“A friend who came through the city on her way to our house that night saw a battalion go by, with soldiers carrying rifles and machine guns. They weren’t marching in formation but were looking from side to side as if keeping an eye out for some enemy. When she told us about that, we didn’t know what to think.
“Bright and early the next morning I was woken by a horse. It had broken through the fence and was ransacking our vegetable garden. Where it came from, I have no idea … it looked lost. A circus animal, I got to thinking, abandoned to fate by its owners. And it was hungry. Its ribs were showing, the creature was so emaciated. I went out to the yard to shoo it away. And then I saw …”
Max was held in suspense by his words.
“… in the haze, just beyond the horse slowly limping away, I saw tanks descending single file toward the city center. I woke up my wife and a few friends who had stayed the night since they had no means of transportation, and we were out of there in no time. Each of us took off in a different direction. I stuck with my wife as long as I could, but the DINA knew what I looked like. From that point on, we stayed apart from one another in different locations, hopping from house to house. Friends’ phone lines were cut and their neighbors would rat us out as soon as they saw us come in. My wife, who’s eight months pregnant, is at another embassy.”
He paused and looked at Max before proceeding.
“My cousin brought me here. But afterward he refused to do anything else for me. I understand. And I’m grateful for what he did. You can tell him that for me. Things came crashing down, affecting everyone. The radios around us kept blaring: turn in foreigners you don’t trust, turn in enemies of Chile.… And even if I knew where my companions are, it wouldn’t help you. Things haven’t been easy for our side. What we’ve lost, besides lives, is hope. We used to have hope here in Chile. It might have been an illusion.… Got a cigarette?”
Max recalled one of Buñuel’s early films, from his Mexican phase, Illusion Travels by Streetcar.
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Keep the pack.”
“Got a match?”
“Here.”
The other man took the lighter.
“Please, keep it.”
“A Dupont? Are you mad? No way. I’d be shot on sight by my comrades.”
The two laughed.
The man lit his cigarette and contemplated the lighter for a few seconds, balancing it in his right hand. He seemed to be reflecting on days gone by, when he might have had one just like it, perhaps an even nicer one. What else might he have been thinking about?
He handed back the lighter a moment later. He’d regained a bit more color. The time had come to take his leave, though.
“Thanks again for the cigarettes,” he said, getting up. “And good luck.”
Max was at a loss as to how to respond. Good luck? “What about your wife?” he asked.
“I don’t know where she is. All I heard is that she’s safe at some other embassy.”
Max sensed that he was lying. As the attaché had predicted, perhaps with good reason. A woman eight months pregnant, holed up in who knew what kind of situation, with dozens or hundreds of people sharing a single bathroom, about to give birth to a child. A child who might never get to know his father …
Max would have liked to wish the stranger good luck too, but he didn’t feel up to it. He merely raised his hand in a vague farewell when the man, reaching the door, turned to face him one last time. The smile he’d worn briefly was gone. Even so, he pointed to the pack of cigarettes in his hand and gave a thumbsup. “Appreciate these,” he said before shutting the door.
After the man left, the room shrank around Max. He stood and paced from one side to the other. He wanted to smoke but all he had in his pocket was the lighter. He looked at his watch without seeing the hands. He imagined someone would be coming for him. And so he waited.
A few minutes later, the official he’d met earlier returned and accompanied him to the exit. The man was in shirtsleeves and the temperature outside wasn’t exactly pleasant. Yet he went out with Max. As the visitor headed down the steps leading to the sidewalk, the man’s voice sounded out in the crisp morning air: “Gracias.”
Max turned. Everything about the man, from the glint in his eye to the trace of a smile that shaved twenty years off him, confirmed his gratitude. You tried, his expression seemed to suggest. It wasn’t up to him to judge whether it had been successful or not. But he wanted to personally convey his thanks. And if he did so, it was because gestures like Max’s, no matter where they might come from, were rarer each day.
On an impulse, Max swiftly ascended the steps and shook the man’s hand. For the first time since March 31, 1964, he’d wavered — to the point of nearly losing his balance. Then he turned and went back down the stairs. When he reached the sidewalk, he casually strolled away.
37
For a few days, the experience with his exiled compatriot had led Max to think back on his good deed. Unfortunately, however, the acquired knowledge wouldn’t take root in his heart. Max was, above all, a rational man, immune to the lure of emotion.
The attaché who had tried to help him perform his consular duties was transferred back to Brazil a month later, and Max would never see him again. The official from the foreign embassy, even more understandably, would also vanish from his life forever. As for Codfish, yes, our friend would see him again. Yes … and no. Because, twenty years later, in Brasilia, with democracy restored and those who had previously been overthrown back in power, Max had hidden behind a pillar to avoid being recognized by the now high official of the federal administration when he’d almost crossed paths with him at a public ceremony both were attending. He’d been afraid that the former attaché might have told his relative who’d taken refuge at the embassy what he knew of Max’s involvement with the SNI.
