By Night in Chile

  recognized a Navy captain and an Air Force general. I talked about

  Capital (I had prepared a three-page summary) and The Civil War in France. General Mendoza didn’t ask a single question in the whole class, he just took notes. There were several copies of Basic Elements of Historical Materialism on the desk, and when the class was over General Pinochet told the others to take a copy away with them. He winked at me and shook my hand warmly before leaving. I never saw him in such a genial mood. In the fifth class I talked about Wages, Price and Profit and discussed the Manifesto again. After an hour General Mendoza was sleeping

  soundly. Don’t worry, said General Pinochet, come with me. I followed him to a large window, which looked out over the gardens behind the house. A full moon illuminated the smooth surface of a swimming pool. He opened the window. Behind us I could hear the muffled voices of the generals talking about Marta

  Harnecker. A delicious perfume given off by clumps of flowers was wafting all through the gardens. A bird called out and straightaway, from somewhere within the walls or from an adjoining property, a bird of the same species replied, then I heard a flapping of wings that seemed to rip through the night and then the deep silence returned, unscathed. Let’s take a walk, said the general. As if he were a magician, as soon as we stepped through the window frame and entered the enchanted gardens, lights came on, exquisitely scattered here and there among the plants. Then I talked about The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State, which Engels wrote on his own, and the General nodded at each stage of my explanation, now and then asking a pertinent

  question, and from time to time both of us fell silent and looked at the moon sailing on alone through infinite space. Perhaps it was that vision that gave me the nerve to ask him if he knew Leopardi. He said he didn’t. He asked who Leopardi was. We stopped for a moment. Standing at the window, the other

  generals were looking out into the night. A nineteenth-century Italian poet, I said. If I may be so bold, sir, I said, this moon reminds me of two of his poems: “The Infinite” and “Night Song of a Wandering Shepherd of Asia.” General Pinochet did not express the slightest interest. Walking beside him I recited what I knew by heart of “The Infinite.” Nice poetry, he said. In the sixth class everyone was present again: General Leigh struck me as something of a star pupil, Admiral Merino was a fine and, above all, a friendly conversationalist, while General Mendoza, true to form, remained silent and took notes. We talked about Marta Harnecker. General Leigh said that the young woman in question was intimately acquainted with a pair of Cubans. The admiral confirmed this report.

  Is that possible? said General Pinochet. Can that be possible? Are we talking about a woman or a bitch? Is this information correct? It is, said Leigh.

  Suddenly I had an idea for a poem about a degenerate woman, and I made a mental note of the first lines and the general drift that night while talking about Basic Elements of Historical Materialism and going back over some points from the Manifesto that they still hadn’t properly grasped. In the seventh class I talked about Lenin and Stalin and Trotsky and the various rival schools of Marxism around the world. I talked about Mao and Tito and Fidel Castro. All of them (except General Mendoza who wasn’t there for the seventh class) had read Basic Elements of Historical Materialism, and when the discussion started to flag we went back to talking about Marta Harnecker. I remember we also discussed Chairman Mao’s military accomplishments. General Pinochet said that the really gifted strategist in that part of the world was not Mao but another Chinaman, whose unpronounceable names he mentioned, but of course I forgot them straightaway. General Leigh said that Marta Harnecker was probably working for the Cuban secret service. Is this information correct? It is. In the eighth class I talked about Lenin again and we examined What Is to Be Done? and then we went over Mao’s Little Red Book (which General Pinochet found very simple and straightforward), and then we came back to Basic Elements of Historical Materialism, by Marta Harnecker. In the ninth class I asked them questions about Harnecker’s Basic Elements.

  Overall, the answers were satisfactory. The tenth class was the last. Only General Pinochet came. We talked about religion rather than politics. When it was over, he gave me a gift on behalf of himself and the other members of the Junta. I don’t know why, but I had expected the goodbye to be more personal. It was rather cold, though perfectly polite of course, in strict accordance with state protocol. I asked him if the classes had been useful. Of course, said the general. I asked if I had lived up to their expectations. You may go with a clear conscience, he assured me, you’ve done a splendid job. Colonel Pérez Latouche accompanied me home. When I got there, at two in the morning, after driving through the empty streets of Santiago, reduced to geometry by the curfew, I couldn’t get to sleep and didn’t know what to do. I started walking up and down in my room while a rising tide of images and voices crowded into my brain. Ten classes, I said to myself. Only nine, really. Nine classes. Nine lessons. Not much of a bibliography. Was it all right? Did they learn anything?

