiting Don Jorge and Teresita at the Polyclinic, I stopped by my neighbors, where they were celebrating Rosita’s birthday, though the party was actually just a front for the doctors to meet to plan next week’s strike. Raúl told me that I shouldn’t worry, the warlock will fall before we know it, and we would have Pericles and Clemen with us again. Chente dropped by, as usual in a rush, and he whispered to me that pharmacists, justices of the peace, and even market vendors are poised to go on strike, and that they will need more cash support from the well-to-do. The excitement was so contagious that even I had a drink.

  Now I am home alone. Betito went to a big party at the Club, the first since the government authorized it to open. I told myself this has to work, “the man” can’t possibly face everybody down if nobody is standing in front of him; I also told myself that the coming days are going to be hectic, even though there won’t be any protests in the street, and we’ll have to keep our noses to the grindstone to achieve a total moratorium. My only regret is that this is the last page of my beautiful notebook from Brussels. On Tuesday I’ll buy another one before the shops close for the strike.

  Fugitives (IV)

  1:08 p.m.

  “It’s hellfire out there, Clemen.”

  “What?”

  “It’s hellfire . . . Look: nothing moves under this sun shining straight down like a lead weight. This is what Hell must be like. Luckily, we’re in the shade of the mangroves . . .”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “Again?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Try to get a grip on your anxiety. You just drank some water. If you don’t control yourself, you’ll finish the little we have left.”

  “What’ll we do when we run out of water, Jimmy? How are we going to get out of this swamp?”

  “Calm down. Stop thinking about it.”

  “How can I stop thinking about it!? We’re getting dehydrated! Look at how dry my lips are!”

  “If you get all excited you’ll use up more energy and get thirstier. Just relax.”

  “Something must have happened to Mono Harris! Why hasn’t he come, Jimmy? He said he’d be in San Salvador for only three days and return yesterday, Saturday, bringing water and more provisions. Now it’s Sunday noon, and we’re running out of everything . . .”

  “There was probably some emergency. But he won’t abandon us. He’ll be here any minute . . .”

  “What if they captured him, huh? What if that soldier got suspicious, and they’ve got him locked up in a cell somewhere? What will become of us?”

  “They wouldn’t dare arrest Mono Harris. He’s an American citizen. Anyway, he’s done nothing, except help us.”

  “You think that’s nothing!? . . . What if one of the oarsmen turned him in?”

  “The soldiers would have already shown up here.”

  “We’ve got to get to dry land, Jimmy. We can’t just wait here till we die of dehydration.”

  “Let’s wait till tomorrow morning early. If
Mono Harris hasn’t shown up by then, we’ll figure out how to get to land.”

  “I don’t think our water will last till tomorrow.”

  “If you calm down and stop drinking every time you get anxious, it will.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with anxiety. You yourself said it’s like Hell out here. How am I supposed to not be thirsty!? . . .”

  “You’re too agitated. You’re drinking almost twice as much water as me. Don’t you realize that?”

  “‘You’re too agitated! . . .’ How the hell am I supposed to not be?! I’m going crazy in this boat! This is worse than the attic! At least there, at the priest’s house, we could go down to the living room and the toilet twice a day . . . This is horrible, Jimmy! Ten days stuck in this boat eight feet long, surrounded by salt water, sleeping outside under the worst possible conditions, trying to protect ourselves from all the bugs, pissing and shitting outside, like animals! . . . It’s worse than being in prison!”

  “Nothing’s worse than being in prison. Don’t forget we wouldn’t be in prison long, soon enough they’d take us out to face the firing squad . . . like they did my comrades, and Lieutenant Marín’s civilian brother . . .”

  “. . .”

  “So, settle down.”

  “Poor man. You military men are savages, Jimmy. Mono Harris said that Marín was unrecognizable from the torture.”

  “The torturers are civilian, not military.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. If they’re civilians it’s because you guys have taught them how to torture people . . .”