Don Rafael
(God willing)
To close my eyes. How I’d love to close my eyes, start over and open them again with all the belated lucidity the years bring with them, but also with the youthful vitality I no longer have. ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’: God gives bread to the toothless. But before that, long before that, he gave hunger to those who did have teeth. What a great snare God is. In the end, sayings about the divine are like a kind of political primer: ‘A godawful row’: Vehemence and fury. ‘God proposes and man disposes’: Conspiracy and harassment. ‘Render unto God what is God’s and to Caesar what is Caesar’s’: Carving up and sharing out. ‘With God on our side’: Dominance and empire. ‘Godforsaken’: Indifference and scorn. ‘Praise God and pass the ammunition’: Vigilantes, paramilitaries, death squads, etc. ‘It’s in God’s hands’: Absolute power. ‘God helps those who help themselves’: Neo-colonialism. ‘God separated the sheep from the goats’: Subliminal torture. ‘God be with you’: Bad company.
To close my eyes. Not to return to the nightmares I have these days, but to get to the bottom of things. To where the images lie, the meaningful ones, the ones that are all mine. Each one like a revelation I neither understood nor heeded at the time. And there’s no going back. You can piece together all you’ve learned, but there’s not much use in that.
To close my eyes and, when I open them again, to find her there. Which one? One is a face. Another, a belly. Yet another, a glance. How many more? In love, there are no ridiculous, absurd or obscene postures. Without love everything is ridiculous and kitsch and obscene. Such is the case with rules, with traditions.
All of a sudden, the past becomes lavish, though I don’t know why. The body I once had, the air I breathed, the sun that shone on me, the students I listened to, the pubis I won over, a twilight, an underarm, a nodding pine tree.
The past becomes resplendent and yet it’s an optical illusion. Because the poor, dismal present wins a single, decisive battle: it exists. I am where I am. What is this exile, if not another beginning? And every beginning is youthful. So I, an old beginner, am growing young again. Having reached the stage of widower, veteran teacher, custodian of words, I’m condemned to grow young again. The last hurrah, the coda: I’m being fattened for the kill, as idiots say. But I’m still scrawny, damn it. In my country I used to complain, ‘For heaven’s sake,’ but I was scrawny there, too. From heaven to damnation, America is one giant homeland. And a son in prison. Imprisoned and wretchedly so, because he feels dynamic and optimistic and doesn’t really have much to justify such an odd state of mind. And my own feelings are all over the place, damn it. I am where I am and he is where he is. My poor, wretched son. If only I could change places with him. But they won’t have me. I’m not sufficiently hateful. I didn’t want to overthrow them, disarm them, defeat them. He did, and he failed. If I could go in there and he could come out, maybe I wouldn’t have such a bad time. I reckon that at sixty-seven they wouldn’t torture me. Well, you never know. And there, too, I’d close my eyes and be free of the bars. And maybe I could get to the bottom of things. But no. I am where I am, and he is where he is. To close my eyes and see my son, but then to open them and see her. Which one? Probably the one on the boat. Or the one by the tree. Or with the bird. God proposes and woman disposes. If I were God, I’d give strict orders for the one by the tree to appear. But since I’m not, it’s Lydia who appears.
Battered and Bruised
(A terrible fear)
Graciela finished the second quarterly report. She took a deep breath before taking the original and seven copies out of the electric typewriter. There was no one else left in the office. She had worked three extra hours. Not for the money, but because her boss was in a tight spot and was a good sort and the next day was the deadline for the second quarter report.
She added the last sheet to the other thirty-three. First thing in the morning she would distribute the original and copies in eight folders. She was too tired now. She left everything in the second drawer, put the plastic cover on the typewriter and looked at her hands, blackened by the carbon paper.
She went into the washroom for a moment. She washed her hands methodically, combed her hair, touched up her lipstick. She studied herself in the mirror without smiling, but arching her eyebrows slightly, as if asking herself a question, or wondering about something, or simply confirming how tired she was. She pressed together her newly painted lips and sighed mildly. Then she returned to her desk, fished her bag out of the top drawer, took her coat from a hanger and put it on. She opened the door and went out into the corridor, but before she switched off the light and shut the door again she glanced round the room. Everything as it should be.