  Did I teach them anything? Did I do what I had to do? Did I do what I ought to have done? Is Marxism a kind of humanism? Or a diabolical theory? If I told my literary friends what I had done, would they approve? Would some condemn my actions out of hand? Would some understand and forgive me? Is it always possible for a man to know what is good and what is bad? In the midst of these deliberations, I broke down and began to cry helplessly, stretched out on the bed, blaming Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah for my misfortunes (in an intellectual sense) since they were the ones who got me into that business in the first place. Then, before I knew it, I was asleep. That week I dined with Farewell. I could no longer bear the weight, or to be perhaps more precise, the alternatively

  pendular and circular oscillations of my conscience, and the phosphorescent mist, glowing dimly like a marsh at the vesperal hour, through which my lucidity had to make its way, dragging the rest of me along. So when Farewell and I were having pre-dinner drinks, I told him. In spite of Colonel Pérez Latouche’s stern warnings about absolute discretion, I told him about my strange adventure, teaching that secret group of illustrious pupils. And Farewell, who until then had seemed to be floating in the monosyllabic apathy to which he was

  increasingly prone with age, pricked up his ears and begged me to tell the whole story, leaving nothing out. And that is what I did, I told him about how I had been contacted, about the house in Las Condes where the classes took place, the positive reactions of my students, who were most attentive, and unfailingly curious, in spite of the fact that some of the lessons took place late at night, the stipend I received for my labors, and other minor details it is hardly worth even trying to remember now. And then Farewell looked at me, narrowing his eyes, as if I had suddenly become a stranger to him or he had discovered another face behind my face or was suffering an attack of bitter envy, provoked by my

  unexpected visit to the corridors of power, and, in a voice that seemed oddly clipped, as if in that state he could only manage to get half the question out, he asked me what General Pinochet was like. And I shrugged my shoulders, as people do in novels, but never in real life. And Farewell said: A man like that, he must have something that makes him stand out. And I shrugged my shoulders again. And Farewell said: Think, Sebastián, in a tone of voice that might just as well have accompanied other words, such as Think, you little shit of a priest. And I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to be thinking. And with a sort of senile ferocity Farewell’s narrowed eyes kept trying to bore into mine.

  And then I remembered the first time I had a more or less one-to-one

  conversation with the general, before the third or fourth class, a few minutes before the start, I was sitting there balancing a cup of tea on my knees and the general, stately and imposing in uniform, came up to me and asked if I knew what Allende used to read. And I put the teacup on the tray and stood up. And the general said,
Sit down, Father. Or perhaps he didn’t actually say anything but indicated that I should sit with a gesture. Then he made a remark about the class that was about to begin, something about a corridor with high walls, something about a throng of pupils. And I smiled beatifically and sat down. And then the general asked me the question, if I knew what Allende read, if I thought Allende was an intellectual. And, caught by surprise, I didn’t know how to answer, as I confessed to Farewell. And the general said to me: Everyone’s presenting him as a martyr and an intellectual now, because plain martyrs are not so interesting any more, are they? And I tilted my head and smiled

  beatifically. But he wasn’t an intellectual, unless you can call someone who doesn’t read or study an intellectual, said the general, What do you think? I shrugged my shoulders like a wounded bird. But you can’t, can you? said the general. If someone doesn’t read or study, he’s not an intellectual, any fool can see that. And what do you think Allende used to read? I moved my head slightly and smiled. Magazines. All he read was magazines. Summaries of books.

  Articles his followers used to cut out for him. I have it from a reliable source, believe me. I always suspected as much, I whispered. Well, your

  suspicions were well founded. And what do you think Frei read? I don’t know, sir, I murmured, with a little more assurance. Nothing. He didn’t read at all.

  Not a word, not even the Bible. How does that strike you, as a priest? I’m not sure I have a firm opinion on the matter, sir, I mumbled. I would have thought one of the founders of the Christian Democrats could at least read the Bible, wouldn’t you? said the general. Perhaps, I stammered. I’m just pointing it out, I don’t mean to be hostile, it’s just an observation, it’s a fact and I’m pointing it out, I’m not drawing any conclusions, not yet anyway, am I? No, I said. And Alessandri? Have you ever wondered what books Alessandri read? No sir, I whispered, smiling. Well, he read romances. President Alessandri read

  romances, I ask you, romances, what do you think of that? It’s amazing, sir.

