“But that was years ago, the gringos will never allow a revolution now. The conditions were different in Cuba. There they were rebelling against a dictatorship and had the support of the people. Here we have a democracy that has its defects, it’s true, but people are proud of it. The guerrillas can’t count on the sympathy of the people, and with few exceptions their only recruits have come from the universities.”
“What do you think of them?”
“They’re idealistic, and they’re courageous.”
“I want to see everything you got, Rolf,” Aravena demanded.
“I have to edit the film, and cut the parts that can’t be aired. You once told me that we’re not here to change the course of history, but to give the news.”
“I never get used to your pedantic fits, Rolf. So you think your film could change the country’s destiny?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s a documentary I must have in my archives.”
“I can’t let it get into the hands of the Army—it would be fatal for the men who are in the mountains. I can’t betray them, and I’m sure you would feel the same way.”
The Director of National Television puffed on his cigar in silence, studying his disciple through a haze of smoke, without a trace of sarcasm, thinking, remembering his own years of opposition to the dictatorship of the General, reliving his emotions from that time.
“You don’t like to accept advice, but this time you’d better listen to me, Rolf,” he said finally. “Hide that film, because the government knows it exists and will try to get it from you one way or another. Edit it, make your cuts, keep what you think is necessary—but I warn you, you’re sitting on dynamite. Finally, someday soon we can air your documentary, and—who knows—maybe in ten years we can even show what now you think would change the course of history.”
On Saturday, Rolf Carlé arrived at La Colonia with a locked suitcase. He handed it to his aunt and uncle, asking them not to say anything about it, and to hide it until he came for it. Without comment, Burgel wrapped it in a plastic curtain and Rupert hid it beneath some boards in the carpentry shop.
* * *
The factory whistle blew at 7 a.m.; the door opened and two hundred women crowded in, filing by in a line past women supervisors who checked us from head to toe as a precaution against possible sabotage. Everything from soldiers’ boots to generals’ ribbons was manufactured there, all of it measured and weighed so that not a button, a buckle, a thread would fall into unauthorized hands. As the captain in charge of the factory often said, Those sons of bitches are capable of copying our uniforms and infiltrating our troops so they can hand the country over to the Communists, damn them. The enormous windowless rooms were lighted with fluorescent lights and air was forced in through a ventilation system in the ceiling. All along the walls, two meters above the rows of sewing machines, ran a narrow balcony patrolled by guards whose duty was to control the pace of the work so that no stutter, no shudder, no sneeze should slow production. The offices were on that level: small cubicles for officers, bookkeepers, and secretaries. A constant roar like a great waterfall obliged everyone to wear earplugs and to communicate with gestures. At noon, above the deafening noise, everyone listened for the whistle that called them to the lunchrooms where an unappetizing but filling meal was served, not unlike Army mess. For many of the women that was the only meal of the day, and some even put food aside to take home, despite the embarrassment of passing before the supervisors with paper-wrapped leftovers. Makeup was strictly forbidden, and hair had either to be short or covered by a kerchief, because once a woman’s hair had caught in the spindle of a winding machine, and before the electricity was cut off her hair had been torn from her scalp. The young girls, nevertheless, worked hard to look attractive—colorful kerchiefs, short skirts, and a touch of lipstick—hoping to catch the eye of one of their bosses and better their fortune by moving up two meters to the balcony of the office workers, where both salary and treatment were more dignified. An uncorroborated story about an operator who had married an officer fed the imagination of the new workers, but the older women never lifted their eyes toward such fancies; they labored silently and quickly to add to their quota.
Colonel Tolomeo Rodríguez came regularly to inspect the factory. He was accompanied by a noticeable chill in the air and an increase in noise level. The effect of his rank and the power emanating from his person were so great that he gained respect without having to raise his voice or gesticulate—a look was sufficient. He examined every detail, leafing through the books, poking into the kitchen, quizzing the operators: Are you new? What did you eat today? It’s too hot in here, turn up the ventilation. Your eyes are red, go to the office and get a pass. Nothing escaped him. Some subordinates hated him; everyone feared him. It was rumored that even the President was cautious when dealing with him, because he had the respect of the young officers and at any moment might yield to the temptation to rise up against the constitutional government.
