It was the second set of actions that would take the heavier toll, leaving countless innocent victims in its wake. These included attacks on gas lines, electric towers, and railroads, which were carried out by paramilitary groups and attributed (once again, as in Brazil and Uruguay) to extreme leftist groups.
Max had also taken part in dealings intended to manipulate the media through paid ads in newspapers and other means of communication, sending hundreds of mothers into the streets beating their pans in search of nonexistent food supplies. The protests of the panelazos, as they would be known in Chile, could — again, as had occurred in Brazil ten years earlier — be alternated with dramatic religious processions, which, according to the CIA, “photograph well in the international press, given how imposing the crucifixes are.”
The five weeks Fidel Castro spent in Chile at the end of 1971 had been particularly useful as a means of instilling fear. “A gift from the gods,” in the words of one CIA agent.
These were the trump cards Max depended on for his ostensible work as this new stage was being heralded. Considering that conservative values were firmly entrenched in power, and that the Chilean elite was already sighing with relief at the initial outcome of its successful performance, it was up to the diplomat to reap the bounty of the contacts made months before — shifting them into alignment with the Brazilian exporters and investors, who were once again migrating toward Chile.
On the Chilean social circuit during this period, Max shone. And he spared no expense, organizing fairs to promote assorted products, paying for Chilean journalists and investors to visit our state capitals, creating sumptuous receptions at luxury hotels. During the months following the coup, several local businessmen and their wives became full-time partygoers, exuding a telltale relief that indicated the anguish they’d been through. Even so, they listened more than they spoke and drank more than they listened. Deep down, they were still traumatized, trying hard to recover from their cumulative scares.
Did Max notice how doleful these people were? That they had no radiance, not to mention mundane qualities such as flexibility, malice, or a sense of humor? Did he ever regret having helped — even indirectly — to liquidate the country’s intellectuals, the artists, the teachers, the students, the liberals?
Or was he so bedazzled by his own splendor that he’d become immune to such doubts, content to shine on a now deserted stage?
39
Max had thrown himself with such determination into projects that would reinstate him in his career that he’d neglected the personal dimension represented by his family.
In the months after his arrival in Santiago, he’d traveled to Rio de Janeiro twice to be with Marina and check on Pedro Henrique’s recovery. Both trips had transpired as if he were visiting distant relatives. He’d spent his evenings listening to jazz with old friends and going to shows; Marina joined them only once. Her mother had passed away recently, which didn’t help matters. It had shrouded the Santa Teresa mansion in sadness and further tainted Marina’s mood with uncertainty.
Rather than bringing the two together, these visits had pushed the couple farther apart. Pedro Henrique had treated his father with curiosity, not tenderness, giving every indication that he was more interested in his daddy’s new beard than any other aspect of him. What would befall Marina on her return to Santiago was already looming on the horizon, for Max did nothing more than reinforce the indifference with which he regarded her — lost as he was in his own labyrinths.
He continued to act like a blind man where his wife was concerned.
She didn’t complain, having given up long ago. She just didn’t know exactly which direction to take. She saw herself reduced to the dimensions of a woman from olden times, even predating her mother’s era. Someone observing her closely and wishing to give her a gift, for instance, would have chosen a shawl. Marina seemed to have aged prematurely and grown frail along the way.
Ignoring his wife in Montevideo had been a mistake. A mistake that hadn’t had significant consequences. Keeping up this attitude, however, turned out to have far more serious implications. Because Marina would eventually come back to Chile. Weary and worn-out. And life would resume its course, only now much more painfully.
Two months after leaving Santiago, Marina returned from Rio with Pedro Henrique. The boy, who had been speaking for quite some time, refused to say papai — a problem that didn’t faze Max in the least. For Max, his seeming indifference toward his son did not mean that he didn’t love him. All of his energy was devoted to his projects, none of which included the child at that stage. Max imagined they’d be buddies (as he put it, seeking in language the intimacy lacking in their life) once the boy learned to read. Then they would chat about Monteiro Lobato, Mark Twain, and Jules Verne.
On the way from the airport, Max and Marina talked about the mood prevailing in the city. The political atmosphere, according to Max, was reminiscent of Brazil post-1968, only with a greater number of troops. Max pointed to the military’s gray uniforms, as well as the carabineros’ green fatigues, colors conspicuous everywhere in the city, conveying a message to all social classes alike, whether they supported the regime or opposed it: those men, with their uniforms, weapons, and ideas, were there for the long haul.
The cool and detached tone with which he made these observations left Marina depressed. She was pleasantly surprised, however, on arriving at the house Max had rented in a residential neighborhood, the name of which she found appropriate to their circumstances: Providencia. When the car pulled up in front of the yard, she perked up and woke Pedro Henrique, who had napped in her arms the whole way. Still groggy from the plane ride, which had been followed by endless delays in customs and a long, winding car trip, the child had rubbed his eyes and blinked at the sprawling residence, clearly having no idea where he was. Marina, in turn, was looking at the house next door, being touched up by two painters. Thanks to their work, Max explained, the traces of bullet holes would “disappear at last.” Lifting the suitcases out of the trunk, he added, “Unlike the body the shots were targeting.”
