That September morning glistened with crystals of pollen dancing in the air, and a pale heat warmed the gazebo in the garden, where the servants were loading supplies, clothes, and food into the vehicles of the presidential convoy in preparation for the long weekend. The Dictator came out of the house accompanied by his wife’s cockatoo chatter while she, still in her bathrobe and suffering from a splitting headache, clutched her forehead. You don’t believe me, you think I’m just putting on a show to get out of going with you. Just like all men, you think women use the pretext of not feeling well so we won’t have to do certain things. How can you even imagine that I’d rather stay alone and bored in this huge house while you’re sunning your belly there next to the river, surrounded by trees in our gorgeous chalet in the Cajón del Maipo? Because it was my idea to buy it so cheaply; such a deal we got from those troublemakers you sent into exile. And now, after we’ve fixed it up, it must be worth a fortune. Just think, what would we do if we didn’t have all these properties where we could go to relax? We’d have to associate with your underlings who hang out at the Club Militar, who go there to dip their toes in the pool. How disgusting to swim in the same water where your friends, those doddering old generals, soak their balls. So don’t go thinking that I’m the one who doesn’t want to go to the Cajón this weekend, it’s just that my head is splitting. Anyway, you’ll be more relaxed there without me, you can listen to your marches at full blast without anyone complaining, without me bothering you with my talk, because I know you get tired of listening to me, that’s why you act like a silly old fool, pretending to listen and nodding constantly like an idiot. So go; get out of here if it bothers you to hear me talk so much; get in the car; all your bodyguards are waiting for you.
After giving his wife a quick kiss, he raised the automatic windows on the limousine to cut off the echoes of the extended good-bye. The long row of cars took over the tree-lined boulevard through the Barrio Alto with a blast of sirens. It was strange how surprised he always was when he heard the earsplitting screech that accompanied all his movements. This time he was particularly disturbed by that emergency siren, so similar to that of fire engines and ambulances, which shatter the silence with their omen of disaster. He would order it to be changed, perhaps make it into a siren that sounded like the murmur of crickets, the buzz of the dragonflies in the fields. A special siren to announce his approach without the interminable u-u-u-u or a-a-a-a or o-o-o-o that at that moment reminded him of his wife’s chatter.
Turn it off; in this country of mice nobody would dare get in my way, he ordered the chauffeur. Nobody I can think of, he mused, except that Manuel Rodríguez Patriotic Front, who are just a bunch of students pretending to be guerrillas. They’re all a bunch of faggots who throw rocks, sing songs by Violeta Parra, and read poetry. And they call themselves men. They’re just mama’s boys who recite poems about love and machine guns. I hate poetry, just like I told that asshole journalist who asked me if I read Pablo Neruda. Have you ever written a poem? the idiot asked me. You want to know something? I hate poetry. I hate reading it, listening to it, writing it, everything. How dare you ask me only about bullshit. Next you’ll ask me if I dance ballet. And that Neruda character, who luckily kicked the bucket in ’seventy-three: I would have drafted him into the army so he would learn to be a real man. What would have become of this country if a Communist poet had been elected president? To think I had to applaud him in the National Stadium in ’seventy-two when those Swedes gave him the Nobel Prize. Finally, he calmed down; at least his wife wasn’t there to fill the whole weekend with her endless complaining verbiage. What peace! What a joy to ride alone, leaning back in the limousine, looking at the fresh grass that carpets the entire route at this time of year. Shall we go through Pirque rather than up the Achupallas grade, General? his chauffeur asked him. Because it looks like they’re fixing the road on the grade. How strange that the mayor hadn’t said anything to him about fixing the road; he had just talked to him this morning. It was inconvenient to make that detour when he liked going through the canyon, where he could see the river so far below looking so tiny as it slithered like a caterpillar through the rocks, and that narrow gorge through which only one car could pass. Whenever he went by that spot, he felt the throb of vertigo mixed with a certain anxious delight, as if the motorcade were a tightrope walker making its way across this high road through the brief flash of our mortal passage. This was the first sensation he had had in September of 1973 when he gave the order for the Hawker Hunters to drop their bombs on La Moneda, the Chilean White House. Of course, at that moment he was in Peñalolén, in the hills above Santiago, directing the whole operation from a comfortable command room. He smiled as he remembered that moment. What did they think, Allende and his lackeys, that he would hesitate, that his hand would shake before initiating the attack? What did those Marxists think, that the army was going to sit there with its arms crossed watching the nation turned into a cantina full of troublemaking peasants? Luckily, God and the Virgen del Carmen supported his historic action, and now Chile was a fertile and orderly nation, as could be seen in the lush, flowery landscape that passed by his car window.
