Horacio Castellanos Moya - Tyrant Memory

I returned home so María Elena and I could prepare the basket of food and clean clothes for Pericles. We arrived at the Central Prison just before noon and asked for Sergeant Flores. They would not let me past the foyer; only after I persisted did the sergeant come out to see me. He took the basket and told me I could visit Pericles tomorrow between three and four o’clock in the afternoon. I asked him if this would be my daily visiting hour; he answered that he had information only about Saturday, only what he just told me, and nothing more. I stood there with María Elena in front of the gate of the Central Prison, stunned, then with deep sadness, because I realized that I might not be able to eat lunch with Pericles again until he is released.

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.