The Rhythm of Memory

by Alyson Richman

  “It was the only one…” he whispered.

  Neither the old man nor Kaija had any idea of the other letters that Sirka had sent Kaija during her first years in Sweden. The ones that had been destroyed by a woman too angry to love. That would remain hidden forever, like so many small, silent tragedies of war.

  Twenty-four

  SANTIAGO, CHILE

  JUNE 1973

  Allende had been in office over two years before Octavio accepted his offer of a full paid vacation. Salomé and he had finally agreed to take a three-month journey. They had always wanted to visit the mountains of Peru and see their friends who had moved to Argentina. “We will live like Gypsies for three months,” Octavio whispered into his wife’s ear, as he caught one of her loose black curls and twirled it around his finger. “Your mother and father can sleep in our room and make sure that Consuela doesn’t become complacent while the mistress of the house is away,” he teased.

  It had been a difficult year for Chile, and Octavio was looking forward to spending some time alone with his beloved wife. He was anxious to spend a few months away from Santiago, where he would not have to hear the picketing on the streets, be inconvenienced by the striking taxi and bus drivers, or become enraged by the continuing lockouts orchestrated by the industrialists. He was convinced that the maladies, like the constant food shortages, that plagued the country were not due to Allende’s incompetency, but to higher forces that wanted the president to fail.

  But Octavio believed that the opposition would itself soon grow weary from its efforts and would finally see that the president was not going to resign.

  “We should take that vacation that Allende promised us,” Octavio suggested playfully to Salomé.

  At night, he tried to tempt her with different itineraries where they could go. He held her to his chest and played with her curls with his forefinger.

  “Remember our honeymoon, how we went to Argentina and danced the tango every night?”

  Salomé was smiling to herself. Like a Cheshire cat, smug and round. “I remember how we arrived in Buenos Aires and the little hotel you had booked had lost our reservation and had no rooms to spare!”

  “Yes, but remember how I took charge and found us the most memorable room in town!”

  “You bribed a sixty-five-year-old madam to let us sleep in one of the rooms in her bordello!” Salomé was now twisting and giggling in Octavio’s arms. “Never in my life had I seen a room like that—red crimson walls, swags of drapery, and satin sheets on the bed!”

  “Whatever do you mean?” he teased. “It was the perfect place for two newlyweds! I told the madam we would do our best to blend in with the activities in which the other guests were engaging.”

  “You were incorrigible, Octavio!”

  “You didn’t seem to mind, Fayum.” He squeezed her tightly and kissed her.

  “I was pregnant, darling. Remember?”

  Octavio smiled at his wife mischievously. “Why don’t we go back? It can be a second honeymoon of sorts. We can spend a few weeks in the city and travel north into the countryside, maybe even explore some parts of Bolivia. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to just have some time to ourselves?”

  “And the children? How could we leave them? It wouldn’t be right.”

  “We have your mother, we have Consuela. Why wouldn’t it be right?” Octavio asked, his hand gently caressing Salomé’s thigh. “Allende has given me this gift. We would be foolish to refuse a three-month, all-expenses-paid vacation. When would we have another opportunity like this come our way?” After much convincing, Salomé eventually acquiesced. She worried about the political unrest that had become almost a daily occurrence in Santiago, but Octavio promised her all would be fine when they returned. “The time away would do us some good.”

  Octavio would later be proved wrong. The opposition would not weaken. They would not give up until Allende was out of office or worse.

  It was ironic and almost lucky that Salomé and Octavio began to travel back from their sojourn in Argentina and the foothills of Bolivia on September 6, 1973. As a result, their chauffeur-driven car arrived on the Chilean border on the morning of September 11, only hours before the coup.

  Rafael and his sisters had been sent home early from school, the teachers having sensed trouble. By noon, soldiers had positioned themselves at every street corner, and the little Fiat that was driving Salomé and Octavio back from their journey, its rooftop strapped with presents and souvenirs, was being stopped by guards every few kilometers.

  “What has happened?” Salomé whispered to Octavio, her face pale with fear. “We should never have left the children. We should never have taken this trip!”

  Octavio tried to hush her. He too was frightened, but he tried to mask his emotions and to assuage his wife’s doubts. “I’m sure everything is fine,” he said before urging the driver to get them home as quickly as possible.

  They reached the city limits just an hour before the streets entering the capital were officially closed off. The small, crowded car wound its way through the streets of Santiago’s suburbs until it finally reached the driveway of the pale pink house.

  Inside, Rafael and his sisters huddled beside their grandparents, who listened to the radio for news, while the children whispered among themselves that they wished that their parents would come home soon.

  Octavio and Salomé hurried to the front door and were greeted first by the maid. “Señor Ribeiro,” she said. “Thank heavens you have returned!”

  They entered the large salon and their children immediately rushed to their side, Salomé’s mother clasping her hands together with thankfulness and relief.

