Authors: Edgard Telles Ribeiro
There was a table with six chairs in the middle of the room. The curtains were drawn against the sunlight. A floor lamp and two ceiling fixtures illuminated the space. Max waited awhile, his eyes at a loss for anything to focus on since the walls were bare. Nor was there much in the way of decoration, other than a couple of ashtrays and two candlesticks stowed at the top of a bookcase heaped with old magazines. Ten minutes later, a door opened at the far end of the room and a tall, thin man entered. A pale apparition.
Max stood and took a step in his direction. The man sat at the table and gestured for Max to take the seat opposite him. “You’re Brazilian?” he asked in Portuguese once Max was settled.
“Yes, I’m Brazilian.”
The man waited in silence. Max shifted his gaze away from the diaphanous being, half expecting that by virtue of the man’s unusual pallor, the walls behind him would suddenly come to life — and appear adorned in paintings, vines, or flowers. But they remained unaffected by the circumstances.
Max then took a deep breath and, in as dignified a voice as possible, said, “
Codfish
.”
The other accepted the word as if it were a greeting and nodded, encouraging him to continue.
Max started talking. He explained his situation. He wanted to help but didn’t know how. He admitted that, strictly speaking, he was at a loss as to how to proceed. He wanted to at least prevent unnecessary deaths, if he could act in time. And reassure the families who called constantly from Brazil. As far as he could. But … where to start? Where should he go? From whom should he seek help? He also alluded cursorily to the difficulties he’d run into at the embassy and with the Chilean police.
The man began to smile, his eyes fixed on the floor as he shook his head slightly from side to side. “If I understood correctly,” he finally said, “you’re in the same boat as us: stymied by both Chilean intelligence and our own ambassador here.”
“Right,” agreed Max. “In a certain sense, yes.”
“Pretty funny,” the other persisted. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes …,” Max replied, adding, “
and no
.” He felt a drop of sweat forming on his brow, right along his hairline. He wiped it away and went on, in search of common ground. “But I can see why you find it …” Lacking a better word, he contented himself with repeating “
funny
.”
The man pushed back his chair as if he needed more space to think. A bit of color had appeared on his face. “I’m really sorry,” he said at last, “but I can’t help you. I don’t even know where our people are. Everything happened very suddenly. The day before the coup, I was planning a dinner at my house, a simple get-together. Since Santiago has run out of everything because of the truckers’ strike ordered by the right, and the hoarding of food staples for the black market, I had a chicken breast in the oven, a few eggs in the fridge, and was relying on my garden. I was living on the city outskirts in a house with a little yard, and my wife and I had planted kale, tomatoes, and a few other
vegetables. Someone would be bringing rice with sausage, and dessert was to be taken care of too.
“A friend who came through the city on her way to our house that night saw a battalion go by, with soldiers carrying rifles and machine guns. They weren’t marching in formation but were looking from side to side as if keeping an eye out for some enemy. When she told us about that, we didn’t know what to think.
“Bright and early the next morning I was woken by a horse. It had broken through the fence and was ransacking our vegetable garden. Where it came from, I have no idea … it looked lost.
A circus animal
, I got to thinking,
abandoned to fate by its owners
. And it was hungry. Its ribs were showing, the creature was so emaciated. I went out to the yard to shoo it away.
And then I saw …
”
Max was held in suspense by his words.
“… in the haze, just beyond the horse slowly limping away,
I saw tanks descending single file toward the city center
. I woke up my wife and a few friends who had stayed the night since they had no means of transportation, and we were out of there in no time. Each of us took off in a different direction. I stuck with my wife as long as I could, but the DINA knew what I looked like. From that point on, we stayed apart from one another in different locations, hopping from house to house. Friends’ phone lines were cut and their neighbors would rat us out as soon as they saw us come in. My wife, who’s eight months pregnant, is at another embassy.”
He paused and looked at Max before proceeding.
