Tell Me Who I Am

by Julia Navarro

  “Well, I think I’m on the Left, but I’ve got this nasty habit of thinking for myself, not wanting to churn out other people’s slogans, which makes me a bit untrustworthy.”

  “I don’t think it’s that different in Italy... If I were you I’d write about something that wasn’t politics.”

  “I’m trying, but I’ve got a bit of a reputation, and they don’t even trust me to write about culture.”

  “Well, you’re in a bit of trouble, then.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Francesca took pity on me and invited me to eat with her that evening to carry on talking about Carla and Amelia.

  “They met on the voyage to Buenos Aires. Tell me, what happened when they got there?”

  “Well, you can imagine the reception they got when the boat got into port. Dozens of journalists waiting impatiently for Carla Alessandrini. She never let her fans down, so she came out of the boat in a sable coat, holding the arm of her husband, handsome Vittorio. They took a suite in the Hotel Plaza, and she spent the next four days rehearsing, giving interviews, and attending social events. The Italian ambassador held a reception in her honor, which was attended by all the most important people of the city, as well as by diplomats from other countries, and Amelia and Pierre were invited also, at Carla’s request. I’ve said that Carla did not approve of Mussolini, but whenever she traveled abroad she tended to accept the homage offered her by the various Italian embassies. You really have to read my book. I think that Professor Soler has recommended that you travel to Buenos Aires to interview Professor Muiños, and I think that between my book and what Muiños will tell you, you will have enough to write your own story.”

  I took Francesca’s suggestion.

  My mother woke me from a deep sleep at eight in the morning.

  “But Mom, what kind of a time... ,” I protested.

  “I couldn’t sleep for thinking about you. Look, I think you need to stop this ridiculous investigation into grandmother’s past. I’m sure it’s interesting, but you are losing chances with your career.”

  “What career would that be?”

  “Don’t be so stubborn! You’re very proud and you think that everything should just fall into your lap, but things aren’t like that, so you have to go and knock on people’s doors to find work.”

  “It’s eight in the morning, I’m in Rome, I got to bed late and I’ve told you a thousand times already that my knuckles are bleeding from knocking on so many doors!”

  “But...”

  “Look, let’s talk later, I’ll call you.”

  I hung up in a bad mood. My mother wouldn’t give me any breathing space about finding a job. I decided to go to Buenos Aires that very day, at least she’d bother me less because of the cost of transatlantic phone calls.

  I plugged in my computer and looked to see if I had any e-mails I had to answer. I was surprised to find Professor Soler’s answers to my questions. I told myself that the day hadn’t started all that badly, in spite of my mother’s phone call. So I wrote an introduction and a conclusion to the interview, gave it a lede and sent it to Pepe, the head of the cultural section at my online newspaper, with a note reminding him of the promise he’d made to Professor Soler.

  I fell in love with Buenos Aires on the way from the airport to my hotel. What a city! I was going to have to say thank you to Aunt Marta for asking me to do this job, because I was having a most interesting time meeting surprising people and visiting a city like this one that opened up to me on that Southern Hemisphere autumn morning. Summer was arriving in Spain just as Buenos Aires was gearing itself up for the autumn. But the morning of my arrival was bright and warm.

  The travel agency had reserved me a room in the central part of the city. Once I had unpacked I called Professor Muiños, who had already been in touch with Professor Soler. He arranged to meet me the next afternoon, and I was grateful for this as it allowed me to get past my jetlag a bit and see a little of the city.

  With a map that they gave me at reception as my only guide I set out into the street, keen on discovering the best parts of the city. The first place I went to was the Plaza de Mayo, which I had seen so often on television: Here was where those brave women, the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo, met to protest the disappearance of their sons and grandsons during the military dictatorship.

  I spent a while in the square, soaking it all in, feeling the strength of those women with their white headscarves who had peacefully set themselves, in the most effective way, against that bunch of murderers who formed such a large part of the military junta.

  Then I went to the cathedral, and then I let the human tide of the Buenos Aires streets carry me around until the jetlag kicked in at about six in the evening and I could go no further. I hailed a taxi and went back to my hotel, went to bed and did not wake up until the next day.

  The first thing I did was to call my mother, sure that if she had no signs of life from me then she was entirely capable of calling Interpol to report my disappearance. These are the downsides of being an only child, of having grown up without a father, as my father died when I was a child.

  Professor Muiños’s house was a two-story building in the elegant Palermo district. As soon as I opened the door I smelled waxed wood and books, which were piled on shelves all over the walls: The whole house was one enormous library.

  A Bolivian housekeeper shyly opened the door and then took me straight to the professor’s study.

  You could tell that Andres Muiños was a professor just by looking at him. He was dressed informally, in a knitted cardigan, his white hair was combed back and he had a scholar’s distracted air, as well as the friendliness proper to someone who had seen everything and who could no longer be surprised by anything.

  “So you’re the Spanish journalist!” he said in greeting.

  “Yes... Thanks a lot for agreeing to see me,” I replied.

  “Pablo Soler asked me, and he’s a good friend and colleague. We were together at Princeton.”

  “Yes, Don Pablo told me.”

