Tyrant Memory (12 page)

“Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is
the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .”

The soldiers continue on to the next rows; they order one passenger
to stand up and step into the aisle; one of the soldiers immediately pats him
down.

“Our Father who art in heaven . . .” Jimmy repeats.

The man has turned white; because of the swaying of the car he can
barely keep his balance while he holds his arms out and the soldier searches
him.

“ . . . hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be
done . . .”

The soldier ties his thumbs together behind him and shoves him
forward.

“But I haven’t done anything,” the man cries out, terrified, on the
verge of tears, and barely able to walk.

The guard gives him another shove.

“Father, help me,” he begs as he almost falls on top of the
woman.

“Careful, Doña Ana María,” Clemen exclaims, rising to protect
her.

“May you go with God,” Jimmy says to the man with kindness, his
right hand tracing the sign of the cross in the air. “And confess your sins . .
.”

The man almost falls on his face with the next shove.

“Saint Michael the Archangel . . . ,” Jimmy prays.

“Protect us,” Ana María and Clemen respond in unison.

The soldiers follow the man out of the car.

“Saint Raphael the Archangel . . . ,” Jimmy prays

“Accompany us always, O Lord, protect us from all dangers of body
and soul,” they respond.

“Amen,” all three say. They cross themselves.

The whistle blows.

“What might that poor man have done?” she wonders, still upset.

Jimmy lifts his eyebrows and turns his gaze out the window.

“He’s probably a pickpocket who managed to escape, because they
immediately recognized him,” Clemen says in his normal voice, forgetting his
role for a moment.

“Brother, do not judge others, our Lord is the only judge,” Jimmy
warns him sharply, without even turning to look at him.

Clemen quickly makes himself look like an idiot again.

The woman watches him with curiosity; he looks back at her and grins
foolishly.

“We are approaching your city, Doña Ana María,” Jimmy says. “I can
already see the first houses.”

She turns to look out the window.

“You’re right, Father,” she says.

Clemen has opened his Bible; he’s mumbling as if he were reading,
but he has placed the book on his lap in such a way that he can see the woman’s
knees without her realizing it.

“Excuse me, Father,” she says timidly, “what is your name?”

“Justo, my child,” Jimmy answers, and looks at her with benevolent
eyes; she lowers hers.

“I’m so lucky to have met you, Father Justo,” she says. “After the
fright I had in the capital because of the coup, I don’t know how I would have
felt if you hadn’t been here when they took that man away.”

“We must have faith and trust absolutely in our Lord Jesus Christ,”
Jimmy says solemnly.

She nods and crosses herself. Then she picks up one of the suitcases
from the seat next to her and tries to move it into the aisle, but Clemen
quickly stands up and takes it from her.

“I’ll help you,” he says solicitously.

He picks up both suitcases and carries them into the aisle.

“You dropped your Bible,” she says, and bends over to pick it up;
she places it on Clemen’s seat.

The train is slowing down.

“I’ll go with you to the platform,” Clemen says, still grinning like
an idiot.

Jimmy watches him carefully, then turns to her and says, “Please, my
child, make sure this young man gets back on the train. He is very
absent-minded, and I wouldn’t want to lose him.”

“Don’t worry, Father,” she responds, smiling and getting ready to
stand up, “I won’t budge from the platform until Don Tino has boarded the train
again. Right, Don Tino?”

He nods, moving his head quickly up and down.

“Thank you, and may God be with you, my child,” Jimmy says.

Clemen walks toward the stairs in front of her. Jimmy throws him
another wary look. Then he nods to the other passengers who are walking toward
the exit, an aloof and formal goodbye.

2

“Holy shit, we’ve been sentenced to death!” Clemen
repeats, still in shock and forgetting that he is playing the part of a
sacristan, now that they are riding alone in a compartment where the conductor
brought them.

“What did you expect?” says Jimmy, very worried. “I warned you, that
bastard won’t forgive anybody. Even Don Agustín is on the list.”

They speak under their breath, guardedly; Clemen has placed his
knapsack and his Bible on the seats facing them to discourage other passengers
from joining them.

“If they capture us, they’ll execute us immediately,” Clemen
mumbled, swallowing hard.

