He bent over his eggs again, wiping the yolk from the plate with the last of his tortilla.
“Which,” he said, licking his fingers, “is what I think, but we have to be fair. We have to give them the chance to ask about Richardson when they meet with the president of the republic. Besides, the Richardson case has become, for me, a good litmus test.”
“Litmus test of what?”
I heard the little bell on the door. The woman who had let us in was turning the CLOSED sign to OPEN. While we’d been talking, she’d set the other tables and stroked the floor with a cloth mop so that it now shone gray in the light coming through the window. When she came to our table, answering Leonel’s raised finger, he gave her some money and she beamed at him, covering her toothless mouth with her palm, then he whispered something to her that I didn’t understand.
“Litmus test of what?”
“I’m also going to ask if you can accompany the delegation, but I think they’ll say no, which is too bad because you’d really learn something—and not,” he added cryptically, “about El Salvador.”
Back in the hot Hiace, he placed the gun between our seats, covered it with the magazine, then started the engine and turned up the radio.
“First, however, we have to decide who you are. I have thought about this, and I think the truth is best, that you are a poet. You work in a university. Sometimes you write for newspapers maybe, or magazines, which would make you also a journalist.”
We were in thick, slow traffic now, the air suffused with the smell of decay and exhaust.
“What is that?”
“The smell? Oh. Rotting coffee husks. I don’t smell it anymore.”
“I’m not a journalist.”
“I know that. You know that. They don’t know that. So, when necessary, we tell them you’re writing an article about the country. You can be vague. In fact, it’s usually best to be vague. But mostly you’re here on a fellowship from the United States, and you are a poet.”
He continued talking almost to himself through the barrios and colonias of San Salvador, glancing from mirror to windshield, from the street and the truck ahead to the stucco walls, searching the buildings as if he were looking for an address, but there were no addresses here. There were gates and walls. He pulled over and stopped, yanking on the emergency brake. A tiny woman in a white apron darted behind a gate that swung open to the walkway.
“Well, we’re here,” and once again sliding the gun into the rucksack, he said, “Let’s go,” with a slip of resignation in his voice.
“Where are we?”
He paused with his hand on the door handle.
“I wasn’t going to begin this way but we don’t have much time, so I don’t have any choice. I’m going to introduce you to someone. You don’t have to say too much, just listen. This is a little bit of a risk, Papu, so be careful.”
“Be careful in what way?”
“His name is General José Alberto ‘Chele’ Medrano, founder of one of the largest paramilitary organizations in the country and the former director of military intelligence. He’s retired now, but he is still a very dangerous man. Not without reason do they still call him jefe. Be careful.”
I remembered this name, Medrano, from Tom Anderson’s letter: The Guardia Nacional is less evident now than it was in the high-handed days of Chele Medrano.
“Be careful how?”
“Just—listen to what I’m saying.”
“Why am I meeting him?”
“I told you.”
“No, actually you didn’t.”
“He’s a man who . . .” He seemed to catch himself, and turned to look behind us, first in the rearview mirror and then in the back window. I turned too. No one was there.
“Mirá, do you want to learn about this place or not?” And in the silence that hung between us he said: “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
* * *
This was one of the better colonias, where appearances were deceptive. Such houses as belonged to General Chele Medrano were set back from the street and surrounded by walls and security gates. Armed and half-uniformed men usually stood watch. After sounding the buzzer, the guard would be told to admit the visitor. Sometimes there was no buzzer, or it wasn’t used. The guard communicated with the house via two-way radio. Chele seemed to have no guard but the timid maid who had already slipped away. Tropical foliage bordered the narrow path that led to the door. Once inside the gate, and only then, the maid appeared holding the door open and shyly waving us toward a side table in the front hallway where the visitors’ bags were to be left: Leonel’s rucksack, my rucksack and purse. We were shown to the room where we were to sit and wait. The maid brought coffee cups, a bowl of sugar cubes, a small pitcher of milk, and glasses of water. This was always the ritual, although in the afternoons, we were sometimes offered Coca-Cola or orange soda, with lemon wafers or some other cookie. For a short time, I would have the chance to study the room for clues as to the owner’s tastes and interests. General Medrano’s sitting room was dimmed by wide, gray Venetian blinds coated with dust. There were framed prints on the walls and porcelain curios on the side tables. The old television’s dead green tube reflected the stuffed sofa and the blinded window.
Leonel stood as Medrano came into the room wearing a white guayabera and trousers belted just below his chest. I remember the house slippers on his blue-veined feet, his faint gray mustache and dancing eyebrows, one arched higher than the other, his bulbous nose, and rheumy eyes. His gravelly voice was hard for me to understand. He nodded to each of us in turn but did not offer his hand. As he lowered himself into his chair, assisted by the same maid, we took our seats facing him in a small circle.
In the beginning, I didn’t really understand the conversations that took place between Leonel and men such as Medrano. Their rapid, mysterious, obscenity-strewn Salvadoran Spanish was more revealing of mood than substance, and the moods swung from jovial to menacing. When my turn came to be included, the Spanish slowed or Leonel interpreted.
