Authors: Edgard Telles Ribeiro
“And …?” he asked.
The banker lit the first cigarette of the evening. After a long drag, he declared, “He can’t return to Brazil.” The worst was yet to come. “Money is no object, as far as I’m concerned.”
No matter how prepared he was, no matter how long he’d been awaiting the attack, Max felt blindsided. As if he’d taken the bullet intended for the militant. And he was saddened. The worst of men always cling to a few illusions about themselves — and his had just been shattered. The other rolled on like a tank, clad in his presumption, protected by his wealth.
“According to information we have, he’s in the hands of the Chilean secret police. He almost certainly killed one of our own, a friend of my mine named Boilensen, two years ago. I’m next on the list.
If he makes it back to Brazil
.” And then the inevitable repetition: “He can’t go back.”
In deference to his illusions, or what was left of them in that impersonal hotel bar, Max managed to curb his indignation. He dealt with his revulsion, however, finding a means of returning to the kingdom of men, by selecting a weapon with which he’d armed himself in his youth: subtle yet stinging irony. Combining feeling and diplomacy to the greatest extent possible, he honed it into a samurai’s sword.
“The embassy’s consular sector handles visas and passports,” he began in a steady voice. “As well as legalization of documents.” He silently counted to twenty. The other man grew
paler. “Everything relating to local immigration is up to the Chilean authorities,” he went on in the same tone. “It’s up to them to decide whether an individual citizen — in our case, a Brazilian — can remain in the country beyond the time frame established by law.”
The banker didn’t blink. His face showed no particular emotion. Newton Cordeiro returned to his seat, rubbing his hands together. The waiter served another round of drinks.
“So, it’s all very interesting, as you see,” said Ferrari, in a suddenly animated voice, as if he’d been engaged in a conversation the colonel could now join. And he continued, almost tripping over his words. “But I realize it’s a complicated issue. Thus my consulting you. Of course what was said here remains between the two of us.”
The colonel registered these last words with satisfaction, not noticing the wounded look with which they were delivered. He waited for the conversation to resume so he could orient himself, while Max helped himself to a handful of peanuts.
“Of course,” Max said at last.
They’d finished their third round of drinks in near silence. Ferrari suggested they move to a table. “Right here,” he added, pointing to the hotel’s restaurant adjacent to the bar, as if he were at his own home. He wouldn’t stray from the prepared script; he would follow protocol to the end. Even though his teeth and gut were clenched in anger. That was the impression Max took from the meeting. The man exuded power and rage yet was essentially helpless. The hatred Ferrari felt now came across as fear.
Once they were seated at the restaurant, however, his host rubbed his hands together as if he’d regained his strength. So what if Max had refused to do him a favor? He would find someone else, even if the cost were higher. As for the young diplomat, time would tell. He had nothing to lose by waiting.
Colonel Cordeiro, who had kept quiet virtually the entire evening, then found himself having to conduct an orchestra made up of two musicians who no longer had instruments to play. He handled the challenge remarkably well and was, moreover, quite pleased with himself, having fulfilled his mission. A bridge had been built between the two men, as evidenced by the harmony reigning over the table. He put himself in charge of the pleasant conversation, which featured alternating comments from Max and the banker.
His eyes tracked the bottle of wine, which was uncorked at leisure.
A delicious dinner
,
a fine wine … What more could he have hoped for as grand coordinator of the evening?
Max’s thoughts, meanwhile, had drifted to Carlos Câmara. Were his colleague posted in Chile, would the banker have had the gall to submit the same proposal to him?
“Excellent choice,” he said, swirling his glass and tasting the wine. “Nice color.” Then he continued the conversation. “In other words, what you’re suggesting, if I understand correctly, is some sort of custody. The military would be manipulated but without their realizing it. Very gently, subtly.”
“Exactly,” replied the banker, who wished only to put an end to that disastrous evening.
