A Long Petal of the Sea

by Isabel Allende

  As a very young man, Victor Dalmau had found himself caught up in the Spanish Civil War on the Republican side. He fought, worked, and went into exile because of that, adopting his side’s ideology unquestioningly. In Chile he kept the promise of refraining from political activism that had been demanded of all the Winnipeg refugees. He didn’t join any party, but his friendship with Salvador Allende gradually came to define his ideas with the same clarity as the Civil War had defined his feelings. Victor admired him in the political sphere, and also, with a few reservations, in his personal life. Allende’s image as a socialist leader was contradicted by his bourgeois habits, his expensive clothes, the refined way he surrounded himself with unique works of art he owned thanks to spontaneous gifts from other governments and every important Latin American artist: paintings, sculptures, original manuscripts, pre-Columbian artifacts. He was vulnerable to flattery and pretty women: he could spot them at a glance in a crowd, and attracted them thanks to his personality and the trappings of power. Victor was upset by these lapses, ones he only commented upon when he was alone with Roser. “How fussy you are, Victor! Allende isn’t Gandhi,” she would retort. They both voted for him, although neither really believed he would be elected. Allende himself doubted it, but in September 1970 he won more votes than any other candidate. As there was no absolute majority, Congress was meant to choose between the two candidates with the greatest number of votes. The eyes of the world were on Chile, that long narrow stain on the map that was defying convention.

  Supporters of the utopian socialist revolution in democracy didn’t wait for Congress’s decision. They poured onto the streets to celebrate this long-awaited triumph. Dressed in their Sunday best, entire families, from grandparents to grandchildren, came out singing, euphoric, astonished but without the slightest hint of disorder, as if they had all agreed on some mysterious form of discipline. Victor, Roser, and Marcel mingled with the crowd waving flags and singing that the people united would never be defeated. Carme didn’t go with them, because as she said, at the age of eighty-five she wasn’t going to live long enough to get enthusiastic about anything as unpredictable as politics. In reality, by now she went out very little, devoting herself entirely to looking after Jordi Moline, who was suffering the pangs of old age and rarely wanted to leave home. He had remained young in spirit until he lost his tavern. The Winnipeg, which had become a landmark in the city, had disappeared when the whole block was razed to make way for some tall towers that Moline was convinced would be toppled by the next earthquake.

  Carme, by contrast, was as healthy and energetic as ever. She had shrunk until she looked like a plucked bird, a heap of bones and skin, with little hair left and a cigarette permanently dangling from her lips. She was tireless, efficient, brusque in manner but secretly sentimental. She did all the housework and looked after Jordi as she would a backward child. The pair planned to watch the spectacle of the Left’s electoral victory on the television with a bottle of red wine and Spanish serrano ham. They saw the columns of people with banners and torches, and witnessed their fervor and optimism. “We’ve already lived this in Spain, Jordi. You weren’t there in ’36, but I can tell you it’s the same thing. I just hope it doesn’t end badly like it did over there,” was Carme’s only commentary.

  * * *

  —

  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.

  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 po
litics. 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.