The Days of the Rainbow

by Antonio Skarmeta

  Lacking any ideas, he had given in to the nonsense of an insignificant being such as Raúl Alarcón, with his “Waltz of the No.”

  Now his disastrous video could fall into the enemy’s hands.

  And the bad luck factor! He crashed. Against a police van! With only a little bit of ill will, taking a look at his criminal records, and viewing the videotape with his incendiary “Waltz of the No,” the police could turn him in to the intelligence agents, who could apply the Antiterrorist Law to him.

  The other collarbone.

  Or maybe his femur.

  And even that, with luck.

  A higher officer came in from the street. He was clicking Bettini’s car keys like castanets.

  “Bettini,” he called.

  The ad agent stood up with his heart in his throat. Those keys, the sound of those damn keys in the key chain that his daughter, Patricia, had given him a few Christmases ago, was probably the toll of the bell heralding the assault and the knock out that would soon strike him.

  “It’s me, Captain,” he heard himself saying, half coarse, half servile.

  The man in uniform turned toward a low-ranking officer, so young he could have been of the same age as Nico Santos, his daughter’s boyfriend.

  “Search him.”

  The cop approached him. He began to frisk him, putting in a black plastic tray everything Bettini had in his pockets: his wallet, his dearest Montblanc pen, a clean handkerchief, a few hundred-peso coins, a comb with some missing teeth, several mint and lemon candies, and sheets of paper folded into quarters.

  Bettini didn’t recognize those papers. What were they?

  When the cop put the tray in front of the captain, those pieces of paper caught his attention. He unfolded them, read the first one, apparently skipping some lines, and, after smoothing them against the twill of his uniform, gave Bettini a look full of interest.

  “So we caught a big shot.”

  “Pardon me, Captain?”

  The man in uniform dialed a number, slowly and delightedly, and while he waited for an answer, he moved the receiver away from his ear so that he could share the wait with all those present. When the call was answered, without ceasing to watch his detained, he said with a satisfied expression, “This is Captain Carrasco. I need to talk immediately to Minister Fernández. My password is R-S-C-H Carrasco Santiago.”

  His smile got bigger as he took a look at the second piece of paper.

  “Dr. Fernández, I apologize for calling you so late at night, but I’ve got something here that might be of interest to you.”

  “What is it, Carrasco?”

  “We arrested a little guy here”—he looked at Bettini, who was wiping his brow with the sleeve of his jacket—“due to a traffic violation. He’s right here in front of me, quite nervous. We were proceeding with the routine control, when we found in his pocket some papers that you may want to see. That’s why I took the liberty of calling you.”

  “Well done. Is it anything related to the Department of the Interior?”

  “Shall I read what I have here, Minister?”

  “Please.”

  The captain cleared his throat and, without much emphasis, delivered, flatly, the following lines.

  It feels so good to say “no”

  when the whole country asked you for that,

  it feels so food to say no

  when you have it in your heart.

  With the rainbow in the farthest frontiers

  even the deers are going to dance.

  The No is exciting

  and fills the insurrection

  with tons of colors.

  That’s why, my dear, without hesitation

  we’ll say no, oh, oh.

  So many times in life I looked for

  a deeply felt word for “liberty,”

  so many times I saw the wound

  in my people sunken in adversity.

  I never thought that destiny

  would have the rhythm of a song,

  but today I have no doubt,

  as clear as water I see all now.

  That’s why, my dear, without hesitation

  we’ll say no.

  “No,” the precious jewel,

  wave of my sea,

  cloud of my sky,

  fire that sings,

  “no,” my beautiful lover

  of flaming eyes,

  snow of my dream,

  mountain range of my wine,

  say no more,

  we don’t need any words.

  Let’s just say “no”

  and we’ll be together all along.