When the lift door opened she got a surprise. She wasn’t expecting to see anyone, but there was Celia, as taken aback as she was.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages. What are you doing in the office at this time of night?’
‘I had to type up the report for the second quarter. And it was incredibly long.’
‘You do your boss too many favours. One of these days you’ll end up going to bed with him.’
‘No, sweetheart, there’s no danger of that. He’s not my type. But he’s a good sort. Besides, he didn’t even ask me to do the work. And anyway, he wasn’t even in the office.’
‘Darling, you needn’t justify yourself so much. It was a joke.’
They emerged into the street. It was foggy, to the car drivers’ exasperation.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Not exactly tea. But maybe a drink. It’d do me good after my thirty-four pages and seven copies.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Long live escape!’
They sat next to a window. From a nearby table a young, sprucely dressed man cast a calculating eye over them.
‘Well,’ Celia said in a low voice, ‘it seems we’re still worth looking at.’
‘Does that make you feel good or depress you?’
‘I’m not sure. It depends a lot on my state of mind. And also on what the person giving me the once-over is like.’
‘And this one in particular, does he make you feel good?’
‘No.’
‘Thank heavens.’
The waiter gently deposited their two drinks on the table.
‘Here’s to our health.’
‘To our health and freedom.’
‘Sure, that covers it all.’
‘Actually, I think that was one of Artigas’sfn1 slogans.’
‘Really? How’d you know?’
‘If you’d lived all the years I’ve lived with Santiago, you’d be an expert in Artigas as well. He was always one of his obsessions.’
Celia took a sip of her drink.
‘What’s the latest from him?’
‘The same as ever. He writes regularly, except when he’s being punished for something. He’s in good spirits.’
‘Is there any hope they might let him out?’
‘There’s good grounds to. But not much hope.’
At this time of day, the life on the street outside was hypnotic. The two women sat for a while in silence, staring out at the cars, the packed buses, the ladies walking dogs, beggars with their handwritten signs, ragged children, smart young men, the police. Celia was the first to tear herself away from the busy spectacle.
‘What about you? How do you feel? How are you coping with such a long separation?’ Celia paused. ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
‘The thing is, I’d like to give you an answer. The problem is, I don’t have one.’
‘You don’t know how you feel?’
‘I feel unbalanced, disoriented, insecure.’
‘That’s only logical, isn’t it?’
‘Possibly. But it doesn’t seem so logical when I want to answer your second question. About how I’m coping with the separation.’
‘Why, what’s happening?’
‘Wha
t’s happening is, quite simply, that I am coping. Far too well. And that’s not normal.’
‘I don’t understand you, Graciela.’
‘You know what a good couple Santiago and I made. And you know how in tune we were when it came to politics. We were both into the same thing. Even with him in prison and me here. When they took him, I thought I’d find it unbearable. We weren’t just united physically: it was spiritual. You can’t imagine how much I needed him at first.’
‘But not any longer?’
‘It’s not that simple. I still love him. How couldn’t I, after ten years of a wonderful relationship? And I find it horrible that he’s in jail. I’m also perfectly aware of the impact that his absence is having on Beatriz as she grows up.’
‘Yes, all that’s on one side of the scales. And on the other?’
‘The problem is that our forced separation has made him more tender. Whereas it’s made me tougher. To cut a long story short (and this is something I haven’t confessed to anyone: I find it hard even to confess to myself), I need him less and less.’
‘Graciela.’
‘I know what you’re going to say: that it’s unfair. I know that perfectly well. I’m not so stupid I don’t realize that.’
‘Graciela.’
‘But I can’t deceive myself. I still feel a great affection for him, but as a fellow revolutionary, not as his wife. He misses my body – he’s always hinting at it in his letters – but I don’t feel any need for his. And that makes me feel – how can I put it? – it makes me feel guilty. Because in fact I haven’t the faintest idea what is happening to me.’
‘There could be an explanation.’
‘Of course, you think there’s someone else. But there isn’t.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘There isn’t yet.’
‘Why did you add that yet?’
