The Neruda Case (35 page)

“Altitude sickness. This will make it pass, sir,” a toothless old Indian promised as he showed him a cup of coca leaf tea. “But for God’s sake, don’t even think about getting involved with a woman from La Paz, you’ll go directly to hell,” he added seriously, wrapped in his poncho, palm outstretched.

Cayetano felt better by the time he entered the lobby of his hotel, where the poet’s friend waited to meet him. Emir Lazcano had studied literature in Santiago, at the University of Chile, during the legendary period of reform. That was in the sixties, when the nation brimmed with a rebellion propelled by long-haired youths addicted to marijuana, free love, flowered shirts, and bell-bottom pants. They admired Janis Joplin and Joe Cocker, were pacifists, and didn’t trust anyone over thirty. Cayetano appreciated this man’s kindness, as well as his slow and deliberate way of speaking and pronouncing the
letter
s
. They dined on a succulent lamb-and-pea stew at a cramped, narrow dive with exposed beams along the ceiling, near the Palacio Quemado.

“I advise you to keep drinking coca tea while you’re here,” Lazcano suggested, nursing his beer. “Altitude sickness is no laughing matter. It takes many tourists over to the other side. They arrive in La Paz happy, then eat, drink, and fornicate too much. The altitude gets the best of them, and they leave La Paz lying horizontal in the belly of a plane.”

The academic had met the poet in the sixties, during a Communist Party event at the Caupolicán Theater in Santiago. For a while, Neruda had helped him finance his stay in the Chilean capital. Lazcano had heard rumors about his poor health but had not imagined that he could be dying. He had preferred not to broach the subject when the poet called and requested that he help his emissary with a task so secret that not even the Bolivian Party could get wind of it.

Cayetano showed him the photo of Beatriz posing with a man in front of the social club, and asked if he knew her.

“I’ve never seen her,” Lazcano said after examining the photo.

“And her companion?”

“No, never. They’re standing in front of the most exclusive club in Santa Cruz, which lets in only the very rich.”

“And you’re sure you don’t know the man?”

“Who are you looking for? The woman or the man?”

“The woman.”

“If you’re looking for information about a foreigner, there’s no problem,” he clarified curtly. “But if you’re looking for an influential Bolivian, you should be very careful. Things aren’t all rosy here. If they catch you, as a Cuban coming from Chile, it could end badly.”

“I need to find that woman, or at least the man. Don Pablo assured me I could count on your help. There’s nothing political about this mission.”

“I still suggest you tread lightly.”

“Perhaps one of your comrades could locate this man, or help us find the woman.”

People were still entering the restaurant, massaging their hands, numb with cold, wrapped in coats and parkas. They were silent people, mild-mannered, the opposite of Cubans, with their constant, boisterous self-expression, Brulé thought, remembering that outside, the night’s blade could cut one’s cheek.

“I repeat: things are complicated,” Lazcano insisted. “We’re facing a difficult situation: on one side, the miners’ union could go on strike at any moment, and on the other side we’re threatened with a possible military coup. The infernal circle of this country.”

“Listen to me, Emir. I’m going to make you an offer in the name of our common friend.”

Lazcano lit a Viceroy and waited, slouched, gazing down at the table, unsettled by the conversation.

“If you help me find these people”—Brulé lowered his voice—“I’ll give you a first edition of
Canto General
, signed by the bard himself. Do you realize what I’m saying? A first edition, autographed by the most important living poet in the Spanish language. So will you or won’t you help me with this little matter?”

TRINIDAD

52

S
imón Adelman was a Jewish lawyer of German origin, who had made his fortune by representing Bolivian mining companies. But his heart still veered to the left, and now he devoted all his time to fighting labor abuses and uncovering Nazi war criminals who masqueraded as innocent settlers in the remote regions of Beni. Seven of his relatives had perished in the Holocaust at the concentration camp in Buchenwald, on Ettersberg Mountain, near Weimar, Goethe and Schiller’s beautiful city; and this spurred Adelman to study all aging German hermits in Bolivia with a magnifying glass.

When Lazcano introduced him to the lawyer, Brulé was struck by two things. The first, that his attire made him resemble a rural schoolteacher, which was unprecedented in La Paz, where the rich made their social standing crystal clear through cars and clothing. His shiny pants, wrinkled jacket, and lack of a tie didn’t give the impression of a successful attorney at all. The second thing was that, although he belonged to the upper class, which was predominantly Catholic and conservative, he was a leftist.

According to Lazcano, the lawyer could be trusted, although the party didn’t look on Adelman kindly because he was a Trotskyite. Nevertheless, he was known throughout the country as a man of discretion,
who knew how to rub elbows with the crème de la crème of influential circles and frequented their clubs. His only unpardonable sin was his admiration for Leon Trotsky, whose house in Coyoacán he visited regularly, always leaving a wreath of flowers and a pebble at his tomb.

“Do you know this woman?” Cayetano showed him the photo without preamble.

