In the meantime, in Chile, my parents were preparing to vote in the plebiscite that would decide the fate of the dictatorship. One of the clauses of the constitution Pinochet had drawn up to legitimize his tenure as president stipulated that in 1988 he would consult the people to determine whether his government was to continue and, should it be rejected, call democratic elections for the following year: the general could not conceive of being caught in a trap of his own devising. The military, ready to perpetuate themselves in power, had not recognized how much discontent had intensified in those years or that people had learned hard lessons, and organized. Pinochet orchestrated a massive propaganda campaign; in contrast, the opposition was limited to fifteen minutes of television time a day—at eleven o’clock at night when it was presumed that everyone would be sleeping. Instants before the appointed hour, three million alarm clocks rang and Chileans rubbed the sleep from their eyes to watch that fabulous quarter hour in which popular ingenuity approached the level of genius. The NO campaign was characterized by humor, youth, and the spirit of reconciliation and hope. The campaign of the SI party was a botch of military hymns, threats, addresses by the general, posed amid patriotic emblems, and clips from old documentaries showing people standing in line during the days of the Popular Unity. If there were still any undecided voters, the sparkle of the NOs overcame the irritating weightiness of the SIs, and Pinochet lost the plebiscite. That year, after thirteen years of absence, Willie and I landed in Santiago on a glorious sunny day. I was immediately encircled by a group of carabineros and again felt the bite of terror, but then, to my amazement, I realized that they were not there to carry me off to prison but to protect me from the rush of a small crowd that had come to welcome me. As they called my name, I thought they had confused me with my cousin Isabel, Salvador Allende’s daughter, but several people stepped forward with books to be signed. My first novel had defied censorship by circulating from hand to hand in photocopies until it became persona grata in the bookstores; as a result, it probably attracted benevolent readers who read it out of pure contrariness. Later, I learned that a journalist friend of mine had broadcast my arrival on the radio, turning the discreet visit I had planned into news. As a joke, he also announced that I had married a Texas oil millionaire, according me a prestige impossible to obtain through mere literature. I cannot describe the emotion I felt when we crossed the majestic peaks of the cordillera of the Andes and I stepped onto the soil of my homeland, breathed the warm valley air, heard the accent of our Spanish, and in Immigration received the solemn greeting, almost like an admonition, typical of our public officials. I was so weak in the knees, I had to lean on Willie as we passed through customs and saw my parents and Mama Hilda, waiting with open arms. That return is the perfect metaphor for my life. I had fled from my country, frightened and alone, one wintry, cloudy late afternoon, and returned, triumphant, on my husband’s arm one splendid summer morning. My life is one of contrasts, I have learned to see both sides of the coin. At moments of greatest success, I do not lose sight of the pain awaiting me down the road, and when I am sunk in despair, I wait for the sun I know will rise farther along. On that first trip, I had a warm but timid welcome because the fist of the dictatorship still had a tight grip. I went to Isla Negra to visit Pablo Neruda’s house, abandoned for many years, where the ghost of the old poet still sits facing the sea writing his immortal poems, and where the wind rings the large ship’s bell to summon the gulls. On the wooden fence that surrounds the property are hundreds of messages, many written in pencil over faded traces of others erased by the caprices of weather, and some carved into wood eaten by the salt air, messages of hope for the prophet-bard who still lives in the hearts of his people. I looked up my women friends, and saw Francisco again, who had changed very little during those thirteen years. Together we climbed San Cristobal Hill to look down on the world from above and remember the period when we went there to escape everyday brutality and to share a love so chaste we never dared put it into words. I visited Michael, now remarried and the grandfather of a new family, installed in the house his father built, living exactly the life he had planned in his youth, as if losses, betrayals, exile, and other misfortunes were but a parenthesis in the perfect organization of his destiny. He welcomed me as a friend; we walked through the streets of our old neighborhood and rang the bell of the house where Paula and Nicolás grew up, looking insignificant now in its straw wig, the cherry tree still beside the window. A smiling woman opened the door and good-naturedly listened to our sentimental explanations and then let us come in and go through the whole house. On the floor were other children’s toys and on the walls, photographs of other faces, but our memories lingered in the air. Everything looked smaller, with that soft sepia patina of nearly forgotten memories. Outside, I said goodbye to Michael, and, as soon as he was out of sight, burst into inconsolable sobs. I was crying for those perfect times of our early youth, when we truly loved one another and thought it would be forever, when our children were small and we believed we could protect them from all harm. What happened to us? Perhaps we are in this world to search for love, find it and lose it, again and again. With each love, we are born anew, and with each love that ends we collect a new wound. I am covered with proud scars.