  But in less than an hour’s time, the family reunion would become a faint memory. Other distractions, far more momentous, would occur. There would be no sound of the tango ringing from the old Victrola, only the thunder of helicopters circling above, the sound of explosives echoing down the street from the rooftop of the nearby hospital, and from the soldiers firing down below. Yet, moments later, the Ribeiro-Herrera family would hear something far more terrifying from the transistor radio.

  “La Moneda has been bombed!” cried Doña Olivia, her eyes wild and her voice shaking with fear. “Those animals are bombing the palace, with President Allende inside!”

  From the voice box of the old radio, they heard the sounds of the bombs exploding. Suddenly, emerging from the orchestra of chaos, came the voice of Allende addressing the people.

  “I refuse to leave the office to which I’ve been elected by the people of Chile.” With the sounds of the bombs now growing more intense, the connection over the radio could barely be heard.

  “To be sure, Radio Magallanes will soon be silenced, and my voice will no longer reach you. It doesn’t matter, you will continue to hear me. I will always be next to you, and at least in your memory, I will be a worthy man who was loyal to his country. The people must defend themselves…Workers of my country, I have faith in Chile and its destiny. Others will take on the struggle and surpass this gray and bitter day that the forces of treason claim to have won. Know that sooner than later the great avenues will open to free men who will pass down on them on their way to constructing a better society.

  “Long live Chile, long live the people, long live the workers! These are my last words, spoken in the knowledge that the sacrifice is not in vain…and that at least there will be a moral punishment of the thieves, cowards, and traitors.”

  Upon that, the radio transmission went dead. The gas attack on the palace began, and the bombing continued.

  Salomé turned away. The pain of listening to Allende’s last words was unbearable. Doña Olivia and Don Fernando were shaking their heads, their mouths covered by their hands.

  However, as pained as Octavio was, he was overcome by a strange sense of pride. He imagined Allende standing by the microphone, the bombs exploding beside him, the chandeliers breaking in pieces over his head, glass shattering beneath his feet, and fire burning the
palace’s velvet curtains. Yet, through it all, Allende’s voice had never been more eloquent. He was shining in his darkest hour with grace and with conviction. During those moments of peril, he had not stuttered, his voice had not wavered. Octavio, looking beyond the transistor radio into the depths of his own wild garden, was now far away. He had temporarily transported himself to Allende’s private chamber in the presidential palace. He saw Allende with his chin held high and his eyes firmly rooted ahead. He saw him standing there before him with his thick, black glasses and English tweed jacket, his hair elegantly combed back. He had remained stalwart: unwilling to board the helicopters that had been offered to take him safely into exile. He would remain the leader of the country who had voted him into office, masterful and determined, even to the very end.

  Silence had enveloped the room, and at that moment Octavio realized the gravity of his pupil’s fate. Only then, under the hush of his wife and children, did he understand that it was all over, that something terrible had happened to his beloved country. And although Octavio had no idea of the awful circumstances that would soon afflict his family, he felt himself sicken inside. Under the swirl of his wife’s whimpers, his mother-in-law’s wails, and his children’s confusion, Octavio began to cry, for it was not the ending he had imagined for this great man. Had it been a script, he would have demanded a rewrite. He would have made it so that Allende walked out of the palace badly wounded but with his life, his pride, and his political vision still intact.

  But Octavio had not yet come to understand that life had a way of thumbing its nose at happy endings. That’s why people had always loved his movies. He made them believe that love and beauty could triumph over sadness and evil. Yet even Chile’s most beloved cinematic treasure could not anticipate the horror and the trials of his next starring role.

  Twenty-five

  SANTIAGO, CHILE

  NOVEMBER 1973

  Octavio slipped into a deep depression after Allende’s tragic death. The drama of the president’s last moments seemed to give Octavio even more cause to deify the nation’s slain leader.

  “I will never support this Pinochet!” Octavio complained to all of his colleagues and friends. “The man’s a butcher! What sort of man cuts down a leader who has been elected into office by democratic elections! A coward! A traitor!” There weren’t enough words in Octavio’s vocabulary to describe the bilious hatred he had for the general who, in his mind, had murdered his friend.

  “You should be careful what you say, Octavio,” Salomé warned. “And to whom you say it.”

  But he refused to listen to her. “I will not hide my feelings. I am not a coward!”

  She had broken into tears on more than one occasion because her husband seemed so full of anger since the coup. Santiago itself was frozen in a stupefied fear. The new general had made promises to restore the nation’s faltering economy, and to rebuild the presidential palace, which was now a pile of broken glass and ashen walls, but still he maintained a police state. Salomé had enough stress reassuring her children and her parents that all would soon return to the way things once were. But it was a poor charade she felt forced to play.

  She knew this coup was different from the ones Chile had experienced in the past. Coups had been a part of Chilean life for decades. But, for the most part, they had always been short-lived. The president was forced out by the military, ushered into exile, and eventually, the general in charge would step down and let new elections take place.

  Everyone in Chile was expecting Augusto Pinochet to be no different. But they were wrong. Nearly six months had passed and the general had yet to step down and allow democratic elections to install a new president. He had designated himself Chile’s new leader, and it appeared he was there to stay.

