The Neruda Case

by Roberto Ampuero

  Don Pablo was fleeing, as he had so many times before. Perhaps he was fooling himself, but despite the undeniable urgency of the political situation, he wasn’t fooling Cayetano. Like Galileo Galilei, the poet feared pain; and the deepest pain, the one for which he was least prepared, didn’t threaten him from current circumstances, but from the past, from the heart, from the depths of his own memory.

  “Thirty years ago you renounced your daughter. You’ve just renounced your post, and now you want to renounce more things. It’s the easy way out. Anyone can live like that.”

  The former ambassador took no offense. As a recidivist fugitive, he’d likely heard such reproaches more than once in his life.

  “You don’t understand me, Cayetano,” he said, as if surfacing in a lake after a long dive. “Didn’t you hear what I said to Salvador? If being an ambassador means censoring what I say as a poet, then I need to stop being an ambassador. My poems are what will survive when I am gone!”

  “That’s not what you said before you sent me to Cuba, Don Pablo.”

  The poet remembered perfectly. He didn’t deny it, but could no longer stand by his own words. “I was caught up in my hopes, Cayetano. I needed them to keep on living. Now that whole undertaking seems like another facet of my egoism. What need could that young woman have for me, if as you say she’s an actress with the Berliner Ensemble, living in the best neighborhood of East Berlin, known and admired? You have your whole life ahead of you, Cayetano. Keep being a detective if you wish, you’ve proven that you have the nose and persistence of a bloodhound.” The poet couldn’t hide the irritation in his voice, though he maintained his sad nasal tone. “But it’s time for me to drop the nonsense and false hopes and to face reality. If my destiny is not to leave any descendants other than my books, then I should accept it with dignity and without protest.”

  In addition to being a poet, he was still a diplomat. Under the surface, he’d offered a pact: he would leave Cayetano with the identity he’d created for him if, in return, Cayetano would leave him in peace. In that case, they should make a pact, but the agreement should be different.

  “Don Pablo, you’re Chilean. I’m Cuban. You’ve given your word to Chile. I’m here because I followed a woman who has since left me. Let me go to Bolivia. That way each person can remain in his place: you as a poet, and I as a detective. It’s the best thing for each of us.”

  He felt that he’d never been so eloquent in his life. He must have learned something about diplomacy from the poet, and from the books he’d recommended. After a silence, the poet resumed his pacing, making the floorboards creak, and said, “Go to La Paz first thing tomorrow. I know a comrade there who may be able to help you. And now, my Maigret del Caribe, I think it’s best if you leave me alone. There are times when I simply tire of being human.”

  51

  The first night Cayetano Brulé suffered through the altitude of La Paz, Bolivia, he wondered whether he’d survive the agony. As soon as he got off the two-engine aircraft at Lloyd Aéreo Boliviano and tried to rush to the terminal, a steely weight pressed into his chest and kept the thin mountain air, cold as spring water, from reaching his lungs. He sat on a bench to recover his breath.

  “Altitude sickness. This will make it pass, sir,” a toothless old Indian promised as he showed him a cup of coca leaf tea. “But for God’s sake, don’t even think about getting involved with a woman from La Paz, you’ll go directly to hell,” he added seriously, wrapped in his poncho, palm outstretched.

  Cayetano felt better by the time he entered the lobby of his hotel, where the poet’s friend waited to meet him. Emir Lazcano had studied literature in Santiago, at the University of Chile, during the legendary period of reform. That was in the sixties, when the nation brimmed with a rebellion propelled by long-haired youths addicted to marijuana, free love, flowered shirts, and bell-bottom pants. They admired Janis Joplin and Joe Cocker, were pacifists, and didn’t trust anyone over thirty. Cayetano appreciated this man’s kindness, as well as his slow and deliberate way of speaking and pronouncing the letter s. They dined on a succulent lamb-and-pea stew at a cramped, narrow dive with exposed beams along the ceiling, near the Palacio Quemado.