This time, Leonel began with pleasantries, as if this were a social call, asking after the general’s family and health, but then the conversation hardened. Medrano was furious about something. Leonel listened intently and nodded from time to time, so I also listened to what seemed a fierce and incomprehensible debate. I heard: subversivos, mierda, a la gran puta, cabrón, las fuerzas armadas, los gringos, and comunistas. Most of the foul language came from Leonel while the retired general was a little more reserved. As they talked, I turned toward one and then the other. Leonel later said that the expression on my face was serious and intent, as if I were recording every word, and that my silence, in his opinion, had therefore been “perfect.” But during the meeting I felt hopelessly lost, and so imagined that I was watching a play, until Leonel interrupted in slow Spanish, repeating in English: “She is interested to know your current impressions of General Romero’s tanda.”
With this, Medrano gave me his full attention for the first time.
“This crop?” he asked.
I didn’t know quite what Leonel was talking about, but I pretended yes, “this crop.”
“Well, as you know, our group had a lot of problems and perhaps we dealt with people a bit harshly back then, but of course we played the game as it is played, and mostly we did well. There was corruption, yes. There is always corruption. There is always money to be made and what choice really do we have? You understand this, of course. But these cabrones in power now? The worst thieves I have ever seen, historically the worst. And that, as you must know, is saying something.”
He smiled and I nodded, ever so slightly.
“There is something else,” Leonel said. “What about Richardson? The dead American? They still have a dead American on their hands.”
The retired general looked at his watch, then at me.
“I’m no longer in charge o
f these matters,” he said.
Then, as a way of ending the meeting, he asked if I had further questions. For some reason I said no, nothing else, and thanked him for his time.
“Perfect!” Leonel blurted as he started the engine. “You were very good.”
“What does that mean?”
I was trying not to sound irritated, but I honestly didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Oh, God, Carolina, do I have to explain everything to you? Just take the compliment. I don’t give many, as you might have noticed. Look, you were serious and you were not very forthcoming. You were paying attention. And you thanked him. That’s important. I think he formed a good first impression. And we managed to ask about Richardson. It couldn’t have gone better.”
I folded my arms and turned to watch the street through the side window.
“What’s wrong?”
I didn’t know what to say at that moment.
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Papu . . .”
“Why did you drag me in there? There was no reason for me . . .”
“Oh yes, there was. You have no idea.”
“Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it? It’s a problem for me.”
“All right, then, let’s review. You just arrived in the country, an American with no known affiliations, and suddenly you are asking to meet with Chele Medrano of all people.”
“But I didn’t ask to meet with him.”
“Yes, you did. Because I told him you wanted to see him and that’s how we got into his goddamn house in the first place. He might have met with me alone but I don’t think so. Why should he? And we planted a good seed, and, as they say, it fell on fertile ground.”
“But you used me, and I don’t even know for what.”
“Lesson number one: I did not use you, I gave you a rare opportunity. And we accomplished many things, more than I’d hoped. You are now a mysterious person of some importance, and that might save your life.”
He reached over and patted my thigh. “Come on, Forché, cheer up.”
* * *
The human rights team headed by the congressman did its work. Tom Anderson, Leonel’s first reverse Peace Corps volunteer, accompanied the group as record keeper. During this time, Leonel rented two rooms in the hotel where the group was staying—to save time, “to keep an eye on developments,” and, most important, to seize upon any opportunity to ask about the dead American. As he predicted, I wouldn’t be joining the group as an observer, a decision not taken by the congressman himself but by his handler, a man from a vaguely religious but, in practice, secular organization dedicated to service, one of the many people whom Leonel came to call kumbayas, in honor of the American campfire song.
“He is who he is,” Leonel said of this man, as he would come to say about many people.
Later, he explained that there were many ways to find out who people really are, behind the personas they present to the world. There are also ways of learning, in a relatively short period of time, if a person can be trusted.
“For example,” he said, “you might give someone a bit of harmless or even false information and see where it travels and how long it takes to come back to you, and if, after several such tests, the information fails to come back, you might have a person you can more or less trust.”
We were in the hotel coffee shop, waiting for Tom to join us. It was Tom who had delivered, by telephone, the bad news, which wasn’t so much that I couldn’t join the group but that the delegation clearly had no interest in asking the Salvadoran military government about the Richardson case, and this meant they had no interest in stirring matters up regarding the murderousness of such men as Chacón.
“Maybe he doesn’t understand how important this is,” I suggested, trying to distract myself from smoking another cigarette by toying with the sugar packets.
“Come on, Papu. He knows. Anyone who has been paying attention to El Salvador knows. Listen, I’m not asking them to spend a lot of time, I’m just asking for one little”—holding his index finger a half inch from his thumb for emphasis—“one little mention of a dead man’s name in at least one official meeting. That’s it. And they can’t even do that.”
