Tyrant Memory (4 page)

When I got home, I went to my bedroom, closed the door, and cried.
Once I’d unburdened myself, I tried to call Clemen at the radio station, but he
wasn’t there. Then Betito arrived, I told him about his father’s transfer, and
we ate in silence; my poor boy is so angry and finds no way to express it. I
think perhaps I shouldn’t tell Pati, it might adversely affect her pregnancy. My
sister Cecilia called me quite dismayed, she asked if I wanted her to come from
Santa Ana to keep me company. I thanked her but told her there was no need, she
mustn’t worry. This time I called Clemen at home. Mila answered, she sounded
drunk, was completely beside herself, and began cursing my son and warning me
that he had gotten himself into who knows what kind of a fix, he was out
partying with the Castaneda brothers, who knows in which whore house, he almost
never comes home. My daughter-in-law is an ordinary woman; I once heard rumors
that she had committed adultery. My son is no better. I pray for both of them,
and for their children.

As I look back over this day in the silence of the night, feeling
calmer now only because I am utterly exhausted, I reproach myself for clinging
to that foolish hope yesterday that Pericles would be freed, and now it seems as
if I was carrying that hope for a long time, as if an eternity rather than a
mere twenty-four hours had passed. My greatest comfort was a visit from Carmela
and Chelón: we dined together, Chelón spoke about the new book of poems he plans
to publish, he proposed jokingly that I should let him dig around in Pericles’s
papers, taking advantage of his absence to find the verses he writes in secret,
which he so categorically denies doing. And then, when Carmela mentioned that
yesterday morning she had seen Clemente leaving the Letona Building, Chelón
tried to mimic the way Mariíta Loucel recites her poems. We almost died
laughing, because the truth is it seemed he was mimicking Clemen, that clown,
mimicking Mariíta. They were particularly amusing, as if they had deliberately
set out to entertain me, offer me a pleasant respite, talk about other things; I
am so grateful to them.

A few moments ago, just as I was finishing up writing about my day
in this diary, I received a strange telephone call; it was General Alfonso
Marroquín, leader of the First Infantry Regiment. He asked to speak to Pericles,
as if he didn’t know that he was still under arrest and had been transferred to
the Central Prison. I brought him up to date. He said nothing; he apologized for
disturbing me so late at night, then hung up. General Marroquín is a close
friend of “the man”; Pericles considers him a cruel and contemptible
general.

Saturday, April 1

There’ll be no more privileges, that’s what Pericles told
me this afternoon while we were talking in the room where the other prisoners
also receive family visits. I felt disoriented, I didn’t know whom to turn to,
how to ask for a minimum of privacy, unnerved by the fact that my husband and I
were being treated like common criminals, disoriented the moment I had to stand
in line, show my documents, be searched, and wait like everybody else, when my
mentioning Sergeant Flores served no purpose whatsoever, for they informed me
that he didn’t work today, nor had he left any instructions; on the other hand,
I was quite impressed by the solidarity among the families of the prisoners, the
camaraderie among people of differing social classes who all seem to be victims
of the same great injustice. Pericles told me that he was doing fine there, that
he shares a cell with two students, by the family names of Merlos and Cabezas,
who have also been arrested for political reasons and who show my husband great
respect and consideration, as I myself could ascertain when they approached us
with their respective families to introduce themselves. As I commented to my
parents later, Pericles seemed genuinely animated, even optimistic, as if
contact with different kinds of people was his oxygen. He told me the routine is
almost like in the military, it feels good to exercise in the early morning in
the prison patio, his conversations with the young students have been
stimulating, and the most outrageous rumors are circulating about the imminent
fall of “the man.” Then I told him as discreetly as possible about the strange
late-night phone call I had received from General Marroquín; he sat thinking for
a few moments but didn’t say anything. I’m concerned about the hygiene of the
facilities, because in the Black Palace he had access to the officers’
washrooms, whereas in the Central Prison he must use the same toilets as all the
other prisoners. As I was leaving I asked the guards if I could visit him
tomorrow at the same time, but they told me the prisoners who are allowed a
family visit on Saturday are not allowed one on Sunday, and vice versa. I asked
to speak to the man in charge, but, just as I suspected, to no avail. I came
home quickly to get the personal telephone number of Colonel Palma, the director
of the Central Prison, to request authorization to visit tomorrow and to request
some kind of clarification of the situation before the Holy Week holidays; his
wife answered, she told me the colonel was not in and promised to give him my
message. I didn’t hear from him all day. My father tried to get in touch with
that general, Chaquetilla Calderón, to see if he could personally intercede to
get permission for me to visit daily, but it seemed Chaquetilla hadn’t been seen
since noon at the Military Casino after he had already ingested half a bottle of
whiskey. Fortunately, I brought Pericles food for two days.

