Springtime in a Broken Mirror Page 3

  Exiles

  (Cordially invited)

  At approximately six p.m. on Friday 22 August 1975, I was reading, relatively carefree, in the apartment I rented on Calle Shell in the Miraflores district of Lima, when someone rang the bell downstairs and asked for Señor Mario Orlando Benedetti. That already smelt fishy because my middle name only appears in official documents. None of my friends ever uses it.

  I went down and a man in plain clothes showed me his ID: Peruvian Investigative Police. He said he had a few questions he wanted to ask me concerning my papers. We went upstairs and he told me they had been informed that my visa had expired. I brought my passport and showed him the visa had been renewed in time. ‘You’re going to have to come with me anyway, because the boss wants a word with you. You’ll be back within half an hour,’ he assured me. This desultory promise all but convinced me I was going to be deported. It was the kind of cryptic language favoured by repressive forces the world over.

  During the short journey to police headquarters, he passed the time criticizing the government. He was setting clumsy traps, too naively, luring me to take the bait and join in with his criticism of the Peruvian Revolution. My praise was cagey but precise.

  After we reached police headquarters, I was made to wait half an hour, and then I was seen by an inspector. He repeated the story of my expired visa, and I once again showed my passport. Then he said I was doing paid work, which was prohibited on a tourist visa. I told him mine was a special case, because, with the explicit authorization of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Expreso newspaper had signed a contract for me to work as a journalist, and this contract was at that very moment sitting at the highest level in the Ministry of Labour. The inspector was a bit taken aback by this ‘at the highest level’ until another official, doubtless his superior, shouted from a nearby desk: ‘Don’t give him any more explanations! He’ll only come back with more of the same. Get to the point!’ Then he turned to me: ‘The Peruvian government wants you out of here.’ And in response to the logical question, ‘Might I know why?’: ‘No. We don’t know why either. The minister sends the order and we carry it out.’ ‘How long do I have?’ ‘If possible, ten minutes. But since that’s not going to happen, there’s no way you can get out that quickly, let’s say you must leave at the soonest feasible moment: in an hour or two.’ ‘Can I choose where I go?’ ‘Where do you want to go? Bear in mind we’re not paying your fare.’ ‘Well, seeing that in Argentina I’ve had death threats from the AAA,fn1 and since I once worked in Cuba for two years and have the possibility of finding employment there again, I’d like to know if I’m allowed to go to Cuba.’ ‘No. There’s no plane leaving for Cuba today, and you have to leave as soon as possible.’ ‘All right, then tell me what my options actually are.’ ‘They are: either we take you by road and leave you on the border with Ecuador, or you use your return ticket to Buenos Aires.’

  I quickly thought it through. The idea of a military truck dumping me at first light on the border of a country I didn’t know was not exactly appealing, so I said: ‘Buenos Aires. I’ve never been to Ecuador.’ I had to sign a statement in which I was asked how I received my fees from Expreso. I said, from the Central Bank, and once again pointed out that I had a contract that was duly authorized by the Ministry of Labour, etc.

  We returned to the apartment. At first, they gave me a quarter of an hour to pack, then a whole hour. They made phone calls, but could not find me a seat on any flight to Buenos Aires, which gave me some more time. But they would only allow me to take one suitcase, so I had to leave lots of things behind.

  The inspector then told me (by now they were treating me more amicably) that mine wasn’t a case of expulsion or deportation, and that therefore they would not stamp ‘Deported’ on my passport. Deportation – he explained – required an executive decree, and, in my case, none had been issued. Which meant that this was simply ‘a cordial invitation to leave the country at once’. I asked what would happen if I declined the invitation. ‘Ah, but then you’d be leaving all the same.’ I told him that, in my country, when faced with a choice of that sort, we used to say, ‘That doesn’t make a shitload of difference.’

