The Penguin Lessons

by Tom Michell

  I would be able to take Juan Salvado on a train and get him to the sea if I took food and an early evening departure so that the journey wouldn’t be too warm; it was feasible, but would there be any penguins when we got there? If there were, would they accept him into their colony? Would there be any sprats for him to eat? What if he again refused to leave me? That line of reasoning didn’t seem very promising.

  The nearest rookeries of wild penguins that I knew of were at Peninsula Valdés, and that was getting on for a thousand miles away by road. The practical difficulties of getting him there would be formidable. The best option would involve taking both the motorbike and the penguin to Bahía Blanca by train and then riding the bike to Valdés. Continuing to stir my tea, I could only hazard a guess as to the journey time. The first leg, to Bahía Blanca, might take fourteen hours, and then the second leg, by bike, another ten. I couldn’t see the round trip taking less than four whole days, and that was without allowing for contingencies, which prudence would counsel against. And supposing I did get him there, then what? What if I couldn’t find the colonies? Even if I did, would it make any sense to abandon him there with no guarantee he would be accepted by the incumbents?

  No, the only reasonable thing to do, I concluded, was to conduct a reconnaissance of Valdés as soon as I could and make no irreversible plans until then.

  That impulsive refreshment in the tearoom at Harrods meant that I had to take the last possible train back to Quilmes to get me there in time for my late afternoon duty in the college. This, in turn, set me on a collision course with a force majeure and illustrated the necessity of preparing for all eventualities in Argentina at that time. Juan Salvador would be the least of my problems in the heat of what was to come.

  —

  After an exile of eighteen years, Juan Perón began his third term as president of Argentina in 1973 at the age of seventy-eight. His third wife, Isabel Perón, became vice president. The infighting between the various Perónist factions and the terrorism mounted by the Montoneros (an urban guerrilla movement) caused great turmoil. Bombs killed and maimed indiscriminately, while drive-by shootings, intended to be more targeted, still produced collateral damage. I wasn’t prepared for the chaos of Argentina in the days after I first arrived, despite being warned of the culture shock by my new employer. Every morning the newspapers printed long lists of people who had died on the previous day in different outrages.

  When, in 1974, Juan Perón quite suddenly died, Isabel became president. She was hopelessly out of her depth, was badly advised, and had none of the political shrewdness or guile that had propelled her predecessor, Eva, to the top. Argentina slid toward total anarchy. Although the people I knew represented a wide range of Argentine society, there appeared to be a fairly general consensus that things had become so bad that only the army could restore order.

  I vividly recall a particular television program shown during the time Isabel was president. As I passed one of the common rooms I noticed that a TV set had been left on, and I went in to turn it off. It was only by chance that I saw the transmission. I watched in utter disbelief. It featured a birthday party, one that appeared to be a child’s celebration, with party hats and musical chairs. People laughed when food fell on the floor, blew noisy party whistles, and sang “Cumpleaños Feliz,” or “Happy Birthday,” when the candles were blown out. But the “birthday girl” was none other than the president of the Republic of Argentina, Isabel Perón, and the revelers displaying infantile behavior were members of the government! They were all in denial. These frivolous party antics were being televised nationwide against a background of daily bombings and heinous murder.

  Living in an atmosphere engendered by terrorism ensured that the majority of people worried only about themselves. The result was that nothing was reliable. Shops might or might not open, trains might or might not run, electricity supplies weren’t dependable. Not unreasonably, self-preservation was everyone’s first priority. One of the most noticeable results of this was that people did not turn up for work or did not work to the standard that would normally be expected. Employment had become a relatively low priority. The government of Isabel Perón failed to maintain law and order or to fulfill the basic duties and functions of a government, yet it appeared that the army was reluctant to stage a coup and to impose order.

  It was a military coup, in 1955, that had ended the earlier Perón administration, and although the army had soon handed power back to a civilian government, the shadowy hand of the armed forces was never far from the helm in the 1950s and 1960s. This caused much public resentment and explains why the military held back for so long in the 1970s. They were waiting for nearly universal public demand for the army to “save” the nation.

  Throughout 1975, calls for intervention grew as the situation deteriorated. These intensified month by month, and by 1976 it was widely expected that the military was “just about” to seize power. Yet, day after day, no move came. By March of that year, rumors of a revolution were rife. On the twenty-first I wrote a letter to my parents: “A short note to get it off quickly. Rumors are flying around and no one seems to know anything for certain, but according to the BBC World Service broadcast I have just heard, a coup is imminent; if it’s true, you may not get mail for some time. Don’t worry! It won’t involve me.”

  The twenty-second and the twenty-third passed without incident, but on the morning of the twenty-fourth I awoke to find that there was nothing but martial music on all the radio stations (I confess I actually found it a pleasant change from the relentless tango music, which I never did find a good way to start the day, although it’s deeply exciting in a dark cellar bar at night). It had happened.

