The Rhythm of Memory (13 page)

“Allende?” Octavio was shocked. He pulled over a chair and sat down abruptly. “What interest would you all have in me? I’m a movie actor,” he said, revealing his own embarrassment. “I have never even voted.”

Neruda’s thin smile returned and his thick eyelids ebbed over his watery pupils. He nodded as Octavio spoke.

“I am sorry to hear that you have never voted, as you must realize that I have devoted much of my life not only to my poetry but also to fight for every Chilean’s right to partake in fair, democratic elections. But I am not here to lecture you, Señor Ribeiro. I am here to beseech your help.”

Octavio was stunned. “My help?”

“Yes, you have something of which most men would be envious. You probably are completely oblivious to it, but anyone who watches your films—and I happen to be a secret admirer, I might add—is fully captivated by you.”

“I’m not sure I am following you, Señor Neruda. Captivated?”

“You are a master of eloquence and fluidity. Your inflection is melodious. When you speak, people listen. When you gaze into the camera, neither men nor women can resist staring back at you. It is the root of your success, comrade! You are a genius on the screen.”

Octavio was in complete shock. The former literature student was now sitting in his garden with the nation’s most revered poet, whose poems he had used to court Salomé years ago. The hero of his youth was complimenting Octavio on
his
craft! If people, even in passing, had told him that they had heard Neruda was a fan of his films, he would not have believed them. But, here, Neruda was not only telling him that he had seen Octavio on the screen, but also that he marveled at his talents.

“But what does Allende have to do with all of this?”

“Ah, yes, that is the root of my visit. Allende.”

“I am not sure what he would need from a man in my position,” Octavio mused, “but ask me whatever is on your mind. In many ways—my wife would be very embarrassed if I told you why—I owe you more than I can ever say. If I can help, I will.”

Neruda smiled and relaxed back into his chair. “Well, I am not sure if you are aware, Señor Ribeiro, but there will be presidential elections this year and Allende will be running for the fourth time.”

“Yes, we have heard rumors about that.”

“Well, it is no longer a rumor, but a fact. Allende will run, and
hopefully, this time, he will win. I believe in the man, I always have. Honest, decent men such as he are rare in this world. In the political arena, they are even more of an endangered species. However, we all know that Allende is not a politician by formal training. He has had a distinguished career as both a doctor and a lawyer, and thus, sometimes, certain intricacies that might come naturally to a more glib, overpolished politician evade him. You see, Señor Ribeiro, Allende has always been more concerned with the future of our nation and the plight of the worker than about himself and his own image.”

“Yes…”

“And, well, I believe that this election might be the last one he will run in. Therefore it is necessary that the party take all the necessary arrangements to ensure his success.”

“Yes…”

“Well, to speak quite frankly, a few of us closest to Salvador believe that television will play a major role in this year’s elections. For the first time in our history, the political speeches of each candidate will be nationally broadcast. It is not my intention to imply that Don Salvador is not an eloquent speaker. Some of the speeches he made in the city center or on top of the tower on Santa Lucía Hill are deeply embedded in my mind. They are the passionate songs of a man with conviction. But on television a man must be more subdued, his gesticulations less wild. His elocution carefully manicured. Little problems such as a slight stuttering of speech or a nervous tic in the eye must be kept at bay.” Neruda smiled. “We hope we have learned something from the Kennedy-Nixon debates. My American friends tell me that Señor Nixon’s wolfish appearance in a television debate cost him the election ten years ago. If only it had happened the second time as well, but that is another story.

“In any event, that is why I have come to you, Señor Ribeiro,
for assistance. I believe you are the best, and the party needs you to coach their most cherished candidate just a little. Perhaps only eight to ten sessions at the most.”

Octavio was dumbfounded. He could not believe his ears.

“You want me to help Dr. Allende with his speeches?”

“With his
delivery
of his speeches, Señor Ribeiro. You, more than anyone, must know how the camera can be unkind to a man who is not used to the lens. Otherwise, if everyone had your talents, you’d be out of a job!”

Octavio ran his fingers through his hair. “It certainly is an intriguing offer, and I am overwhelmingly flattered that you have come to me, Señor Neruda.” He still could not believe that someone as intelligent and as worldly as Pablo Neruda would have seen any of his films. He had always thought his work embarrassingly melodramatic.

Octavio was just about to ask Neruda a question when he suddenly heard Salomé’s voice calling him from upstairs. He did not answer at first because he had not yet thought of a suitable explanation for why the great poet was now sitting on their slightly rusty iron chairs in their garden. But, before he knew it, Salomé was calling for him again.

“Octavio! Octavio!” she hollered. Then, suddenly the upstairs window flung open. He looked up above and saw her cascade of long black hair hanging over the side and her small, round face peering down at him and his guest.

“Who in heaven’s name do you have down there with you?”

“Pablo Neruda, my love.”

“Very funny. Who is it?”

“Pablo Neruda, my love.”

Neruda looked up at her and waved.

Octavio would never forget that look of shock on Salomé’s
face when she came running down in her housecoat, her hair full and her face without makeup, and found the cherished poet sitting there beside him. It was an utterly priceless memory for him.

“Oh my God!” she squealed as she covered her mouth and a deep blush swept over her face. “It can’t be! It just cannot be!”

“It is indeed, madame,” Neruda said as he stood up, took off his hat, and bowed slightly at the knees. “So pleased to make your acquaintance, dearest lady,” said Neruda with a genteel formality and innate sparkle that echoed an earlier time. “I see that a movie star such as Señor Ribeiro has a starlet of his own at home.”