  I asked if I could make a call to someone in Lima. They didn’t allow that: I was to be held incommunicado. On the other hand, they did let me make a few long-distance calls. So I rang my brother in Montevideo, and asked him to tell my wife to come and meet me in Buenos Aires. I also tried to ring two or three people in Buenos Aires, but couldn’t get through. I wanted to make sure there would be somebody there to receive me when I reached Ezeiza Airport. I asked them to at least let me speak to my landlady. They told me I could, as long as I told her that I had suddenly decided to leave Peru and was therefore quitting the apartment at once. I said I wouldn’t make any such call, as she had always been very decent in her dealings with me. I suggested they ring her instead. They refused.

  After a few minutes the inspector asked me on what conditions would I talk to the landlady; I said I’d like to speak to her if I could tell her I was being thrown out of the country. He eventually accepted and so, at three in the morning, I called her. The poor woman nearly fainted. ‘Oh, señor, why would they do something like that to a gentleman like you!’ I explained that I’d leave an inventory of the things of mine that were still in the apartment, and would let her know later on where they should be sent.

  By now, the four men were so relaxed that one even asked me for a poster with one of my songs that was up on the wall, and another asked for one of my books. ‘Aren’t you worried it might compromise you?’ I asked. ‘Let’s hope not,’ he said, not entirely convinced.

  Since the night had grown pretty cold by then, two of the men asked their boss for permission to go and fetch jumpers. He agreed. I went on packing under the watchful eye of the other two. All of a sudden, I noticed they had both fallen asleep. They were snoring so peacefully that I took off my shoes so my footsteps on the floor wouldn’t disturb them. That gave me another hour and a half to sort my case out properly, during which time the rubbish chute was kept quite busy.

  At the end of the hour and a half, I put my shoes back on and gently shook the inspector: ‘Sorry to wake you, but if I’m so subversive that you’re throwing me out of the country, please at least stay awake and keep an eye on me.’ The inspector explained the problem was that they had been working since early that morning and were exhausted. I said I understood, but that wasn’t my fault.

  At half-past four, the five of us left (by then, the other two had returned with their sweaters) in a big black car. We stopped off at the landlady’s house. They gave her the keys and the inventory. That drive was my only real cause for concern, because they took me along an unusual route. Completely dark, through a wasteland lit only by our car’s headlights. It took much longer than the normal way to the airport. When I finally caught sight of the control tower lights in the distance, I confess I breathed a little easier. At the airport, the soonest I could leave was on the nine o’clock Saturday evening flight. Fortunately, it was on an AeroPeru aeroplane. They hadn’t managed to get me a seat on the eight o’clock one with LAN Chile.

  At no point did they give me anything to drink or eat. I went twenty-four hours without tasting a thing. I think this was simply due to the fact that they had no money: they didn’t eat anything either. When the inspector handed me my documents at the foot of the aircraft steps, he said: ‘I’m sure you’re leaving feeling pretty sore towards the Peruvian government, but don’t hold it against Peruvians.’ And he shook my hand.

  Battered and Bruised

  (A landscape or two)

  Graciela went into the bedroom, slipped off her light raincoat, looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror, and frowned. Then she removed her blouse and skirt, and collapsed on the bed. She raised her leg, stretched it out as far as she could. She noticed a ladder in her stocking. Sitting up, she took both nylons off and looked to see if there were any more holes in them. She folded t
hem into a little pile and put them on a chair. She looked at herself in the mirror once again, and pressed her fingers to her temples.

  The fading light of what had been a cool, blustery afternoon filtered in through the window. She pulled back one of the lace curtains and peered out. Six or seven children were playing outside Block B. She recognized Beatriz, hair unkempt and out of breath, but obviously enjoying herself. Smiling wanly, Graciela ran her fingers through her own hair.

  The telephone rang on the bedside table. Rolando. She lay back down to speak more comfortably.

  ‘What a crap afternoon, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘It’s not that bad. I like the wind. I don’t know why, but when I walk into it, it blows things away. I mean, the things I want blown away.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers? Don’t you know that’s called intervention in the internal affairs of another nation?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Ms Republic.’

  ‘A friendly republic, I hope.’

  She transferred the receiver to the left side so that she could scratch behind her other ear.

