Antonio Skarmeta - The Days of the Rainbow

Bettini didn’t know whether to smile or to look undaunted.

“Mr. Minister, what are you proposing to me?”

“Since I assume that the opposition will hire you as the creative director of the campaign for the No to Pinochet option, I’m offering you the position of head of the advertising campaign for Yes .”

“ Yes to Pinochet?”

“ Yes to Pinochet. I’d have expected any reaction from you to such a proposal but a smile. Believe me, I feel relieved. Why are you smiling?”

Patricia Bettini’s father pressed his nose with three fingers as if he wanted to ease a pain.

“Life takes so many turns! When Pinochet led the coup and made you one of his ministers, I was fired from my job, sent to jail, and tortured. And now, the same person who sent me to jail and laid me off is offering me a job.”

“I’m aware of the paradoxical nature of this situation. But you’re the best advertising agent in the country, and for this campaign I want only the best. A professional! You might criticize our government as much as you want, but you can’t deny that we have a brilliant team of professionals. Our economy’s flourishing!”

“For the rich.”

“But the time will soon come when there will be so much wealth that it will trickle down to the poor.”

“There you have the slogan you need for your campaign: ‘When the wealthy have enough, they’ll throw the banquet leftovers to the poor.’ ”

“I’m confident that you’ll come up with something better, Bettini. What do you say?”

“What do I say? I say that they say that nothing that happens in this country escapes you.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard that exaggeration too.”

“They say that not even a leaf falls without your consent.”

“My fame sometimes pleases me and sometimes makes matters more difficult for me.”

Bettini filled his glass with mineral water, took a sip, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“My daughter, Patricia, is worried because your men arrested her boyfriend’s philosophy teacher.”

“I see.”

“He’s an old man, an expert in Greek philosophy. He’s a threat to no one. Just an old guy.”

“So old that he sold toffee at the Roman circus?”

The minister stroked his legs, celebrating his own joke with a burst of laughter, and then opened a green file cabinet.

“He’s not young anymore.”

“Forgive my joke, Bettini. Many people worry for no reason. Sometimes my men ask a couple of routine questions and then the detainees can go back home as if nothing had happened.”

“Mr. Minister, more than three thousand people are missing.”

“Those statistics are an exaggeration! The country has already overcome the crisis. Didn’t I tell you that we’re going to call a hundred percent democratic plebiscite? Your daughter doesn’t have anything to worry about.”

Bettini stood up and touched the knot of his tie to hide the movement of his Adam’s apple while he swallowed the saliva accumulated in his mouth.

“Santos,” he said hoarsely.

“Pardon me?”

“Santos. The philosophy teacher’s name is Rodrigo Santos.”

The minister put his hands on top of the file cabinet and, smoothing a piece of paper, traced a circle with his ballpoint pen.

“School?”

“National Institute.”

“Wow! ‘The nation’s first spotlight.’ ”

“Excuse me?”

“ ‘The nation’s first spotlight.’ That’s what the institute’s anthem says. Where did the events take place?”

“The classroom.”

“Witnesses?”

“More than thirty students. They were in the middle of class.”

The official sighed with a sudden air of fatigue.

“Physical appearance of the officers?”

“Short hair, young, raincoats …”

“Like in the movies. Date?”

“Wednesday. Last Wednesday, early in the morning.”

The minister closed the folder with a blow while lifting his chin. After a long silence that seemed full of meaning, he started to talk again.

“So, Bettini, what can you tell me about our business?”

“Our business,” the ad agent said to himself. So he had something in common with the minister of the interior. “Our business.”

“How long can I think about it?”

“You can take a couple of days.”

“I’ll call you on Monday, then.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll come in person. I’ll send a couple of guys to bring you right here.”

“See you on Monday, Dr. Fernández.”

The minister stood up and held out his hand to say good-bye.

“Philosophy. I remember a bit from my school years. ‘I only know that I know nothing.’ Who said that?”

“Socrates.”

“And the other thing about the river?”

“Heraclitus. ‘You cannot step into the same river twice.’ ”

“See you, Bettini.”

I CALLEDthe first number but nobody answered. This was the phone number where supposedly there would always be somebody to answer. If nobody answered, it would mean that the person who should’ve answered had been taken prisoner.

So I dialed the second number.

Someone answered. Following the rules of the Baroque syllogism, I did not ask who was there, nor did I identify myself. I only said that Professor Santos had been taken prisoner. The man on the other end of the line said that he would take care of it.

He asked if there were any witnesses.

“Of course there were. There are thirty-five of us in the class, and I’m the thirty-first in the roll. That’s because of the S . The S in Santos.”

“Fine, then,” said the man. And he repeated that he would take care of it.

I know perfectly well what it means to take care of someone in a case like this. The man will go to see the priests, one of the priests will talk to the cardinal, the cardinal will talk to the minister of the interior, and the minister of the interior will say to the cardinal, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” According to the Baroque plan, I don’t have to do anything else, because if I go to the police, they may arrest me, and if that happens, then for sure my old man will go mad.

So that Wednesday, I go back home and see the two plates for lunch that had been set there that morning on top of the blue-and-white plaid tablecloth. Next to Dad’s glass there’s a small carafe of red wine, half full, and next to my place, the bottle of apple juice.

I sit at the table. I don’t feel like going to the kitchen to warm up the stuffed potatoes left from the night before. I stay there for half an hour not knowing what to do and unable to think about anything. Every time I try to start thinking, I grab my fork and hit the empty dish.

At last, I go to my bedroom and lie down on my bed and read the sport magazine Don Balón . My favorite team, University of Chile, is not doing well. The problem’s that when the team has a good player, they sell him to another country, Spain or Italy, and so the team gets weaker.

It’s cold and the electric heater’s unplugged. Dad says it uses too much energy and his salary’s not enough to keep it on all winter. I cover up with the blanket.

“SO?”

“My answer is no.”

“Bear in mind that the compensation would be very good.”