“For me, and I always said so, it was the coup d’état that spoiled everything. After that, he was never the same.”
6
The next morning Alberto was driving along Avenida Caupolicán at thirty kilometres an hour, following the hearse. The sun’s rays pierced the clouds and shone down between two automobiles onto the polished surface of a glass building in the middle of a vacant lot, where clumps of grass grew between cement blocks. On the horizon, the fog’s woolly vapours had decapitated Mount Ñielol. On the south slope of the mountain, between the silvered lindens whose leaves shone like mirrors, he saw warlike Mapuche totems covered in white blotches (bird excrement? graffiti?). When he felt his forehead, his fingers came away covered in perspiration.
Stopped at an intersection, Alberto saw his son in the rear-view mirror, wide-eyed, staring at a cart. The man atop the vehicle wore a poncho and held himself erect, holding the reins of an old horse with a glossy hide. Suddenly the cart, the man’s dress, and his expression of artless arrogance seemed like a violent intrusion out of the past. Farther on, when he entered the Avenida Balmaceda, he found himself in another world, where the aromas of coriander and garlic held sway, and where the Mapuche women, all dressed in black with scarves on their heads, sold tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, huge onions, and all sorts of pumpkins behind makeshift stands, but also merquén, nalcas, and digüeñes. And Alberto remembered coming to the feria with his grandparents, holding his Abuela’s hand and watching his Abuelo stride a few metres ahead, pick up a cherimoya fruit, and smell its skin for a long time before driving a hard bargain for half a dozen.
Beside him, wearing dark glasses, his mother was inscrutable, as if she was tired of exposing her vulnerability. Through the outside rear-view mirror he saw Noemi’s red Nissan and Gabriel’s black Impala. To think that, of his father’s dozen brothers and sisters, only three had come to his funeral. He remembered what Araya had said: “Your father didn’t know how to make himself loved.”
He passed through the wrought iron gate of the cemetery. Above the arch formed by the branches of oak he saw a shifting grey sky that reminded him of a vast radioactive cloud. The sunlight was muted, white and diffuse. Mechanically, he parked in front of the mound where the ceremony would take place, and where the rabbi, wearing a black tunic, was already pacing back and forth, an open Bible in his hand, rehearsing, it would seem, the selections he would read. Alberto circled the car, breathing in the heavy and humid air, and helped Marco to get down. Along with his mother and his son, he advanced to greet his Abuela, installed in a wheelchair, then Noemi, Hannah, and Gabriel. On everyone’s face, other than that of his Abuela, there was deep sorrow, despondency at not being able to escape the oppressive atmosphere. Seeing that the others felt as he did gave him some comfort. Holding his son’s hand, he made his way towards the hill surrounded by weeping willows.
Some sturdy, tanned men in shirtsleeves appeared with the coffin. Their brusque manner, their cold eyes, greatly irritated Alberto. Their careless demeanour suggested this was a poor-paying job. He clutched his son’s hand more tightly, and Marco sought his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the undulation of the willow leaves. That calmed him for a moment, but he was beset by visions. A moonlit night, dark silhouettes coming on in haste. Stopping in front of his father and himself, forming a compact mass, like an outcropping whose crest was lit. Mist rose from their bodies. The solitary howl of a wolf broke the night’s silence. Suddenly, large heavy hands were beating down on them. The blows were dull, the pain numbing. The rest was a relentless moving blur. Then he saw the glint of a blade, a kitchen knife …
Supported by ropes in the hands of men in shirtsleeves, the coffin was lowered jerkily into the grave. The rabbi read the Holy Book with darting eyes. He compared the body to a piece of fabric, and the soul, eternal and inviolable, to a bird taking flight on a spring morning such as this, setting its eyes on each person present, one by one. And at once, as if Alberto had just received a violent blow to his back, everything misted over. The arching branches, the vaporous grey sky, the penitent silhouettes surrounding him, that was perhaps what the end of the world was like. He saw his son, his small arms holding onto his thigh, saw the tender compassion on his angelic face. Then he felt the warm hand of his mother on his cheek.
Towards the end of the ceremony, as he was pulling himself together, he spotted in the distance, near the gate, a young woman and a short man, side by side, their wrists crossed low over their bodies, watching them. When Noemi went towards them and signalled them to come nearer, the woman shook her head no. Seeing that Noemi continued to approach, she turned about as if frightened, and left the cemetery with the old man at her heels, head lowered, not looking back. At first Alberto was so disconcerted that he did not make the connection with the portraits Noemi had sketched for him. Two days later he bitterly reproached himself for not having guessed that it was Amalia and her father.
All of a sudden it came back to him that the Ventura burial site was located in front of a fountain, in the southern sector, at the other end of the cemetery, where ordinarily two Mapuche women stood selling bouquets. What did that mean?
“Why wasn’t he buried with Abuelo?” he asked, approaching Noemi.
All heads turned in his direction.
“We can’t do this. Why did no one tell me?”
“I tried my best to convince the others. But they didn’t want to listen.”
