Antonio Skarmeta - The Days of the Rainbow

I ring the doorbell. Apartment 3A. Third floor. Tiny elevator. Modern building. Only two people fit in it. Schindler. Weight should not exceed 300 pounds.

If …

I don’t even want to think about it.

Hmm … If the cops are looking for me because of the speech I gave at the cemetery, I could hide in Laura Yáñez’s apartment.

For reciprocity’s sake.

Would she agree?

Anyway. Nothing’s going to happen.

I read Uncle Bill’s entire speech in English.

English. My only B. My best grade.

Because I like rock music and Don Rafael liked me. He liked that I was in the drama club. They killed him. Just like that. Lieutenant Bruna did everything he could.

What in hell, then, is “to do everything I can”?

I bring the last issue of Caras in my backpack. It’s the kind of magazine that Laura likes. Shiny, with tons of ads, a lot of social life, and full-color fashion pages.

“You came, dude!” she says, kissing me on the left cheek and pulling me in.

“Why so much mystery?”

“I’ll tell you right away. How’s Patricia doing?”

I say, “Fine. Patricia’s fine.”

Although in fact I don’t know how she’s doing. I haven’t asked her. Her Professor Paredes was killed, and her father has had a crushing success with his campaign for the No . She must be feeling terribly bad, and probably also good. Everybody’s talking about the campaign for the No . Calls of congratulation until three in the morning. We heated up the pasta puttanesca and opened another bottle of red wine. Don Adrián gave me money for a cab. The subway wasn’t running that late.

“And you?”

“I don’t know, dude. But I called you because love is repaid with love.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I don’t know. My grandma used to say that.”

“What’s the matter? Here. I brought you the latest issue of Caras .”

“Wow! With Michelle Pfeiffer on the cover! A superwoman. Isn’t she?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Your type, right?”

“I don’t know, Laura. I’ve just become eighteen. I don’t know what my type is. And I don’t understand a thing.”

“But since Patricia Bettini …”

“What? What about her?”

“Since she’s so …”

“So what?”

“Elegant. On the other hand, me …”

“You’re different, Laura. No one is better than the other. You’re just very different.”

“Do you like me?”

“I think you’re gorgeous.”

“I have Coke, Bilz, Pap, and beer. Escudo beer only.”

“Coke.”

“With ice?”

“Three cubes.”

She goes to the kitchen and brings a Coke, family size. She had prepared a small plate with cubes of cheese and green olives. It’s noon, but it looks like an evening cocktail.

“Sit down or you’ll fall dead tired.”

“So, tell me,” I say, while obeying her.

She makes herself comfortable on the edge of a wicker sofa with brown cushions. Very ladylike, she brings her knees together, not to expose her thighs, matte and smooth.

“It’s about your father, Nico.”

Aha. That’s why she wanted me to come. No phone calls. I don’t want to know about it. I want to die in advance. To die right away.

“Do you know anything?”

Laura looks at the walls of her living room and at the door leading to the bedroom, and then at the one leading to the small balcony. There’s a reproduction of a painting of dancers, by Degas, and a huge photo of Travolta in a white satin suit, very tight, and an unbuttoned vest.

“Nico … I know how to get to him.”

“Is he alive? Professor Paredes was …”

“I know.”

Something holds her back. She wants and doesn’t want to tell me. Why did she make me come?

“Please.”

She shakes her shiny mop of hair, jet black and curly, and stares at me, steadily, in the eyes.

“What I’m going to tell you speaks badly of me. But I’m only going to tell you, because you gave me a hand.”

“Okay. Tell me.”

“I find you pretty childish, but I’ve always liked you. I’ll do it for you. And for Professor Paredes. He gave me a D. For the first stanza of Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee.’ Do you remember? ‘Your little D,’ he said to me.”

“I don’t get it.”

She rubs her nose and sniffles as if she had a cold.

“A guy got this apartment for me. D’ya get it?”

“Yep.”

“A married guy.”

“Okay.”

“An agent.”

“From the CNI, the intelligence agency?”

“You’re not that childish … Why? Are ya’ gonna lecture me now?”

I don’t know. I don’t know what to do or say. I wasn’t expecting this. I drink half the glass of Coke. I have a piece of ice in my mouth and I move it with my tongue from one side to the other.

“No, I’m not.”

“I believe that, through him, we can get to your dad.”

“Why?”

“I just know it, Nico.”

I’d like to be an adult. To understand more about life. To have read more books. To know the psychology of people.

“What do I have to do?”

Laura leans toward me and takes my hands. She then takes them to her mouth. She doesn’t kiss them. She just touches my fingers with her lips.

“D’ya have any money?”

I look at her. I look at her with all my soul poured into my awe.

“Where from, Laura? I haven’t even picked up my dad’s check from September. I’m terrified that they’ll take me.”

“D’ya know where to get a few bucks? Sell something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A car.”

“We don’t have a car. We walk. Or take the subway.”

“A TV set.”

“Everybody has a TV. What are they going to give me for a TV?”

Laura separates my fingers and kisses them, one by one. Then she blinks three or four times. She doesn’t look at me.

“I understand, Nico. I do.”

She goes to a wood cabinet and takes out a bottle of Bacardi white rum. She pours some in my glass and a little bit in her own glass.

“Then I don’t have any option, except to see how much this fucking cop loves me.”

RAÚL ALARCÓN, Little Kinky Flower, called Adrián Bettini to thank him, enthusiastically, for having included him in the campaign. “I’m the most popular man in Chile,” he said. “People kiss me in the streets. A taxi driver didn’t want to charge me for the ride—‘If you’re brave enough to confront Pinochet, why not me? I’m going to vote No . And I’m going to convince everyone who takes my taxi that they should vote No . Great, Don Flower. Really great!’

“Thank you, Don Adrián.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Bettini said, looking through the window at a gray car without license plates parked across the street from his house. The driver lowered the window, and his companion — whose face he wasn’t able to see — lit a cigarette for him. The driver half opened the door and activated the mechanism to push his seat back. He made himself comfortable and blew a puff of smoke through the window.

“Nothing to thank me for, Mr. Alarcón. I’m the one who should thank you.”

“Me? But I’m nothing. A poor little kinky flower.”

“People think that you’re a hero. A great future is waiting for you, my friend.”

The companion of the man in the gray car got out, crossed the street, walked to Bettini’s door, and looked at the number. Then he compared it with the one written in his notebook and gave the driver a thumbs-up, signaling that it was okay .