His Own Man

by Edgard Telles Ribeiro

  The bottom line is that, while gazing at the burning ruins of La Moneda Palace, Max had resolved to give in to the appeals of his old friend Newton Cordeiro. He would negotiate a deal with the colonel. In Chile, he would give Cordeiro what he hadn’t been able to provide in Montevideo: the contacts needed to open particular doors. In this case, businessmen connected to the Chilean military, who might be interested in certain valuable raw materials Brazil had at its disposal — and to which Cordeiro had access, thanks to one of the countless shady deals made under the dictatorship.

  Max asked for little in exchange: full pressure on Itamaraty, at the highest level, so that he could oversee the embassy’s commercial sector. Carte blanche. Not having to run his projects or cables past the ambassador. There was already at least one such precedent at the ministry: the commercial sector in New York operated independently. This might be considered in Santiago too, by orders from above.

  Well aware through his friend the colonel that wheeling and dealing in sensitive material had been going on for years in military circles, Max had no qualms about imposing his conditions. He truly believed he wasn’t asking for much. And he was right. But at the time, it was what he needed to clear a path that would serve him at this new stage of his career. In promoting our exports, he would find refuge against the slings and arrows suffered in the political trench he’d been moving in until then. He would hibernate in this more appealing environment while he honed his connections — which would later bolster his slow return to power.

  In negotiating with Max, Newton Cordeiro quickly grasped that his friend was in a vulnerable spot. Realizing he could include an additional item in the package being considered, which would help him solidify his reputation with the Brazilian business community and his military colleagues, he asked Max to use his position to stress among certain Chilean groups the need, as he put it, “to remove some roadblocks and set up others.”

  Max didn’t like the idea. It was vague enough to hold a hidden agenda. But he ended up agreeing. And promised to arrange occasional gatherings of businessmen from the two countries, during which the Brazilians — ostensibly in Chile for commercial purposes — would share their experiences in the field of repression. Experiences that would facilitate the settling of accounts the two countries’ armed forces weren’t always able to support — from lack of interest or mandate. Operations that, in the case of Brazil, for example, would put a stop to attacks and kidnappings. Or which, in the case of Chile, would discourage covert union activities, not to mention movements that might generate instability among landowners. Projects, in sum, that would meet with greater interest from the entrepreneurial classes. In any area that suited them.

  An expert on Max’s weaknesses, the colonel knew exactly what made his friend tick: ambition. There was, however, a powerful additive to this raw material — even easier to manipulate: a constant rancor. Max was motivated by revenge and seemed willing to pay any price to achieve his goals. So much the better, thought the colonel: playing his cards right, he could make whatever he wanted of Max. Or so he believed. But there’s no question that at this early stage, the partnership favored the colonel.

  The process that would radically transform Max’s position in the embassy began exactly three weeks after his arrival. Flipping through the day’s telegrams, the ambassador had been notified that “by a decision from above,” an independent commercial office would be established in Santiago and run by Counselor Andrade Xavier. The young diplomat was already authorized to take the necessary steps toward this goal, which included “renting adequate off-site office space” and hiring specialists who would “enable him to perform his duties.”

  A second telegram authorized the acquisition of two cars for exclusive use by the commercial sector, one as the counselor’s official vehicle, the other for business purposes.

  The ambassador choked on each word in the telegrams — and gritted his teeth when he got to the part about the two vehicles. But he sensed that these orders had come from the minister himself and that nothing could be done other than to bite the bullet and keep quiet.

  35

  To the bewilderment of many, Max didn’t seem to dwell on his triumph. Or if he took any joy from it, he kept this in check. He grew a beard and began to consider the best way of handling his new challenges — among them, weighing the practical steps his duties would require. He showed little gratitude for the congratulations he began receiving from those who had ignored him until then. And he downplayed the fact that the ambassador’s doors remained closed to him — a situation that would remain unaltered until a new embassy head arrived a year and a half later.

  To ensure there were no lingering doubts that he was a dedicated public servant, he availed himself of the fact that Chile was facing serious internal conflicts to zealously perform a few consular tasks until the political climate settled. He realized that the country had no way of including commerce among its priorities right then. Many nights he found himself longing for the camaraderie he had once shared with his majors and sergeants. With them at least he knew where he stood. As such, he gradually understood that there really was no avenue of escape, no way out of an environment like his for those who took shortcuts. The doors that opened as options tended nearly always to be traps.

  A few months would elapse before he asserted himself, as commercial attaché or in his more veiled role as business consultant. These were difficult and shaky times for Max, despite his extraordinary about-face at the embassy.

  Marina remained in Rio de Janeiro with Pedro Henrique, and our friend found himself alone in an inhospitable city. His embassy duties had him trying to locate missing Brazilians at the request of desperate relatives with no alternative but to call daily from home seeking news. Max couldn’t count on the slightest help in this area from his own embassy, much less from the Chilean secret police. Among other reasons, because the latter had received mixed messages about him from the ambassador’s staff.

