The Twilight Zone

by Nona Fernández

  How many faces can a human being contain?

  What about young Boris? How many did he contain?

  What about his brother Lincoyán?

  What about the lawyer listening to the man who tortured people?

  What about the man himself? What about me?

  We crossed a bridge and the car turned left.

  We drove down a dirt road.

  We stopped after about seven kilometers,

  approximately forty meters from the cliff.

  It was cold.

  I guess there was a moon because everything was clear.

  They got El Pelao out of the trunk and took him to a rock

  about ten meters away.

  How do you want to die? they asked.

  With no handcuffs and no blindfold, he said.

  They ordered me to remove them.

  I crept toward him.

  I was a wreck. I could hardly look at him.

  It’s windy, Papudo, he said, it’s a cold night.

  And I couldn’t answer him, the words wouldn’t come out.

  I was scared. Everybody but me was an officer.

  I thought they were going to throw me down there with El Pelao.

  I took off his handcuffs.

  And they sent me for rope and wire.

  I was in the car getting them when I heard the burst of gunfire.

  It was cold.

  I guess there was a moon because everything was clear.

  When I got back, El Fifo Palma was finishing him off.

  I didn’t see anyone else shoot.

  They ordered me to bind El Pelao’s hands and feet.

  They ordered me to tie stones to him.

  They ordered me to push him off the cliff.

  I remembered the last time we had lunch together.

  It hadn’t been so long ago.

  We’d talked about soccer.

  We’d told jokes.

  Because of all the bushes

  I had to hang over the edge myself.

  Someone gripped my hand.

  And I dangled there as I pushed El Pelao over.

  I thought they would let me go too.

  But no. He fell alone.

  I guess there was a moon

  because I saw him clearly down there in the river.

  I can’t get it out of my mind.

  When we got back we drank a whole bottle of pisco.

  On April 12, 1961, Major Yuri Gagarin became the first astronaut to travel to outer space. For one hundred and eight minutes he orbited Earth in his ship, the Vostok 1, and from up above he was able to take the measure of our planet with his own eyes. He saw that it was blue, round, and beautiful. That’s what he said in his transmission to mission control: Earth is beautiful. My science teacher, the one with the big mustache I mentioned before, once got very excited telling us about the Soviet space program and Gagarin’s amazing feat. I can’t remember whether it was part of something we were studying or whether he just felt like telling us the story, but his enthusiasm was contagious and that’s probably why I remember the class when he drew Vostok 1 for us on the blackboard, which stood in for outer space. He didn’t tell us about the little dog Laika, or about Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman in orbit, or about Neil Armstrong and his walk on the moon. My teacher talked only about Major Gagarin, as if his flight twenty years before had been the most important one, the definitive one.

  After that class I realized a few things. One interesting discovery was that there were a number of Yuris floating around my neighborhood and my life. I knew it was a Soviet name, but I didn’t know why it was popular in Chile. I had never met a Nikolai or an Anton or a Pavlov or a Sergei. In fact, I had never met anyone with a Soviet name, because at that time anything Soviet was definitely not popular. But I had met several Yuris.

  Our mustached teacher told us how Major Gagarin became a star the moment he returned from his voyage. The government of the Soviet Union trotted him around the world as an ambassador, a public relations phenomenon. No one could be indifferent to the smile of the man who had seen what no one else had ever seen. So Major Gagarin was replicated all over the world. In Egypt, Cuba, Mexico, Chile, everybody wanted to be a little bit like him, and as an homage they called their children Yuri, a name that honored not only the cosmos but also a nation heralding itself as a present-day and future utopia. Yuri Pérez, Yuri Contreras, Yuri Soto, Yuri Bahamondes, Yuri Riquelme, Yuri Gahona. An army of South American cosmonauts were born in Chile as a tribute to Major Gagarin and his trip, the idea that Earth was blue and beautiful, and the conviction that in outer space no voice of a god could be heard.

  I imagine Don Alonso Gahona Chávez, employee of the district of La Cisterna, looking into the face of his newborn son and speaking the name with which he’ll be baptized. I imagine him years later, on a soccer field, playing ball with his son and shouting that same name when his son scores a goal. I imagine him sitting at a chessboard, trying to teach his son the game’s basic moves. Pawns advance one space at a time, rooks in a straight line, and bishops on the diagonal. The queen attacks—and, most importantly, protects the king. I imagine him out for a walk in the country one night, looking up at the stars, and telling his son enthusiastically, as my teacher once told me, about the great feat of the man who saw the world from up above for the first time, long ago in 1961. About the voyage of that mythic cosmonaut, from whom, I venture to imagine, Don Alonso’s young son inherited his name: Yuri Gahona.

