Carmela and I went to the procession in the afternoon. Both our husbands are nonbelievers, both have ideas neither of us understand even if we do respect them; this strengthens our friendship. Mother had a headache and preferred to stay home. We caught up with the procession in the Candelaria district. The ritual was the same as every other year, but there was a different atmosphere, there was fear in people’s eyes. I met the mothers and wives of men who had participated in the coup; we exchanged embraces and shed tears. I felt a claw digging into my throat, and I found it difficult to repeat to everybody who asked that I was grateful to our Lord that Clemen had not been captured. People who recognized us offered their support, patted us on the shoulder. Angelita, Jimmy’s mother, was with mothers of other young officers who are already under arrest. Some had turned themselves in, trusting the promise the general had made to show mercy, but it has now been announced on the radio that they will be court marshaled. Fortunately, Jimmy has not been caught, either. Nobody has been allowed to see those locked up in the basement of the Black Palace, and the rumors about torture are getting worse and worse. There is enormous uncertainty.
Where is my son at this very moment? I look at his photo on my dresser and tears come to my eyes. I asked María Elena to stay with me on these days of the Holy Week; father will go to the finca and give Belka her sweater and some other gifts. I think there are many of us, women alone, burdened by the sorry fates of our men. Mila and the children are staying at her father’s house; the poor thing was traumatized by the search. Nerón has howled several times tonight; at first it frightened me, I thought somebody was trying to break in, then I told myself that animal has a sixth sense and knows about Samba’s death; then, when I heard the howls of other dogs in the neighborhood, I remembered it was a full moon.
(Dawn)
I just dreamed that Clemen was hiding at Father’s finca, in a shed in the middle of the coffee fields; in my dream, Don Tilo, María Elena’s father, led the soldiers there, and they burst in on my son. I woke up in a cold sweat at the very moment he was fleeing under a hail of bullets. I haven’t been able to shut my eyes again.
Good Friday, April 7
Still no news. The opposition newspapers are still shut down; not even the two that support the general appeared today. The radio stations are broadcasting only Holy Week programming, as if nothing extraordinary were happening, and when there is a brief news report, it consists of a litany of praises for the general and accusations and threats against his adversaries.
This morning I went to the Polyclinic: Don Jorge remains in critical condition. Several journalists were visiting; they all asked after Clemen and Pericles, all showed great concern. Mingo and Irmita also came. Everyone’s right in asserting that nobody is safe any longer, for if the general dared to perpetuate such brutality against Don Jorge and has gotten away with it with total impunity, the same could happen to anybody. Don Jorge is not only the owner of the newspaper, he also belongs to one of the country’s best families. It’s true, he is rather rebellious, and sometimes irascible, and he does frequently insult the general and make fun of him, but nobody deserves to be tortured and shot down in the street like a rabid dog. I thank God Pericles has always shown restraint, in his columns he has criticized the political measures taken by “the man,” but he has never attacked him personally; he knows him well, he was his private secretary for two years, he knows how spiteful and implacable he can be, hence he has always been circumspect when recounting his experiences during that period. As I was saying goodbye to poor Teresita, a delegation from the American Embassy was coming to visit. Mingo and Irmita offered to take me to my mother’s house. According to Mingo, the general will not execute either General Marroquín or Colonel Tito Calvo: the first because they are old friends, and in the last analysis, he surrendered to him; the second because he was not captured in front of the embassy, as I was told and many were led to believe, rather he managed to enter the foyer where Ambassador Thurston was meeting with others from the diplomatic corps, none of whom offered to give him asylum, at which point Mr. Thurston convinced him to turn himself in after speaking on the phone with the general to request he show mercy. “If the ambassador turned him over to the general, he can’t shoot him,” Mingo said; I hope this is true, and may he also pardon Clemen and all the others who have been accused. When we arrived at Mother’s house, I invited them in to stay and have lunch with us, try the delicious cod and the jocotes in honey, but they had a family engagement.
Mingo also confirmed that Mariíta Loucel has disappeared; they say she is neither at her house nor at her finca. Now I understand she must have known about the coup, that’s why Jimmy, Dr. Romero, and even Clemen went to see her; that’s why they were speaking French, so the general’s spies wouldn’t understand. I never would have thought she could be so audacious. I hope she managed to leave the country. Nor is anything known of Dr. Romero’s whereabouts; perhaps they fled together. Pericles says that Mariíta would have been a great poet if she hadn’t devoted herself to so many things at once, for she wants to excel as a businesswoman, a defender of women’s rights, a landowner, and a politician. The poem of hers I like best is called “You Are Mad, I Suspect,” I even know it by heart. I love it when Pericles recites it to me in his deep voice:
Write no more poems, you say? You are mad, I suspect
as if such a thing were nothing to request.
I can never please you, try as I will.
As if you’d asked death to no longer kill.
As if you’d wished the babe in my womb
to remain forever as if in a tomb.
My verse is the offspring of a homicidal pain.