Tyrant Memory (21 page)

I asked my parents to lend me Don Leo so he could take us to the
wake, Betito came with me, and more importantly to pick us up at night, before
the curfew. It was already evening by the time we got there. Don Leo raised his
eyebrows to point out the secret policemen stationed around the house. I assumed
that few people would attend the wake, out of fear, but I was wrong: many
families of officers who’d been executed, both today and fifteen days ago, and
also families of prisoners and the condemned, like us, were crowded into the
house; groups of young people came and went. I had never met the Gavidia family,
only Merceditas. Angelita was sitting with someone who looked to all appearances
to be the mother. I offered my condolences. I thought she would be devastated,
in a state of collapse, but I was surprised by the composure, anger, maybe even
hatred, that I could see in her face. I can’t and don’t even want to imagine the
pain of losing two sons in such an appalling way, but I would not be surprised
if the desire for vengeance acted at such moments as some kind of salve for the
spirit. Angelita explained to me that the families of all three men who were
executed wanted to hold their wakes together, in one place, but the general
forbade it; she also told me that Pepe, the other Gavidia brother who had been
detained, was released this afternoon, as if the warlock had been satisfied with
the blood revenge he had exacted from the other brothers in the military. I
asked where Pepe was, as I wanted to know if he had seen Pericles at the Central
Prison, but it seems Pepe and Merceditas were both resting, they were
devastated. I discovered Doña Chayito and Doña Consuelo conversing on the other
side of the room. I went over to them. Doña Chayito announced that she would
soon return to Lieutenant Marín’s wake, where Doña Julita and some other
neighbors were, and she asked if I wanted to accompany her. Doña Consuelo was
feeling out of sorts, she had a migraine and would soon return home. I looked
for Betito so I could tell him I was going to the Marín family wake, but I
couldn’t find him, he was neither in the house nor out on the patio. But I very
nearly bumped into Fabito: he had just arrived with two other young people. He
greeted me, very solemn and respectful, as always; he is identical to Fabio
senior, even the same nasally voice. I asked him if he’d seen Betito; he said he
hadn’t. Then I asked after Dr. Romero’s health, because Carlota had told me that
her son is in constant contact with the doctors who are attending him in San
Miguel. He explained that he is now out of danger, the machete wound on his face
is healing, and the goal now is to not let him recover too quickly, to prevent
the tyrant from ordering his execution. I noticed that Fabito and Doña Chayito
greeted each other familiarly, like long-time accomplices. I asked him, if he
ran into Betito, to please tell him I was going to the Marín family wake for a
while and would soon return; I went to Angelita and asked her to do the
same.

Doña Chayito was waiting for me out on the sidewalk. It was already
getting dark. We had barely walked half a block when Don Leo pulled up alongside
us in the car and stopped. This was unexpected, because we had agreed he would
return to pick me up at nine at night, and I assumed he was at my parents’
house. As if to excuse himself, he said that Father had instructed him to remain
at my disposal. “Get in,” Doña Chayito said quickly; two secret policemen were
standing on the corner. I asked Don Leo if he had seen Betito leave. He said
that Henry, Flaco, and Chepito had picked him up in Chepito’s car. Halfway
there, checking to make sure Don Leo didn’t see her through the rearview mirror,
Doña Chayito, without any fuss, put her hand down her belly, under her skirt and
her underpants, and pulled out a small piece of paper, which she unfolded and
gave to me; it was another communiqué from the university students, a different
one than Raúl had brought over this morning, as I could see from the heading. It
would have been very difficult for me to read it in that light. I folded it back
up and hid it in my brassiere.

“Things are even worse here,” Don Leo said, stopping the car. There
was a National Guard checkpoint blocking the street the Marín’s house is on. I
got nervous. A soldier approached the car and asked for our documents; he asked
Don Leo where we were going. “To the wake,” I came out with, and I still don’t
know where I got the courage. The soldier went over to an officer standing
nearby, looked over our documents for a few minutes that seemed to last forever,
and wrote our names down in a book. “Two hours ago this checkpoint wasn’t here,”
Doña Chayito muttered. The soldier returned and, as he handed back our
documents, he leaned over and gave me a sinister glare. “Pass,” he barked. I was
in a cold sweat. “There might be one at the other wake by the time we get back
there,” Don Leo commented. But according to Doña Chayito, the warlock sending
the soldiers here was yet another act of cruelty against the family, because
they say he personally tortured Víctor Manuel, but failed to break his will,
failed to get him to give anyone else away.