“Certainly. I also know that club,” Adelman said impassively. “It recalls another era, with its crystal chandeliers, beveled mirrors, and smooth floors. Dinners and sumptuous soirees take place there, and during them the fate of many Bolivians is sealed. It’s also the headquarters for proponents of separatism for Santa Cruz.”

They were at a table in Café Strudel, which was decorated with latticed walls and posters of Bavaria, a region belonging to Mennonites. The door was slightly ajar and let the cold glide in. Through the windows, they saw the chipped buildings that lined the street.

“I’m interested in the woman,” Cayetano clarified. “Her name is Beatriz, widow of Bracamonte. Though I’m not sure that she goes by that name here. How can I find her?”

“I saw her a couple of times at receptions.” Simón had blue eyes, gray hair, and a gaunt face. He was probably about seventy years old. “But her name is not what you say it is.”

“What?”

“Her name isn’t Beatriz.”

“What is it, then?”

“Tamara. Tamara Sunkel.”

“Are you sure you’re talking about the woman in this photograph?”

“Absolutely. She’s German, from Frankfurt am Main. I spoke with her about some of her real estate plans.”

“Does she have any children?”

“I don’t know. La Paz is small, but it’s not some tiny village, either.”

A waiter served them coffee in large, cracked cups. Cayetano looked around him. There were many office workers, in suits and ties, smoking or reading the paper, lost in thought or conversing calmly. In the Andes, as in Havana, there seemed to be plenty of time.

“Do you also know the man in the photo?”

Adelman turned to Lazcano. “Can he really be trusted?”

Lazcano nodded with little conviction and averted his gaze to the street, where indigenous women in traditional dress were passing by, impervious to the drizzle that tinged the afternoon with sadness.

“Let’s say that in Bolivia, he isn’t a well-known face,” Adelman continued, choosing his words carefully for his mustachioed Caribbean visitor. “That is to say, only certain people know who he is.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re sure he’s trustworthy?” Adelman asked Lazcano.

“Even though he’s coming from Chile, yes, he is,” asserted Lazcano, his head sinking between his shoulders.

“That man is Colonel Rodolfo Sacher, Mr. Brulé. In 1967 he headed a top-secret Bolivian intelligence squad.”

“I don’t understand.” Cayetano placed the photo on the table and sipped his coffee. The brew tasted worse than he thought it would.

“Sacher was the CIA contact for the Palacio Quemado, our presidential headquarters.”

“For what?”

“You know the story of Che Guevara, right?”

“Of course. He died here in Bolivia, in 1967, ambushed by rangers.”

“Actually, they killed him at the little school in La Higuera, where they took him once he was wounded. Not that they transported him out of consideration. One official even had his picture taken with
Che. They put him on a stretcher and had no idea what to do with this man who was too much of a man for them. The order arrived from Washington, though they said it came from the Palacio Quemado.”

“So what role did Colonel Sacher play in all this?”

“He was the one who infiltrated the guerrillas’ support network in the city. Without knowing it, Tamara Bunke, Che Guevara’s lover, led him to Che and his men. She had earned the trust of the Bolivian military and oligarchy, and was under express orders from Havana not to contact Che. But she disobeyed them. Do you know why?”

“Revolutionary enthusiasm,” Cayetano said, thinking of his wife in her olive-green uniform in the Cuban jungle.

“Out of love for Che,” Adelman corrected him. He fell silent, nodding his head, as if he weren’t entirely convinced of what he was saying. “For Sacher, it was enough to follow Tamara to find the Argentinean’s troops. And he didn’t only arrest the commander, but also gave the execution order at La Higuera …”

“Are you sure he had the power to make such a decision?”

“At least enough to impose order among the little soldiers shitting themselves with fear of their prisoner. Barrientos, the president at the time, had no idea what was going on. In the end, he held a funeral with honors for Tamara Bunke, who had become a Bolivian citizen and made contributions to scholarship on our national folklore while she was an undercover agent. The Cubans blame Régis Debray for betraying the guerrilla, but the fact is that Che was lost by the German revolutionary who loved him.”

Cayetano pushed his cup aside and examined the photo again. Sacher had the features of a fox: a sharp face, elongated eyes under bushy eyebrows, and sparse hair neatly combed back. He wondered why Beatriz kept changing her name and appearing in such contradictory places. Perhaps Beatriz was not Tamara Sunkel, whose first and last name sounded suspiciously close to that of Che’s German lover in
the guerrilla movement. Someone, either Adelman or the poet, had mistaken the woman in the photo for someone she was not.

He scanned the street through wet windows. “How can I find Tamara Sunkel?”

“I’m afraid it won’t be easy to get in touch with her.”

“Didn’t you say you knew where she was?”

“I used to know. She disappeared from La Paz some time ago. She sold her properties and left.”

“Where to?”

Adelman snorted. “Germany, perhaps.”

“When?”

“Around five years ago. Though I could be mistaken.”

“So what happened to Colonel Sacher?”

“He died.”

“He wasn’t old enough to die,” he heard himself say. He was immediately struck by the stupidity of his own comment. One was always old enough to die, from the moment of conception.