‘Because there could be at any moment. That fact that I don’t feel a need for Santiago’s body doesn’t mean mine is lifeless. I haven’t made love to anyone in more than four years, Celia. Doesn’t that seem a bit much to you?’
‘I really have no idea.’
‘Of course, you have Pedro with you. And things are going well. Fortunately. But how can you know what would have happened to you if you had spent four years without seeing or touching him, or being seen and touched by him?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.’
‘I think it’s good, you refusing to get pointlessly involved in someone else’s drama. But I’m quite sure of what’s happening to me. I can’t help but know. And I can assure you it’s not easy, or comfortable or pleasant.’
‘And haven’t you thought of telling him little by little, letter by letter?’
‘Of course, I’ve thought of it. And it makes me very afraid.’
‘Afraid? Of what?’
‘Of destroying him. Of destroying myself. I don’t know.’
Intramural
(The bonus)
Having news from you is like opening a window. What you tell me about yourself, Beatriz, the old man, your work, the city. I know your schedules, and I can visualize all your routines, so at any moment I can organize my imaginary world: now Graciela is typing, or the old man is finishing his class right now, or Beatriz is gulping down her breakfast because she’s late for school. When you’ve no choice but to stay in one place, you build up incredible mental agility. You can stretch out in the present as much as you like, or dizzily pitch yourself into the future, or you can slide into reverse: that’s dangerous, though, because it’s where your memories are, all of them: the good, the insignificant and the downright horrible. That’s where love is, in other words, where you are, darling, and where the great loyalties and great betrayals lie. That’s where you find what you could have done, but didn’t do, as well as what you could have not done, but did. The crossroads where you chose the wrong path. And that’s where the film begins; I mean, the story of how things would have been if you had turned and changed direction, taken another path, the one you rejected at the time. In general, after several reels you stop the projection and conclude that maybe the path you chose wasn’t such a mistake after all and that maybe, faced with the same crossroads, you’d choose the same one again. With a few differences, of course. With less naivety, for sure. And more caution, just in case. And yet keeping on in that same original direction.
These long periods of nothingness do tend to be demoralizing, but taken from another angle they can also be quite positive. In those last few moments before the arrests, everything happened in such a rush and there was so much tension, we were engulfed by so many inescapable crises, by so many decisions to be made, that none of us had the time or the inclination to just stop and think, to consider and reconsider the steps we were taking, to achieve any mental clarity. Now there’s time, too much time, too many sleepless nights, nights with the same nightmares, the same shadows. And it’s only natural (and very easy) to ask yourself: What good does time do me now? What’s the point of all this overdue contemplation? It’s anachronistic, it’s come too late, pointless. And yet it does have its uses. The only value this empty time has is the possibility of maturing, learning your own limits, your weaknesses and strengths, getting a bit closer to the truth about yourself – not to having any illusions about goals you’re never going to achieve – but instead readying your mind, sorting out your approach to life and building up your patience so that you will be able to achieve what might, one day, be within your grasp. And, in these extraordinary circumstances, you can delve so deep in your inquiry that – I’ll risk confessing something to you – although I can’t draw up a five-year plan of my nightmares, I can dream with my eyes open, chapter by chapter. I can pick apart and examine what I once wanted and what I want now, what I have done and what I will do. Because one day I’ll be able to do things again, won’t I? One day I’ll leave behind this strange exile and become part of the world again, no? And I’ll be a different person, possibly even someone better, although I’ll never become an enemy of the person I once was, or who I am now; it will be a sort of bonus. Yes, receiving news from you is like opening a window, but then I feel an almost irrepressible urge to open more windows, and what’s worse (sheer madness), to open a door. And yet I’m condemned always to see the back of this door: hostile, harsh, impregnable, all too solid – although it’s never as solid as a good argument, a solid reason. Getting news from you is like opening a window. But not yet like opening a door. Maybe I’ve used that word door too often, but you have to understand, it’s almost an obsession; more so, even though you may not believe it, than the