  ‘Any news?’ he asked.

  ‘A letter from Santiago.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘It’s a bit puzzling.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He talks about damp patches on the walls and the shapes he used to imagine he saw in them as a boy.’

  ‘That happened to me, too.’

  ‘It happens to everyone, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it may not be hugely original, but I don’t see why it’s so puzzling. Or did you want him to write a polemic against the military?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just that I think he used to be more confident, take more risks.’

  ‘Yes, sure. And perhaps that’s why you had to go for a month without hearing from him.’

  ‘I’ve already checked. It was a measure taken out against all of them. One of the many collective punishments …’

  ‘Collective punishments that are, generally, based on such puerile pretexts as: the writing of a letter which, deliberately or otherwise, oversteps a mark that has never been formally established, but which is, nonetheless, very much in place.’

  She didn’t reply. A few seconds later Rolando spoke again:

  ‘How is Beatriz?’

  ‘She’s outside, playing with her gang.’

  ‘I’ve got a soft spot for that girl. She’s so healthy and full of life.’

  ‘Yes. Much more than me.’

  ‘Well, that’s not really so. It’s true she gets most of her energy from Santiago, but it comes from you, as well.’

  ‘I can see it coming from Santiago.’

  ‘From you as well. It’s just that you’ve been a little depressed recently.’

  ‘Possibly. The problem is, I just can’t see any way out. And besides, my work bores me stiff.’

  ‘You will find something more stimulating. For now, though, you’ve got to put up with it.’

  ‘Now you’re supposed to say how lucky I’ve been.’

  ‘You’ve been lucky.’

  ‘You’re also supposed to tell me that not all exiles from the far south have found a well-paid job for only six hours a day, and with Saturdays off, too.’

  ‘Not all exiles from the far south have found such a well-paid job, etcetera. Can I add that you’re such an efficient secretary, you deserve it?’

  ‘You can. But that efficiency is precisely why I’m so bored. It would be more interesting if I made a mistake occasionally.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You might get bored of being so efficient, but in general bosses and managers get much more bored, much sooner, with inefficiency.’

  Again, she said nothing. And again, he was the one to take up the conversation.

  ‘Can I make you a proposition?’

  ‘So long as it’s not dishonest.’

  ‘Let’s say it’s semi-honest.’

  ‘Then I’ll only half-accept it. What is it?’

  ‘Would you like to go to the movies?’

  ‘No, Rolando.’

  ‘It’s a good film.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. I trust your taste. At least, your taste in films.’

  ‘It’ll blow your cobwebs away a little.’

  ‘I’m happy with my cobwebs.’

  ‘That’s worse still. So, I’ll repeat the invitation: do you want to go to the movies?’

  ‘No, Rolando. Thank you, really, but I’m exhausted. If I didn’t have to cook something for Beatriz, I swear I’d go to bed without eating.’

  ‘That’s no good either. Anything is better than getting worn down by routine.’

  Graciela cradled the receiver between her chin and shoulder, her skill as a professional secretary on show. Now her hands were free, allowing her to study her fingernails and file them with an emery board.

  ‘Rolando.’

  ‘Yes, still here.’

  ‘Have you ever been on a train, sitting by the window, across from another person?’

  ‘I think so, though I can’t remember when, exactly. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Have you ever noticed that if the two people start talking about the scenery they’re watching pass by, the way it’s described by the person facing forwards isn’t exactly the same as it is by the one facing backwards?’

  ‘I have to confess I’ve never noticed that. But I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Well, I’ve always noticed it. Ever since I was a little girl, whenever I travelled by train I loved looking out at the scenery. It was one of my favourite pastimes. I never read on train journeys. Even now when I’m on a train, I don’t like to read. I’m completely drawn in by the countryside flying by. And when I’m facing forward, I feel as if the scenery is rushing towards me and, I don’t know, it makes me feel optimistic.’

  ‘What if you’re facing backwards?’

  ‘I feel as if the scenery is pulling away from me, dwindling, dying. Frankly, it depresses me.’