“My cousin brought me here. But afterward he refused to do anything else for me. I understand. And I’m grateful for what he did. You can tell him that for me. Things came crashing down, affecting everyone. The radios around us kept blaring:
turn in foreigners you don’t trust
,
turn in enemies of Chile
.… And even if I knew where my companions are, it wouldn’t help you. Things
haven’t been easy for our side. What we’ve lost, besides lives, is hope. We used to have hope here in Chile. It might have been an illusion.… Got a cigarette?”
Max recalled one of Buñuel’s early films, from his Mexican phase,
Illusion Travels by Streetcar
.
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Keep the pack.”
“Got a match?”
“Here.”
The other man took the lighter.
“Please, keep it.”
“A
Dupont
? Are you mad? No way. I’d be shot on sight by my comrades.”
The two laughed.
The man lit his cigarette and contemplated the lighter for a few seconds, balancing it in his right hand. He seemed to be reflecting on days gone by, when he might have had one just like it, perhaps an even nicer one. What else might he have been thinking about?
He handed back the lighter a moment later. He’d regained a bit more color. The time had come to take his leave, though.
“Thanks again for the cigarettes,” he said, getting up. “And good luck.”
Max was at a loss as to how to respond.
Good luck?
“What about your wife?” he asked.
“I don’t know where she is. All I heard is that she’s safe at some other embassy.”
Max sensed that he was lying. As the attaché had predicted, perhaps with good reason. A woman eight months pregnant, holed up in who knew what kind of situation, with dozens or hundreds of people sharing a single bathroom, about to give birth to a child. A child who might never get to know his father …
Max would have liked to wish the stranger good luck too, but he didn’t feel up to it. He merely raised his hand in a vague farewell when the man, reaching the door, turned to face him one last time. The smile he’d worn briefly was gone. Even so, he pointed to the pack of cigarettes in his hand and gave a thumbsup. “Appreciate these,” he said before shutting the door.
After the man left, the room shrank around Max. He stood and paced from one side to the other. He wanted to smoke but all he had in his pocket was the lighter. He looked at his watch without seeing the hands. He imagined someone would be coming for him. And so he waited.
A few minutes later, the official he’d met earlier returned and accompanied him to the exit. The man was in shirtsleeves and the temperature outside wasn’t exactly pleasant. Yet he went out with Max. As the visitor headed down the steps leading to the sidewalk, the man’s voice sounded out in the crisp morning air: “
Gracias
.”
Max turned. Everything about the man, from the glint in his eye to the trace of a smile that shaved twenty years off him, confirmed his gratitude.
You tried
, his expression seemed to suggest. It wasn’t up to him to judge whether it had been successful or not. But he wanted to personally convey his thanks. And if he did so, it was because gestures like Max’s, no matter where they might come from, were rarer each day.
On an impulse, Max swiftly ascended the steps and shook the man’s hand. For the first time since March 31, 1964, he’d wavered — to the point of nearly losing his balance. Then he turned and went back down the stairs. When he reached the sidewalk, he casually strolled away.
For a few days, the experience with his exiled compatriot had led Max to think back on his good deed. Unfortunately, however, the acquired knowledge wouldn’t take root in his heart. Max was, above all, a rational man, immune to the lure of emotion.
The attaché who had tried to help him perform his consular duties was transferred back to Brazil a month later, and Max would never see him again. The official from the foreign embassy, even more understandably, would also vanish from his life forever. As for
Codfish
, yes, our friend would see him again.
Yes … and no
. Because, twenty years later, in Brasilia, with democracy restored and those who had previously been overthrown back in power, Max had hidden behind a pillar to avoid being recognized by the now high official of the federal administration when he’d almost crossed paths with him at a public ceremony both were attending. He’d been afraid that the former attaché might have told his relative who’d taken refuge at the embassy what he knew of Max’s involvement with the SNI.
