The Neruda Case

by Roberto Ampuero

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “It must be her current husband. A woman that beautiful can’t stay single for very long.” Don Pablo’s retrospective pride was palpable. “The suitors must have had to stand in line. Where did you get this?”

  “It was in an apartment on Leipziger Strasse, Don Pablo.”

  “Say departamento, Cayetano, not apartamento. Learn to speak like a Chilean. Whose apartment was it?”

  “An actress in the Berliner Ensemble, who I’m guessing received correspondence from Beatriz.”

  “An actress.” He seemed to sink into his thoughts and then return, quick as lightning. “Young or old?”

  Cayetano thought the poet was about to get burned, as he might meet with nothing but disappointment. He responded with resignation. “About thirty.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Tina Feuerbach.”

  The poet stood up and walked toward the lit fireplace, dragging his slippers, hands behind his back, deep in thought. Behind him, the bay spread out like a sheet of frosted glass beneath the crepuscular sun.

  “What’s this actress like?”

  “I don’t think she’s your daughter, Don Pablo.”

  “I’m not saying she is. What’s Tina Feuerbach like? I ask you. Does she look like me?”

  No, the sweet Virginia of the Berliner Ensemble stage did not look like this anxious animal.

  “I’m not so sure she looked like you,” Cayetano retorted defiantly.

  “You saw her, right? Does she look like me or not?” he repeated, waving his arms, his voice impatient.

  “She looks more German.”

  “Beatriz is half German. Can’t you see it in the photos? That’s why, even though Tina looks German, she could still be my child,” the poet declared as he rummaged through the bottles on the bar with trembling hands. He placed ice cubes in two glasses and filled them with Chivas Regal.

  “Is it really a good idea for you to drink, Don Pablo?”

  “Don’t pester me, you’re not a doctor,” Neruda warned as he brought over the two glasses, lit with the sunset’s amber glow. “This is too important a day not to celebrate.” He gave Cayetano a glass and sat back down on the bed. He drank and grimaced with his eyes closed. “Does she look like me or not?”

  At the sight of him so worked up, Cayetano let down his guard. He vacillated. He sipped the whiskey. “Could be, Don Pablo.”

  He immediately regretted having said it. He was acting just like Matilde and the others. That wasn’t what he’d been hired to do.

  “What do you mean, ‘could be’?”

  “It’s just that I’m not sure.” This was true, but not as true as his fear of being mistaken. Which was why he didn’t dare follow his intuition, which agreed with the poet’s hopes, but preferred to stay objective and uphold a caustic ambiguity.

  “Why didn’t you bring me a photo of her, then? Isn’t she an actress?”

  He tried to buy time. “That’s just it, Don Pablo. In Life of Galileo, she plays the part of Virginia, the astronomer’s daughter. That is to say, she’s in disguise, and wearing a lot of makeup. And in the signs in the foyer, she doesn’t look like herself, but like the daughter of Galileo. See what I mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the poet answered brusquely. “You’d better tell me straight out: does she look like me or not?” He stood up with surprising vitality.

  Don Pablo wanted to force an affirmative answer, as if Cayetano’s or doubts were the only barrier between him and his daughter. But his insistence was leading to the opposite reaction.

  “She’s a German woman with some Latin American features, Don Pablo, but …”

  “But what?”

  “Ángel Bracamonte was also Latin American.”

  The poet put his glass down on an end table, beside a manuscript, sat down on the bed, and hung his head, as though wounded. “You’re right,” he admitted sadly. He sighed and slouched, palms on his knees. “I forgot about Ángel yet again.” He was silent for a few moments and didn’t even look up to ask the next question, as if to recuse himself from taking any more initiative. “What do we do now?”

  50

  And then something marvelous literally came from the sky and broke the spell of their disenchantment. The beat of helicopter blades approached La Sebastiana. A twisting wind swept papers in Collado Way and frightened the dogs at the Mauri Theater. The living room began to vibrate as though gripped by an earthquake. The poet and Cayetano stared at each other in surprise before hurrying to the window. Then they saw it. It was high up, and resembled a giant dragonfly with its enormous head of shining glass and its reddish tail. It flew raucously around La Sebastiana, emitting furious flashes under the morning sun, thundering through the sky like a tin drum, alarming all the neighbors on Florida Hill.

