Distant Star (2 page)

What exactly did Ruiz-Tagle say? It might be important, if only I could
remember, Bibiano wrote in his letter, but however hard I try, I can’t. In any
case, he stayed until he couldn’t bear it any more, then rather brusquely he said,
See you later, and left. At the bottom of the stairs, he ran into Veronica Garmendia.
She asked what had happened to him. What do you mean? Why should anything have happened
to me? asked Bibiano. I don’t know, said Veronica, but you’re as white as a
sheet. I’ll never forget her saying that, wrote Bibiano:
white as a
sheet
. And Veronica Garmendia’s face. The face of a woman in love.

It’s hard to admit, but it’s true.
Veronica was in love with Ruiz-Tagle. And it’s possible that Angelica was in love
with him too. We talked about it once, Bibiano and I, a long time ago. I suppose we were
miserable because neither of the girls was in love with us, or even paid us much
attention. Bibiano liked Veronica, while I preferred Angelica. We never dared declare
our feelings, although I suppose they were common knowledge. And in this respect we were
no different from the other young men at the workshop, all of whom were more or less in
love with the Garmendia sisters. But the twins, or one of them at least, had succumbed
to the peculiar charm of the poetry-writing autodidact.

He may have been an autodidact, but he was keen to learn, as Bibiano and I
discovered when he appeared at the University of Concepción’s rival poetry
workshop, run by Diego Soto, whose approach differed markedly from that of Stein in
ethical as well as aesthetic matters, although the two were what used to be, and I
suppose still are, called soul mates. For some reason, Soto’s workshop was held in
the Faculty of Medicine, in a poorly ventilated, poorly furnished room, just across the
corridor from the theater where the anatomy students used to dissect corpses. The
theater smelt of formaldehyde, of course. Sometimes the corridor smelt of formaldehyde
too. And some nights – Soto’s workshop was held every Friday night from
eight to ten, although it usually finished after midnight – the smell of
formaldehyde infiltrated our room, and we tried in vain to smother it, smoking cigarette
after cigarette. The regulars at Stein’s workshop didn’t attend Soto’s
and vice versa, except for
Bibiano O’Ryan and myself. We made
up for skipping almost all our classes by attending not only both workshops, but also
every reading and cultural or political event that was held in the city. So when we saw
Ruiz-Tagle turn up one night at Soto’s workshop it was a surprise. He behaved more
or less as he did at Stein’s. He listened; his critical remarks were thoughtful,
brief and always proffered in a polite and well-meaning manner. He read his own work
with a certain disengagement and distance, and accepted even the harshest comments
without protest, as if the poems he had submitted for our criticism were not his own.
Bibiano and I were not the only ones to notice this; one night Diego Soto told him that
there was something distant and cold about his writing. It’s as if they
weren’t your poems, he said. Ruiz-Tagle nodded in agreement. I’m still
trying to find my voice, he said.

At the workshop in the Faculty of Medicine, Ruiz-Tagle got to know Carmen
Villagrán and they became friends. Carmen was a good poet, although not as good as
the Garmendia sisters. (The best poets or potential poets went to Juan Stein’s
workshop.) He also met and befriended Marta Posadas, known as Fat Marta, the only
medical student who attended the workshop in the Faculty of Medicine: a very white, very
fat, very sad girl who wrote prose poems and cherished the dream, back then at least, of
becoming the Marta Harnecker of Chilean literary criticism.

Ruiz-Tagle didn’t make any friends among the male poets. When he saw
Bibiano and me, he greeted us politely but without showing the slightest sign of
familiarity, in spite of the fact
that, because of the two poetry
workshops, we were spending eight or nine hours in his company each week. He seemed to
be indifferent to men in general. He lived on his own; there was something strange about
his flat (according to Bibiano); he was devoid of the puerile pride that most poets take
in their work, and not only was he friends with the most beautiful girls of my
generation (the Garmendia sisters), he had also conquered the hearts of the two women in
Diego Soto’s workshop. He was, in a word, the focus of Bibiano’s envy, and
of mine.

And nobody really knew him.