“An operation,” Max speculated, in the tone of one pondering an academic question, “that, from the administrative point of view, would feed the vanity of military brass without taking any authority away from the business community.”
To which the banker, as if following the same reasoning, had added, “Authority having to do with the former unions, which, to this day, must have hidden arms. Not to mention the various student organizations, whose manifestos are being printed and distributed as we speak, and the artists, who most certainly have been regrouping to produce the same plays, only now thinly veiled.”
Thinly veiled plays
, thought Max, suddenly disheartened
. Where might Ana be these days? And what would she think of that
expression? Was she herself working on such plays in Rio? What would she think of him if she knew he’d been asked to commit such a crime? What would his old jazz buddies have to say were they to learn he’d been offered payment to arrange to kill a man who
,
in other times or circumstances
,
might well have been a part of their crowd?
From the poignant adventure he’d undergone with his exiled compatriot to the nightmare he’d experienced with the banker, Max had been through two extremes in a matter of days. He regarded the first as more of a fanciful digression, something bordering on romanticism; the second, however, generated an uneasiness that refused to fade. Nevertheless, he gradually managed to concentrate on more routine assignments.
Bringing together businessmen from the two countries proved to be a straightforward and even pleasant task for Max. On the Brazilian end, the challenges were easily met, with the support of the major industrial and commercial associations. These links simply needed to be reinforced so that familiar paths could now lead to new opportunities.
The same was happening on the Chilean end, even though the local economy was still weak. But Max relied on a few solid ties in the country, derived from the contacts he’d kept with certain local upper-middle-class groups over the twelve months preceding Allende’s downfall. These connections ran deep given that, on his successive visits to Chile, Max had shared with these groups the plan crafted by the CIA in Montevideo and carried out in Brazil ten years earlier — by force of which the government had been systematically destabilized.
Following the Brazilian model and, later, the Uruguayan one, the Chilean business community had operated in a way that was at once light- and heavy-handed. First, it funded strikes that
paralyzed the productive sectors, creating panic among the middle class and immobilizing the labor and farmers’ movements. These actions were backed by investors who in many instances received support from the CIA. As a result, nearly all of the crucial sectors of the Chilean economy had crossed their arms at one point or another, most notably the truck drivers. Without transportation, essentials wouldn’t be distributed, except with great difficulty.
It was the second set of actions that would take the heavier toll, leaving countless innocent victims in its wake. These included attacks on gas lines, electric towers, and railroads, which were carried out by paramilitary groups and attributed (once again, as in Brazil and Uruguay) to extreme leftist groups.
Max had also taken part in dealings intended to manipulate the media through paid ads in newspapers and other means of communication, sending hundreds of mothers into the streets beating their pans in search of nonexistent food supplies. The protests of the
panelazos
, as they would be known in Chile, could — again, as had occurred in Brazil ten years earlier — be alternated with dramatic religious processions, which, according to the CIA, “photograph well in the international press, given how imposing the crucifixes are.”
The five weeks Fidel Castro spent in Chile at the end of 1971 had been particularly useful as a means of instilling fear. “A gift from the gods,” in the words of one CIA agent.
These were the trump cards Max depended on for his ostensible work as this new stage was being heralded. Considering that conservative values were firmly entrenched in power, and that the Chilean elite was already sighing with relief at the initial outcome of its successful performance, it was up to the diplomat to reap the bounty of the contacts made months before — shifting them into alignment with the Brazilian exporters and investors, who were once again migrating toward Chile.
On the Chilean social circuit during this period, Max shone. And he spared no expense, organizing fairs to promote assorted products, paying for Chilean journalists and investors to visit our state capitals, creating sumptuous receptions at luxury hotels. During the months following the coup, several local businessmen and their wives became full-time partygoers, exuding a telltale relief that indicated the anguish they’d been through. Even so, they listened more than they spoke and drank more than they listened. Deep down, they were still traumatized, trying hard to recover from their cumulative scares.
