The Days of the Rainbow (16 page)

I TAKE THE SUBWAY
to go downtown.

Laura Yáñez wants to see me. She can’t tell me anything on the phone. Only in person.

I’ve done this many times, but today there’s something strange in the air. Although it’s hot and the train’s crowded, nobody seems annoyed. They greet each other. They move to make room for new passengers getting in.

They look carefree. There’s something mischievous in their eyes. They talk. I don’t see anyone with his eyes fixed on his shoes. A group of women wearing the uniforms of a supermarket are smiling, even though they’re not talking to each other.

On the front page of the most popular newspaper that the retired man is reading, there are two huge pictures.

In one of them, Pinochet, smiling. In the other, Little Kinky Flower with a presidential sash across his chest.

The headline says:
DUEL OF TITANS
.

We’re approaching the plebiscite and, from what I can hear while I move from one train car to another, nobody talks about anything else. Like a constant
tic-tac
I hear yes-no, no-yes, no-no-no, everywhere.

Santiago seems different nowadays.

Everybody looks so healthy. Did they drink some fruit juice? Did they rub themselves with seaweed in the shower? And the laughter! A red-haired high-school student with green eyes describes the scene from the night before, when the firefighter holding a glass of water imitated the siren of his fire truck, howling, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” The adults smile at him. An older man gives him a pat on the shoulder. So the redhead says to him, “I could do it again if you want.” And there’s more laughter. It looks like a different country. Everybody says that Brazilians are this lively.
“Apesar de você amanhã há de ser outro dia.”
I feel happy for Mr. Bettini. For Patricia Bettini. For Mrs. Magdalena. When he went back home, the phone rang until three in the morning. Congratulations. Bettini was now giving interviews to foreign newspapers. He had a call from a Mr.

Chierici, from the
Corriere della Sera
. Long distance. And from another one—a Spaniard, from
El País
. They wanted his analysis and predictions for the plebiscite. The calendar is burning. How many days until October 5?

When the train arrives at a station, some passengers leave, and the ones who get on look as if they were charged with fresh batteries. Like when in the second half of a soccer game the coach sends an exhausted center forward to the bench and a substitute comes in, running a little bit to warm up. Even the train seems to be running faster. That’s what my old man hates—the subjectivisms that prevent us from perceiving the objective reality. He can’t stand the Sophists. Good at talking and wasting time. But deep down, it’s all rubbish. Aristotle, on the contrary, he goes right to the point. Nico Santos. Short for Nicomachus.

I feel that I’m the only one in this car who’s getting more and more absorbed in his own thoughts. The sadness of Dad’s absence gets me down. I’m on a different frequency from the rest of the city. There’ll be free elections, but my dad’s in jail. In jail and missing.

That guy, Samuel, is doing as much as he can. Patricia Bettini insists that I need to talk with the bad guys. The good ones can’t do anything. Now’s probably a good time to do it.

Now that people seem more spirited.

Sure
, I think, but I wonder how Pinochet is feeling.

Furious. He might be red with anger. It seems that it backfired on him. The lady in green who carries the bag of vegetables is humming the “Waltz of the
No
.” Maybe this is just a dream and now a military commando will storm in and start shooting everyone.

I skipped school today. I’m afraid that the text I read at the cemetery will have consequences for me. Lieutenant Bruna wasn’t there, “due to decency.” But the snitches who were there might be waiting for me at the door of the institute.

Or sitting in my classroom.

With their short hair.

Sunny day.

They have an investigator’s badge that they show by opening their jackets. They’re detectives. But I was told that, afterward, the detectives hand the prisoners to the political cops.

That’s when their trail is hard to follow.

The last time I talked to Samuel, he told me not to lose hope. He said that we could have good news at any time. “But also bad ones,” I shouted over the phone. He remained silent for half a minute, and then he said, “Yes, but also bad ones, my boy.” I apologized.

