The Rhythm of Memory (14 page)

Octavio arrived and noticed the middle-aged doctor immediately, recognizing him by his ivory-colored suit and thick, black glasses. He was far more elegant in person than Octavio had imagined. Neruda was at his side.

“Thank you for coming, Señor Ribeiro,” Neruda said, greeting him like an old friend. The old poet stood up to shake Octavio’s hand. He tossed his cape over his left shoulder. “Let me introduce you to the good doctor.”

Allende rose from his chair and extended his hand. “Thank you, Señor Ribeiro, for coming to see me at such short notice. I realize how busy a man in your position must be.”

The doctor seemed taller in person than in the pictures Octavio had seen in the papers. He had a strong, physical build and a face that reminded Octavio of a professor he had had when he was at the university. Behind the thick, black eyeglasses, soft, draping eyelids, and heavy, full mustache, Allende evoked a sensitivity and sincerity that Octavio immediately warmed to. How refreshing, Octavio thought to himself, that Chile had a political candidate who was completely devoid of pomposity.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Señor Ribeiro,” Allende said quietly. “I am an avid fan of your films.”

“The honor is mine, Doctor,” Octavio replied as he took his seat in the chair, the chair that Neruda had withdrawn for him.

“I hope my friend the poet has not inconvenienced you by asking you here today to meet with me.”

“No, no. Not at all. It is my pleasure.”

“I see,” Allende said as a smile passed over his lips. “Are you a supporter of the party?”

Octavio readjusted himself in his chair, withdrew a handkerchief, and patted his brow. “No, sir, I am not.”

“I see.” Allende smiled.

“I’ve actually never voted.”

Allende and his aides let out a few short laughs.

“I see you’re a true artist, one with little interest in the activities that plague the common man.”

“No, I’m just lazy.”

“One of the great pleasures of life,” mused Neruda.

“Well, I hope your lack of interest in politics won’t dissuade you from thinking about taking the job. As my comrade Don Pablo probably mentioned, I’m a bit nervous in front of the camera. I don’t want any of my nervous habits to get the best of me. When I don’t have a crowd in front of me, I can get stiff and my oratory skills tend to weaken. I don’t want that to affect my campaign.

“What I need,” Allende continued, “is for someone to direct the camera, someone I trust, who will ensure that I am filmed in the most flattering light.” He paused again as if he wanted to clarify his expectations a bit more. “I assure you it is not out of vanity. I only want the people to listen to me, not to be distracted by my eye or my occasional hesitations of speech.”

“Yes, of course.” Octavio nodded. “I suppose I could give you a few pointers that might put your mind at ease.”

“That is exactly what I need, Señor Ribeiro. And who knows, by the end of all of this, I might just make a socialist out of you!”

“Yes, you just might, Doctor. Stranger things have happened. And I just might make a legend out of you.”

That evening, Octavio told Salomé in detail what had transpired between him and Allende that afternoon.

“The man is terrified that the camera might affect his campaign. He just wants a few pointers so he can make a good impression on the television. With the right lighting and camera direction, with a few sessions on speech delivery, he’ll be fine.”

“He sounds a bit vain,” Salomé observed.

“You think?” Octavio seemed hurt at his wife’s suggestion. “No, I don’t think so,” he answered after pondering for a few seconds what his wife had just said. “I believe his concern was not based on vanity, as he had little interest in appearing handsome. But, rather, he wanted to ensure that his words were heard clearly and without distraction.”

“What exactly are you going to teach him? You’ve never coached anyone like this before.”

“I will teach him the pointers of the trade. How to speak clearly, how to look directly into the camera when making promises. How to level his chin and maintain the intensity of his gaze.” Octavio paused. “I have it all worked out. It won’t be that complicated.”

“But you said he had certain tics?”

“Yes, his right eye twitches when he is under excessive strain, and sometimes, when he is nervous, he has a slight stutter. But I told Allende that, if he trusted me and allowed me to coach him, I thought we could overcome any of those problems by teaching him some simple breathing techniques.”

