Exiles
(Man in a doorway)
I had met President Siles Zuazo in Montevideo some twenty years earlier, when he came to Uruguay as an exile following the success of one of the many military coups that have continually scarred the history of Bolivia. Back then, I had only published a few books, and was working in the accounts department of a big real estate company.
One afternoon the phone rang at my desk and a deep voice said, ‘Siles Zuazo here.’ At first I thought it was a joke and yet, perhaps aware of the remote possibility it was true, I didn’t answer in kind. I was still recovering from the shock when he managed to convince me who he was. In fact, he was inviting me to go and see him at the Hotel Nogaró. I thought he probably wanted to talk about Bolivia and the officers who had seized power there, but I couldn’t work out why he had chosen me in particular. I was mistaken.
A few years earlier I had published an essay on ‘Marcel Proust and the Sense of Guilt’. And Siles Zuazo wanted to chat with me about Proust and other literary topics. I discovered that this statesman of a land cut off from the sea, this character, tales of whose great civic valour had been related to me by several friends, was an exceptionally cultured man, a devoted reader of contemporary literature.
Obviously, we talked of Proust while we drank tea with toast. We were missing only the madeleines. Politics was mentioned a handful of times, only because of questions that I had asked. Really, he wanted to talk about literature, and his remarks were unquestionably perceptive and wise.
Following this first meeting, we had tea on several occasions in the Nogaró, and I have lasting warm memories of our tranquil conversations. Soon afterwards, he left Montevideo to rejoin the struggles and political vicissitudes of his irreplaceable Bolivia.
I didn’t see him for many years, although I always followed news of his tireless political activity: lawful whenever possible, clandestine when it wasn’t. One night of pouring rain in Buenos Aires, back in 1974, I was walking, I think, down Calle Paraguay looking for shelter when, all of a sudden, as I rushed past a doorway, I thought I recognized a man standing there, taking cover from the storm.
I looked back. It was Dr Siles. He had recognized me as well. ‘So. Now it’s your turn living in exile.’ ‘Yes. When we used to talk in Montevideo that seemed quite impossible, didn’t it?’ ‘Yes, so it seemed.’ In the half-darkness I couldn’t quite make out his smile, but I could imagine it. ‘And, in your unexpected exile, what stage is this?’ ‘The third,’ I replied, a little ashamed. ‘Don’t take it too badly. I’m on my fourteenth.’
That night we didn’t talk of Proust.
Beatriz
(This country)
This country isn’t mine, but I like it a lot. I don’t know if I like it more or less than my own country. I came here when I was very little and can’t remember what that was like any more. One of the differences is that in my country there are horses and here they are hosses. But they all neigh. Cows moo and frogs croak.
This country is bigger than mine, mainly because mine is so tiny. In this country live my Grandpa Rafael and my mum Graciela. And millions more. It’s very nice to know one lives in a country with many millions. When Graciela takes me to the centre, loads of people are in the streets. There are so many many many people that it seems to me I must know all the millions in this country.
On Sundays the streets are almost empty and I wonder where all the millions I saw on Friday can have got to. My Grandpa Rafael says that on Sundays people stay at home to rest. To rest means to sleep.
There’s a lot of sleep in this country. Especially on Sundays, because there are many millions asleep. If each sleeping person snores nine times an hour (my mum snores fourteen times) that means each million inhabitants snore nine million times an hour. In other words, snores abound.
Sometimes when I sleep I start to dream. I almost always dream of this country, but some nights I dream of my own country. Graciela says that can’t be right because I don’t remember it. But when I dream I do remember, even if Graciela says I’m making it up. I’m not making it up.
I dream that my dad takes me by the hand and we visit Villa Dolores – that’s the name of the zoo. And he buys me peanuts to feed to the monkeys, and those monkeys aren’t the ones in the zoo here because I know these monkeys very well and also their wives and children. The monkeys in my dreams are those in Villa Dolores. My dad says, Beatriz, can you see those bars, that’s how I’m living now. Then I wake up crying in this country and Graciela has to come and tell me, Sweetheart, it’s only a dream.
