The Master of Chaos

by Pauline Melville

  Anyway, we all admired him. The girls, in particular, adored him. But for some reason I felt that he never liked me. I had the irrational idea that it was because he once overheard me commenting on how small his feet were, dainty almost, in their shiny black shoes. Whatever the reason, I was excluded from a chosen elite of students who were permitted to mix with him out of school. There were eight or nine of them. How I longed to be part of that group. My friend Bernardo was in it. Looking back now I understand how fortunate I was to be excluded.

  But at the time I was jealous of Bernardo. Whenever he came to my house after school I tried to pump him as to what happened in those get-togethers with Guzman. I could sense that he really wanted to tell me. We were good friends after all. But at the last moment he would assume the earnest look that only a seventeen-year-old can have, of one who is party to grave matters or, more hurtful, the doubtful look of one who could not trust me to keep a secret. On top of that, I resented the fact that Rosaria Bianchi, a classmate whom I dreamed of dating, also attended those meetings with Guzman, as did Javier Otero and Joaquin Ponce, all of whom had previously been part of my gang of friends and all of whom had fallen under the magnetic attraction of Felipe Guzman. One after the other he invited them to his soirees.

  It would be fair to say that our sixth form had no particular interest in politics. We had the usual concerns of middle-class youngsters: worries about exams and what future career path to take; support for various sports teams – the football World Cup was being hosted in Argentina that year – and, of course, the intense friendships, sexual blossoming, rivalries and crushes which occur at that age. Those were our preoccupations. My immediate future was already determined. My father was moving the family to England where he had been offered work as an engineer and I was enrolled to study physics at London University.

  Gradually, in that last school term, I noticed a change in Bernardo. There would be a quick exchange of glances between him and the other classmates in Guzman’s group at any mention of the Monteneros, a guerrilla group whose revolutionary activities had been, by then, more or less extinguished – it was the late seventies. Once, to my puzzlement, he became involved in a heated discussion about the plight of some local garbage workers who were on strike.

  I should mention one particular boy in our class, Alfredo Gonzales. He was short and stocky with a mop of orange hair and a broad pale freckled face, and he never stopped smiling. We felt there was something idiotic about his grin. What’s more he did not look like a South American, more Scandinavian or Irish although his family had been in Argentina for generations. Unlike most of us he seemed completely open, almost as if he had been turned inside out with nothing hidden. This was both distasteful and shocking to us adolescents, fierce guardians of our own private and very secret passions. We found his openness horrifying. The other thing that we scorned was his love of folk music. He came from the area of Salta known for its traditional folk songs. His parents had saved up so that he could attend our high school and he boarded with a guardian in Buenos Aires. The man he worshipped was Jorge Cafrune, one of Salta’s most famous and popular folk singers. In our opinion, Cafrune was a hick who rode around on a white horse, wearing a gaucho hat and singing crummy songs with a political message. The Stones, Led Zeppelin and David Bowie were more to our taste. But in our last year Cafrune was assassinated, deliberately run down and killed by a van in Benavidez. His horse was found disembowelled nearby, its brown satiny entrails spilled onto the asphalt road. The perpetrators were never found. Alfredo was so upset he did not come to school for three days. It must have been around then that Felipe Guzman approached him. To everyone’s surprise Alfredo spurned the offer to become part of Guzman’s elite little cabal. In fact, he laughed at the idea. Unable to believe that someone would turn down such an invitation, I asked him why. He just maintained that idiotic grin and shrugged.

  I don’t like him too much, he said, and his blue eyes shone with a sort of merriment.

  This confirmed our opinion that Alfredo was a peculiar sort of fish. We allowed rumours and possibilities to grow in our heads. I can’t even remember why but a conspiracy grew up and we started to follow him home from where he worked in a bicycle shop on Saturday mornings. Our teasing was innocuous and didn’t seem to bother him. But then one day he vanished. He went off to buy cigarettes and none of us ever saw him again. No-one heard from him despite repeated efforts on our part to contact him. In the end we assumed he’d had enough of our jibes and gone back to Salta. We felt a little guilty but then came exams, school broke up for the last time and we forgot about Alfredo.

  After school finished that year I spent a lot of time at Bernardo’s house. Like all adolescents I found anyone else’s family more attractive than my own and our friendship deepened at the thought of imminent separation. His family lived in an affluent part of town. We were in his bedroom trying to fix a broken Gestetner duplicating machine when Bernardo finally spilled the beans about Felipe Guzman. His room resembled any other teenager’s room with posters of David Bowie and the Rolling Stones plus some large Juan Miro prints. Bernardo wanted to study art. His father, a distinguished and powerful attorney, who only emerged from his study that day to give me a nod, was adamant that his son should study law. The stand-off had gone on for months.

