The man who tortured people tries not to think about that. He’s been inside in hiding for months. Now he lets his mind wander over the bright landscape he sees through the window. The fields and cows have been left behind, as has Lake Puyehue, and now, I imagine, they’re making their way into the mountains. The sky is cloudy. Small white feathers float gently in the air, that’s what he sees. The feathers spin a few times before landing in the treetops, the bushes, the grass, the pastures. It’s snow. The man who tortured people has probably never seen it before, but the truth is I don’t know that. I simply imagine that as he watches the flakes falling more and more thickly, blotting out the landscape, he might feel the childish surprise of someone seeing snow or the sea for the first time.
“Jingle Bells” plays over the bus’s speakers. It’s December, and in just a few days it will be Christmas. That’s probably why all the Mapuche peasants around him are traveling, because the holidays are coming and they’re on their way to visit family. They’ve brought the usual gifts, the chickens for Christmas Eve dinner, the bottles of aguardiente and red wine. Everyone on the bus knows the song and their lips move slightly as they sing to themselves, bobbing their heads in time to the music, while outside it snows, and, in his seat, the man who tortured people thinks about the strange Christmas that awaits him if he succeeds in fleeing the country.
One of the ghost stories I remember most fondly is Dickens’s Christmas Carol. Everybody knows the plot. Bitter old Ebenezer Scrooge is visited for Christmas by three spirits: Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come. With them he sets off on a strange journey, half dream and half memory, in which he witnesses different Christmas scenes that have been a part of his life. Or are, or will be.
I imagine the man who tortured people sitting on the bus, remembering the ghosts of his own Christmases. A tree strung with lights that blink on and off at his childhood home in Papudo. Twinkling lights that still shine bright in memory. His parents, his siblings, maybe an uncle or aunt and some cousins, all sitting around the table, talking, laughing, eating special dishes of chicken or beef prepared by his mother. Country people like the Mapuche on the bus with him. Happy to share a night in the tinkling glow of those Christmas lights, blinking in time to “Jingle Bells.”
Another memory assails him. Like a blaze of light from that old Christmas tree, picture and sound come to him. It’s the voice of the nation’s first lady, Doña Lucía Hiriart de Pinochet, addressing the whole country on a state radio station. He listens to her over the radio transmitter at Remo Cero, or maybe Nido 20, or the AGA, from the chill of any jail, any secret prison. It’s Christmas Eve and he’s on guard duty. Prisoners and guards alike are immersed in silence, no carols or “Jingle Bells.” This woman’s voice fills the space with good wishes for all Chileans. She talks about the importance of family, of loved ones, of this special and symbolic day. She talks about the baby Jesus, the manger, the cows, the pigs, the donkey, Mary, the Three Kings, the little star of Bethlehem, Christmas magic, and the all-powerful love of God.
On this Christmas, or maybe a different one, a guard was inspired to do a good deed. Probably he had been visited by some ghost of his own Christmases, and, in a humanitarian gesture, he went around opening the cell doors and bringing out the longest-serving prisoners to dine with the guards that night. I don’t know what kind of food was served for Christmas dinner in a detention center. Probably the same thing as always, but being free for a moment and sharing a plate of whatever it was must have made the dinner different, I imagine. Maybe there was a bottle of wine. Maybe some milky, aguardiente-spiked cola de mono and Christmas cake. Maybe someone lit a candle. Maybe everyone sat back and talked, sticking to subjects that erased differences. They probably recalled past Christmases, gifts given and received. Guards and prisoners developed close relationships, having spent so long together. They were bound by a strange kind of intimacy, which, I imagine, let them enjoy a special moment that night. But the gathering didn’t last long. The unit head showed up in the middle of the night and caught them in their forbidden Christmas celebration. The candle was abruptly blown out. The bottle of wine was corked and Christmas cake and cola de mono were cleared from the table. The party ended all at once and the prisoners went back to their cells, while the guard responsible lost his job and was expelled from the air force.