And so, as the rabbi’s monotone continued its litany, he took Marco’s hand and walked away. He heard, over the noise of his feet on the gravel, Noemi’s voice imploring him to come back. His blood was pounding in his temples, the path reeled before him. As he was settling Marco onto the rear seat, his mother appeared at his side and opened the passenger door. When he started the engine, he glimpsed Noemi, who raised her arm to him, her face haggard. He backed up the truck and drove along the high fence looking for the exit.
When he let his mother off at his Aunt Emma’s, he was grateful to her for keeping Marco without asking any questions. As they were embracing on the sidewalk, he saw his uncle Pedro at the top of the steps, his moustache drooping, his expression betraying a desire to impose an authority he had lost long ago. He got back into the pickup and took off.
Rapidly, he drove out of the city. Following an interminable alley of poplars, he thought about his father lying on his back on a winter night. The road climbed and descended, abruptly and unpredictably. Campesinos walked along, heads bowed, long stripped branches over their shoulders, followed by two oxen held side by side by a rudimentary yoke over their heads. Soon he passed a series of impressive fundos: in front of meticulously painted fences and houses, horses grazed in closed paddocks built just for them, and children, wearing twill overalls, played in yards also designed for them, where everything was imbued with a kind of happiness that deserved to be put on display. Farther on, beyond a steep hill, he came upon another world, ruled by a different code: narrow plots of land appeared, where diminutive housewives in white aprons were hanging up threadbare laundry, while behind them, as if a cyclone had recently passed over the property, there was a confusion of broken toys and wooden sheds turned grey by the constant assault of wind and rain.
At the end of a long stretch of straight road bordered by bushes and apple trees scattered across a valley extending to the foot of a fogbound range of the Andes, a green sign announced the town of Cunco. It bordered the great agricultural properties owned by the old Basque latifundium families (Etcheverry, Duhart, Etchepare, one read on the rough wood panels), properties that, as far as the eye could see, boasted fields of corn and oats. Shortly before he came to the town itself, the hills flattened abruptly to become a kind of false plain that petered out when here and there the first little bungalows appeared, then the city hall, a wine-red colonial house. Under a niggardly sun, he drove slowly so as to take in the façades of the buildings on both sides of the street. Passersby kept crossing i
n the middle of the road, their silhouettes mirrored on the hood of the vehicle, while, even with the windows up, the cries of the itinerant peddlers reached him distinctly. He passed in front of Plaza de Armas where the bottoms of the tree trunks were painted bottle green, just like the surrounding benches, and where the tops, to the height of a six-foot man, were gleaming white, like the fountain. Students talked together on the grass, while others strolled on the promenade. At one intersection there was a group of straw-hatted men, very likely Mapuches, all standing with one foot propped against the wall of a grocery store.
As soon as he saw a sign with two crossed guns on a green background, the symbol for the national police, he parked the pickup. He crossed the street diagonally, circled the stalls overflowing with lemons and coriander, and arrived in front of the narrow façade, painted khaki, just like the policemen’s shirts. He climbed the stairs leading to the entrance, and once inside found himself facing a man in uniform. He had pink cheeks, and the stool on which he sat was a good distance from the counter, due to his ample girth.
Without looking up, the officer asked him what he could do for him. To his chagrin, Alberto became tongue-tied as he was trying to explain. To make himself clear, he repeated:
“I want to see the police report on the death of Roberto Ventura.”
Puffing out his cheeks, the man replied, indifferent:
“Identification.”
When the officer saw his Canadian passport and identification papers, his defiance gave way to a naïve curiosity. He leafed through the passport, turned it over several times, seemed very interested by it. Several times he looked up furtively from the papers to Alberto’s face. How many days had he been in Chile? Why did he so much want to see this report?
“Is that a joke? My father is dead. He-is-dead! I have a right to see the report!”
The man held his gaze for a long time. Casually, he got up and walked away, past the desks where secretaries and other policemen were sitting. No heads were raised as he passed. At the far end of the room, lit by rectangular fluorescent fixtures, he stopped to lean over a muscular man at a typewriter. He whispered in his ear, and after a moment the muscular individual glanced over at Alberto, then discreetly shook his head no. There was a short exchange, and the officer strolled back, as casually as he had left. Laboriously, he sat himself back down on the stool, pretended to look for something on the counter, then at last jerked his chin vaguely towards the chairs behind Alberto. He then leaned his entire body weight on his elbow, and exhaled noisily.
Reluctantly, Alberto went to sit down.
Three times, he got up to see whether the muscled man was still behind his typewriter, and each time the officer gave him a baleful look. Alberto sighed repeatedly. Seeing him, the officer got up and went back to his colleague. There was another quiet discussion, and after a few moments, the policeman came back to the counter.
“You’re out of luck. He’s too busy today.”
Alberto was reaching the boiling point. The man continued to stare at him.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the officer turned, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled in the direction of the burly individual, who at that moment was holding his phone between his neck and chin. A few heads turned in the room, and looked towards the counter. The muscleman also raised his eyes. When he hung up and came towards Alberto, it became clear that his physique was even more impressive than he had imagined. He leaned his two large hands on the counter, and scowled.
