Исабель Альенде - A Long Petal of the Sea

—

AFTER MIDNIGHT, WHEN THE crowds in the streets began to thin out, the Dalmaus bumped into Felipe del Solar, unmistakable in his camel-hair jacket and mustard-colored suede cap. They embraced like the good friends they were: Victor soaked in sweat and hoarse from shouting, and Felipe as impeccable as ever, smelling of lavender, with the elegant aloofness he had been cultivating for more than twenty years. He bought his clothes in London, where he went twice a year, and British sangfroid suited him well. He was at the demonstration with Juana Nancucheo, whom the Dalmaus recognized instantly because she looked exactly the same as in those far-off days when she took the tram to visit Marcel.

“Don’t tell me you voted for Allende!” Roser exclaimed, embracing Felipe and Juana in turn.

“Of course not, Roser. I voted for the Christian Democrats, even though I don’t believe in the virtues of either democracy or Christianity, but I couldn’t give my father the pleasure of voting for his candidate. I’m a monarchist.”

“A monarchist? Good God! Weren’t you the only progressive among those troglodytes in your clan?” Victor exclaimed good-humoredly.

“A sin of youth. A king or queen is what we need in Chile, just as in England, where everything is more civilized than here.” Felipe laughed, chewing on the unlit pipe he always carried with him as a fashion accessory.

“What are you doing in the street, then?”

“We’re taking the pulse of the rabble. Juana voted for the first time. Women have had the vote for twenty years, but it’s only now she’s used it to vote for the Right. I can’t get it into her head that she belongs to the working class.”

“I vote the same as your father, niño Felipe. As Don Isidro says, we’ve seen this story of the mob emboldened before.”

“When?” asked Roser.

“She means Pedro Aguirre Cerda’s government,” Felipe explained.

“It’s thanks to that president that we’re here, Juana. If you remember, he brought over the refugees on the Winnipeg, ” said Victor.

“I must be almost eighty, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory, youngster.”

Felipe told them his family was barricaded in Calle Mar del Plata waiting for the Marxist hordes to invade the upper class neighborhoods. They believed in the terror campaign they themselves had created. Isidro del Solar had been so convinced the conservatives would win that he had planned a celebration with friends and fellow right-wingers. The chefs and waiters were still at the house, waiting for divine intervention to change the course of events so that they could serve the champagne and oysters. Juana was the only one who had wanted to see what was going on in the street, out of not political sympathies but curiosity.

“My father announced he was going to take the family to Buenos Aires until this godforsaken country regains its senses, but my mother refuses to move. She doesn’t want to leave Baby alone in the cemetery,” Felipe added.

“What news is there of Ofelia?” asked Roser, realizing Victor didn’t have the nerve to mention her.

“She missed the madness of the election. Matias was appointed chargé d’affaires in Ecuador. He’s a career diplomat, so the new government can’t dismiss him. Ofelia has taken the opportunity to study with the painter Guayasamin. Savage expressionism, sweeping brushstrokes. The family thinks they’re hideous, but I have several of her paintings.”

“And her children?”

“Studying in the United States. They’re going to spend this political cataclysm far from Chile as well.”

“But you’re staying?”

“For the moment, yes. I want to see what comes of this socialist experiment.”

“I hope with all my heart it’s a success,” said Roser.

“Do you think the right wing and the Americans are going to permit it? Remember what I say: this country is headed for ruin,” Felipe retorted.

—

THE JOYOUS DEMONSTRATIONS ENDED without any trouble, and the following day, when scared people rushed to the banks to withdraw their money and buy airline tickets to escape before the Soviet hordes invaded the country, they found the streets were being cleaned as normal, and no thugs were going around brandishing garrotes and threatening decent folk. There was no great hurry after all. They calculated that it was one thing to win the most votes, and another to actually become president; there were two months left for Congress to decide, and to twist the situation in their favor.

The tension was palpable, and the plan to put a stop to Allende had already swung into action even before he took office. Over the following weeks, a plot supported by the North Americans ended with the assassination of the army commander in chief, a general who respected the constitution and therefore had to be gotten out of the way. This crime had the opposite effect to the one intended. It led to widespread indignation and strengthened the traditional respect for the laws that most Chileans had. They were repelled by these gangster tactics: that could happen in some banana republic or other, but never in Chile, where, as the newspapers insisted, disputes weren’t resolved by the use of a gun. Congress ratified Salvador Allende, who became the first democratically elected Marxist head of state. The idea of a peaceful revolution no longer seemed so absurd.

In those troubled weeks between the election and the transfer of power, Victor had no opportunity to play chess with Allende. The future president was caught up in political bargaining, agreements and disagreements behind closed doors, a tug of war within his own coalition parties over how much power each was to have, and constant harassment by the opposition. Allende used every means possible to denounce the U.S. government’s intervention. Nixon and Kissinger had sworn to prevent the Chilean experiment from succeeding, as it might spread like wildfire through the rest of Latin America and Europe. When they failed to achieve this through bribery and threats, they began to woo the military.

Although Allende didn’t underestimate his enemies at home and abroad, he had an irrational belief that the people would defend his government. It was said he had “the knack” for turning any situation to his advantage, but over the next dramatic three years he was going to need more good luck than any knack could offer. His games of chess with Victor were renewed the following year, when the president managed to establish a certain routine in his complicated existence.

CHAPTER 10

1970–1973

In the middle of the night I ask myself:

what will happen to Chile,

what will become of my poor dark homeland?

—PABLO NERUDA

“Insomnia”

NOTES FROM ISLA NEGRA

WHILE THE COUNTRY WAS BEING shaken by a whirlwind of change, Victor’s and Roser’s lives returned to normal, he at the hospital and she with her classes, concerts, and trips abroad. Two years prior to the election, a surgeon with golden hands had transplanted a human heart into a twenty-four-year-old woman in a Valparaiso hospital. This feat had been achieved once before in South Africa, but it remained a challenge to the laws of nature. Victor Dalmau followed every detail of the operation and crossed off every one of the 133 days the patient survived on his calendar. He dreamed again of Lazaro, the young soldier he rescued from death on a platform at the Estacion del Norte shortly before the end of the Civil War. The recurring nightmare of Lazaro with his lifeless heart on a tray was replaced by a luminous dream in which the youngster had a window open in his chest, where his heart beat healthily surrounded by golden rays, like the image of the sacred heart of Jesus.