Tyrant Memory

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It’s been a week since Pericles was arrested. I expected him to be released today, as has always occurred on previous occasions, when they let him come home after a week. But now the situation is different. Colonel Monterrosa told me as much, at noon today in his office, with a look of regret on his face because he respects Pericles: “I’m sorry, Doña Haydée, but the general’s orders are final: Don Pericles will remain under arrest until further notice.” I began to suspect that the general is angry or afraid about something else when, on that first day, I found out they hadn’t locked him up in the room next to Colonel Monterrosa’s office — he’s the chief of police — but instead had taken him to one of the cells in the basement; the colonel told me he was very sorry, but the decision to deal more firmly with Pericles had come straight from the top. During his previous imprisonments, my husband could receive visits from friends authorized by the colonel, and we always ate lunch and dinner together in that room, where I’d bring the food María Elena and I had prepared. Now, Pericles is isolated, and they allow him to come up to that other room only once a day, at lunchtime, to meet me. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain: Don Jorge’s situation and that of other political prisoners is much worse.

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