Springtime in a Broken Mirror

by Mario Benedetti

  Beatriz

  (A huge word)

  Freedom is a huge word. For example, when classes are over, it’s said we’re free. As long as you’re free, you can walk about, play games, there’s no need for you to study. People say a country is free if any woman or man can do as they like there. But even free countries have things that are very forbidden. To kill, for example. Of course, you can kill mosquitoes and cockroaches, and also cattle for steaks. For example, it’s forbidden to steal, although it’s not serious if you keep some small change when Graciela, who is my mum, sends me on an errand. For example it’s forbidden to arrive late at school, although if that happens you have to write a letter, or rather Graciela has to write it, justifying the lateness. That’s what the teacher says: justifying.

  Freedom means many things. For example, if you’re not a prisoner, it’s said you are free, which means at liberty. But my father is in prison, and yet he is at Liberty, because that’s the name of the prison he’s been in for many years now. Uncle Rolando says that’s an example of irony. One day I told my friend Angélica that the prison my father is in is called Liberty and that Uncle Rolando had said that was an irony and my friend Angélica liked the word so much that when her godfather gave her a puppy she called it Irony. My dad is a prisoner, but not because he has killed or robbed or arrived late at school. Graciela says my dad is at Liberty, in other words, a prisoner, because of his ideas. It seems my dad was famous for his ideas. I also sometimes have ideas, but I’m not famous yet. That’s why I’m not at Liberty, in other words, a prisoner.

  If I was a prisoner, I’d like two of my dolls, Toti and Mónica, to be political prisoners as well. I like to fall asleep with at least Toti in my arms. Not so much Mónica, because she is very grumpy. I never hit her, though, to set Graciela a good example.

  She has only hit me a few times, but when she does I wish I had loads of freedom. When she hits or scolds me, I call Graciela She, because she doesn’t like that. Of course I have to be very angry to call her She. If for example my grandpa comes and asks me, Where is your mother, and I reply, She is in the kitchen, then everyone knows I’m angry, because otherwise I simply say, Graciela is in the kitchen. My grandpa always says I’m the angriest person in the whole family, and that makes me happy. Graciela doesn’t much like me calling her Graciela either, but I call her that because it’s a pretty name. It’s only when I love her very much, when I adore her and kiss and hug her and she says, Ah, little one, don’t hug me so hard, that I call her Mother or Mum, and that makes Graciela go all soft and she becomes very tender and strokes my hair, and it wouldn’t be like that or so good if I called her Mother or Mummy all the time.

  So freedom is a huge word. Graciela says that there’s no shame in being a political prisoner like my dad. That it’s almost something to be proud of. Why almost? Either you are proud or you’re ashamed. Would she like me to say I’m almost ashamed? I’m proud, not almost proud, of my dad, because he had loads of ideas, so many that they put him in prison for them. I think that my dad must still have ideas, wonderful ideas, but it’s almost certain he doesn’t tell anyone about them, because if he does, when he comes out of Liberty to live at liberty, that is, in freedom, they might put him back in Liberty. Do you see how huge the word is?

  Exiles

  (Penultimate abode)

  The death of a comrade (especially when the man in question is someone so dear to me as Luvis Pedemonte) is always a tearing apart, a rupture. But, when death successfully lays siege in exile, even if it happens in such a fraternal place as this, that rupture has further implications, it takes on another meaning.

  Death, that natural conclusion, that obligatory ending, always involves a sense of return. A return to the nourishing homeland; return to the womb of clay, our clay, which will never be the same as any other clay in the world. Death in exile seems like the negation of this return, and is, perhaps, its darkest side.

  That’s why, during Luvis’s prolonged, painful illness, it was so difficult for us to see him light up, enthused, smile, make plans – and even harder for us to keep up the charade, speaking about futures that would include him, imagining or suggesting that he would once more breathe in the air of the streets where he once lived, cast his eyes over the beach, that luminous heart of the day in Montevideo, taste the grapes and peaches, those luxuries of the poor.

  How could we talk of the good, simple things that give life in general its savour and that gave his in particular its very meaning, when we knew that death was on his trail, and that none of us could keep or hide him or die on his behalf, still less call off the pursuing bloodhound, nor even weep tears that might keep him alive, keep him there with us?