“Don’t get up,” a cheerful voice boomed, but Leonel was already on his feet, embracing Anderson, the two taking turns patting each other on the shoulder, asking after families, marveling at how long it had been, then turning to me, Tom extended his hand.
“You must be Carolyn. Delighted. Sorry I’m late. What a day!” He asked if we’d like coffee, adding that he wished he could join us for dinner but, apparently, they were scheduled to dine with the embassy people later in the evening.
“And I’m sorry you won’t be with us in Aguilares,” he added. “I tried, but it seems they have a set agenda, and they’re quite nervous about this whole thing, as you might expect. Ever since Father Grande’s murder, Aguilares has been off-limits. The plan to go there has the embassy in a tizzy. Two coffees, please. Leonel, what are you having?”
“Nothing,” he said, “water’s fine. Tizzy?”
“I think they would rather we skipped Aguilares altogether, but the congressman won’t have it. One can imagine how he feels, a fellow Jesuit . . .”
And again, he apologized.
“Don’t worry about it, Tom,” Leonel said gently. “Forché will get her opportunity to go to Aguilares. But about this dinner tonight? I do have a small favor to ask of you. If the moment is right, would you mind trying to find out what this new ambassador thinks about the Richardson case?”
Leonel seemed to be choosing his words carefully, his tone almost professorial, mirroring Tom’s manner of speaking.
“Sure. I doubt he’ll have anything to say to me, but of course I will. You know, Leonel, you should try to get a meeting with him yourself. I’m sure he’d see you.”
“I have no interest, Tom. How long has he been here? Long enough, I would think, that he should at least have read his predecessor’s notes.”
As was often the case, I felt myself withdraw as the two men talked, into a familiar state that allowed for writing in my stenographer’s pad: the same green, oblong notebook, spiral bound at the top, that I had begun using while in high school, available on the supply cart for the girls studying shorthand, the lost art of taking notes rapidly in an abbreviated symbolic language illegible to anyone else. I wrote in pencil, then as now, to keep the writing light and erasable. Mostly I wrote descriptions of things—images, lines, and other notes toward future poems, but with a little practice, I realized I could also probably get back up to speed “taking dictation,” as we called it in the past, transcribing conversations so they could be read back nearly verbatim.
“Carolyn?” Leonel was speaking to me now, prompting me to tell Tom about the military officer I had met a few days earlier, smiling as if he were proud of me or of himself.
“General Chele Medrano,” I offered, feeling a bit embarrassed to have been put on the spot.
“Really? Very interesting. Was he forthcoming?”
I didn’t understand the question.
“Not much,” Leonel answered for me. “But it was a good meeting. She did well.”
“You’re not going to put her through too much, are you, Leonel?” Tom was smiling as he said this, then to me: “Be careful with this guy. You never know what he’s going to get you into—no, seriously though,” he added, patting Leonel’s shoulder again, “you’re lucky to have him as a friend, and you’ll learn a great deal from him. I know I did.”
We were all standing now, Leonel whispering, “Wait here,” before the two men walked a short way off, then turned toward each other and had a brief, earnest conversation. It was around that time that I remembered something from Tom’s letter: that he was afraid that he had made it all sound very cloak and daggerish, but it isn’t, unless you
want to get involved.
We were in the hotel lobby the next day as the congressman swept through, shaking my hand among many, while his handler marched around the periphery of the group, striding to the hotel desk and back, and once or twice I thought I saw him casting a wary eye on Leonel.
The group left suddenly, climbing into two embassy vehicles that had pulled in front of the hotel, leaving its gleaming lobby empty, like a flock of crows that had suddenly flown from a field, flapping into the air for reasons known only to themselves. It was quiet again, except that I thought I heard the scratch of a two-way radio, a voice crackling through white noise, then clicking off. Leonel was wearing a fresh guayabera—his equivalent, he told me, of a business suit. This is the best I have, he said, and in a falsetto voice added: my formal wear. Later he would joke that if he died, they’d better not put him “in a jacket and tie, the standard uniform of corpses” for men of his class. He shrugged and turned away, motioning me to follow with a flick of his hand, and all the way to the van he was quiet.
“Well,” he said finally, “well, we tried.”
* * *
—
It was then that he decided to take me to the campo, or that had been the plan all along, but we were driving away from the city, and not in the Hiace but in an open jeep, my hair whipping around my face, the mountains amber through my sunglasses, and fields of corn and cane and cotton crops broken by bony, pastured cattle, and along the road, walking the shoulders on both sides, women with clay water urns balanced on their heads, barefoot children following behind them, men leading burros loaded down with kindling and bundles, and every so often we would pull up behind a slow, coughing bus, and Leonel would downshift and slide into the left lane, racing toward oncoming traffic before slipping back in front of the bus just in time. When he did this, I squeezed my eyes shut and braced my feet on the floor.
“What?” he would ask, and then to my silence, answer, “Don’t worry. I’m an expert driver.”
What You Have Heard Is True Page 8
