His Own Man

by Edgard Telles Ribeiro

  Max didn’t know how to take these words — whether to feel flattered or frightened.

  “What matters is that, in the meantime, tensions will increase in both countries. And we’re going to end up having to intervene. But as discreetly as possible. As inconspicuously as the Americans. And note that they could afford the luxury of running some risks, particularly because they always did as they pleased in Latin America. So, what’s one more disaster?” The ambassador was a man of the extreme right. The remark, however, revealed his disgust for Washington’s excesses.

  “But not us,” he went on. “We’ll never be accused of involvement. That’s why the fewer people who know about the schemes to be put in place, should they become necessary, the better.” The gravity of the moment coincided with the ambassador’s sadness as he realized that he was getting to the bottom of his pipe. He saw himself compelled to take a shortcut that would bring the conversation to a close without further delay. “Our job consists of mollifying the military,” he continued, without deviating from a previously traced course. “And avoiding hasty moves.”

  Here Max dared to formulate a question that was missing in the equation. “And what about Argentina, Ambassador?”

  Two sighs and a final puff on his pipe. And, to Max’s surprise, another response — this time providing clarification. “Anything can happen in Argentina. Luckily, Onganía, according to certain international press reports, is beginning to embody the gorilla prototype. This puts our generals at an advantage, comparatively speaking. But the truth is that Peronism has strong roots. And Perón could even come back from Spain. Should this happen, he’ll end up setting fire to the country and reigning over ashes. And the military will be back. This time, fiercer than ever. To stay.”

  After a moment of reflection, he went on. “The hatred there goes way back. It’s deep-seated, embedded in chronic disillusion. There’s something inexplicable about that country, extraordinary in so many ways. Something that, oddly, may explain the intensity and elaborate nature of its art, from the tango to Borges. Whatever takes place in Argentina will be more brutal than whatever happens in Chile. Although …”

  The ambassador hesitated. Whether from lack of ideas or words, Max didn’t know. The fact is, he turned his attention to another battle front. “That’s not all: if Argentina and Chile put their historical differences behind them someday, and even join up with Uruguay, we can’t be left out. Especially because, in the long run, we’ll have been the pioneers of this whole process. We were the first to take the risks. Two years before Argentina! And the first to set the tone for what would come. And is still to come.” Max then received the most intense look of the morning, without embellishment, wordplay, or pipe smoke.

  “The picture, Marcílio, is simple: the survival of each of these countries, ours included, depends on the collective security of the four. Not that Brazil is, at the present juncture, facing the least danger. But there’s no question that our future security will, in large part, eventually depend on theirs. Except that Itamaraty isn’t convinced of this. These colleagues of ours can be slow-witted! They refuse to understand that this entire process is linked.” A feeble gesture followed, directed at the ceiling more than at Max.

  “So I had no other recourse. I began to deal directly with the SNI. And even with them I had to play hardball.” He preferred to remain silent about the specifics. The old warrior had fought on countless fronts.

  He took another tack in the conversation. “On the other hand, once this initial phase of civil conflict is over, we can’t remain vulnerable to a shared stability among these countries. And the union that might result from it. We need to join their club.”

  “Of which we’re founding members …”

  “Don’t kid about this, Marcílio!” Max had never imagined the ambassador to be the excitable sort. “Especially because, in the meantime, you’ll have become a notable specialist in technical cooperation, with particular emphasis in the complex area of personnel training. And you’ll be called upon to coordinate projects that justify and ensure our disinterested participation in … the internal problems that our friends have been facing.”

  The tobacco was gone. Only the sweet smell lingered in the air. “Not only for strategic reasons,” he whispered, at peace with himself once more. “For other, equally important reasons.”

  “Such as, for instance …,” Max ventured.

  “Such as, for instance, creating a middle class in the region. A reliable middle class that will one day finally learn how to vote and thereby slash the Marxist threat by the only root that matters.”

  “Access to social welfare?”

  “Access to the market.”

  Soon, however, came the condescending yet almost tender follow-up. “Okay, Marcílio, okay … access to social welfare. Anyway, one is tied to the other. And I’m not saying the first isn’t important. But it’s because of the second that the Americans, who are responsible for this circus around us” — circus, the word surprised Max — “are going to suggest that we dismantle it in ten or fifteen years. Worse, they’re going to pressure us in that direction. Because, by then, the Cuban threat and the danger represented by Allende in Chile will have disappeared. And liberalism will rule once more. The region will cease to invest in arms and will buy televisions, refrigerators, and stoves instead. Or whatever else may be invented going forward. Not bad, right?”

  Thankfully, the coffee was served. It came with two glasses of water and a plate with an apple cut in four.

  The ambassador pulled a small vial from his vest pocket. “Forgive me, son. I have to eat a piece of fruit before I choke down this awful medicine. But drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

  23

  Oddly, the son didn’t bother him as much now. Maybe because, this time, it was offered soothingly, deceptive though it might have been. Even so, Max had been feeling unsettled for several minutes, the reasons for which he couldn’t quite fathom.