I say that it’s a shame that among the millions of people in this country, for example, my father isn’t one of them.
Battered and Bruised
(Daydreaming)
‘See, that’s why I don’t want you to go to school on your own.’
‘What did I do?’
‘Don’t act all innocent.’
‘But what did I do?’
‘You were going to cross on a red light.’
‘There weren’t any cars coming.’
‘Yes, there were, Beatriz.’
‘Only in the distance.’
‘Now we can cross.’
They walked past the supermarket, then the dry-cleaner’s.
‘Graciela.’
‘What is it?’
‘I promise I’ll always cross with the green light.’
‘You already promised me that last week.’
‘But now I really mean it. Do you forgive me?’
‘It’s not about forgiving or not forgiving. Don’t you realize that if you cross when the light’s red you could be knocked down by a car?’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
‘What will I do, Beatriz, if anything happens to you? Don’t you ever think of that?’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, Mum. Please don’t cry. I’ll always cross with the green light. Graciela. Mum. Don’t cry.’
‘I’m not crying any more, silly. Come on, in you go.’
‘It’s still early. Class begins in twenty minutes. And the sunshine is lovely. I want to spend a bit longer with you.’
‘Now you’re buttering me up.’ As she says this, Graciela relaxes a little and smiles.
‘Have you forgiven me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going to your office now?’
‘No.’
‘Are you on holiday?’
‘I worked a lot last week so they’ve given me this Monday off.’
‘What are you going to do? Are you going to the movies?’
‘I don’t think so. I reckon I’ll go home.’
‘Will you come to fetch me after school? Or can I come back on my own?’
‘I’d like to be able to trust you.’
‘You can, Mum. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Really.’
Beatriz doesn’t wait for Graciela’s reply. Brushing her cheek with a kiss, she runs into school. Graciela stands there for a while, watching her disappear. Then she purses her lips and leaves.
She walks slowly, swinging her handbag. She stops occasionally, as though disoriented. When she reaches the main avenue, she gazes at the row of tall buildings. Suddenly the people crossing the road brush past her, jostle her, mutter. Finally, she makes up her mind and crosses, too. Before she reaches the opposite pavement, the light has turned red and a truck has had to swerve to avoid her.
Now she turns down an almost deserted street, where there are several large rubbish bins, overflowing, stinking. She approaches one and peers in. She makes as if to put her hand in, but then pulls back.
She walks two, three, five, ten blocks. On the corner before the next avenue, there’s a woman begging. Two very young children are dozing beside her. Graciela approaches her and the woman starts with her refrain once again.
‘Why are you begging, eh?’
The woman looks at her in astonishment. She is used to people giving, refusing or walking straight past. Never conversation.
/> ‘What?’
‘I’m asking why you beg.’
‘So that I can eat, señora. For the love of God.’
‘Can’t you work?’
‘No, señora. For the love of God.’
‘You can’t or you won’t?’
‘No, señora.’
‘No, what?’
‘There’s no work. For the love of God.’
‘Leave the love of God out of it. Don’t you realize that God doesn’t have love for you?’
‘Don’t say that, señora. Don’t say that.’
‘Here.’
‘Thank you, señora. For the love of God.’
She walks on more determinedly. Leaving the beggar woman behind her, bewildered. One of her children starts to cry. Graciela turns her head to look back at them, but doesn’t stop.
When she is two blocks from home, she dimly makes out Rolando, in the distance, leaning against her front door. She walks another block towards him and waves. He doesn’t seem to spot her. She repeats the gesture and then he responds, waves and starts coming towards her.
‘How did you know I was coming home?’
‘Simple. I called your office and they told me you weren’t coming in today.’
‘I almost went to the movies.’
‘Yes, I thought you might. But it’s so sunny I didn’t think you’d want to shut yourself up in a cinema. So I came down here, and as you see, I was right.’
