Latin America Diaries (9 page)

I visited Sra. de Holst, who was very kind to me, but her promises, no doubt sincere, are dependent on the minister for public health — and he's already given me the cold shoulder. In the evening I visited Julia Valerini, who had lost a little boy and had had a shocking headache all day.

Two long days, with a strange chill, especially outside in the evenings, with shivering and so on. After a youth festival organized by Myrna,
⁴⁷
where I'd gone with Hilda for a change, I beat it to the banks of a lake to sleep, and then the shivering started. The next day, Sunday, I bought some provisions at the market and walked very slowly to the other side of the lake. I had a wonderful siesta, then tried to drink some
mate
but the water was
too bitter. At nightfall I made a fire for a barbecue, but the wood was no good, I was already freezing, and the barbecue was shit. I threw half of it in the lake to destroy any trace of the ignominy.

I was walking back slowly when I came across a drunk who made the trip seem shorter. A van picked us up and here I am.

Monday saw nothing worth mentioning, except for Peñalver's pronouncement that he's working on securing a medical position for me. Sra. de Holst doesn't know anyone well enough in the PAR [Partido Acción Revolucionario], the main party in that department, to ask them for something like that. We'll see.

A day of conscious desperation, due not to the cyclical crisis but the cold analysis of reality. My job as overseer at the Argentine's is the only sure thing. I've given up the idea of being a doctor for the trade unions; the
job in a peasant community and the other one from Helenita de Holst are still up in the air. I met Pellecer
⁴⁸
—in my view, neither fish nor fowl.

The rest continues on its daily course. I meet people on both the left and the right. If things continue like this, in no time I'll be working as a bill poster to pay my expenses and other things. We'll see.

I finally received a letter from home and know the answer on the
mate
—no, no, no. The day slipped by because I had no energy and took to my room for a nap. The boss Dícono didn't leave, only his wife, who gave me a mango that should have been thrown away.

Tomorrow I might go to the country for the job at the colony.

Several days have passed, two of them at La Viña colony. A spectacular place, in a landscape similar to the Sierras Grandes in Córdoba, and human material to be worked into shape. But they lack that essential ingredient: the desire to pay for a doctor
of their own. My stay was wonderful, but on the way back I realized something had disagreed with my stomach, and I had to vomit. Then it calmed down a little. We spent the next day in Chimaltenango, the little town where the youth festival
⁴⁹
was being held. The place was very pretty, and each of us did whatever took their fancy. Our little group was the same as always, with Hilda Gadea, the gringo and a Honduran woman…

Nothing happened on Monday of particular interest, just another day closer to the goal: May 1.

After confusion over the matter of introductions, I went to the farm with Peñalver, who rather demagogically proposed me for the job. The director asked me how much I wanted, and I kept it low at 100 quetzals for twice a week, on the condition they spend 25 a month on laboratory equipment. I have to go back on Saturday to see what the outcome is.

The whole farm business is very murky. Answer postponed. I went to Tiquisate and it didn't go well, but there's some hope of not such a good job, with board and lodging. That leaves the one through Sra. de Holst, and then the thing with the Argentine. Tomorrow, we'll see.

It's not tomorrow but the day after and, of course, we haven't heard a thing. Nor does it look like we'll hear anything any time soon. Having made up my mind completely, I tried to see Guerrero but wasn't able to find him. The only thing worth mentioning is a letter from
Mamá
in which she tells me Sara
⁵⁰
has had an operation and is not good; they found cancer in her large intestine…

Today I'm in a great mood. It was Julia Mejías who introduced me to García Granados, who said he would give me a job to go to Petén for $125. I still need authorization from the union, which I'll try to get tomorrow. If it happens it'll be great […]. Tomorrow
could be a day of further disappointment, or my big day in Guatemala. I am optimistic.

Now I'm not so optimistic—far from it. I spoke with Sibaja, but he paid me no attention. At 4 p.m. tomorrow he'll tell me once and for all whether he's been able to influence the head of the union. On another front, tomorrow Lily will speak to her brother. It will probably come to nothing again. We'll see. The Geografía work continues, although today I just wandered around, not doing a lot.

Two more days and today, yes, a little bit of hope. Yesterday, nothing.

Sibaja is good for nothing, but today I went on my own account to see the head of the union, a man looking to keep his job, an anticommunist, given to intrigue, but seemingly disposed to help me. I didn't sing quite the appropriate tune, but neither did I risk much. He'll give me a final answer on Wednesday.

Two more days to add to this concert of complaints, but with a couple of positive results. Yesterday was the visit to the former house of Lily's famous brother, ostentatious but with a good consulting room and some sort of a laboratory. The woman is Italian, and has sparked my desire to travel to Europe. They have something Indo-Americans are missing. I had a touch of asthma that started to get worse, but I swallowed a few of Ross's pills and it stopped. Today's positive was the arrival of a kilo of
mate
, as well as a letter from Alberto and Calica telling me of some cash that set me dreaming for a while. Hilda's book is progressing bit by bit, if rather slowly. Tomorrow I'll find out about going to Sanidad to study parasitic diseases.

Two more days in which nothing has happened apparently. However, the Petén trip does seem to have been resolved[…].

When I heard the Cubans making their grand speeches with total serenity, I felt pretty small. I can give a speech that is 10 times more objective and without the platitudes, I can do it better and can convince an audience of what I'm saying. The only problem is,
I don't convince myself and the Cubans do. Ñico
⁵¹
left his soul in the microphone, firing even a skeptic like me with enthusiasm.

El Petén confronts me with the problem of my asthma, a challenge I accept. I shall have to succeed without means and I believe I can do it, but I also think that success will be more the result of my natural qualities—which are greater than my subconscious would believe—than the faith I have in achieving it.

