Исабель Альенде - A Long Petal of the Sea

One day, Felipe del Solar went to consult Victor at the hospital with stabbing pains in his chest. He had never before set foot in a public hospital, always preferring to use private clinics, but his friend’s reputation led him to venture down from the wealthy hillsides above Santiago to the gray area where the other classes lived. “When are you going to set up your office somewhere more suitable? And don’t give me the nonsense that health is everyone’s right and not the privilege of a few; I’ve already heard it,” was his greeting. He wasn’t in the habit of taking a number and waiting his turn on a metal chair. After examining him, Victor announced with a smile that his heart was perfectly healthy, and that perhaps his chest pains were due to his uneasy conscience or to anxiety. As he was getting dressed, Felipe commented that due to the political situation, half of Chile was suffering from an uneasy conscience and anxiety, but he held that the much-vaunted socialist revolution would never take place. Instead, the government would become paralyzed, caught up in power struggles among different parties.

“If it fails, Felipe, it won’t just be because of what you’re saying, but because of all the machinations of its adversaries and Washington’s intervention,” said Victor.

“I’ll wager there’ll be no fundamental changes.”

“You’re mistaken. The changes are already visible. Allende has been dreaming of this political project for forty years, and is pursuing it full steam ahead.”

“It’s one thing to plan, another to govern. You’ll see how there’ll be political and social chaos in this country, and how the economy will be bankrupted. These people lack experience and training, they spend their time in endless discussions and are unable to agree on anything,” Felipe said.

“The opposition, on the other hand, has a single objective, doesn’t it? To overthrow the government at any cost. And it may succeed, because it has huge resources and very few scruples,” Victor retorted angrily.

During his campaign, Allende had announced the measures he intended to take: nationalize the copper industry, transfer companies and banks to state ownership, expropriate land. The effect of all this shook the country. In the early months, the reforms brought good results, but then the uncontrolled printing of money led to such rampant inflation that no one knew how much bread would cost from one day to the next. Just as Felipe del Solar had prophesied, the political parties in government fought among one another, the companies taken over by the workers were badly run, production dropped sharply, and the opposition’s cunning sabotage produced shortages. In the Dalmau family, Carme was the one who complained the most.

“Going out shopping is a disaster, Victor. I never know what I’ll find. I’m not much of a cook; the person who does the cooking at home is Jordi, but as you know he’s turned into a scared, tearful old man who won’t go out anymore. I have to leave him for hours on end, and he gets frightened when I’m not there. Just think: to come to the end of the world and have to line up for cigarettes!”

“You smoke too much, Mother. Don’t waste time on that.”

“I don’t waste time, I pay the professionals.”

“What professionals?”

“You must buy on the black market only if you have not heard of the professionals, son. There are unemployed youths or old-age pensioners who keep your place in line for a reasonable price.”

“Allende has explained the reasons for the shortages. I suppose you’ve seen him on television?”

“Yes, and I have heard him about a hundred times on the radio. Telling us that, for the first time, the people have the means to buy, but the businessmen won’t let them because they’d rather see themselves ruined if it creates discontent. Blah, blah…do you remember Spain?”

“Yes, Mother, I remember it very well. I have contacts, I’ll see if I can get some things for you.”

“Such as what?”

“Toilet paper, for example. There’s a patient who sometimes brings me rolls of toilet paper as a gift.”

“Goodness! That’s more precious than gold, Victor.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Listen, do you have any contacts for condensed milk and oil? I can wipe my ass with newspaper. And get me my cigarettes.”

—

IT WAS NOT ONLY food that disappeared, but spare parts, tires, cement, diapers, baby formula, and other essential articles. On the other hand, there was a glut of soy sauce, capers, and nail polish. When they started rationing fuel, Chile was filled with novice cyclists zigzagging their way around pedestrians.

And yet the people were still euphoric. At last they felt represented by the government. Everybody was equal: it was comrade here, comrade there, comrade president. Scarcity, rationing, and the feeling of continual precariousness were nothing new for those who had always just gotten by or had been poor. Victor Jara’s revolutionary songs could be heard everywhere. Marcel knew them by heart, even though in the Dalmau family he was the one least passionate about politics. Walls were covered with murals and posters, plays were performed in public squares, and books published for the price of an ice cream so that each home could have its own library. The military was silent in their barracks, and if some were plotting, nothing came to light. The Catholic Church officially remained above the political fray; some priests showed themselves worthy of the Inquisition, stirring up hatred and rancor from the pulpit, while other priests and nuns supported the government, not for ideological reasons, but because they served those most in need. The right-wing press published headlines like Chileans, gather your hatred! and the scared, enraged bourgeoisie goaded the military to revolt: Chickens, faggots, take up your weapons!

“What we saw in Spain can happen here,” Carme kept repeating like a refrain.

“Allende says there’ll never be fratricidal conflict here. The government and people will prevent it,” said Victor, trying to reassure her.

“That comrade of yours is too naïve by half. Chile is divided into irreconcilable groups, son. Friends are fighting, families are split down the middle; it’s impossible to talk to anyone who doesn’t think as you do. I don’t see many of my old friends anymore so that we won’t fight.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Mother.”

Yet Victor too could sense the violence in the air. One night Marcel was coming back from a Victor Jara concert and stopped to watch a group of young people perched on a couple of ladders painting a mural of doves and rifles. Suddenly out of nowhere, two cars appeared. Several men armed with iron bars and clubs jumped out, and within a couple of minutes they had left the artists sprawled on the ground. Before Marcel could react, they leaped back into their vehicles, which were waiting with engines running, and sped off. Alerted by a neighbor, a police patrol turned up a few minutes later, and an ambulance arrived to carry away the worst injured. The police took Marcel back to the precinct to get his witness statement. Victor had to go and rescue him at three in the morning, because he was so upset he didn’t want to cycle home.

An extremist left-wing movement sprang up calling for armed struggle, tired of waiting for the revolution to triumph by peaceful means. At the same time, so too did a Fascist one that didn’t believe in civilized compromises either. “If we have to fight, let’s get on with it,” both sides said. In order to escape Jordi’s clinging affection for a few hours, Carme took part in the huge demonstrations that crowded the streets in support of the government, but also the equally big opposition ones. She would leave in her sneakers with a lemon and a handkerchief soaked in vinegar to counteract the tear gas, and return soaked to the skin from the water cannon the police used to try to impose order. “Everything is a mess,” she would say. “It will only take a spark for the whole thing to explode.”