  So he tried to reach our exiled compatriots, in search of information that might assist him. This was naïveté on his part, since all fled from him (and from any Brazilian diplomat or official) like the devil from the cross. As such, he found himself groping blindly, obliged to pay numerous visits to hospitals and morgues, until finally dropping in at the makeshift prison camp at the National Stadium. The three times he was there, he returned to the embassy ashen and, as a colleague reported years later, “with his beard getting grayer.”

  Max was facing a precarious paradox: the more he tried to distance himself from the horror — as he prepared to don the more discreet suit of business attaché — the more the repression clung to him. Luckily for him, however, one of the military attachés — by far the least radical of the three representatives from our armed forces — had taken pity on him. He wasn’t the spiteful type and so hadn’t felt offended by Max’s displays of arrogance on his previous visits to Santiago. He’d simply taken him, on those occasions, to be childish and insecure. Thus he’d managed to detect in Max qualities the younger man didn’t even know he possessed. This perceptive official came to the somewhat unexpected conclusion that, were he to find the opening to do so, Max would go out of his way to help the exiled Brazilians — despite explicit orders to the contrary.

  The ambassador — to the bemusement and increasing irritation of the attaché, who believed there were limits to a certain kind of persecution — had ordered that the embassy doors be closed to our compatriots, leaving them exposed to the violence of the Chilean secret police. One afternoon, this official crossed paths with Max in the hallway and invited him to have coffee. Tomorrow, he specified. Before work, he further emphasized. He then mentioned the name of a pastry shop located some distance from the embassy. His goal accomplished, he held a finger to his lips and moved along.

  Max didn’t know quite what to think. He’d detected something old-fashioned in the way the invitation had been made. Something reminiscent of a classic spy novel written between the two
world wars, the mood of which could hardly be associated with the complexity surrounding them in the mid 1970s. But he felt so isolated at work that he seized the opportunity with rekindled spirits.

  His enthusiasm was such that the shop was not yet open when he arrived the next morning. He wandered around, stretching his legs in the cold for ten minutes, until an employee inside felt sorry for him and unlocked the door.

  The attaché arrived moments later. After a brief greeting, he sat in front of Max and got straight to the point. “Go see these people.” He slid a folded sheet of paper across the table but continued to hold it in place with his fingers. “It’s an embassy,” he said. “I wrote down the names of two people there. And, finally, one word.”

  Max sensed he’d been told very little and a great deal at the same time. Little, given the scant number of words. A great deal, given the enormity of what he was led to infer. The solemnity of the moment, moreover, made him uneasy. As if there were something ridiculous — or forced — about the situation.

  “Don’t discuss this with anyone, not even your wife in Brazil. The lines are all tapped,” the attaché warned, after glancing around. “Go by bus, to attract as little attention as possible. They open at ten. At the desk, ask for the first name on the paper. When the person shows up, ask for the second. Say that you’re there on behalf of Pedro. The official will ask, ‘Has he recovered from his illness?’ You’ll answer, ‘Thanks to the medicine you gave him.’ Then he’ll take you to a small room. A Brazilian who has taken refuge in the embassy will come see you. When the two of you are alone, say the word.”

  “The one on the paper.”

  “Yes,” the attaché had replied impatiently. What other word would I be talking about!? his look seemed to imply. But he’d soon gone back to his measured tone. “Explain who you are. Talk about what you do. Tell the truth, that you just want to help. Somehow or other. Tell him that I trust you. You can bring up my name. We’re related and I’m the one who took a serious risk smuggling him into the embassy in the trunk of my car. Yes, thanks to my diplomatic plates. Now, take this and go to the men’s room, memorize what’s written, and come back here with the paper. The men’s room is over there, on the left.”

  “Now?” asked Max, surprised and somewhat unnerved. He would have liked to hear more. What, exactly, he couldn’t say. With whom would he be meeting? Deep down, he was afraid of falling into a trap. He hadn’t quite recovered from the manipulations he’d fallen victim to in Montevideo.

  “Now,” the other replied firmly.

  Max stood. Only then, on brushing past the attaché, had he noticed that under his partially open coat, the other man wasn’t wearing a suit, much less a uniform. He was dressed casually, in a shirt, sweater, and scarf. It was a precaution, given the circumstances, but one that had escaped Max. And made him uncomfortable, as if he were out of his element and, therefore, oblivious of such details.

  In the men’s room, he had locked the door and carefully unfolded the sheet of paper. He’d taken note of the embassy, memorized the two names, and stopped short at the last word. Had he noticed his reflection in the mirror, he’d have seen his lips moving as he absorbed his lesson, like an illiterate recently introduced to the mystery of letters working through a seemingly endless text. Although he was used to operating behind the scenes, it was the first time he felt truly undercover. Wasn’t he about to go against his superiors’ explicit orders, after all? And become entangled in who knew what kind of collusion with the enemy?

  Having done what he was told, he folded the sheet in half and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he washed his hands and returned to the table.

  “All set?” the attaché inquired.

  “Affirmative!” Max exclaimed, resorting to language he’d learned in his Montevideo poker circle. And he slid the foldedup paper back across the table.

  He still didn’t understand the reason behind his trip to the men’s room, when he could just as easily have read the paper at the table. Especially because there wasn’t a soul in the place other than the waiter and a woman moving behind a glass door leading to the kitchen. He looked suspiciously at his cup, as if the attaché might have slipped something into his coffee during his absence.