One year later, I returned to vote in the first election since the military coup. Once he had lost the plebiscite, and was caught up in the snare of his own constitution, Pinochet had to call elections. He comported himself with the assurance of a victor, never imagining he could be defeated, because on his side he had the monolithic unity of the armed forces, the support of the most powerful economic sectors, a multimillion-dollar propaganda campaign, and the fear many had of freedom. Also in his favor was the history of irreconcilable differences among the political parties, a past of such rancor and unpaid accounts that it seemed impossible they could reach an accord. Rejection of the dictatorship, however, outweighed ideological differences; an agreement was made among parties opposing the government, and in 1989 their candidate won the election, making him the first legitimate president since Salvador Allende. Pinochet was forced to hand over the presidential sash and seat and take one pace backward, but he did not retire completely, his sword hung suspended above the heads of all Chileans. The country awakened from a lethargy of nearly seventeen years and took the first step in a transitional democracy in which for eight more years General Pinochet continued as commander in chief of the armed forces; a part of the Congress and all the Supreme Court had been designated by him, and the military and economic structures remained intact. There would be no justice for crimes committed, the perpetrators were protected by a decree of amnesty they had declared on their own behalf. “I will not allow anyone to harm a hair on any soldier’s head,” threatened Pinochet, and the country observed his conditions in silence, fearing another coup. The victims of the repression, the Maureiras and thousands of others, had to postpone their mourning and wait. Perhaps justice and truth might have helped bind up Chile’s deep wounds, but the arrogance of the military impeded that. Democracy would crawl forward at the slow and zigzagging pace of the crab.
PAULA CAME TO MY ROOM AGAIN LAST NIGHT. I HEARD HER ENTER WITH her light step and the striking grace that was hers before the ravages of her illness; in her nightgown and slippers, she climbed onto my bed and sat at my feet and talked to me in the voice she used to exchange confidences. “Listen, Mama, wake up. I don’t want you to think you’re dreaming. I’ve come to ask for your help. . . . I want to die and I can’t. I see a radiant path before me, but I can’t take that first step, something is holding me. All that’s left in my bed is my suffering body, degenerating by the day; I perish with thirst and cry out for peace, but no one hears me. I am so tired! Why is this happening? You, Mama, who are always talking about your friendly spirits, ask them what my mission is, what I have to do. I suppose there is nothing to fear, death is just a threshold, like birth. I’m sorry I can’t keep my memory, but I have been detaching myself from it, an
yway; when I go I will go naked. The only recollection I’m taking with me is of the loved ones I leave behind; I will always be with you in some way. Do you remember the last thing I was able to whisper to you before I slipped into this long night? ‘I love you, Mama,’ that’s what I said. I’m telling you again, now, and I will tell you in dreams every night of your life. The only thing holding me back a little is having to go alone; if you took my hand it would be easier to cross to the other side—the infinite loneliness of death frightens me. Help me one more time, Mama. You’ve fought like a lioness to save me, but reality is overpowering you. It’s all useless now; give up, stop the doctors and medicines and prayers, because nothing will make me healthy again, there will be no miracle, no one can change the course of my destiny and I don’t want it anyway; I have lived my time and I want to say goodbye. Everyone in the family understands that but you; I am eager to be free, you’re the only one who hasn’t accepted the fact that I will never be as I was before. Look at my wasted body, think of how my soul wants to escape and the terrible bonds holding it back. Oh, vieja, this is so hard for me, and I know it is for you, too. What can we do? In Chile, my grandparents are praying for me and my father is clinging to the poetic recollection of a spectral daughter, while on the other side of this country Ernesto is floating in a sea of ambiguity, still unaware that he has lost me forever. Actually, he is already a widower, but he can’t weep for me or love another woman as long as my body is breathing here in your house. In our brief time together, we were very happy; I am leaving him so many good memories that he won’t have years enough to exhaust them. Tell him I will never forsake him, he will never be alone; I will be his guardian angel, as I will be yours. The twenty-eight years you and I shared were happy, too; don’t torture yourself thinking about