At any rate, the insensitivity he showed by not making more of an effort to assist other compatriots in trouble would take its toll. Because if the gods had granted Max an opportunity to shine in heaven, the devils were also keeping tabs on his destiny and would soon reappear on the scene.
Two weeks after his redemptive adventure — as he’d classified the experience — he received an urgent telex from Colonel
Cordeiro inquiring whether he would be willing to lend a hand with a particular problem.
Max agreed, and a few days later he had a drink with his new patron at the luxury hotel where he was staying. The colonel got straight to the point: he wanted to introduce Max to a São Paulo banker who had accompanied him to Santiago. And who wished to consult with Max “on a personal matter.” Max shrugged. He had no way of denying the colonel.
The banker soon joined the two at the bar.
Popped up like a jack-in-the-box
, Max thought. But there was nothing amusing about his demeanor or attitude. The games he played were far darker: he was an arms dealer.
Thank goodness
, thought Max with relief.
Weapons
… a subject that, given its nature, was beyond his purview. Aside from the countless restrictions, some of which had been put in place by UN resolutions, this was an area overseen by the embassy’s political sector. Max could, at most, direct the visitor to his colleague in charge of the matter. He was therefore happy they weren’t talking about the sensitive material that had so interested his friend Colonel Cordeiro in the past and could be handled only on a secret basis. Then Max realized from the other men’s silence that
there was more
.
Scrutinizing the stranger, Max discovered that he recognized him, both from photographs and by reputation. His name was Marco Ferrari and he made the most of his Italian background, displaying the personal bonhomie that helped smooth over his many flaws. He was an investor but also represented interests that kept him at the head of a large conglomerate. Last but not least, he had been one of the primary financial backers of the nefarious OBAN, Operation Bandeirante, which used torture to repress dissent and which Max had assumed to be limited to Brazilian territory. So it wasn’t just weapons he wanted to talk about.
During the conversation that ensued, the man circled around Max several times, like a big fish sizing up a smaller one before
going in for the kill. He showed interest in the diplomat’s career and asked general questions about the country they were in. At one point, he tried to establish whether they had mutual friends. Not having come up with any, he concentrated on their shared tastes in art and literature. He also brought up sports. The only subject they didn’t discuss was their personal life.
What is this guy doing in Chile?
Max wondered as he let the conversation flow. And why was he interjecting so many pauses into what he was saying, watching Max in silence, as though seeking to determine just what he was made of?
There was definitely more to the meeting
, Max finally concluded. Might it have to do with Operation Bandeirante? But
how
, if OBAN had never acted abroad, as far as he knew?
While the man ordered another drink, giving the waiter specific instructions as to how he wanted it made, Max shot a quick question to the colonel.
“No, it has nothing to do with that,” Newton Cordeiro whispered back. “In fact, I don’t really know what he wants, he hasn’t told me. All I know is that he needs your help.”
Help? What kind of help?
At a discreet signal from the banker, the colonel left to use the men’s room, a strategic move that drew Max’s attention.
“Max, I know we can trust you,” Ferrari said.
Max nodded. The use of the plural troubled him. That collective
we
had weighed heavily on the shoulders of defenders of the so-called Revolution.
“We also know that you’re convinced of the importance of the war we’re all involved in. A matter of
life and death
.”
Max took a sip of his drink and signaled to the waiter.
“There’s a community of Brazilians here in Chile …”
Max paused, his hand still raised, like a hunting dog that suddenly stops short.
“
Exiled
Brazilians,” the other man continued, dropping his voice. The colonel’s absence was telling. He had obviously left
the scene for a reason. “One of them …” The pause conveyed anguish more than hesitation. The confidence the man had displayed until then gave way to terrible uneasiness. To the degree that his voice, although angry, came out sounding fragile: “One of them swore to kill me.
A terrorist
. An assassin.”
Max had no alternative. He suddenly found himself in one of those extreme situations that are like duels — and from which only one of the adversaries comes out standing. He pinned his opponent against a wall, as efficiently and mercilessly as possible.