  We set about repairing the Gestetner machine. Soon our hands were daubed with black as we struggled to mend the attachment mechanism that fastened the stencils to the inked roller. When we finished, Bernardo, embarrassed I think by his own secretiveness, told me that he needed the Gestetner because he was going to roll off and deliver some leaflets to the union leader of the striking garbage workers. Did I want to come with him? We sat side by side on his bed. Sunlight caught the wispy beginning of his moustache. I remember his grey eyes alight with determination. Feeling out of my depth I made up an excuse and declined. It was a streak of cowardice of which I’ve always been ashamed. He swore me to secrecy, explaining that Felipe Guzman had been enlightening them about political realities and that he now saw the world in a completely different light. Guzman taught them about Marx and Trotsky; the activities of the Tupamaros in Uruguay; how the M.I.R. was the party to support in Chile because it was more revolutionary than the Communist Party. Bernardo outlined to me his new world view. It was Felipe Guzman, he said, who gave them enough heart to become involved in politics despite dangers from the current military dictatorship.

  One final event convinced me that Bernardo’s life had indeed taken a different turn. I had done well in my final school exams and as a reward my father presented me with two tickets to the World Cup Final. It was Argentina versus the Netherlands, to be held in River Plate’s home stadium, Estadio Monumental. I was overjoyed. I phoned Bernardo immediately to ask if he would like to come with me. To my astonishment, he hesitated and then explained.

  Oh Ernesto. You won’t believe this but on that Saturday my parents have been invited to the Guzman family estate for drinks in the evening. My father has been doing some legal work for Rear-Admiral Guzman’s wife. I really want to go with them. I’m curious to see Felipe’s family background.

  I was disappointed and confused. How could anyone prefer a cocktail party to a World Cup final? In the end I took my little brother to the match and we watched with joy as Argentina beat the Netherlands 3-1.

  Two days later Bernardo telephoned me. He was bubbling over with excitement.

  Guess what. My father has changed his mind. I’m leaving for New York on Wednesday. I’m going for an interview at the School of Visual Arts to see if I can start in September.

  How did that happen? I asked.

  I think it was Mrs Guzman. When she heard that I was one of her son’s students she became a bit flustered. She phoned my father the next day and lo and behold I am off to art school. I don’t know how she did it.

  What was it like at the Guzman’s? I enquired.

  It was . . . well it was . . . How can I explain? I’ll tell you about it when we
meet. How was the football?

  But we never did meet before he left for New York. Soon afterwards I set off for England and contact with Bernardo thereafter was infrequent although the affection from our schooldays remained and I visited him once in the United States.

  Although July is the beginning of our Argentine winter, the weather was still warm that year and I spent the last days of my teenage years in Buenos Aires visiting the swimming pool and helping the family to pack up and leave.

  It wasn’t until Bernardo was pacing around my rented flat all those years later, smoking non-stop, that I learned what had happened on the evening he visited the Guzman’s house in the countryside outside Buenos Aires. As far as I remember the story went something like this.

  The Guzman’s imposing mansion stood at the end of an avenue lined with huge, sad trees. Bernardo, in the back of his parents’ car could hardly contain his excitement at visiting the family premises where his idol and mentor had been raised. He thought it would seal a special bond between them and imagined confronting Felipe Guzman with a broad smile and saying, ‘Guess where I was on Saturday evening.’

  They were shown into a vast lobby. The walls were hung with old, moth-eaten tapestries depicting Goya paintings. These were interspersed with family portraits in oils that dated back to the eighteenth century. Some of the figures emerged from such deep and dazzling blackness that the background was more compelling than the subject. Despite his new political conversion, Bernardo was thrilled and could not help being impressed.

  The drawing room where the evening’s entertainment took place was a red-carpeted affair with gilt chairs placed around the periphery. Several people had already arrived. A liveried servant moved among them with a tray of drinks. Rear-Admiral Guzman in full naval uniform was engaged in convivial conversation with a small group of guests. Mrs Bianca Guzman sailed forward to greet Bernardo and his parents.

  Mrs Guzman, despite her overweight and spreading lower half, had a youthful spirit that showed when her face lit up with delight over one thing or another. Her white hair was casually done. She wore a blue dress whose low neck allowed her to display a sparkling necklace of amethyst and diamonds. Coming from a family of diplomats, her thoughts turned almost exclusively on dinner parties, salons, placements and, of course, guest lists which included the most prestigious luminaries she could find. She was a woman of considerable acumen and a snob of almighty proportions. Her talents as a hostess were unsurpassed. However, when she understood that Bernardo was her son’s pupil, she pulled him to one side and spent a surprising amount of time with him, considering that he was the youngest and least important person there.

  Apparently she questioned Bernardo as to whether he had noticed anything odd about her son. She tossed her head back and laughed:

  Of course, he is something of an artist and they always do odd things. People tell me he’s a brilliant photographer and film-maker. He dabbles in other genres too. We’re not sure where it will all end. How do you find him?

  She clasped her hands together and questioned Bernardo with a troubled smile. He could not help noticing the anxiety in her voice. Clearly she was proud of her son but Bernardo had the distinct impression that she was also frightened of him. Finally she detached herself and went to attend to her other guests.