  “Sebastián Collado Mauri must be turning with joy in his grave,” the poet exclaimed, raising his arms toward the sky. “At last his dream comes true! They’re aiming for his UFO landing strip!”

  The helicopter flew over La Sebastiana at a low altitude, studying its roof. Dogs barked furiously, children ran up the slanted streets, women stopped hanging clothes on lines in the wind, and even the people lined up in front of grocery stores forgot the exhausting wait and the shortages and turned their astonished gazes toward the sky, at something they’d never seen up close and had never dreamed would be so striking. Now the helicopter grazed corrugated iron roofs and flagpoles, so close to light cables and the tops of banana trees that it was possible to glimpse the two people traveling inside.

  “It’s landing on Modesto’s roof!” the poet shouted euphorically when the chauffeur entered the living room. Modesto Collado was the original owner of the house. “Let’s go up—nobody’s ever used that landing strip before!”

  They ascended the spiral staircase, full of excitement, the poet out of breath, moving his legs with great effort, cursing the pain in his knees; Cayetano followed him, with Sergio bringing up the rear, impatient, intrigued, and silent, spying on events with the all-seeing eyes of the house. When they arrived in the wooden studio, they feared the gusts from helicopter blades would tear it off the building. The poet rushed to open the door adorned with a picture of Whitman, and all three of them stepped onto the roof, where the wind vigorously shook their hair and clothes. In one fell swoop it snatched the poet’s cap from his head and pulled it into the air, where it danced in circles, greeting the hills of Valparaíso. The scene reminded Cayetano of Cuban hurricanes, though the terrified driver, who had never seen such a thing, tried to hide behind the door and avoid walking farther onto the terrace.

  “It’s Salvador!” the poet shouted suddenly into the roar of rotors and fierce air.

  “Who?”

  “The president!” the poet shouted again, joyfully, gesturing toward the helicopter.

  At that instant Cayetano recognized the figure next to the uniformed pilot. It was Allende, waving in his glass bubble, wearing sunglasses, in a striped jacket and tie, his hair combed back. It was him. There was no doubt about it.

  “I should leave, Don Pablo!” Cayetano managed to exclaim.

  “Don’t be an idiot. Stay, I’ll introduce you.”

  “He’s here to see you, not me!” Cayetano answered at the top of his lungs.

  The helicopter’s black wheels were touching down on the cracked roof, and Valparaíso seemed to regain its color and stillness in the midst of the gale.

  “Okay, quit clowning around and run to the wardrobe, where you’ll find a waiter’s costume,” the poet ordered. “Put it on and go down to the bar and mix us a drink. You can’t miss this. He likes whiskey on the rocks, no water, and make one for me, too, to keep him company. Look for the eighteen-year-old Chivas, and some ice cubes. The one that’s eighteen years old. Don’t get confused.”

  His naked sorrow for his lost daughter seemed to have vanished. Cayetano decided to play his game. He returned to the studio, where he found the costume and put it on a
s, through the window, he watched the president disembark, approach the poet with erect, decisive strides, and embrace him. Cayetano studied himself in the bathroom mirror and had to admit that he looked like a real waiter. With his mustache and glasses, he came off as the kind of waiter who presided over linen tablecloths and real crystal. He found the whiskey bottle just as the poet and the president were descending the spiral staircase. They sat down in front of the picture window, the poet in his Nube, the president in the floral-print armchair, and started talking about the trip, how green and beautiful the central zone looked from the air, the turbulence of the wind through twisted streets, the city’s infinite stairs and hills. They conversed as though no misfortunes plagued them.

  “Well, here you have me, Pablo,” the president said after a while, glancing sidelong at Neruda’s bed in the dining room. “You wanted to read me your latest collection of poems. I understand it’s quite political. So I was on my way from the south and told Captain Vergara to fly to your house. When Mohammed doesn’t come to the mountain, the mountain comes to Mohammed.”