Juan Stein and Diego Soto, who for Bibiano and me were the two most
intelligent people in Concepción, had no idea about him. Nor did the Garmendia
sisters. In fact, on two occasions Angelica sang the praises of Ruiz-Tagle in my
presence: he was serious, well mannered, a clear thinker, and a very good listener.
Bibiano and I hated him, but we had no idea either. Fat Marta was the only one who
glimpsed a part of what was lurking behind the façade. I remember the night we
talked about him. The three of us had been to the cinema and after the film we went to a
restaurant in the center of town. Bibiano was making his eleventh bid to publish a short
anthology of work by Concepción’s young poets in one of the local newspapers,
and had brought along a folder with contributions from the members of Stein’s and
Soto’s workshops. Fat Marta and I started going through the poems. Who are you
going to include? I asked, knowing full well that I was among the chosen. (Had I not
been, my friendship with Bibiano would probably have come to an end the next day.) You,
said Bibiano, Martita (Fat
Marta), Veronica and Angelica, of course,
Carmen. Then he mentioned two other poets, one from Stein’s workshop, the other
from Soto’s, and finally he pronounced the name Ruiz-Tagle. I remember Marta said
nothing for a moment while her fingers (which were permanently ink stained, the nails
not very clean either – surprising for a medical student, though it was obvious
from the lethargic way she talked about her course that she would never complete it)
scrabbled through the papers until she found Ruiz-Tagle’s three sheets.
Don’t put him in, she said suddenly. You mean Ruiz-Tagle? I asked. I
couldn’t believe my ears: she was one of his most fervent admirers. Bibiano,
meanwhile, said nothing. The three poems were short; all less than ten lines. One
described a landscape: trees, a dirt road, a house in the distance, wooden fences,
hills, clouds. According to Bibiano it was “very Japanese.” I thought it was
like something Jorge Teillier might have written after suffering a stroke. The second
poem (which was entitled “Air”) was about wind blowing through the gaps in
the stone walls of a house. (This one sounded like Teillier stricken with aphasia but
persevering in his literary endeavors, a style that should not have been totally
unfamiliar to me, since even back then, in 1973, at least half of Teillier’s
putative disciples were persevering, undaunted by aphasia.) I have forgotten the third
poem altogether. Or almost: I remember that at some point in it a knife appeared, for a
reason that remained entirely obscure to me.

Why don’t you think I should include him? asked Bibiano, slumped
forward, with his head resting on his outstretched arm as if it were a pillow and the
table were his bed. I thought you
were friends, I said. We are, said
Fat Marta, but I still wouldn’t put him in. Why not? insisted Bibiano. Fat Marta
shrugged. Then she said, It’s as if they weren’t his poems. His real poems,
if you see what I mean. What
do
you mean? asked Bibiano. Marta looked me in the
eye (I was sitting opposite, and Bibiano, beside her, seemed to have fallen asleep) and
said, Alberto is a good poet, but he still hasn’t made his breakthrough. You mean
he’s a virgin? asked Bibiano, but Fat Marta and I ignored him. Have you read other
poems of his? I inquired. What does he write? What’s it like? Fat Marta smiled
inwardly, as if she herself couldn’t believe what she was about to tell us.
Alberto, she said, is going to revolutionize Chilean poetry. Have you actually read his
stuff, or is this just a feeling you have? Fat Marta gave a little snort by way of
reply. Then, abruptly, she said, The other day I went to his flat. We didn’t tell
her to go on, but I noticed that Bibiano, slumped on the table, was smiling at her
affectionately. He wasn’t expecting me, of course, she added. I know what
you’re trying to tell us, said Bibiano. Alberto opened up to me, said Fat Marta. I
can’t imagine Ruiz-Tagle opening up to anybody, said Bibiano. Everyone thinks
he’s in love with Veronica Garmendia, said Marta, but it’s not true. Is that
what he told you? asked Bibiano. Fat Marta smiled to herself, as if she were in
possession of a great secret. At that point I remember thinking, I don’t like this
woman. She might be talented, she might be intelligent, she’s on the right side,
but I don’t like her. No, he didn’t tell me that, said Marta, although he
tells me things he doesn’t tell anyone else. You mean, he doesn’t tell other
girls
, said Bibiano. Right, she said, things he
doesn’t tell the other girls. Things like what? Fat Marta thought for a while
before answering. Well, he tells me about his new poetry, what else? You mean the poetry
he’s planning to write? asked Bibiano skeptically. That he’s going to
perform
, said Marta. And you know why I’m so sure? Because of his
will. She waited a moment for a question from us, then added, He has a will of iron. You
don’t know him. It was late. Bibiano looked at Fat Marta and got up to pay. If
you’ve got so much faith in him, how come you don’t want Bibiano to put him
in the anthology? I asked. We wrapped our scarves around our necks (never since have I
worn a scarf as long as the ones we had then) and went out into the cold street. Because
they’re not
his
poems, said Marta. And how do you know? I asked with
mounting irritation. Because I can read people, she said sadly, looking at the empty
street. How conceited can you get, I thought. Bibiano was the last out of the door.
Martita, he said, there are not many things I’m sure about, but one of them is
that Ruiz-Tagle is not going to revolutionize Chilean poetry. I don’t think
he’s even a socialist, I added. Surprisingly, Marta agreed with me. No, he’s
not, she said, her voice sounding even sadder. For a moment I thought she was going to
burst into tears and I tried to change the subject. Bibiano laughed. With friends like
you, she said, who needs enemies? Bibiano hadn’t meant to be cruel, of course, but
she was hurt and tried to storm off. We accompanied her home. In the bus we talked about
the film and the political situation. Before saying good-night, she looked at us fixedly
and said she had to ask us to promise her something. What? asked Bibiano. What we were
talking about, don’t mention it to
Alberto. O.K., said
Bibiano, I promise, we won’t say you didn’t want him in my anthology.
It’s not as if anyone’s going to publish it, said Fat Marta. Probably not,
he admitted. Thanks, Bibi, she said (nobody else ever called him that) and gave him a
peck on the cheek. We won’t tell him anything, I swear, I said. Thanks, thanks,
thanks, said Marta. I thought she was joking. Don’t say anything to Veronica
either, she said. She could tell Alberto and then, you know … No, we won’t
tell her. Promise it won’t go beyond us three, said Marta. We promised. Finally
Fat Marta turned away, opened the door of her building and we saw her get into the lift.
Before disappearing, she waved to us one last time. What a peculiar woman, said Bibiano.
I laughed. We walked back to our respective places of residence: he to his boarding
house and I to the family home. Chilean poetry, said Bibiano that night, isn’t
going to change until we learn how to read Enrique Lihn properly. In other words, not
for a long time.

