“It’s a patrol,” Jimmy whispers.
“National Guard. ”
“No, local forces,” Jimmy explains. “Didn’t you notice that some were marching out of rhythm?”
“Fuck, I’m scared shitless.”
“Shh. ”
They’ve gotten used to the darkness: Clemen can make out Jimmy’s hand pointing down, toward the room where the priest was snoring a moment before and that is now totally silent.
“Why are they out marching at this time of night?”
“Emergency patrols. There’s a curfew.”
“Don’t you think they’re trying to tell us they know we’re here?” Clemen groans.
“Calm down and lower your voice,” Jimmy orders in a whisper. “If they knew we were here they would have already come in and gotten us.”
Jimmy keeps listening intently, but the priest has started snoring again.
“Let’s keep quiet for a while until the priest falls back to sleep.”
“He must be scared to death, like we are. ”
“Shh. ”
Jimmy has lain down again; he places his gun next to the cushion he’s using as a pillow. They each have sheets and a glass of water. And they swept the floor.
“I’m not going to be able to fall asleep,” Clemen whispers.
“At least let me sleep.”
“I need whiskey.”
“Drink water.”
“It’ll just make me have to pee. And in this darkness, I might miss the can and it’ll end up all over the floor.”
The priest coughs, clears his throat, then turns over in bed.
“I told you: shut your trap,” Jimmy whispers, irritated. “Let us sleep.”
Clemen sits down. He feels around for his glass of water; he takes a sip. He stares at the dirty skylight.
“I wish we could see the sky,” he whispers. “Looking at the stars would distract me.”
Jimmy has turned his back to him.
Clemen stretches, then lies down, clasping his hands behind his neck.
Jimmy’s breathing becomes heavier, more rhythmic; he seems to have already fallen asleep.
“The minute I found out that the ambush had failed, and the warlock had managed to get to police headquarters, I had a premonition everything would fall apart.,” Clemen mumbles, bitterly, talking to himself. “But it wasn’t my fault.”
Suddenly, an owl hoots very close by, as if it were on the roof of the house. Clemen listens carefully: he hears a buzzing from afar.
Jimmy moves around on the mat.
“What wasn’t your fault?” he asks, curious.
Clemen sits up anxiously.
“I need a smoke,” he whispers.
“You know the priest asked us not to smoke up here.”
“But I’m really anxious. Did you hear that buzzing?”
“Sounds like an engine. ”
“Sounds like it’s coming closer.”
They both concentrate on the distant buzzing.
“It comes closer, then moves farther away,” Jimmy whispers. “But anyway, what were you talking about?”
“That it wasn’t my fault the son of a bitch went to police headquarters.”
“Who said it was?”
“That bastard Juan José, because I announced over the radio that only the police and the National Guard weren’t supporting the coup, and that’s why the bastard went straight to the Black Palace. ”
“I heard you say that,” Jimmy whispers.
“But everybody was saying it. And that bastard Juan José was the first to go on air when we took over the station, and he claimed that the general had been killed in the ambush on the highway to the port. ”
“You civilians always run off at the mouth.”
“And you military men don’t do jack shit. First you duped us with your deadly ambush that never was, then you supposedly had the Black Palace under siege, and then you let him slip right through your fingers like water. ”
“Shhh. keep your voice down.”
“That Juan José. accusing me. even Dr. Romero announced on the radio that the general was dead, and the National Guard and the police weren’t supporting us. We were all left in the lurch by you people.”
The priest clears his throat again.
“It’s a truck and now it really is coming closer,” Jimmy whispers.
Clemen cups his hand behind his ear.
“You’re right,” he whispers, then swallows hard. “It’s the National Guard. ”
“Or the army. ”
“It stopped. It’s about two hundred yards away.”
“Troop transport,” Jimmy murmurs, wide awake now. He sits up, pushes off his sheet, and picks up the gun.
“You think it’s coming here?”
“I hope not,” Jimmy whispers.
“Why did it stop?”
Jimmy remains alert; he barely shrugs his shoulders.
“They keep revving it, as if they’re waiting for someone,” Clemen whispers; he is squirming, anxious. “Could they be doing a house-to-house search?”
“We must be prepared. ” Jimmy says.
“How? What do you plan to do?”
“If they come in the house, we’ll retreat into that corner,” Jimmy whispers, pointing to a spot in the back of the attic.
“Don’t go shooting off your gun or they’ll kill both of us,” Clemen whispers, right then scurrying toward that corner.
As he moves, nervous, his knee hits the glass of water.
“Shit. the water spilled.”
“Was it full?”
“No. ” Clemen whispers, curled up in the corner.
“I hope it doesn’t seep through the wood.”
“I don’t think it will. Here they come. Listen.”
The roar of the engine approaches the house.
“Keep driving, keep driving. ” Clemen mumbles as if he were praying.
“Shhh. ”
The truck has stopped in front of the house. Orders ring out, there are loud footsteps. Knocks on the door.
“Open up. National Guard.”
“It’s not here,” Jimmy whispers. “It’s the house across the street.”
Clemen is paralyzed, his face full of terror.
They hear the priest’s bed creaking; they see a ray of light through a crack in the floor. Then they hear the priest’s slow footsteps to the front door.
“What’s he doing? Why is he opening the door when they haven’t knocked here?” Clemen groans.
“Shhh. ”
The priest has opened the door.
“Why all the racket, Sergeant Marvin? Did something happen?”
“Good evening, Father.” The sergeant’s voice sounds heavy, as if his words were sticking together. “Sorry for the disturbance, we’re just alerting the residents because we’ve received information that several communist traitors are hiding out in this zone. ”
“At this time of night?”
“Yes, Father. We just got word. Some officers who were at the Ilopango Airport during the rebellion. They say they came in this direction.”
“Come over here, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Father.”
From up above, they hear the footsteps enter the living room. Clemen squeezes into the corner; Jimmy doesn’t budge.
“You have been drinking on duty, Sergeant,” the priest says curtly, with reproach.
“No, Father Dionisio, just one little drink, I swear, just to make the long night easier.”
“One drink. Don’t swear in vain, Sergeant, and don’t go around frightening people in the middle of the night, this is Holy Week and it will be your fault if they get too scared to come out for the processions. ”
“No, Father. I’m just warning the residents in my zone. I’m just following orders. And the girls?”
Jimmy and Clemen look at each other.
“They are sleeping, son. At this time of night only lost souls stay awake.”