The Rhythm of Memory

by Alyson Richman

  “Of course they have, you imbecile! You think you can make statements about the general being a murderer and the country being an embarrassment and not be reported? That those declarations have no consequences?”

  “Who would report me? What sort of coward, what kind of spy? I ask.” Octavio was now fuming. “I have never said these things except when I was in the company of friends and colleagues!”

  “The walls talk, Octavio. You must realize things have changed.”

  “I understand people have changed. But I have not. I will not.”

  “We all have changed. How can we not when the world around us has? I suggest you think about your wife and family.”

  “My wife and family,” Octavio replied curtly, in the same tone he had used with his wife and his in-laws. “I assure you, my wife and family will be just fine.”

  He left his friend and returned home visibly annoyed. He was tired of everyone’s inaction. “Why aren’t people banding together and demanding that the general step down and allow democratic elections?” he asked Salomé when he sat down for dinner.

  “People are afraid.” Her voice now was terse and impatient. She was tired of having the same conversation with him.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “There is talk that people are disappearing in the city.”

  “You shouldn’t believe such hearsay,” he said, shaking his head. “You sound ridiculous saying such nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense, Octavio. Why should anyone take risks…especially when every street corner has a soldier with a machine gun strapped against his chest.”

  “It’s all for effect,” Octavio said confidently. “Pinochet’s trying to make all of Santiago look like the backdrop of a movie set, for chrissakes!” He pushed his plate to the side. Half his food remained uneaten. “The man is trying to make people fear him through cheap tricks. If the people of Chile stood up to him, I bet he would skulk away like the sewer rat that he really is.”

  “Do you think you should be the one to call his bluff, Octavio?” She could feel her blood boiling underneath her skin.

  “I think any intelligent person should point out the injustice of this man’s claim to legitimate office.”

  “I can’t believe you! You are acting like a fool, Octavio!”

  “A fool?” He hit their dining-room table with his fist. The empty glasses and plates from where the children had eaten hours before rattled against the wooden surface. Salomé knew that the maid had been afraid to interrupt them and clear them away.

  “You have no understanding of politics!” he shouted.

  “Perhaps I don’t, but I have a deep understanding of family!”

  “And I don’t?” He was raising his voice once more.

  “Go and wage your war, Octavio! See if I care!”

  “You don’t understand what I am saying…Salomé.”

  “I think I do. You think because I got pregnant and didn’t go to university that I don’t understand? That I can’t possibly understand what is going on here?” Salomé’s eyes were now wide with anger. “Octavio, I agree with you that the general murdered Allende. I agree with you that there should be democratic elections in Chile. But you cannot take this battle on yourself.”

  “But if I don’t, who will, Salomé? Who will?” He was screaming at her now. “Tell me, Salomé. Tell me how will I live with myself if I know I stood by and did nothing. That I was silent.”

  “I can’t tell you how to do that, Octavio!”

  “I would rather be dead than live my life under such cowardice.”

  “You would rather be dead?” she screamed. “You would rather be dead and leave me a widow with three children, Octavio?” She was shrieking now and her entire face and throat were red except for the three blue veins that were pulsating in her neck.

  “How selfish are you? How selfish are you, Octavio, that you’d rather risk your life for a cause than protect us from being on the government’s hit list?”

  Octavio said nothing to her. Outside the kitchen window, the sun was beginning to set, casting his face in deep orange light.

  “Salomé…” This time Octavio’s voice was softer than before. “You married a man who always prided himself on his principles. Do you want me to become a man who casts a blind eye to injustice?”

  “I want you to be a man who places his family above all else.” Her voice was now hoarse. “I want you to open your eyes and realize that we’re no longer standing in an orange field. Chile has changed and you must realize that you lack the power to take on a general.”

  Salomé untied her apron strings, folded the material on one of the chairs, and began walking upstairs to their bedroom.

  “Fayum,” he called to her. But she had already reached the second tier of stairs. Octavio’s voice became lost in the many rooms of the Casa Rosa. And Salomé, unfortunately, did not hear him.

  Twenty-seven

  SANTIAGO, CHILE

  JANUARY 1974

  She had been dreaming of lilies the morning they first took her. The heat of the summer clung heavily to Salomé and she attributed her reverie to the fact that the water lilies would shortly be closing their petals and drifting off to sea.

  They took her when the children were at school and while Octavio was out looking for work. They arrived in a black van, pulling up slowly to the middle of the driveway, parking by the flower beds that were in full bloom, the hydrangea turning blue in the summer light.

  She had been alone that afternoon. Consuela was at the market and Salomé had spent the morning reading a novel, dreaming about lilies and wondering when she and the children would next go to the sea.

  They had rung the doorbell and asked to speak with her, and she had asked politely what they were inquiring about.

  “We need to ask you a few questions downtown, madame. It will only be a short drive.”

  She had hesitated at first, for the men had dressed with such measured efforts to appear inconspicuous that Salomé was immediately suspicious of them.

  “I am leery to leave the house with no one here,” she said gently. “My children will be returning home soon and my maid has left for the day.”