  “If you are looking for extraordinary lives to write about, then Pablo Soler is a good choice, but we’re here to talk about Amelia Garayoa, your great-grandmother, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, Amelia Garayoa was my great-grandmother, but we know very little about her in the family, practically nothing.”

  “That’s as may be, but she was an important woman, far more important than you can possibly imagine; her life was full of adventure and danger, like a John Le Carré novel.”

  “It’s true, I’m discovering one surprise after another. But I should say that what I’m finding out about her so far doesn’t turn her into an interesting woman, rather she was someone who let events move her without having any control over them.”

  “As far as Pablo Soler has told me, you know about Amelia’s life until she came to Buenos Aires with Pierre Comte. She was twenty years old then: I don’t know about you, but there’s no one that age who’s interesting. I don’t even know anyone interesting who’s your age, thirty-something.”

  Well, that was the professor! He didn’t mince his words. He was telling me, with a smile, that he wouldn’t have chosen to have this conversation with me. But now was not the time to get offended, so I didn’t say anything.

  “I think you met Francesca Venezziani as well, is that right?”

  “I’ve just come from Rome, from her. She gave me her book about Carla Alessandrini.”

  “I’ve met la señora Venezziani a couple of times, she’s interesting, and bright; she knew she would never be a great singer, and she’s managed to make a name for herself writing stories of the great bel canto divas. Her books aren’t bad, she’s done her research. Have you read her book about la Alessandrini?”

  “Not all of it, I started it on the plane.”

  “Carla Alessandrini was a remarkable woman, aside from her talent at singing. She was strong, brave, decisive, one of those people who upset all kinds of social conv
entions, but because she wanted to, not like your great-grandmother, who let herself be stolen away by Pierre Comte. Look, I don’t have much to do, so I’ve put together a list of places to visit that are connected with your great-grandmother; you’ll get to know her time in the city better this way, and you’ll see a bit of Buenos Aires, the city my parents immigrated to as soon as the Civil War ended. My father was a captain in the Republican Army, and he escaped as soon as the war ended. A good thing too! They’d have shot him otherwise. I was only five years old back then, so I feel like I’m from here even though I was born in Vigo. But let’s get down to business. Where shall we start?”

  “I’d like to know what happened when Pierre and Amelia arrived here.”

  “Alright,” Muiños said with a smile as he watched me turn on my recorder.

  They took up lodgings at the Castelar, on the Avenida de Mayo. We should go and have a look, because that’s where Lorca stayed as well, from October 1933 to March 1934.

  It was a comfortable hotel where artists and writers tended to stay on their way through Buenos Aires. Pierre Comte had no intention of spending too much time in the hotel; he wanted to look for a house he could use for his double business as bookseller and spy.

  Perhaps you don’t know this, but Buenos Aires at the beginning of the twentieth century was a glamorous city that had taken its lead from Paris, inspired by Haussmann. There was no artist worth his salt who would refuse to act at the Teatro Colón. An Italian impresario had built it, working with several architects until its completion in 1908. The Teatro Colón has seen true legends pass through its doors: Caruso, Toscanini, Menuhin, Maria Callas, and, of course, Carla Alessandrini. Lots of the great artists claim that, leaving aside La Scala in Milan, the Teatro Colón has the best acoustics in the world.

  So at that time it was entirely logical that an artist like Carla Alessandrini should appear there.

  Pierre thought that the friendship that seemed to be forming between Amelia and Carla was a great stroke of luck. The singer’s mere presence opened every door in the city, which paid homage to la gran Alessandrini.

  Our man lost no time and the day after their arrival he was already looking for a house. He had several trunks of rare books and special editions in his luggage, things that would doubtless be of interest to book lovers. He had bought many of them in Spain as he started to develop his plan of using Amelia as his cover for setting himself up in Buenos Aires.

  Moscow was not stingy toward its spies, but neither did it let them spend money like water; they had to account for every penny they spent, and were expected not to be extravagant. The people’s money could not be spent on vain show.

  The second day, Carla sent them a reminder that they were invited to a cocktail party that was to be held in her honor at the Italian Embassy. Pierre could not be any happier about how things were progressing, and asked himself if he had in fact not made a mistake bringing Amelia with him.

  Even though Pierre was fifteen years older than her they made a good couple. She was so slim, almost ethereal, blonde and dainty. He was a man of the world who carried himself elegantly.

  Carla embraced Amelia when she came into the embassy.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I’ve missed you, I haven’t had anyone to speak to.”

  Amelia said that they had been house-hunting, and that it was not proving easy for Pierre to find what he wanted.

  “But I can help you! Can’t I, Vittorio? I’m sure we can find someone who can find you what you need. Leave it up to me.”

  The guests at the reception, the whole of Buenos Aires high society, took note of Carla’s affection for Amelia.

  If la gran Alessandrini had this couple under her wing, then it must be because they were important. That night Pierre and Amelia received invitations to dinners, suppers, concerts, and horse races. Pierre deployed all his French charm, and more than one woman was taken with this gallant man whose gaze promised so much.

