had been contracting into an expression of disgust as our host elaborated on the comedic talents of the psychopath, so I was not surprised when he leapt up and—on his way to the table to pour himself another glass of brandy—blurted out: “Don’t you ever forget, Alberto, that those sonsabitches killed Albertico!” Mario Varela’s blow, dealt cruelly and forcefully, created an ugly silence in the room, as well as contortions of pain on Muñecón’s face and probably in his spirit, because Albertico had been his only son, and he had indeed been arrested, tortured, and assassinated by a National Police death squad in 1980, when Major le Chevalier was the leader of the death squads that operated within the police force. Iris and I turned toward him in alarm, not because we were afraid that Muñecón would be felled by that well-aimed blow, but because we knew that if we didn’t act quickly he would slip into telling the story of Albertico’s death, the long and sinuous story about how his son and his son’s wife, a lovely Danish girl, were captured, the desperate efforts that were made to have them released, the uncertainty, the growing terror as the days passed, the anonymous call that informed him of their murder, the bloodcurdling trips to dumping sites around the country to try to find their bodies; Iris and I knew that if my uncle started slipping down the slope of telling that story, we’d all be doomed for the rest of the night, forced to listen to him for no less than an hour, because once I had timed him—once out of the maybe fifteen times I’d had the pleasure of being present for that particular show—and it had taken him exactly one hour and seventeen minutes to stage the tragedy without interruptions, because there was no way to interrupt him, considering the intensity of his pain and guilt, his tearful eyes, his heavy breathing, and finally his inconsolable sobs. That’s why, before the ugly silence produced by Mario Varela’s blow had come to an end, I hurried to ask Muñecón if he’d had any news of Don Chente, if he had a phone number in San Salvador where I could reach him after I arrived, eager as I was to continue the treatments in order to finish once and for all with my irritable bowel problems.
“Chente’s in San Salvador?” Mario Varela asked hastily, also apparently eager to change the subject—he did not have the leisure to feel proud of the blow he’d dealt, knowing instead only the wingbeat of furtive guilt, followed by the fear that Muñecón would launch into his tale of woe, which Mario Varela had surely heard even more times than I had, and had even helped construct, I told myself at that moment, because if, as I suspected, the Communist apparatchik had been Albertico’s boss at the time of his murder in San Salvador, it was only logical that Muñecón’s moving story would have been based on Mario Varela’s version, at least in part.
“Doña Rosita died,” Muñecón mumbled after another gulp of brandy, still resenting the blow and collapsing onto the sofa. The use of Don Chente’s mother’s given name gave me reason to believe that my uncle and Mario Varela knew her well, which seemed a fortunate coincidence that would make it possible for me to insist on the subject, thereby moving us resolutely away from the story of Albertico’s death and allowing me to obtain more information about my doctor now that I was planning to see him in San Salvador.
“How long have you known Don Chente’s family?” I asked Muñecón, hoping he would recover his exuberance, his narrative élan: it was obvious that he had still not recuperated from the upset the memory of Albertico’s murder had occasioned, and he needed one last push to return to the present. “Since 1944, at least,” Mario Varela piped in as he savored his brandy, during the so-called general strike to oust the dictatorship of Martínez, when the committee of medical students Chente belonged to was leading
“Chente’s in San Salvador?” Mario Varela asked hastily, also apparently eager to change the subject—he did not have the leisure to feel proud of the blow he’d dealt, knowing instead only the wingbeat of furtive guilt, followed by the fear that Muñecón would launch into his tale of woe, which Mario Varela had surely heard even more times than I had, and had even helped construct, I told myself at that moment, because if, as I suspected, the Communist apparatchik had been Albertico’s boss at the time of his murder in San Salvador, it was only logical that Muñecón’s moving story would have been based on Mario Varela’s version, at least in part.
“Doña Rosita died,” Muñecón mumbled after another gulp of brandy, still resenting the blow and collapsing onto the sofa. The use of Don Chente’s mother’s given name gave me reason to believe that my uncle and Mario Varela knew her well, which seemed a fortunate coincidence that would make it possible for me to insist on the subject, thereby moving us resolutely away from the story of Albertico’s death and allowing me to obtain more information about my doctor now that I was planning to see him in San Salvador.
“How long have you known Don Chente’s family?” I asked Muñecón, hoping he would recover his exuberance, his narrative élan: it was obvious that he had still not recuperated from the upset the memory of Albertico’s murder had occasioned, and he needed one last push to return to the present. “Since 1944, at least,” Mario Varela piped in as he savored his brandy, during the so-called general strike to oust the dictatorship of Martínez, when the committee of medical students Chente belonged to was leading
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