I had always seen him from a distance; my office was at the end of a corridor and my work did not require his inspection, but even from afar his authority was evident. But then, one day in March, I met him. I was watching him through the glass that separated me from the corridor, when suddenly he turned and our eyes met. Usually when he spoke, everyone avoided looking directly at him, but for what seemed an eternity I could not even blink, hypnotized by his gaze. It seemed as if time stopped; then, finally, he was walking in my direction. I could not hear his footsteps above the noise; he seemed to be floating, followed at a short distance by his secretary and the captain. As the Colonel passed, he made a slight bow, and at this distance I could appreciate his size, his expressive hands, his thick hair, his large even teeth. He was attractive in the way a wild animal is attractive. That evening when I left the factory, a dark limousine was parked before the door; an orderly handed me a written note from Colonel Tolomeo Rodríguez asking me to have dinner with him.
“The Colonel is expecting an answer,” the man said as he snapped to attention.
“Tell him I can’t accept, I have another engagement.”
As soon as I got home, I told Mimí, who ignored the fact that this man was Huberto Naranjo’s enemy and appraised the situation from the point of view of the romances that nurtured her leisure hours. Her conclusion was that I had done the proper thing: It’s always good to make a man beg, she repeated once again.
“You must be the first woman who ever rejected his invitation. I’ll bet he calls tomorrow,” she predicted.
But he did not call. I knew nothing more of him until the following Friday, when he made a surprise visit to the factory. When I heard he was in the building, I realized I had been waiting for him: glancing down the corridor, trying to hear his footsteps above the clatter of the machines, apprehensive about his appearing and at the same time hoping to see him with an impatience I had forgotten; I had not suffered that kind of torment since the beginning of my relationship with Huberto Naranjo. The Colonel, however, did not come near my office, and when the noon whistle blew I sighed with a mixture of relief and disappointment. In the days that followed, I thought of him only occasionally.
Nearly three weeks later, when I returned home from work I found Colonel Tolomeo Rodríguez having coffee with Mimí. He was sitting on one of the Oriental divans; he stood up, unsmiling, and offered his hand.
“I hope this visit does not come at an inconvenient time. I wanted to talk to you,” he said.
“He wants to talk to you,” Mimí parroted, pale as one of the Japanese prints on the wall.
“It has been some time since I’ve seen you, so I’ve taken the liberty of calling on you,” he said, in the ceremonious tone he frequently affected.
“That’s why he came,” Mimí confirmed.
“Would you accept my invitation to have dinner?”
“He wants you to have dinner with him,” M
imí translated once again. She was on the verge of collapse; she had recognized him the moment he walked in, and memories had flooded back. This was the man who had made the quarterly inspections of Santa María while she was imprisoned there. She was overwrought, even though she was certain the Colonel could not possibly connect the image of a wretched inmate of The Harem—half-dead from malaria, covered with sores, shaved head—with the astonishing woman now serving him coffee.
Why did I not refuse a second time? Not because of fear, as I rationalized then. I wanted to go with him. I showered, to rinse away the day’s exhaustion, put on my black dress, brushed my hair, and returned to the living room, divided between curiosity and anger with myself for feeling I was betraying Huberto. The Colonel rather ostentatiously offered me his arm, but I swept by without taking it, to the distress of Mimí, who still had not recovered from her shock. I climbed into the limousine, hoping that the neighbors would not see the motorcycle escort and believe I had become the mistress of a general. The chauffeur drove us to one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, a Versailles-style mansion where the chef greeted his most honored clients, and an ancient adorned in a Presidential sash and armed with a small silver cup tasted the wines himself. The Colonel seemed completely at ease, but I felt marooned amid the blue brocade chairs, the flamboyant candelabra, and the battalion of servants. I was handed a menu in French, but Rodríguez, perceiving my discomfort, ordered for me. I found myself facing a crab I did not know how to attack, but a waiter removed the meat from the shell and placed it on my plate. Regarding the array of curved and straight-bladed knives, assorted goblets, and finger bowls, I was grateful for Mimí’s courses at the institute for beauty queens and for the coaching of our decorator friend. I was able to get by without making a fool of myself until I was served a mandarin orange sorbet between the entrée and the meat course. I stared at the small ball garnished with a mint leaf and asked why I was being served dessert before the second course. Rodríguez laughed, and that laughter erased the braid from his sleeves and several years from his face. Everything was easier after that. He no longer seemed a symbol of national power. I studied him in the glow of those resplendent candles and he asked why I was staring. I replied that he reminded me of a stuffed puma I knew.