The third specter to appear to Ebenezer Scrooge is the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. This spirit is draped in a black robe that covers its head, its face, and the rest of its body. Only its outstretched hand is visible, the index finger pointing forward. If it hadn’t been for this hand, the specter would have been hard to see in the dark of night. Though accustomed to the presence of ghosts, Scrooge was so afraid of this mysterious spirit that he could barely stand.
Ghost of the future, he said, I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But as I hope to live to be another man than what I was before, I’m prepared to see what you have to show me.
What follows is a walk around the city at night. Scrooge and the ghost hear a kind of vast murmur, the conversations of people in the street. All are talking about the recent death of someone who doesn’t seem to have been well liked. No one weeps for him or mourns his departure. Christmas, they think, will be better this year now that he’s vanished from the face of the earth. Before Scrooge can find out whose death they are talking about, the ghost brings him before the lonely body. The man is wrapped in a shroud, his face hidden. The room where he lies is dismal and sad. There are no flowers, no candles. No one is sitting with the dead man, no one is keeping him company, only the rats that begin to creep into the room. It’s a disturbing, painful picture. Scrooge tries to understand the meaning of what the ghost is showing him, but before he can, he’s whisked somewhere else.
Suddenly he finds himself in a humble abode. It is the home of Bob Cratchit, clerk at Scrooge’s counting house. A man he has never bothered to learn anything about, despite the many years they’ve worked together. Scrooge sees Bob in a child’s room. He is sitting on a chair weeping to himself as he looks around. A small crutch on the bed tells Scrooge that the clerk’s ailing son has been dead for some time. In this scene from Christmas yet to come, Bob has come to the room to weep alone, so that the rest of the family doesn’t have to be sad.
Then Bob sits down at the table with his children and his wife. He makes everyone promise they will never forget Tiny Tim, which is what the boy was called. No matter how many years go by, we won’t forget this parting, he says. We’ll always remember how patient and good he was, and we won’t quarrel among ourselves over foolish things, because valuing our time together is the Christmas gift that your brother left us.
In his invisible state, Scrooge watches. The scene is sad, but it’s as luminous as the candles on the Cratchits’ table. The boy isn’t here, but his presence is felt. Something seems to click in Ebenezer Scrooge’s mind, or maybe his icy heart, as he recalls that lonely body, its sadness untouched by the glow of this house.
Specter, something tells me that we will soon part ways, says Scrooge. But first I must know the name of that poor man we saw lying dead.
The Ghost of Christmas yet to come points its finger and conveys Ebenezer Scrooge to a different time with no clear connection to the scenes that came before, a future moment edited at his own random production table. This time, Scrooge ends up at a cemetery. To his surprise he finds himself at an iron gate, accompanied by the specter, who keeps pointing forward. The horrible person hated by all, the person whose name he is about to learn, is buried here. The spirit stands among the graves and points to one of them. Scrooge advances, trembling, but before he moves closer he asks the immutable spirit, who never replies, whether what he’s seen tonight is the shadow of things to come or only the shadow of things that might be.
The paths that men take in life foretell their ends, says Scrooge. But if a man turns onto a different path, will his end change?
The specter doesn’t answer. It is
silent, pointing to the grave. Scrooge walks toward it, and, following the specter’s finger to a neglected and dirty gravestone, he reads his own name: Ebenezer Scrooge.
When I read this book, my teacher gave us an assignment. We had to write an essay telling the story of two Christmases. One that we remembered and one that we imagined in some likely future. I don’t remember what I wrote. Probably something about one of those seventies Christmases shredding wrapping paper under the bright, lavishly decorated tree at my cousins’ house. Or maybe a fantasy about some Christmas to come in the eighties. Maybe I imagined some present I hoped to get or some special holiday food. I’d be lying if I said I thought about what Christmas Eve was like in the secret prisons, the detention centers. I’d be lying if I said I imagined what Christmas was like for people who had lost someone to one of those cells, some gun battle, a torture session, an execution, or whatever it was. Did those families get together to celebrate? Did they open presents? Did they have a plastic tree like mine? A plastic nativity scene like mine? A plastic baby Jesus like mine?
