Tyrant Memory (11 page)

I couldn’t get in to see Pericles. By dawn the streets were
swarming with National Guard troops and police. The official newspapers and
radio stations claimed the government had received information that the
communists were planning an insurrection to commemorate the one-week anniversary
of the coup; they called on people to remain at home, reminded everyone that
today was not a day of processions, and requested that everyone inform the
police about any gatherings whatsoever. It’s madness. And there was no way María
Elena and I could get to the Central Prison; we couldn’t get past the police
barricades. I was in despair. At one particular moment I remembered what my
father-in-law had told me, about the imminence of the war council, but in a
situation like this, nothing is certain. My greatest fear is that they will send
Pericles back to the palace by mistake, because they say some of the coup
participants were at the Central Prison for a while; but I quickly remind myself
that there can be no confusion about my husband, by now the general must know
every single detail of the conspiracy. I remember what happened to Don Jorge and
I tremble.

I know nothing about Clemen’s whereabouts. Father insists that if
they haven’t captured him by now, he must have managed to escape. I pray this is
so. And I try to tell myself that this horrible experience will at least serve
to get my son to settle down once and for all, nobody can stare death in the
face and then continue along the same path as if nothing had happened.

My trepidation is too great; I find it impossible to continue
writing.

(Midnight)

I’m still awake. My nerves fell like red-hot coals. I
know I won’t know anything until daybreak, but I cannot sleep. I am certain
Pericles is also awake, knowing that the war council is in session, because in
the prison they get news directly from the palace that we sometimes never hear.
How I would love to hear your voice, my love, explaining what must be going on
at the trial, calming my torments . . .

Monday, April 10

They’ve sentenced Clemente to death! And they executed
General Marroquín, Colonel Tito Calvo, and eight more officers! The radio
repeats the news over and over again. This is a heavy blow. We are all filled
with dismay. The executions were carried out at eight this morning: Marroquín
and Calvo were put in front of the firing squad on the patio of the palace, and
the others were executed in the cemetery. I thank the Lord my son has not been
captured! At this very moment I would be mourning him! Accursed warlock. . . As
soon as they started reading the list of the condemned over the radio, I knew my
son would be on it. And there he was. It’s impossible to describe my anguish at
that moment. We were in the living room, María Elena and I, listening to the
radio. She began to sob, quietly; I simply threw myself back in the armchair and
begged Our Lady with all my heart to please help Clemen flee the country . . .
Nobody believed that monster would murder his own people so mercilessly. Not
only did he kill Marroquín and Tito, but also their younger brother, Captain
Marcelino Calvo. Three sons of the same mother! That poor old woman! That poor
family! And here I thought I was the most unfortunate woman because my son is a
fugitive and my husband is in jail . . . They also sentenced Jimmy to death, as
well as Dr. Romero, Don Agustín Alfaro, and many others who have so far managed
to escape, including Dr. Mario Calvo, Marcelino and Tito’s brother. That brute
will exact his blood revenge.

They had only just finished broadcasting the news on the radio when
friends and acquaintances began to offer their support. The Alvarados arrived
immediately; the phone didn’t stop ringing. The same thing happened at my
parents’ house and at my in-laws’. Everybody tells me I should trust in God,
Clemen will manage to save himself; some advise me to get Betito out of the
country. Father assures me the general will not lash out at a minor who has not
done anything; I want to believe him, but at moments I am assailed by doubts.
Mother insists we should immediately send Betito to Guatemala City, to my Aunt
Lola, who has been living there for many years; she says the border is so close
to Santa Ana, and my brother-in-law Armando could drive him. Pati also is
begging me to get her brother out immediately, either to Guatemala or San José.
Only my mother-in-law reassures me, telling me that nothing will happen to
Betito, if I am worried I should send him to their house in Cojutepeque, the
colonel will guarantee his grandson’s innocence. I spoke with Betito this
afternoon: he said he doesn’t want to leave the country, he doesn’t want to
leave me alone under these circumstances, tomorrow he is coming home, my sister
and Armando will bring him from Santa Ana.