  In the early days, exile was, among many other things, simply the harsh reality of having to live so far away. Now it is also that of having to die so far away. There are already five or six names on the list. Solitude, sickness or bullets put an end to them, and who knows how many more have now become so many less in this vast, wandering country of ours.

  The pill is even bitterer to swallow if we consider that death in exile is evidence that we have all, not just Luvis, but all of us, have all been temporarily robbed of the supreme right to alight from the train at the station where the journey began. They have robbed us of our right to die at home, of a simple death of our own, the death that knows which side we sleep on, what dreams give succour to our waking thoughts.

  This is why, when we are forced to concede that Luvis, a comrade cherished like few others, will leave without ever having returned, we promise him that we will fight not only to change life, but also to preserve death, the death that is womb and rebirth, death on and in our own clay.

  Luvis was an excellent journalist, a militant revolutionary, a loyal friend and fervent admirer of the Cuban revolution, but possibly we can sum up all his qualities by saying he was an exceptional man of the people, with those attributes of simplicity and modesty, passion and generosity, a great capacity for affection and work, joy and courage, efficiency and responsibility that in some way characterize the best of our people.

  In him were to be found two complementary traits that do not always co-exist in an exile. On the one hand, eyes and ears unfailingly attentive to the suffering and struggles, the rumours and images of our distant homeland. On the other, a great ability to be useful, demonstrated in his fruitful integration in Cuba, whose revolution he understood, defended and loved as if it were his own, knowing that, in some way, it was his, it was ours.

  With all its frustrations and bitterness, exile never was for him a motive, still less a pretext, for turning inward, for solitude. He knew that the best remedy for the scourge of exile is integration into the community that receives the exiled person. Inspired by this belief, he worked with determination and joy, almost like a Cuban, while at the same time remaining a whole-hearted Uruguayan.

  We should remind ourselves that among the many clichés of the capitalist world surrounding the business of death, it’s often said that it is ‘the final abode’. And yet, for a comrade like Luvis, where we are leaving him today will in fact prove to be his penultimate abode, because his final resting place will always be within us, in our affection and memory. And that will be an abode with open doors and windows on to the sky.

  Only in this way can we defeat this death, which seems to offer no return. And we will defeat it because no one can doubt that Luvis will return with all those of us who one day go back to our homeland. He will return in our hearts, our minds, our lives. Hearts, minds and lives that will be so much better thanks to the mere fact of returning with such an honest, loyal, such a worthy and generous, such a simple and truthful man of the people.

  Battered and Bruised

  (Truth and postponement)

  Late one afternoon she went to see her father-in-law. She hadn’t visited him for about a fortnight. The problem was that their working hours didn’t coincide.

  ‘Goodness me,’ said Don Rafael, after greeting her with
a kiss. ‘It must be serious if you’ve come to visit.’

  ‘Why do you say that? You know very well I like chatting to you.’

  ‘And I like chatting to you. But you only come over when there’s a problem.’

  ‘You may be right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Come whenever you like. With or without problems. How’s my granddaughter?’

  ‘Come down with a bit of a cold, but in general she’s fine. These last few months she’s been getting good marks at school.’

  ‘She’s clever, but she’s canny as well. Let’s just say she takes after her grandfather. Was it because of her cold that you didn’t bring her?’

  ‘Partly. And also because I wanted to talk to you on my own.’

  ‘I told you so, didn’t I? All right, what’s the problem?’

  Graciela almost flung herself down on the green sofa. She looked slowly and carefully around the slightly untidy room, an old bachelor’s apartment. She smiled hesitantly.

  ‘I find it hard to begin. Especially with you. And yet you’re the only one I want to talk about this to.’

  ‘Santiago?’

  ‘Yes, or rather, yes and no. The side issue is Santiago, but the main one is me.’

  ‘Ah, how self-obsessed women are.’

  ‘Not just women. But seriously, Rafael, perhaps the real issue is Santiago and me.’

  Now her father-in-law sat down, too, in the rocking-chair. His eyes dimmed a little, and he rocked in the chair once or twice before speaking again.

  ‘What isn’t working?’

  ‘I’m not working.’

  Her father-in-law had apparently decided to get straight to the point.

  ‘You don’t love him any more?’

  Graciela was obviously not ready to launch into things quite so rapidly. She gave a groan, then blew out her cheeks.