A few days later the army seized power and the government collapsed.

One night I rang the Garmendia sisters, for no particular reason, just to
see how they were. We’re leaving, said Veronica. With a lump in my throat I asked
when. Tomorrow. In spite of the curfew, I insisted on going over. The flat where the two
of them lived was not too far from my house and, besides, it wasn’t the first time
I had broken the curfew. It was 10:00 by the time I arrived. To my surprise, they were
drinking tea and reading (I guess I had expected to find them hatching escape plans amid
a chaos of half-packed cases). They weren’t leaving
the
country, they told me, but moving to their parents’ house in Nacimiento, a town a
few kilometres from Concepción. What a relief, I said, I thought you were going to
Sweden or somewhere like that. If only, said Angelica. Then we talked about the friends
we hadn’t seen for a few days and launched into the inevitable speculations: who
was under arrest for sure, who might have gone into hiding, who was being hunted. The
sisters were not afraid (they had no reason to be; they were only students, and apart
from being friends with a few activists, mainly from the Faculty of Sociology, they had
no links with the so-called “extremists”), but they were going to Nacimiento
because Concepción had become unbearable and, as they admitted, they always went
back to the family home when “real life” revealed its deeply unpleasant bent
for the ugly and the brutal. Well, you better go right away, I said, because it looks
like we’re hosting the world championship in ugliness and brutality. They laughed
and told me to go home. I insisted on staying a little longer. I remember that night as
one of the happiest of my life. At 1:00 in the morning Veronica said I might as well
stay. None of us had eaten, so we crammed into the kitchen and improvised a little feast
of scrambled eggs, fried onions, fresh-baked bread and tea. Suddenly I felt happy,
immensely happy, capable of anything, although I was aware that meanwhile all that I
believed in was collapsing forever, and that many people, several friends of mine among
them, were being hunted down or tortured. But I felt like singing and dancing, and the
bad news (or the depressing commentaries on the bad news) only added fuel to the fire of
my joy, to use an
expression which is, I admit, impossibly trite
(“corny” we would have said back then) but does convey how I (and I dare say
the Garmendia sisters) felt, along with many other Chileans who, in September 1973, had
not yet reached the age of twenty-one.