Salomé listened to what her husband had just told her. “Do you really think one’s TV appearance is that influential? Do you really
think voters will be swayed if one candidate is more awkward than the other? I would never be persuaded by one candidate just because his speech patterns are better than the other.”

“Darling, these things can work on a subconscious level. People are always more keen toward an attractive and well-polished candidate. Allende has lost three elections in the past. I cannot change his physical appearance, and anyway, he has a distinguished air about him. But I can help him with the delivery of his speeches. I will not be writing for him; whatever he promises will be his own words! And why shouldn’t people hear his words clearly?” Octavio paused and laid his palms on Salomé’s crossed knees.

“If Neruda is the man whose poems had the capacity to lead your heart toward me, we should trust him and his support of the best presidential candidate. And”—he looked Salomé straight in the eyes—“I think we should do whatever we can to help him win.”

Salomé was silent. She was surprised that her husband was suddenly so passionate in his support for Allende. This was a man who had spent his youth copying love poems, not political slogans. It was becoming a bit overwhelming for her. The two girls had given her and the maid trouble all day, and Rafael had been complaining that he missed the hacienda. She was too exhausted to discuss the matter further.

“You’re probably right,” she acquiesced as she went to turn the overhead light off. “It sounds as though he is a good man who needs your help.” She slid over to his side of the bed and pressed her cheek close to his. She wanted to share his enthusiasm, but something in her heart told her otherwise. Still, she whispered into his ear, “He’ll be lucky to have you as a teacher, my love. Just remember your promise to be careful.”

S
ANTIAGO
, C
HILE

M
ARCH
1970

With his new “coaching” role underneath his wings, Octavio seemed to be refueled with a new zest for his life and career. Finally, he was able to be engaged in a project that he found intellectually stimulating. Never could he have imagined that Pablo Neruda would come to him and ask him to help one of the country’s presidential candidates. He felt reborn.

At night he would stay up and read all the articles he could find on Allende. He clipped out copies of the speeches Allende had made in the past and read the critiques of his platforms from the various national newspapers. Little by little, he was able to piece together the vision of a man he felt was not only brilliant but deeply compassionate as well.

“This socialism that he speaks of would afford the children who are less fortunate than ours to have a better life,” Octavio told Salomé as the two of them sat in the garden watching Rafael and his two little sisters, Blanca and Isabelle, play under the shade of the avocado tree.

“He wants every child to be able to go to school, have free milk, better health care…who can find fault with a man who has come from such privilege as he has and still has sympathy and feeling for those with less means.”

Salomé nodded her head. “I agree with you, Octavio, but there
are people in our country who will not want such a drastic political change. It requires a complete overhaul in our nation’s thinking. Not to mention Chile’s economy.”

“Oh, my wife, ever the bourgeois,” Octavio chided. “You have to remember that I didn’t come from such privilege.”

“I’m serious, Octavio. Things aren’t that simple! Nothing is black-and-white with politics.”

Octavio bit the tip of his pencil. “Well, it might not be simple, but Chile will still have to change its ways in order to progress. We can’t maintain the mentality of a gray elephant where the rich stay rich and the poor remain impoverished.”

“Octavio,” Salomé said with a slight hint of caution in her voice. “Just because you are helping Dr. Allende doesn’t mean you have to become the spokesperson for the socialist party. Try and keep some distance.”

“I cannot help a man that I don’t understand. The more I read, the more I understand and sympathize with his platform. He has a vision and I admire him for it.”

“Admire and undertake as your own are two separate things. We both have seen how quickly politics can change in Chile. How many presidents can you count who were in and out of office since you yourself were a little boy?” She looked at him sternly. “Too many, I bet, to count!”

“You don’t understand, Salomé.” And for the first time in their marriage, Octavio seemed to almost patronize his wife. “I am going to be part of a fundamental change in our country’s politics, and I am excited about it!” He paused and looked out past the garden, past where the children were quietly playing and into the hills. “I haven’t been this excited in years about anything. Finally, I’m getting to use my acting skills
and
my brain. I just might be able to use my talents and influence to do some good in this world,
not just sell cinema tickets that make the studios even richer than they already are.”