  Initially hopes were high. Terrorist outrages decreased dramatically. Universally, people began behaving more responsibly. The streets were cleaned, the lights worked, shops opened, airmail letters from home arrived only two days after posting rather than the usual week to ten days, and trains ran punctually. As far as I was concerned, the coup was a welcome event.

  So I had every confidence that the train timetabled to get me back to the college on time for my duty would not fail to do so that day, but when it stopped at Avellaneda, just after passing over the Riachuelo, masses of armed troops rushed out of the station and surrounded us.

  There was lots of shouting and the sound of running army boots. All the passengers were ordered off the train and herded into the station building, with much pushing and shoving by the troops as they swarmed through the train, using their guns to poke people who didn’t move sufficiently quickly. Officers shouted at the soldiers, and the soldiers, in turn, shouted at the passengers. Several people fell down in the panic. There was a great deal of screaming and calling as people tried to locate their husbands, wives, children, and friends separated in the melee.

  A whisper went round that there were terrorists on the train. This was despite the order for silence and the waving of submachine guns, which was designed to intimidate and create fear amongst the guilty and innocent alike. There was a great deal of upset, sobbing, and supplication for divine intervention. Crucifixes and rosaries were plainly visible in many hands.

  We were divided into groups of about thirty, placed in separate rooms, and made to stand with our backs against the walls. Six soldiers, with automatic weapons apparently at the ready, stood back to back in the center of the room in which I was installed. We were ordered to remove our coats and jackets so that we could be searched easily. We were all anxious. I could see perspiration glistening on foreheads. Under the arms of the soldiers and the passengers alike, large dark damp patches demonstrated our collective fear. Every few seconds I could feel drips of sweat running down my own body in that hot, airless, frightened room.

  The soldiers were mostly very young conscripts, who didn’t even look as old as the college prefects, and they were certainly afraid; their eyes flitted from the passengers to each other as though looking for reassurance. They held their guns against their sh
oulders, aimed at the chests and heads of the five or six passengers immediately in front of them. Silence settled on the room. Although I tried to keep my eyes down and away from the faces of the soldiers, aware that eye contact might be seen as defiance or provocation, I still found my gaze drifting up, curious to see where others were looking and what the soldiers were doing. I could see the guns. Looking directly down the black hole of a gun barrel is a gut-wrenching experience. Fingers appeared to be on the triggers, but I couldn’t tell if safety catches were on. It occurred to me that I’d never know if a trigger was squeezed when a gun was pointing at me. Oblivion. How hard would that be for my parents? And what about Juan Salvado? Who else would look after him properly? No, I had to get through this for their sakes. All I had to do was look at the floor and do as I was told.

  One by one we were searched. Each of us in turn was made to take a couple of paces forward while soldiers looked, I assumed, for concealed weapons. The inspection was carried out in an intimate and unnecessarily brutal way. No consideration was given to privacy or to the fact that young men were searching both men and women of all ages. But, of course, no one protested. Within an hour or so everyone had been searched and had their papers checked. We were ordered back onto the train and allowed to depart, much to the great relief of everybody. Word went around that some people had been taken away. I had no idea whether that was true or not. All I knew was that looking down the barrels of half a dozen machine guns held by young and nervous conscripts was a very scary experience. I’d had no confidence that the soldiers or the officers were doing their jobs properly. I wondered then if Argentina had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  “Motorbikes are definitely not compatible with explorers who have penguins as traveling companions.”

  At the start of each new term all the boys were generally fit and well, but after a while an “off-games” notice began to circulate, listing boys with illnesses and injuries. Such youngsters were still expected to get out for fresh air and exercise, if they could. Depending on the severity of their affliction, they would be encouraged to take a gentle turn round the games fields or a more energetic walk down to the river.

  It wasn’t long before a small group of off-games students came to ask if they could take Juan Salvado with them as they exercised around the fields while the other boys were playing rugby. And so it was that Juan Salvado was introduced to that “game for hooligans that is played by gentlemen.”

  The particular match they took him to see was between two under-14 teams—a match I was refereeing. Juan Salvado stayed with his little group of minders as they moved up and down the touchline offering encouragement and advice to their friends, such as “Get stuck in, you lazy slob” and other helpful comments.

  For what reason Juan Salvado always stayed on his side of the touchline and remained close to his companions, I cannot say. The fact remains that he attended many rugby games with different minders, and although he would rush up and down the touchline, keeping close to the play as though keen to miss none of the action, never did he encroach onto the pitch or get too close. If a sudden change of play caused a rush of players to bear down on him, willing hands would snatch him from the ground and move him to safety.