  A half hour earlier, he had been doing nothing other than contemplating the deserted street beyond his office window, putting off the moment when he would dedicate himself to peacefully reading the newspaper, followed by the equally pleasant perusal of the day’s telegrams brought in by Esmeralda — which were waiting on his desk. Now, however, he found himself involved in a plot of at least regional proportions. In which, if he understood correctly, he would be called upon to play a rather important role. All of this, from the look of it, without Itamaraty’s official knowledge. The ministry was only providing the framework, allowing the ambassador, and his eventual allies (accomplices, some would surely say), to operate toward an unknown goal.

  Previously, he had approached such topics in an informal, almost offhanded way, and this had served him well. But now the circumstances had begun to change, and the environment around him threatened to become quite constricting. Although mildly alarmed, he could hardly contain the excitement that was slowly coming over him. He had never imagined making … History.

  The ambassador, who was watching him closely, interrupted his thoughts. “Yes and no, Marcílio.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t worry. The big international schemes take place at this level. On a very small chessboard, where the pieces are either black or white. There are no shades of gray or the kinds of speculating the academic community is so fond of. No maybe s. That’s what you were thinking about, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “That’s why you’re here today, to begin the demystification process. Which has two aims. First, understanding the scope of our challenge. This has to do with the fact that the region, in and of itself, is of no importance whatsoever in this game. Except as a reflection of another.”

  “A reflection of another,” Max echoed dumbly.

  “That’s right. To the Americans, we’re nothing more than tomorrow’s Vietnam. As far as they’re concerned, we’re just a headache that can be wiped out with aspirin.”

  “How come?”
>
  “Because that’s what we’re dealing with here. Do you think a man like Nixon understands Latin America? Aside from the border problems with Mexico? He understands the Soviet Union and the cold war. He respects or fears China. He probably holds Europe in contempt. But Latin America? We’re barely a blip on his radar. Radar on which Africa doesn’t even exist, except for Egypt because of Israel.”

  “And the second? The second aim?”

  “That one is more important. And more pleasant: getting to know the mechanism you’re a part of.”

  Finally they’d reached the heart of the matter.

  “Mechanism?” Max asked.

  Having finished the apple, the ambassador now took his medicine. Then he gave three quick taps on the rim of the ashtray to clean out his pipe. Sighing, he replaced it in his desk drawer along with the tin of tobacco and took two sips of coffee. Only then did he casually remark, “Marcílio, you can’t be surprised by all of this.… Let’s be honest!” Without giving Max a chance to react, he added, “Your name was part of our plans at least two years ago, as I told you.”

  Max seemed as though he was having trouble believing this.

  “And based on what criteria …,” Max began.

  “… was the choice made?” completed the ambassador.

  “Yes.”

  “Think about it, Marcílio. These things can be painful. Although, in your case, we’re dealing with character traits that I personally admire. And rightly consider assets. Not shortcomings, as some do.”

  “Let’s have them, Ambassador.”

  “Your name came to my attention because of how deftly you switched sides in sixty-four. I’d even say because of the extraordinary resourcefulness you demonstrated on the occasion. A gazelle couldn’t have leapt more gracefully. Kissing the cardinal’s ring … not even I would have thought of that.”

  Before Max could crawl and hide under the rug, the secretary knocked on the door and entered.

  “The colonel is here,” she announced. “He’s in the reception area.” She tilted her head to read the card in her hand. “With a Mr.… Dan-iel Ma-trone,” she pronounced.

  “With Mr. Daniel A. Matrone,” corrected the ambassador, with a friendly smile in Max’s direction. “Make them wait a bit. And have them come in a few minutes after Secretary Marcílio leaves us.”

  Turning back toward Max, who was now standing, he extended a hand. A hand that sealed their partnership. “Let’s see what our angel wants,” he said then, before seeing Max out. “We’ll continue our conversation in a few days.”

  Max left the room through a side door. He found himself in a hallway, where he remained for a few seconds, lost in thought. He was, in fact, stunned. So much so that he needed to brace himself against the wall for a minute.

  Before taking the first steps toward the stairs, he overheard the final part of the introductions: “Call me Dan, Ambassador. Everyone calls me Dan,” a voice was saying.

  “Fine, Dan,” he heard the ambassador replying. “As for you, you may address me as Your Excellency.”

  24

  The following months, Max found himself facing serious challenges on two fronts: at home and at work. The first scenario worried him far more — perhaps because he felt unable to understand it. He merely noted that, despite the happy news of her recent pregnancy, Marina was pulling away from him, for no logical reason he could grasp.

  “Pregnancy really messes with a woman’s emotions,” Esmeralda, to whom he opened up during a rare moment of helplessness, had told him. “Especially the first.”

  Max took consolation from her words, until he remembered that she had never had children and therefore came by her information secondhand.

  As for work, the atmosphere was complicated by a combination of factors, some predictable, others not. Consistent with the first conversation he’d had with his boss about the Tupamaros, the civil war climate had indeed begun to intensify in the country. The government struggled to remain in place, political crises broke out, the numbers of victims on both sides increased. The military grew agitated, in many cases issuing contradictory statements.