what could have been, things you wish you had done differently, omissions, mistakes. . . . Get all that out of your head! After I die, we will stay in contact the way you do with your grandparents and Granny; I will be in you as a constant, soft presence, I will come when you call, communication will be easier when you don’t have the misery of my sick body before you and you can see me as I was in the good days. Do you remember that time we danced the paso doble in the streets of Toledo, leaping over puddles and laughing in the rain beneath our black umbrella? And the startled faces of the Japanese tourists taking pictures of us? That’s how I want you to see me from now on: two best friends, two happy women defying the rain. Yes, I had a good life. . . . It’s so hard to let go of the world! But I can’t bear the misery of the seven years Dr. Shima predicted; my brother knows that, and he is the only one with enough courage to set me free. I would do the same for him. Nicolás has never forgotten our old complicity, and he has clear ideas and a serene heart. Do you remember how he defended me from the shadows of the dragon at the window? You can’t imagine how much mischief we hid from you, how we fooled you to protect each other, how many times you punished one for something the other had done, without our ever telling. I don’t expect you to help me die, no one can ask that of you, only that you not hold me back any longer. Give Nicolás a chance. How can he give me a hand if you never leave me alone? Please don’t grieve, Mama. . . .”
“Wake up, you’re crying in your sleep!” I hear Willie’s voice coming from a great distance, and, without opening my eyes, I try to sink farther into the darkness so my daughter will not disappear: this may be her last visit, I may never hear her voice again. “Wake up, wake up, it’s a nightmare. . . .” My husband is shaking me. “Wait for me, Paula! I want to go with you!” I scream, and then he turns on the light and tries to put his arms around me, but I push him away brusquely because she is smiling at me from the doorway, lifting one hand to wave goodbye before vanishing down the hallway, her white nightgown floating like wings and her bare feet barely brushing the carpet. Beside my bed are her rabbit fur slippers.
Juan came to participate in a two-week theological seminar. He was very busy analyzing God’s motives, but he found a way to spend hours with me and with Paula. Ever since giving up his Marxist convictions to devote himself to divine studies, something I cannot put my finger on has changed in his person: the slightly tilted head, the slower gestures, the more compassionate gaze, the more restrained vocabulary—now he doesn’t end each sentence with a swear word, as he used to. During this visit I plan to shake that air of solemnity a little; it would be too much if religion killed his sense of humor. My brother describes himself in his role as pastor as a manager of suffering; his hours are eaten up with consoling and trying to help people who have no hope, in administering the scarce resources available for the dying, the drug addicts, the prostitutes, the abandoned children, and other wrecks in the multitudinous Court of Miracles that makes up humanity. His heart cannot stretch far enough to embrace so much pain. Since he lives in the most conservative area of the United States, to him California seems like a land of weirdos. By chance, he witnessed a gay parade, an exuberant Dionysian carnival, and then in Berkeley he attended frenzied demonstrations for and against abortion, political wrangles on the university campus, and a convention of street evangelists shouting their doctrines amid beggars and aging hippies, the last remnants of the sixties, still with their shell necklaces and flowers painted on their cheeks. Horrified, Juan learned that at the seminary courses are offered in The Theology of the Hula Hoop and How to Earn a Living Making Fun of the Bible. Every time this beloved brother comes, we mourn Paula’s fortune, finding some remote corner of the house where no one can see us, but we also laugh as we did when we were young, when we were discovering the world and thought we were invincible. I can tell him even the most secret things. I listen to his counsel as I rattle pans in the kitchen to cook up new vegetarian dishes for him—a pointless labor since he barely pecks at his food: his nourishment is ideas and books. He spends long hours alone with Paula, I think, praying. He no longer wagers she will get well; he says that the presence of her spirit in the house is very strong, that she is clearing spiritual paths to us and sweeping our lives clean of trivia, leaving only the essential. In her wheelchair, vacant-eyed, motionless, pale, she is an angel opening doors to the divine so we may glimpse its immensity.
“Paula is getting ready to leave the world. She is exhausted, Juan.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I would help her die if I knew how.”