It seems Mila has completely taken leave of her senses; Ana told
María Elena she has been drinking like a fish for several days. I called to ask
her to bring my grandchildren here, but I couldn’t reach her; Ana told me they
are staying at her parents’ most of the time. But the worst part isn’t that Mila
finds solace in drink during such a catastrophe; much more serious is what María
Elena told me with shame and sorrow, because she is afraid I will think she is a
gossip, but it was with the best of intentions, to spare me from a bigger shock
later: she said that Ana told her that the señora talks on the telephone to a
colonel by the name of Castillo and frequently goes out with him, and that she
speaks disparagingly of Clemen in front of him, and on one occasion she told him
on the phone that she believed her husband, “the coward,” was hiding at Father’s
finca. I want to find excuses for my daughter-in-law, I want to tell myself she
simply isn’t prepared to deal with a situation as extreme as the one we are now
facing, but what María Elena has told me tonight defies any justification. Mila
is a scoundrel, a traitor. My hand is shaking as I write this. Pericles said as
much a long time ago, when Clemen first started seeing her, he said the girl was
“shifty” and not to be trusted; Pati also never took to her. I’ve always been
the one to remind them not to be so judgmental, to accept people as they are.
I’ll make an effort not to think about her until Clemen is safe and sound, I
don’t want to be devoured by bitterness.

Mother says that Clemen’s jocular, disrespectful, wild character has
been his downfall; he never should have ridiculed the general on the radio, much
less insulted him — mocking his personal defects, repeating jokes about him that
are told on the street, even making fun of Doña Concha. That’s why many other
professionals and radio announcers who spoke on the radio in support of the
uprising have not been sentenced to death, only Clemen — he even joyfully
broadcast the news of the general’s supposed demise. According to Father, it is
the curse of Uncle Lalo.

In this city, we are breathing anger, mourning, and fear.
Father managed to speak to Memito Trigueros, a member of the condemned men’s
legal defense team, who told him it was a summary trial: each lawyer had only
ten minutes to argue his case, sentences were dictated at two in the morning,
and by five the general had rejected requests for an appeal. Memito confirmed
that the war council has not been adjourned, that they will meet again tonight
to pass judgment on the rest of the coup participants, for the list is long and
includes many who are in custody and others who are still at large.

I have been moving heaven and earth to find out if Pericles is still
at the Central Prison. I managed to speak on the phone with Colonel Palma, the
director: he assured me my husband was there, and perfectly fine, but that
visiting privileges have been suspended until further notice, he said I must
understand that these are extraordinary times. It’s odd, but instead of
arrogance, which is what I expected, I had the impression that Palma was
frightened. I mentioned this to Mingo, who dropped by the house for a cup of
coffee after lunch. He explained that there is much unease, fear, and mistrust
among the officers in the army for, as it turns out, more of them than anyone
could imagine were aware of or involved in the coup. As if this were not enough,
Mingo told me, everybody also knows full well that Ambassador Thurston turned
Tito Calvo over to the general after receiving a promise of clemency, that many
of the officers who took part had recently returned from special courses in the
United States, like Jimmy, and it would be not be surprising if the majority of
the top brass saw these executions as the desperate thrashings of a drowning
man, assuming the Americans have already turned their back on him completely.
That’s what I like sometimes about talking to Mingo, it’s as if Pericles himself
were explaining to me what was going on.

Mingo also told me that among those executed was one
Lieutenant Mancía, a commander of the detachment that was supposed to ambush the
general on his way back from the beach, and apparently the general owed his life
to him because Mancía let him get to the Black Palace, thanks to Father Mario’s
efforts. Poor lieutenant! The general doesn’t forgive the least hint of betrayal
nor does he like to owe anything to a subordinate, that’s what Pericles has
always said. That came up this afternoon while Carmela and Chelón and I were
eating
cemita
cakes and drinking coffee on the porch facing the garden
and discussing the events of the morning; the sun was starting to go down, the
heat was letting up a bit, and we were making fun of Nerón snoring. Chelón
brought up the time the general invited him to the Presidential Palace, around
1936, a few weeks after he executed Lieutenant Baños, which upset us all so much
at the time because the poor young man had done nothing but mouth off in a
drunken outburst, yet the general had wanted to establish a precedent of zero
tolerance for criticism from within the ranks of the army. “He likes to speak
about the beyond, the invisible world, but he has a very strange relationship to
death, he denies it has any meaning, and he has made a hodgepodge, to suit his
needs, of many Eastern doctrines, especially those dealing with reincarnation,
that’s why he says it is worse to kill an ant than a man because the man will
reincarnate and the ant will not,” Chelón said. Then he added: “He was cajoling
me, asking me about the heavenly bodies, about the development of the chakras,
about traveling through time to remember previous incarnations, for he’d heard
that I was knowledgeable about these things; but I was cautious, I pretended to
be a curious neophyte, I didn’t want him to take an aversion to me if he
discovered that I knew more about some subjects then he did. In any case, he
didn’t like me and never invited me again.” “Fortunately,” Carmela said. Then I
recalled, without mentioning a word of it to my friends, what Pericles told me
the morning of the first of February, 1932, as he was about to get into bed
after being up all night: at dawn, when he arrived at the Presidential Palace
from the cemetery to give his eyewitness account that Martí and the other
communist leaders had been executed, he found “the man” in his office, his eyes
red and moist, as if he were suffering a bad conscience, trying to expiate his
guilt for his crime, aware that he had stepped over a line and that there was no
going back. Those tearful eyes, that expression of weakness in the face of the
first executions of his political career, is a secret Pericles has always kept,
one he told only me in the privacy of our bedroom. I now wonder if that silence
might be what’s kept him alive.