Clemen showed up before dinner, tipsy again, and unusually agitated.
I asked him what he had been up to in the last few days; I complained that I’d
been trying to get in touch with him at the station and at home and hadn’t been
able to. He acted very mysterious: he admitted he was deeply involved in
something of utmost importance, but he couldn’t yet reveal any information. I
didn’t insist because it makes me furious to see how easily he lies, another
characteristic he inherited from his Uncle Lalo. We spoke about his father’s
situation; he told me he knew about the transfer, he regretted not having been
able to accompany me either yesterday or today to the Central Prison, but we
must remain vigilant, he said, for soon that swine of a general would get what
was coming to him. I told Clemen that if I manage to get permission to visit his
father tomorrow, it would be good if he came with me, at the Central Prison
there aren’t the same restrictions as at the Black Palace, others can also visit
the prisoner. He told me I shouldn’t get my hopes up, there are rumors that this
Sunday is going to be a dangerous day, and it would be best if I stayed home.
There was a certain excitement, a fervor in his eyes that worried me. I
preferred to ask him about the children. Then he ranted and raved against Mila:
he can’t stand her anymore, she accuses him of being a drunk when she’s the one
who never puts the bottle down, she spends all her time playing poker with her
friends and does nothing to educate the children or improve their home, he is
sick and tired of her reproaches and that’s why he goes home only late at night
to sleep. After he was done letting off steam, María Elena came into the living
room and asked if he would like a cup of coffee. My poor son left me with a
rather nasty taste in my mouth.

Betito left this morning for the beach in Zunzal with his school
friends; most of them will stay there the whole week, but Betito will return on
Monday so he can accompany me to the Central Prison to visit his father. My
father has to go to the finca, as he does every Sunday; my mother will stay home
so we can attend Mass then have lunch together; she says she wants to cancel her
trip to Guatemala rather than leave me alone during Holy Week with Pericles in
jail. I’ve told her several times that there is no need for her to cancel her
vacation.

At eight at night, María Elena and I sat in the living room
listening to the America Radio Drama; the program was quite interesting, and we
enjoyed it immensely. I’ve been trying to read, but I am oddly uneasy, as if the
uncertainty about Pericles’s release were pinching my nerve endings, as if I
were entering a new stage of life I am not prepared for and which I would prefer
not to have to confront. I must pray more fervently.

Palm Sunday, April 2

Coup d’état! Clemen is involved up to his eyeballs: he
was the one who announced the beginning of the uprising against the general on
the radio this afternoon, and he is one of the announcers who continues to
report the events, calling on the people to support the coup. I couldn’t go to
the Central Prison to see Pericles because the military is patrolling the
streets. The air force has bombed the area surrounding the Black Palace; now I
thank God my husband was transferred. Father is at the finca and Betito is at
the beach; there’s been no way to contact them because all communications within
the country and the routes into and out of the city have been cut off. Clemen
announced that the rebels have taken over the National Telephone and Telegraph
Company. María Elena and I have come to my parents’ house, and we will spend the
night here. Fortunately, I brought my diary with me; I am now writing in what
was my bedroom when I was a teenager, by the light of a candle, because the
entire city is in blackout. It is eight o’clock at night. Hope is spreading, but
more so, confusion.

The day began with bad omens: I wasn’t able to get in touch with
Colonel Palma to have him authorize a visit to Pericles; on the phone, his wife
said the colonel had left that morning, and she had given him the message but he
had left no reply. “You know how these men are, Doña Haydée,” she said, as if to
apologize. Then I received a call from Pati in Costa Rica: she was alarmed to
learn that her father was still in jail and that we have no idea when he will be
released; I had a guilty conscience because I had to lie when she asked me if
anything had changed. Mother and I went to eight o’clock Mass; in his homily,
the priest again criticized those who distance themselves from the Catholic
Church and promote exotic religious doctrines that are far removed from the true
faith, all this an allusion to the general’s occultist beliefs. Friends stopped
to talk as we were leaving church; nobody had the vaguest notion that the coup
d’état would begin this afternoon: there have been so many rumors flying around
for so long. I went to the Central Prison later in the morning, with new
provisions for Pericles and the hope of seeing Sergeant Flores or convincing the
officer in charge to let me enter and at least give the basket directly to my
husband. It was the visiting hour for common criminals; they didn’t let me in, a
guard with a roguish face told me that he would give Pericles the provisions,
and I returned home with a horrible feeling of impotence, and despair.

