Tyrant Memory (26 page)
Authors: Horacio Castellanos Moya
I entered the house for only a moment to ask María Elena if there
was any news, then went straight to the Alvarados’. Raúl told me that Dr. Luis
Velasco had taken on the directorship of Rosales Hospital this morning, and in
order to avoid suffering any further humiliation at the hands of the warlock,
all the doctors had decided to go out on strike. He was thrilled because he had
been able to see Chente at noon; he says he is doing well in spite of the days
he has spent in hiding. Rosita never stops complaining. I asked them if they had
noticed that there was no surveillance on our street. Raúl said it seems the
general has given orders for the policemen to return to their barracks, perhaps
he fears another military uprising in support of the strike.
Then I came home to prepare the things I would take to Pericles
tomorrow. I don’t want to think about what God holds in store for us; it won’t
do any good to torture myself. I’ve spoken to Doña Chayito: she has assured me
that all the ladies in the committee will show up at the Central Prison to
demand our visiting hour; strike or no strike, it is our right. I’m not sure if
I’ll tell Pericles about my adventure this afternoon; it may only make him
worry. I’ll decide once we are together.
(10 at night)
I have just learned that an important meeting is being
held tonight at the Alcaine compound: many people have gathered there to form a
government to take over when the warlock falls, which will happen soon, in the
next few hours, they say. God willing. Betito told me all about it, he came home
a while ago, all in a flurry, rushing in then out. He saw Father there, and
Uncle Charlie, and many of their friends, and Fabito and Chente, Dr. Velasco,
Mingo, and even Doña Chayito, among other people we know. I was quite moved: my
son was upset that they didn’t let him into the meeting; only one representative
from the group of high school students was allowed in, and Chepito was chosen. I
reminded him to be very careful.
Saturday May 6
I’m dead tired, exhausted, as if the fatigue of the
entire week has suddenly crashed down on me. All I want to do is sleep. The
strike is growing, but the warlock has counterattacked. Father says Monday will
be the decisive day, the showdown.
I wasn’t able to see Pericles. No visits were allowed; neither the
director nor Sergeant Flores showed his face. The moment we arrived, early this
morning, the guards warned us no visits would be allowed for the political
prisoners, it would do us no good to wait or voice any complaints, they were
only following orders. Doña Chayito and a group of students took the opportunity
to pass out circulars and make speeches in favor of the strike to the dozens of
families of prisoners who had gathered in front of the Central Prison. There
were cheers, clamors, shouts of defiance. As if we had all shed our
inhibitions.
At last night’s meeting at the Alcaines’, a Committee of National
Reconstruction was formed, which will take charge of negotiating the warlock’s
departure; Dr. Alcaine himself is on the committee and is the bankers’
representative, and Dr. Velasco represents the professional associations,
according to what Father told me. The strike is going full-steam ahead: city
employees, those in the Vice-Ministry of Public Works and in the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs, have all decided to walk out on Monday, when it is hoped that
other government offices will follow suit and join the strike. I mentioned that
poor Dr. Ávila will have no choice but to resign, but Mother was not so certain
after speaking with Doña Tina.
The whole day has been filled with rumors, meetings, to-ing and
fro-ing. They say delegates from the Legislative Assembly and members of the
cabinet itself have shown up at the presidential palace, trying to persuade the
general to step down, but he will not budge, on the contrary, he has begun to
apply pressure on business owners to reopen their shops, using circulars,
telephone calls — an unknown group was even banging on the doors of La Dalia
department store and issuing threats. The latest rumor is that hordes of
peasants armed by the government are congregating at the army barracks, ready to
enter San Salvador and force businesses to open. God willing, this is only a
rumor.
I am going to bed; I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. I’ve left a
note for Betito on the dining room table, asking him not to forget to come give
me a good-night kiss.
