Исабель Альенде - A Long Petal of the Sea

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THANKS TO A CITY map, Victor Dalmau found his way to the elegant Chilean Legation at No. 2 Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, near Les Invalides. There was a line at the door, controlled by a bad-tempered porter. The employees inside the building were equally hostile, and didn’t even respond to a greeting. To Victor this seemed like a bad omen, just like the heavy, tense atmosphere of this Paris spring. Hitler was gobbling up European territories, and the storm clouds of war were already darkening the sky. The people in the line spoke Spanish, and nearly all of them were holding the press announcement. When Victor’s turn came, he was pointed toward a staircase, which began with marble and bronze on the bottom floors and ended as narrow, bare steps into a sort of attic. There was no elevator, and Victor had to help another Spaniard who was much lamer than he was—he had a leg missing and could barely climb the stairs holding tight to the banister.

“Is it true they only take communists?” asked Victor.

“So they say. What are you?”

“Simply a Republican.”

“Don’t complicate matters. Better tell the poet you’re a communist and be done with it.”

In a tiny room furnished with three chairs and a desk, he was received by Pablo Neruda. The poet was still a young man, with piercing eyes and drooping Arab eyelids, hefty shoulders and a slight stoop. He looked more weighty and portly than he really was, as Victor realized when he stood up to say goodbye. The interview lasted only ten minutes and left him feeling that he had failed. Neruda asked him several routine questions: age, marital status, education, and work experience.

“I heard you’re only taking communists…” said Victor, surprised that the poet had not asked his political affiliation.

“You heard wrong. We’re working with quotas for communists, socialists, anarchists, and liberals. The decision depends on the Spanish Refugee Evacuation Service and me. What’s most important is the person’s character and how useful they can be in Chile. I’m studying hundreds of requests, and as soon as I’ve made a decision, don’t worry, I’ll let you know.”

“If your decision is favorable, Señor Neruda, please take into account the fact that I won’t be traveling alone. A friend with a baby only a few months old would come as well.”

“A friend, you say?”

“Roser Bruguera, my brother’s girlfriend.”

“In that case, your brother will need to come to see me and fill out a request.”

“We think my brother died at the battle of the Ebro.”

“I’m very sorry. You do understand I have to give priority to immediate family members, don’t you?”

“I understand. If you allow me, I’ll come back and see you again in three days’ time.”

“In three days I won’t have an answer, my friend.”

“But I will. Thank you.”

Victor took the train back to Perpignan that same afternoon. He arrived tired after dark, and slept in a flea-infested hotel where he couldn’t even have a shower. The next morning he presented himself at Roser’s workshop. They went out into the street to talk. Victor took her by the arm and led her to an isolated bench in a nearby square. He told Roser about his experience at the Chilean Legation, but didn’t mention the harsh attitude of the Chilean staff or Neruda’s lack of a firm offer.

“If that poet does accept you, Victor, you must go anyway. Don’t worry about me.”

“Roser, there’s something I should have told you months ago, but every time I try, I can feel an iron hand throttling me, and I can’t say a word. I wish it didn’t have to be me who…”

“Guillem? Is it something about Guillem?” Roser asked in alarm.

Victor nodded, not daring to look at her. He pulled her to his chest and let her weep out loud like a desperate, trembling child, her face buried in his secondhand jacket. Eventually she ran out of tears. It seemed to Victor that Roser was releasing feelings she had suppressed for a long while, that the terrible news wasn’t really a surprise. She must have suspected it for a long time, because that was the only explanation for Guillem’s silence. Of course, in war people get lost, couples are forced apart, families are split up, and yet her instinct must have told Roser that he had died. She didn’t ask for proof, but he showed her the charred billfold and the photograph Guillem had always carried with him.

“Do you see why I can’t leave you behind, Roser? If they’ll take us, you must come with me to Chile. There’s going to be war in France as well. We have to protect the child.”

“What about your mother?”

“Nobody has seen her since we left Barcelona. She was lost in the chaos; if she were alive she would have been in touch with me or you by now. If she does reappear in the future, we’ll work out how best to help her. For the moment, you and your son are the most important thing, do you see that?”

“Yes, I see it. What do I have to do?”

“I’m sorry, Roser…you’ll have to marry me.”

She gave him such a terrified look that Victor couldn’t help but smile, even though it didn’t exactly fit the solemnity of the moment. He repeated what Neruda had said about giving priority to families.

“You’re not even my sister-in-law, Roser.”

“I was married to Guillem without any certificate or blessing by a priest.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t count in this case. To be frank, Roser, you’re a widow without really being one. We’re going to get married today, if possible, and register the child as our son. I’ll be his father; I promise I’ll care for him and protect him, and love him as if he were my own. And the same goes for you.”

“But we’re not in love…”

“You’re asking a lot, Roser. Isn’t affection and respect enough for you? At times like these, that’s more than sufficient. I’m never going to force you into a relationship you don’t want.”

“What does that mean? That you’re not going to sleep with me?”

“Exactly that, Roser. I’m not a scoundrel.”

And so, in a few minutes on that bench in the square, they made the decision that was to determine the rest of their lives, as well as that of the child. In the rush to flee, many of those forced out of Spain arrived in France without any identity papers; others lost them en route or in the concentration camps; but Victor and Roser still had theirs. Their Quaker friends acted as witnesses to the wedding in a brief ceremony held in the town hall. Victor had polished his new shoes and was wearing a borrowed tie; Roser, who was calm by now although her eyes were puffy from so much crying, wore her best dress and a spring hat. After the ceremony, they registered the child as Marcel Dalmau Bruguera, which would have been his name had his father lived. They celebrated with a special dinner at Elisabeth Eidenbenz’s maternity home that ended with a crème Chantilly cake. The married couple cut the cake and distributed slices to everyone there.

As Victor had promised Pablo Neruda, after exactly three days he returned to the office of the Chilean Legation in Paris and placed the marriage certificate and his son’s birth certificate on the poet’s desk. Neruda gazed at him from behind his sleepy-looking eyelids and studied him for several seconds, intrigued.

“I see you have a poet’s imagination, young man. Welcome to Chile,” he said at length, stamping the form. “Did you say your wife’s a pianist?”

“Yes, sir. And also a seamstress.”

“We have seamstresses in Chile, but we need pianists. Go with your wife and child to the Trompeloup port at Bordeaux, next Friday, as early as possible. You’ll leave on the Winnipeg at nightfall.”

“We can’t pay for the passages…”