Horacio Castellanos Moya - Tyrant Memory

After preparing them some melon drinks, I sat in the rocking chair on the porch and watched them play. I realized it’s not healthy to keep what I feel and think about Mila inside. At that moment I was absolutely certain that she had left the children with me so she could wallow in sin with that colonel who wants to murder my son, her husband. I don’t like having such poisonous thoughts, but this one time I couldn’t get rid of them. Fortunately, Betito arrived half an hour later; he came with Chente, who asked me for copies of the communiqué to take to his companions at the university; he told me that they are organizing a strike and other activities to protest the atrocities committed by the general, and as soon as they open the university next Monday things are going to heat up considerably. I gave him my remaining copies of the communiqué, keeping only one for myself. Chente explained that the students have been holding secret meetings the whole time the university has been closed, and they agreed that their top priority was to launch a campaign demanding freedom for all political prisoners, and he would speak to his fellow students to ask a group of them to accompany us early tomorrow morning to the Central Prison to demand visiting rights. I told him I would present his offer to the ladies in the committee this afternoon, who also had contacts with students, and I didn’t want to make decisions that weren’t mine to make, and we should talk again at night. But I still find it surprising that such grandiose words and such determination can come forth from someone as thin and scrawny as Chente.

Mila came to pick up the children a bit before three. She didn’t stay for more than a minute: she acted erratically, with all the anxiety of someone burdened by a great sin that’s eating away at her; she shouted at the children to hurry up and say goodbye to their grandmother, then she thanked me and said she was sorry for being in such a rush. I wonder if that woman knows I know, or if it’s her own sense of guilt that makes her so flustered.

The Colindres’ house is only a few blocks away from ours. I got there a few minutes before four. Doña Consuelo told me I was the first to arrive, she led me into a living room set up with trays of sandwiches, a thermos of coffee, and pitchers of water and fruit drink; I noticed a beautiful oriental carpet she had over the back of a sofa. Minutes later Merceditas arrived; she was still dressed in strict mourning but her aspect was improved: she told us that the officers and civilians who had been imprisoned in the basement of the Black Palace, including her husband and brother-in-law, had been moved to the Central Prison, which is a hopeful sign. Doña Chayito came alone, with regrets from Doña Julita, who was suffering from a severe migraine; she immediately suggested to Doña Consuelo that we move to another room or to the patio, because the windows in that room look right out onto the street, and the police informers would easily be able to hear what we were saying. Doña Consuelo called the servant to clean off the table on the patio and help us move the sandwiches and drinks. Fortunately, the sun had gone down. Doña Chayito said it was urgent we discuss two issues: the election of the committee board and the request for a meeting with the diplomatic corps to explain our situation and ask for assistance. She explained that, due to martial law and the state of siege, it was impossible for all the families to assemble at once, hence she and Doña Julita had been holding meetings with small groups, such as this one, and they proposed that the two of them be designated as the coordinators so they could speak on our behalf. The three of us agreed, though Doña Consuelo warned that she had no interest in getting involved in political intrigue, she only wanted to work for the release of our family members. And also to demand amnesty for those condemned to death, Doña Chayito added, at which point she turned to look at Merceditas. Of course, Doña Consuelo said. Then we discussed the second point: Doña Chayito said we had to form a delegation that would go to the American Embassy early Monday morning to ask to see the ambassador so we can give him the communiqué, then request that he, as the senior member and representative of the diplomatic corps, make a personal request that the warlock halt all executions and free all political prisoners; she believes the ambassador will receive us immediately, and said we should call a press conference. I asked her how many people, in her opinion, should be in the delegation. She said at least six, among whom could be Merceditas, Doña Consuelo, the mother of Lieutenant Marín and poor Víctor Manuel, the wife of Dr. Valiente, she, and I. We all agreed. Then I told them what I had talked to Chente about earlier, including his suggestion that a group of university students come to the Central Prison tomorrow to show their support for us. Doña Consuelo said she had a bad feeling about it, the university students might create trouble, and we would lose our chance to be allowed to visit our family members. Doña Chayito explained that she also received offers of support from a group of students, perhaps it would be best to first meet with the diplomatic corps, and if the warlock didn’t respond and held fast to his policy of prohibiting visits, then we could ask the students for support. At that moment two tears starting running down Merceditas’s face. I understood, painfully, that she had not seen her husband since they’d captured him, nor had they given her a chance to say goodbye to her brother-in-law, Lieutenant Gavidia, before he was executed by the firing squad. Only the enormous lump of rage in my throat prevented me from falling apart as well. Doña Chayito and Merceditas left together; I walked home.

Chente came over after dark. I told him what we had discussed; he said that anyway he and a couple of his friends could accompany me tomorrow if I would like them to, and they’d promise not to do anything untoward. I told him it was better to wait till Monday. I was alone in the house, because Betito was at Henry’s. There was a moment when I thought I saw something else in Chente’s eyes, a certain passion, some kind of longing, I don’t know, but the fact was I furrowed my brow and he, blushing, looked away. Even now I’m not sure if it was all in my imagination. Pericles’s absence begins to wreak havoc in me.

Sunday April 16

Pati called very early today. I told her I had no good news to report: I know nothing about her brother nor have I been able to see her father. I went to eight o’clock Mass. I confessed to Father Evelio: I admitted to feeling a lot of hatred toward a person who has betrayed a beloved member of my family. The priest asked me if I am sure about the betrayal or if I am allowing myself to be swayed by hearsay. I explained that it is very difficult for me to prove the betrayal but I had a serious and trustworthy source of information. He insisted on asking me if it was a betrayal or an infidelity. I told him it was a mortal betrayal, and I asked him to advise me how to behave toward this person. The priest told me we cannot judge others, our Lord is the only judge, and I should forgive and cleanse my heart; then he instructed me on what prayers to recite in penitence. I would have liked to give him more details, but as Pericles says, one must never tell priests names because priests are also men, and men can never keep secrets.

We went directly from the church to the Central Prison. Mother and some friends excused themselves, but others accompanied us. We were about thirty strong, including of course the members of the committee whom Doña Chayito had summoned to church. Betito hates to get up early on Sundays, but he came with me to Mass and then to demand that they allow us to visit his father; Chente and several other young people who had attended Mass also came with us. We walked the three blocks to the Central Prison. We stood in front of the gates. Doña Chayito suggested that she and I demand a meeting with the officer in charge. To my surprise, Sergeant Flores, the assistant to Colonel Palma, the director, who seems to have gone into hiding and takes nobody’s phone calls, appeared at the gate before we spoke to the guards. The sergeant said that he regretted to have to inform us that he had still not received orders to authorize visits, if it were up to him he would let us in, but we must understand how delicate the situation is, surely Monday morning, when everything returns to normal, orders will be issued; he swore on his mother that all the political prisoners were doing fine and nobody at the Central Prison is being either tortured or placed before a firing squad. Doña Chayito raised her voice, saying that if we weren’t allowed to visit our loved ones we would stay there the entire day with our protest signs, outside the gates of the Central Prison. I didn’t know anything about the signs nor did I think it sensible to remain there the whole day if it wouldn’t further our goal of getting them to let us visit, but Doña Chayito had already spoken. The sergeant warned us that this would have only negative repercussions for us, all political demonstrations were prohibited because of the state of siege, National Guard troops would disperse us, and we might even be arrested. “Better for us to leave, ladies, and wait to see what happens tomorrow,” I heard Doña Consuelo say behind me. The majority agreed with her.