Carlos snuck up on her while she stood in the kitchen drying some cups. He came up from behind and playfully put his hands over her eyes. Your life or your password, he threatened, sticking his finger into her back as if it were a gun. You are my life, she said romantically, wiggling around in his embrace. And the password? You would have to persuade my heart to sing it. Let’s sing then, Carlos insisted, making his voice deep and hoarse like a movie gangster. You would have to kill me slowly and still you wouldn’t find out the name of the song. Ay, so it’s a song? But there are thousands of love songs. So it’s a love song? Love and danger, she exclaimed, as she twisted around in his arms until she faced him, just inches away from his bewitching breath. Carlos continued with the romantic interrogation. So you’re easy to bribe? As easy and difficult as cutting a rose without getting pricked by a thorn. And if I wear gloves? The rose would think you were a gardener and die without ever having known the touch of your skin. They were so close that she felt herself plunging into the depths of his eyes, and Carlos, confused, hugged her tightly around the waist, fearless of being pricked by a thorn. Uff! So affectionate! she said, as she extricated herself from his embrace. As if you were leaving and saying good-bye forever. One never knows these things, the boy said, without hiding his bitterness, but why think about that? I’ve got the car. You want to go somewhere? Take me to the moon, as the song says—and speaking of a song, I have to return the record player I borrowed for your birthday, near Recoleta, where some friends live. Could you take me there, Mr. Chauffeur? At your command, your highness, the carriage is waiting, and they both laughed freely as they walked with regal bearing down the stairs and got into the car parked in front.
Uncle, Miguelito is scratching your car. Uncle, can I ride in it? Uncle, Carolina says that Santa Claus brought you this car. I wish it were so, my dears, the Queen said, as she patted the children on their cheeks and climbed into the car, placing the record player on her lap.
The car took off like a comet from the crowd of children, who ran after it shouting for a whole block. And this ultra-modern car, is it new? Don’t tell me you won it in the lottery. I wish, but it’s not mine, it’s Laura’s, that classmate of mine I introduced you to the other day. That girl must be loaded. And is her name Laura, or is that also an alias, as you call it? I’m not going to answer that, so just be satisfied with what I’ve already told you. But you haven’t been willing to tell me anything, Carlos. It’s just as well, because if they catch us, they’ll be especially brutal to you. What, you don’t think I’m capable of standing up to their interrogations? They’re animals; you can’t even begin to imagine what they would do to you. A gasp of silence interrupted the conversation. The city unfurled past the window, its walls like paper streamers faded by the rain, the city outside the car like a gray cobra weaving through faces also fad
ed by the daily fear of the dictatorship. My, how serious you’ve gotten! she said, attempting to alleviate the tense silence, and, at her side, Carlos’s profile relaxed into a smile. You are so good for me; I’m so happy when I am with you. So I’m just a doll to play with? No, it’s not that, I feel optimistic when I’m with you. And what else? What else do you want? For you to love me just a little. You know I like you more than just a little. Between like and love there is a world of difference. I like you with your difference. It’s not the same. For you, as the song says, I would count the grains of sand in the sea. (Her eyes are half closed.) For you I would be willing to kill. I admire the way you remember songs. This is an old one, but it’s very beautiful; it talks about everything you would do for the person you love. I would do all of that, Carlos affirmed, but for Chile. And you think this country will thank you for sacrificing your life? It makes me want to laugh; you remind me of our national hero, Arturo Prat, and it just cracks me up. You think I want to be a hero? Something like that, maybe not like O’Higgins or Prat, but yes, maybe like Che Guevara. Do you know who Che Guevara was? A hunk of a man, a gorgeous man with those eyes, that beard, that smile. And what else? What, isn’t that enough? Aren’t you interested in knowing about his dream for the world and why he gave his life for the cause of the poor? Could he possibly have been as brave and romantic as you are? You flatter me, my princess, Carlos said and blushed, but I am very far from that enormous figure. Not really, you’re gorgeous; all you need is the beard. Why don’t you grow a beard, Carlos? Why do you think? Because they’d catch you right away and you’d die like Che? And would you shed at least one tear for me, your highness? Just one, no more than one, a little, tiny, teensy-weensy one, like a misshapen pearl that got left behind in