Tyrant Memory by Horacio Castellanos Moya

Clemen called again. It wasn’t Clemen who
called, though, but rather his wife, Mila; it was the third and last time I
spoke to her today; she was completely out of her wits, ranting on and on, a
whole litany of complaints, insulting Clemen for his total lack of
responsibility. She said that neither she nor the children should have to pay
the price for that exhibitionist getting mixed up in such stupidity just to
impress his secretary at the station, whom she said is his lover. I “turned off
the lights,” as Pericles calls it, when one’s mind simply departs from where it
doesn’t want to be and doesn’t hear what it doesn’t want to hear, until I heard
Mila say that if the general condemns my son to death, he deserves it. “You are
talking nonsense, Milita, and you are going to regret it,” I said, and
immediately asked her if she had spoken to Clemen in the last few hours. She
answered that that “you-know-what” hadn’t called since noon, but that she had
taken that opportunity to rub his face in how stupid she thinks he is, just look
at what he’s done, even getting his own grandfather, Colonel Aragón, in trouble;
she said she told him she’s going to ask for a divorce once everything settles
down. I didn’t say a word: it never rains but it pours.
    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