  Captain Carrasco kept moving his jaw rhythmically as if following the cadence of the poem. Bettini noticed that his face, which had been pale, was now blushing. Listening to the text of his song, which would be broadcast on the last day of the campaign, was like listening to an execution sentence. Every image in those stanzas seemed awful, when only a few hours before—before all the disasters—they had seemed brilliant to him, lines that Chileans of all ages, lovers of the sea and the mountains, apoliticals, the undecided, would respond to. Why had he succumbed to his teenage daughter’s poor judgment when she tried to talk him into singing “It feels so good to say ‘no’ ” even though he had never ever used, as all young Chileans do, the recurrent tag “d’ya feel it?” to ask if they had been understood.

  D’ya feel it?

  No, Adrián Bettini, holy father of the naïve, he admitted to himself. He hadn’t felt a thing! Hearing the lyrics of his song from the mouth of a cop who was used to giving orders but who was somehow slow when it came to the pronunciation of metaphors, had sunk him in the deepest humiliation. He never imagined that hell always has one more level, deeper, and then another one, Comrade Dante, after which one can keep descending on and on, endlessly.

  Carrasco was polite enough to raise the volume of the speaker even more, so that Bettini could hear “live and direct” the minister’s comments to his rhymes. Then, after letting out a nonchalant laugh, the minister of the interior said, “In effect, very interesting material, Carrasco.”

  “From the political or the poetic point of view, Minister?”

  “Both of them. Tell me, Captain, what’s the name of my Neruda behind bars?”

  The man in uniform covered the mouthpiece of the telephone and, lifting his chin, turned to the ad agent.

  “What did you say your name was, asshole?”

  “Bettini. Adrián Bettini.”

  “He says that his name is Adrián Bettini.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, and then cheerful laughter.

  “You don’t say! You have Adrián Bettini himself right there!”

  “Who’s he, Minister?

  “He’s the leading person in the campaign for the No to Pinochet.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Not at all! With those rhymes … he’s not messing with anybody.”

  “But in these papers he talks about insurrection. Shall I scare him a little?”

  “No, man. Under no circumstances. Don’t touch him even with a rose petal. We’re in a democracy, my friend. Bettini can write all the nonsense he wants.”

  “But not against my general!”

  “Even if it’s against our general. That’s democracy, Captain. A simple statistical exaggeration. Those assholes’ votes count as much as ours.”

  “Then?”

  “Give him back his stupid papers and let him go.”

  “And what should we do with his car? He hit the precinct van pretty hard.”

  “Send it to the auto repair shop on Carmen Street. They have a dent guy who works miracles.”

  “And the bill?”

  “Mail it to the Department of the Interior, Carrasco. And tell Bettini that this one’s on the house.”

  “Seriously, Minister?”

  “Seriously, Captain.”

  “So I let him go? Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Now, if
you feel like it, make yourself happy and kick his ass.”

  Once he hung up, Carrasco, thoughtful, scratched his left temple. He made the car keys clink together once again and then threw them to Bettini, who caught them in the air.

  “Poet, you can go.”

  “May I take my car?”

  “Yes, take your fucking car, asshole.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Bettini walked to the door and a young officer waved him off by lifting a couple fingers to his kepi.

  “Eh, you!” Carrasco shouted at him suddenly. “That stuff you wrote about the No being your beautiful lover … You’re a fag, aren’t you?”

  Bettini dropped his head between his shoulders. He didn’t answer. For a second, he thought that it wouldn’t have been so bad if Captain Carrasco had kicked his ass.

  He fully deserved it.

  THE FIRST CHAPTER of the No campaign will be broadcast tonight.

  Professor Paredes’s funeral will be held this morning.

  On our way to the cemetery, some people come near to put flowers on the coffin. A delegation from the Scuola Italiana arrives in a yellow bus. Young girls and boys, all in their uniforms.

  Walking behind the group, Patricia Bettini’s carrying a wreath of chrysanthemums.

  This morning, the press has reported the assassination on their front pages.

  For the first time this month, it’s sunny.

  Our philosophy teacher, Professor Valdivieso, delivers a eulogy for Professor Paredes, remembering his pedagogical and artistic achievements.

  He played in Fuenteovejuna, Peribáñez, Life Is a Dream, Mother Courage, and Macbeth. He directed Death of a Salesman and The Caretaker by Pinter.