  The poet thanked him solemnly for the visit, and said the manuscript was about to be delivered to the publisher Quimantú. He wanted the leader to be the first to experience it.

  “Well, that’s why I came,” said Allende. “And how’s your health? Remember, you can’t lie to a doctor. Much less a doctor-president.”

  “I’m in a bad way, Salvador, but I’m getting by. You know what’s happening, let’s not fool ourselves. But you didn’t come here to listen to my complaints, you came to hear my newest poems. Whiskey?”

  Cayetano hurried over with the full glasses. His hand was shaking as he extended the tray toward the head of state, who met him with a warm gaze and a relaxed hello. His hand still shook as he offered the second glass to the poet, who winked conspiratorially, enthused by his protégé’s skill in playing the role of waiter. Neruda was right, Cayetano thought; life was a parade of disguises.

  “Could you pass me the manuscript that’s on my bed, please?” the poet asked him.

  He picked it up quickly and glanced at the cover. The title was typed, and read “Incitement to Nixoncide and Praise for the Chilean Revolution.” He gave it to the poet and returned to the bar. Neruda swilled a sip of whiskey through his mouth in preparation, then began to read the verses, which were handwritten in green ink. Although he pretended to be busy washing glasses, wiping down the bar, and pouring water from the faucet, Cayetano spied every moment of that unusual recital. Neruda read the verses in an exhausted and monotonous voice, in a nasal tone that lengthened his vowels and turned his reading into a kind of despaired lament, an orphan’s song, while the president listened with his gaze fixed on the bay, legs crossed, chin resting on one fist. He remained immobile for a good while, then uncrossed his legs, scratched his temple, and elegantly pulled on the sleeves of his jacket, keeping his full attention on the poet, who kept reciting, sometimes reading, sometimes speaking from memory, occasionally refreshing his mouth with whiskey. Cayetano thought he must be dreaming. Now not only was he working as a private investigator for the world’s most important living poet, but he was also the sole witness to an encounter that in the future would surely be considered historic. Was he dreaming? What was certain was that both men were here, a few paces from him, the poet and the revolutionary president, making history. Was it really happening, or was it possible that he was imagining the scene back in his old Florida life and that none of this was real, not Allende or Neruda or La Sebastiana or his own prolonged stay in Valparaíso?

  “What an incredible political epic poem, Pablo,” the president exclaimed from his armchair, still motionless, though deeply moved, when the poet had finished. “Never before has anyone written something so true about a revolution and its enemies. It has resounding strength and beauty. It should be known all over the world. An accurate artistic report of the brutal aggression aimed at us by the empire.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” the poet answered, closing his large saurian eyelids.

  “I’m just plagued by one question, my dear Pablo,” the president said after a little while, draining his glass.

  “What’s that, Salvador?”

  Cayetano listened with attentive silence.

  “How am I to keep a man as my ambassador when he incites his colleagues throughout the world to murder the head of the empire, even if only with poems?”

  For Neruda, that question was already resolved.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied, resting his palms on the last page of the open manuscript. “Right this moment, face-to-face with you, I’m stepping down from my post in Paris. It’s time to defend the revolution in Chile. I can’t be absent from this battle. As an ambassador, I can’t say everything I want to say as a poet. Your hands are free, Salvador.”

  Allende stood, and the poet did the same. Then Cayetano saw them melt into a wordless embrace in front of the window, the bay shining behind them under a clear sky, ringed with faraway mountains. As he dried glasses he’d already washed several times, he sensed that it was a good-bye, that they would never see each other again.

  The president began to slowly climb the steps toward the roof. The poet followed him. Cayetano came behind them, in his waiter’s disguise. They paused in the studio, where the president examined the old Underwood and the shelf brimming with crime novels. Allende picked up The Mask of Dimitrios, by Eric Ambler, and asked the poet if he could borrow it, as his defense secretary, Orlando Letelier, had just recommended it. Then they went out to the breezy roof, where Sergio was chatting with the pilot.

