Roberto Bolaño - By Night in Chile

Overall, the answers were satisfactory. The tenth class was the last. Only General Pinochet came. We talked about religion rather than politics. When it was over, he gave me a gift on behalf of himself and the other members of the Junta. I don’t know why, but I had expected the goodbye to be more personal. It was rather cold, though perfectly polite of course, in strict accordance with state protocol. I asked him if the classes had been useful. Of course, said the general. I asked if I had lived up to their expectations. You may go with a clear conscience, he assured me, you’ve done a splendid job. Colonel Pérez Latouche accompanied me home. When I got there, at two in the morning, after driving through the empty streets of Santiago, reduced to geometry by the curfew, I couldn’t get to sleep and didn’t know what to do. I started walking up and down in my room while a rising tide of images and voices crowded into my brain. Ten classes, I said to myself. Only nine, really. Nine classes. Nine lessons. Not much of a bibliography. Was it all right? Did they learn anything?

Did I teach them anything? Did I do what I had to do? Did I do what I ought to have done? Is Marxism a kind of humanism? Or a diabolical theory? If I told my literary friends what I had done, would they approve? Would some condemn my actions out of hand? Would some understand and forgive me? Is it always possible for a man to know what is good and what is bad? In the midst of these deliberations, I broke down and began to cry helplessly, stretched out on the bed, blaming Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah for my misfortunes (in an intellectual sense) since they were the ones who got me into that business in the first place. Then, before I knew it, I was asleep. That week I dined with Farewell. I could no longer bear the weight, or to be perhaps more precise, the alternatively pendular and circular oscillations of my conscience, and the phosphorescent mist, glowing dimly like a marsh at the vesperal hour, through which my lucidity had to make its way, dragging the rest of me along. So when Farewell and I were having pre-dinner drinks, I told him. In spite of Colonel Pérez Latouche’s stern warnings about absolute discretion, I told him about my strange adventure, teaching that secret group of illustrious pupils. And Farewell, who until then had seemed to be floating in the monosyllabic apathy to which he was increasingly prone with age, pricked up his ears and begged me to tell the whole story, leaving nothing out. And that is what I did, I told him about how I had been contacted, about the house in Las Condes where the classes took place, the positive reactions of my students, who were most attentive, and unfailingly curious, in spite of the fact that some of the lessons took place late at night, the stipend I received for my labors, and other minor details it is hardly worth even trying to remember now. And then Farewell looked at me, narrowing his eyes, as if I had suddenly become a stranger to him or he had discovered another face behind my face or was suffering an attack of bitter envy, provoked by my unexpected visit to the corridors of power, and, in a voice that seemed oddly clipped, as if in that state he could only manage to get half the question out, he asked me what General Pinochet was like. And I shrugged my shoulders, as people do in novels, but never in real life. And Farewell said: A man like that, he must have something that makes him stand out. And I shrugged my shoulders again. And Farewell said: Think, Sebastián, in a tone of voice that might just as well have accompanied other words, such as Think, you little shit of a priest. And I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to be thinking. And with a sort of senile ferocity Farewell’s narrowed eyes kept trying to bore into mine.

And then I remembered the first time I had a more or less one-to-one conversation with the general, before the third or fourth class, a few minutes before the start, I was sitting there balancing a cup of tea on my knees and the general, stately and imposing in uniform, came up to me and asked if I knew what Allende used to read. And I put the teacup on the tray and stood up. And the general said, Sit down, Father. Or perhaps he didn’t actually say anything but indicated that I should sit with a gesture. Then he made a remark about the class that was about to begin, something about a corridor with high walls, something about a throng of pupils. And I smiled beatifically and sat down. And then the general asked me the question, if I knew what Allende read, if I thought Allende was an intellectual. And, caught by surprise, I didn’t know how to answer, as I confessed to Farewell. And the general said to me: Everyone’s presenting him as a martyr and an intellectual now, because plain martyrs are not so interesting any more, are they? And I tilted my head and smiled beatifically. But he wasn’t an intellectual, unless you can call someone who doesn’t read or study an intellectual, said the general, What do you think? I shrugged my shoulders like a wounded bird. But you can’t, can you? said the general. If someone doesn’t read or study, he’s not an intellectual, any fool can see that. And what do you think Allende used to read? I moved my head slightly and smiled. Magazines. All he read was magazines. Summaries of books.

Articles his followers used to cut out for him. I have it from a reliable source, believe me. I always suspected as much, I whispered. Well, your suspicions were well founded. And what do you think Frei read? I don’t know, sir, I murmured, with a little more assurance. Nothing. He didn’t read at all.

Not a word, not even the Bible. How does that strike you, as a priest? I’m not sure I have a firm opinion on the matter, sir, I mumbled. I would have thought one of the founders of the Christian Democrats could at least read the Bible, wouldn’t you? said the general. Perhaps, I stammered. I’m just pointing it out, I don’t mean to be hostile, it’s just an observation, it’s a fact and I’m pointing it out, I’m not drawing any conclusions, not yet anyway, am I? No, I said. And Alessandri? Have you ever wondered what books Alessandri read? No sir, I whispered, smiling. Well, he read romances. President Alessandri read romances, I ask you, romances, what do you think of that? It’s amazing, sir.

Although of course, it’s what one would have expected from Alessandri, or at least it makes sense that he should have been drawn to that sort of reading matter. Do you see what I’m getting at? I’m afraid I don’t, sir, I said, looking pained. Well, poor old Alessandri, said General Pinochet, fixing me with his gaze. Oh, of course, I said. Do you see now? Yes I do, sir, I said. Can you remember a single article he wrote, something he actually wrote himself, as opposed to what his hacks used to turn out? I don’t think I can, sir, I murmured. Of course you can’t, because he never wrote anything. And the same goes for Frei and Allende. They didn’t read, they didn’t write. They pretended to be cultured, but not one of them was a reader or a writer. Maybe they knew something about the press, but they knew nothing about books. Indeed, sir, quite, I said, smiling beatifically. And then the general said: How many books do you think I’ve written? My blood ran cold, as I said to Farewell. I had no idea. Three or four, said Farewell confidently. In any case I just didn’t know.

And I had to admit it. Three, said the general. But the thing is they have all been with little-known or specialist publishers. But drink your tea, Father, or it’ll get cold. What a wonderful surprise, I said, I didn’t know. Well, they’re military books, military history, geopolitics, aimed at a specialist readership.

That’s marvellous, three books, I said, my voice faltering. And I’ve published countless articles in journals, even in North America, translated into English, of course. I would love to read one of your books, sir, I whispered. Go to the National Library, they’re all there. I’ll be there tomorrow, without fail, I said. The general didn’t seem to have heard. Nobody helped me, I wrote them all on my own, three books, one of them quite a thick book, with no help, burning the midnight oil. And then he said: Countless articles, on all sorts of topics, but always of course related to military matters. For a while we sat there in silence, although I kept nodding the whole time, as if inviting him to go on talking. Why do you think I’m telling you all this? he said, out of the blue. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled beatifically. To avoid any misunderstanding, he declared. So you know I’m an avid reader, I read books about history and political theory, I even read novels. The last one I read was White Dove by Lafourcade, very much a book for the younger generation, but I’m not one of those snobs who never looks at anything new, so I read it, and I enjoyed it. Have you read it? Yes sir, I said. And what did you think? It’s excellent, sir, in fact I reviewed it in quite glowing terms. Well it’s nothing to get carried away about either, said Pinochet. No, not carried away, I said.