Since she looked at him without understanding, he explained. “It wasn’t on the sidewalk five minutes, barely enough time for the man’s wife and daughter to embrace the deceased.” His wife remained silent. “In less than twenty-four hours, the poor women had packed their bags and vanished from the neighborhood. From what I later learned, the house was repossessed. It belonged to a high-level official from Allende’s administration.”
Holding Pedro Henrique’s hand, Marina mustered the strength to climb the steps to the entrance of her new home. In due time, however, the three would settle into a kind of routine, including seeking a nursery school for the child — made easier by the support of the embassy wives this time around. The family bought furniture, since what they’d had in their Montevideo apartment could scarcely fill their much larger house in Chile.
The violence associated with different forms of repression would be felt in the country for many years, with the military committing all kinds of barbaric acts. Occasionally, dispersed opposing forces made attempts on the lives of government officials. All in all, however, the embattled atmosphere of the first few weeks had begun to dissipate by the time Marina and Pedro Henrique came back. And although the city hadn’t quite returned to normal, it was adapting to the new times.
The National Stadium remained full of prisoners. It was widely known that additional captives were being held in the military barracks. The names of the infamous Tacna and Arenal bases, among many others, were whispered on the city’s street corners. The secret police themselves referred to the José Domingo Cañas detention center as “a torture chamber that ran like clockwork.” Officers were spotted on the patio in shirtsleeves, playing cards between one interrogation and the next.
The cinemas, theaters, and restaurants were gradually reopening and, to the astonishment of those suffering or being persecuted, these establishments had a growing clientele. Yet something ha
d to have changed in the ambience of such places, Marina imagined. Something almost palpable, perhaps conveyed through conversation — which no longer flowed freely, thus depriving the city’s bars and cafés of their charm. Talk was instead carried out in hushed voices, suggesting a degree of intimidation. Occasionally, however, it came across as booming, even raucous, as though commemorating victory. Nevertheless, to those working in these establishments, simply seeking to make ends meet each month, it might have seemed that there was some semblance of routine in the air.
Marina would always see the country in her own distinct way, however. “The worst thing that happened in Chile,” she told me years afterward, “came as time passed. When terror became the norm. And people stopped seeing. Some, out of ignorance. Others, by choice.”
Listening to her, I remembered an article I had read recently, about certain photos in which everything appears normal because of what’s been left out. Like the scenes of Paris during the German occupation, where what matters isn’t so much what is shown in the image — but what isn’t there. The couples sipping coffee along the Rive Gauche or ambling hand in hand in the Bois de Boulogne are not in themselves noteworthy. Except for the fact that, just steps away, at the exact same time, hundreds of Jews — men, women, and children — were being boarded onto trains and sent to concentration camps.
PART FIVE
40
That conversation with Marina took place in 2004, three decades after her time in Santiago. We were on a walk around Lagoa, in Rio de Janeiro. She told me that, as a foreigner in Chile back then, she was an observer who led a privileged life and was spared the ordeals suffered by a significant percentage of the population. An observer, nevertheless, who considered herself entitled to examine the subject from the perspective of one affected by it. As if the violence committed against others had gotten to her.
“The worst came with the slow consolidation of this sad process.…” She searched her memory for words that would best describe what she had witnessed. “The level of violence unleashed by the extreme right in Chile took everyone by surprise. The brutality was blatant. The Chilean military never hesitated. And where they weren’t able to move in, they allowed paramilitary forces to operate. Without restrictions. Without the onus of having to answer to the government.” She shook her head.
“It was all a mystery to me, considering the histories of the two countries I lived in. We weren’t in a place like Argentina, where coups were common. Or even in Brazil, where we’d endured various forms of authoritarian rule. Chile, along with Uruguay, was a nation that was considered ‘the Switzerland of South America.’ And by pitiful and tragic coincidence, I ended up living in both of these Switzerlands, seeing the two of them sink into the same abyss just three months apart.”
The sun was out in Rio, the kind of winter sun that comes and goes between the clouds, ideal for the leisurely stroll we were taking. The statue of Christ the Redeemer atop Corcovado remained blanketed in the distance. The vegetation on the hillside appeared vibrant in the early morning light, however. The city was a sight to behold, the way certain ancient ruins become a source of wonder, stripped of vanity and confident in their beauty.
“The atmosphere was stifling,” Marina went on. “An authoritarian arrogance could be felt in the air on the most casual occasions. Not to mention the formal ones, which were always heavy and somber, even when they supposedly celebrated something light: the national holiday of a neighboring country, the opening of an art exhibit, a music or film festival. It was as if … as if a gray cloud had settled over the nation for good. The Chileans already tend to be sort of gloomy and depressed by nature. Imagine wrapping them in another layer of melancholy, which affected them all, even those who supported the government. It hung over the entire society, dividing families and friends, undermining the country in a thousand ways. Not even the prosperity that would gradually follow (as it invariably does for a certain social class in these situations) could compensate for this type of loss. It ended up silencing an entire generation.”
