Paula (47 page)

Through our unabating correspondence, my mother was up to date on the details of my adventure in the United States, but, even so, she was shocked when she arrived to visit my new home. To make a good impression, I had starched tablecloths, hidden dog stains under potted plants, and made Harleigh swear to behave like a human being and his father not to curse in Spanish in my mother's presence. Willie not only cleaned up his language, he put away the cowboy boots and went to a dermatologist to have the tattoo on his hand erased with a laser, but left the skull on his arm because only I see it. My mother was the first to speak the word “marriage,” as she had been years before with Michael. “How long do you intend to be his concubine? If you're going to live in this combat zone, at least get married, that way, no one can talk, and you will be eligible for a decent visa—or,” she asked in the tone of voice I know so well, “do you plan to be an illegal alien all your life?” Her suggestion caused an outburst of enthusiasm from Harleigh, who by then was accustomed to having me around, and a panic attack in Willie, who had two divorces behind him and a string of unsuccessful love affairs. He told me he needed time to think it over, which seemed reasonable to me. I said he could have twenty-four hours, or I was going back to Venezuela. We got married.

In the meantime, in Chile, my parents were preparing to vote in the plebiscite that would decide the fate of the dictatorship. One of the clauses of the constitution Pinochet had drawn up to legitimize his tenure as president stipulated that in 1988 he would consult the people to determine whether his government was to continue and, should it be rejected, call democratic elections for the following year: the general could not conceive of being caught in a trap of his own devising. The military, ready to perpetuate themselves in power, had not recognized how much discontent had intensified in those years or that people had learned hard lessons, and organized. Pinochet orchestrated a massive propaganda campaign; in contrast, the opposition was limited to fifteen minutes of television time a day—at eleven o'clock at night when it was presumed that everyone would be sleeping. Instants before the appointed hour, three million alarm clocks rang and Chileans rubbed the sleep from their eyes to watch that fabulous quarter hour in which popular ingenuity approached the level of genius. The
NO
campaign was characterized by humor, youth, and the spirit of reconciliation and hope. The campaign of the
SI
party was a botch of military hymns, threats, addresses by the general, posed amid patriotic emblems, and clips from old documentaries showing people standing in line during the days of the Popular Unity. If there were still any undecided voters, the sparkle of the
NO
s overcame the irritating weightiness of the
SI
s, and Pinochet lost the plebiscite. That year, after thirteen years of absence, Willie and I landed in Santiago on a glorious sunny day. I was immediately encircled by a group of
carabineros
and again felt the bite of terror, but then, to my amazement, I realized that they were not there to carry me off to prison but to protect me from the rush of a small crowd that had come to welcome me. As they called my name, I thought they had confused me with my cousin Isabel, Salvador Allende's daughter, but several people stepped forward with books to be signed. My first novel had defied censorship by circulating from hand to hand in photocopies until it became
persona grata
in the bookstores; as a result, it probably attracted benevolent readers who read it out of pure contrariness. Later, I learned that a journalist friend of mine had broadcast my arrival on the radio, turning the discreet visit I had planned into news. As a joke, he also announced that I had married a Texas oil millionaire, according me a prestige impossible to obtain through mere literature. I cannot describe the emotion I felt when we crossed the majestic peaks of the cordillera of the Andes and I stepped onto the soil of my homeland, breathed the warm valley air, heard the accent of our Spanish, and in Immigration received the solemn greeting, almost like an admonition, typical of our public officials. I was so weak in the knees, I had to lean on Willie as we passed through customs and saw my parents and Mama Hilda, waiting with open arms. That return is the perfect metaphor for my life. I had fled from my country, frightened and alone, one wintry, cloudy late afternoon, and returned, triumphant, on my husband's arm one splendid summer morning. My life is one of contrasts, I have learned to see both sides of the coin. At moments of greatest success, I do not lose sight of the pain awaiting me down the road, and when I am sunk in despair, I wait for the sun I know will rise farther along. On that first trip, I had a warm but timid welcome because the fist of the dictatorship still had a tight grip. I went to Isla Negra to visit Pablo Neruda's house, abandoned for many years, where the ghost of the old poet still sits facing the sea writing his immortal poems, and where the wind rings the large ship's bell to summon the gulls. On the wooden fence that surrounds the property are hundreds of messages, many written in pencil over faded traces of others erased by the caprices of weather, and some carved into wood eaten by the salt air, messages of hope for the prophet-bard who still lives in the hearts of his people. I looked up my women friends, and saw Francisco again, who had changed very little during those thirteen years. Together we climbed San Cristobal Hill to look down on the world from above and remember the period when we went there to escape everyday brutality and to share a love so chaste we never dared put it into words. I visited Michael, now remarried and the grandfather of a new family, installed in the house his father built, living exactly the life he had planned in his youth, as if losses, betrayals, exile, and other misfortunes were but a parenthesis in the perfect organization of his destiny. He welcomed me as a friend; we walked through the streets of our old neighborhood and rang the bell of the house where Paula and Nicolás grew up, looking insignificant now in its straw wig, the cherry tree still beside the window. A smiling woman opened the door and good-naturedly listened to our sentimental explanations and then let us come in and go through the whole house. On the floor were other children's toys and on the walls, photographs of other faces, but our memories lingered in the air. Everything looked smaller, with that soft sepia patina of nearly forgotten memories. Outside, I said goodbye to Michael, and, as soon as he was out of sight, burst into inconsolable sobs. I was crying for those perfect times of our early youth, when we truly loved one another and thought it would be forever, when our children were small and we believed we could protect them from all harm. What happened to us? Perhaps we are in this world to search for love, find it and lose it, again and again. With each love, we are born anew, and with each love that ends we collect a new wound. I am covered with proud scars.