Salomé shook her head. “I understand completely, Octavio. Believe me, I understand all you’ve sacrificed for us over the past five years. I just don’t want anything to jeopardize our happiness. Is that so wrong of me?” She couldn’t help being cautious about her husband’s burgeoning political involvement. She had grown up overhearing her father and grandfather discussing politics during her childhood summers at the hacienda. She knew that few governments enjoyed a long life in Chile.

“Nothing can change what we already have,” he told her gently as he got up from his chair and ran his fingers through her long hair.

Had the cameras been rolling at this moment, Octavio might have realized that the words he was uttering were spoken without reflection and that, if he were a character in a script, he couldn’t have sounded any more naive.

G
ÖTEBORG
, S
WEDEN

A
PRIL
1970

All her life, Kaija had imagined herself on her wedding day looking as her mother did in the portrait Kaija had carried since she was small. As a child, she had stood in her bedroom in Sweden with a cluster of violets and sweet peas between her hands, and blossoms in her hair, and tried to imagine that day when she would look into that faded black-and-white photograph and recognize herself in the image of her long-lost mother. For, in her mind, her mother never aged. She would always remain that slender, silent woman in the photograph whose delicate features seemed to be cut from a wedge of freshly fallen snow.

Now her wedding day to Samuel had arrived, and Kaija began to prepare herself for the ceremony. As her adopted parents were no longer living, she had asked Samuel for a small civil ceremony, because there was no one to give her away.

True, she did not miss having Astrid’s company. The old woman had never been kind to her and would never have risen to the occasion of her adopted daughter’s wedding. As far as love was concerned, Astrid had gone through all the books Kaija had had as a child, ripping out all of the pages that were devoted to love. Anything to do with sex was also naturally eradicated from the house. It was as if her own self-loathing had prevented her from
ever seeing anything good in the world. And love became the enemy in her own self-waged war.

However, had Kaija’s adopted father been alive today, he would have embraced her and held her to his chest before walking her down the aisle. She knew he was smiling down at her from above.

After some nervous pacing, Kaija decided to put some light opera on the old phonograph, hoping that would calm her nerves. Rummaging through her records, she decided on Mozart’s
Die Zauberflöte
and placed the player’s needle down carefully. The music floated through the apartment as she washed her long blond hair, dried it, then braided it down the center, finally coiling it into a loose bun. “It would be silly to put flowers in my hair,” she thought to herself, then chastised herself for being so sentimental. “After all, the ceremony is only at the town hall…” But for all these years, she had imagined herself looking as her mother did in that treasured portrait. Her solid stature. Her long, white dress, and the string of violets and stephanotis in her upswept chignon. Now, as she studied her own face in the mirror, she could see nothing of the woman she so desperately wished she had known and loved.

She would never know that her mother too had lost her own mother at such a young age. That the crucifix had been worn by the women in their family for countless years. But what Kaija did know was that the same necklace that had once touched her own mother’s skin now rested against hers. And that, in some small way, brought her comfort.

Kaija went over to her nightstand and retrieved her mother’s photograph, as an aria from the opera crescendoed in the background. The black-and-white tones had faded to a soft gray, the sun having absorbed much of the pigment over the years. Kaija looked at it intently.

“I must be joyous today,” she instructed herself. “I am marrying the man I love.”

Nevertheless, sadness weighed upon her. It was not that she lacked excitement for her marriage—indeed, she loved and cherished Samuel and desperately wanted to be his bride. She finally had someone to love her, to cherish her as if she were completely his own. It was only that she missed the female companionship that she imagined accompanied most brides. She wished she could have had someone to share these premarital moments with.

Yet, now, she was alone, with no one around even to help her get dressed. No one to braid her hair or massage her shoulders. And, more importantly, no one to share a last-minute giggle or calm the prewedding nerves. A girlfriend would have been the next best alternative. But Samuel and she had been inseparable since her first semester, and Kaija had made few friends since she had moved to Göteborg.