Sunday May 7
They killed Juan’s son! The police fired into a group of
boys as they were leaving his house and killed Chepito White. Betito was there,
heaven forbid, with Henry, Flaco, and the rest of their friends. I thank God
nothing happened to my son. Poor Chepito! He was only seventeen years old, what
a terrible tragedy. That evil warlock! It’s not enough for him to kill his own
comrades-in-arms, now he orders the slaughter of innocent children . . . Betito
is very upset: he watched his friend bleed to death. My poor child. The things
we are fated to see, Lord . . . When we heard the news, we all poured into the
streets in outrage. The Whites are Americans, one of the best families in El
Salvador; they say Ambassador Thurston has gone to demand the resignation of
that murderer. I have rushed home to change into mourning clothes so I can
attend the wake.
(Midnight)
The warlock must fall soon, very soon, unless he decides
to kill us all! Father and his friends say it is a matter of hours now that the
entire cabinet has tendered its resignation. That’s the least they could do. Not
another soul could fit in the Whites’ house; when I went outside to get some air
I couldn’t believe my eyes: thousand and thousands of people were filling
several blocks in every direction, as if all the inhabitants of the city had
come out to repudiate the general. Carlota and Luz María and I wandered around,
taking it all in. All our friends and acquaintances were there, entire families,
even babies; many couldn’t even make it into the Whites’ house, though they
tried. The university students set up security to keep the crowd organized and
avoid disturbances; they even protected the houses of the ministers in the
neighborhood, like that of Don Miguel Ángel and Don Rodolfo Morales himself,
where they say the agent was standing when he shot Chepito. The police have
remained in their barracks, warlock’s orders. The burial will be tomorrow at ten
in the morning; the whole country has come to a grinding halt. Uncle Charlie
told us that Pan Am is cancelling all its flights. I spoke with my sister
Cecilia from Carlota’s house: she said that people in Santa Ana are also furious
and have taken to the streets, city employees have gone on strike, and tomorrow
the city will shut down. Luz María told me that late this afternoon she went
with some friends to the house of the manager of the railroads, an old friend of
the family’s, to convince him that no trains should run to the interior of the
country tomorrow; she said the man was dismayed by Chepito’s murder, impressed
that young society ladies were so dedicated to the cause, and he assured them he
will make sure the engineers don’t leave the station. When I got here, I met up
with Chente; we hugged each other as if we were friends of the same age, as if
he wasn’t as old as my children; I was so happy to see him safe and sound. These
young people are so resilient; Betito didn’t want to come home, he said he was
going to stay awake the whole night, with his friends, doing whatever there was
to do. Don Leo brought me home. I must sleep a bit. María Elena told me Pati has
been calling, very concerned. It’s too late now. I will call her early tomorrow,
before I leave for the funeral.
Monday May 8
The warlock resigned! He announced it over the radio, at
seven tonight, while thousands and thousands of us stood in the plaza in front
of the National Palace, where we had gone en masse after Chepito’s funeral. I
was with María Elena and Doña Chayito, next to the cathedral, when we heard the
news. After embracing each other, surrounded by cries of joy and the cheering
crowd, we left quickly for the Central Prison. There were droves of us gathering
in front of the gates to demand the release of our family members. The prison
guards were terrified; they took cover and said their chiefs weren’t there and
they could not make any decisions. We didn’t cease with our demands, with
slogans and chants, which were answered by the prisoners inside. There was a
festive atmosphere; even the security guards were joking around and celebrating.
Then Sergeant Flores appeared, he said he had just spoken on the phone with
Colonel Palma, who said the prisoners would not be released until tomorrow, just
as soon as the order signed by the new minister had arrived. Not one of us
wanted to budge until our family members were released, but then I realized that
the best thing would be to find Father so his friends would put pressure on the
new minister. We went back to the plaza. We found Carmela, Chelón, and many
other friends, all happy and celebrating. I ran into Chente, Fabito, and Raúl,
who explained to me that negotiations to form a new cabinet will take all night,
the strike will continue until the warlock leaves the country. I came home to
call Pati and tell her what was going on, the poor thing was quite worried there
in Costa Rica. I was about to pick up the handset when I got a call from Mila.
My God, the woman was completely drunk! I hung up immediately because I have no
desire for this joyous moment to be spoiled in any way. I told Pati that her
father will come home tomorrow and her brother can now come out of hiding,
wherever he may be, as soon as they declare the amnesty. God has answered my
prayers!
Part 2
The Lunch (1973)
SARPEDON: Nobody ever kills himself.
Death is destiny.