“Tell me about your life, Colonel,” I asked when dessert arrived.
I think my request surprised him, and he was instantly on guard, but then must have realized that I was not an enemy spy. I could almost read his thoughts: She’s just a poor girl from the factory; I wonder what her connection is with that television actress—a gorgeous woman, certainly much prettier than this unfashionable girl; I was tempted to ask the other one out, but I’ve heard she’s a fag—hard as it is to believe; at any rate, I can’t run the risk of being seen with a pervert.
He eventually told me about his childhood on a hacienda in an arid province; high windblown plains where water and vegetation were particularly prized and where people were strong because life was so harsh. He was not a man of the tropics: his memories were of long horseback rides across desert land, of scorching noonday heat. His father, a local political boss, had sent him off to the Army when he was eighteen without asking his opinion. I want you to serve your country with honor, son. That’s how it has to be. And he had done it without hesitation. Discipline comes first; the man who knows how to obey learns to command. He had studied engineering and political science; he had traveled; he read little; he liked music very much; he considered himself a frugal man, almost abstemious; he was married, the father of three daughters. Despite his reputation for severity, that night he exhibited a high good humor and, as we finished, thanked me for my company. He had enjoyed himself, he said; he thought I had an original mind—although he had not heard more than four sentences from me; he had dominated the conversation.
“I’m the one who’s grateful, Colonel. I’ve never been here before—it’s very elegant.”
“It doesn’t have to be the last time, Eva. Can we see each other next week?”
“Why?”
“Well, to get to know each other better . . .”
“Do you want to go to bed with me, Colonel?”
He dropped his fork, and for nearly a minute stared at his plate.
“That is a crude question and it deserves a crude answer,” he replied finally. “Yes, that’s what I want. Do you accept?”
“No, thank you very much. Sex without love makes me melancholy.”
“I didn’t say love is excluded.”
“And your wife?”
“Let’s be very clear on this point. My wife has nothing to do with this conversation and we will not mention her again. I’d rather talk about us. I’m not the one who should say it, but I can make you happy if you’ll let me.”
“Let’s not beat about the bush, Colonel. You’re a powerful man. You can do whatever you choose, and usually do—isn’t that so?”
“You’re mistaken. In my position I have certain responsibilities and duties. I carry them out on behalf of the nation. I am a soldier; I do not abuse my privileges, especially in personal matters. I intend to seduce you, not coerce you. I am sure I will succeed, because we’re attracted to each other. I’ll make you change your mind . . . and you may find yourself falling in love with me.”
“I’m sorry, but I doubt that.”
“Prepare your defenses, Eva, because I’m not going to give you a minute’s peace until you accept me.” He smiled.
“If that’s your intention, let’s not waste each other’s time. I don’t want to argue with you, because that could be dangerous for me. Let’s go. We’ll get this over with tonight, and then you’ll leave me alone.”
The Colonel leapt to his feet, his face fiery red. Two waiters rushed toward him, and people at neighboring tables turned to stare. He sat down stiffly, breathing rapidly, apparently composing his thoughts.
“I don’t know what kind of woman you are,” he said finally. His voice was icy. I could hear how angry he was. “Under normal circumstances, I would accept your challenge and we would immediately go somewhere private. But I’ve decided to go about this in a different way. I won’t beg you. I am sure you will come to me, and if you are lucky my proposition will still stand. Call me when you want to see me,” Rodríguez said curtly, handing me a card bearing the national coat of arms and beneath it his name printed in italic.
It was early when I got home. Mimí thought I was absolutely insane. The Colonel was a powerful man and could create all kinds of problems for us. Couldn’t I have been more courteous? The next day, I resigned my job at the factory, collected my things, and left, hoping to escape from the man who represented everything that for so many years Huberto Naranjo had been risking his life to change.