  He doesn’t say that Professor Paredes was about to present Mr. Galíndez by Pavlovsky.

  He mentions that Don Rafael Paredes died under tragic circumstances.

  He doesn’t say that agents of the National Center of Intelligence slit his throat.

  Today we would’ve had our Shakespeare test.

  My copy of his Complete Works is all underlined.

  The school chorus sings “Rest in peace. May the earth cover you with love.”

  Patricia keeps her head down. She shouldn’t have come. Everything that hurts her, hurts me. Everything hurts me twice. There I see our teacher’s widow. Doña María looks very pale. It seems that her tears have smudged the makeup they put on her. As Valdivieso speaks, she looks at the sun.

  I’m supposed to be tough, but I can’t.

  I look at the sun along with Doña María. Valdivieso was chosen to read the eulogy because all the older teachers are devastated. All feeling like shit.

  I miss Dad. At least Doña María has Professor Paredes’s body, but all I have is my father’s absence. No, that’s not all. I also have hope.

  Will I see him again, with his black tobacco and the ash falling onto his lapel?

  I sniff. My father’s not a missing detainee.

  It couldn’t be wrong, the Baroque syllogism. There were witnesses. More than thirty students in the classroom.

  Logic. My dad is a genius at logic. The cops cannot deny that they arrested him. They have to give him back to me.

  The phone calls I made were no use whatsoever. The men keep telling me that I have to be patient, that they’re working on it. There’s one called Samuel, although he told me that’s not his real name. Samuel says that my father’s case is priority number one. That he’s doing everything he can. But Lieutenant Bruna did everything he could for Professor Paredes, too.

  I’ve been authorized to speak on behalf of the students. Especially the actors in The Cave of Salamanca.

  The four main characters in Mr. Galíndez have left their homes.

  We’re not going to present Cervantes’s skits anymore. Nobody feels like it. On opening night we still had hopes that Don Rafael would appear. We have certainties now. And rage. And no enthusiasm.

  Tonight the campaign for the No will be shown on TV. I’ll watch it at Mr. Bettini’s home. They’re going to cook spaghetti alla puttanesca, Florentine style. That is, with tons of olives and olive oil. I cannot cry now. I shouldn’t be weaker than the widow. I can’t break down in front of Patricia Bettini, who holds the wreath of chrysanthemums without raising her eyes.

  Valdivieso finishes his speech. He folds his sheets of paper. He puts them in his jacket and makes a gesture with his left hand, asking me to approach the podium. I’m carrying Shakespeare’s works in one hand, and in the other, an eraser that I squeeze and release, squeeze and release. I look at the audience. There are more than a hundred people. Most of them are adults. Five teachers.

  There are some students, too, the few who were allowed to come by their parents. In the delegation of the Scuola Italiana there are seven young women. A tall, slim man I’ve seen before in Patricia’s house comes with them. He’s the consul, Mr. Magliochetti.

  Everyone has a diplomat friend nowadays.

  Just in case.

  I have no idea who the others are. Relatives, I suppose.

  I should’ve brought a small bottle of water. I’ve been clearing my throat for a while.

  Patricia looks up. Her brown eyes. Her chestnut hair. John Lennon’s “Imagine.” John Lennon was killed. The guy who killed him was holding a copy of Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. There’s only one photo of Salinger. He was a recluse.

  Professor Paredes taught me a speech technique. First of all, “plant” yourself in front of the audience. With authority. Even if you’re just a boy, you have to look like a giant.

  Take a deep breath, hold it, and release it very slowly. Try to keep some air in the abdomen so that you don’t run out of breath in the middle of a word. And before saying anything, take all the time you need to look at your audience. Not a quick look, like the quick flapping of a scared bird. Look at the audience as a whole, but also at each individual. Look them in the eyes. Don’t rush and don’t take too long. Avoid introductions and commonplaces. If you say, “I’ll be brief,” you’re already unnecessarily lengthening your text. A speech is made of words and silences. Those silences, Professor Paredes said, are meaningful. Sometimes it’s necessary to say words in order to hear the silence. There are different ways to be silent.