One year later, I returned to vote in the first election since the military coup. Once he had lost the plebiscite, and was caught up in the snare of his own constitution, Pinochet had to call elections. He comported himself with the assurance of a victor, never imagining he could be defeated, because on his side he had the monolithic unity of the armed forces, the support of the most powerful economic sectors, a multimillion-dollar propaganda campaign, and the fear many had of freedom. Also in his favor was the history of irreconcilable differences among the political parties, a past of such rancor and unpaid accounts that it seemed impossible they could reach an accord. Rejection of the dictatorship, however, outweighed ideological differences; an agreement was made among parties opposing the government, and in 1989 their candidate won the election, making him the first legitimate president since Salvador Allende. Pinochet was forced to hand over the presidential sash and seat and take one pace backward, but he did not retire completely, his sword hung suspended above the heads of all Chileans. The country awakened from a lethargy of nearly seventeen years and took the first step in a transitional democracy in which for eight more years General Pinochet continued as commander in chief of the armed forces; a part of the Congress and all the Supreme Court had been designated by him, and the military and economic structures remained intact. There would be no justice for crimes committed, the perpetrators were protected by a decree of amnesty they had declared on their own behalf. “I will not allow anyone to harm a hair on any soldier's head,” threatened Pinochet, and the country observed his conditions in silence, fearing another coup. The victims of the repression, the Maureiras and thousands of others, had to postpone their mourning and wait. Perhaps justice and truth might have helped bind up Chile's deep wounds, but the arrogance of the military impeded that. Democracy would crawl forward at the slow and zigzagging pace of the crab.

P
AULA CAME TO MY ROOM AGAIN LAST NIGHT
. I
HEARD HER ENTER WITH
her light step and the striking grace that was hers before the ravages of her illness; in her nightgown and slippers, she climbed onto my bed and sat at my feet and talked to me in the voice she used to exchange confidences. “Listen, Mama, wake up. I don't want you to think you're dreaming. I've come to ask for your help. . . . I want to die and I can't. I see a radiant path before me, but I can't take that first step, something is holding me. All that's left in my bed is my suffering body, degenerating by the day; I perish with thirst and cry out for peace, but no one hears me. I am so tired! Why is this happening? You, Mama, who are always talking about your
friendly spirits,
ask them what my mission is, what I have to do. I suppose there is nothing to fear, death is just a threshold, like birth. I'm sorry I can't keep my memory, but I have been detaching myself from it, anyway; when I go I will go naked. The only recollection I'm taking with me is of the loved ones I leave behind; I will always be with you in some way. Do you remember the last thing I was able to whisper to you before I slipped into this long night? ‘I love you, Mama,' that's what I said. I'm telling you again, now, and I will tell you in dreams every night of your life. The only thing holding me back a little is having to go alone; if you took my hand it would be easier to cross to the other side—the infinite loneliness of death frightens me. Help me one more time, Mama. You've fought like a lioness to save me, but reality is overpowering you. It's all useless now; give up, stop the doctors and medicines and prayers, because nothing will make me healthy again, there will be no miracle, no one can change the course of my destiny and I don't want it anyway; I have lived my time and I want to say goodbye. Everyone in the family understands that but you; I am eager to be free, you're the only one who hasn't accepted the fact that I will never be as I was before. Look at my wasted body, think of how my soul wants to escape and the terrible bonds holding it back. Oh,
vieja,
this is so hard for me, and I know it is for you, too. What can we do? In Chile, my grandparents are praying for me and my father is clinging to the poetic recollection of a spectral daughter, while on the other side of this country Ernesto is floating in a sea of ambiguity, still unaware that he has lost me forever. Actually, he is already a widower, but he can't weep for me or love another woman as long as my body is breathing here in your house. In our brief time together, we were very happy; I am leaving him so many good memories that he won't have years enough to exhaust them. Tell him I will never forsake him, he will never be alone; I will be his guardian angel, as I will be yours. The twenty-eight years you and I shared were happy, too; don't torture yourself thinking about what could have been, things you wish you had done differently, omissions, mistakes. . . . Get all that out of your head! After I die, we will stay in contact the way you do with your grandparents and Granny; I will be in you as a constant, soft presence, I will come when you call, communication will be easier when you don't have the misery of my sick body before you and you can see me as I was in the good days. Do you remember that time we danced the
paso doble
in the streets of Toledo, leaping over puddles and laughing in the rain beneath our black umbrella? And the startled faces of the Japanese tourists taking pictures of us? That's how I want you to see me from now on: two best friends, two happy women defying the rain. Yes, I had a good life. . . . It's so hard to let go of the world! But I can't bear the misery of the seven years Dr. Shima predicted; my brother knows that, and he is the only one with enough courage to set me free. I would do the same for him. Nicolás has never forgotten our old complicity, and he has clear ideas and a serene heart. Do you remember how he defended me from the shadows of the dragon at the window? You can't imagine how much mischief we hid from you, how we fooled you to protect each other, how many times you punished one for something the other had done, without our ever telling. I don't expect you to help me die, no one can ask that of you, only that you not hold me back any longer. Give Nicolás a chance. How can he give me a hand if you never leave me alone? Please don't grieve, Mama. . . .”