  I imagine that on September 8, 1975, when little Yuri was just seven years old, he began to set up the chessboard as he waited for his father to get home from work. I imagine him taking one of the white bishops and pretending the piece is a rocket ship. Little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, imagines that he’s inside that bishop, flying over the chessboard, across each black and white square. From inside he gazes at the rest of the pieces down below as he carefully steers his plastic ship. Little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, imagines rising above the dining room table, above the stained rug; he imagines flying down the hall, through the whole house, until he reaches the front door, where he looks out to see whether his father is coming. I imagine little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, radar on, looking out from his miniature ship and informing ground control of what he sees. Or rather, what he doesn’t see, because his father, who is the sole objective of his search, has yet to appear. He isn’t walking down the street with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, as always at this time of day. There’s no sign of his slight figure, his coarse short hair, his thick glasses. Then little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, pretends to fly his bishop rocket ship even higher. He imagines that he reaches the roof of the house and that he climbs above the electric lines and up into the clouds and he looks out over the whole block, the whole neighborhood, the whole district, thus perhaps, with his Lilliputian cosmonaut’s eye, detecting his father’s exact location as he walks home.

  Between Stop 25 and Stop 26 on Gran Avenida, on his daily walk home, Don Alonso Gahona Chávez has been ambushed by three armed men. One of them is Carol Flores, his former comrade, Communist Party member, close friend, and former fellow La Cisterna municipal employee. I imagine it’s hard for Don Alonso to understand why his comrade is pointing a gun at him and ordering him to place his hands on the wall as the other two men pat him down. Quiet, Alonso, better not to make a scene, he hears him say. I imagine Don Alonso is confused, but he soon realizes what’s going on and he gives himself up because he knows there’s no way out. This is no assault, as some unsuspecting person might think. The people who see what’s happening as they walk home, people out buying bread or getting on a bus, know perfectly well what’s going on. And yet they give a sideways glance and keep going without saying or doing a thing, letting the armed men wrestle Don Alonso Gahona Chávez into a truck.

  Little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, and his six-year-old sister, Evelyn, understand that if the chessboard was left untouched all night it’s because something bad has hap
pened to their dad. Probably it was Don Alonso himself who prepared them for an emergency like this. Just as he’d taught them how to move the chess pieces, maybe he also taught them how to act when the king has been snatched from the board. The children help search for Don Alonso, visiting army posts, police stations, hospitals, courthouses, even climbing trees and trying to look into a detention center to see if they can spot him. But it’s no good. Not even by flying over the whole city in his white bishop spaceship can little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, find a trace of his father. No question about it, the bishop has failed to protect the king.

  Let’s open this door. Beyond it is the twilight zone. You’re entering an unknown land of dreams and ideas. You’re entering the twilight zone.

  Nido 20. This was the name of one of the secret sites serving as detention centers in the district of La Cisterna, located at 037 Calle Santa Teresa. It got its name because it was run by Air Force Intelligence, and as an institition the air force seems to have a complete monopoly on anything having to do with birds, starting with the nest (nido) where they’re born. The number 20 was chosen because of the site’s location at Stop 20 on Gran Avenida.

  I know—I’m not imagining—that Don Alonso Gahona was transferred to this place.

  I know—I’m not imagining—that he crossed the threshold of 037 Calle Teresa and at that very moment he entered a dimension from which he would never return.

  I search for information about the site and I discover that the house has been turned into a memorial. Former Nido 20 Memorial Site, House Museum of Human Rights Alberto Bachelet Martínez. That’s what they call it. I write to an email address on the web page to ask about visiting hours, and a few hours later I’m sent a telephone number to schedule a meeting with the center’s director. This takes me aback. I don’t think I need an appointment with the director of the memorial. I tend to believe that the directors of anything are busy people, and I just want to visit, see the place, compare what I see to what I know. Since I have no choice, I call the number I’ve been given. After a brief wait, the voice of an older man answers. He’s in his seventies, I calculate, and he’s the director of the memorial. I tell him I’d like to visit, but there are no hours listed on the web page. He replies kindly that in fact there are no visiting hours, but he’ll expect me that afternoon. I explain that it isn’t necessary for him to make special arrangements for me, I don’t want to take up his time, but he tells me he’s the only one who can let me in because there’s no one else to oversee the place. The director doesn’t need my name or any particular information for our appointment, he just calls me comrade and tells me he’ll expect me at 5:00.

  When I arrive, the outside of the house surprises me. It’s dingy, and the front yard is full of junk and debris. There’s no bell and the lock on the front gate is broken. A chain wrapped in thick blue plastic is looped uselessly around the two sides of the gate. Inside the gate, a broken-down taxi is parked off to one side. It’s a small, single-story house with a stone chimney, a gate for cars, a red-tiled roof, and a big yard where there was once a pool. With some repairs it could be a snug home. I might have chosen it for my own family. Great transportation, shopping nearby, all the requirements for a peaceful, happy life. Another thing that surprises me is that it’s in the middle of a residential neighborhood and less than ten meters from Gran Avenida, a major thoroughfare, full of cars and people at all hours. Forty years have passed since this house was a clandestine detention center, but I know that Gran Avenida was just as busy back then. It’s still a commercial street and a public transit artery. The houses in the area resemble each other, surely part of some planned development from the sixties. On the corner are a couple of small shops. Some cars are parked on the street, and, a few meters away, a boy is shooting goals on the sidewalk. How much must these surroundings have changed over the years? I wonder. The answer is very little. Few things can be different than they were in 1975.

  But I’m one of them.

  The boy with the ball is another.

