The Rhythm of Memory (31 page)

She had thought of him occasionally while she was in prison, remembering how he had first kissed her or how they had danced in the moonlight with the tall pampas grasses grazing their knees. But she had been afraid to think of him as he was now. Perhaps, she had thought, if she let her mind wander to the months before
she was taken, she might start to blame him and she would have hated to do that. Because, in her heart, she wanted to still love him. To forgive him. Because she knew, had their situation been reversed, she would have prayed every night that he be returned to her. And that she too would probably have pleaded to God that the government should have taken her instead of him. Because that’s what lovers do, isn’t it? But if Salomé allowed herself to think like that, she feared she might go mad.

In his heart, Octavio believed that love could never die. He thought it grew stronger when tested. So while he never doubted for a second that Salomé and his marriage might face difficulties when she was returned, he also felt certain that they would mend things once their lives were resettled. Once they had moved far away from the country that had betrayed them.

Of course, he realized how awful the past months had been for her. He did not want to imagine how she had become so spotted with bruises and how her once voluptuous body had seemed to vanish. He knew that, with the proper nursing, her physical self would return to what it had once been. Her emotional scars…well, time could only tell with those. He only hoped that, one day, she would feel comfortable enough to open up and speak to him about what had happened to her. He thought, perhaps naively, that it would actually bring them closer.

He had tried to broach the subject with her on more than one occasion. He had sat on the bed and held her hand, bringing it close to his face and pressing his lips into her delicate, olive skin. But she rejected his advances of tenderness. And when he tried to suggest that they should probably discuss certain things—to get them out into the open—she insisted that she wanted to keep the
past behind her in order to move forward. She had closed that door, insisting that it be forever shut.

He too kept secrets from her. He never divulged the lengths he had gone to secure her freedom, thinking it best to concentrate solely on that she had been returned. He never told her how he had convinced Father Cisneros to assist him, or how they had persuaded the general through veiled blackmail to release her. Octavio didn’t want to play the role of hero. After all, he knew that his actions had put her in harm’s way in the first place.

As a result, Salomé never learned the truth and wrongly believed that her rapport with the young prison guard Miguel had led to her freedom. Octavio never took credit for the one thing that might have proven to his wife how he had changed.

Sometimes at night he heard his wife whimpering in her sleep. From underneath the delicate cotton sheets, he could hear her soft moans, somewhat stifled by her hand that rested underneath her cheek. He would move over to her side of the bed and wrap his arms around her, whispering into her fragrant neck that everything was all right, she shouldn’t worry; they were now safe. But Salomé would awaken, stare up at him with her dark, marble eyes and appear startled. As if she did not remember where she was or why her husband was whispering to her in the darkest hours of the night.

S
ANTIAGO
, C
HILE

F
EBRUARY
1974

The Swedish embassy was the first to respond to Octavio’s application for political asylum, and he received a letter in the mail instructing him to come to the office at half past four, that Thursday, for an extensive interview.

He knew he had to be grateful that one of the four countries had responded so swiftly to his request, but he had secretly hoped that he would have received a similar letter from the U.S or Canadian embassy. At least there, there were extensive immigrant communities and ample opportunities for people in the arts. He knew nothing about Sweden except that it was going to be cold.

He changed into his best linen suit and tried to fix his hair. Standing in front of the mirror, however, he could do nothing to mask his fatigue. The past three months had taken such a toll on him that most of his black curls had turned a soft gray, and his eyes no longer looked like those of a prized actor, but rather of a man who was completely and utterly exhausted.

The funny thing was, Octavio couldn’t care less. A year ago, had he wanted to emigrate to the United States, he would have been incensed that they had not yet responded to his letter. A year ago, he would have been mortified to see deep lines around his mouth and eyes, his hair the color of pewter. Now all of that seemed superfluous. All he wanted now was to make sure his family was safe, and that
was the only thing he had energy for. If Sweden would take them—and take them quickly—he would go. He had learned his lesson—life did not imitate the movies, life was not always beautiful and poetic—one often had to make great sacrifices for those one loved.

As he walked down the hallway, Octavio could see through the open door that Salomé was asleep in the guest bedroom. Her head was to the side and he could see, even through the half-opened door, how swollen her face still was.

Every time he gazed upon his wife now he was overwhelmed not only with regret but also anger. How many times had he replayed in his mind that conversation where she had warned him that they might harm him or the family? She had never dared say, “They might take me, Octavio,” and even after they did abduct her that first time, she had never said to him, “They might take me again, Octavio!”

He knew why she had never said those things. She wanted him to come to that decision himself. She wanted him to take the initiative to say, “Enough, I will retract my criticisms of Pinochet. I will place my family above everything else.” And not only had he failed her by refusing to take that position, he had also failed to protect her. How many times—how many goddamn times—had he replayed in his mind that afternoon he was asleep in the garden when they had come and taken her. He had been sleeping with a newspaper over his head when his wife was kidnapped! He felt pathetic and ashamed. He felt as though all of his former confidence and loyalty toward his so-called principles had been decimated. All that he felt now was regret and self-loathing. And although Octavio prayed that Salomé would someday forgive him, he was confident he would never forgive himself.

Doña Olivia was reading in the parlor, her book splayed out over her lap when Octavio passed by in his suit.

“Thank you for watching over her, Olivia,” he said reverently to his mother-in-law.