  “I advise you to keep drinking coca tea while you’re here,” Lazcano suggested, nursing his beer. “Altitude sickness is no laughing matter. It takes many tourists over to the other side. They arrive in La Paz happy, then eat, drink, and fornicate too much. The altitude gets the best of them, and they leave La Paz lying horizontal in the belly of a plane.”

  The academic had met the poet in the sixties, during a Communist Party event at the Caupolicán Theater in Santiago. For a while, Neruda had helped him finance his stay in the Chilean capital. Lazcano had heard rumors about his poor health but had not imagined that he could be dying. He had preferred not to broach the subject when the poet called and requested that he help his emissary with a task so secret that not even the Bolivian Party could get wind of it.

  Cayetano showed him the photo of Beatriz posing with a man in front of the social club, and asked if he knew her.

  “I’ve never seen her,” Lazcano said after examining the photo.

  “And her companion?”

  “No, never. They’re standing in front of the most exclusive club in Santa Cruz, which lets in only the very rich.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t know the man?”

  “Who are you looking for? The woman or the man?”

  “The woman.”

  “If you’re looking for information about a foreigner, there’s no problem,” he clarified curtly. “But if you’re looking for an influential Bolivian, you should be very careful. Things aren’t all rosy here. If they catch you, as a Cuban coming from Chile, it could end badly.”

  “I need to find that woman, or at least the man. Don Pablo assured me I could count on your help. There’s nothing political about this mission.”

  “I still suggest you tread lightly.”

  “Perhaps one of your comrades could locate this man, or help us find the woman.”

  People were still entering the restaurant, massaging their hands, numb with cold, wrapped in coats and parkas. They were silent people, mild-mannered, the opposite of Cubans, with their constant, boisterous self-expression, Brulé thought, remembering that outside, the night’s blade could cut one’s cheek.

  “I repeat: things are complicated,” Lazcano insisted. “We’re facing a difficult situation: on one side, the miners’ union could go on strike at any moment, and on the other side we’re threatened with a possible military coup. The infernal circle of this country.”

  “Listen to me, Emir. I’m going to make you an offer in the name of our common friend.”

  Lazcano lit a Viceroy and waited, slouched, gazing down at the table, unsettled by the conversation.

  “If you help me find these people”—Brulé lowered his voice—“I’ll give you a first edition of Canto General, signed by the bard himself. Do you realize what I’m saying? A first edition, autographed by the most important living poet in the Spanish language. So will you or won’t you help me with this little matter?”

  TRINIDAD

  52

  Simón Adelman was a Jewish lawyer of German origin, who had made his fortune by representing Bolivian mining companies. But his heart still veered to the left, and now he devoted all his time to fighting labor abuses and uncovering Nazi war criminals who masqueraded as innocent settlers in the remote regions of Beni. Seven of his relatives had perished in the Holocaust at the concentration camp in Buchenwald, on Ettersberg Mountain, near Weimar, Goethe and Schiller’s beautiful city; and this spurred Adelman to study all aging German hermits in Bolivia with a magnifying glass.

  When Lazcano introduced him to the lawyer, Brulé was struck by two things. The first, that his attire made him resemble a rural schoolteacher, which was unprecedented in La Paz, where the rich made their social standing crystal clear through cars and clothing. His shiny pants, wrinkled jacket, and
lack of a tie didn’t give the impression of a successful attorney at all. The second thing was that, although he belonged to the upper class, which was predominantly Catholic and conservative, he was a leftist.

  According to Lazcano, the lawyer could be trusted, although the party didn’t look on Adelman kindly because he was a Trotskyite. Nevertheless, he was known throughout the country as a man of discretion, who knew how to rub elbows with the crème de la crème of influential circles and frequented their clubs. His only unpardonable sin was his admiration for Leon Trotsky, whose house in Coyoacán he visited regularly, always leaving a wreath of flowers and a pebble at his tomb.

  “Do you know this woman?” Cayetano showed him the photo without preamble.

  “Certainly. I also know that club,” Adelman said impassively. “It recalls another era, with its crystal chandeliers, beveled mirrors, and smooth floors. Dinners and sumptuous soirees take place there, and during them the fate of many Bolivians is sealed. It’s also the headquarters for proponents of separatism for Santa Cruz.”