word bar. The bars are there, they’re a real, unavoidable presence in all their dreary magnitude. But bars can’t be anything other than what they so obviously are. You can’t have open bars and closed bars. But a door can be so many things. When it’s closed (as it always is), it signifies enclosure, prohibition, silence, rage. If it were open (not opened for an exercise period or for work or punishment – those are simply other ways of being shut in – but open to the world) that would mean recovering reality, loved ones, streets, tastes, smells, sounds, images and the feeling of being free. It would, for example, be to get you back, your arms, your mouth, your hair and – Bah! why try to open a bolt that won’t budge, a jammed lock? The fact is that the word door is one you hear most often here, even more than those other words that are behind the door. That’s because we know that to reach them, to reach the words child, wife, friend, street, bed, café, library, square, football stadium, port, telephone, first of all, you have to get beyond the word door. And this door, which always has its back turned on us but which is always there, staring at us coldly, cruelly and so very solid, refusing to make any promises or offer any hope, always slamming in our faces. And yet we don’t allow ourselves to be defeated so easily; we organize our campaign for release. We write letters, bearing in mind both our recipient and the censor, or we plan letters in which usually we carry on censoring ourselves, but are a lit
tle more daring, or we chew over monologues like this one, which won’t ever reach a scrap of paper with its limitations. But one of the most noteworthy, most positive parts of our campaign is precisely that we make ourselves promises, set ourselves goals (not unbelievable, triumphalist ones, but limited, achievable ones), just imagining we’re opening the door right in front of us. Sometimes, though not always, we’ll have a pack of cards or chess. Ah, but we also have the right to play at the future, and naturally in that game of chance we always keep a card up our sleeve, or keep a secret surprise, an incredibly original checkmate that we won’t waste on daily games, but rather put aside for a great occasion, for example, when we face Capablanca or Alekhine, better not mention Karpov, because, after all, he’s still alive and, besides, his name could yet be scrubbed out. We also talk about music and musicians, so long as the music doesn’t transport me and whatever cellmate I have somewhere else. But, on my own or with somebody to talk to, I can, for example, recall many of my highlights as a listener, a spectator. And so I tell him (or, at my most hermitic moments, tell myself) the story of how I saw and heard Maurice Chevalier at the Teatro Solís: even though by that time he was a grizzled veteran, he was still good-humoured and charming enough to make us all believe he was improvising each and every one of his antediluvian jokes. I also saw and heard Louis Armstrong in the Plaza Hotel and still I can hear that gruff growl, its irresistible humanity. I also saw and heard Charles Trenet, in I don’t know which Spanish centre on Calle Soriano, everyone perched on what looked like dining-chairs while we kids sat on the floor, and the Frenchie, rather mannered but a consummate artist, was singing a song that years later I found out was called ‘La Mer’ or ‘Bonsoir, jolie madame’. And I saw and heard Marian Anderson, I can’t remember whether in the Sodre or the Solís, but I clearly see the figure of that enormous, gentle black woman, her incantatory voice embodying the tragic destiny of her race; and many years later I saw and heard Robbe-Grillet, announcing emphatically that in Camus’s L’Etranger the use of the past imperfect tense was more important than the plot; and I saw and heard Mercedes Sosa singing totally alone, in an almost clandestine way, in the Zitlovsky Jewish Cultural Institute on Calle Durazno; and saw and heard Roa Bastos, modest to a fault, telling a shamefully small audience that Paraguay has had to live as if it’s always Year Zero; and I saw and heard Don Ezequiel Martínez Estrada, a few months before his death, giving a lecture on a topic I don’t recall because I was concentrating so hard on his gaunt, sallow, parchment-dry face, where the only sign of life was the sharp, darting gaze of his tiny eyes; and I saw and heard Neftalí Ricardo Reyes,fn1 jokey, ironic, subtly vain and every inch the poet, reciting his memories of Isla Negra like a psalm; and when I was in the midst of an audience I saw the one from the other islandfn2 on the Esplanada, stirred by the length, drive and style of the unexpected concert, which for so many others was disconcerting. Memories of a child, adolescent and grown man, but beyond any doubt, memories of mine. In other words, when I raise the curtain, I am, as you may have appreciated, oh so interesting, I applaud myself and demand, Encore, Encore, Encore.