“Yes…”
“And, well, I believe that this election might be the last one he will run in. Therefore it is necessary that the party take all the necessary arrangements to ensure his success.”
“Yes…”
“Well, to speak quite frankly, a few of us closest to Salvador believe that television will play a major role in this year’s elections. For the first time in our history, the political speeches of each candidate will be nationally broadcast. It is not my intention to imply that Don Salvador is not an eloquent speaker. Some of the speeches he made in the city center or on top of the tower on Santa Lucía Hill are deeply embedded in my mind. They are the passionate songs of a man with conviction. But on television a man must be more subdued, his gesticulations less wild. His elocution carefully manicured. Little problems such as a slight stuttering of speech or a nervous tic in the eye must be kept at bay.” Neruda smiled. “We hope we have learned something from the Kennedy-Nixon debates. My American friends tell me that Señor Nixon’s wolfish appearance in a television debate cost him the election ten years ago. If only it had happened the second time as well, but that is another story.
“In any event, that is why I have come to you, Señor Ribeiro, for assistance. I believe you are the best, and the party needs you to coach their most cherished candidate just a little. Perhaps only eight to ten sessions at the most.”
Octavio was dumbfounded. He could not believe his ears.
“You want me to help Dr. Allende with his speeches?”
“With his delivery of his speeches, Señor Ribeiro. You, more than anyone, must know how the camera can be unkind to a man who is not used to the lens. Otherwise, if everyone had your talents, you’d be out of a job!”
Octavio ran his fingers through his hair. “It certainly is an intriguing offer, and I am overwhelmingly flattered that you have come to me, Señor Neruda.” He still could not believe that someone as intelligent and as worldly as Pablo Neruda would have seen any of his films. He had always thought his work embarrassingly melodramatic.
Octavio was just about to ask Neruda a question when he suddenly heard Salomé’s voice calling him from upstairs. He did not answer at first because he had not yet thought of a suitable explanation for why the great poet was now sitting on their slightly rusty iron chairs in their garden. But, before he knew it, Salomé was calling for him again.
“Octavio! Octavio!” she hollered. Then, suddenly the upstairs window flung open. He looked up above and saw her cascade of long black hair hanging over the side and her small, round face peering down at him and his guest.
“Who in heaven’s name do you have down there with you?”
“Pablo Neruda, my love.”
“Very funny. Who is it?”
“Pablo Neruda, my love.”
Neruda looked up at her and waved.
Octavio would never forget that look of shock on Salomé’s face when she came running down in her housecoat, her hair full and her face without makeup, and found the cherished poet sitting there beside him. It was an utterly priceless memory for him.
“Oh my God!” she squealed as she covered her mouth and a deep blush swept over her face. “It can’t be! It just cannot be!”
“It is indeed, madame,” Neruda said as he stood up, took off his hat, and bowed slightly at the knees. “So pleased to make your acquaintance, dearest lady,” said Neruda with a genteel formality and innate sparkle that echoed an earlier time. “I see that a movie star such as Señor Ribeiro has a starlet of his own at home.”
Salomé could not help but smile back at Neruda, and Octavio could tell immediately that his wife was smitten with the old poet’s charms. “You must excuse me, Señor Neruda,” Salomé begged, “I had no idea that you were arriving. My husband told me nothing of your visit.” She gave a quick fierce look at her husband, to signal to him that he would be receiving her wrath later that evening.
“He knew nothing of my visit,” Neruda said as he smiled at Octavio, fully amused by the situation.
She turned to go upstairs but changed her direction midway. “Oh, heavens, I see Octavio has not offered you a drink! May I bring you a glass of sherry or iced tea?”
“If it is of no trouble, a pisco sour would be delightful! Thank you.”
“One for me too, darling?”
However, Octavio could already see the back of his beloved wife’s head shaking as she went to prepare the drinks in the kitchen. He would have to have some great explanation this evening. Otherwise, he would be relegated to sleeping in the hammock for sure, with only the hermaphrodite tree as his companion.
Neruda, Salomé, and Octavio spent the hour sitting in the garden, as the girls and Rafael tumbled in and out of the house. Salomé changed into her favorite dress and tied back her hair in an artfully arranged bun. Neruda remained silent on the subject of his spontaneous visit, never mentioning Allende in Salomé’s company. When she tried to inquire why he had arrived, he brushed her questions off lightly, saying only that he was a longtime fan of Octavio’s films and had been in the neighborhood.
He said little else except for the normal pleasantries that typify small talk. But the garden enthralled him. So taken by the garden was he that when he stood up to announce his departure, he asked if he might have a quick tour of it.
“It would be my pleasure to take you on a tour, but you must mind your step, as it is a jungle in there, I assure you.”
“I adore jungles, madam.”
He held on to Salomé’s arm to steady himself and marveled at the lushness and wildness of the place.
“Smells like jasmine and hollyhock. Wisteria and sterling roses…”
“You have quite a nose, Señor Neruda,” Salomé admired.
Octavio watched them from the wrought-iron chair, holding his glass of pisco sour in one hand. He still could not believe that the man whose poems he had transcribed to court his beloved wife was now in their backyard. He saw the old man reach out and pick one of the roses and tuck it beside Salomé’s ear.