  Of course, it didn’t take long for St. George’s under-14 team to realize that a penguin was precisely the sort of macho mascot that a fearless rugby team needed to strike fear and dread into any opposition. So Juan Salvado became the official team talisman and doubtless brought luck to his adoptive players. (Or perhaps that should be “adopted,” for I am really not sure who adopted whom.)

  —

  One warm and balmy Thursday afternoon not long after, I was at the end of refereeing a “possibles” versus “probables” practice game in preparation for an important match, under the careful gaze of our mascot, when a chilling message arrived.

  In those days telephone calls, like international air travel, were extremely expensive. To get an idea of relative values, you have to understand that the London–Buenos Aires return flight on a BOAC VC10 (magnificent aircraft though it was) cost more than £1,000 at a time when the average income was about £50 a week.

  International phone calls were not simply an indulgence but prohibitively expensive—maybe fifty or a hundred times their cost now—and personal calls were only made in dire circumstances. This wasn’t a terrible inconvenience; airmail letters took no more than a week on average to arrive at their destination but could take as little as two days if one happened to catch the post just right. They were also cheap to send—mere pennies. Dutifully I wrote home at least once a week, and was a good correspondent with other friends and relations, too. Following the unexpected arrival of Juan Salvado, my missives had actually acquired some genuinely interesting news for those at home. The pleasure of writing and receiving a handwritten letter shouldn’t be underestimated; however, there were no phone calls at all until that particular afternoon.

  “Mrs. Trent’s compliments, and there’s an international phone call for you!” A wavering voice came running on weary legs across the fields, calling for me. The message came via a relay of runners to reach me, conveniently situated at the furthest end of the campus, at least half a mile from the office. I looked toward the boys with Juan Salvado and indicated that they should take him back to the terrace and not wait for me.

  There were two types of service level for international phone calls. Phoning place-to-place was the cheaper option; the call was charged per minute for the entire time the call was connected. The alternative, person-to-person, was twice the price, but the charges didn’t start until the required person arrived at the handset and was able to talk to the caller. If, for any reason, the intended recipient was unavailable, then there was no charge.

  I could only surmise that something unpleasant had happened. It was the only possible reason anyone would make an international phone call. After all, no news was good news, wasn’t it? Obviously, someone had died. The possibilities flashed through my mind. Grandparents were in their eighties. They had been well when I left home. Parents were in their sixties. They hadn’t said anything was amiss in their letters. Siblings or other close friends, perhaps? That seemed unlikely. It’s moments like that when you realize you actually have a preference about these things: Oh, please don’t let it be…An icy anxiety gripped me, and I felt the blood drain from my face as a cold perspiration, which had nothing to do with the exertion of the game, formed on my brow. I battled to maintain the appearance of composure.

  Running to get there quickly, but walking at intervals to make sure I had enough breath to be able to respond when I arrived, I made my way to the admin office.

  Whom would I fly home for? What a hideous question to have to answer. I had money in the bank to get home in an emergency, but not for a return flight. I had been living in Argentina for less than a year and hadn’t begun to slake my wanderlust. Oh, what an unkind turn of fate! The single flight home would be equivalent to the cost of a family car now. I couldn’t be expected to pay that for some distant relative I might never have met, could I? But there would be no question if…Oh, please don’t let it be…

  My heart was hammering as I got to the office. I kicked off my muddy boots and went in. Sarah gave me a kind, concerned smile. She was the college secretary, a truly sympathetic, helpful lady who was relied upon by the young expats who needed a bit of TLC from time to time.

  The receiver was lying on her desk next to the base. It was black and ominous, and I hated it for the pain it was about to bring me. She picked it up and put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “It’s person-to-person, so don’t rush. Just wait till you’ve got your breath back. Take a few deep breaths,” she whispered to me. To the international operator she lied, “I can see him coming now. He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”

  She put the phone down as she walked round the desk, giving me a wan smile. She touched my forearm momentarily with her fingers. Be strong was the message
. Then she left the office, shutting the door firmly to allow me some privacy.

  I took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and said hello as steadily as I could.

  “Hello. This is the international operator; I have a person-to-person call for Tom Michell from his mother. Are you he?” piped a thin voice, seemingly from a great distance.

  Mother calling…so that meant…I felt devastated. The foundation of my world was about to fall apart. My gut tightened. I knew….

  I spoke in a semi-shout to the faint, faraway voice.

  “I am,” I said.

  “Putting you through now, caller,” she said.

  “Hello, Mother?”

  “Hello…is that you, Tom? Can you hear me, Tom?”

  “Yes. Can you speak up? I can hardly hear you.”

  “Is that better? Can you hear me now?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Oh, hello, darling! Happy birthday!”

  “What?”

  “Happy birthday, darling! I’m phoning to say happy birthday!”

  Churning emotions choked me. Was it my birthday? It was. Was that really all she was phoning for? Everyone was alive and well!