The Rhythm of Memory (26 page)

“Damn right. They should have used this place as a recreation center for us guards rather than a prison. Why waste a nice place like this on those damn communists? Allende ran this country into the ground! Before the coup, I hadn’t been able to find a job in over a year…”

Salomé shuddered. She knew if Octavio were in her position, he would have defended his sainted Allende to the end. He would have tried to persuade the guard of his naïveté, and to see that the American multinationals had sabotaged all that the former president had tried to do.

Days passed before Salomé discovered the name of the guard whom she had convinced she was wrongfully imprisoned.

“Miguel!” a soldier called out to him one evening when he was
posted nearby her cell. “The major wants us to bring him a prisoner, so take the bitch from cell sixty-eight to the interrogation room right away.”

“Cell sixty-eight?” Miguel replied, realizing that cell was Salomé’s. “I think you should lay off her a bit. She’s looking kind of bad…”

“What the hell are you talking about, asshole? Of course she’s looking bad!” the voice in the dark shouted. “She deserves it, the fucking communist!”

“I doubt that,” Miguel retorted, his tone bordering on disrespectful.

“What?” His superior was incredulous.

“Doubtful. That’s what I said. Look, the lady in sixty-eight knows she’s in the Villa Grimaldi. She’s some rich broad who used to come here every summer as a girl. If she dies, it’ll be on our heads, not fucking Pinochet’s, and you can bet your ass that someone’s out there looking for her right now!”

Miguel had apparently managed to arouse his anonymous commander’s concerns of self-preservation. “Fine! Just get some other whore then…I don’t care which one you get. Hopefully, for your sake, the major won’t either.”

“Yes, sir. Just give me a second!”

She heard a cell unlock a few meters ahead of hers and then slam shut. The force of the closing door echoed into Salomé’s cell. She nearly felt guilty for subjecting another prisoner to the terror that was meant for her. But she was too weary now for such a luxurious emotion. She only wanted to sleep. She wanted to hear nothing at all.

She imagined herself in her bedroom at home, serenaded by the sounds of the garden and the stirrings of her children. It was like a distant dream now, one that became increasingly difficult to recall, as the incessant wailing and tireless music never stopped.

Days passed, and her interrogation sessions became less frequent. When Miguel was on duty, he made sure that she received a bowl of
poroto
beans without worms. He would also bring her water if she asked.

“Tell me,” he asked one evening, “did they have fancy parties here?”

“Well, of course, I was just a little girl…but I do remember that there were some nights, after we children were put to bed, when a band would arrive and the entire garden was illuminated by torchlight. The people would approach in horse-drawn carriages…” She paused and cleared her throat. “I remember, I used to peer out of the window with my little brother and see the ladies stepping out of the coaches with billowing white dresses, their throats wrapped in strings of pearls.”

“I can’t imagine that happening here. Outside now, there’s nothing but mud.”

“Back then, they had such tall trees. The big cherimoya, the cinnamon…an almond blossom. There were bushes of roses and honeysuckle. There were rows of African violets and parrot tulips the color of gold.”

“What a shame. Why’d they turn such a beautiful place into such a shithole? They didn’t have to bulldoze the gardens and pour cement into the reflecting pool. At least the soldiers could have enjoyed it on our off-shifts.” He paused and shook his head.

Salomé remained quiet.

“I always wanted to go to a party like that. Dress up in a white suit, white shirt, and ask all the ladies to dance. But, lucky me, I have to watch over all these fucking Reds day in and day out.” He tapped his rifle against one of the cement walls between the cells.
“You know, most of these people deserve what they’re getting. They’re not like you and me. They’re no-class pigs, nothing but bloodsucking anarchists.”

Salomé nodded. She was spooning the last remnants of her bowl of
poroto
beans into her mouth.

“I bet your family’s looking for you. They’re going to be surprised when they see you, looking the way that you do.”

“I must look dreadful.” She tried to smile through the bars of her cell.

“I’m sure all your friends and family are pulling some strings for you now. I’m sure you won’t be in here much longer.”

“I hope so, Miguel,” she whispered as she finished her bowl of
poroto
.

“Ah, so you know my name now, do you?” he said, taking the empty bowl as she pushed it through the steel bars. “You better remember it!” He laughed. “Tell your fancy friends that at least someone in this hellhole was kind to you.”

“I will remember. I have a feeling I will remember everything.” And the deep, penetrating sadness in her voice made even the young soldier shiver.

V
ESTERÅS
, S
WEDEN

F
EBRUARY
1975

“In a way, the stories from my family’s past saved me,” Salomé said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. Samuel remained transfixed, gazing into the eyes of his patient.

The afternoon sun bathed the small, carefully furnished room with warm yellow light so that in profile, both Salomé and Samuel were radiant. Their olive skins glowed like ripening pears.

“Well, Dr. Rudin,” Salomé said as she readjusted herself on the couch, “the coup was staged to restore the power of the middle class and upper classes of Chile. It was a backlash against the socialism that Allende had tried to implement to help the working poor.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“Well, the army was clearly on the side of the wealthy and the middle class…the bourgeoisie, if you will. So, I used the stories of my childhood and the information that Chon-Vargas had given to me to convince one of the guards, Miguel, that I was a rich woman who supported the coup, and that my incarceration was a mistake.

“Night after night, I told Miguel the stories of my childhood, ones that had no connection to my being the wife of Octavio Ribeiro.”

“Stories?” Samuel prodded her.

“Well, stories like the legend of my grandmother—the
pequeña canaria
, who was pecked to death by the birds she was said to love more than her husband. And the story of my family’s hacienda in Talca, where the rooms were vast and sprawling, the windows overlooked miles and miles of land and sky.”