“You know you don’t have to thank me, Octavio. She’s my child. It’s already breaking my heart that I won’t be able to always watch over her.”

Octavio knelt down. “Olivia, you know, I wish that you and Don Fernando could come with us. I know it would be that much easier for the whole family if you two could join us, but they would never allow you to come. Your lives are not threatened if you remain here.”

Doña Olivia’s eyes welled with tears. “I know, Octavio, I know…”

“I don’t even know if Sweden will take us. That’s why it’s so important that I make a good impression on this interview.” He stood up and smoothed out the creases in his trousers.

“I wish you luck,” she whispered, and it was obvious to Octavio that she was finding it difficult to speak. “She’s my only child. All I want is for her to be safe.”

S
ANTIAGO
, C
HILE

F
EBRUARY
1974

When he arrived at the Swedish embassy, he was told—much to his surprise—that the ambassador himself would interview him.

The blond receptionist gave him no other details. She just motioned him to wait in the hallway until he was called.

Octavio’s heart was racing, and he tried desperately to remember all the tricks he used to do to get over his stage fright.
Breathe, breathe
, he reminded himself.
Think of yourself in a warm bath with the water soothing you…

“Señor Octavio Ribeiro?” another blond woman called from the doorway.

“Yes.” He stood up.

She gave him a small, clipped smile and motioned for him to follow her.

As they walked down the corridor, she turned to him and said without any inflection in her voice, “The ambassador will be with you in a few moments. Please sit in this office until he arrives.”

He entered a small, white office and sat down. She closed the door.

Octavio was visibly uncomfortable. There was nothing for him to look at while he waited except for a small painting of a child in
front of a garden shed. It was one of those unremarkable pictures that one often sees in a hotel room or at a doctor’s office. Something that is chosen because it can’t possibly offend anyone. Tasteful in the sense that it was positively generic: a child, a flower, and a garden shed. But somehow it disturbed Octavio.

The painting seemed to foreshadow what life in Sweden was supposed to be like. But how would his family—who didn’t have blond hair or know anything about Scandinavian culture, let alone speak the language—fit into that lifestyle? Octavio placed his head on the white Formica desk.

Remember how much is at stake here
, he reminded himself.
This is reality for you now. You and your family have no other choice. You cannot stay in Chile. The sooner the better, but regardless, you have to go somewhere.

Octavio was surprised at how buoyant the ambassador was when he entered the room. He was a tall, thin man with a large, broad smile.

“Señor Ribeiro,” he said, sounding out the name in a series of perfect, fluid notes.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is completely mine,” Octavio responded politely.

“No, no,” the ambassador said as he took a seat at the temporary desk that was obviously used as an interviewing station. He placed the manila folder he was carrying down and opened it. “You see, one of my colleagues brought your application to my attention because he knew what a big fan I am of your films.”

“My films?” Octavio nearly choked. It had been a few years now since his last performance, and he couldn’t believe that anyone but a Chilean would have been familiar with his work.

“Yes, your films. My wife and I have seen every one of them…from
Buenos Dias Soledad
to
Siempre Carmen
. My all-time favorite movie moment is when you find that the villainous Cristobal has slain Angelina and…”

After Octavio had just spent two months living a reality far more horrific and agonizing than anything he had ever seen scripted in a film, hearing the ambassador relaying something that was obviously just fantasy made Octavio cringe. But to be polite, he indulged the ambassador.

“You mean when I clasp my heart like this”—Octavio pulled a fist to his chest and made a pained expression—“and I fall to the ground crying, ‘Angelina, Angelina, the angels have you now and thus I have no reason to cry’ ”—his voice became audibly louder—“ ‘but I have only salt and water in my heart since you left’?”

“Yes, yes!” the ambassador cried. “I used to mimic that at parties, and everyone said I did the best Ribeiro imitation.”

Octavio winced. The thought of a bunch of Scandinavians living in Chile eating gravlax on toast and doing imitations of him only strengthened his feelings of self-loathing.

“Really?” he managed to reply. “That must have been quite amusing.”

The ambassador stiffened and suddenly became more serious. “Well, getting back to your application, Señor Ribeiro…I see you’ve applied to us for political asylum.”

“Yes.”

The ambassador looked down at the papers he had just removed from the manila folder. “I’ve read about all the terrible things that happened to your wife.”

“Yes…sir,” Octavio added quickly.

“I hate to make you feel uncomfortable in any way, Señor
Ribeiro, but I have to for the sake of protocol. Did your wife do anything that would have warranted her arrest?”

“Absolutely not,” Octavio replied firmly. “She was taken because I refused to retract my criticisms of Pinochet.”

The ambassador scribbled some notes on a pad of paper.

“Again this question is for the sake of our protocol, so please do not be offended by my questions.”

Octavio nodded.

“Could you please tell me why you believe it necessary to seek political asylum in Sweden?”

Octavio could feel the perspiration dripping down his forehead, and he reached inside his jacket for a handkerchief. He excused himself temporarily while he blotted his brow.

“Ambassador, I have always loved my country. Had Pinochet never come to power under such brutal methods, I would not be sitting across from you today. But because of my beliefs, because of my outspoken criticisms of the new regime, the lives of my wife and family are currently at stake. The DINA already kidnapped my wife twice. The second time they took her, they held her captive for nearly two months and terrorized her in ways that only the worst parts of my imagination can conceive.”