Springtime in a Broken Mirror

by Mario Benedetti

  The only thing that can redeem an old man is, however hard it may be, for him to feel young. Mind you, I said young, and not stupid. Not for him to pretend to be a kid wearing brash colours or listening to that crap that blasts out in discotheques (oh, the incomparable Beatles of my pre-old age, with their ‘Michelle’, or ‘Yesterday’, or ‘Eleanor Rigby’), but to feel, with great and seasoned difficulty, that he is an old young man.

  Possibly that was the first thing Lydia understood, and possibly that (I mean the fact that she understood it) was the first thing I liked about her. And without too many illusions. Perhaps it happened like that because she is from here, because she is not my compatriot. No one can or wants to be free of their nostalgias, but exile shouldn’t become frustration. To create links with and work with the people of this country, as if they were our own people, is the best way for us to feel useful, and there’s no better antidote to frustration than to feel useful.

  To create links with the people from this country. Well, I have links to Lydia. As I sometimes tell her: after all, as you can see, I am learning with Lydia. And I feel better. The pretence of the walking stick is a long way behind me. This is also why I don’t feel foreign, because she isn’t my foreigner, but something like my woman. She has her percentage of indigenous blood, thank goodness. Or perhaps it’s her black heritage, thank goodness again. Let’s just say that her lovely skin is darker than that of Graciela or Beatriz. And even darker (and much less wrinkled) than mine.

  Perhaps I have links with a country called Lydia. And a bond that’s different from all my previous ones. Several classic ingredients are missing: urgency, passion, that tight feeling in the chest. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m in love, but maybe I dare think it. Obviously, if I make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror, I come to my senses. There is no (nor is there likely to be) marriage, but what I can’t deny is that, if Lydia isn’t from my own village, she is from my caste, my tribe. And when I say I have links to the country of Lydia, it’s not just a figure of speech; because she was the one who introduced me to things, the meals, the people from here. I’ve already begun to celebrate (though not to use, of course) the local idioms, and not only the established ones, but personal ones as well, such as, for example, when Lydia’s sister-in-law’s husband says he feels like twitching his moustache, that means he’s hoping to have lunch.

  Despite this, I still see my compatriots. There are loads of topics I can talk about only with them, I mean talk openly, aware of the context, although not always so aware of the consequences. To weigh up the complicated balance of the past, especially their more difficult recent one, or as my good friend Valdés says (general medicine and respiratory tracts) with his professional quirkiness: ‘We need to take a stethoscope to the country, gentlemen, put our ear to its back and then tell it: say thirty-three, please, say Thirty-Three Orientales.’fn1

  But by now, that’s not enough. I can’t live here that way, with the obsession that tomorrow or next October or in two years I’m going to slip my moorings and embark on my return, the mythical return, because living provisionally like that is always incomplete, so when I explore inside the country of Lydia, and that’s much more than a sexual allusion (although admittedly I do explore inside there and it’s a great trip), it’s also to discover what the inhabitants of country Lydia are discovering, it’s listening to the news on radio and TV from start to finish, and not only when it’s about international affairs, in the daily anticipation that at last something good will arrive from down there. But what does arrive is that another four people have disappeared, or three died in prison and not always because of what a certain defenestrated president used to call ‘the rigour and demands of interrogation’, but purely and simply out of weariness and being over-saturated with prison. What arrives is that there were more ‘sweeps’, and five hundred people were arrested, then as expected they released four hundred and twenty, but who were the other eighty, and what will they do to them?

  We’re losing the healthy habit of hope. We find it almost impossible to comprehend that other societies do generate it. I remember the early hours of the 30th of November. I had told Lydia not to come. I wanted to be alone with my scepticism. I didn’t believe in the plebiscite; it seemed to me a ridiculous trap. But I woke up at three in the morning and had a feeling I should turn on the short-wave radio. And the news came mingled with my dream (which hadn’t been particularly encouraging) and the ‘No’ vote had demolished the military’s proposal. And it was only once I had convinced myself this wasn’t some postscript to my dream that I jumped out of bed and shouted as if I was in the football stadium and suddenly I realized I was crying (without any sense of shame) and was even sobbing and that those tears weren’t corny or ridiculous. I was so surprised at my own outburst that I tried to remember the last time I had cried like that. I had to go back to October 1967, in Montevideo, when I was also alone in the night, when another short-wave radio station had detailed the sad news given by Fidel about Che’s death.