I get off at Alameda with Santa Lucía Hill and walk to Forest Park. That’s where Laura Yáñez lives. She wanted to get together because she has something to tell me. I don’t know what it is.

But she said that it was urgent.

It’s a good idea to disappear from home and school for a while.

Laura Yáñez is so beautiful! At school, they call that kind of woman “a hell of a brunette.” She told me once, “I want to be Chile’s hell of a brunette.” Her friendship with Patricia’s based on their interest in theater. My girlfriend always looks for intellectual plays, with some political vein. She cracks up laughing with Beckett or Ionesco. Theater of the absurd. Laura’s crazy about John Travolta. She knows all the dance steps in
Saturday Night Fever
. But she’s never found a guy her age who could dance along with her. With her and Travolta. That’s why she’s always hanging around with older guys.

Sometimes, after the Scuola Italiana, Laura and Patricia go to the movies. They’re so different! My beloved Bettini wants to go to Italy to visit the museums in Florence and to get to know Fellini in person.
Amarcord
drives her out of her mind. Instead, Laura … Laura wants to be on the cover of
Vanidades
or
Fotogramas
someday.

She’d like to play the role of femme fatale in a soap opera. But the funny thing is that she’s as nice
as they come. If she were rich she would be sharing everything with her friends.

She’s the superfriend. But with her body, everyone wants to hook up with her.

Those dudes don’t want to be just friends with her. That’s why she came to me. Because she knows I’m neutralized by my love for Patricia Bettini. She knows I’m not going to cheat with her best friend.

I finally agreed to let her use my apartment so she could change. I didn’t ask her anything else. I’m fucked-up enough. I don’t need to start fucking up others.

And now she becomes very mysterious and tells me she wants to see me. She tells me she appreciates it but she doesn’t need the apartment anymore. She wants to give me back the keys. She has her own place now, in Mosqueto, near the Palace of Fine Arts. “Come with Patricia one of these days. She likes paintings.” Her parents shouldn’t find out. Patricia Bettini better keep quiet. If she says something at school, and Laura’s parents find out, they will kill her, literally. Anyway, by December, she’ll have to tell them the truth. She hasn’t been to school for a month.

I ring the doorbell. Apartment 3A. Third floor. Tiny elevator. Modern building. Only two people fit in it. Schindler. Weight should not exceed 300 pounds.

If …

I don’t even want to think about it.

Hmm … If the cops are looking for me because of the speech I gave at the cemetery, I could hide in Laura Yáñez’s apartment.

For reciprocity’s sake.

Would she agree?

Anyway. Nothing’s going to happen.

I read Uncle Bill’s entire speech in English.

English. My only B. My best grade.

Because I like rock music and Don Rafael liked me. He liked that I was in the drama club. They killed him. Just like that. Lieutenant Bruna did everything he could.

What in hell, then, is “to do everything I can”?

I bring the last issue of
Caras
in my backpack. It’s the kind of magazine that Laura likes. Shiny, with tons of ads, a lot of social life, and full-color fashion pages.

“You came, dude!” she says, kissing me on the left cheek and pulling me in.

“Why so much mystery?”

“I’ll tell you right away. How’s Patricia doing?”

I say, “Fine. Patricia’s fine.”

Although in fact I don’t know how she’s doing. I haven’t asked her. Her Professor Paredes was killed, and her father has had a crushing success with his campaign for the
No
. She must be feeling terribly
bad, and probably also good. Everybody’s talking about the campaign for the
No
. Calls of congratulation until three in the morning. We heated up the pasta puttanesca and opened another bottle of red wine. Don Adrián gave me money for a cab. The subway wasn’t running that late.

“And you?”

“I don’t know, dude. But I called you because love is repaid with love.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I don’t know. My grandma used to say that.”

“What’s the matter? Here. I brought you the latest issue of
Caras
.”

“Wow! With Michelle Pfeiffer on the cover! A superwoman. Isn’t she?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Your type, right?”