The two of them were completely giddy when Neruda left. Salomé did not scold Octavio for not giving her proper notice to change her clothes and apply some lipstick. He, in turn, did not tell her what Neruda had asked of him.
That night, they made love as if they were teenagers again. He rummaged to find the silk pouch she had embroidered for him, the one that still contained his carefully written poems. Later, as Salomé lay on the bed, her legs peeking out from the lace trim of her nightgown, Octavio pulled each rolled paper from the silken pouch and read each stanza to her aloud. She listened to him, her eyelids closed and her mind far away, for she was lost in the sound of her husband’s voice. Lost, as she imagined herself as that seventeen-year-old girl again, lying in the orchard with a thousand oranges falling from a star-studded sky.
Eighteen
SANTIAGO, CHILE
FEBRUARY 1970
The following evening, as Octavio and Salomé stretched out in their bed and gazed at the ceiling fan circling in the air above, Octavio remembered that he had yet to tell his beloved wife of the conversation he had had with Neruda the day before.
“Salomé, darling,” he began as he reached out to stroke her leg, “Neruda has asked me to assist with the Allende campaign.”
“What? You?” She began to giggle at the absurdity. “You can’t be serious?”
“I am.”
She sat up and looked straight at him, her nightgown falling languidly over one shoulder. “Why you? You are not a political man. You didn’t even vote in the last election. You’re an actor!”
He could smell her hand cream on her upturned palms, and suddenly he regretted that he had chosen this time to tell her. He would much rather be making love to her than having to explain the details of his and Neruda’s conversation.
In his heart, he knew his wife was right. He had never shown the slightest interest in politics. Now that he was finally enjoying some well-deserved time off from acting, he preferred t
o spend his hours looking at his poetry books or spending time with the children, playing a tango record on the old Victrola to their delight. But he had to admit, he was flattered that the great Neruda had come to him.
“I’m not exactly sure why the party feels I’m the most qualified. I only memorize scripts, I don’t write them.” He reached out to massage the back of her calves. “Yet, I must admit, I am intrigued.”
“Intrigued, Octavio?”
“Yes, my little Fayum, I’m intrigued. Neruda believes that television will play an important role in this year’s election, and he thinks I would be the perfect person to help Allende prepare for his debut. After all, the man has practiced as a doctor and a lawyer, but probably has little experience in matters of presentation. He has always made his political speeches on the streets of Santiago, never before in front of the camera.”
Salomé placed her pot of cream on the nightstand and turned to Octavio. Her thick, black hair was full around her shoulders. “Well, I know little about Allende, though I’ve heard that he is well intentioned. And of course I trust Neruda. Just promise me that you’ll be careful. You and I both know how volatile the political situation can be here…”
“Of course,” he said as he reached over to kiss her. “Still, we must remember the way we were as teenagers…remember how adventurous and pure of heart we were then.” His voice was full of nostalgia. “Salomé, imagine, only a few years ago I was quoting Neruda in hopes of seducing you, and now he comes to me for assistance.”
“Yes, Octavio.” Her eyes were now serious despite Octavio’s mischievous grin. “Just be cautious. I just wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize our happiness.” She extended her palm and stroked his cheek gently. “You must remember it is not only the two of us now. We have a family to consider.”
He turned to kiss her once more. “Don’t worry.” He sucked on her small, delicate mouth. “Haven’t I always looked out for us?” She smiled back at him as he rolled on top of her and turned off the light.
The following week, Octavio received a handwritten letter from Neruda requesting that he meet Allende and some of his aides at a café not far from the central station.
Octavio arrived and noticed the middle-aged doctor immediately, recognizing him by his ivory-colored suit and thick, black glasses. He was far more elegant in person than Octavio had imagined. Neruda was at his side.
“Thank you for coming, Señor Ribeiro,” Neruda said, greeting him like an old friend. The old poet stood up to shake Octavio’s hand. He tossed his cape over his left shoulder. “Let me introduce you to the good doctor.”
Allende rose from his chair and extended his hand. “Thank you, Señor Ribeiro, for coming to see me at such short notice. I realize how busy a man in your position must be.”
The doctor seemed taller in person than in the pictures Octavio had seen in the papers. He had a strong, physical build and a face that reminded Octavio of a professor he had had when he was at the university. Behind the thick, black eyeglasses, soft, draping eyelids, and heavy, full mustache, Allende evoked a sensitivity and sincerity that Octavio immediately warmed to. How refreshing, Octavio thought to himself, that Chile had a political candidate who was completely devoid of pomposity.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Señor Ribeiro,” Allende said quietly. “I am an avid fan of your films.”
“The honor is mine, Doctor,” Octavio replied as he took his seat in the chair, the chair that Neruda had withdrawn for him.
“I hope my friend the poet has not inconvenienced you by asking you here today to meet with me.”
“No, no. Not at all. It is my pleasure.”
“I see,” Allende said as a smile passed over his lips. “Are you a supporter of the party?”
Octavio readjusted himself in his chair, withdrew a handkerchief, and patted his brow. “No, sir, I am not.”
“I see.” Allende smiled.