  Although of course, it’s what one would have expected from Alessandri, or at least it makes sense that he should have been drawn to that sort of reading matter. Do you see what I’m getting at? I’m afraid I don’t, sir, I said, looking pained. Well, poor old Alessandri, said General Pinochet, fixing me with his gaze. Oh, of course, I said. Do you see now? Yes I do, sir, I said. Can you remember a single article he wrote, something he actually wrote himself, as opposed to what his hacks used to turn out? I don’t think I can, sir, I

  murmured. Of course you can’t, because he never wrote anything. And the same goes for Frei and Allende. They didn’t read, they didn’t write. They pretended to be cultured, but not one of them was a reader or a writer. Maybe they knew something about the press, but they knew nothing about books. Indeed, sir, quite, I said, smiling beatifically. And then the general said: How many books do you think I’ve written? My blood ran cold, as I said to Farewell. I had no idea. Three or four, said Farewell confidently. In any case I just didn’t know.

  And I had to admit it. Three, said the general. But the thing is they have all been with little-known or specialist publishers. But drink your tea, Father, or it’ll get cold. What a wonderful surprise, I said, I didn’t know. Well, they’re military books, military history, geopolitics, aimed at a specialist readership.

  That’s marvellous, three books, I said, my voice faltering. And I’ve published countless articles in journals, even in North America, translated into English, of course. I would love to read one of your books, sir, I whispered. Go to the National Library, they’re all there. I’ll be there tomorrow, without fail, I said. The general didn’t seem to have heard. Nobody helped me, I wrote them all on my own, three books, one of them quite a thick book, with no help, burning the midnight oil. And then he said: Countless articles, on all sorts of topics, but always of course related to military matters. For a while we sat there in silence, although I kept nodding the whole time, as if inviting him to go on talking. Why do you think I’m telling you all this? he said, out of the blue. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled beatifically. To avoid any misunderstanding, he declared. So you know I’m an avid reader, I read books about history and

  political theory, I even read novels. The last one I read was White

  Dove by Lafourcade, very much a book for the younger generation, but I’m not one of those snobs who never looks at anything new, so I read it, and I enjoyed it. Have you read it? Yes sir, I said. And what did you think? It’s excellent, sir, in fact I reviewed it in quite glowing terms. Well it’s nothing to get carried away about either, said Pinochet. No, not carried away, I said.

  And there we sat in silence again. Suddenly the General put his hand on my knee, I said to Farewell. A shiver ran down my spine. For a moment my mind was prey to a surging multitude of hands. Why do you think I want to learn about the

  fundamentals of Marxism? he asked. The better to serve our country, sir.

  Exactly, in order to understand Chile’s enemies, to find out how they think, to get an idea of how far they are prepared to go. I know how far I am prepared to go myself, I assure you. But I also want to know how far they are prepared to go. And I’m not afraid of studying. One should aim to learn something new every day. I’m always reading and writing. All the time. Which is more than you could say for Allende or Frei or Alessandri, isn’t it? I nodded three times. So what I’m saying, Father, is that you won’t be wasting your time with me, and I won’t be wasting my time with you, will I? Absolutely not, sir, I said. And when I finished telling this story, Farewell was still staring at me, his half closed eyes like empty bear traps ruined by time and rain and freezing cold. It was as if Chile’s great twentieth-century literary critic were dead. Farewell, I whispered, Did I do the right thing or not? And since there was no reply, I repeated the question: Did I do my duty, or did I go beyond it? And Farewell replied with another question: Was it a necessary or an unnecessary course of action? Necessary, necessary, necessary, I said. That seemed to satisfy him, and me too, at the time. And then we went on eating and talking. And at some point in our conversation, I said to him: Not a word to anyone about what I told you.

  It goes without saying, said Farewell, in a tone of voice that reminded me of Colonel Pérez Latouche. Quite different from the rather ungentlemanly tone Mr.

