Intramural
(The river)
I’ve come from the river. Do you think I’m deranged? Not in the least. If I didn’t go mad in other circumstances, I reckon I’m inoculated against insanity by now. And yet I come from the river. I discovered the trick a few weeks ago. Before that, memories assailed me at random. All of a sudden, I would be thinking of you or Dad, then two seconds later it’d be a book I read when I was in high school, then almost immediately the puddings the old lady used to make me when we lived on Hocquart Street. In other words, I was being tyrannized by my memories. Then one evening, I thought, I’m going to free myself from this tyranny. And from that moment on, I’ve been the one controlling my memories. Not completely, of course. There are always moments during the day (generally when I feel low or depressed) when they overwhelm me. But that’s not usually the case. What usually happens is: I plan my memory, that is, I take charge and choose what I’m going to remember. So I decide to recall, for example, a far-off day at primary school, or a night out with friends, or one of the interminable debates in the Union of Uruguayan University Students, or the swaying details (to the extent that those can, in fact, be remembered) of some of my rare boozy sprees, or a serious discussion with Dad, or the morning Beatriz was born. Of course I alternate all this with my memories of you, but I’ve decided to put those into some kind of order as well. Because if I don’t, then all those images are focused on your body, on you and me making love. And that’s not always good for me. It becomes a painful reminder of your absence. Or of my absence. To start with, I feel an anguished mental pleasure. I enjoy myself in a vacuum. Then I grow depressed. And my depression lasts for hours. So, when I say that here, too, I had to put things in order, I mean I’ve decided to incorporate other memories of you (and me) that are as important and cherished as the nights our bodies spent together. We’ve had so many conversations that for me, at least, were unforgettable. Do you remember the Saturday when I convinced you – after five dialectical hours – of the new path we had to take? And when we were in Mendoza? And Asunción? The dates don’t matter. What’s important is the order I impose, the way I recall them. That’s why I began by saying that today I’ve come from the river. That’s a memory that doesn’t involve you. It was the Río Negro, near Mercedes. When I was eleven or twelve, I used to spend the holidays at my aunt and uncle’s place. Their property wasn’t particularly big (in fact, it was little more than a small farm), but it did lead down to the river. Because there were lots of leafy trees between the house and the water, when I was on the riverbank no one could see me. And I loved that solitude. It was one of the rare occasions I heard, saw, smelt, touched and tasted nature. The birds would come close; they weren’t scared off by my presence. Maybe they thought I was a little tree or bush. Usually, there was a gentle breeze, and maybe that was why the trees didn’t argue, didn’t tussle among themselves; they simply exchanged opinions, nodded good-humouredly, waved me their support. Sometimes I leant back against one or other of the most ancient among them, and the rough bark conveyed an almost paternal understanding. To feel the bark of an age-old tree is like stroking the mane of a horse you ride every day. You commune with it in a quiet, understated way (not like the cloying relationship with an unbearably faithful dog), but it’s intense enough that you miss it when you return to the bustle of the city. On other days I would climb into the boat and row out to the middle of the river. Being halfway between the two banks was particularly exciting. Above all, because they were so utterly divided, so at odds with one another. This wasn’t so much marked by the birds, who flew from bank to bank, but more by the trees, which seemed to regard themselves as local and partisan, set firmly in their own worlds, in other words, on their own shores. I did nothing. I simply stayed and observed. I didn’t read or play. Life flowed over me, from shore to shore. I felt part of that life, and came to the strange conclusion that it must not be boring to be a pine, a weeping willow or eucalyptus. But, as I learned a few years later, keeping an equal distance can never last for long, and eventually I had to decide on one shore or the other. And it was clear I belonged to only one of them. So you can see how it’s true, what I said to you at the beginning: I’ve come from the river.
Beatriz
(Skyscrapers)
The singular is written skyscraper and in the plural it’s skyscrapers. The same with toothpick: you don’t say teethpicks. Skyscrapers are buildings with loads of bathrooms. The great advantage of this is that thousands of people can wee at the same time. Skyscrapers also have other advantages. For example, they have lifts that make your tummy feel funny. Lifts that make your tummy feel funny are very modern. Extremely elderly buildings don’t have lifts or they only have lifts that don’t do anything to your tummy and the people who live or work there die of shame because they are very retarded.
Graciela, in other words my mum, works in a skyscraper. Once she took me to her office and that was the only time I weed in a skyscraper. It’s brilliant. Graciela’s skyscraper has a funny tummy lift that is completely imported and so it makes my tummy tumble a lot. The other day I told the story in class and all the children were jealous and wanted me to take them to the lift in Graciela’s skyscraper. But I told them it was very dangerous because it goes so quickly and if you stick your head out of the window it can be chopped off. And they believed me, the silly-billies. As if lifts in skyscrapers were so retarded as to have windows.