* * *
“All’s well that ends well” was Mimí’s comment when she found that a spin of the wheel of fortune had set me on the road she considered I should always have been on. “Now you can write in earnest.”
She was sitting at the dining-room table with her cards fanned out before her, where she could read that my destiny was to tell stories and everything else was wasted energy—something I myself had suspected the first time I read A Thousand and One Nights. Mimí maintained that each of us is born with a talent, and that happiness or misfortune depends on discovering what that talent is and whether there is a demand for it in the world, because there are remarkable skills that go unappreciated, like that of a friend of hers who could hold his breath underwater for three minutes, a gift that was of absolutely no use to him. She herself was happy, because she had found hers. She was starring in a telenovela as the evil Alejandra, the rival of Belinda, a blind girl who in the last episodes would recover her sight—predictably, in such dramas—and marry the hero. Her scripts were scattered about the house and I was helping her memorize her lines. I had to play all the other parts: (Luis Alfredo presses his eyes to keep from crying, bec
ause men do not cry.) Trust your feelings. . . . Let me pay for the operation on your eyes, my darling. (Belinda trembles, she fears she will lose this man she loves.) I want to believe you love me . . . but there is another woman in your life, Luis Alfredo. (He looks into those beautiful, sightless eyes.) Alejandra means nothing to me; she is only interested in the fortune of the Martínez de la Roca, but she won’t get it. No one will ever separate us, my dearest Belinda. (He kisses her, and she surrenders to that sublime embrace, suggesting to the audience that something may . . . or may not . . . happen. Camera pans to show Alejandra spying on them from the doorway, her face disfigured by jealousy. Cut to Studio B.)
“You have to take these programs on faith. You have to believe in them, period,” said Mimí, between two of Alejandra’s speeches. “If you start analyzing them, you ruin them.”
She argued that anyone can dream up dramas like Belinda’s and Luis Alfredo’s, but I better than anyone, since I had spent years listening to them in kitchens, believing they were true, and feeling betrayed when I learned that reality was not like the stories on the radio. Mimí outlined the undeniable advantages of working for television, where there was room for every absurdity and where every character, however extravagant, had a chance to win the hearts of an unsuspecting public—a privilege rarely accorded a book. That evening she came home carrying a dozen little cakes and a heavy, beautifully wrapped package. It was a typewriter. So you can get to work, she said. We spent part of the night sitting on the bed drinking wine, eating cookies, and discussing the ideal plot—a tangle of passions, divorces, bastards, ingénues and villains, wealthy and destitute, that would ensnare the viewers from the first word and keep them glued to the screen through two hundred emotional episodes. We were tipsy and covered with sugar by the time we went to bed, and I dreamed of blind girls and jealous men.
* * *
I awakened early. It was a soft and slightly rainy Wednesday, not very different from others in my life, but I treasure that Wednesday as a special day, one that belonged only to me. Ever since the schoolteacher Inés had taught me the alphabet, I had written almost every night, but I felt that today was different, something that could change my life. I poured a cup of black coffee and sat down at the typewriter. I took a clean white piece of paper—like a sheet freshly ironed for making love—and rolled it into the carriage. Then I felt something odd, like a pleasant tickling in my bones, a breeze blowing through the network of veins beneath my skin. I believed that that page had been waiting for me for more than twenty years, that I had lived only for that instant, and I hoped that from that moment my only task would be to capture the stories floating in the thin air, to make them mine. I wrote my name, and immediately the words began to flow, one thing linked to another and another. Characters stepped from the shadows where they had been hidden for years into the light of that Wednesday, each with a face, a voice, passions, and obsessions. I could see an order to the stories stored in my genetic memory since before my birth, and the many others I had been writing for years in my notebooks. I began to remember events that had happened long ago; I recalled the tales my mother told me when we were living among the Professor’s idiots, cancer patients, and mummies; a snakebitten Indian appeared, and a tyrant with hands devoured by leprosy; I rescued an old maid who had been scalped as if by a spinning machine, a dignitary in a bishop’s plush chair, an Arab with a generous heart, and the many other men and women whose lives were in my hands to dispose of at will. Little by little, the past was transformed into the present, and the future was also mine; the dead came alive with an illusion of eternity; those who had been separated were reunited, and all that had been lost in oblivion regained precise dimensions.