She spent her first years as a single mother rededicating herself to the things that were most meaningful to her: her children, her books, and her collecting.
She realized she had been less of a mother to Rafael and the girls since coming to Sweden. So one of the first things she did when she and Octavio separated was to try to reacquaint herself with them. She put more time aside to do creative projects with them and helped them as they did their homework. And she told them she was always there if they ever wanted to talk about their difficulties adjusting to their new life in Sweden.
The girls told her that they missed their favorite foods from back home, so Salomé started cooking again, filling the house with the odors that had been a familiar perfume in their kitchen back in Chile. She journeyed outside her neighborhood and found markets that sold the ingredients she longed for—ropes of garlic, red and green chilies, coriander, and mint.
She bought flowers, even in the winter, and placed them in odd places where the children least expected them. A shelf in the bathroom might have three sprays of freesia, or the top tier of a bookshelf might have a bud vase full of red and blue anemones.
She also began collecting again, just as she had in the Casa Rosa. She mended broken things that others had discarded and placed them in small groupings. Her “little families,” she called them. As she set them around the apartment, she would always remind the children that even broken things needed a home.
In a gesture of her newfound independence, and to further her academic pursuits, Salomé accepted the government’s invitation to learn Swedish and enrolled in a nearby school. There she met other refugees and befriended a few other South Americans whose stories were not so different from her own.
At night, after she tucked her children tightly in their beds, she would study by lamplight and learn the mechanics of the language of the country she finally came to accept as her home.
She loved those moments she had to herself, when her books were opened in front of her and her sharpened pencils placed nearby, just as they were on her old convent desk. After she completed the intensive yearlong language class, she enrolled in a local college and began studying the classics, fulfilling a lifelong dream of hers. She resumed her study of Latin, Greek, and classical poetry, and even took up art history.
During her studies, a few men at the college asked her out on dates. And occasionally, she accepted. She even took one or two lovers over the years in the hope that she would find the fulfillment she was seeking. But in the end, her need for physical acceptance could never overcome her emotional detachment from these men. Gradually, she realized she was seeking companionship from them, not another great love.
Through the years, Salomé came to realize that no other man could rival the kindness and gentleness of her ex-husband, and she soon came to miss what she and Octavio once had. She missed their conversations, their closeness, and the history that they had once shared. She knew the children longed for their father as well. So little by little, she made overtures of friendship toward him. He resisted at first, but eventually his pride and his stubbornness began to melt.
Over time, as her brief affairs abated and Salomé began to settle comfortably into her role as single mother and part-time student, she found herself thinking about Octavio with increasing frequency. She even wondered whether she had made a mistake in divorcing him. She had never regretted her affair with Samuel, or even letting Octavio leave so she could come to terms with what had happened to her. But sometimes she did wonder if, had they only separated for a short time, things could ultimately have been salvaged, and they wouldn’t have needed to divorce.
Yet despite the divorce, they were all a family still. Indeed, she ended up relying on her former husband more than she would have liked to admit. Octavio was always there when she needed him, either as a sympathetic voice on the other end of the phone or a helpful hand when she needed some assistance with something in her apartment. Salomé had come to see that their love, with its many fractures and fissures, had endured.
Now, as she was finally finishing her graduate classes and had achieved her goal of being able to translate the poems of Catullus, she thought about the promise she had made to him on the night of their wedding, when after he had given her a book on the Fayums, she had vowed to learn the poems in their original form. That memory washed over her, and she was overcome with nostalgia. It seemed like only yesterday to her, and yet a lifetime ago. She went over to her bookshelf and found the book. She opened it to the first page, running her palm over the inscription.
“To my precious Fayum,” it said in a deliberate hand. “May I be able to gaze upon you always.”
Overcome with emotion, Salomé brushed away her tears. The steadfastness of Octavio’s words struck her deeply. Her delicate fingers, almost instinctively, moved over her breast bone, tracing the outline of her heart.
Sixty-seven
VESTERÅS, SWEDEN
NOVEMBER 1998
She had sounded so urgent on the telephone, so he rushed over to her as soon as he could. The streetlights of Vesterås illuminated the gray evening with their warm, golden globes. He buried his chin into his scarf and quickly walked over the cobblestones, the sound of his feet on the wet pavement softened by the occasional puddle of damp leaves.
She welcomed him with a warm embrace, her hair floating softly around his neck as she pulled him close. The smell of her apartment immediately brought him back to Chile: the scent of eucalyptus and wild mint mingled with that of the dish of marzipan that she had half-nibbled on in the kitchen.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said as she motioned for him to sit down.
“Of course,” he said.
She brought him a cup of tea and unfolded the letter as he settled into the sofa. “I want you to read this,” she said, handing it to him.
He looked surprised as he took it from her. He said nothing as he squinted over each word. He read it carefully.
After several minutes, he placed the letter down on the coffee table.