  Raef and Mr. Etah had used a few days before. In any case, the following week, a rumor began to spread like wildfire around Santiago. Father Ibacache had given the Junta lessons in Marxism. When I found out, my blood ran cold. I saw

  Farewell, I mean I imagined the scene so clearly I could have been spying on him, sitting in his favorite easy chair or armchair at the club or in the salon of some old crone whose friendship he had been cultivating for decades, holding court, half gaga, surrounded by retired generals who had gone into business, queers in English suits, ladies with illustrious names and one foot in the grave, sitting there blabbing out the story of how I was engaged as the Junta’s private tutor. And the queers and moribund crones and even the retired generals turned business consultants wasted no time in telling the story to others, who told it to others, and so on. Naturally, Farewell claimed he was not the motor or the fuse or the match that had started the gossiping, and as it was I had neither the strength nor the desire to blame him. So I sat down beside the telephone and waited for my friends or my former friends to call, or Mr. Etah, Mr. Raef and Pérez Latouche, to reproach me for being indiscreet, or anonymous callers with axes to grind, or the ecclesiastical authorities ringing to find out just how much truth and how much fabrication there was in the rumors that had spread through Santiago’s literary and artistic circles, if not beyond, but no one called. At first I thought this silence was the result of a concerted decision to ostracize me. Then, to my astonishment, I realized that nobody gave a damn. The country was populated by hieratic figures, heading implacably towards an unfamiliar, gray ho
rizon, where one could barely glimpse a few rays of light, flashes of lightning and clouds of smoke. What lay there? We did not know. No Sordello. That much was clear. No Guido. No leafy trees. No trotting horses. No discussion or research. Perhaps we were heading towards our souls, or the tormented souls of our forefathers, towards the endless plain spread before our sleepy or tearful eyes, our spent or humiliated eyes, by all the good and bad things we and others had done. So it was hardly surprising that nobody cared about my introductory course on Marxism. Sooner or later everyone would get their share of power again. The right, the center and the left, one big happy family. A couple of ethical problems, admittedly. But no aesthetic problems at all. Now we have a socialist president and life is exactly the same. The

  Communists (who go on as if the Berlin Wall hadn’t come down), the Christian Democrats, the Socialists, the right and the military. Or the other way round. I could just as well say it the other way round! The order of the factors doesn’t alter the product! No problems! Just a little bout of fever! Just three acts of madness! Just an unusually prolonged psychotic episode! Once again I could go out, I could ring people up and no one made any remarks. Throughout those years of steel and silence, many people actually praised me for resolutely continuing to publish my reviews and articles. Many praised my poetry! Several came to ask me for favors! I was generous with letters of recommendation and references, performing various Chilean leg ups of little consequence, which earned me the undying gratitude of my beneficiaries. At the end of the day, we were all reasonable (except for the wizened youth, who at that stage was wandering around God knows where, lost in some black hole or other), we were all Chileans, we were all normal, discreet, logical, balanced, careful, sensible people, we all knew that something had to be done, that certain things were necessary, there’s a time for sacrifice and a time for thinking reasonably. Sometimes, at night, I would sit on a chair in the dark and ask myself what difference there was between fascist and rebel. Just a pair of words. Two words, that’s all. And sometimes either one will do! So I went out into the street and breathed the air of Santiago with the vague conviction that I was living, if not in the best of worlds, at least in a possible world, a real world, and I published a book of poems that struck even me as odd, I mean it was odd that I should have written them, they were odd coming from me, but I published them in the name of freedom, my own and that of my readers, and then I went back to giving classes and lectures, and I published another book in Spain, in Pamplona, and then it was my turn to frequent the airports of the world, mingling with elegant Europeans and serious (and weary-looking) North Americans, mingling with the best-dressed men of Italy, Germany, France and England, gentlemen whom it was a pleasure simply to behold, and there I was, with my cassock fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze or the gusts that issue from automatic doors when they open suddenly, for no logical reason, as if they had a presentiment of God’s presence, and, seeing my humble cassock flapping, people would say, There goes Fr. Sebastián, there goes Fr. Urrutia, that splendid Chilean, and then I returned to Chile, for I always return, how else would I merit the appellation splendid Chilean, and I went on writing reviews for the newspaper, and critical articles crying out for a different approach to culture, as even the most inattentive reader could hardly fail to notice if he scratched the surface a little, critical articles crying out, indeed begging, for a return to the Greek and Latin greats, to the Troubadours, to the dolce stil nuovo and the classics of Spain, France and England, more culture! more culture! read Whitman and Pound and Eliot, read Neruda and Borges and Vallejo, read Victor Hugo, for God’s sake, and Tolstoy, and proudly I cried myself hoarse in the desert, but my vociferations and on occasions my howling could only be heard by those who were able to scratch the surface of my writings with the nails of their index fingers, and they were not many, but enough for me, and life went on and on and on, like a necklace of rice grains, on each grain of which a