He kisses her on both cheeks. She rummages in her bag, finds her key and opens the door.
‘Come in, sit down. Something to drink?’
‘No, nothing.’
Graciela draws back the shutters and takes off her coat. Rolando looks at her, curious.
‘Have you been crying?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You have a look that’s technically known as “after the storm”.’
‘Bah, it was only a light shower.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Not much. An unjustified moment of despair with a beggar woman and, before that, a justified moment of anger at Beatriz.’
‘Beatriz? She’s so sweet.’
‘She’s a very good girl. But she always outmanoeuvres me.’
‘So what happened?’
‘It was my own fault. She’s so careless when she crosses the street, it scares me.’
‘Is that all?’
Rolando offers her a cigarette, but she refuses. He takes one and lights it. Blowing out the first lungful, he peers at her through the smoke.
‘Graciela, when are you going to make your mind up?’
‘About what?’
‘About whether you’ll confess to yourself. The thing, whatever it is, that you don’t want to admit.’
‘Don’t start, Rolando. I can’t stand that paternalistic tone of yours.’
‘I’ve known you a long time, Graciela. Longer than Santiago.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And since I know you, I can tell when you’re feeling bad.’
‘I am.’
‘And you’ll go on feeling that way until you admit it to yourself.’
‘Possibly. But it’s difficult. It’s hard.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s about Santiago.’
‘Ah.’
‘And above all, about me. Bah, it’s not that complicated. But it’s hard. I don’t know what’s happening to me, Rolando. That’s what’s so difficult to admit. The fact is, I don’t need Santiago any more.’
‘And how long have you felt like this?’
‘Don’t ask for precise dates. How do I know? It’s absurd.’
‘Don’t put a label on it yet.’
‘It is absurd, Rolando. Santiago didn’t do anything. Except get taken prisoner. What d’you make of that? Can you think of anything more cruel, anything worse, you can do to a person? That’s what he did to me. He got taken prisoner. He abandoned me.’
‘He didn’t abandon you, Graciela. He was taken away.’
‘I know. That’s why I say it’s absurd. I know he got taken away and yet I feel as though he abandoned me.’
‘And you blame him for that?’
‘No, how am I going to blame him? He behaved well, impeccably: he withstood torture, he was brave, he didn’t betray anyone. He’s to be looked up to.’
‘And yet?’
‘And yet I’ve been distancing myself. And the distance has given me the chance to reconsider our whole relationship.’
‘Which was a good one.’
‘A really good one.’
‘Well, then?’
‘It isn’t any more. He goes on writing me affectionate, warm and tender letters, but I read them as if they were addressed to someone else. Can you tell me what’s happened? Can it be that prison has changed Santiago into another person? Can it be I’ve been transformed, by exile, into a different woman?’
‘It’s all possible. But it could all be enriching for both of you. Better.’
‘I haven’t grown better and I don’t feel enriched. I feel poorer, withered. And I don’t want to go on growing poorer or withering any further.’
‘Graciela. Do you still share Santiago’s political convictions?’
‘Of course. They’re mine too, aren’t they? Except that he was caught. Whereas I am here.’
‘Do you resent the commitments he made?’
‘Are you crazy? He did what he had to. So did I. You’re barking up the wrong tree. In that sense we were and still are united. Where I’m not united with him is in the relationship between the two of us. Not in social matters – in conjugal ones, if you follow me. I’m clear about that, at least. What I’m not clear about is the reason why. And that worries me. If Santiago had done something dreadful to me, or if I’d seen him do something dreadful to another person … But no, he’s beyond reproach. Loyal, a good friend, a good companion, a good husband. And I was very much in love with him.’
‘What about him?’
‘The same. Apparently, he still feels the same. I’m the one who’s crazy.’
‘Graciela. You’re still young. You’re pretty, intelligent, sometimes even tender. Perhaps what you’re missing is a kind of response, a sense that your feelings are reciprocated.’