“What are you going to do, Salomé?” he asked gently.
“I’m not sure yet,” she said, shaking her head.
Octavio remained silent. He reached for his tea and warmed his fingers around the ceramic mug.
“It’s been such a long time, and although I feel strong enough to testify, I worry about unearthing something that might upset the children.”
She hesitated for a moment. “I wouldn’t want it to upset you, either.”
He was touched that she would consider his feelings. “Salomé, you needn’t worry about me. If you want to testify, I would wholly support it. God knows how I’d like to see the bastard held responsible for his crimes.”
She smiled and looked down at her fingers, folded in her lap.
“As far as the children are concerned,” he said softly, “I would explain to them about the letter and ask them. But they’re grown-up now and I’m confident they’d want you to go, if you’re up to it.”
“Yes, I know, Octavio.” She curled her legs underneath. “But, do I really want to recall these old memories? I’ve spent a lifetime trying to put them to rest. To move on with my life and forget the misery of the past.”
When she used the word misery, Octavio could not help but wince. “Whatever you decide to do, know that the children and I will support you unconditionally.”
She smiled and pushed back the black curls that were falling over her face, revealing her still ax-cut cheekbones and sparkling brown eyes that had grown even more intense with age.
“I know I should do it,” she said quietly. “But it’s so hard to reopen that part of my life now after so many years.”
Octavio nodded, his face softening over a cloud of steam.
“Yet, I also realize that there are thousands of others who are no longer alive to testify. So not to vindicate my own experience, but more to honor those who can’t speak now for themselves, the right thing, the courageous thing,
would be to do it.”
She looked at Octavio’s face and wondered how he felt about her being so frank with him. Salomé had always avoided speaking about what had happened back in Chile, but now with both the passing of time and the years she had spent living alone, she had realized that one couldn’t avoid certain pain. And she needed to discuss the letter’s arrival with someone. She was happy Octavio could be a sounding board for her. He hadn’t flinched when she’d showed him the letter, and now, as she spoke to him about her feelings, she could see that he was listening to her every word.
“But I’m afraid, Octavio. I don’t know what will happen if I have to relive my torture and go through all the details of what happened. I think I’ve come a long way, but could my progress evaporate if I have to re-create the terror?”
“I can’t say, Salomé. I don’t know.” His face was now relaxed, softer, as if he had waited nearly twenty years for his wife to be this candid with him. “I do know, however, that you have a tremendous amount of strength, and if this is important to you, you should go.”
“I think you’re right, but I need to speak about it with the children before I reply.” She reached for the letter on her coffee table, tapping it gently with her fingertips.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ve invited them all over for dinner this Friday.” Her eyes looked out the rattling window. “You should come too.”
Octavio stiffened again. “Yes. Yes. Of course, I’ll come. If that’s what you really want.”
“Absolutely it is.” As she spoke, her face seemed younger to him, as if she no longer needed to put on that veil of strength and stoicism he had seen all too often over the years.
“Come around eight o’clock, if that’s all right. I’ll make humitas and machas.”
He smiled, recalling how the Casa Rosa was once filled with the delicious smells of his ex-wife’s cooking.
“I’m looking forward to it.” He stood up to return his cup to the kitchen sink, retrieving his coat along the way. “I’d better be going, it’s getting late.” He gave a quick glance at his watch. Already two hours had passed, and it was nearly eleven o’clock.
“I’ll see you Friday then?” she asked, calling out to him from her curled position on the couch.
“Friday, yes, of course. I’ll bring the wine.”
As he opened the door to the crowded apartment and noticed one of his old movie posters taped to the wall, it occurred to him that, while his wife struggled to forget the past, he had spent too many years trying to regain it. It had been over twenty-three years since he’d walked out of that very apartment, and almost every day thereafter he had silently cursed himself. He knew there hadn’t been a single day that he hadn’t regretted it.
Sixty-eight
VESTERÅS, SWEDEN
NOVEMBER 1998
Friday, Salomé told her children about the letter requesting her testimony and asked if they thought she should go. “I think it’s the right thing to do…the courts need evidence, and my testimony could help if he is ultimately brought to trial. But I don’t want it to upset any of you.”
“You must go, Mother,” Blanca insisted. “It’s your duty.”
Isabelle agreed with her sister. “Absolutely, Mama. Absolutely you should go. We would be very proud of you.”
The two girls, in their twenties now, looked nearly identical to Salomé as a young girl.
But Rafael said nothing. Salomé watched him from the corner of her eye as he sat crouched in his chair, his expression tense, his eyes squinting, as if he were severely pained.
She went quietly over to him, running her fingers loosely through his hair. “What is it?” she asked with great concern. “Is something wrong?”
He wanted to tell his mother, “They don’t remember. They don’t remember what you looked like when you returned. Just battered flesh. An open wound with purple skin.”
But, instead, he said, “I’m just worried for you, Mother. I don’t want you to open up all that hurt again.”