Fugitives (II)

1

“I almost fell and broke my ass!” Clemen exclaims,
still trying to catch his breath after their mad dash and collapsing into the
seat next to Jimmy in the first row of a half-empty train car, behind all the
other passengers.

“Brother, shame on you for speaking that way!” Jimmy admonishes him,
then looks at him disapprovingly. He is sitting next to the window. “What
is
the matter with you?”

Clemen turns and look around, afraid somebody may have heard.

“Forgive me, Father. I repent . . . ,” he says, still panting, but
with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes after verifying that no other passenger
could possibly have heard him over the loud clattering of the train. “I meant to
say I almost fell on the stairs . . .”

“Your appearance is reprehensible, Brother,” Jimmy says, as he
checks to make sure his own cassock has not come unbuttoned.

They ran onto the train just as it was pulling out of the station to
avoid the National Guard and prevent anybody from recognizing them at the ticket
window.

“What do you expect?” Clemen grumbles, whispering in Jimmy’s ear.
“After almost a week shut up in that attic, be grateful we didn’t get cramps.”
Then he suggests: “We should look for a compartment.”

They are sitting and facing the direction the train is moving. Jimmy
again looks at the other passengers scattered around the car, then at the
mountains through the window, and says:

“We’ll wait for the conductor, he’ll find us one.”

Clemen is wearing gray trousers and a white shirt; he’s carrying a
backpack. Jimmy is draped in a black cassock; a large crucifix is hanging around
his neck and he has a Bible in his hands.

“Good morning, Father,” says a woman entering the car holding a
little girl by the hand; she immediately crosses herself.

“Good morning, daughter.”

Clemen adopts a docile expression and smiles like an idiot. Jimmy
looks at him and whispers in his ear:

“You don’t have to make yourself look like a mongoloid. Not all
sacristans are mongoloids.”

“Let me play my part the way I think I should,” Clemen responds,
irritated, into Jimmy’s ear. “I’ve got more experience in these things than
you.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it . . .”

Clemen takes advantage of Jimmy looking out the window to poke the
crown of his head with his middle finger, right in the middle of his new
tonsure.

Jimmy is about to react angrily, but at that very moment several
passengers enter the car and greet him with reverence.

“Good day, my children,” Jimmy responds, blessing them with the sign
of the cross. “May God be with you.”

Clemen turns to them with his foolish grin.

“What an imbecile you are,” Jimmy says angrily in his ear. “How dare
you do something like that? If someone had seen you, we’d be in serious
trouble.”

“Nobody saw me,” Clemen whispers.

“I can’t believe it. You don’t take anything seriously. You’re
playing games with our lives.”

“The tonsure suits you,” Clemen says, teasingly. “Nobody would
recognize you.”

Jimmy passes his hand over it, then solemnly declares, “Father
Dionisio knows what he’s doing.”

“Maybe he was a barber before he became a priest . . .”

“He made you look like an orphan in the poorhouse,” Jimmy mutters
between clenched teeth without turning around to look at him, and without losing
the severe expression on his face. “You look better now than you did before . .
.”

Clemen passes both his hands over his shaved head.

The train car has filled up; the engine whistles furiously.

“Move over to this seat,” Jimmy orders him under his breath. “It’s
better if we sit facing each other.

“I don’t like facing backwards, I get sick,” Clemen answers. “I’m
just fine here.”

“Brother, I am ordering you to change your seat,” Jimmy says
sternly.

A young, good-looking woman is standing next to them; she has put
down the two suitcases she was carrying. The train sways; she grabs onto a
handle, about to lose her balance. Clemen jumps up to help her.