Did Max notice how doleful these people were? That they had no radiance, not to mention mundane qualities such as flexibility, malice, or a sense of humor? Did he ever regret having helped — even indirectly — to liquidate the country’s intellectuals, the artists, the teachers, the students, the liberals?
Or was he so bedazzled by his own splendor that he’d become immune to such doubts, content to shine on a now deserted stage?
Max had thrown himself with such determination into projects that would reinstate him in his career that he’d neglected the personal dimension represented by his family.
In the months after his arrival in Santiago, he’d traveled to Rio de Janeiro twice to be with Marina and check on Pedro Henrique’s recovery. Both trips had transpired as if he were visiting distant relatives. He’d spent his evenings listening to jazz with old friends and going to shows; Marina joined them only once. Her mother had passed away recently, which didn’t help matters. It had shrouded the Santa Teresa mansion in sadness and further tainted Marina’s mood with uncertainty.
Rather than bringing the two together, these visits had pushed the couple farther apart. Pedro Henrique had treated his father with curiosity, not tenderness, giving every indication that he was more interested in his daddy’s new beard than any other aspect of him. What would befall Marina on her return to Santiago was already looming on the horizon, for Max did nothing more than reinforce the indifference with which he regarded her — lost as he was in his own labyrinths.
He continued to act like a blind man where his wife was concerned.
She didn’t complain, having given up long ago. She just didn’t know exactly which direction to take. She saw herself reduced to the dimensions of a woman from olden times, even predating her mother’s era. Someone observing her closely and
wishing to give her a gift, for instance, would have chosen a shawl. Marina seemed to have aged prematurely and grown frail along the way.
Ignoring his wife in Montevideo had been a mistake. A mistake that hadn’t had significant consequences. Keeping up this attitude, however, turned out to have far more serious implications. Because Marina would eventually come back to Chile. Weary and worn-out. And life would resume its course, only now much more painfully.
Two months after leaving Santiago, Marina returned from Rio with Pedro Henrique. The boy, who had been speaking for quite some time, refused to say
papai
— a problem that didn’t faze Max in the least. For Max, his seeming indifference toward his son did not mean that he didn’t love him. All of his energy was devoted to his projects, none of which included the child at that stage. Max imagined they’d be
buddies
(as he put it, seeking in language the intimacy lacking in their life) once the boy learned to read. Then they would chat about Monteiro Lobato, Mark Twain, and Jules Verne.
On the way from the airport, Max and Marina talked about the mood prevailing in the city. The political atmosphere, according to Max, was reminiscent of Brazil post-1968, only with a greater number of troops. Max pointed to the military’s gray uniforms, as well as the carabineros’ green fatigues, colors conspicuous everywhere in the city, conveying a message to all social classes alike, whether they supported the regime or opposed it: those men, with their uniforms, weapons, and ideas, were there for the long haul.
The cool and detached tone with which he made these observations left Marina depressed. She was pleasantly surprised, however, on arriving at the house Max had rented in a residential neighborhood, the name of which she found appropriate to their circumstances: Providencia. When the car pulled up in front of the yard, she perked up and woke Pedro Henrique,
who had napped in her arms the whole way. Still groggy from the plane ride, which had been followed by endless delays in customs and a long, winding car trip, the child had rubbed his eyes and blinked at the sprawling residence, clearly having no idea where he was. Marina, in turn, was looking at the house next door, being touched up by two painters. Thanks to their work, Max explained, the traces of bullet holes would “disappear at last.” Lifting the suitcases out of the trunk, he added, “Unlike the body the shots were targeting.”
Since she looked at him without understanding, he explained. “It wasn’t on the sidewalk five minutes, barely enough time for the man’s wife and daughter to embrace the deceased.” His wife remained silent. “In less than twenty-four hours, the poor women had packed their bags and vanished from the neighborhood. From what I later learned, the house was repossessed. It belonged to a high-level official from Allende’s administration.”