I’d like to imagine that on that December afternoon in 1984 as he’s fleeing the country and nervously making his way to Argentina among all those country folk excited about the holidays, with their gifts in suitcases and baskets, their dreams of Christmas trees and strings of lights made in China, their humming of “Jingle Bells” in a snowy landscape like the ones in glass globes with sleds and Santas, the man who tortured people is visited by the terrible Ghost of Christmas Present. Sitting in his seat with his gaze lost in the snow, he spares a moment, a brief moment, for thoughts of the Flores family, the Weibels, the Contreras Malujes, the children of El Quila Leo, the children of Comrade Yuri, the children of El Pelao Bratti, the children of Lucía Vergara, Sergio Peña, Arturo Villavela, Hugo Ratier, and Alejandro Salgado. Tables set for dinner, with someone present to remember the missing. Empty rooms where a father can sit alone and weep so that the rest of the family doesn’t have to be sad.
The bus reaches the border and everyone has to get out at the customs checkpoint. Suitcases and baskets are searched and all passengers are required to show their identification papers to the customs officers. I don’t know how long the process takes, but I do know that each name is called out by an officer going down the list and asking to see IDs. Loncomilla, Catrilef, Epullanca, Newuan, Kanukeo, Antivilo. Mapuche names, Mapuche faces. The officer checks the information, consults his list, glances at each face and matches it to the ID in his hand. And he goes on, calling those who are left. Loncomilla, Catrilef, Epullanca, Newuan, Kanukeo, Antivilo. And then he speaks the name of the lawyer who’s traveling as a safeguard. It echoes in the room.
The lawyer and the man who tortured people exchange brief, imperceptible looks. The lawyer steps forward with his ID and takes his turn. He smiles at the officer, waits for the latter to consult, check, confirm and then retrieves his ID. Next come more names, more IDs, more faces, until at last the officer calls the fake name of the man who tortured people.
He and the lawyer don’t even try to exchange glances.
They feign indifference.
The man who tortured people steps forward. With careful, practiced nonchalance he hands over his ID. No one in the room can be allowed to suspect how nervous he is. Despite the cold his hands are sweating. His heart is beating fast, like the drum in the Christmas carol. The officer glances at the ID, as he has done with other passengers. He scans, checks his list, confirms that the photograph matches the person standing in front of him.
The lawyer watches from a distance. It’s harder for him to pretend; he has less training. His right leg is quivering imperceptibly. Maybe his right eyelid, too. He feels his stomach clench. Hands, neck, back: every part of him is sweating. He knows that this is the moment. If anything goes wrong, he’ll have to act, have to shout: I’m a lawyer from the Vicariate, wherever they’re taking Agent Valenzuela, I’m going with him, I won’t let anything happen to him.
But the gesture is unnecessary. From his corner he watches the officer return the ID to the man who tortured people. Thank you, the officer seems to say, and the man who tortured people takes his ID and puts it in his wallet. This time he does exchange looks with the lawyer from across the room. It’s a brief but distinct acknowledgment, meaning they’ve passed the test, everything seems to be going as planned.
The officer folds the list and goes into an office. The passengers wait for their baggage to finish being checked so they can get back on the bus. It’s cold. The man who tortured people lights a cigarette. From the distance, the lawyer follows suit. Maybe there’s a place to buy coffee. Maybe they’ve already bought some. Maybe they sip from plastic cups as each imagines what’s to come. A flight to Buenos Aires, a meeting with Argentinean contacts, then another flight to France touching down in a new life, a place where he can finally shake off the smell of death and get rid of that stupid raven following him everywhere with its nevermore.
