Before they left, while I was serving cognac to the men and cherry liquor to the women, I told them about my adventures with the Committee of the Families of Political Prisoners and showed them the communiqué. They looked at me in astonishment, almost admiration, I would say. I suggested they take a copy, especially Mingo, who is in contact with foreign journalists, whose presence in the country we should take advantage of because the newspapers that oppose the general are still closed. He told me it was very dangerous for him to walk around with compromising papers at that hour of the night, and said he’d come by tomorrow to pick it up; Chelón folded a copy and gave me a wink as he stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Both made me promise to let them know when visits to the Central Prison were allowed, so they could go talk to “the old man,” as they like to call Pericles.
Betito called to report that he was at the home of his friend and classmate, Flaco Pérez, and would spend the night there to avoid being in the streets after curfew; I asked him to come home early tomorrow to accompany me to the Central Prison to visit his father. María Elena warned me that “little Betito”— as she sometimes calls him in spite of how much this bothers him — and his friends are organizing protests in the high schools, she said she was telling me not to gossip but because she thinks it better for me to know; she also again brought up the subject of my visit to the Gardiners’ house, which I had told her about while we were making dinner, and it had greatly amused her to hear how they had dressed Clemen up as a housemaid, but now she wanted to know more details about Indalecia’s uniform and what she looked like.
Before coming to bed to jot down these words, I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time: I think new wrinkles have appeared around my eyes, I look pale and disheveled. How much have I changed in these nine days I haven’t seen Pericles? And how might he be after such a long confinement? I hope with all my heart we can see each other tomorrow.
Saturday April 15
I couldn’t visit Pericles. No visits are allowed. We were a motley crowd in front of the prison at eight o’clock this morning: families of both political prisoners and common criminals. Many from the lower classes. I didn’t realize that visits to common criminals have also been suspended since the coup. Fortunately, Betito was with me; crowds frighten me. People were indignant, the atmosphere was tense, they were taunting the guards, demanding they open the doors once and for all. I had difficulty finding Doña Chayito and Doña Julita; they were both there with their husbands. We stood talking next to a cart selling oranges and mangos. The insults being hurled at the guards became sharper and sharper. Doña Consuelo arrived with her children, a look of disgust on her face; she complained about the rabble. I feared that at any moment there would be an altercation. Then two squads of National Guard troops arrived to protect the entryway: silence fell over the crowd like a thick cloud of fear. But a minute later the taunting and cries of protest resumed. I heard one woman, her voice hoarse and defiant, shout: “The warlock wants to execute our sons.” It was like detonating a bomb. It incited the crowd, they began to chant louder and louder and more and more defiantly: “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” At first I was afraid, but when I turned to look at Betito and the women, I saw they were also shouting and shaking their fists. I joined in. And as I shouted with increasing fervor, I felt a mixture of anger and joy, as if finally I could express the bitterness that had been eating away at me ever since Pericles was arrested. Then the guards pointed their rifles at us: in a moment of panic I looked around for Betito and saw that he was still chanting, and just like the others, not backing down. Fortunately, at that moment, a military officer and several functionaries of the prison came out the gate: they ordered the families of the common criminals to get into one line with their documents in hand, visits would begin in fifteen minutes. There was a great uproar, shouts of joy, pushing and jostling for a place in line. That’s when Doña Chayito shouted to the officer, asking where the families of the political prisoners should form their line. The officer responded rudely that no visits would be allowed to the political prisoners today, perhaps tomorrow. “Scoundrels!” the shout burst from my lips, and even now, I don’t understand how. The families of the common criminals jeered at the officer, whistled and called out insults, and they shouted from where they were standing in line, “Murderers!. ” Some offered to relay messages and carry in what we had brought, they said they would give them to their own family members who would pass them on to ours. Pericles had told me that the political prisoners were in a special section and had no contact with the common criminals. In any case, there was no harm in trying, so I gave my bag of provisions to a stout woman wearing an apron, obviously a vendor in the market, who said I had no reason to worry, her husband was an honorable man and would give the bag to “Don Pericles,” as if she already knew him, and she said that she and her friends prayed every day that the warlock’s henchmen wouldn’t capture Clemen or any of the other “heroes.” I was astonished, but just at that moment the line started moving, and pandemonium broke out. We withdrew to the sidewalk across the street; there were about fifty of us, the families of political prisoners. Doña Chayito said we must do something, but the officer returned to order us to disperse, we could no longer remain there. I had a sudden attack of weakness, a lightning-fast switch from outrage to despondency; I clung to Betito, who was still mumbling angry insults. Before we had all dispersed, Doña Chayito and Doña Consuelo passed out copies of the communiqué; we agreed to meet tomorrow at the same place at the same time. Doña Chayito walked with me a short ways: I told her I had gotten the communiqué to the embassy; she told me there would be a meeting that afternoon at four o’clock at Doña Consuelo’s house, and she gave me a piece of paper with the address.
We returned home. I didn’t feel well, as if my blood pressure had suddenly dropped. I made a cup of black tea with a lot of honey. María Elena isn’t here: she left early this morning for her village to see her family, and she will return on Monday; I sent a little dress with her for Belka, I hope it fits, at that age children grow so quickly. I spoke with Mother, my mother-in-law, and Carmela, to tell them what had happened. Betito said he was going out with his friends; I lay down for a while. I dreamed about Clemen, he was running desperately in the rain, and then I was woken by a loud knocking on the door. It was Mila, with the children; she told me she needed to leave them with me for a few hours, she had an urgent appointment, Ana had gone to her village, and her parents weren’t in town. I was still woozy from my nap. I told her there was no problem, but she should come get them before three because I also had an appointment, and María Elena had left with Ana; she assured me she would come at two-thirty on the dot, and she left in a hurry. Her appearance was so unexpected — only when I closed the door did my blood start to boil. The children ran to the patio to play with Nerón. I locked Pericles’s study, placed all the fragile ornaments on a high shelf in the living room, and checked to see how much food María Elena had made. A moment later Marianito came into the kitchen saying he was thirsty.
After preparing them some melon drinks, I sat in the rocking chair on the porch and watched them play. I realized it’s not healthy to keep what I feel and think about Mila inside. At that moment I was absolutely certain that she had left the children with me so she could wallow in sin with that colonel who wants to murder my son, her husband. I don’t like having such poisonous thoughts, but this one time I couldn’t get rid of them. Fortunately, Betito arrived half an hour later; he came with Chente, who asked me for copies of the communiqué to take to his companions at the university; he told me that they are organizing a strike and other activities to protest the atrocities committed by the general, and as soon as they open the university next Monday things are going to heat up considerably. I gave him my remaining copies of the communiqué, keeping only one for myself. Chente explained that the students have been holding secret meetings the whole time the university has been closed, and they agreed that their top priority was to launch a campaign demanding freedom for all political prisoners, and he would speak to his fellow students to ask a group of them to accompany us early tomorrow morning to the Central Prison to demand visiting rights. I told him I would present his offer to the ladies in the committee this afternoon, who also had contacts with students, and I didn’t want to make decisions that weren’t mine to make, and we should talk again at night. But I still find it surprising that such grandiose words and such determination can come forth from someone as thin and scrawny as Chente.