At any rate, the insensitivity he showed by not making more of an effort to assist other compatriots in trouble would take its toll. Because if the gods had granted Max an opportunity to shine in heaven, the devils were also keeping tabs on his destiny and would soon reappear on the scene.
Two weeks after his redemptive adventure — as he’d classified the experience — he received an urgent telex from Colonel Cordeiro inquiring whether he would be willing to lend a hand with a particular problem.
Max agreed, and a few days later he had a drink with his new patron at the luxury hotel where he was staying. The colonel got straight to the point: he wanted to introduce Max to a São Paulo banker who had accompanied him to Santiago. And who wished to consult with Max “on a personal matter.” Max shrugged. He had no way of denying the colonel.
The banker soon joined the two at the bar. Popped up like a jack-in-the-box, Max thought. But there was nothing amusing about his demeanor or attitude. The games he played were far darker: he was an arms dealer.
Thank goodness, thought Max with relief. Weapons … a subject that, given its nature, was beyond his purview. Aside from the countless restrictions, some of which had been put in place by UN resolutions, this was an area overseen by the embassy’s political sector. Max could, at most, direct the visitor to his colleague in charge of the matter. He was therefore happy they weren’t talking about the sensitive material that had so interested his friend Colonel Cordeiro in the past and could be handled only on a secret basis. Then Max realized from the other men’s silence that there was more.
Scrutinizing the stranger, Max discovered that he recognized him, both from photographs and by reputation. His name was Marco Ferrari and he made the most of his Italian background, displaying the personal bonhomie that helped smooth over his many flaws. He was an investor but also represented interests that kept him at the head of a large conglomerate. Last but not least, he had been one of the primary financial backers of the nefarious OBAN, Operation Bandeirante, which used torture to repress dissent and which Max had assumed to be limited to Brazilian territory. So it wasn
’t just weapons he wanted to talk about.
During the conversation that ensued, the man circled around Max several times, like a big fish sizing up a smaller one before going in for the kill. He showed interest in the diplomat’s career and asked general questions about the country they were in. At one point, he tried to establish whether they had mutual friends. Not having come up with any, he concentrated on their shared tastes in art and literature. He also brought up sports. The only subject they didn’t discuss was their personal life.
What is this guy doing in Chile? Max wondered as he let the conversation flow. And why was he interjecting so many pauses into what he was saying, watching Max in silence, as though seeking to determine just what he was made of? There was definitely more to the meeting, Max finally concluded. Might it have to do with Operation Bandeirante? But how, if OBAN had never acted abroad, as far as he knew?
While the man ordered another drink, giving the waiter specific instructions as to how he wanted it made, Max shot a quick question to the colonel.
“No, it has nothing to do with that,” Newton Cordeiro whispered back. “In fact, I don’t really know what he wants, he hasn’t told me. All I know is that he needs your help.”
Help? What kind of help?
At a discreet signal from the banker, the colonel left to use the men’s room, a strategic move that drew Max’s attention.
“Max, I know we can trust you,” Ferrari said.
Max nodded. The use of the plural troubled him. That collective we had weighed heavily on the shoulders of defenders of the so-called Revolution.
“We also know that you’re convinced of the importance of the war we’re all involved in. A matter of life and death.”
Max took a sip of his drink and signaled to the waiter.
“There’s a community of Brazilians here in Chile …”
Max paused, his hand still raised, like a hunting dog that suddenly stops short.
“Exiled Brazilians,” the other man continued, dropping his voice. The colonel’s absence was telling. He had obviously left the scene for a reason. “One of them …” The pause conveyed anguish more than hesitation. The confidence the man had displayed until then gave way to terrible uneasiness. To the degree that his voice, although angry, came out sounding fragile: “One of them swore to kill me. A terrorist. An assassin.”
Max had no alternative. He suddenly found himself in one of those extreme situations that are like duels — and from which only one of the adversaries comes out standing. He pinned his opponent against a wall, as efficiently and mercilessly as possible.
“And …?” he asked.
The banker lit the first cigarette of the evening. After a long drag, he declared, “He can’t return to Brazil.” The worst was yet to come. “Money is no object, as far as I’m concerned.”
No matter how prepared he was, no matter how long he’d been awaiting the attack, Max felt blindsided. As if he’d taken the bullet intended for the militant. And he was saddened. The worst of men always cling to a few illusions about themselves — and his had just been shattered. The other rolled on like a tank, clad in his presumption, protected by his wealth.
“According to information we have, he’s in the hands of the Chilean secret police. He almost certainly killed one of our own, a friend of my mine named Boilensen, two years ago. I’m next on the list. If he makes it back to Brazil.” And then the inevitable repetition: “He can’t go back.”
In deference to his illusions, or what was left of them in that impersonal hotel bar, Max managed to curb his indignation. He dealt with his revulsion, however, finding a means of returning to the kingdom of men, by selecting a weapon with which he’d armed himself in his youth: subtle yet stinging irony. Combining feeling and diplomacy to the greatest extent possible, he honed it into a samurai’s sword.