the sea. Have you ever thought of writing? You speak in poetry, did you know that? All queens in love have flowery voices, but there’s a world between that and being a writer; I only made it to my third year of high school, I’ve never read books, and I’ve never even set foot in a university. In any case, I would have liked to be a singer, to have written songs and sung them, which is the same as being a writer. Don’t you agree, Mr. Chauffeur? Your highness, your songs would be pure poetry, like that of the birds, who haven’t gone to the university either. Poor queers never go to the university, darling. But I know lots of homosexuals studying at the university. But can you tell? I mean, are they real queens like me? Carlos turned his eyes away from the road to look at her fairy profile sculpted by the years and now outlined by the autumnal light. Nobody compares to you, my princess, you are one of a kind. Your flattery is touching, Mr. Chauffeur, but pay attention to the road, I don’t believe I have given you leave to seduce me like that. You have no right to show such disrespect for me and much less to look at me with eyes so… So what, princess? So ravenous, so dazzling, like the red-hot coals of your impertinence. That’s when they started laughing, as hard as they could, as if their hearts were beating in sync to the mad rapture of their wayward delirium. Why should she care about what would happen, why should she worry about crying when it was over? At that very moment she could die just to look at him, just to feel his hand grabbing her shoulders with the coveted affection of his embrace. Tomorrow remained in the wake of the moving vehicle. They dreamed tomorrow as they rode together through the echo of their laughter, through the city’s repetitive images, drab depictions of the futureless voyage of their destiny. The cupid car, driving through the streets, was a vegetating arrow in the green blink of the traffic lights; the nest car snaked its way around obstacles on the asphalt’s sweating tar; the bird car, galloping through the air, quivered nervously at the mercy of Carlos’s knotty masculine hands on the wheel. Careful, Mr. Chauffeur, the light is red. When he slammed on the brakes, her head almost hit the windshield. Please, Carlos, this isn’t even your car, Rana’s record player almost fell; she’ll die if anything happens to it. By the way, where do your friends live? Because we are finally getting to Recoleta. It’s right here, turn left at the next corner and it’s right past the soccer field.
Will you take a look at her, arriving in a chauffeur-driven car! Rana howled when she saw her, trying to get a good look at Carlos, who was waiting in the car. Tell him to come in, girlfriend, so we can meet the prince of your nightmares. No, better not, Ranita, because Lupe and the others will just give him a hard time. Don’t worry, girl, I’m here alone. Go tell your man to come in for a while and have a cup of tea, and that way he can also meet your mother. The Queen of the Corner looked into Rana’s frowning eyes and again encountered that old-time affection of their friendship, the old queen’s generous feelings of sisterhood at seeing her so much in love.
Carlos was restrained as he walked in, asking permission to sit down in the broken armchair. Rana welcomed him—Make yourself at home, m’boy—trying not to succumb to the enchantment of the young man’s bedroom eyes as he looked at the photos of naked men plastered all over the walls. It is my family picture album. They have all loved me, all adored me when I was rich; then, when I became poor, they all left me, stealing my last jewels, and then turned off the lights. When were you rich, girl? the Queen of the Corner asked her, trying to weave a magic thread of humor into the conversation. In the north, sweetie, I was Señora Rana, La Gran Rana, Rana Regent, who organized the best entertainment for the nighttime enjoyment of the mayor, the firemen, the sports club, and all the other important officials who passed through there. Did you own a disco? No way, girl, Rana answered, staring at Carlos. I ran the best whorehouse in Antofagasta; it had a piano and the prettiest girls in the whole region. Are you sure this isn’t just a fairy tale? the Queen of the Corner asked, with feigned innocence. There she goes, showing her true colors. Young man, please forgive my daughter, it’s not my fault she turned out like this. I sent her to the best religious schools, but she never learned her manners. But Carlos, surely you can understand that with such a mother, I couldn’t possibly have turned out any differently? the other answered, pretending to pout. Don’t you worry now, girlfriend, the young man knows this is just the way we queens tease each other. Right, m’boy? Of course, Carlos said, smiling calmly. It was strange, but he felt good in this lair of maricones, as if in some other life he had known Rana, that huge fairy godmother dressed in pants and a black shirt who looked at him with warmth and