When there’s a power cut in skyscraper lifts, panic abounds. In my class when it’s break-time, joy abounds. The word ‘abounds’ is a lovely word.
As well as dizzy lifts, skyscrapers have doormen. Doormen are fat and could never climb the stairs. When doormen lose weight they’re not allowed to work in skyscrapers any more, but they have the possibility of being taxi-drivers or football players.
Skyscrapers are divided into tall ones and low ones. Low skyscrapers have many fewer toilets than the tall ones. Low skyscrapers are called houses, but they’re forbidden to have gardens. Tall skyscrapers make a lot of shade, but it’s different to the shade from trees. I prefer the shade from trees, because it has patches of sunlight and also it moves around. In the shade from tall skyscrapers, serious faces and people begging abound. In the shade from trees, grass and ladybirds abound.
I think that where my dad is when night falls it must be sadness that abounds. I’d really like it for my dad to be able for example to visit the skyscraper where Graciela, that is my mum, works.
Exiles
(He came from Australia)
I met him at Mexico City Airport, by the Cubana de Aviación check-in desk. I was travelling to Havana with three suitcases and had to pay the excess. A man behind me in the queue suggested that, since he had only one small case, we should register our luggage together: they came to exactly the permitted 40 kilos. Obviously, I accepted, and thanked him. The Cubana employee despatched the four suitcases. It so happened that when my spontaneous benefactor showed his passport, to my surprise I saw that it was a Uruguayan document. Not an official or diplomatic passport, that is, an ordinary one. He smiled. ‘You find this odd, no?’ I admitted that I did. ‘I’ll explain. Let’s have a coffee.’
We had our coffee. He asked: ‘You’re Benedetti, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes, I am. But where do you know me from? I don’t remember your face.’ ‘That’s not surprising. You were up on a platform and I was a face in the crowd. I heard you many times in the hustings for the 1971 election campaign. Do you recall the final meeting of the Frente Amplio,fn1 outside the parliament, when the Diagonal Agraciada was completely packed? You didn’t speak on that occasion, but you were up on the platform. The Generalfn2 was very good.’
I think he was offering up these details so that I would trust him, but by that point he needn’t have bothered. He had the face of an honest man; he was hiding nothing. He told me his name. It was different, but here I’ll call him Falco. His real surname is just as Uruguayan. ‘To start with, I should say I’ve been living in Australia fo
r about five years now. I’m a workman over there. A plumber.’ ‘And why are you going to Cuba?’ ‘As a tourist. Part of a group. I’ve been saving up for two years to go there for a week. It’s been my dream.’ ‘How are you getting on in Australia?’ ‘As far as money goes, it’s fine. But that’s all. What’s more, as you’ll know, che –’ he switched to the less formal mode of address – ‘the emigration to Australia wasn’t exactly political, it was more economic, although you might say that that means it was indirectly political. Which is true, even if, as a rule, economic migrants aren’t really aware of the link. In that sense it’s pretty tough, and very different to exile in other places. Sometimes you get a break, like when the Olimareños come and people go to listen to them because, in spite of everything, we’re still moved by tunes from our homeland. And it’s not just the songs. It’s the mention of names of trees, flowers, hills, figures from our history, the streets, towns, references to the sky, the sunsets, the rivers, to every tiny little creek. But the Olimas leave and we all fall back into our routine and our isolation. I always say that, in Australia, we are the Uruguayan Archipelago, because in fact we make up a series of islands, islets, single guys or couples or families, all isolated from each other, existing in solitude, comfortable perhaps, but in solitude nonetheless. Some send money to their families back in Uruguay. That gives their lives and work some meaning, at least.’ ‘Do they not try to integrate, to make Australian friends?’ ‘Look, it’s not easy. First there’s the language barrier. Obviously, over time anyone can end up learning good English, but by then you’ve already got used to living in isolation, and it’s hard to change your habits. Besides, even if they are in need of foreign labour, Australian society doesn’t readily open itself up to immigrants. I’ve gone into a lot of Australian homes, but only as a plumber. If the family’s there together when I go past with my toolbox, they automatically stop talking.’ ‘And why were you so interested in going to Cuba?’ ‘I don’t know exactly. It’s just a kind of fantasy I have, the way you do when you’re a child or a teenager. You’ll say that a dumb guy like me is too old for fantasies, but it’s a real fixation, you know? God, I just said “fixation”, it must be a good five years since I’ve used that word. In Australia you don’t just lose your vocabulary, but also, without realizing it, you start incorporating English words into your daily speech. Well, getting back to Cuba: the truth is, we set our sights way too high in Uruguay back in ’69 and ’70 and a little less so in 1971. We thought radical change was possible in our country as well. But it wasn’t, at least, it won’t be for a long, long while. So I’ve been anxious to get to know a place like Cuba which has really been able to bring about change. Tell me, d’you think there’ll be any chance of me staying on in Cuba? Working, of course.’ ‘Wait and see how you feel there. Think, for example, that you might like the people, you may agree with the political system and yet you might be crushed by the climate. Forget the four seasons, in Cuba there’s only summer, with a dry period and a rainy one. It doesn’t have much effect on me personally, but I know other people from the River Plate region who just get exhausted by that unrelenting heat and humidity. Anyway, seven days isn’t enough time to get through all the paperwork. Remember there’s a weekend in the middle.’ ‘Yes, I know, but I mean, do Cubans welcome foreigners?’ ‘You wouldn’t be a foreigner there. You’re Latin American, aren’t you? The issue is more complicated than that. Think for a moment what would happen if Cuba, which has opened its doors so that all those who aren’t happy there now can leave, opened those same doors to everybody who wanted to come and live there? Imagine the queues that would form in Montevideo, Buenos Aires, Santiago, La Paz, Port-au-Prince! In any case, there are still huge problems with housing.’ ‘But do you think I should try?’ ‘Sure, give it a try. You’ve nothing to lose.’
That soft, anonymous but familiar voice which in every airport in the world informs passengers to start boarding for their flight instructed us to head for Gate Eight. We carried on talking throughout the flight and when the stewardess (in Cubana de Aviación, they call them flight attendants) passed us our snacks, Falco remarked: ‘Wow, incredible. They’re not Barbie dolls, like on other airlines. They’re real women, did you see?’
In Havana, I lost him at the José Martí Airport after we had collected our suitcases (one of his, three of mine). He headed off to join the rest of his group, and I met several friends who had come to welcome me.
Two days later, there was a march past the North American Interests Office. The invasion of the Peruvian Embassy by 10,000 Cubansfn3 was already over. Now there was a different story: naval manoeuvres had been announced at the Guantanamo base and Carter was making daily threats.
I joined in the march along the Malecón with my colleagues from the Casa de las Américas publishing house. In all the years I had been a resident in Cuba, I had never seen such an impressive demonstration. We were waiting on La Rampa for the march to begin, when all of a sudden I saw Falco some ten metres away from me.
The crowd was so dense it was hard to move, so I shouted to him: ‘Falco! Falco!’ He heard me straightaway, but must have thought it was impossible that forty-eight hours after arriving in Havana someone had recognized him and was calling out his name. But that’s chance for you: I must have been the only person in Cuba who could have recognized him, and there I was, only a few steps away.
Finally, he saw me and looked astonished. He raised his long arms enthusiastically. It took ten minutes for us to reach one another. He gave me a hug. ‘How amazing, che! A million people and you’ve found me!’ He was euphoric. ‘This does me a power of good. Doesn’t it remind you of the last Frente Amplio meeting?’ ‘Well, there’s more of us here.’ ‘Of course. But I mean the fervour, the joy.’
At last we set off, at first slowly, then a little faster. All at once I felt him nudge me meaningfully with his elbow. ‘D’you know, today I took the first step?’ ‘What first step?’ ‘To stay here.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘I went to an office someone told me about. It was where lots of people who want to leave, the ones they call “worms”, go to obtain permission. I reached the glass door just as they were closing it. I started waving at the employee inside. He shook his head. I insisted he should listen to me, if only for a moment. Then an idea struck me. I had a piece of paper in my pocket. I wrote the word “Comrade” on it and held it up against the glass. Perhaps curiosity got the better of him, because he opened the door about five centimetres, just enough for us to be able to hear one another. “We’re not accepting any more requests to leave today, got it?” “I know, but that’s not why I’m here.” “So why did you come?” “I’m with a group. Tourists. And I want to stay here.” “To do what?” “To. Stay. Here.” The lad (because he was no more than a lad) couldn’t believe his ears. He opened the door a little further so that I could enter. That led, understandably, to protests from the candidates for exile in Miami. “Did you say you wanted to stay?” “Yes, that’s what I said.” The lad stared at me, as if examining me closely. Then he picked up a notebook, tore out a sheet, wrote a name on it and handed it to me. “Look, man, come back tomorrow, but make it very early. Ask for this comrade. He’ll take care of you. And good luck.” So tomorrow I’m going there. What d’you reckon? Or as they say here, what do you opine?’ ‘I see you’re picking up Cuban lingo faster than Australian.’ The march gathered speed. Gradually we were separated, and for a while I lost sight of him. It was when we were right outside the North American Interests Office (no one was visible at the windows) that I saw him once more. By then he was a little way behind me. In a loud voice with a strong Montevidean accent, he was shouting one of the slogans the good-natured crowd was chanting: ‘One-two-three, worms into the sea!’
