Tyrant Memory by Horacio Castellanos Moya Page B

finger to his lips to demand silence. He lies stretched out and lanky on a
mat on the wooden floor; he’s barefoot and shirtless, wearing olive-green
trousers and a belt with a silver buckle.
    The knocks on the front door are gentle but insistent.
    “Who could that be?” Clemen asks, wordlessly, gesturing with his
mouth; he’s sitting on his mat, his arms wrapped around his knees, also barefoot
and shirtless.
    Jimmy presses his ear against a crack in the wooden floor.
    “Just a moment! Coming!” shouts one of the girls from the back of
the house.
    Under them, they hear the slapping of flip-flops passing through the
house on the way to the front door.
    “Who’s there?” the girl asks.
    They hear a woman’s voice but can’t make out the words.
    “Seems like a neighbor,” Jimmy whispers.
    They hear a loud bang.
    Clemen is startled.
    “Fuck! What was that?” he cries out, in a whisper, his face twisted
in terror.
    “The girl dropped the door latch,” Jimmy mumbles, without turning to
look at him, his ear still pressed against the crack in the floor of the
loft.
    “I thought it was the Guard,” Clemen exhales, with relief.
    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