  But in November 1980 the people of Country Lydia let me weep alone, and I thanked them for it. They only came round the next day, to hug me after checking that my eyes were dry, so that I could explain the inexplicable to them. And so I told them while at the same time I was convincing myself: the dictatorship had decided to open, not a door, but a crack, one that was so small that only a single syllable could enter, and so the people saw that crack and without giving it a second thought slipped the syllable ‘No’ inside it. It’s probable that tomorrow the military will slam the door and again close the fortress they believed was impregnable, but by then, it will be too late, it will be impossible for them to get rid of it. In this era of neutron bombs and nuclear warheads, it’s amazing the power that one poor negative syllable can have.

  And Lydia came round, of course (not the country of Lydia, but Lydia herself and her soul). She didn’t say a word, and I was grateful to her for that, and after also making sure I was dry-eyed, she sat on the floor next to me (as usual I was in the rocking-chair, and I stopped rocking) and laid her dark head and black hair in my lap.

  Beatriz

  (Amnesty)

  ‘Amnesty’ is a difficult word, or as Grandpa Rafael says, very challenging. That’s because it has an ‘m’ and an ‘n’ that always go together. Amnesty is when someone has a punishment pardoned. For example, if I come home from school in dirty clothes and Graciela, that is my mum, tells me, You won’t have any puddings for a week, and if then afterwards I behave and three days later I bring home good marks in arithmetic, she gives me an amnesty and I can eat those ice creams they call ‘boats’ again. They have three scoops, one vanilla, another chocolate and a third that’s strawberry, though Grandpa Rafael calls that fruit something different, like in Uruguay.

  Also when Teresita and I had really fallen out because she gave me a muddy slap and we spent like, two weeks without even saying goodbye to each other or lending each other our toothbrushes, then suddenly I saw that the poor thing was very sorry and couldn’t live without my affection and I realized she sighed whenever I went past her and I grew scared she could commit suicide like on the TV, so I called her and told her, Look, Teresita, I amnesty you, but she thought I had called her only to insult her and burst into tears so badly I had to say – Teresita, don’t be such a donkey, ‘I amnesty you’ means ‘I pardon you’, and that set her off crying again, but this time it was different, it was out of emotion.

  Also the other day on TV I saw a bullfight, which is like a stadium where a man plays with a red blanket and a bull who pretends to be furious, but is really very good, and after playing like this for many, many hours the man grew bored and said, I don’t want to play any more with this animal that’s pretending to be furious, but the bull wanted to go on playing, so then it was the man who grew furious, and because he was very silly he stuck a very long sword here, in the back of its head, and the bull, who was about to ask the man for amnesty, looked at him with such very sad e
yes and then fainted in the middle of the pitch without anybody giving him amnesty and that made me so upset I gave a low sigh and that night, I dreamt I was stroking the bull and saying to him, Here, boy, here, boy, just like I say to Irony, Angélica’s dog, and he wags his tail with delight, but in the dream the bull didn’t wag his, because he was still lying there in the middle of the pitch, and I gave him an amnesty, but it doesn’t work in dreams.