“Good morning, Father. May I sit here?”

Clemen quickly moves the suitcases onto the seat facing Jimmy and
gestures for her to sit in the one next to it.

“You are very kind, thank you,” she says.

Her skin is light, as are her eyes, she is slender, and she is
wearing a cream-colored close-fitting dress, her hair pulled back with a red
scarf.

Clemen looks at her, surprised and eager, then immediately gives her
his foolish smile. She smiles at him as she sits down — a gorgeous smile: full
fleshy lips and perfect teeth.

Jimmy looks at her for a second out of the corner of his eye; he
remains in a state of deep concentration, as if he were praying, his Bible on
his lap and held firmly in both hands.

“Did you just get on?” Clemen asks with feigned sheepishness.

“No,” she answers. “I boarded in San Salvador, but I changed cars
because there are a lot of children in the other one, and one was vomiting, the
poor dear . . . , “ she explains, making a face of disgust. “Forgive me for
mentioning it, Father,” she adds, turning to look at Jimmy.

He barely glances up at her with his placid gaze, then subtly nods
in her direction, as if granting her forgiveness.

Clemen is making an even more idiotic face, but he is so enchanted
he doesn’t take his eyes off her.

“Are you quite alright, Brother?” Jimmy asks, turning to look at
Clemen with a stern expression; he then turns to the woman. “He gets a bit
dizzy. He’s not used to traveling by train.”

“I’m fine, Father,” Clemen says and flashes his idiot smile. Then he
asks her, “How far are you going?”

“I’m getting off soon, in San Vicente. And you two?”

“Usulután . . .”

Clemen has placed his knapsack on the ground between his legs; he
bends over to open it and rummage around inside, as if he were looking for
something; he takes the opportunity to sneak a peek at her knees.

“I went to spend the Holy Week with my aunt and uncle, but
everything was so nerve-racking because of the coup . . . ,” she complains.

“Were you in any danger, my daughter?” Jimmy asks.

“It was horrible, Father. My uncle’s house is in the El Calvario
district, near the Second Infantry Regiment. I thought we were all going to die
with all the shooting . . . ,” she says with a groan as she crosses herself.

“Calm yourself, my child, let us thank the Lord that it is all over
now . . .”

Clemen is still bent over, rummaging around in his knapsack,
furtively glancing at the woman’s knees. Jimmy turns to him and asks
sternly:

“Have you lost something, Brother?”

“An orange, Father.”

“Perhaps you left it at the church.”

“I was sure I brought it with me,” he says, sitting up.

“I have an orange,” she says, opening her handbag.

“No, please, my child,” Jimmy stops her. “It won’t be good for him
to eat on the train; it will upset his stomach.”

Clemen glares at him, then quickly resumes his meek expression.

The conductor appears next to him with his blue uniform, his cap,
and his thin, well-groomed moustache.

“Good morning, Father,” he says, greeting him with a little bow.

The woman takes her ticket out of her bag and hands it to him; the
conductor punches it and returns it with a smile that wants to be polite but
oozes lust.

“We’ll pay you now for ours,” Jimmy tells him. “We got to the
station too late to buy them there. We were accompanying some of our congregants
and almost missed our train. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not at all, Father. Where are you going?”

“We boarded at San Rafael Cedros, and we’re getting off at
Usulután.”

Clemen takes some banknotes out of his trouser pocket and hands them
to the conductor, the idiotic smile still on his face.

“Do you think you could possibly arrange a compartment for us
. . . ?” Jimmy asks solicitously.

The conductor looks at the woman.

“For the sacristan and myself,” Jimmy explains. “This has been a
quite exhausting Holy Week, and I would prefer the faithful not to see me
nodding off . . .”

“There are none available at the moment, Father. I’ll see if I can
get you one in San Vicente.”

He hands the tickets and the change to Clemen.

“The Lord would be most grateful, my son.”

The conductor starts to walk away, giving the woman one last look
before he leaves.

“Are you from San Vicente?” Clemen asks the woman.

“Yes,” she answers. “I was born there and still live there.”

“A lovely town,” Clemen says, obsequiously.

“Thank you.”

“Do you live with your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Do you work?”

“I’m a primary school teacher, I teach in the afternoons.”

Jimmy, irritated, clears his throat; he has closed his eyes, as if
trying to concentrate on his prayers.

“How interesting,” Clemen exclaims. “You must love children . .
.”

“Very much,” she says, smiling.

“What’s your name?”