  “Sometimes it’s necessary to say words in order to hear the silence,” I say aloud now. “There are different ways to be silent. There are ways to say something by remaining silent. And sometimes, the only way to say something is by not saying precisely what we all know should’ve been said.

  “Dear Professor Paredes, today we were supposed to have a quiz on Shakespeare. Hamlet, Julius Caesar, and Macbeth. I underlined those Uncle Bill’s speeches that caught my attention the most. I could’ve gotten a B. I’ll read only one for you:

  “ ‘I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech to stir men’s blood; I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know, show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, and bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, and Brutus Antony, there were an Antony would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue in every wound of Caesar that should move the stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.’

  “I apologize for not translating it, but I don’t want to go to jail.”

  I can’t believe what I’ve just said.

  I hadn’t planned on finishing this way.

  I got overexcited while reading Marcus Antonius’s speech: “I’d put a tongue in every wound of Caesar that would move even the stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.”

  Lieutenant Bruna didn’t come, but how many of those who’re here today, with faces of bereavement, are agents? Look at the audience. As a whole and at each individual. They don’t know I’m shaking. Just a boy. A giant.

  I close the book and walk away from the mike. Silences and silences. Different kinds of silences. A final look. At Patricia Bettini. At the Italian consul. At the back of the crowd.

  An old man raises a red
flag over his head with both hands. Che Barrios unfurls another one tied to a stick and waves it. The art teacher raises hers. Five or six unknown adults raise their flags and let them flutter in the breeze. The principal doesn’t see them. The principal pretends not to see them. Lieutenant Bruna excused himself for not coming “due to decency.” There’s a different kind of silence now. A silence that allows us to hear the tapping of the red flags against the air.

  Only one flag is different from all the others—the flag that Patricia Bettini’s raising right now. A white flag with the image of a rainbow.

  “TOO LATE FOR ANYTHING. All the cards are dealt, Bettini. We’ll show whatever you have. We’ll go out fighting with our bare hands. Whatever is done, is done, even if it’s total nonsense,” Olwyn blurted out with a weak smile.

  In accordance with the current legal resolutions, it’s mandatory for all TV channels in the country to broadcast tonight the ads of the Yes and No campaigns. We wish you a calm and pleasant dinner, and a happy return to your programming.

  Appetizers: tomatoes with olive oil and mozzarella cheese. Molto Italian, Adrián. Red cabernet wine. Main course: spaghetti alla puttanesca. With black olives, garlic, red wine tomato sauce, with capers, and onions, and pasta al dente. Not so soft that they’ll stick together, nor so hard that they won’t absorb the sauce.

  Homemade bread, like little buns, warm and crunchy. In front of each dish, a small plate with butter.

  There are four party guests. There’s Valdivieso brut champagne. It’s chilled, but nobody opens the bottle. Not even a thimbleful of joy comes out of this group. What can come out of this melancholy seed? Magdalena thinks, showing her biggest smile. Her husband, Adrián, smiles as well, and Patricia caresses her hair over and over, following a line of thinking that leads her nowhere.

  No one wants to ask the other, “What are you thinking about?”

  In a few minutes, the cards will be dealt, Adrián Bettini. Whatever your imagination gave birth to will be there, for all of Chile to see. Don’t jump to negative conclusions. Think that there are a lot of people who will vote for the No. Almost half the country. Those are already persuaded. Whatever the campaign for the Yes or you does, they won’t change their minds. Instead, your target’s those who’re afraid to be filmed while they’re voting, who’re afraid to be stabbed because of the way they vote, the undecided who fear that, if the military leaves, there will be chaos and unrest. That’s why, Adrián Bettini, you have to encourage them, first to vote, then to vote for the No. Don’t mull over the past. We all regret the past. Give us some future, some transparent air. Make them see how Chile will be without the dictator in power. Without the fear of disappearing. A country without beheadings.