“Don’t even think of it! You would carry a burden of guilt for the rest of your days.”
“But I will feel even more guilty if I leave her in this martyrdom. . . . What will happen if I die before she does? Imagine that I’m gone, who would take care of her?”
“That moment hasn’t come, you gain nothing by getting ahead of yourself. Life and death have their time. God never sends us suffering without the strength to bear it.”
“You’re preaching at me, Juan, like a priest. . . .”
“Paula doesn’t belong to you. You should not prolong her life artificially, but neither should you shorten it.”
“How far does ‘artificial’ go? Have you seen the hospital I have downstairs? I control every function of her body; I measure every drop of water that goes into her system, and there are a dozen bottles and syringes on her table. And since she can’t swallow for herself, if I don’t feed her through that tube in her stomach, she will die of hunger within a week.”
“Would you be able to withhold food from her?”
“No, never. But if I knew how to speed up her death without pain, I think I would do it. If I don’t, sooner or later Nicolás will, and it isn’t fair for him to take on that responsibility. I have a handful of sleeping pills I’ve been keeping for months, but I don’t know if they’re enough.”
“Oh, Isabel. . . . How much can you suffer?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m at the end of my strength. If only I could give her my life and die in her place. I’m lost, I don’t know who I am, I try to remember who I was once but I find only disguises, masks, projections, the confused images of a woman I
can’t recognize. Am I the feminist I thought I was, or the frivolous girl who appeared on television wearing nothing but ostrich feathers? The obsessive mother, the unfaithful wife, the fearless adventurer, or the cowardly woman? Am I the person who helped political fugitives find asylum or the one who ran away because she couldn’t handle fear? Too many contradictions. . . .”
“You’re all of them, and also the samurai who is battling death.”
“Was battling, Juan. I’ve lost.”
Difficult times. Weeks of such anxiety that I don’t want to see anyone; I can barely speak or eat or sleep; I write for hours on end. I keep losing weight. Until now, I was so busy fighting Paula’s illness that I could deceive myself, imagine that I could win this battle of Titans, but now that I know Paula is going, my efforts are absurd. She is worn out; that’s what she tells me in dreams at night and when I wake at dawn and when I am walking in the forest and the breeze carries her words to me. On the surface, everything seems more or less the same—except for those urgent messages, her ever-weaker voice asking for help. I am not the only one who hears it, the women who help me care for her are beginning to say their adieus. The masseuse decided it was not worthwhile to continue her sessions because, as she said, “Our girl is not responding.” The physiotherapist called, stammering, tongue-tied with apologies, until finally he confessed that Paula’s incurable illness was affecting his energy. The dental hygienist came, a young woman Paula’s age, with the same long hair and thick eyebrows, so much like her they could pass for sisters. Every two weeks, she cleans Paula’s teeth with great delicacy, so she won’t hurt her, then hurries away without letting me see her face, trying to hide her emotions. She refuses to charge anything; up till now, there’s been no opportunity for her to hand me a bill. We work together, because Paula becomes rigid when anyone tries to touch her face; only I can open her mouth and brush her teeth. This visit I noticed the hygienist was worried; no matter how carefully I do the daily cleaning, there are problems with Paula’s gums. Dr. Shima often comes by on the way from work and brings me messages from his I Ching sticks. We stand close to the bed, talking about the soul and accepting death. “When she leaves us, I will feel a great void,” he says. “I’m used to Paula now, she’s very important in my life.” Dr. Forrester seems uneasy, too. After her last examination, she was silent for a long time while she thought over her diagnosis, and finally she said that from a clinical point of view little had changed; nevertheless, she said, Paula seems less and less with us: she sleeps too much, her eyes are glassy, she doesn’t react to noises anymore, her cerebral functions are diminished. But in spite of everything, she is more beautiful: her hands and ankles are finer, her neck longer, her pale cheeks dramatically emphasize her long black eyelashes. Her face has an angelic expression, as if finally she had obliterated all doubt and found the divine fount she had sought so resolutely. She is so different from me! I can’t recognize anything of me in her. Or of my mother or my grandmother—except the large, dark, slightly melancholy eyes. Who is this daughter of mine? What accident of chromosomes navigating from one generation to the next in the most recondite spaces of the blood and hope determined this girl?