“The embassy’s consular sector handles visas and passports,” he began in a steady voice. “As well as legalization of documents.” He silently counted to twenty. The other man grew paler. “Everything relating to local immigration is up to the Chilean authorities,” he went on in the same tone. “It’s up to them to decide whether an individual citizen — in our case, a Brazilian — can remain in the country beyond the time frame established by law.”
The banker didn’t blink. His face showed no particular emotion. Newton Cordeiro returned to his seat, rubbing his hands together. The waiter served another round of drinks.
“So, it’s all very interesting, as you see,” said Ferrari, in a suddenly animated voice, as if he’d been engaged in a conversation the colonel could now join. And he continued, almost tripping over his words. “But I realize it’s a complicated issue. Thus my consulting you. Of course what was said here remains between the two of us.”
The colonel registered these last words with satisfaction, not noticing the wounded look with which they were delivered. He waited for the conversation to resume so he could orient himself, while Max helped himself to a handful of peanuts.
“Of course,” Max said at last.
They’d finished their third round of drinks in near silence. Ferrari suggested they move to a table. “Right here,” he added, pointing to the hotel’s restaurant adjacent to the bar, as if he were at his own home. He wouldn’t stray from the prepared script; he would follow protocol to the end. Even though his teeth and gut were clenched in anger. That was the impression Max took from the meeting. The man exuded power and rage yet was essentially helpless. The hatred Ferrari felt now came across as fear.
Once they were seated at the restaurant, however, his host rubbed his hands together as if he’d regained his strength. So what if Max had refused to do him a favor? He would find someone else, even if the cost were higher. As for the young diplomat, time would tell. He had nothing to lose by waiting.
Colonel Cordeiro, who had kept quiet virtually the entire evening, then found himself having to conduct an orchestra made up of two musicians who no longer had instruments to play. He handled the challenge remarkably well and was, moreover, quite pleased with himself, having fulfilled his mission. A bridge had been built between the two men, as evidenced by the harmony reigning over the table. He put himself in charge of the pleasant conversation, which featured alternating comments from Max and the banker.
His eyes tracked the bottle of wine, which was uncorked at leisure. A delicious dinner, a fine wine … What more could he have hoped for as grand coordinator of the evening?
Max’s thoughts, meanwhile, had drifted to Carlos Câmara. Were his colleague posted in Chile, would the banker have had the gall to submit the same proposal to him?
“Excellent choice,” he said, swirling his glass and tasting the wine. “Nice color.” Then he continued the conversation. “In other words, what you’re suggesting, if I understand correctly, is some sort of custody. The military would be manipulated but without their realizing it. Very gently, subtly.”
“Exactly,” replied the banker, who wished only to put an end to that disastrous evening.
“An operation,” Max speculated, in the tone of one pondering an academic question, “that, from the administrative point of view, would feed the vanity of military brass without taking any authority away from the business community.”
To which the banker, as if following the same reasoning, had added, “Authority having to do with the former unions, which, to this day, must have hidden arms. Not to mention the various student organizations, whose manifestos are being printed and distributed as we speak, and the artists, who most certainly have been regrouping to produce the same plays, only now thinly veiled.”
Thinly veiled plays, thought Max, suddenly disheartened. Where might Ana be these days? And what would she think of that expression? Was she herself working on such plays in Rio? What would she think of him if she knew he’d been asked to commit such a crime? What would his old jazz buddies have to say were they to learn he’d been offered payment to arrange to kill a man who, in other times or circumstances, might
well have been a part of their crowd?
38
From the poignant adventure he’d undergone with his exiled compatriot to the nightmare he’d experienced with the banker, Max had been through two extremes in a matter of days. He regarded the first as more of a fanciful digression, something bordering on romanticism; the second, however, generated an uneasiness that refused to fade. Nevertheless, he gradually managed to concentrate on more routine assignments.
Bringing together businessmen from the two countries proved to be a straightforward and even pleasant task for Max. On the Brazilian end, the challenges were easily met, with the support of the major industrial and commercial associations. These links simply needed to be reinforced so that familiar paths could now lead to new opportunities.
The same was happening on the Chilean end, even though the local economy was still weak. But Max relied on a few solid ties in the country, derived from the contacts he’d kept with certain local upper-middle-class groups over the twelve months preceding Allende’s downfall. These connections ran deep given that, on his successive visits to Chile, Max had shared with these groups the plan crafted by the CIA in Montevideo and carried out in Brazil ten years earlier — by force of which the government had been systematically destabilized.
Following the Brazilian model and, later, the Uruguayan one, the Chilean business community had operated in a way that was at once light- and heavy-handed. First, it funded strikes that paralyzed the productive sectors, creating panic among the middle class and immobilizing the labor and farmers’ movements. These actions were backed by investors who in many instances received support from the CIA. As a result, nearly all of the crucial sectors of the Chilean economy had crossed their arms at one point or another, most notably the truck drivers. Without transportation, essentials wouldn’t be distributed, except with great difficulty.
His Own Man Page 19