“And so you were successful in convincing this guard that you were from a bourgeois family…that you were a wealthy woman who was taken by mistake?”

“Yes. In a way, I was telling the truth. At least a half-truth.
I was from such a family
. I told stories of my grandfather. How he walked around in a brocade vest with a gold pocket watch, through the orchard of hybrid fruit that he cultivated in his spare time. How he struck his cane at dinnertime to summon his pet snake. All of that was true! It was only the part about my famous actor husband and his critical remarks about the Pinochet regime that I left out.” Salomé took a deep breath. Her cheeks were flushed now.

“And,” she added, “never in his life had a boy like Miguel, an aspiring bourgeois, heard such stories like the ones I told. I believe he soon became addicted to them so that, every day, he somehow managed to get a shift where he guarded my corridor.”

“You were very lucky, Salomé, to have someone looking out for you like that.”

“Yes, I was.” She paused and looked down at her hands. “I know I was.”

“And so the beatings stopped?”

“No.” She paused. “They never stopped. They only lessened. Miguel obviously could not be on duty every day, every night. But when he was there, I was safer, and he always managed to make sure that I wasn’t taken to the tower. Unfortunately, there were times when he was placed in other areas of the prison, and I was again taken to the interrogation room.

“Still, even with Miguel’s presence and his protection, I became increasingly depressed. I never thought I would see my children, my parents, or my husband again.”

“Of course.”

“But,” Salomé said with a long sigh, “somehow I managed to endure.” She paused for a moment, as if remembering something else she wanted to say. “You know the strangest part? They had doctors that would come in to visit some of the prisoners. They would take our blood pressure, our pulse…things like that.

“They were just there to report back to our interrogators how much more abuse we could take! Did they care if I had blood accumulating in my elbows from the stretching on the ‘grille,’ or if my thorax was so swollen I couldn’t breathe?”

Samuel was silent.

“Let me tell you, these men were not doctors! I came from a family of doctors—
my
father and
my
grandfather—men who had a sense of vocation! Men who wanted to help people, save lives, and cure diseases.”

“Yes.”

“These bastards were of another breed! They only wanted to see how much more torture we could possibly endure. They clicked their pens and glanced at our bloody faces and bruised limbs without a conscience. They didn’t want to help us. They only wanted to
maintain
us.”

Samuel shook his head.

“I tried to trick them, though. I would hold my breath for as long as I could before they monitored my heartbeat, so that its rhythm seemed irregular. I would also immobilize one of my arms for hours at a time, so that the swelling there intensified and I appeared far more fragile than the other prisoners.”

“You were wise enough to use everything you had. That is
‘survival.’ You had strength, and in that regard, I think you were quite fortunate compared to some of the others.” Samuel paused and looked directly into his patient’s eyes. “You must remember, Salomé, you were able to survive and come back to your family and loved ones.”

“Yes, Dr. Rudin, I realize all that.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “I recognize I was one of the lucky ones. I had a guard who tried his best to limit my beatings. I even had some medical knowledge that allowed me to fake the intensity of my injuries so I appeared weaker than perhaps I really was.” Salomé hesitated, her eyes falling to her lap. “And by some great miracle, I was released from that godforsaken place.”

“Yes.”

“But…I still feel like I am a prisoner. I still suffer every time I read in the newspaper a reference to my country. I am still horrified when I hear the sound of dripping water, because I associate it with the electric shocks. And I still cannot enjoy the simple pleasure of music. I have been robbed of any peace.”

“I understand, Salomé.”

“And I guess I can finally say it, Dr. Rudin, without feeling guilty about it.” She paused and took a deep breath.

Samuel waited a few more seconds for his patient to speak.

“I guess you can say, I’m so goddamn angry.”

“Of course you are, Salomé. What was done to you was wrong and unjust.”

“There’s more. I’m angry at my husband.”

“Of course, you are angry at him. Have you thought any more about why you’re furious with him?”

“It’s as I said before, he put his needs before those of our family. He became consumed by his role of ‘political activist, champion of Allende, avenger of his fallen friend…’ ”

“I don’t know if that is really it, Salomé. I’ve met many German colleagues who have expressed to me great regret that their parents never spoke out against the Nazis. One has to wonder if millions of lives would have been spared if more people had spoken out against what they saw as an injustice.

“Now we think of those people who hid people or helped gain illegal passports at that time as heroes…but they did this at great risk to their families.”

Salomé was silent.

“I think you’re more upset with the fact that he didn’t seem to
realize
what was at stake.” Samuel shifted in his seat. “Think about what you said in one of our other sessions.” He glanced down at his notepad and turned the pages back to quote something Salomé had said to him weeks before. “ ‘I fell in love with his idealism. It’s ironic that the very trait that I cherished most in him is the one I now resent.’ ”

“Yes, that’s true.” Salomé nodded her head.

“I think that’s the key here to why you’re so angry at your husband. Even more than because of the choices he made.”

Salomé looked at her therapist, her face revealing her puzzlement.

“Tell me, do you still consider yourself idealistic?”

“No, not at all.”

“You’ve lost your idealism completely then?”

“I have seen great evil. I don’t think after seeing that I could ever look at the world in the same way.”

“So the young woman who was seduced by oranges long ago by her poet-courtier is dead then?”

“I suppose she is.”

“You don’t think she could ever return?”

“I think that would be impossible.”

“And your husband, you don’t think he has seen the evil you have? You mean to tell me that you don’t believe he has the capacity to imagine how cruel and barbaric humankind can be?”