  ‘Stay calm, Graciela.’

  ‘I can’t. See how my hands are shaking.’

  ‘If it’s of any use to you, I must say I’ve seen it coming for months. So nothing you say can scare me.’

  ‘You saw it coming? Is it that obvious?’

  ‘No, my girl. It’s not that obvious to everyone. But I notice it, purely because I’ve known you for so many years and besides, I’m Santiago’s father.’

  On the wall opposite Graciela was a good reproduction of Cezanne’s The Smoker. She had seen the peaceful image a hundred times, but all of a sudden felt she could no longer bear that gaze, which seemed to be looking askance at her. On other evenings, in other darkened rooms, the Smoker’s gaze had seemed to her to be lost in reverie, but now she imagined him staring straight at her. Maybe it was all because of the pipe, which he held in his mouth just the way Santiago did. She averted her eyes and again looked at her father-in-law.

  ‘You must think it’s crazy, sheer nonsense. I have to admit that’s how it seems to me.’

  ‘At my age nothing seems crazy. You get used to the rejections, the outbursts, the sudden yearnings. Starting with one’s own.’

  Graciela seemed to take heart. She opened her bag, took out a cigarette and lit it. She offered Don Rafael the packet.

  ‘No thanks. I haven’t smoked for six months. Hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘Circulation problems, but nothing serious. All things considered, it’s done me a world of good. It was torture at first, especially after meals. Now I’ve got used to it.’

  Graciela slowly inhaled the smoke, which seemed to lend her courage.

  ‘You asked me if I no longer love Santiago. Whether I answer yes or no, it would be a distortion of the truth.’

  ‘My, things do seem to be getting complicated, don’t they?’

  ‘A little. Of course, in one sense I do still love him, amongst other reasons because Santiago has done nothing to make me stop loving him. You know better than anyone how he’s behaved. And not merely in terms of his political, militant loyalties. In his personal life, as well. He’s always been so good to me.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I still love him as a wonderful friend, a comrade whose behaviour has been beyond reproach. And as the man who in addition is Beatriz’s father.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But as a woman, I don’t love him any more. It’s in that sense I don’t need him, if you follow me.’

  ‘Of course, I understand you. I’m not that stupid. Besides, you’ve explained very clearly and with a lot of conviction.’

  ‘How can I put it? Perhaps crudely. And I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t want to sleep with him any more. That sounds horrible to you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t sound horrible. Sad maybe, but the world hasn’t exactly been a fiesta lately.’

  ‘If Santiago wasn’t in prison, it wouldn’t be so serious. It would be simply one of those things that happens to lots of people. We could talk about it, discuss it. I’m sure that in the end Santiago would understand, even if my decision embittered and disillusioned him. But he’s in prison.’

  ‘Yes, he’s in prison.’

  ‘And that makes me feel trapped, too. He’s a prisoner there, but I’m also imprisoned in my situation.’

  The phone rang. Graciela pulled a face, annoyed: the ringing spoilt the atmosphere, made it hard to confide. Her father-in-law got up from the rocking-chair and picked up the receiver.

  ‘No, I’m not on my own. But come tomorrow. I’d like to see you. Yes, really. I’m not on my own, but it’s not anyone that should worry you. OK, I’ll expect you in the evening. How does seven o’clock sound? Ciao.’

  He hung up and sat down again in the rocking-chair. He glanced at Graciela, weighing up her surprised look. He couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Well, I’m old, but not that old. Besides, complete solitude is a real pain.’

  ‘Yes I must admit I was a bit taken aback, but I’m glad, Rafael. I also feel slightly ashamed. We’re always too busy studying our own navels; as though our own problems were the only ones that mattered. We don’t always realize that others have theirs, too.’

  ‘Mine isn’t what I’d exactly call a problem. She’s not a young woman, although she’s a lot younger than me. And that’s always invigorating. Besides, she’s a good person. I still have no idea how long it will last, but for now it does me good. Since we’re sharing secrets, I’ll confess I feel less insecure now, more optimistic, with a greater desire to go on living.’

  ‘I’m really glad.’

  ‘Yes. And I know you mean that.’

  Don Rafael stretched out his arm to a little door in the bookshelves. Opening it, he took out a bottle and two glasses.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yes, I could do with one.’

  Before they drank, they looked at each other in silence. Graciela smiled.