When we got out of the car, I feared my legs would buckle under me;
I grabbed on to Doña Chayito’s arm. Just a few family members were there; I had
already met some of them outside the Central Prison and also at Sunday Mass. I
gave my condolences and went to sit next to Doña Julita and her daughter,
Leonor. The atmosphere was more infused with terror than mourning. I couldn’t
hold out any longer, and asked where the washroom was. While I was taking care
of my business, I took out the communiqué I’d hidden in my brassiere; I tore it
up into little pieces and flushed it down the toilet. I returned to the living
room. Doña Chayito was complaining about the checkpoint, explaining that many
people would refrain from coming to offer their condolences as a result of it. I
accepted a coffee. I calmed down a little. I watched the Maríns’ mother, the
poor dear was weeping incessantly, and then would suddenly burst into sobs. I
got chills wondering if they’d tortured Lieutenant Alfonso as they had his
brother, Víctor Manuel. I told myself probably not, everybody says the general
lashes out more violently against civilians. I felt like I was drowning, as if
they had just notified me that Clemen had been captured. I took out my rosary
beads and began to pray, trying to chase away those dreadful thoughts. But I was
unable to lessen my agitation, the pounding in my heart and temples. I was
determined to finish my rosary. Then I told Doña Chayito I wasn’t feeling well
and would soon leave; I asked her if she would be staying at the Maríns’ or if
she wished us to take her someplace else. She asked me to take her to Captain
Piche’s house. I felt somewhat guilty saying goodbye, so few people were in
attendance, and the crushing density of the sorrow was felt acutely in that
almost empty room. It was dark when we went out to look for Don Leo. I prayed to
God we wouldn’t have any trouble getting through the checkpoint. We passed
without any difficulty, I didn’t even see the soldier with the sinister eyes; I
felt lighter, now that I wasn’t carrying that communiqué, though I knew a
migraine was hovering, about to attack and lay me low at any moment. Doña
Chayito gave Don Leo directions. The city felt dismal, as if the wind were fear,
blowing through the streets. There were no soldiers in the area, only secret
policemen snooping around. I told Don Leo I would stop in only for a moment to
offer my condolences, and we would leave in less than a quarter of an hour.
There were the same amount of people here as at the Gavidias’. Angelita was near
the door, greeting people; she told me she had just arrived, she had heard about
the checkpoint in front of the Maríns’ house, and she unfortunately wouldn’t be
able to make it there tonight. Then with some urgency she pulled me over to a
corner and asked me if I had any news about Clemen. My heart skipped a beat.
“No, why, my dear?” I managed to stutter. She told me she’d just been assured
that Jimmy is fine, but they didn’t give her any details, and she wanted to know
if I had heard anything she hadn’t. I told her the men in my family and
Pericles’s family share the opinion that life-and-death secrets should not be
shared with women, so I was totally in the dark.

I returned home even more unsettled, and still now, after writing
down all the events of the day, anxiety is gnawing away inside me, as if
something important were happening right next to me without my being aware of
it. Fortunately, the migraine has passed. Betito was dropped off a while ago; I
scolded him for having disappeared without letting me know. He told me that when
he returned to the Gavidias’, I was already gone, and he and his friends had
some other things to do. I saw in his eyes the fervor of someone who has
embarked on an adventure; I warned him to be careful. Only now do I realize,
with a heavy conscience, that I haven’t thought about Pericles even once all
day. My poor husband.