  The dictionary says that amnesty means to forget political offences, so I was thinking that maybe they’ll give Dad an amnesty, but I’m also afraid that the general who made him a political prisoner has a good memory and doesn’t forget offences. Of course, seeing that my dad is so very, very good and even knows how to sweep out the cells, maybe the general who made him a political prisoner will overlook it, just like my grandpa does with me, as if he has forgotten the offences even if he hasn’t really forgotten them, and maybe one night the general who made my dad a political prisoner will give him amnesty all of a sudden and, without telling him, leave the door unlocked so that my dad can tiptoe out and go quietly into the street and find a taxi and tell the driver, really pleased, that he has just been given an amnesty and so he should take him straightaway to the airport because he wants to come and see Graciela and me, and he’ll say to the driver, I’ve got a little girl I haven’t seen for many years, but who I know is very pretty and very good, and the driver will say, How interesting, I also have a little girl, and they’ll go on talking and talking because the airport is a huge amount of kilometres away, so that by the time they arrive it’ll already be night-time, and my dad will say, The problem is that because I was a political prisoner I don’t have any money to pay you, and the driver, Don’t you worry, friend, it’s only thirty-eight million, you pay me when you can and have got a job, and my dad, You’re very kind many thanks, and the driver, Think nothing of it and give your wife my best wishes and your daughter who is so good and so pretty, and, have a good trip and congratulations on the amnesty.

  Angélica, though, is very vindictive, and when Irony bites her only a little because he has tiny teeth and doesn’t mean it, she hits him and beats him and doesn’t speak to him for three days, and I know Irony is dying of sadness and yet she never amnesties him. I feel very sorry for little Irony and I’d love to take him home, but Graciela always says that in exile you shouldn’t have pets because you’d only grow fond of them and then all of a sudden you have to go back to Montevideo and we can’t take the dog or cat because they would wee in the plane.

  When the amnesty comes we’re going to dance tangos. Tangos are sad music that you dance to when you’re happy so that you’ll feel sad again. When the amnesty comes Graciela is going to buy me a new doll because Monica is ready for the scrapheap. When the amnesty comes there’ll be no more bullfights and I won’t have any more spots. And Grandpa Rafael is going to buy me a wristwatch. When the amnesty comes there’ll be no more amnesia. Amnesty is like a holiday that’s going to spread through the whole country. Planes and boats will arrive packed with tourists loaded with money who will come to see the amnesty. The planes will be so full that people will be standing in the aisles and the ladies will say to the gentlemen who have got seats, Ah so you’re going to see the amnesty as well, and then the gentleman will have to give her his seat. When the amnesty comes, there’ll be spoons and T-shirts and ashtrays with the word amnesty on them and also dolls that when you press their belly-buttons will say ‘Am-nes-ty’ and play a little tune. When the amnesty comes it will mean no more times tables, especially those of eight and nine, that are rubbish. I imagine that when my dad comes someday, he’s going to talk for like a year about the amnesty. Teresita says that Sandra said that in very cold countries there is less amnesty, but I think it can’t be as bad there, because since it’s snowing outside and an icy wind is blowing, the political prisoners won’t want to be set free because they’re snug and warm in their cells. I sometimes think the amnesty is taking so long that maybe by the time it comes I’ll be as old as Graciela and I’ll work in a skyscraper and I’ll even be able to cross streets on a red light like grown-ups always do. When the amnesty comes, maybe Graciela will say to Rolando, OK, ciao.

  The Other

  (Put on your body)