  When the party was in full swing and everyone engaged in conversation, Bernardo needed the bathroom. He asked one of the waiters where it was and slipped out. Somehow or other he must have misunderstood the directions. He went through the lobby and along a corridor. At the end of the corridor he was faced with a wide downward sloping carpeted ramp that ended in a flight of stairs leading to an underground cellar area. At the end of another narrower corridor was a door marked Private. Bernardo opened it. The room was dark. He thought at first it was a gymnasium. One wall was lined with wall bars. Then he thought it was a gruesome display of post-modern art. Hanging upside down from the bars was the figure of a body with the throat cut, drained of blood and with the scalp partially torn off. Next to it hung a chainsaw and an electric cattle prod. Scattered around were a few badly made plaster heads, Roman style. And in the centre of the room was a figure bound and gagged in a chair. The figure was mummified, swathed from head to foot in greying frayed bandages. An opening at the top revealed matted clumps of orange hair. The figures were models or mannequins of some sort, he thought, but he could not see properly in the dim light.

  He backed out of the room. One thing he knew. He was not going to mention to Felipe Guzman that he had visited his parents’ house. He found his way back up the ramp to the drawing room by following the buzz, chatter and laughter of the party.

  Bernardo stood in front of me in the flat, quizzing me about our school days:

  Do you remember Rosaria Bianchi from school? And the others who were in Guzman’s group, little Otero and Joaquin Ponce? He asked.

  Yes.

  Did you know what happened to them?

  No. What happened?

  Bernardo opened his suitcase. It contained an old-fashioned video cassette recorder and a couple of old video tapes. He began to plug the video recorder into my TV set, explaining as he worked:

  I’ve spent most of the last week at the Escuela Superior de Mecanica de la Armada, the old Naval Petty-Officers Mechanics School. You can probably see the building from your window here. Did you know what was going on there while we were sitting in our classroom at school?

  Not at the time. None of us did, did we? I’ve heard since. It was a holding centre for prisoners of some sort wasn’t it?

  Bernardo’s face twisted into a grimace.

  And a torture centre. Since 2007 it’s been a memorial museum. The archives have detailed records, statements, testimonies, recordings and so on. I found these tapes. Take a look.

  He held up some old-fashioned video tapes then inserted one into the device.

  Grainy black and white pictures appeared on my TV screen. There were scenes of young people dancing.

  Do you recognise anyone?

  I squinted at the screen. Bernardo pressed ‘pause’ and froze the picture:

  Don’t you think that is Rosaria Bianchi who was in our class?

  The face of the young girl with a mass of brown curls was turned slightly away from the camera.

  It could be, I said.

  Bernardo was ejecting one video tape and replacing it with another.

  Now see this.

  I noticed his hands were shaking. This video tape was in colour. The first rather unsteady shot was of an open aeroplane door through which could be seen, far below, what looked like a sheet of brilliant blue glass. Superimposed on the tape in hand-written script were the words Lago Buenos Aires, Patagonia, 12th November, 1978. The camera tilted and some mountains at the edge of the lake came briefly into view. Then the camera turned to the interior of the plane focusing on a burly man in a brown leather airman’s jacket. He was manhandling a young boy whose eyes were half-closed towards the open door of the plane. Wind blew the boy’s hair back as he was shoved out into empty space, arms and legs splaying as he fell. The roar of the engine continued as the plane moved on. It was a military plane without seats, just an empty hold. The camera turned to show maybe a dozen more bodies sitting or lying slumped against one another. The man reached down to the nearest girl and dragged her to the door. She put up some feeble resistance, holding weakly on to the sides of the plane before being kicked in the back and catapulted into the void.

  Bernardo froze the tape. He took a deep breath.

  I have all the records. Everything is there, the names of the torturers, which times they tortured, who was present. Young left-wing activists, including Guzman’s group from our school, were arrested, tortured and held at the Naval Mechanics School. Lively music was played and they were instructed to dance for joy because they were going to be transferred south to another location where they would be better treated and from there released. Then they were injected with pentathol, having been told i
t was a vaccination against typhus. When they became drowsy they were loaded onto a truck and taken to the airfield. Then they were thrown out of the plane at about fourteen thousand feet, over that lake or over the Rio del Plato or sometimes out into the Atlantic Ocean. It happened on a regular basis, every other week, on a Wednesday, sometimes fifteen or twenty victims at a time. There were around two hundred death flights between 1977 and 1978. It was President Videla’s preferred method – he thought that Argentinian society would never endure firing squads. When incriminating bodies were washed up later from the Rio del Plato, one officer remarked ‘We should have thrown them into a volcano.’

  Now watch this.

  He pressed ‘play’.

  The video continued. There came the sound of a voice saying what sounded like ‘My turn.’ The words were barely audible over the deafening roar of the engines. The camera changed hands. A second man with his back to the camera was hauling a girl by her hair. She seemed semi-conscious. He tipped her out of the plane. The wind blew her skirt up over her head as she slowly somersaulted into the sky. There was the sound of laughter. The plane roared on. The man turned round and smiled at the camera. His smooth black hair was blown back by the wind. It was Felipe Guzman.