From the customs agents’ office, the fake name of the man who tortured people is heard. The officer has come to the door and is calling him again. It’s his name, he hears it clearly a second time. This isn’t a nightmarish fantasy, or an arbitrary invention of mine to make the scene more suspenseful. It’s the honest truth. For some reason the policeman is calling just him. Him alone, no other passenger.
The man who tortured people and the lawyer look at each other.
Both turn pale when they hear the call.
No longer nonchalant or feigning indifference, the man who tortured people puts out his cigarette and approaches the officer. The vision of a gravestone with his name on it appears to him as he pulls his fake ID from his jacket pocket again. Andrés Antonio Valenzuela Morales, chiseled on a bleak and lonely gravestone that he can see clearly in some cemetery of the future. Or maybe it isn’t a gravestone and it’s just his naked, bullet-riddled corpse borne along by the river’s current.
Not nonchalant in the slightest, and utterly unable to feign indifference, the lawyer watches the man who tortured people and the officer. The two of them exchange words he can’t hear. He senses the moment has come to step in. He feels an urge to vomit; maybe his vision clouds. He doesn’t see a gravestone or his bullet-riddled body. The future is simply blank. In the grip of this emptiness, he walks toward the man who tortured people, who is still talking to the officer. The rapid beat of his heart governs his steps, his breathing, his thoughts. I’m a lawyer of the Vicariate, he’ll say. I won’t let anything happen to Agent Valenzuela. But he has yet to speak when the man who tortured people pockets his ID and gestures decisively for him to retreat.
The lawyer changes direction. He doesn’t slacken his pace or momentum, he just turns, as if he intended to head somewhere else. Meanwhile, the man who tortured people is saying goodbye to the agent, who goes back into his office.
Two cigarettes lit urgently at the same time.
One raised to the lips of the man who tortured people, the other to the lawyer’s lips.
Tension begins to release its grip on their muscles as they inhale and exhale tobacco smoke. The man who tortured people has no way of explaining what happened, but from a distance he tries to transmit signs of reassurance. His ticket was booked twice, so his fake name was on the customs officers’ list twice. A small misunderstanding they wanted to clear up, that’s all.
The driver announces that they can get back on the bus. The suitcases are already loaded on top and all the passengers begin to climb aboard. The man who tortured people and the lawyer get in separately, avoiding making eye contact with each other, making no signs that might be detected. When everyone is in their seats, the bus pulls away and sets off on its route, this time through Argentine territory. Chile is left behind. An unsettling sense of freedom begins to rise through every pore of his skin, but he won’t give himself permission to feel it. He knows there’s still a long way to go. Hours of travel by bus and then by plane. Years of life. He’d rather distract himself by looking out the window.
The landscape unfurls before them, even more luminous. Light bounces off the snow and everything goes white like in those absurd movies where people go to heaven when they die, with hopes of a new life.
Will there be a new life for him?
Will he be able to change the shadows of things to come?
He wants to believe he will, that he has the right to a change of skin. But as he’s thinking, he looks out the window and sees that same old raven again, flying over the bus and shrieking louder than ever. Nevermore, he hears from his seat. Nevermore.
I’m living a new life.
Hiding from the world in my very own rat trap.
I don’t use email, I don’t give out my address,
no one knows how to find me.
How you were able to write me, I don’t know.
How you were able to get a letter to me, I don’t know.
Why do you want to write a book about me?
I’ve answered so many questions in the past.
Will I have to keep answering questions in the future?
I don’t have much time.
I know sooner or later they’ll come.
No matter where I hide.
No matter how long it’s been.
It’ll be quick, maybe even before I know it.
They’ll have the red eyes of a devil dreaming.
They’ll find me here or wherever I am,
and one of them will be willing
to stain their pants with my blood.
Maybe it’ll be you.
Maybe you’ve done it already, there in the future.
Nothing is real enough for a ghost.
What else can I tell you?
I gather mushrooms in the woods, I read in the evenings.
The Twilight Zone Page 12