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.
Fugitives (I)
1
“Hold still . . . ,” Jimmy says, startled, bringing his
index
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.
Fugitives (I)
1
“Hold still . . . ,” Jimmy says, startled, bringing his
index
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