—
Dialogues with Leuco
, Cesare
Pavese
Old Man Pericles called at ten thirty in the morning. Carmela
answered the phone: surprised to hear his voice, she invited him over to eat,
telling him she was making a casserole he would love. A bit apprehensive, I took the
handset: he told me he needed to talk to me; he wanted to know if it was a good time
for me. I asked him where he was calling from. He said he was in the public phone
booth in front of the hospital. I told him Carmela had already invited him, and he
should come without delay. I wanted to believe his voice sounded as it always did: a
stranger to dismay. When I hung up, Carmela questioned me by raising her eyebrows; I
must have given her a look of resignation.
I returned to the terrace and my rocking chair, where I spend my
mornings, but I couldn’t take up my reading again. Old Man Pericles was barely two
years old than me, and his time was coming. I felt uneasiness waft over me like a
light breeze from the patio. I got up and stretched. Then I went to my studio, to my
writing desk, and reread the notes I’d written at dawn. I was thinking that what I
needed was a scarecrow to scare off the crows in my mind.
A short while later, I thought I heard Carmela in the living room
dialing the phone. I assumed she was calling María Elena, the Aragóns’ maid, the
only person who now lived in the house with Old Man Pericles. Carmela whispered so I
wouldn’t hear; I disapprove of her meddling in other people’s lives, fretting over
the old man as if he were a defenseless child and not a seventy-five-year-old
adult.
It would take Old Man Pericles approximately forty-five minutes to get
to the house. We live at the top of the mountain, across the street from the last
bus stop, in front of the entrance to Balboa Park, which is bustling every Sunday
with people who come up from the city. The house is small, but more than enough for
two old folks like Carmela and I; the patio abuts the most heavily forested section
of the park. The air is clean and the night sky is awe-inspiring. We’ve been living
here almost fifteen years. It is true, the area is getting more and more crowded.
There’s more noise: during the day, youngsters play on the street, and buses arrive
and depart every twenty minutes. But at night, silence takes hold, broken only by
the chirping of the crickets.
Old Man Pericles would take a bus from Rosales Hospital to downtown,
then get on the number 12 bus, which would bring him here. Once a month, at least,
he came for lunch, whenever he was in the country — and not in jail or in exile,
which fortunately he hadn’t been for the last year and a half. The last time was
when he was stopped by customs at Ilopango Airport, interrogated, then immediately
deported by plane to Costa Rica. The press said the authorities had prevented a
well-known communist from entering the country and bringing money from Moscow to
finance subversive activities. I told myself that some perverse fear must be eating
away at people who can treat an old man this way.
Once in a while, at dawn, I still write a few lines in my
diary, I jot down a verse, an aphorism; in the mornings, as the sun is rising, I
draw, make sketches, sometimes just a few lines; toward evening, I like to pick up
my brushes, stand in front of the picture window overlooking the park, and
contemplate the swath of green that joins the deep blue. For more than fifty years
such idleness has been my vocation. Old Man Pericles always said that no art makes
sense; I never argued with him, though on one or another occasion a crack would show
up in his hard shell, and he’d admit to having “sinned,” that is, written a few
verses. Never, of course, would he have read them to me: he would say that this
business of lifting up one’s tail feathers to display one’s rear end is only for
peacocks, not leathery old birds. “Bitter ones,” I would answer, and he would just
smile, because I’d reminded him that at the beginning he too had illusions, the muse
of poetry had also tempted him, but he had succumbed to a different temptation, the
one he called “the perfidious wench” — wretched politics.
Carmela entered the studio, walked up to the desk where I was
sitting and digressing; she placed her hand on my shoulder and offered me a glass of
fresh watermelon drink. She also had not stopped thinking about Old Man Pericles.
Fifteen days before he’d confided in us that he had just been diagnosed with lung
cancer. We were sitting in the rocking chairs on the terrace, drinking coffee after
lunch. And he said, without any preamble and without any particular emphasis, while
smoking, that they had told him that morning at the hospital, the exam results in
hand. “No return,” he said with a grin, words I remember precisely because they were
the same two words he would use whenever he wanted to mock the possibility of the
eternal return, an idea I sometimes liked to entertain.