Two women are walking down the aisle; they look into the
compartment: they see the priest and the sacristan, then the knapsack and the
Bible on the other seats.

“Forgive us, Father,” one of them says, then they continue on their
way.

“I shouldn’t have left my gun at Father Dionisio’s house,” Jimmy
says with regret.

“It wouldn’t do us any good . . .”

“Sure it would. I’m not going to let them take me prisoner.”

The train is picking up speed.

“Hopefully those soldiers won’t show up again,” Clemen says.

“Remember the story we’re going to tell them if they ask for our
documents, don’t let your nerves get the better of you . . . No, better if you
let me do the talking, as we agreed.”

“You really screwed Major Sosa: it’s completely your fault he was
executed,” Clemen says, distraught.

Jimmy looks out the window at the dry hills and the bottom of the
Jiboa Valley. Then he says drily:

“It wasn’t my fault. He was a moron for letting himself get caught.
I told him he was done for, even though he didn’t support us, I told him we used
his name in the communiqué calling for the uprising. But he didn’t believe
me.”

The train starts descending along the side of the valley.

“Really, you warned him?”

“Uh-huh,” Jimmy says and shifts in his seat. “What hurts most is
that they executed Second Lieutenant Max Calvo . . .”

“He was under your command at the airport?”

They can see the Jiboa River through the window, and further on, the
wide Lempa.

Jimmy nods vaguely, lost in his thoughts.

“Goddamn warlock: he killed all three brothers,” Clemen says.

“Alfonso and Tito paid for their cowardice,” Jimmy mutters, “but Max
could have saved himself if he’d come with us . . .”

A man, obviously drunk, appears at the door to their compartment; he
sways back and forth, it looks like the movement of the train is going to throw
him flat on his back.

“Good day, Father. May I sit with you for a while?” he asks, his
voice slurred.

Clemen looks at Jimmy.

“You mustn’t disturb us, we are about to begin our prayers.”

“Just a little while, Father. All this swaying has made me dizzy . .
.”

“Your dizziness smells a lot like alcohol . . . ,” Jimmy replies,
and he gestures to Clemen to pick up his Bible.

The drunk falls into the seat facing Clemen; he’s a short,
squalid-looking man wearing filthy clothes, as if he’d been sleeping on the
streets, with no socks and scuffed shoes.

“Forgive me, Father,” he mumbles, after letting out a loud belch. He
looks at Clemen, his eyes unsteady, and says, “What an ugly sacristan you’ve
found yourself . . .”

Jimmy smiles; Clemen is again grinning like an imbecile.

“Don’t be misled by appearances, my child, for beauty resides in the
soul.”

Clemen turns to Jimmy, looking even more docile.

“This guy looks like a retard,” the drunk man says, disdainfully,
without taking his eyes off Clemen; then he turns to Jimmy.

“Forgive me, Father.”

“My knapsack . . . ,” Clemen says, getting up to grab it and taking
the opportunity to stamp on the drunk’s foot.

He lets out a groan. “What’s the matter with this retard!” he
exclaims, and gives him a shove.

Without warning, Clemen punches him hard in the stomach. The drunk
keels over, his mouth gaping open.

“Brother!” Jimmy shouts.

“He’s going to throw up!” Clemen says, retreating into the
aisle.

At that very moment, the two soldiers appear behind Clemen, who
doesn’t notice them.

“Officers, please!” Jimmy cries out, and points to the drunk with a
look of disgust.

Clemen turns to look at the soldiers; the blood drains from his
face, as if he were in shock. They request permission to enter and remove the
drunk, who is clutching his stomach and trying to catch his breath with his
mouth hanging open.

“You got away from us, Hoot . . . ,” says the taller, darker soldier
with wiry hair.

“Forgive us, Father, but this bum always sneaks on in San Vicente
and proceeds to harass decent people,” says the other one, chubby with fair skin
and a gold tooth.

The soldiers pick him up and take him out. Clemen moves aside; again
his face has assumed a meek expression.

“That retard hit me . . . ,” the drunk mutters, still breathing with
difficulty.

“We’re going to hit you harder,” the darker-skinned soldier says,
shoving him down the corridor.