To cheer me up, Mother convinced me to eat with her at the Casino;
she even made me drink a rather strong aperitif. We ate a delicious paella, and
for dessert, an exquisite guava tart. After coffee we decided to leave, despite
the insistence of some friends that we stay to play canasta; now I can only
thank God for watching over us. Mother dropped me at the house, where I found
María Elena getting ready to go out: she was on her way to a three-o’clock show
at the Teatro Colón. I laid down on the sofa to take a nap. Half an hour later,
María Elena woke me up, frightened, to tell me that she had turned on the radio
and heard there had been a coup d’état. I’d been in such a deep sleep, and I was
so lethargic, at first I found it difficult to react. She explained how she
couldn’t get downtown because there were troops everywhere, how she soon started
to hear the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns and saw war planes flying over the
city and dropping bombs. Then I heard Clemen’s voice on the radio: he announced
exuberantly that the dictator was dead, the air force and the infantry have
joined the rebels and the only resistance left are the police and the National
Guard; then, other professionals and radio announcers took turns at the
microphone, most of them friends of Pericles, and the most important words were
spoken by Dr. Romero. When I finally understood the magnitude of the events, I
thought of my husband and what might be happening at the Central Prison. I tried
to call Clemen to get more information, but I couldn’t get through; nor could I
communicate with Mother or my in-laws. I told María Elena I would go to the
Central Prison to see what was happening there, perhaps they had already
released Pericles; she warned me it was most likely extremely dangerous to be on
the streets at that moment, but she said she’d accompany me. I told her she
should stay home in case anybody called; she insisted on coming with me. The
Central Prison is located about seven blocks from the house. People were walking
quickly down the street, everybody very tense. In the distance I saw airplanes
flying toward downtown. Many people were standing on the sidewalks in front of
the open doors of their houses, waiting, their radios blasting, celebrating the
general’s death. Two blocks from the Central Prison, a group of soldiers stopped
us in our tracks and ordered us to go back the way we had come. I protested. But
there was no way to convince them. Also, just at that moment, two airplanes flew
very low overhead and loud explosions could be heard coming from near the Black
Palace. Then I got frightened. I told María Elena that it would be better for us
to walk toward my parents’ house. There were no streetcars. I ran into several
acquaintances in the street; there was tremendous excitement. It was God’s will
that Mingo drove by at that moment. I told him we knew nothing about Pericles’s
situation in the Central Prison. He explained that nobody knows anything about
anything, the situation is very confusing; people knew only what Clemen and the
other rebels were reporting on the radio: that the First Infantry Regiment was
battling the police in the area around the palace, the general was dead, and the
air force was supporting the coup. He told me he would drive me quickly to my
parents’ house, and I should call him if I needed anything at all. Mother was
beside herself: Don Leo had gone to get me and found nobody at home, she had not
been able to get in touch with Father, and Clemen’s voice on the radio made her
fear the worst. Slowly, she began to calm down. Soon a few phone calls got
through, from friends who live in other parts of the city, and we spoke with the
neighbors. We found out that the airplanes had missed their target, the bombs
didn’t fall on the Black Palace but rather on the block of the Casino, and there
were fires and many dead in the streets. Mother explained that we have only God
to thank that the three of us are alive, because the Teatro Colón, where María
Elena had been headed, is on the same block, and it is still in flames now, late
at night. Later, one of the Castaneda brothers, Clemen’s friends, announced on
the radio that the general is not dead, he’s barricaded in the Black Palace.
“That warlock is going to win!” my mother cried out in horror. I hushed her,
told her not to repeat those words for they would bring bad luck. I was
stupefied when I realized what could happen to Clemen and Pericles if the coup
failed: the general’s rage, his need for revenge. God help us!