  As threatening as this scenario may have seemed, however, Max’s daily routine was actually far more affected by the climate of transition that took hold of the embassy as soon as word of the ambassador’s replacement got out. It was as if an entire empire were on the verge of ruin and another, the details of which remained unknown, was about to take its place. The resident vassals were left unable to figure out what was really happening around them and thus change allegiances and redirect their talents (if they had any).

  In the women’s realm, this state of affairs had devastating effects. The cliques all vanished into thin air, and the ambassador’s wife — left in a vacuum, to her bewilderment — saw her power and influence shrink with each passing day.

  The city and the country threatened to implode in a thousand ways. Yet what happened within the embassy walls seemed infinitely graver in the eyes of those who worked there.

  Against this complex and unstable backdrop, the ambassador and his wife threw one last dinner for the three military attachés and all the diplomats. According to custom, they should have done so later, a few days prior to their departure. Holding it in advance symbolized the ambassador’s wish to show everyone that he had no fear of the future. Or, as he said to Max in private just hours before the event, that he was grabbing the bull by the horns. And one of his greatest pleasures in this process (which he had revealed to his young colleague alone) consisted in being the keeper of the ultimate secret: the extraordinary fate awaiting him in Brasilia.

  As such, of the twenty-four diners seated at the endless table, only two shone brightly in the shadows (the ambassador’s wife having opted for a candlelit banquet to underscore the funereal climate to which she saw herself demoted): the host and Max. Neither the fine English china nor the numerous crystal wineglasses sparkled as they did. Even the candelabra and floral arrangements spaced along the spotless white tablecloth paled in comparison to the elegance the two men displayed.

  Of all those people relegated to anonymity, Marina was, by far, the most depressed. That same afternoon, by unhappy coincidence, she’d had her fateful encounter with Nilo Montenegro downtown. As a result, she’d spent the first part of the dinner in a cold sweat, not knowing where to rest her eyes.

  She and Max had just gotten back to their apartment when the conflict they were going through came to a head: Marina had spoken of running into Nilo. In a matter of seconds, she’d turned her insinuations into criticisms. For the first time since they’d met, she’d raised her voice and pointed an accusatory finger at Max. He’d vehemently denied the charges, claiming they were unfounded and merely derived from the fact that he worked at the embassy. He was in no way compromised, he assured her. But he’d been rattled by his wife’s tone. And by the sadness with which she’d listened to his explanations — a sadness that, from that point onward, would follow her like a shadow. Was it possible that his wife knew something concrete about him?

  By the next morning, Max had hurried to check the file on the actor in the embassy archives. Nilo Montenegro … He couldn’t remember what the man looked like but the name was familiar. Had he and Ana performed onstage together? Had they all gone out one night, as often occurred in the theater world? He breathed easier on seeing that there was nothing incriminating against the man, except that, until recently, he had shared an apartment with a political activist who had sought refuge in Montevideo.

  The former roommate, from what Max would glean at the poker table a few nights later, was indeed a dangerous man. He realized this when, between one hand and the next, Major João Vaz had asked the number two air force official “if the package had been shipped off,” to which the young man, who was picking up his cards right then, had replied with a laconic “affirmative.”

  Max had had no way of connecting one fact to the other. Except that, a few seconds later, after looking over his cards careful
ly, the young official had put a few chips on the table and said, in a lower voice, “We’re just not sure what to do with the guy who shared his digs.” Once the wagers had all been made, the major, who was cleaning up that night, made Nilo a part of his winning streak. “Nothing. Don’t do a thing,” he’d advised, counting his chips. And added, “As far as I can tell, he’s just an actor.” Then he’d thrown back his whiskey. That’s how a man’s fate was decided in those days. All things considered, the ambassador had gotten it both right and wrong by having Max infiltrate Major Vaz’s poker table. He’d erred because Max would never be able to detect, in that cohesive group, the doubts or uncertainties his boss assumed were prevalent. Max therefore had no way to supply his boss with intelligence about dissidence or distrust that might warrant being noted in that environment.

  On the other hand — and here the ambassador had unintentionally gotten it right — once he’d earned the trust of his fellow poker players (the kind of trust generally established among men who belong to the same club, independent of class or distinction), Max couldn’t have had better access to the underworld in which they operated with ease and chilling resourcefulness. That it was an underworld of the worst kind, Max had no doubt. It was as if those hands holding cards or chips had, just moments earlier, dealt with lives and destinies — which still pulsated around them. The only evidence Max had for this dismal impression was the amount of liquor everyone consumed without showing any sign of being drunk at night’s end. To this was added the steel grip each person greeted him with on the way in and out, leading our hero to run his hands under hot water for several minutes when he got home, before filing his notes.

  In his presence, officials avoided being explicit about the nature of their areas of activity. But to attuned ears like Max’s, any word spoken with special emphasis gained resonance. The games and teasing further helped. “Our pal Pedro is bullshitting us tonight,” someone at the table claimed. “Must not have read his instruction manual very closely,” another joked. “And he still hasn’t figured out that sooner or later all secrets come out,” a third had concluded to everyone’s amusement. “All you have to do is push the right button …,” a fourth reminded them, barely containing his glee, “… or administer another sip of water,” rounded out the first, closing the harmonious circle.