  Cayetano watched them say good-bye with one last embrace as the blades began to turn with a deafening whir. The president boarded the helicopter, closed the hatch, and sat down beside the pilot. He had returned to his bubble.

  With his hands in his pockets, the poet smiled at the president as the wind disheveled the little hair he had left. The helicopter rose from the terrace and began to fly, swinging over the roofs of Florida Hill as Allende waved and gesticulated at the world below. From Collado Way, Alemania Avenue, and plazas lined with palm trees, from windows and wooden balconies, neighbors responded by waving flags and chanting his name. It was as though Valparaíso had burst into a carnival. Pablo Neruda and Cayetano Brulé kept their arms high in the air until the helicopter became as a minuscule golden dragonfly and disappeared with a remote whistle into the ponchos of snow draped over the Andes.

  They went back inside, silent, gazes lowered, and after some time Cayetano felt compelled to reopen their conversation. Not to break the tension, but out of loyalty to the matter still at hand.

  “We’ve got to investigate in Bolivia, Don Pablo.”

  Don Pablo didn’t answer, nor did he look up. He seemed to be turning it over and over in his mind.

  After a while, he said, with difficulty breathing, “I see that the readings I’ve recommended have been effective, young man. To that end, I’ve got another novel for you, Twenty-three Instants of a Spring, by Konstantin Simonov. You should read it. Soviet espionage in Nazi Berlin.”

  Cayetano followed his drift. The visit must have left him too excited to immediately discuss action. “Is it better than Simenon?” he asked.

  “As a disciplined activist, I should say yes. But between us: Nobody beats the French in matters of food or culture. You’ve got to read that novel. I have no patience for people who read only good books. It’s a sign they don’t know the world.”

  “What about the trip to Bolivia, Don Pablo?”

  Again Neruda was slow to respond. And his words were a surprise. “No, young man, never mind that. The case is over.”

  Now it was he, Cayetano, who was left speechless. But his inner detective rose up bravely, to do the talking.

  “What do you mean, it’s over?”

  Don Pablo paced the room slowly, hands behind his back.

  “I made a mistake,” he replied without looking at him. “I’ve been wrong many times in my life, bu
t this time Salvador’s visit really opened my eyes. I have no right to spend my energies on a personal obsession, a ghost of my own past, when the destiny of Chile, of socialism, of all the things I believe in and have defended all my life are in jeopardy. When I was young, I lived like a sleepwalker, immersed in my own dreams and speculations, far away from real people, and if I woke up, it was thanks to communism and the Spanish Civil War. ‘No, the time has come, so flee, / shadows of blood, stars of ice, retreat to the path of human steps and take the black shadow from my feet!’” he recited, as though seeking the strength he needed in those verses he’d written years before. “Now history is repeating itself, it’s the same, the same. There’s too much to do here for me to gaze at my navel and hunt ghosts, Cayetano.”

  He stopped but did not look up. Cayetano, however, didn’t take his eyes off Neruda.

  “That ghost is made of flesh and blood, Don Pablo. And you’ve already let it escape once before.”

  The poet changed his tone. “You’re not the first detective I’ve hired, Cayetano. This situation has been eating at me for a long time. I’ve spent several thousand dollars on professional investigators who didn’t find anything, and some of them even tried to trick me. With photographs and everything. At the end of the day, Matilde was right to chase them off. It wasn’t only jealousy. It wasn’t only me she didn’t trust.” Now he looked at Cayetano, but his eyes had changed. Something cold and distant gleamed in them. “That’s why I came to you in secret, Cayetano. I needed someone I could trust, and your youth made me trust you. But you yourself are another of my fictions.”

  He felt the need to defend himself. “I’m not a fiction anymore, Don Pablo. I’ve found some answers and convincing proofs.”

  “Answers to what? And proof of what?” He frowned at Cayetano, standing in the center of the living room. “Here Chile is suffering through the worst abyss imaginable, and we’re lost in conjectures over my resemblance to a German actress. I send you out to investigate something that happened thirty years ago, when we should both have our five senses in the here and now!”