Clemen returns to his seat: he takes a deep breath, picks up the
Bible, and opens it at random. He sits there reading, and perspiring. Jimmy
looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks in an undertone.

“That piece of shit pushed me over the edge . . . I’m too
tense.”

“Take it easy. Our lives are at stake. We were lucky those soldiers
didn’t see you. If they’d come a few seconds earlier . . .”

“I hope they don’t believe anything he says . . . ,” Clemen says,
looking scared.

The whistle blows three times. The train slows as it descends into
the valley.

Clemen swats at a fly buzzing in front of his face.

“Hoot . . . what a name . . . ,” Jimmy says. “He didn’t look like an
owl, did he?”

“Nope.”

“Are you still angry?” Jimmy asks, mockingly.

“God damn piece of shit . . . He even brought flies in here.”

Jimmy looks off into the distance; then, with a touch of
apprehension, he says:

“I hope one of the Whites is at the hacienda.”

“Yeah . . . but it’s okay even if they’re not. If we make it there,
we’ll be safe. We’ll get on a plane . . .”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Lindbergh. You’ll fly it, then?”

“There’s always a pilot and a plane at the hacienda. I know that for
a fact. Either Pepe Dárdano or Moris Pérez can fly us out.”

“Let’s pray,” Jimmy says.

Clemen turns to him in surprise, then says sarcastically:

“You’ve even tricked yourself into believing you’re a priest . .
.”

The clattering increases as the train brakes through the
descent.

“It feels weird — no mustache after so many years,” Jimmy mumbles,
rubbing his upper lip.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers appears in the doorway; it’s the
chubby one with the gold tooth. Clemen is caught off guard, but quickly makes
himself look like an idiot again.

“Forgive me, Father, but I’d like to speak with you for a moment,”
the soldier says, removing his helmet to show his respect.

“Would you like to confess, my son?”

The car sways around the curve.

“Not exactly, Father. I just want to ask you a question . . .”

“Come in, my son,” Jimmy says, and invites him to sit down on the
seat in front of him. “But leave your weapon out there, you can’t be armed when
you speak to God.”

The soldier tries to lean his rifle between the seat and the wall of
the compartment, but the movement of the train makes this impossible. So he sits
down and lays the rifle across his legs and the seat next to him, along with the
helmet.

Jimmy points to the weapon and says:

“Not like that, my son. I repeat: you cannot be armed if you wish to
speak with a representative of our Lord.”

The soldier looks confused, it seems he had a difficult time
deciding to approach the priest, and now he doesn’t know what to do with his
rifle.

“Don Tino,” Jimmy orders, “take this good man’s gun and hold onto it
out there in the corridor. And keep still, I don’t want you to hurt yourself
with it.”

The soldier seems relieved. Clemen goes out to the corridor, sits on
the floor with his knees up, and holds the barrel of the rifle, resting the butt
on the floor.

“Pray speak, son,” Jimmy says.

“Nobody’s listening?” asks the soldier, turning to look at Clemen,
then leaning over in the seat to get closer to Jimmy.

“No, my son, not with this racket,” Jimmy answers, also leaning
toward the soldier. “Don’t worry . . .”

The soldier scratches his head nervously, his eyes glued on the
floor.

“What is your name, my son?”

“Eulalio . . .”

Then he stops; he takes a deep breath, as if trying to muster his
courage.

“Why don’t you confess, my son? It’s easier . . .”

“I can’t, Father,” he says, then turns and looks where Clemen is
sitting.

“Why can’t you? Of course, you can. I am here. And the Lord always
listens to the faithful.”

“It’s just that it’s not something that’s happening to me,” he says,
stammering, “but to my brother.”

Jimmy looks at him with a stern expression; he doesn’t speak.

“That’s why I can’t confess . . . ,” he says.

“You’re not hiding behind your brother, are you, son? That would be
a very serious sin.”

“No, Father,” he answers, his eyes still staring at the ground.

“Look at me, son . . .”

The soldier lifts his head; he looks Jimmy in the eyes for a few
seconds, then turns to look out the window, uncomfortable.

At that moment Clemen jumps up, frightened. They both turn to look:
the other soldier rushes into the compartment.