“Ana María,” she answers. “Ana María Fuentes. And you?”

“Tino, they call me Tino,” Clemen answers, flashing a full smile.
“How lucky for you that you’ll soon be at your destination. Your boyfriend will
probably be there waiting for you, won’t he?”

Her face turns bright red.

“Brother, you know very well the Lord does not approve of gossip,”
Jimmy warns him in a strict voice, looking at Clemen out of the corner of his
eye. “Please restrain yourself. Focus on your prayers.”

She lowers her eyes, ashamed. She opens her bag, takes out a
newspaper, unfolds in, and begins to read, holding it up between her and the two
men.

Jimmy and Clemen’s jaws drop, they are in shock, their eyes glued to
the front page: REBELS EXECUTED, the headline reads in huge bold letters. They
swallow hard and exchange looks, their faces as white as sheets.

“How terrible,” she says. “Those poor men . . .”

Jimmy clears his throat, feigning ignorance, as if he hadn’t read
anything.

Clemen’s idiotic expression has twisted into one of fear; now he
looks like a total moron, or madman.

“Who did they execute?” he mutters, his mouth parched, trying to
muster his courage.

“The leaders of the coup,” she says, lowering the paper.

She’s about to hand it to Clemen, but first she turns to Jimmy and
asks him shyly, “Would you like to read it, Father?”

“Let’s see, my child. Let’s see what was going on while we were
celebrating Easter Sunday.”

“No, Father,” she corrects him. “The executions occurred this
morning. The newspaper had just arrived hot off the press when I was about to
board the train.”

Jimmy reads carefully, trying to control any hint of eagerness;
Clemen anxiously tries to read over his shoulder.

“Mr. Tino, that is quite rude,” Jimmy scolds him, folding up the
paper and returning it to the woman. “It’s not polite to read over another
person’s shoulder.”

Clemen practically grabs the newspaper out of her hands.

“Can I see?” he says.

Jimmy shoots him a disapproving glare, then turns to her with a
gesture of resignation.

“They never really learn . . .”

Clemen, pale and shaking, has glued his eyes on the list of the
condemned; Jimmy turns to look out the window and pretends to be nodding
off.

The car is swaying, but Clemen seems too much in shock to be aware
of anything.

“I would be happy to leave you the newspaper, Mr. Tino, but my
parents will want to read the news,” she says, in a quiet voice so as not to
disturb Jimmy.

“They-shot-ten-of-them . . .” Clemen says, enunciating each word
carefully, as if he could barely read.

“Brother! Put that down, it will only upset you!” Jimmy orders him
categorically. “Take your Bible out of your knapsack and practice calming
yourself . . .”

But Clemen continues in a stupefied state and begins to mumble the
names of those who were executed.

“Ge-ner-al-Al-fon-so-Ma-rro-quín, Colo-nel-Ti-to-To-más-Cal-vo,
Ma-jor-Fau-sti-no-So-sa . . .”

Jimmy is about to grab the newspaper out of his hand, but he catches
himself; the woman has lowered her eyes, clearly embarrassed by the
situation.

“Let us pray for the souls of those poor sinners,” Jimmy says, now
fully composed; he joins his hands at his chest, then takes his rosary out of
the pocket of his cassock and, with the Bible on his lap, he intones, “
Domini homini, domini nostro
. For the word of our Lord
is our guide and our salvation . . .”

“Amen,” says the woman contritely.

Clemen turns to look at Jimmy, as if he didn’t understand, then
quickly shakes his head and repeats, “Amen.”

He hands her the newspaper, opens his knapsack, and takes out a
Bible.

“Our Father who art in Heaven . . .” Jimmy begins.

“ . . . hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on
Earth as it is in Heaven . . . ,” the woman and Clemen repeat in unison.

At that very moment, a pair of National Guard soldiers enter the
car; they stop next to them to get their balance, and watch the scene with
surprise. They greet them with a reverential nod of the head, careful not to
interrupt their prayers. They are wearing boots with gaiters, green uniforms,
helmets, and are both carrying rifles.

“ . . . and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil .
. .”

The soldiers walk over to the passengers in the next row and ask to
see their documents.

“Hail Mary, full of grace . . . ,” Jimmy continues in deep
concentration after shooting a scathing glance at the soldiers.

The passengers in that row, obviously frightened, have quickly
pulled out their documents; the soldiers have a list they check the names
against. Clemen, extremely pale and still with the idiotic expression on his
face, doesn’t lift his eyes from his Bible.