  “You’ll be speaking to a man whose opinions I don’t agree with,” the attaché said. “But he’s a decent fellow. And honorable. I just don’t know if he’s going to help you. He may not trust you. With good reason. I wouldn’t, if I were in his shoes. But it’s a shot. To help you help them. Because I know that at heart you’re not a bad person.”

  “And just how do you know that?” Max asked, quite seriously.

  “Because we’re alike, you and I,” the attaché replied, again unblinking. “From what I know of your past. And from what I’ve seen since you got here. We were quick to jump on board and support the coup, without knowing why. A combination of circumstances, my wife always says, when she sees me getting depressed.”

  Both smiled. For the first time since he’d arrived in Santiago, Max relaxed a little with someone from work. Moved by this friendly atmosphere, he felt comfortable enough to extend his legs and ask a question that had gnawed at him all night. “But why trust me? At this point? Who can assure you that —”

  “You,” the attaché interrupted. “You can assure me.”

  “Even so,” Max murmured, pretending to feel honored when he was actually embarrassed. Nothing had prepared him for this sort of conversation. With this kind of person. That’s when he realized that he too was wearing the mask of another character. And that the scene being played out by the two of them, in that deserted café, in a city itself under siege, revealed more about the strangeness of those times than anything remotely normal.

  The waiter set a basket of buttered toast on the table. The two men helped themselves to milk and sugar and sipped their coffee. When the waiter had retreated, the man looked straight at Max for the first time. “You’ll be acting as a Brazilian consul. Consul is a title that dates back to ancient Rome, to Napoleon, to the Baron of Rio Branco —”

  “The old baron would be turning in his grave if he knew what I’d been involved in,” Max interrupted bitterly.

  The other continued, paying no heed to the remark. “With any luck at all, you’ll never forget this day.” At this point he glanced at his watch and, after one last sip of coffee, he stood. “I’m going home now,” he said, bringing the meeting to an end. “I mentioned that I was feeling sick yesterday so I won’t be in today. This one’s on you.… No need to get up.”

  36

  The next morning, Max went to the designated embassy. At the reception desk, he asked for the official whose name had echoed in his dreams. They had him take a seat on a bench. When the official showed up, the receptionist called Max. Max mentioned the second name and said he was there on behalf of Pedro. The conversation went as expected, and he was led to an adjoining room, where he was again asked to wait, this time on a sofa.

  There was a table with six chairs in the middle of the room. The curtains were drawn against the sunlight. A floor lamp and two ceiling fixtures illuminated the space. Max waited awhile, his eyes at a loss for anything to focus on since the walls were bare. Nor was there much in the way of decoration, other than a couple of ashtrays and two candlesticks stowed at the top of a bookcase heaped with old magazines. Ten minutes later, a door opened at the far end of the room and a tall, thin man entered. A pale apparition.

  Max stood and took a step in his direction. The man sat at the table and gestured for Max to take the seat opposite him. “You’re Brazilian?” he asked in Portuguese once Max was settled.

  “Yes, I’m Brazilian.”

  The man waited in silence. Max shifted his gaze away from the diaphanous being, half expecting that by virtue of the man’s unusual pallor, the walls behind him would suddenly come to life — and appear adorned in paintings, vines, or flowers. But they remained unaffected by the circumstances.

  Max then took a deep breat
h and, in as dignified a voice as possible, said, “Codfish.”

  The other accepted the word as if it were a greeting and nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  Max started talking. He explained his situation. He wanted to help but didn’t know how. He admitted that, strictly speaking, he was at a loss as to how to proceed. He wanted to at least prevent unnecessary deaths, if he could act in time. And reassure the families who called constantly from Brazil. As far as he could. But … where to start? Where should he go? From whom should he seek help? He also alluded cursorily to the difficulties he’d run into at the embassy and with the Chilean police.

  The man began to smile, his eyes fixed on the floor as he shook his head slightly from side to side. “If I understood correctly,” he finally said, “you’re in the same boat as us: stymied by both Chilean intelligence and our own ambassador here.”

  “Right,” agreed Max. “In a certain sense, yes.”

  “Pretty funny,” the other persisted. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yes …,” Max replied, adding, “and no.” He felt a drop of sweat forming on his brow, right along his hairline. He wiped it away and went on, in search of common ground. “But I can see why you find it …” Lacking a better word, he contented himself with repeating “funny.”

  The man pushed back his chair as if he needed more space to think. A bit of color had appeared on his face. “I’m really sorry,” he said at last, “but I can’t help you. I don’t even know where our people are. Everything happened very suddenly. The day before the coup, I was planning a dinner at my house, a simple get-together. Since Santiago has run out of everything because of the truckers’ strike ordered by the right, and the hoarding of food staples for the black market, I had a chicken breast in the oven, a few eggs in the fridge, and was relying on my garden. I was living on the city outskirts in a house with a little yard, and my wife and I had planted kale, tomatoes, and a few other vegetables. Someone would be bringing rice with sausage, and dessert was to be taken care of too.