Tyrant Memory (17 page)

At lunchtime, Betito brought a leaflet from the university students
that called for the overthrow of the general; though as yet there was no mention
of the arrests of the morning, it ends with a sentence I will never be able to
forget: “We must act like men, not dumb beasts: throw off the yoke of the
tyrant.” He offered to type up a copy I could take to our meeting in the
afternoon. But there was no meeting: Doña Consuelo called, sounding very
frightened, she told me the tea for Leonor had been canceled, she was very
sorry, she would explain later, for now it would be better if we didn’t pay her
any visits. I assumed the general’s spies had insolently positioned themselves
in front of the house, intimidating her. Doña Chayito confirmed this when she
came over this afternoon, having been alarmed by the number of policemen
watching the committee members; she warned me that we must be extremely careful
about what we say over the phone, it would be best to find ways of arranging our
meetings when we are face-to-face or through messengers. For a brief moment
while we were having coffee and
cemita
cakes in the living room, she
looked overwhelmed, exhausted, as if she no longer knew where to go from here; I
felt frightened because at that moment I understood that a large part of my own
self-confidence to stand in the street and demand Pericles’s freedom came from
this woman, from her determination and drive, this woman who is not a friend of
mine and doesn’t even belong to my social circle. Fortunately, Doña Chayito
quickly returned to her usual high spirits: she said we mustn’t despair, these
new arrests will rebound in our favor because our movement will grow, and we
must be prepared for this to happen, for now I should focus on getting the
Alvarados involved, and she would come visit me tomorrow, Friday, at noon, or
would send Leonor, Doña Julita’s daughter, with precise instructions.

I would have liked to go to my parents’ house, but after Doña
Chayito left, my period and its attendant discomforts obliged me to take to my
bed again: I felt overwhelmed by sorrow and despair, morbid forebodings about
Clemen, Pericles, and Chente, until I fell fast asleep. María Elena woke me up
when she entered the room with a cup of tea; she told me it was time for dinner,
said it wouldn’t be good for me to spend the whole night with an empty stomach,
and that Raúl had come a while ago to ask how I was. I asked if he had given her
any news about Chente; he is still being held at the Black Palace, that is all
she knew. It took a great deal of effort to get on my feet. Betito had stayed at
my parents’ house to eat, she said; then she insisted on forcing me to eat
something even though I wasn’t the least bit hungry. That’s how María Elena is:
based on her age, she could be my daughter, but sometimes she acts like my
mother.

Two other doctors were at Raúl’s house; when I arrived they
were carrying on an animated conversation. Raúl introduced me; they were Dr.
Salazar and Dr. Moreno, the fathers of two other students who had been arrested.
All three men seemed anxious and were drinking whiskey; Rosita looked improved,
though her gaze was unfocused, as if lost. Dr. Salazar told me he knew Pericles
and Clemen, and he expressed his regrets, but he said it seemed the general had
made a point of having at least one member of every family behind bars. I asked
after the boys. Raúl told me they were being held at the Black Palace, but the
director, Colonel Monterrosa, had given assurances to the board of the
Salvadoran Medical Association that they would not be mistreated and that normal
due process would be followed, though he warned that because they had violated
the provisions of the state of siege, the students could remain detained for as
long as the authorities deemed necessary. Dr. Moreno explained that the general
hopes the Salvadoran Medical Association will lose heart and therefore cease to
appeal for clemency for Dr. Romero, whom he plans to put in front of a firing
squad as soon as his injuries heal. Raúl told me they have already organized a
team of lawyers from the same university to defend the students, and they have
received authorization to visit them tomorrow morning. Rosita cried out
passionately that the only thing she wanted was to see her son, touch him, have
absolute proof that they haven’t done anything terrible to him. That is what we
all wish for most, I told her. I then told the doctors about the difficulties we
are having visiting our family members at the Central Prison, the ways we are
working together to demand visiting rights, and the threatening and harsh
responses we’ve gotten from the general, including all the ladies in the
committee being under police surveillance. I wished them luck getting in to see
their sons tomorrow and said it would be good in any case to support each other,
combine our efforts, which — as they must surely already know — have the support
of the American ambassador. Dr. Moreno said certainly, we could count on them,
tonight they would speak to their wives and would have them get in touch with me
and Rosita; Dr. Salazar agreed. Then, after discussing the reports of Dr.
Romero’s health, they threw back their whiskeys and left. “Who would ever have
guessed we would find ourselves in such a situation,” Raúl said as he saw me to
the door; Rosita broke out in tears.

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.

“What the hell do you want me to think about? Another week in that
house and I would have ended up screwing Sóter . . .”

“Here comes Adrián and the oarsmen,” Jimmy says. Then he takes out
his pocket watch and mumbles, “We’re still in time to catch the current.”

They’ve appeared from between the shacks; they walk quickly toward
the jetty. The guide is carrying a rolled-up sail; the two oarsmen are carrying
a heavy barrel between them.

“What’re they carrying in there?” Clemen asks.

“Drinking water,” Jimmy says as he starts toward them.

Clemen turns, squinting, to the metallic blue horizon; then he looks
at the clear sky. He rubs his face with both hands.

“I hope I don’t get seasick,” says Clemen, sitting on the
starboard side facing the open sea, both hands clutching the side of the canoe;
Jimmy is on the port side, his eyes glued on the coast, the shotgun held between
his legs.

“You feel sick?” Jimmy asks him.

Clemen turns to look at the guide, who is back on the bow peeling an
orange and throwing the peels into the sea.

“No,” he says, “but I’m not used to being in a boat.”

“What about when you went to Europe with your parents?”

The canoe is moving perpendicular to the coast, heading slowly out
to sea, rocking as it goes.

“That was ten years ago,” Clemen says, “and this isn’t anything like
an ocean liner.”

The fat oarsman looks at Clemen and smiles. The other, an emaciated
man with one eye, hasn’t lifted his head; his eyes remain on the floor of the
canoe.

“You think we’ll catch the current?” Jimmy asks the guide.

He has just popped half the orange into his mouth and can’t speak.
He gestures with his head toward San Nicolás, the jetty they left about ten
minutes before, which they can still see from this distance in spite of the
glare.

Jimmy turns around and squints: a boat is approaching the jetty. The
metallic shine is clear, unmistakable.

“I think we’re in luck,” the guide says then leans over the water to
rinse off his hands.

Clemen turns to look. At first he’s baffled, but a few second later
he understands: he blinks anxiously, swallows hard, then turns to look out to
sea.

The oarsmen, their backs to the jetty, haven’t seen a thing.

“When will you raise the sail?” Jimmy asks the guide, as if nothing
at all had happened.

The guide picks his teeth with his fingers, determined to get out
the last pieces of orange.

“We’ve got a while yet,” he says.

Clemen leans over to Jimmy, cupping his mouth with his hands, and
whispers in his ear, “What if the soldiers saw us and decide to come after
us?”

“We’re too far away,” Jimmy murmurs. “You can relax.”

The one-eyed oarsman has a bout of coughing, but he doesn’t stop
rowing or look up.

Soon the boat and the jetty have become a blur, quivering through
the mist and the shimmering glare.

“What did you think of Don Mincho’s livestock?” the guide asks as he
moves toward the center of the canoe and the barrel of drinking water. “That
orange was too sweet,” he says as he takes the drinking gourd filled with water
out of the barrel.