  So, you find me strange? That’s possible, Rolando, it’s possible. Besides, we haven’t seen each other in a long while. And yet I ought to be happy. And maybe I am happy and that’s what makes me seem strange. Do you think that’s impossible? We’re so accustomed to deaths, that when, by contrast, there’s a birth it catches us unawares, or as a local baseball fan would say (you can see how I’m adapting) it ‘catches us off base’. You must be asking yourself what has happened. And you find it hard to accept this might be something encouraging. You’re suspicious of it, aren’t you? I’ve become suspicious, too. And yet this new factor is good news: they’ve released Claudia and she’s in Sweden. That wasn’t what you imagined, was it? Well, they released her and she is in Sweden; she’s already written to me and I’ve written back. What do you make of that? Six years is a very long time, especially considering I could escape (only just, but I made it), whereas she didn’t: she had to swallow those six years of shit, humiliations, of rotting, of craziness. Now tell me: how could I enjoy my own freedom, or my job (at last I’m doing something I like, something that corresponds to my training), or the simple fact of being able to say out loud whatever I wanted to, how was I going to enjoy life when I knew Claudia was back there, crushed, courageous but badly hurt, loyal but filled with anxiety? I’m thirty-two years old; I’m strong and sexually healthy, full of vitality. You know that if you’re normal, at my age, it’s impossible to go six years without occasionally having sex with a woman. I know that as well, and so does Claudia. In her letters she has suggested it in a roundabout way, and by other channels she told me so straight out: ‘Don’t make it a problem, Angel. I love you more than ever, but I can’t demand that of you. You’re a young man and you’re outside. You can’t deny what your body wants. It’s your body. I’m not going to feel offended. Ever. I’m being serious. Please believe me. Later on, when I get out, we’ll see what happens. Yes, I still love you more than ever, but don’t be without a woman, don’t condemn yourself to live without the body of a woman. I, more than anyone, know how much you need it.’ The same message, over and over. All that was lacking was for her to write that verse of Vallejo’s: ‘The day will come. Put on your body.’ It was almost an obsession in her letters and messages. I always answered that she wasn’t to worry, that it was a possibility, later on, but that for now I had no wish or desire for anything like that. But she kept on insisting. Until finally a situation arose which I had not been looking for, something that happened very naturally, and I decided to put on my body. I mean, I went to bed with a tremendous girl, and obviously we did it, but, on another level, it was a failure. I watched myself jigging about as if it were someone else. Of course, my organs reacted when they came into close contact with a beautiful body: they performed, were aroused, reached a climax all on their own, but I remained distant from the pleasure. There I was, in a remote cell, whispering support for a distant woman who was mine, not touching her but trying to console her for wounds that will never heal, whispering words, little disjointed words that for the two of us make up our secret ritual, like landmarks in our private history. You’ll say this happens with every couple. Ah, but in this couple, one was here, free but feeling stupidly guilty about his freedom, and the other one was over there, imprisoned but still fighting, accompanied, but all alone, probably thinking of me and how I was feeling stupidly guilty about my freedom. And the girl who was in bed with me suddenly understood the situation quite clearly, and did so despite being from here, or perhaps because of that, and when we were lying on our backs staring up at the ceiling in silence, she rested her hand on my leg and said: ‘Don’t worry, it’s because you’re a good person.’ With that she got up, kissed me on the cheek, and left. So just think what good news it was for m
e to know that after six years, the other woman, the only woman, the punished, loyal one, was free and in Sweden with friends. That’s the story. So far. We’ve written to one another, phoned. And let me tell you that the phone is not an ideal means of communication, because we were both in floods of tears, and it ended up costing us a pile of money just to spend a quarter of an hour listening to three monosyllables and four sobs. From the first I wrote that she should come at once. I even bought her an open plane ticket so that she could travel whenever she wanted and was able to. But in her reply, I noted a certain reticence, and I began to imagine absurd things. Just imagine the freedom you must have when you start imagining absurd things. Reasonable ones have to do with permits, residencies, passports and so on, but I chose the others, or some of them at least, and listed them for her in my latest letter. And today I received her reply. I’ll read it to you: ‘You’re still thinking of the Claudia you last saw six years ago, but many things have happened during those six years and even faces change. That transformation occurs at a different rate to the simple passage of time. I know that you, for example, look the same, only six years older. That’s normal, isn’t it? But as for me, my love, I don’t have the same face. That’s the reticence you noticed in my letter. And since you imagined such crazy stuff, I came to this decision: I took several photos of myself, and although you won’t believe it, I chose the best. I’m sending it to you now. And, Angel, before you decide whether I should go there or stay here, I want you to see how I am and how I look. You’ll see how those six years have passed for my eyes, mouth, nose, ears, forehead, hair. And if you truly love and respect me (you know I’m a Catholic, so I’m asking you this for the love of God), I want you to be strictly honest with me.’ Rolando, do you realize what she’s saying in that letter? Can you read everything between the lines like I can? That’s why I said before that maybe I’m happy, and that’s what makes me somewhat strange. I feel happy, and yet I’m not happy. I never imagined that to feel happy would contain so much sadness.