Her speech had taken on a solemn tone. Marina was no longer a jean-clad friend ambling alongside me — and I soon understood why. My companion was gathering strength, like an athlete gearing up for the final sprint.
“The only reason I didn’t go out of my mind, despite the nice, comfortable life I led, was that I met up with Paolo. The Italian photographer I told you about. That’s when I really lost it.…”
My friend’s eyes avoided mine as she struggled with an adolescent sense of shame.
“We struck up a conversation at a party hosted by a French colleague of Marcílio. At one point, completely out of the blue, he said to me, ‘If there’s one country where I don’t want to put down any kind of roots, it’s Chile.’ And then he added, ‘Paradoxically, it’s also a place I haven’t been able to tear myself away from for almost four months.’ And with that, he cast his lure, in the form of a challenge: ‘I feel alive thanks to this apparent contradiction.’ ”
How many vulnerable women had he used the same lines on? I asked myself.
“It was a ridiculous remark,” Marina continued, now quite ready to delve into this part of her past. “But, on the flip side, I could relate because, unlike Paolo’s experience, the contradictions of my life were slowly killing me.
“Three parties later, we met again. This time I was ready: I downed two glasses of wine when I saw him come in. With that, I built up the courage to broach the subject from my point of view. I mentioned his paradox. At the time, he didn’t even seem to remember. I brought up mine. Then he remembered and led me up a set of stairs to the apartment terrace. Marcílio had stayed below with a group of friends. On the terrace, Paolo gave a naughty grin and pulled from his pocket a small canister, which he set on the railing. Then he wet his finger and held it up to check the wind. And he made his pitch: ‘If you want, we can combine our contradictions. It’s more fun than trying to figure out what we have in common.’ ”
She fell silent at this point. But she soon got back to what she was saying. “I took the plunge. For almost a year. That’s how long I was involved with him. And with cocaine.” She smoothed her hair, as if it needed tidying. She was a respectable lady, after all. With grandchildren …
“Meanwhile, Marcílio was busy with his private war. He was always at war. Overtly or covertly. Against Carlos Câmara, against his former boss in Montevideo, against the whole world. Against himself, when it came down to it … And it was hardly worth it. Because, back then, he’d already gotten everything he wanted! He’d set up his office, hired his team, bought his cars, and received an entertainment budget from Itamaraty that was the equivalent of what the New York office got. So our house was always full of Chilean businessmen, Brazilians, even journalists.
“And Paolo was always there, with the crowd of journalists and photographers. Because he ended up making friends in that environment, more for the coke than for his talent, I suspect. Marcílio found him quite amusing. He treated him as a rarity, something between an objet d’art and a purebred dog. Our living room was always packed, no small feat, given the country’s devastation. It was the beginning of Marcílio’s social prestige, which he would build up from then on like few others.
“In Montevideo we’d hardly had anyone to the house except close friends and even then not very often. I think that had to do with Marcílio’s job in technical cooperation. I never knew just what he did there, but” — she paused briefly and threw me a sideways glance, as if gauging my reaction — “we certainly had no social life. Whereas in Chile … no one at the embassy could believe it. Newton Cordeiro, whose influence continued to grow in certain circles, had more than repaid the favors Marcílio had done him. And despite his being a foreigner, the colonel had opened doors for us. Because money talks. The funds came from São Paulo businessmen, some of whom became friends of ours at the time. Nowadays, every so often I’ll see one of their names cited in connection with the financing of torture in Brazil.…
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“Be that as it may, thanks to their money, and the middle ground established by Newton Cordeiro, who was a pro at such things, Marcílio had access to the upper entrepreneurial class. They were at our house around the clock, having lunch or dinner with Brazilians passing through, with whom they’d then spend hours locked in endless conversation, smoking Cuban cigars.
“The ambassador didn’t understand any of it and was consumed by envy. Besides the military leaders, the only people he spent time with were the countless priests, whose masses he attended with his wife and children, and a handful of horribly boring traditional local families. Marcílio used to kid that when they were invited to dinner, they would show up covered in cobwebs! The guy had a great sense of humor.… But one thing is clear: the ambassador couldn’t come to terms with Marcílio’s standing.” She gave a laugh. “They say the man would pace the hallways snorting, ‘I want to see our business stats next year. That’s what I want to see.’ And, from what I heard, there was always someone to reply, ‘By next year, Ambassador, our counselor will be long gone.’
“Marcílio kept a desk available for Newton in his office. Did you know he was killed a few years later in Beirut, or Damascus, selling arms? That’s right — he was a dealer! There he’d be, twice a month, in Santiago! Always with his entrepreneurs in tow. He’d shower more and more lavish gifts on Pedro Henrique, who didn’t even like his uncle Newton. That’s what he wanted the poor boy to call him — Uncle Newton, can you believe it? Pedro Henrique couldn’t stand the colonel.”
His Own Man Page 20