She smiled at Rafael. Even after all these years, he was still trying to protect her.
“I’ll think a little more over the weekend before making my final decision,” she said. “Now, I just want to enjoy myself, enjoy having my family around me.” She squeezed his shoulder and stood up.
“Let’s open some more wine!” she called out to Octavio. “Blanca, put some Piazzolla on the Victrola!”
Her daughter placed the needle on the old vinyl record, and music filled the room.
Salomé accepted a dance from Octavio, and the two of them tangoed through the room as if each of their feet were connected. “Four legs, one body,” she said, laughing as her red dress wrapped between her knees. Her brown arms extended and coiled back into herself, as Octavio led her across the room.
Sixty-nine
VESTERÅS, SWEDEN
NOVEMBER 1998
The apartment was still disordered from the party. Salomé had yet to wash the dishes or the wineglasses, as the party had lasted too late into the night.
She stood in her narrow kitchen and filled the kettle with some water to make tea.
She looked out the window and noticed the soft, gray light misting over the rooftops. The days were becoming shorter, and she longed for the spring. The cold Nordic winters had never agreed with her, and sometimes when she felt like being particularly melancholy, she would think of how, on the other side of the world in Chile, it was nearly summer.
Salomé realized now that, no matter what happened, whether Pinochet was held accountable for his actions or not, she could never return to her native country. Her children had all found partners in Sweden and would be building families of their own here. Both her parents had died, and so, other than memories, there was nothing there for her anymore. After all these years, Salomé had finally reconciled herself to the likelihood that she would remain in Sweden for the rest of her life.
She had also become accustomed to living alone. She had grown used to the sound of her own breathing, and the gesture of her hands as they swept across her shelves and touched the objects she had collected. Nonetheless, she had missed Octavio more and more over the past few years, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. Perhaps it was the onset of old age and seeing her children grown-up and discovering their own loves. But he had remained a good friend to her over the years, someone who—Salomé gratefully realized—refused to just slip away. And sometimes now she found herself surprised by her rekindled feelings for him. Sometimes, even, late at night, she thought of him with the same ardor that she had had when she was a young girl of seventeen.
She emptied a jar of beach shells into the bathwater so that she could pretend she was bathing in the sea and put an old Calandrelli record on the Victrola.
The water smelled like a mixture of salt and sand. She wound her hair on top of her head and sunk her body in the water, careful not to cut herself on any of the edges of the shells. She closed her eyes and thought of Chile. She thought about the endless beaches of the Viña del Mar. She thought of her garden at the Casa Rosa and the time when she and Octavio had made love under the avocado tree when the maid was out and the children were at school.
It had been years since she had allowed herself to relive the good times. But many memories locked inside her brought her joy. She just had to retrieve them now and recall.
At a quarter to eight, she stepped out of her bath. The long soak had inspired her sensual side, and she unexpectedly found herself hovering over her vanity table. She sprayed herself with water steeped in gardenia petals. She lined her eyes with an old kohl pencil and rubbed her cheeks and lips with rouge. It was as if she were that nervous, giddy schoolgirl again, preparing to meet her admirer under the stars. Though she was truly only expecting to spend the night alone.
She was surprised to hear the doorbell ring. She quickly wrapped herself in a robe and went to see who was at the door.
“Who is it?” she asked as she went t
o undo the latch.
“It’s me, Salomé.”
When she opened the door, she found Octavio standing in the hallway holding a bushel of field flowers.
“I want to come with you, Salomé!” he blurted out.
“What?” Salomé asked, perplexed. She shook her head. “Come inside.” She motioned him into her vestibule. She took the flowers from him and ushered him to the couch.
After she placed the flowers in a pitcher of cold water, she went into her bedroom and changed into a sweater and some slacks. She fluffed her hair and checked her makeup in the mirror.
“So, now, are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?” she asked as she reappeared in the living room.
Octavio was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hands firmly planted on his knees.
“I have thought about it, Salomé. I want to come with you to England.” He stammered a bit. “I want to be by your side. I want to hear you tell your story.”
She looked at him with surprise. “Octavio, that’s really not necessary,” she said, instinctively resisting his offer. “You know me, I’ll be fine.”
“Necessity has nothing to do with it,” he said, looking into her eyes. Only seconds before, he had gazed at the objects scattered around her apartment. The broken pieces of glass and the porcelain figures with hairline fissures that marred their otherwise perfect, delicate features. It struck him then that there was little difference between Salomé and her collections. That she had been broken and mended, and because her own tendril-like scars would never go away, she surrounded herself with things that, like her, were damaged but still retained their beauty. He felt he loved her more than ever now. For she had triumphed over her scars. She had made peace with her past.
He wished there were a poem he could recite to tell her simply and succinctly how he felt. But he also realized that they were at a place in their lives that was now beyond poetry, beyond art and beauty.
The Rhythm of Memory Page 32