  ‘Which way are you facing now?’

  ‘Don’t make fun of me. I remembered all this, really clearly, the other day when I started rereading Santiago’s letters. Even though he’s in prison, he writes as if life were rushing up to him, coming towards him. But for me, even if I am what you might call free, it’s like the scenery is dwindling, dying, running out.’

  ‘That’s not bad. As a bit of poetry, that is.’

  ‘It’s not poetry. It’s not even prose. It’s just how I feel.’

  ‘All right, now I’m being serious. I’m worried about your state of mind, you know that? And although I’m convinced that we can each only solve our own problems, it’s also true that at times someone we really trust can do something to help – if nothing more than that. And I’m offering you a little bit of help, if you want it. But the main thing is for you to open up, to dig deeper inside yourself.’

  ‘Dig deeper inside myself? You might be right. Maybe. But I’m not certain I’ll like what’s underneath.’

  Don Rafael

  (A strange guilt)

  Santiago has complained to Graciela that I haven’t written to him in ages. And it’s true. What was I supposed to say? That what he’s going through is the result of his attitude? He already knows that. Was I supposed to tell him that I feel a bit guilty for not having talked with him enough (back when it was still time to talk, and not to swallow your words) and convinced him not to go down that road? Perhaps he doesn’t know for definite that I feel guilty, but he probably suspects as much – and suspects that, had we had those serious discussions, he would have continued down the road he had chosen for himself, regardless. Should I write that whenever I wake up at night I can’t shake off the fear, the sense, or the foreboding, or whatever it is, that possibly, at that very moment, he is being tortured, or is recovering from the last torture session, or steeling himself for the next one, or screaming curses at someone? Maybe he doesn’t want to contemplate anything like that
. He must have more than enough to do, dealing with his own suffering, isolation, his own anguish. When you’re suffering, you have no need to add the burden of other people’s pain to your own. But sometimes I imagine that they’re holding the cattle prod against Santiago’s testicles and at that same instant I feel a real (not imaginary) pain tear through my own testicles. Or if I imagine they’re waterboarding him I feel as if I’m literally drowning, too. Why? It’s an old story, or rather, an old warning sign: the survivor of genocide feels a strange guilt simply because he is still alive. And the person who, for whatever perfectly good reason (I’m not counting the ignoble ones) has managed to escape torture, still feels guilt for not being tortured. So in other words, I’ve not got much to write to him about. Obviously, there are certain topics that can’t be mentioned in a letter to a prisoner, especially one thrown in jail for being a subversive. And yet there are other things I could write, but I’m the one choosing to censor them, to leave them out. And the things left to write about after these two restrictions are imposed are all pretty inane. Would Santiago want me to write stupidities? There is one thing that, were the circumstances different, I would write to him, or better still talk to him about, but never in the current situation. By which I mean Graciela’s state of mind. Graciela is not well. She’s becoming increasingly dispirited, greyer. In the past she was always so pretty, so lively, so sharp. The worst of it is, I think I’ve worked out that her despondency is due to her drifting away from Santiago. The reasons? How can one know? I’m sure she thinks highly of him. She isn’t at odds with him over his politics, because she is (or was) of the same mind. Can it be that, to keep her love intact, a woman needs a man’s physical presence, more beyond the mere knowledge that he exists? Can it be that Ulysses is becoming domesticated, while Penelope is no longer content to weave and unpick? Who knows. The fact is, if I can’t bring myself to mention it to her, when I see her almost every day, how could I possibly mention it to Santiago, to whom I only send a letter every once in a while? I could also tell him about my classes, and the questions the students ask. Or perhaps about an idea I have, about getting back to writing. Another novel? No, one failure is enough. Possibly a book of short stories. Not for publication. At my age that’s not so important. I sense it would be a stimulus for me. I haven’t written a word in fifteen years. At least, nothing literary. And, for fifteen years, I’ve had no desire to do so. But now, suddenly, I do. Could this be a sign? Something I need to interpret? A symptom? But of what?