Tuesday April 25

A ray of sunshine after the storm! They released Chente
and the other medical students who were arrested last Wednesday. The government
lifted the curfew; they also authorized the opening of the Club and the Casino.
And an assistant to Colonel Palma, the director of the Central Prison, called
when I wasn’t home and left a message with María Elena to tell me to appear
early tomorrow morning because visits would now be allowed to political
prisoners. We were all surprised, happy. I wouldn’t have believed any of it if I
hadn’t been at my neighbors’ house celebrating with Chente. God willing they
will soon free Pericles, and tomorrow I can bring everything we have packed for
him: clothes, food, personal grooming items. Betito will accompany me even if it
means he’ll get to school late. My mother-in-law called to tell me she regretted
not being able to come, her arthritis has her bent over in pain, and would I
please give Pericles her blessing. Doña Chayito and the other members of the
group are hopeful that our family members will be released in the next few days;
we’ll meet in front of the Central Prison.

I dined at my parents’ house; Uncle Charlie stopped by, but he only
drank whiskey. According to him, the gringos are furious about the executions,
and they have made it clear to the general that they are considering sending in
the military police to protect American citizens in the event of a new uprising,
and it is this threat that has forced him to back down. “He isn’t cowered by a
threat like that,” Father commented. Then he said: “That warlock must have
something up his sleeve: he’s loosening things up to see who will lift their
heads so he can lop them off.” I put in my two cents: I told them that the why
and the wherefore didn’t matter, the important thing was that I would be able to
visit Pericles and that the students had been released. Mother mentioned that
Carlota is happy the clubs are open for there will be no problem now with Luz
María’s wedding.

I have checked and rechecked the provisions I am taking to Pericles
several times; I don’t want to forget anything. These twenty days without seeing
my husband seem like an eternity. I am nervous, like a girl about to see her
sweetheart after a long separation. All these bad experiences I’ve had in the
last few weeks have turned a little red light on in my head, a warning light not
to get shaken too badly if things go haywire again, if the Devil starts
whispering again in the warlock’s ear.

Wednesday April 26

Finally, I was able to spend an entire hour with
Pericles! I have no words to describe what I felt. At first, while we were being
searched, and the guards were rummaging through the suitcase and the basket, I
couldn’t contain my excitement, as if I were a little girl about to get the toy
I had always wanted, but once I was face-to-face with Pericles, I controlled
myself, though I was so happy I kept wanting to jump up and throw my arms around
him. The first thing he did, after we greeted each other, was look through the
basket to find the cigarettes and he immediately lit one up, then he asked me to
pour him a cup of coffee from the thermos. He looked over the other things; he
laughed at the after-shave lotion: he said he had made his peace with smelling
bad, but the problem would be to keep it away from his fellow prisoners who
would want to drink it. We talked about everything; he was very happy they let
Betito in. I told him I had no news about Clemen, I told him about the fright we
had upon leaving church on Sunday, about Chente’s arrest and subsequent release,
and all the political gossip. Betito excitedly told him about the prospect of a
general strike led by university students. He told us to be very careful, to
remember that one should never confront “the man” head on; he said most of the
prison guards treat the political prisoners well, even with respect: among the
prison authorities a lot of uncertainty reigns, many are convinced that sooner
or later change will come and that “the man” will end up leaving. He asked me to
call Pati as soon as we got home to reassure her that he is fine so she doesn’t
worry. I told him I would tell his mother the same thing, the poor dear wanted
to come but her arthritis was acting up. As the time passed I started to notice
the toll imprisonment was taking on him, a twitch in his right eye, his cough
worse than ever, his pallor. I told him I would bring some cough syrup next time
I came. He chain-smoked during the whole visit; it’s the first time in jail that
getting cigarettes has been the biggest challenge, he said. Then he asked after
Mila and the grandchildren. I hoped to sound natural when I told him they were
fine in spite of her complaints about her economic difficulties; but I’ve never
known how to lie to my husband: he threw me an inquisitorial look, turned to
Betito, then grew quiet. I told him that yesterday, when I heard about the
lifting of the curfew, I called the lawyer, Mr. Pineda, who told me the
conditions might now be more favorable for moving his case through the courts.
Pericles told me not to build up any hope, that his release will have nothing to
do with any courts — it will only come when “the man” orders it or because “the
man” isn’t in power anymore. It took all my strength to say goodbye, and hold
back the tears. As I left I tried to find Sergeant Flores to ask him when we
could visit next, but on the wall in the hallway there was a sign posted that
stated that we could return on Saturday morning.