“I don’t know, Laura. I’ve just become eighteen. I don’t know what my type is. And I don’t understand a thing.”

“But since Patricia Bettini …”

“What? What about her?”

“Since she’s so …”

“So what?”

“Elegant. On the other hand, me …”

“You’re different, Laura. No one is better than the other. You’re just very different.”

“Do you like me?”

“I think you’re gorgeous.”

“I have Coke, Bilz, Pap, and beer. Escudo beer only.”

“Coke.”

“With ice?”

“Three cubes.”

She goes to the kitchen and brings a Coke, family size. She had prepared a small plate with cubes of cheese and green olives. It’s noon, but it looks like an evening cocktail.

“Sit down or you’ll fall dead tired.”

“So, tell me,” I say, while obeying her.

She makes herself comfortable on the edge of a wicker sofa with brown cushions. Very ladylike, she brings her knees together, not to expose her thighs, matte and smooth.

“It’s about your father, Nico.”

Aha. That’s why she wanted me to come. No phone calls. I don’t want to know about it. I want to die in advance. To die right away.

“Do you know anything?”

Laura looks at the walls of her living room and at the door leading to the bedroom, and then at the one leading to the small balcony. There’s a reproduction of a painting of dancers, by Degas, and a huge photo of Travolta in a white satin suit, very tight, and an unbuttoned vest.

“Nico … I know how to get to him.”

“Is he alive? Professor Paredes was …”

“I know.”

Something holds her back. She wants and doesn’t want to tell me. Why did she make me come?

“Please.”

She shakes her shiny mop of hair, jet black and curly, and stares at me, steadily, in the eyes.

“What I’m going to tell you speaks badly of me. But I’m only going to tell you, because you gave me a hand.”

“Okay. Tell me.”

“I find you pretty childish, but I’ve always liked you. I’ll do it for you. And for Professor Paredes. He gave me a D. For the first stanza of Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee.’ Do you remember? ‘Your little D,’ he said to me.”

“I don’t get it.”

She rubs her nose and sniffles as if she had a cold.

“A guy got this apartment for me. D’ya get it?”

“Yep.”

“A married guy.”

“Okay.”

“An agent.”

“From the CNI, the intelligence agency?”

“You’re not that childish … Why? Are ya’ gonna lecture me now?”

I don’t know. I don’t know what to do or say. I wasn’t expecting this. I drink half the glass of Coke. I have a piece of ice in my mouth and I move it with my tongue from one side to the other.

“No, I’m not.”

“I believe that, through him, we can get to your dad.”

“Why?”

“I just know it, Nico.”

I’d like to be an adult. To understand more about life. To have read more books. To know the psychology of people.

“What do I have to do?”

Laura leans toward me and takes my hands. She then takes them to her mouth. She doesn’t kiss them. She just touches my fingers with her lips.

“D’ya have any money?”

I look at her. I look at her with all my soul poured into my awe.

“Where from, Laura? I haven’t even picked up my dad’s check from September. I’m terrified that they’ll take me.”

“D’ya know where to get a few bucks? Sell something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A car.”

“We don’t have a car. We walk. Or take the subway.”

“A TV set.”

“Everybody has a TV. What are they going to give me for a TV?”

Laura separates my fingers and kisses them, one by one. Then she blinks three or four times. She doesn’t look at me.

“I understand, Nico. I do.”

She goes to a wood cabinet and takes out a bottle of Bacardi white rum. She pours some in my glass and a little bit in her own glass.

“Then I don’t have any option, except to see how much this fucking cop loves me.”

RAÚL ALARCÓN
, Little Kinky Flower, called Adrián Bettini to thank him, enthusiastically, for having included him in the campaign. “I’m the most popular man in Chile,” he said. “People kiss me in the streets. A taxi driver didn’t want to charge me for the ride—‘If you’re brave enough to confront Pinochet, why not me? I’m going to vote
No
. And I’m going to convince everyone who takes my taxi that they should vote
No
. Great, Don Flower. Really great!’