  From my present, which was once Don Alonso Gahona’s future, I imagine the truck in which he was abducted. I see it speeding past buses and cars along Gran Avenida itself, that September afternoon in 1975. It reaches Stop 20 and turns onto Calle Santa Teresa, pulling up here in front of the house, the same spot where I am now.

  I imagine Don Alonso Gahona getting out of the truck.

  Maybe Carol Flores is with him. Maybe he isn’t.

  I imagine Don Alonso Gahona being pushed through this same gate I’m standing in front of. He doesn’t see me, of course. Actually, he doesn’t see anyone from beneath the blindfold covering his eyes. He just obeys and lets himself be led by his captors. He walks with difficulty. I imagine him stumbling over the two steps that I can see from here, at the front door, as the neighbors watch, too. Then I think I see a woman spying from the house across the street. She peers out, hiding behind the curtain. Or maybe she’s not hiding, and instead she stares openly as she waters the plants in her front yard. I imagine her and others like her watching the activity at this place day after day, as surprise turns into familiarity. The cries from torture sessions coexisting with the music on neighborhood radios, dialogue from the 3:00 p.m. soaps, the announcer’s voice on the broadcast of the soccer match. The prisoners going in and out of this gate became part of the landscape. Like the mailman, the municipal inspector, the children walking to school early in the morning. Hearing the occasional gunshot wasn’t strange anymore, it was part of the new sounds, the new habits, part of the daily routine that established itself emphatically, with no one daring to protest.

  Little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, and his sister, Evelyn, never saw the scene that I’ve just imagined. They lived in the same district, but they didn’t know anything about Nido 20. Despite how near it was, no one told them what was happening here. They never came to look through the bars in hopes of spotting their father, never flew over the block in their imagination, scanning for him from up above in their white bishop spaceship. Like me, they never saw what was happening inside this house. To get inside and imagine what went on here, the only person who can help us is the man who tortured people: Andrés Antonio Valenzuela Morales, Soldier First Class, ID #39432, La Ligua.

  The man who tortured people says that after he worked guarding political prisoners at the Air War Academy and a hangar at Cerrillos Air Base, he was transferred to Nido 20 to do the same thing. The man who tortured people says that his job there was to watch the detainees, take them to their torture sessions, bring them food, make sure they didn’t talk to each other. He says there were so many of them they had to expand into other detention centers. The man who tortured people says that at Nido 20 they had as many as forty prisoners at once. The man who tortured people says they had to use the closet for solitary confinement because there wasn’t room anywhere else.

  Of course, he doesn’t say any of this to me.

  I keep mixing up my tenses.

  Present, future, and past mingle on this street in a time bracketed by the twilight zone stopwatch. Sitting in the front seat of the Renault van, that’s where I imagine him, outside the house with the lawyer. They watch the place surreptitiously from a distance, as they know how to do, without raising suspicions. They’ve gone on a long drive, visiting the places that the man described to the reporter. Cuesta Barriga, La Firma, the Cerrillos hangar, and now Nido 20. The lawyer wishes he had a camera, but instead he scrutinizes every detail, trying to memorize all he sees, just as I’m doing now. The man who tortured people is describing what he remembers about this house, and among his memories, he says that one of the prisoners who spent time there was Don Alonso Gahona. He says Don Alonso was known among his comrades by the nickname Yuri.

  The first thing I see when I enter the house is a portrait of Don Alonso Gahona. It’s an oil painting, framed and hanging next to the fireplace. It’s a copy of the same photograph that I saw in the Museum of Memory. Alonso is smiling, wearing his thick glass
es and bare-chested, because he’s at the beach, I think. The director of the center greets me and tells me that this is Comrade Yuri. He doesn’t say Alonso, he says: Yuri. Then he invites me in and asks me to sit down in what must once have been the living room. He asks me to wait a moment because he’s meeting with a comrade, introducing her to me without mentioning her name. I expect I’ll be ushered into some office or waiting room, but no. Suddenly I’m in the middle of a meeting, the main subject of which is the arrival of gypsies in the neighborhood. The comrade is very upset because she was fined by an inspector of the district of La Cisterna for an addition that she’s building on her house, which is nearby, in the same development. But no one has said anything to her neighbor, one of the gypsies who’ve moved into the neighborhood, about the construction of a bay window overlooking her yard, which according to her is completely unauthorized and illegal. The comrade is sure the municipal inspectors have been bought off by the gypsies. That’s the only way she can understand why they’re never fined or made to pay taxes. The director of the center accepts her complaint and tells the neighbor he’ll bring it to the comrade councilwoman and the comrade mayor himself. The director of the center has his own complaint to file because people have been throwing dead rats onto the grounds of the Former Nido 20 Memorial and they’ve put glue in the front lock, which is why it’s broken and they have to secure the gate with a chain, so he’ll attach the comrade’s complaint to his personal complaint. Surely the comrade councilwoman and the comrade mayor will attend to their requests. After a cordial farewell, the comrade exits the memorial with the director, and I’m left alone in this house that was once a detention and torture center, with the photograph of Comrade Yuri staring at me from the mantelpiece.