  The streets were lined with men carrying machine guns, and the palace remained a testament to the violence of Allende’s defeat and death. Octavio seemed like a complete stranger to Salomé. Perhaps even more foreign to her than her city under siege. He wouldn’t listen to reason. He spoke of forming his own political party to defy Pinochet and his henchmen; he told the writers at a studio that they should consider doing a film on the tragic and heroic life of Allende, in which he could star in the leading role.

  “Your outspokenness about the coup is going to get you in trouble,” Salomé again warned him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he chastised her. His voice was becoming increasingly patronizing toward her. On occasion, he sometimes even sounded cruel.

  “You should be thinking about your family!” she cried.

  “Haven’t I always thought about our family!” he hollered out at her one night. “Can you actually sit here and tell me I haven’t sacrificed for my family…always provided for them! Haven’t you one of the largest, loveliest houses in this city!”

  “Octavio…” And even through her tears, her eyes were ablaze.

  “Stop looking at me like that, Salomé!” he shouted. “You know I would never do anything to jeopardize our family. Think about all I’ve done to get this far. I came from nothing! Unlike you!”

  “What do you mean unlike me?” Salomé was fuming. “You begrudge me now because of where I come from?”

  Octavio remained silent.

  “I married you because I loved you, Octavio!”

  She could tell he regretted what he had said to her just minutes before. But still he didn’t offer an apology.

  “I’m going to bed now,” she said flatly. “I will not have you play out these scenes with me where you are the misunderstood hero.”

  Salomé did not sleep that night. She could feel her husband slip under the sheets hours later, his breathing irregular and his body twisting in frustration from their argument that remained unresolved. Salomé turned from Octavio and pulled the covers tightly to her chin.

  Three weeks later when Octavio came home from work, his face lined in anger, Salomé couldn’t say she was surprised to learn that the studio had fired him. That he found himself suddenly unemployed was a shock to him, but she had known that his comments against the new regime would get him into trouble. Once again, he had been naive and lacking in foresight. She shook her head to herself as she took his coat from him and told Consuela to prepare some tea.

  “They’ll see,” he said as he thrust his fingers into his hair. He was pulling at the curls so violently that she feared he was going to make his scalp bleed.

  “You could make things better, Octavio, if you went back and apologized for your behavior over the past months. They’ll probably ask you to make a public retraction of your previous remarks, but it wouldn’t be so terrible.”

  “Are you out of your mind, Salomé?” He looked up at her and she could see that he was beyond reason. “I would never be such a hypocrite. Let them fire me! See if I care!”

  “I see,” she said quietly. “Place your pride over your family then.”

  “What!” he cried. His face was now red. “What do I need to apologize for? We have enough money to live quietly for the rest of our lives.”

  “You? You, who always said you had to keep working to make sure there was enough money…always saying that it could easily run out one day and you had to keep working to make sure you had saved enough.…Now there is enough?” She began to cry. “You wouldn’t stop working so that you could spend more than a few months with me and the children. But now to fuel your vendetta against Pinochet, you’re willing to give up everything? I don’t understand you at all!” Tears were running down Salomé’s face.

  “I took time off in between my sixth and seventh movies,” he said quietly.

  “Before Neruda came into our house, yes,” she said, shaking her head. “I wish he had never, ever stepped into this house of ours.”

  “How can you say that, darling?” Octavio’s voice had finally become soft again.

  “We wouldn’t be fighting like this if he hadn’t.”

  “We might never have fallen in love without his poems.” Octavio took
his wife’s hand. “We can’t live our lives by censoring it with ‘What if we hadn’t done this or that?’ ”

  She didn’t want to spend another sleepless night with him, neither of them talking to the other. So she allowed him to hug her tightly. She allowed him to reach into her blouse and caress her breasts and kiss her neck. When he carried her upstairs and laid her on their bed and made love to her with long strokes of his hand and his pelvis, she locked her ankles around his brown back and didn’t protest.

  But their fight had left something unresolved in her and she was full of apprehension. When he fell asleep next to her, melting like warm chocolate against her side, she got up and went downstairs to drink the pot of tea that Consuela had made hours before, not even noticing that it was ice-cold.

  Twenty-six

  SANTIAGO, CHILE

  DECEMBER 1973

  Every day since he had been let go at the studio, Octavio left the house at the same hour he had done since Salomé and he were married. She knew he was too restless to stay at home and read his novels or work on his writing. He was incensed that he had been dismissed because of his political involvement and couldn’t sit in the garden alone with his thoughts.

  So Octavio ate his churro and drank his cup of coffee and set out to speak with friends about the different work he could do, the theater, television. However, they all said the same thing: they could not help him. Only one of his friends was honest enough to speak plainly: “You must change your opinion of Pinochet. You must openly accept him. We all have, even though we think he’s a sneaky bastard. You cannot continue on this personal crusade, nothing good will come of it. You will only continue to remain blacklisted and you will never find work again.”

  “Blacklisted?” Octavio was completely shocked. He had never heard of such a thing. “They’ve blacklisted me?”