Horacio Castellanos Moya - Tyrant Memory

They hear animated voices, laughter, goodbyes, then the latch drops again as the door closes. The slapping of the flip-flops passes under them, on the way to the back of the house.

“They brought a gift for the priest,” Jimmy says and lies back down, face up on the mat.

“How do you know?”

“I heard.”

“I don’t believe you,” Clemen says; he also lies down on his back on his mat, his hands clasped behind his neck.

“I gotta get out of here as soon as possible,” Jimmy says, talking to himself, pensive. “This is a hell hole.”

“Where are you going?”

“Better you don’t know. Might bring bad luck. ”

“I’m not budging from here, not unless that priest throws me out. They’ll catch us in a second out there.”

“Don’t have any illusions you’re safe here.”

“More than in the streets, we are.”

Then, suddenly, Clemen sneezes, making so much noise that even he sits up and looks scared.

“Sorry,” he says, “I couldn’t hold it.”

Jimmy turns to look at him disapprovingly.

“If someone happened to be walking by, the game would’ve been up,” he warns.

“I said I’m sorry. It’s all the dust in here,” he mumbles, and looks around at all the junk in the corners, the cobwebs, the layer of dust covering the floor.

They sit in silence, alert, but they hear no sounds from outside.

“I don’t think anyone could hear it in the street,” Clemen says. “Just a minute ago, we couldn’t hear what the women were saying at the front door, so outside they can’t hear what we’re saying, either.”

“I guarantee you, even the girls in the back of the house had a fright,” Jimmy says irritably.

“What time is it?” Clemen asks. “The priest should be back already.”

Jimmy pulls a pocket watch out of his trouser pocket, places it under the light from the skylight, and says, “It’s only five-twenty. He said he’d be back at six.”

“I’ve been shut up here for four hours, two more than you. I gotta take a piss.”

“Think about something else, because you can’t here.”

“It’s my nerves,” Clemen says. “I need a smoke, I need to stand up, walk around,” he adds, looking at the slanted ceiling a few feet above their heads. “This attic is like being in a dungeon.”

“Just be thankful we’ve got somewhere to hide, you ingrate. You don’t see me complaining, and I’m taller than you. Go ahead and tell me again how they dressed you up as a housemaid.,” Jimmy asks, cracking a smile.

“I told you, it was Gardiner’s idea, the vice-counsel.”

“How the hell did you think to hide there?”

“I’m good friends with Tracy. Luckily, she was home. I spent the night in their guest room and this morning, after they dressed me up, they took me out in their car. ”

“Were you wearing make-up?”

“You bet, and a wig, and I got plucked, just as pretty as can be. Look,” Clemen says, passing a finger over an eyebrow. “And I was wearing underwear and a slip, and a bra stuffed with wads of wet paper under the uniform. If the police had made me get out of the car, the only way they would have found me out is if they’d touched me between the legs. ”

“And since your balls are probably about so small,” says Jimmy pressing his fingertips together, amused, “there’s no way they could have caught you.”

“You can make fun of me as much as you want, but it worked.”

“I wish I could’ve seen you: the ugliest housemaid in history. ”

“Go ahead, keep making fun of me, see if I care. I wouldn’t have been here otherwise, that son-of-a-bitch general of yours would’ve been smashing my balls like he did to that dimwit Tito Calvo.”

“Poor guy.,” Jimmy says, serious now, frowning.

“They’re a gang of fucking sissies. ”

Jimmy looks at him disapprovingly.

“Only a bunch of ass-fuckers could have let that warlock slip through their fingers on the highway,” Clemen upbraids him bitterly. “Why didn’t the tanks blast the police headquarters when the bastard was there?” His voice has risen, impassioned. “Eh? Why did the airplanes drop their bombs on the streets around the barracks and not on the only target that mattered?”

Jimmy sits up and orders him firmly, “Lower your voice, they’re going to hear us.”

“Go order people around in the barracks, you turd,” Clemen answers.

They hear loud knocks on the front door.

Clemen sits up; all color has drained out of his face, and he swallows in terror.

Jimmy stumbles over to the corner where his jacket, gun, and infantry boots are lying; he picks up the gun and presses his ear against the crack in the wooden floor.

The knocking continues, insistently.

Nobody from the back of the house answers.

“Where did they go, those girls?” Jimmy wonders.

Clemen is terrified.

Now they hear somebody’s steps running from the back of the house, the noise of the latch, an exchange of greetings, laughter, the latch again, the steps return.

“What’s going on?” Clemen asks, anxiously.

“Maybe this is all normal. It’s a priest’s house: people are always visiting, bringing gifts,” Jimmy says as he puts the gun back in the corner and lies down on the mat.

“I’m worried those Indian girls will rat on us.”

“Supposedly they don’t even know we’re here.”

“Could they be that stupid. ”

“That’s what the priest told me, they have no idea this loft even exists,” Jimmy says. “They didn’t see me. He brought me straight to the prayer room and showed me where I had to climb onto the wardrobe and push in the false tile on the ceiling.”

“You scared me to death. ”

“You yellow belly.”

“They saw me. I even ate lunch here. ”

“In your housemaid costume?”

“Uh-huh. When they cleared the table, the priest told them he had to confess me, and they should stay in the back of the house. I think they’d never seen a servant in uniform. Then we went into the prayer room, I took off the uniform and wig, stuffed them in a bag, he gave me these trousers, which are too long and baggy, and I climbed on top of the wardrobe.”

“You’re really fucked, you don’t even have clothes to leave with.”

“I already told you, I’ve got nowhere to go, unless the priest takes me to another hiding place. And you, you think you’ll be able to walk down the street with that officer’s uniform on without anybody recognizing you?”

“That’s how I got here,” Jimmy says. “Anyway, the priest’s clothes will fit me, we’re almost the same height, but you look like the village idiot.”

“I don’t understand how my grandfather could have sent you here, knowing I was already here.,” Clemen wonders as he slowly tries to stand up, still bent over looking for the highest spot in the loft so he won’t bang his head on the ceiling.

“It stinks of whiskey here,” Jimmy complains, sniffing around him.

“Where?” Clemen asks, suddenly excited, looking eagerly at the pile of junk. “I can’t smell anything with all this dust and mildew.”

Jimmy stares at him, then leans over and sniffs.

“Oh, it’s you. You’re sweating whiskey.”

Clemen looks at him in disbelief; then he sniffs his own arm.

“You’re right,” he says with a smile, surprised. “Too bad I can’t drink it,” he adds, licking his arm.

“Some nerve you’ve got. Big rebels you civilians are,” Jimmy says indignantly. “While we were out there in the thick of battle, risking our lives, you guys were partying it up, guzzling the booze. And you still have the nerve to complain that things turned out the way they did. ”

“Don’t give me that shit, Jimmy. You guys were much worse than us. When that Colonel Tito Calvo of yours got to the American Embassy, he was so drunk he was falling over himself as he got out of the tank. ”