Three days now and nothing new, except for an asthma attack that has confined me to “my quarters.” It's Sunday and Hilda has gone to the port but I didn't feel up to it. There's nothing definite about the job, although I imagine the final result will be yes. I wish it would resolve itself one way or the other so I can work out what I'm actually doing. Financially, these months in the wilderness will serve only to leave me without debt, and with a camera. The future, in terms of the country, is unclear; I'll have to explain this to Alberto. It seems my asthma has subsided a bit.

If I haven't improved much tomorrow, I won't move […]. The question of work has not been resolved, except perhaps in principle. Within another couple of days there will be further communication, perhaps this time it will be final. We'll see…

Two more days in the sun; everything and nothing has happened. The job is still unresolved, although my impression is that it's mine. I spoke to the union boss, who said he would submit a list of questions to the contractor.

Two more days with nothing fully resolved. I'm now saying I'm going to El Petén, although I don't have the slightest assurance that this is the case. I'm at the point of making a list of what I will need […]. I am desperate to go. Perhaps by Monday everything will be
settled. Tomorrow, Myrna leaves for an adventure in Canada.

Myrna has gone,
⁵²
leaving behind a collection of broken hearts without knowing who she herself loves. But worse is that I don't know if I'm leaving. Always the same uncertainty […].

Bad news yet again. This is the story that never ends. The son of a bitch Andrade wouldn't even see me; this morning he made me ask myself a couple of times what I really wanted to do. I'm really up in the air and don't know what to do.

Two more days and nothing happening. My original decision to write immediately to Dr. Aguilar
⁵³
never materialized. I'll only do it if they answer me today with “no” or another evasion. The lawyer García Granados was also cool. Only Julia answers me.

Of work, fuck all. I still have Dr. Aguilar's letter in my pocket. In a while I'll try to see the son of a bitch Andrade and get him to tell me something. I'm guessing it's no. I've got all my correspondence on hold because of this.

Enthusiasm depends on health and circumstances; both have been failing me. The Petén job seems more and more remote. The letter has already gone to Dr. Aguilar but, of course, I haven't received an answer. The whole thing is fucked. I don't know what the hell to do […]. I feel like pissing off—perhaps to Venezuela.

More days, if not ripe with results, then at least with promises. From Tiquisate, no news. From Buenos Aires, news of the death of my aunt Sara. From El Petén, I've stopped counting on it. From the boarding house
,
that I have to pay up. From the gringo, that he doesn't like the food at his new boarding house
,
and that if it doesn't improve we can swap places […]. From Sra. de Holst, that I should go and live with her. That's a précis of my recent life.
I'm practicing at the Sanidad laboratory in case they call me to Tiquisate — otherwise I'm just waiting to see what happens. I've promised to pay the boarding house
by Saturday for at least a month, which is just two days away, but I don't know where that cash will come from.

Several days have passed with a few new developments, not very important for the future, but giant news for today. Things turned ugly at the boarding house
when I couldn't pay even five cents on Saturday. I left my watch and a gold chain as security[…]. After pawning my jewelry, I set off for Tiquisate and on the way came down with asthma—an omen of what it will be like if I do go there. Dr. Aguilar was again brief and to the point: there's a job as a laboratory technician, but not unless all my papers are in order. Now I'm caught up in that.

Sra. de Holst has invited me to stay at her house. I'll probably go, but I haven't yet given a definite answer […].

Tomorrow, I stop hanging out in the shit to surround myself with blood. My aunt, Sara de la Serna, died of an embolism arising from an operation to remove a malignant tumor from her large intestine. I didn't love her, but her death has had an impact on me. She was healthy, and very active, and a death like this seemed so unlikely. Nevertheless, it's a solution, since the disease would have meant she would have had a terrible life.

A day of utter immobility. Haya de la Torre passed through Guatemala […]. A letter arrived from Gualo telling me Fatty Rojo has been given a visa. Also a letter from Beatriz saying another kilo of
mate
has left Buenos Aires. Tomorrow I'll see the minister's secretary and find out what they have to say about the residence permit.

Days continue to pass, but I no longer care. Maybe I'll change my mind about the thing with Helenita Leyva, maybe not. Either
way, I know things will sort themselves out, and I'm no longer doing my head in.

In terms of work, nothing can be done about the residency permit until after Easter; the minister for health said I could ask around, and I know there's work at Livingston on the Atlantic coast, which Helenita will ask about for me on Monday. Hilda says she will ask about a job at the OAS [Organization of American States]. We'll see what comes of all this, but I don't have many illusions. My mind is made up, and one of these days I'll write to China and see what they have to say.

Nothing new under the sun […].

On Sunday we went to San José Pinula, where there's a Children's City, a slightly pretentious name considering there are only two small buildings housing 40 kids, but nevertheless it is still an interesting project. The director is a lawyer, Orozco Posadas, half crazy, but what he has done is worthy of merit. The city is for reformatory kids; they are given good food, good accommodation, schooling, and are taught agricultural work and given an occupation. The little kids are delighted. As for job prospects, the only new thing comes from Hilda's statistics professor, who works in the OAS, while Núñez Aguilar has promised to talk to the minister for foreign affairs to give me residency.

The thing with the professor is just hot air, it means nothing […]. Returning from San Juan Sacatepéquez, we stumbled across a procession of frightening looking souls wearing hoods and carrying candles and a Christ on their backs. As we passed alongside, the men carrying spears shot us some nasty looks I didn't appreciate at all.

We had to take a jeep to Guatemala, which cost $5 for eight people. Today, the next day, I've spent writing, eating at the de Holsts', playing canasta and checking out the gringo's books, all
in English but very interesting. My progress in that language is not enough to immerse myself in those hefty tomes, but I do have a number of journals, among them Pavlov's physiology of the nervous system.