affection. Put the kettle on, my dear, so we can have some tea, Rana instructed, in a tender, maternal tone. Right away, Mommy, the other said, as she stood up, made a cartoon face, and went into the kitchen. Please don’t bother, we really didn’t mean to impose. It is no bother to entertain my daughter’s friend. Have you known each other long? Almost two months. And how did you meet? Walking, Carlos lied, getting a bit uncomfortable under this burdensome interrogation. The great Rana, like a large inflated porpoise, then got up, sat down next to Carlos, and began speaking to him under her breath. See here, my dear, I’ve got no intention to meddle, but I love that girl as if she really were my own daughter—pointing with her lips toward the kitchen where the Queen of the Corner rattled the cups as she prepared the tea. The only thing I ask is that you not make her suffer, because her life has not been easy. I can see you are a decent, respectful young man, and that’s all the more reason why I ask you not to lead her on, not to make her believe in things that will never happen. Do you understand? Without speaking, Carlos nodded, visibly touched. But I have never led him on, I’ve never said that—Are you talking about me? the Queen shouted from the kitchen before appearing with the tray steaming with aromatic tea. Who’s going to talk about you, girl? Rana shouted back, as she stood up from the sofa and returned to her place. As they sipped tea, Rana filled the slightly rancid air in the room with stories from the brothels and other cheerful anecdotes that Carlos celebrated with strident laughter. How well you two get on, the Queen of the Corner mumbled, with a frown of jealousy, as she cleared away the cups. How ungrateful you are, daughter; you’re upset because I am entertaining your friend, whom I like so much. And the door to this house is always op
en, my dear. Thank you, Carlos responded, standing up lazily, ready to take his leave with the politeness of a gentleman. Shall we go? Yes, let’s, Carlos, because it doesn’t take long for my mother to start being a real drag. Better in drag than a fag, Rana shot back. Girl, are you on the rag? asked the other. No, but at least I don’t sag, Rana continued. Oh, my darling, you are my one and only hag, the Queen of the Corner said, without missing a beat, before turning to Rana and giving her a big hug full of genuine affection. The three walked out to the street and stood next to the car, engaged in animated and happy conversation. As they were saying good-bye, Rana’s amphibious eyes welled up, on the verge of tears. Oh, Mommy, don’t get sad, we had such a good time. That’s why, because something tells me this will be the last time. Rana’s voice was cavernous as she uttered her ominous prophecy, soaking up her pain in a tiny piece of tissue. We forgot the record player and that’s the reason we came. Carlos, could you take it out of the car and carry it into the house? He’s beautiful, isn’t he? she asked Rana the moment they were alone on the sidewalk. Gorgeous, my dear, but don’t fall in love; let him go, because it will only be more difficult later, Rana advised, with the wisdom of a fairy godmother. You’re just jealous, the Queen of the Corner blurted out angrily, or is it just that you can’t believe a man can love me? Many can, my dear, but not this one, Rana said to her gravely. I can’t help but wonder at his reasons for leading you along. My charms, girl; anyway, you don’t know our story and I can’t tell you. It’s not drug dealing, is it? More dangerous than that. Rana grabbed her head as Carlos came out of the house and politely took her hand to say good-bye. Don’t forget what I asked you, she whispered to him secretly, and he nodded and smiled, got into the car, and they took off in a cloud of dust. What did Rana ask you? Nothing important, just for some magazines I offered her. She was very impressed by you, and she is a dear friend; queens tend to be fickle, but she is loyal, a little old and old-fashioned, don’t you think, Carlos? Look who’s talking. What, you think I’m old? How dare you say that! Dejected, she sank more deeply into her seat. Don’t get mad, I’m joking; this afternoon has been wonderful, I laughed myself silly. I needed so badly to relax because difficult days lie ahead. Once again a curtain of steel fell over them. I’m not going to ask you why, all I ask is that you be careful and don’t hesitate to ask me for anything, she said. Anything? he asked, his eyebrow raised. Whatever it is, except to pick up a gun; my hands shake, I can’t deal with that. But you have already had guns in your hand. Perhaps, she said, but without knowing. I don’t want to know and I prefer to change the subject because I’m getting very anxious. And what if I teach you how to shoot? I’d die, I’d be like a kangaroo with a pistol, I’d shoot anything and anybody. Oh, Carlos, please let’s talk about something else. Put on some music. How do I turn on this radio?
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