I only ever knew my mother and father as older people. My parents had me late in their lives. My siblings had all left home by the time I was born. My father’s name was Federico Ricardo Neftali Garcia Basoalto and he was responsible for keeping our town free of bloodthirst and savagery.
I was ten years old when Fernanda Leite disappeared. Fernanda had left home on a hot Thursday morning but never found her way to school. Two men in sky blue uniforms from the Ministerio showed up instead, they wanted to know if any of us had seen Fernanda. We hadn’t.
They found Fernanda on Sunday, next to a creek in the forest. The following Tuesday the men from the Ministerio arrested a vagabond by the name of Miguel Alvarez Lopes.
I was twelve when my father and mother agreed that I was old enough to visit my father at work. I held my mother’s hand as we walked to the town square to see my father. It had been raining the night before. The roads were muddy and pocked with pools of clay water. Frogs croaked and bleated in the humid forest that encircled the town.
My mother wore a red hat and her best summer dress. I wore my church shorts, a scratchy starched shirt that smelt of baby vomit and my clip-on tie. People came out of their homes and joined us as we walked. Everyone was sombre, exchanging hushed greetings and little else. The world smelt dank, and the forest held onto the breeze so that the air in town was still. Beneath my shirt I felt a drop of sweat run down the side of my stomach.
Most of the town was already gathered at the town square by the time we arrived. The square’s cobblestones glistened and steamed under the white sun. The church stood at the north end of the square. At the southern point, opposite the church, a newly erected scaffold stood on top of an elevated wooden stage. The wood was dark and swollen with moisture. A fresh rope hung from the scaffold and was tied to the vertical beam on one side. We all faced the stage, our backs to the church.
To the right of the square stood a squat white building with a straw roof. The wooden door to the building opened and the priest walked out, followed by the Ministerio’s magistrate, my father, Miguel Alvarez Lopes and two Ministerio guards. They walked in a procession along the edge of the square. The gathered people fell silent as their eyes followed the six men. I watched my father closely. He was elegant, tall. He walked next to Mr. Lopes whose hands were tied behind his back. Mr. Lopes looked small, hunched he squinted in the bright sunlight. At one point my father helped Mr. Lopes avoid a puddle. As they approached the stairs that led onto the stage my father leaned in and whispered something to Mr. Lopes who nodded.
The priest and the minister stood aside, and my father and Mr. Lopes climbed the stairs. The two guards followed and stood at either end of the stage.
A voice from the crowd shouted, “you deserve to die, you pig.” A stunned silence fell over the already hushed crowd. My father stopped and said something to Mr. Lopes before slowly making his way to the front of the stage. He pointed at someone behind me.
“You, Don Cristobal. Bite your tongue and show some respect. We are not animals.” I looked over my shoulder and saw Don Cristobal look down at the toes of his shoes.
My father walked back to the convicted man and led him the rest of the way to the gallows. He undid the noose from the vertical beam and brought it to Mr. Lopes who faced the cross on the church behind us. My father then asked him if there was anything he would like to say. Mr. Lopes nodded and whispered something to my father. My father put his hand on the man’s shoulder and pointed at a couple in the crowd.
Mr. Lopes stepped forward. “Mrs. and Mr. Leite. I am truly sorry for the pain I have caused you and your family. I am not so arrogant as to seek your forgiveness but would like you to know that I fear meeting my maker. May God bless you.” The silence that followed was made louder by the din of the frogs and the stagnant heat. Mr. Leite nodded at the man while his wife sobbed.
When Miguel Alvarez Lopes had said his piece, my father patted him on the shoulder and placed the noose over his head. My father would later tell me that he never placed a hood over a sentenced person’s face because people had to see the horror their judgement delivered. He then pulled the lever on the scaffold and Mr. Lopes fell one metre and forty-nine centimetres. Just enough to break his neck and spare him any unnecessary suffering.
When it was done, people dispersed back to their homes. My mother and I stayed and waited. Once Mr. Lopes’ body was removed, my father came to us. He had taken his jacket off, had rolled up his shirtsleeves and was carrying a long crowbar.
“Go home with your mother. I’m going to stay and help dismantle the scaffold.” I nodded. He then squatted down, put the crowbar between his legs and peered into my eyes. “I remove life, son. But my true work is to remind people that to take a life in judgement is a grave and wretched thing. Do you understand?”
Later, as my mother and I walked home, we passed Mrs. and Mr. Leite. Mrs. Leite’s eyes were red and puffy. When she saw me, she smiled, cupped my cheek in her hand and said, “Your father is a good man.”