“I’ve actually never voted.”
Allende and his aides let out a few short laughs.
“I see you’re a true artist, one with little interest in the activities that plague the common man.”
“No, I’m just lazy.”
“One of the great pleasures of life,” mused Neruda.
“Well, I hope your lack of interest in politics won’t dissuade you from thinking about taking the job. As my comrade Don Pablo probably mentioned, I’m a bit nervous in front of the camera. I don’t want any of my nervous habits to get the best of me. When I don’t have a crowd in front of me, I can get stiff and my oratory skills tend to weaken. I don’t want that to affect my campaign.
“What I need,” Allende continued, “is for someone to direct the camera, someone I trust, who will ensure that I am filmed in the most flattering light.” He paused again as if he wanted to clarify his expectations a bit more. “I assure you it is not out of vanity. I only want the people to listen to me, not to be distracted by my eye or my occasional hesitations of speech.”
“Yes, of course.” Octavio nodded. “I suppose I could give you a few pointers that might put your mind at ease.”
“That is exactly what I need, Señor Ribeiro. And who knows, by the end of all of this, I might just make a socialist out of you!”
“Yes, you just might, Doctor. Stranger things have happened. And I just might make a legend out of you.”
That evening, Octavio told Salomé in detail what had transpired between him and Allende that afternoon.
“The man is terrified that the camera might affect his campaign. He just wants a few pointers so he can make a good impression on the television. With the right lighting and camera direction, with a few sessions on speech delivery, he’ll be fine.”
“He sounds a bit vain,” Salomé observed.
“You think?” Octavio seemed hurt at his wife’s suggestion. “No, I don’t think so,” he answered after pondering for a few seconds what his wife had just said. “I believe his concern was not based on vanity, as he had little interest in appearing handsome. But, rather, he wanted to ensure that his words were heard clearly and without distraction.”
“What exactly are you going to teach him? You’ve never coached anyone like this before.”
“I will teach him the pointers of the trade. How to speak clearly, how to look directly into the camera when making promises. How to level his chin and maintain the intensity of his gaze.” Octavio paused. “I have it all worked out. It won’t be that complicated.”
“But you said he had certain tics?”
“Yes, his right eye twitches when he is under excessive strain, and sometimes, when he is nervous, he has a slight stutter. But I told Allende that, if he trusted me and allowed me to coach him, I thought we could overcome any of those problems by teaching him some simple breathing techniques.”
Salomé listened to what her husband had just told her. “Do you really think one’s TV appearance is that influential? Do you really think voters will be swayed if one candidate is more awkward than the other? I would never be persuaded by one candidate just because his speech patterns are better than the other.”
“Darling, these things can work on a subconscious level. People are always more keen toward an attractive and well-polished candidate. Allende has lost three elections in the past. I cannot change his physical appearance, and anyway, he has a distinguished air about him. But I can help him with the delivery of his speeches. I will not be writing for him; whatever he promises will be his own words! And why shouldn’t people hear his words clearly?” Octavio paused and laid his palms on Salomé’s crossed knees.
“If Neruda is the man whose poems had the capacity to lead your heart toward me, we should trust him and his support of the best presidential candidate. And”—he looked Salomé straight in the eyes—“I think we should do whatever we can to help him win.”
Salomé was silent. She was surprised that her husband was suddenly so passionate in his support for Allende. This was a man who had spent his youth copying love poems, not
political slogans. It was becoming a bit overwhelming for her. The two girls had given her and the maid trouble all day, and Rafael had been complaining that he missed the hacienda. She was too exhausted to discuss the matter further.
“You’re probably right,” she acquiesced as she went to turn the overhead light off. “It sounds as though he is a good man who needs your help.” She slid over to his side of the bed and pressed her cheek close to his. She wanted to share his enthusiasm, but something in her heart told her otherwise. Still, she whispered into his ear, “He’ll be lucky to have you as a teacher, my love. Just remember your promise to be careful.”
Nineteen
SANTIAGO, CHILE
MARCH 1970
With his new “coaching” role underneath his wings, Octavio seemed to be refueled with a new zest for his life and career. Finally, he was able to be engaged in a project that he found intellectually stimulating. Never could he have imagined that Pablo Neruda would come to him and ask him to help one of the country’s presidential candidates. He felt reborn.
At night he would stay up and read all the articles he could find on Allende. He clipped out copies of the speeches Allende had made in the past and read the critiques of his platforms from the various national newspapers. Little by little, he was able to piece together the vision of a man he felt was not only brilliant but deeply compassionate as well.
“This socialism that he speaks of would afford the children who are less fortunate than ours to have a better life,” Octavio told Salomé as the two of them sat in the garden watching Rafael and his two little sisters, Blanca and Isabelle, play under the shade of the avocado tree.
“He wants every child to be able to go to school, have free milk, better health care…who can find fault with a man who has come from such privilege as he has and still has sympathy and feeling for those with less means.”
Salomé nodded her head. “I agree with you, Octavio, but there are people in our country who will not want such a drastic political change. It requires a complete overhaul in our nation’s thinking. Not to mention Chile’s economy.”
The Rhythm of Memory Page 10