  Pierre and Amelia were both desperate for news of Spain, and almost all their questions were answered by a bullish Neapolitan, Michelangelo Bagliodi, who was married to one of the secretaries at the Italian Embassy.

  “Franco hasn’t entered Madrid yet, but he will any day now. You have to remember that the best generals are at the forefront of the uprising: Sanjurjo, Mola, and Quiepo de Llano. I am sure that they will triumph for the good of your country, Señorita Garayoa.”

  Pierre grabbed Amelia’s hand to stop her from making an angry reply. He had taught her the advantages of watching, listening, and holding one’s tongue, but she was so upset that it was difficult for her to keep calm.

  “And do you think that Italy and Germany will work with the army forces that have set themselves up against the Republic?” Pierre asked.

  “My dear friend, how can you doubt that they have the fullest sympathies of Il Duce and Der Führer! And if they are needed... well, I am sure that Germany and Italy will help our great sister nation, Spain.”

  Michelangelo Bagliodi was extremely pleased to be the object of attention of this couple, who had been introduced to him by Carla herself. What’s more, they appeared to appreciate what he had to say, which he found only natural, as he was a man who knew all the vicissitudes of the political sphere thanks to his marriage to the ambassador’s secretary, his dear sweet Paola. He, who had emigrated several years before from his native Naples, had worked hard to turn himself into a successful merchant, and then had moved a few rungs up the social scale by his marriage to an employee of the embassy, something that brought him new business contacts and gave him, above all, the chance to rub shoulders at embassy dinners and parties with people from the highest echelons of Buenos Aires society.

  “And what is President Azaña doing?” Amelia asked.

  “He’s a disaster, Madam, a disaster. The Republic is allowing civilians to take up arms in its defense, because more than half the generals are with the rebels. The experts say that the forces are very well matched, but in my opinion there’s no comparison between the bravery and military skill of the two sides. Also, how on earth are Republicans and Socialists and Anarchists and Communists and all those left-wing types ever going to agree on anything? They’ll end up fighting among themselves, you mark my words. I foresee a happy ending to this struggle: Franco’s triumph, the best thing that could happen to Spain.”

  The Neapolitan, pleased with his conversation with Pierre and Amelia, offered to help them with anything they might need.

  “You have just arrived in the city, and you do not yet know it well, so please do not hesitate to take advantage of my help for anything you need. My wife and I would be extremely honored to invite you to our house, we could organize a dinner party... ,” Bagliodi dared to suggest.

  “We would be delighted to attend,” Pierre said.

  Bagliodi gave them his card and made a note of the hotel where Pierre and Amelia were staying, promising to tell them as soon as he had organized the dinner party.

  “He’s an idiot!” Amelia said as soon as he had left them. “I’m not going to go to that Fascist’s house! I can’t understand how you could accept his invitation!”

  “Amelia, if we told everyone our true beliefs the first day we came to the country then we’d become vulnerable. We don’t know anyone here, and we need doors to be opened for us. I’ve told you that I sometimes work with the Communist International, and it really doesn’t hurt to know how the enemy is thinking.”

  “Don’t act like you’re a spy!” Amelia exclaimed.

  “What silly things you say! It has nothing to do with spying, it has to do with keeping your ears open, because what your enemies say unguardedly allows us to be prepared, to keep one step ahead of them. I want there to be a worldwide revolution, I want to get rid of the privileges certain people have, but of course they won’t let us just take them away, and that’s why we need to know how they think, how they move...”

  “Yes, you told me that already. Even so, I am not going to spend
any time with that unbearable man and his insipid wife.”

  “We will do what needs to be done,” Pierre decreed, upset by Amelia’s bad mood. “Anyway, who better than this man to keep us up to date with the situation in Spain? I thought that you wanted accurate news from your country.”

  The next day Amelia had a call from Carla inviting her to take tea at the Café Tortoni.

  “But come by yourself, so we can talk at our ease. I finish my rehearsals at about six. I think you’ll find the café without any problem: It’s in the Avenida de Mayo and everyone in Buenos Aires knows it.”

  Pierre made no objection to the arrangement and spent the day looking for the ideal apartment, which up to that moment existed only in his imagination.

  Amelia found Carla nervous: She was always nervous before a first night because she didn’t let people’s praise turn her head.

  “They’re all very nice, but if I hit a wrong note then they’ll crucify me and turn their backs on me just as easily as they butter me up today. I can’t make a mistake: They want me to be sublime, and that’s what I have to be.”

  The first night, at Carla’s invitation, Pierre and Amelia were seated in a box. Amelia was extremely beautiful, according to the next day’s gossip columns, which all referred to her as “la gran Carla’s best friend.”

  Carla was sublime, if we trust the same newspapers. The audience gave her a standing ovation of more than half an hour and she had to take several curtain calls.

  Vittorio had arranged a dinner for after the performance, with some of Buenos Aires’ most important society figures, people from the cultural sphere and the editors of the major newspapers, and naturally Pierre and Amelia were present as well. Luck smiled on Pierre that evening, as a gentleman with a strong Italian accent asked them where they were staying, and Pierre explained that he was looking for a place where he could both live and have a small shop for his bibliographic rarities.