Horacio Castellanos Moya - Tyrant Memory

Fortunately, I then spoke with Mama Licha. My mother-in-law is solid as a rock: there’s not even a tremor in her voice in the face of all these catastrophes. She affirmed that the colonel supports the general on principle, because for him authority and order are the most important things; but he is also a human being, a father and a grandfather, and as such he suffers in silence; she wanted to let me know that the colonel will do everything in his power to help Clemen escape, but that if he is arrested, nothing will save him from the general’s fury. Then she asked after Pericles; I told her it was impossible to visit him at the Central Prison. She encouraged me to be strong, to not lose faith. She knows of what she speaks: when she was a young girl of twelve, she watched her father’s execution in the main square in Cojutepeque.

I hurriedly transmitted Mama Licha’s message to Father, hoping he would find a way to pass it on to Clemen. Father told me that under the circumstances he didn’t trust the colonel, but we would talk about it later, in a few minutes the general’s radio message would begin, he’d call me as soon as the warlock’s tirade was over. I had turned off the set because my nerves were already frayed; I asked María Elena to turn it on right away. I sat in Pericles’s chair, something I rarely do, and suddenly I found myself mimicking him when he’s paying close attention to something; María Elena remained standing in the kitchen doorway, rubbing her hands together with a terrified look on her face. And while I was listening to “the man,” instead of concentrating on the content of what he was saying, I started counting in my head the number of times he said the word “treason,” and by the way he pronounced that word I sensed the rage of omnipotence defied, the exultation of a man who is about to exact revenge. When, in conclusion, he announced the immediate imposition of a state of siege and martial law, I stood up and went to the kitchen to get something to drink. María Elena moved aside for me and as I passed by her she muttered in despair: “Poor Don Clemen.”

Father came over for a while before dinner: he told me that nothing is yet known of Clemen’s whereabouts, that most of the rebels have been racing desperately from embassy to embassy looking for asylum, that many have already been captured, and that the population is terrified because the Nazi warlock will reconvene the war council to sentence all those who betrayed him to execution by firing squad; however, several friends are willing to give a helping hand in whatever way they can; he warned me that anything related to Clemen would be better discussed in person, not over the phone. I told Father that we should never stop reminding friends and acquaintances who are close to the general that Pericles has had absolutely nothing to do with the coup, he has been in isolation for more than fifteen days, and moreover at the palace, where everybody remained loyal to the general; I already told my mother-in-law and my brothers-in-law the same thing, that this could never be repeated too often, given these dire circumstances.

Later I got a call from Angelita, Pericles’s first cousin. She was in despair and sobbing because she has heard nothing from Jimmy, the government forces have already taken control of the airport, and they have not mentioned her son among the rebel officers captured. I told her I was in the same situation with Clemen, I have heard nothing about his whereabouts since noon, before he left the station. We must pray to God, she said, for the general to forgive them; I agreed, but I also warned her that most importantly they must escape, and I told her what my mother-in-law had said about the firing squad that awaits anyone who is captured. It is vaguely comforting to know that someone else shares my anguish, though it brings no peace. Where is Clemen right now? What will become of my son and my husband? I feel as if my soul were being stripped bare, and I’m completely exposed, raw. I’ve had a cup of lime-blossom tea to settle my nerves, and so I can sleep a bit. I’m grateful to have this outlet where I can write down my sorrows.

Holy Tuesday, April 4

A day from Hell. Despair, anguish, rumors, helplessness. And terror everywhere. Still absolutely nothing about Clemen: friends call to tell me they heard somebody saw him somewhere; others tell me they’ve heard he’s been seen somewhere else. The telephone hasn’t stopped ringing: everyone asks after him, gives advice, tries to offer me words of consolation. On the radio they keep repeating the names of the officers who have been captured, and they call on those who have fled to turn themselves in, to have faith in the general’s mercy. Diario Latino and the other opposition newspapers have been shut down. Father and his friends are planning something, but it’s all top secret, and they don’t include me at all. Poor Mila called me early this morning to say that if Clemen gets in touch with me, I should convince him to turn himself in, there’s no point in running away, she will also try to convince him; then she called back, hysterical, because a detachment of policemen had come to the house looking for my son, they wreaked havoc, terrified my little ones, and the cowards killed Samba, that beautiful dog, Nerón’s daughter, who never did anything bad to them or anybody else. I wouldn’t be surprised if they burst in here any moment now. Those rumors about Don Jorge turned out to be true: the poor man is hovering between life and death and has undergone very complicated surgery. I went to the Polyclinic to keep Teresita and her family company; I left, deeply moved. By the afternoon, I thought I was going to collapse, I felt like I was having a nervous breakdown: I got into bed and slept deeply for three hours. I woke up feeling like a zombie. Right now I wish I were in a bubble, in another world, far away from all this and alone with Pericles, so he could caress me, and we could talk as we always talk; but then comes a wave of anxiety, and I feel like I’m drowning, and I must do something, though I don’t know what; I somehow believe my son and my husband will suffer terrible consequences unless I can muster all my strength. But the streets have been taken over by the general’s troops, nobody can get near the barracks, the government buildings, or the Central Prison; the authorities are telling people to stay at home. Thus my agitation flounders in a sea of impotence. I will finish knitting Belka’s sweater.

1

“Hold still.,” Jimmy says, startled, bringing his index finger to his lips to demand silence. He lies stretched out and lanky on a mat on the wooden floor; he’s barefoot and shirtless, wearing olive-green trousers and a belt with a silver buckle.

The knocks on the front door are gentle but insistent.

“Who could that be?” Clemen asks, wordlessly, gesturing with his mouth; he’s sitting on his mat, his arms wrapped around his knees, also barefoot and shirtless.

Jimmy presses his ear against a crack in the wooden floor.

“Just a moment! Coming!” shouts one of the girls from the back of the house.

Under them, they hear the slapping of flip-flops passing through the house on the way to the front door.

“Who’s there?” the girl asks.

They hear a woman’s voice but can’t make out the words.

“Seems like a neighbor,” Jimmy whispers.

They hear a loud bang.

Clemen is startled.

“Fuck! What was that?” he cries out, in a whisper, his face twisted in terror.

“The girl dropped the door latch,” Jimmy mumbles, without turning to look at him, his ear still pressed against the crack in the floor of the loft.

“I thought it was the Guard,” Clemen exhales, with relief.