Salomé could not help but smile back at Neruda, and Octavio could tell immediately that his wife was smitten with the old poet’s charms. “You must excuse me, Señor Neruda,” Salomé begged, “I had no idea that you were arriving. My husband told me nothing of your visit.” She gave a quick fierce look at her husband, to signal to him that he would be receiving her wrath later that evening.

“He knew nothing of my visit,” Neruda said as he smiled at Octavio, fully amused by the situation.

She turned to go upstairs but changed her direction midway. “Oh, heavens, I see Octavio has not offered you a drink! May I bring you a glass of sherry or iced tea?”

“If it is of no trouble, a pisco sour would be delightful! Thank you.”

“One for me too, darling?”

However, Octavio could already see the back of his beloved wife’s head shaking as she went to prepare the drinks in the kitchen. He would have to have some great explanation this evening. Otherwise, he would be relegated to sleeping in the hammock for sure, with only the hermaphrodite tree as his companion.

Neruda, Salomé, and Octavio spent the hour sitting in the garden, as the girls and Rafael tumbled in and out of the house. Salomé changed into her favorite dress and tied back her hair in an artfully arranged bun. Neruda remained silent on the subject of his spontaneous visit, never mentioning Allende in Salomé’s company. When she tried to inquire why he had arrived, he brushed her questions off lightly, saying only that he was a longtime fan of Octavio’s films and had been in the neighborhood.

He said little else except for the normal pleasantries that typify small talk. But the garden enthralled him. So taken by the garden was he that when he stood up to announce his departure, he asked if he might have a quick tour of it.

“It would be my pleasure to take you on a tour, but you must mind your step, as it is a jungle in there, I assure you.”

“I adore jungles, madam.”

He held on to Salomé’s arm to steady himself and marveled at the lushness and wildness of the place.

“Smells like jasmine and hollyhock. Wisteria and sterling roses…”

“You have quite a nose, Señor Neruda,” Salomé admired.

Octavio watched them from the wrought-iron chair, holding his glass of pisco sour in one hand. He still could not believe that the man whose poems he had transcribed to court his beloved wife was now in their backyard. He saw the old man reach out and pick one of the roses and tuck it beside Salomé’s ear.

The two of them were completely giddy when Neruda left. Salomé did not scold Octavio for not giving her proper notice to change
her clothes and apply some lipstick. He, in turn, did not tell her what Neruda had asked of him.

That night, they made love as if they were teenagers again. He rummaged to find the silk pouch she had embroidered for him, the one that still contained his carefully written poems. Later, as Salomé lay on the bed, her legs peeking out from the lace trim of her nightgown, Octavio pulled each rolled paper from the silken pouch and read each stanza to her aloud. She listened to him, her eyelids closed and her mind far away, for she was lost in the sound of her husband’s voice. Lost, as she imagined herself as that seventeen-year-old girl again, lying in the orchard with a thousand oranges falling from a star-studded sky.

S
ANTIAGO
, C
HILE

F
EBRUARY
1970

The following evening, as Octavio and Salomé stretched out in their bed and gazed at the ceiling fan circling in the air above, Octavio remembered that he had yet to tell his beloved wife of the conversation he had had with Neruda the day before.

“Salomé, darling,” he began as he reached out to stroke her leg, “Neruda has asked me to assist with the Allende campaign.”

“What? You?” She began to giggle at the absurdity. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am.”

She sat up and looked straight at him, her nightgown falling languidly over one shoulder. “Why you? You are not a political man. You didn’t even vote in the last election. You’re an actor!”

He could smell her hand cream on her upturned palms, and suddenly he regretted that he had chosen this time to tell her. He would much rather be making love to her than having to explain the details of his and Neruda’s conversation.

In his heart, he knew his wife was right. He had never shown the slightest interest in politics. Now that he was finally enjoying some well-deserved time off from acting, he preferred to spend his hours looking at his poetry books or spending time with the children, playing a tango record on the old Victrola to their delight.
But he had to admit, he was flattered that the great Neruda had come to him.

“I’m not exactly sure why the party feels I’m the most qualified. I only memorize scripts, I don’t write them.” He reached out to massage the back of her calves. “Yet, I must admit, I am intrigued.”

“Intrigued, Octavio?”

“Yes, my little Fayum, I’m intrigued. Neruda believes that television will play an important role in this year’s election, and he thinks I would be the perfect person to help Allende prepare for his debut. After all, the man has practiced as a doctor and a lawyer, but probably has little experience in matters of presentation. He has always made his political speeches on the streets of Santiago, never before in front of the camera.”

Salomé placed her pot of cream on the nightstand and turned to Octavio. Her thick, black hair was full around her shoulders. “Well, I know little about Allende, though I’ve heard that he is well intentioned. And of course I trust Neruda. Just promise me that you’ll be careful. You and I both know how volatile the political situation can be here…”

“Of course,” he said as he reached over to kiss her. “Still, we must remember the way we were as teenagers…remember how adventurous and pure of heart we were then.” His voice was full of nostalgia. “Salomé, imagine, only a few years ago I was quoting Neruda in hopes of seducing you, and now he comes to me for assistance.”

“Yes, Octavio.” Her eyes were now serious despite Octavio’s mischievous grin. “Just be cautious. I just wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize our happiness.” She extended her palm and stroked his cheek gently. “You must remember it is not only the two of us now. We have a family to consider.”

He turned to kiss her once more. “Don’t worry.” He sucked on
her small, delicate mouth. “Haven’t I always looked out for us?” She smiled back at him as he rolled on top of her and turned off the light.

The following week, Octavio received a handwritten letter from Neruda requesting that he meet Allende and some of his aides at a café not far from the central station.