The Other
(To want to, be able to, etc.)
You’re nuts, Rolando Asuero clearly recalls Silvio muttering, the morning Manolo set out what he termed ‘A Personal and Panoramic Vision of National Reality and Other Essays’. But Manolo, who by th
en had been talking only for half an hour at most, pursed his lips and said, Let me finish, will you? And Silvio had let him finish. Now tell me what you think, Manolo said smugly, when he finally reached his conclusion. You’re nuts! Silvio had obstinately insisted, and they almost came to blows. But Santiago and he, Rolando, had stepped in quickly, and besides María del Carmen and Tita were already close to tears from sheer nervousness: not Graciela, though, because she was always tougher – or more stable, or more reserved. So Silvio and Manolo sat down again. Silvio began to take it out on the maté,fn1 sucking on the metal straw so loudly it could be heard three dunes away. The fact is, Manolo’s thesis did seem very accurate, but also very alarmist. Circular, Silvio declared, and yes, it was circular and offered no way out, but Manolo gave it an emphasis that made it convincing. Those who had the money and power would never give way. Don’t fool yourselves, lads, this isn’t the Scandinavian bourgeoisie, which agrees to sacrifice its profits in order to survive. The rich here will call in the military, even if the military then swallows them whole. Constitutionalists? Legalists? Will they feel shame or embarrassment at wearing a uniform or hiding their bald heads under helmets? Don’t give me that, my dear compatriots. All that is in the past imperfect. They’re going to strike and wipe us out as if we were Guatemalans. That’s all there is to it. Which means we have to play the game against them on another pitch, away from the arena of mere political debate. We have to take them on and score goals against them, even if it’s from outside the arena. That metaphor particularly pleased Santiago, who from then on started to show more interest. And Manolo went on and on, insisting they were all the same (tango habemus: ‘A fly is the same as a cypress tree’),fn2 because what he wanted more than anything was change, not just chit-chat about change, but change that was really real, to quote his words. And he wasn’t that bothered about the means – ‘If Jesus doesn’t help, then the Devil will’ – what was essential were the ends. That sounds familiar, Silvio commented with oblique irony. And you think we can kick them out? asked Santiago, who was the one drinking the maté now, but relatively quietly. No, Manolo replied without hesitation, as euphoric as if he were selling the future. No, we won’t be able to, they’re going to crush us, put us in jail, smash us to a pulp, annihilate us. So what, then? asked Silvio, his irony quickly turning to bewilderment. He, Rolando, had merely raised his eyebrows in healthy scepticism. So, then nothing, the speaker concluded exultantly. Nothing in the short term, but the victory, their victory, will be a Pyrrhic one. They’ll win, but won’t know what to do with the trophy. They’ll win on paper, but they’ll lose the people. (A ripple of applause from the female seats.) So in the end they’ll lose. Then, glancing provocatively at Silvio: Do you still reckon I’m nuts? Maybe we all are, said the other guy, conceding a little. So Manolo got up and gave him a hug befitting a cephalopod mollusc with eight tentacles, in other words an octopus, according to Larousse. Meanwhile, María del Carmen and Tita, who had recovered from the shock, were laughing with tears in their eyes, two rainbows. But Santiago was unusually serious and went on to argue that, expressed in those terms, the struggle was, simply, a moral one. What do I care about being an ethical victor if country clubs, big landowners and the banking clique and all the rest still exist? If I got into a fight like that I’d want to be a real winner. That’s great, che, said Manolo. We’d all like to be real winners, don’t imagine you’re reinventing the wheel, it’s a not matter of wanting, but of being able to do something about it. That made Silvio see red again, as he realized that from now on Manolo’s aim was much broader: it had nothing to do with wanting or being able to do anything, the point was just to fuck everything up. Giggles from the female bench, and the gnocchi were ready – That’s very quick, let’s eat or they’ll go soggy, my belly’s full of maté, the thing is, you get into a heated argument and don’t realize you’ve drunk two whole thermoses, what a bind. The gnocchi are waiting, gentlemen, this red wine is heavenly, it’s sensational, so do you reckon that, come the revolution, there’ll still be gnocchi?