He was young, very young to be a lieutenant. His eyes were large, black, and a bit slanted; his nose, generous. His face seemed gentle.
Calmly, Alberto repeated that he wanted to read the police report.
“What do you want to verify?”
“I’ve a right to see this report. Will you please bring it to me!”
The lieutenant fixed him with his eyes for a long time then began to laugh.
“It’s not what you think. You’re mistaken, my friend,” he said. “It’s not at all what you think.”
His laughing eyes scanned the room, as he savoured the silence that had returned. He lowered his head, and without looking at him, said a bit more softly:
“I’m on your side.”
Alberto studied his body language; it was as if he were behaving like an old friend in a bar, sharing in his disappointments.
“This report won’t tell you anything,” said the lieutenant, almost whispering. “It’s nothing at all, this report.”
And he lowered his head a bit, as if to signal that he was making a compromising admission. Alberto heard the words clearly, but it took a number of seconds for him to absorb their meaning.
The lieutenant turned towards the officer at the counter, and gave him a sign with his head. Slowly, the officer walked over to a metal filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a file. He came back with the document and placed it on the counter. Alberto opened the folder, and with the lieutenant looking on, began reading the report. He was soon disappointed. Noemi had been right: the document was extremely brief, containing, on the first page, only some factual information to identify his father, while the second page concluded in three lines that there was “internal bleeding,” hypothesizing a “wound” inflicted while working on the farm. Not a word about the scar on his side. No autopsy.
“Do you want a copy?” the lieutenant asked.
Without waiting for an answer, the lieutenant signalled his colleague, who went to the photocopier. The officer came back with the document, which he held out to Alberto.
“Why do you say that it’s nothing at all, this report?” asked Alberto, searching the lieutenant’s eyes.
The lieutenant smiled, half amused, half ill at ease. He was like a bright, innocent boy. He lifted the movable section of the counter, lowered it noiselessly, and passed in front of the chairs. Alberto thought he heard him say “follow me,” and saw the lieutenant already descending the stairs and opening the door, holding it ajar with his foot. He hesitated, then went after him, the report in his hand.
Outside, as they walked rapidly side by side through the pedestrian traffic, they were assaulted by a cacophony of honking horns, cries, and roaring engines.
Looking straight ahead, as if seeking someone in the crowd, the lieutenant said, as if he were thinking out loud:
“I had a feeling this business was going to crop up again. I didn’t know when or how, but I knew it. To tell you the truth, it’s even given me nightmares. But I can tell you one thing: you surprised me. I didn’t know that Don Roberto had a son in Canada. It appears,” he said, smiling, “that no one thought to tell me …”
Trying to keep up with him, Alberto bumped into an old lady who stopped, furious, and followed him with her dark eyes.
“But tell me,” Alberto asked, “there’s something else, right?”
Suddenly the lieutenant stopped cold and held out his hand to an old man in a black beret who was sitting cross-legged on a wooden box near a newspaper stand, enjoying a cigarette. His eyes sleepy and grey, the old man responded with a limp handshake. After a preamble that was virtually incomprehensible to Alberto because of the old man’s unorthodox pronunciation, he said that the “activity” was as slow as it had ever been, but there was no reason to worry because it would pick up just like last year over the summer. For now, if truth be told, the guys were taking it easy … Without waiting for the old man to finish his assessment, the lieutenant turned towards Alberto to say:
“They destroyed him.”
Alberto froze.
“What? Who, ‘they’?”
The lieutenant began walking a bit faster, while leaning towards Alberto:
“You don’t know how we do things, do you? It’s obvious that you’re not from around here. Your father had no luck, he died at a very bad time. Right away his case went political. Wait for me here.”
The
lieutenant disappeared into the crowded grocery store, long and narrow, that Alberto had noticed before. It smelled of paprika, cider, and grilled meat. Alberto realized that all the men there were native, then he read the slogans on the walls: Para una nación mapuche libre; Autonomía y respeto de los pueblos indígenas de Chile … Most of the men held a tract in their hands. The lieutenant tried to push his way through, but the men, without moving, turned their backs on him as if to block his way. Seeing the lieutenant in the middle of these men, everything became clear, and he reproached himself for not having understood earlier: he was a Mapuche. The lieutenant shoved somebody, who lost his balance. The men around him gave way finally, but their eyes were threatening. Like a cock prepared to defend himself, the lieutenant cast hostile glances in all directions. He found himself nose to nose, at the very back of the store, with a bald man wearing a scarf around his neck and holding a microphone. The man stopped talking. The lieutenant grabbed the mike out of his hand and proclaimed, his voice echoing: “This meeting is illegal!” There was a paralyzing silence. Then the crowd started to murmur, became restless. Arms reached towards the lieutenant, hands tried, it seemed, to topple him. But, agile, the lieutenant blocked the blows, and freed himself to glare about him defiantly. He ordered the people to disperse. At first no one moved, then, after seconds had passed, the Mapuches shuffled, reluctantly, towards the exit. The lieutenant rejoined Alberto, still on the sidewalk, and they went off together. Once they had gone a good ten metres, they distinctly heard behind them:
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