  They were at a table in Café Strudel, which was decorated with latticed walls and posters of Bavaria, a region belonging to Mennonites. The door was slightly ajar and let the cold glide in. Through the windows, they saw the chipped buildings that lined the street.

  “I’m interested in the woman,” Cayetano clarified. “Her name is Beatriz, widow of Bracamonte. Though I’m not sure that she goes by that name here. How can I find her?”

  “I saw her a couple of times at receptions.” Simón had blue eyes, gray hair, and a gaunt face. He was probably about seventy years old. “But her name is not what you say it is.”

  “What?”

  “Her name isn’t Beatriz.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Tamara. Tamara Sunkel.”

  “Are you sure you’re talking about the woman in this photograph?”

  “Absolutely. She’s German, from Frankfurt am Main. I spoke with her about some of her real estate plans.”

  “Does she have any children?”

  “I don’t know. La Paz is small, but it’s not some tiny village, either.”

  A waiter served them coffee in large, cracked cups. Cayetano looked around him. There were many office workers, in suits and ties, smoking or reading the paper, lost in thought or conversing calmly. In the Andes, as in Havana, there seemed to be plenty of time.

  “Do you also know the man in the photo?”

  Adelman turned to Lazcano. “Can he really be trusted?”

  Lazcano nodded with little conviction and averted his gaze to the street, where indigenous women in traditional dress were passing by, impervious to the drizzle that tinged the afternoon with sadness.

  “Let’s say that in Bolivia, he isn’t a well-known face,” Adelman continued, choosing his words carefully for his mustachioed Caribbean visitor. “That is to say, only certain people know who he is.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’re sure he’s trustworthy?” Adelman asked Lazcano.

  “Even though he’s coming from Chile, yes, he is,” asserted Lazcano, his head sinking between his shoulders.

  “That man is Colonel Rodolfo Sacher, Mr. Brulé. In 1967 he headed a top-secret Bolivian intelligence squad.”

  “I don’t understand.” Cayetano placed the photo on the table and sipped his coffee. The brew tasted worse than he thought it would.

  “Sacher was the CIA contact for the Palacio Quemado, our presidential headquarters.”

  “For what?”

  “You know the story of Che Guevara, right?”

  “Of course. He died here in Bolivia, in 1967, ambushed by rangers.”

  “Actually, they killed him at the little school in La Higuera, where they took him once he was wounded. Not that they transported him out of consideration. One official even had his picture taken with Che. They put him on a stretcher and had no idea what to do with this man who was too much of a man for them. The order arrived from Washington, though they said it came from the Palacio Quemado.”

  “So what role did Colonel Sacher play in all this?”

  “He was the one who infiltrated the guerrillas’ support network in the city. Without knowing it, Tamara Bunke, Che Guevara’s lover, led him to Che and his men. She had earned the trust of the Bolivian military and oligarchy, and was under express orders from Havana not to contact Che. But she disobeyed them. Do you know why?”

  “Revolutionary enthusiasm,” Cayetano said, thinking of his wife in her olive-green uniform in the Cuban jungle.

  “Out of love for Che,” Adelman corrected him. He fell silent, nodding his head, as if he weren’t entirely convinced of what he was saying. “For Sacher, it was enough to follow Tamara to find the Argentinean’s troops. And he didn’t only arrest the commander, but also gave the execution order at La Higuera …”

  “Are you sure he had the power to make such a decision?”

  “At least enough to impose order among the little soldiers shitting themselves with fear of their prisoner. Barrientos, the president at the time, had no idea what was going on. In the end, he held a funeral with honors for Tamara Bunke, who had become a Bolivian citizen and made contributions to scholarship on our national folklore while she was an undercover agent. The Cubans blame Régis Debray for betraying the guerrilla, but the fact is that Che was lost by the German revolutionary who loved him.”

  Cayetano pushed his cup aside and examined the photo again. Sacher had the features of a fox: a sharp face, elongated eyes under bushy eyebrows, and sparse hair neatly combed back. He wondered why Beatriz kept changing her name and appearing in such contradictory places. Perhaps Beatriz was not Tamara Sunkel, whose first and last name sounded suspiciously close to that of Che’s German lover in the guerrilla movement. Someone, either Adelman or the poet, had mistaken the woman in the photo for someone she was not.

  He scanned the street through wet windows. “How can I find Tamara Sunkel?”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be easy to get in touch with her.”

  “Didn’t you say you knew where she was?”

  “I used to know. She disappeared from La Paz some time ago. She sold her properties and left.”

  “Where to?”

  Adelman snorted. “Germany, perhaps.”

  “When?”

  “Around five years ago. Though I could be mistaken.”

  “So what happened to Colonel Sacher?”

  “He died.”

  “He wasn’t old enough to die,” he heard himself say. He was immediately struck by the stupidity of his own comment. One was always old enough to die, from the moment of conception.

  “He died when his vehicle drove off a cliff on the way to El Alto Airport.”

  “Before or after Che’s death?”

  “A little while after.”

  “Before or after the disappearance of Tamara Sunkel?”

  “Before,” the lawyer said laconically.

  53

  He put his coca tea down on the nightstand and gazed out at the dense veil of the Milky Way through the misted windows of his room. The night was a black block of granite encrusted with diamonds. He preened his mustache and thought that he was coming to see the world as the poet did. He couldn’t sleep. Air, thin as a strand of the cotton candy sold near school during his childhood, barely entered his throat.

  If the poet’s lover’s last name was Bracamonte in Mexico, Lederer in Cuba, Schall in East Germany, and Sunkel in Bolivia, then there were two possibilities: The first was that there were two different women involved, and he’d been thrown off track early in his search, because detective work was much more complicated than what Simenon described and what the poet imagined. In that case, the woman with whom Neruda had fallen in love had disappeared without a trace and had nothing to do with the women in Havana, East Berlin, and La Paz. But it was also feasible that those women were the very one he was looking for: the unfaithful young wife of a Cuban doctor, a twenty-year-old beauty, seduced by the a
rtist’s verses while he was living with sixty-year-old Delia del Carril. Of course, that possibility did not necessarily mean that Beatriz’s daughter was also a child of Neruda’s. The second possibility also had a disturbing side, he thought, dizzy from lack of air, reaching for the coca tea on the nightstand. The woman of many names was turning out to be an extraordinarily enigmatic person: in the forties, she’d been the lover of a communist poet, then appeared briefly in revolutionary Havana, and in the sixties she’d settled down in the German Democratic Republic, on the other side of the Wall, working in an ideological indoctrination school for Third World youth. And then, suddenly, she showed up in Bolivia as a businesswoman and companion to a colonel involved in the death of Che Guevara.

  He sat up and dialed Adelman’s number. “Simón?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Cayetano.” He exhaled cigarette smoke and put on his glasses, as though they could help him speak better. “I need to talk to you again. Could we do it now?”

  “Now?”

  “It’s just that I’m leaving Bolivia tomorrow.”

  Outside, the night lay curled in wait; cold air and the low moan of trucks slid through the poorly sealed windows.

  “Ask the taxi driver to take you to the French Club,” Adelman told him. “He’ll know it. I’ll meet you there.”

  When Cayetano arrived in front of the well-lit establishment, Simón was not yet there. He waited in the lamplight, out in the cold, his hands plunged into the pockets of the sheepskin-lined jacket Ángela had bought him in Mendoza. At that hour, his wife—or ex-wife, he no longer knew for certain—would be camping among palms and ceiba trees, listening to the frogs croaking and the gentle murmur of tropical foliage, with her sleeves rolled up to establish socialism in Chile. Poor Allende, he thought. He was caught between a rock and a hard place: on one side, the right wing and the United States denounced him as a radical revolutionary trying to build another Cuba, and, on the other side, the far left of his own nation called him a mere reformist of the Chilean capitalist system. While he worked around the clock in his house on Tomás Moro Street to strengthen his peaceful revolution, behind his back in Havana others were plotting a people’s war drawn from manuals as distant from the reality of Chile as the streets, bars, and bistros of Georges Simenon’s novels.