  “It will only be an hour or so, madame,” said one of the men, extending his hand.

  Salomé looked around apprehensively, past the black van and into the tree-lined street. Neither Octavio nor Consuela could be seen approaching the house. She could see by the intensity of the men’s eyes that had she refused to go with them, they would have taken her anyway.

  “All right, but I hope this won’t take a long time.”

  Walking over the gravel, Salomé sensed that something was wrong, that she wouldn’t be returning for dinner. She tried to walk as slowly as she could in the hope that by some slight chance Octavio would return home early and stop these men from taking her in.

  But Octavio never did arrive, and Salomé found herself not being escorted into the van, but rather shoved into it. The door slid closed behind her and another man was waiting for her once she was in.

  Within seconds, she was slapped, beaten with a windmill of fists, blindfolded, and her hands tied behind her.

  “Let me out of here!” she screamed.

  “Shut your mouth, you communist puta,” one of the men barked at her, while another man tightened a gag around her mouth. And that was the first time Salomé tasted her own blood. Thin and bitter, it slid to the back of her throat like kerosene.

  They had neglected to tie her blindfold tightly. They did not know that she could see her captors clearly out of one eye, and that she could make out a few images through the darkened van windows.

  Santiago flew past her. She saw the city hospital, the faint lines of the parliamentary building, a few gated mansions, a schoolyard full of children at play. But then, there was more darkness. She could feel her cheek swelling. She could feel the sensation of a bruise forming under her left eye, the heat, the throbbing. For a split second, she was struck by the irony
of her injuries, that the bruises would not be red like fire but, rather, blue like the sea.

  The ride became bumpier as they traveled out of the main avenues of the city and onto the dirt roads of the farthermost suburbs. From beneath her blindfold, Salomé could now only make out the occasional tree and gathering of horses.

  “Hurry it up, you ass!” one of the men hollered to the driver, butting his rifle against the front car seat. “It’s already half past two!”

  The men were arguing with each other in rough tones, swearing in foul language, and occasionally kicking Salomé with one of their heavy-bottomed shoes. Yet, minutes later, as the van pulled up to a gate heavily armed with guards and was waved in by a soldier no older than seventeen, they became quiet again.

  From where she was lying, Salomé could see only a few details of the place she was being taken. She saw a dark, black gate, the faint traces of a flower garden now overrun by the trenches of a jeep, and a tower, a villa made of stone.

  “Get out of the car, you traitor bitch!” one of the men yelled at her, reaching for her hair as if it were a web of weeds. She was dragged from the van and pulled through the courtyard and into the dark house.

  Once inside, Salomé could no longer see clearly. The lights inside the villa’s interior were kept low and the hallways were cavernous. The sound of her captors’ footsteps against the cold floor was like the tapping of a cane, the sound of her own feet like the shuffling of a bag of rice.

  “Get in there!” one of the men said as he shoved her into a room. “And we don’t want to hear any more screaming out of you!”

  She fell into the cell like a tiny, maimed bird. Sliding to the ground and crumpling like a sack of feathers.

  Suddenly, through the walls, as if a stereo system had been piped into each room, she heard Mozart’s music floating in the air.

  The first time she heard it, it brought her comfort. The sound of the melody—the soft, fluid notes. At that time, she was not located in the prison section of the villa but, rather, in the interrogation holding cells. The place before the tortures began, a place that was impervious to the cries from a few hundred meters beyond.

  The first time, she let it wash over her and soothe her. Take her to a place that was far from this nightmare. She prayed that the music would not stop until she was safely back in her beloved home.

  When they came to question her, they took her to a windowless room with whitewashed walls and no music. They sat her down in front of a cheap, wooden table and pulled down her blindfold so she could see clearly the man who was questioning her. A forty-five-year-old soldier who smelled of humitas and week-old sweat, one of the ugliest men she had ever seen, with a crooked nose and chipped teeth.

  “We know your husband was a strong supporter of Allende,” he barked. He had a thick manila folder in front of him, filled with photos and scribbled notes. “We know he was essential in helping him reach the presidency.”

  “I don’t know where you came up with that,” Salomé denied.

  “We have it right here,” the soldier said as he tapped at the folder.

  “My husband is not a political man. He is an actor. Check his voting record, he is not interested in such matters.”

  “Are you denying his involvement?”

  “I am denying nor admitting nothing.” Salomé paused, stifling her urge to cry. “I want to go home.”

  “You’ll go home after you’ve answered our questions. Did you or your husband donate to Salvador Allende’s campaign?”

  “Donate? Donate what?”

  “Donate money, what do you think I’m talking about?”

  “No, we did not.”

  “Is it not true that your husband socialized with Allende?”

  “My husband is an actor and a poet, I already told you that. Whatever reason he saw the former president was out of a mutual appreciation for the arts.”

  “For the arts?”

  “Yes, they spoke of poetry together. Is that a national crime?”

  The man was now staring at Salomé like a wolf. His hands folded, his chin like the blade of an ax, precariously next to hers.

  “I want you to tell me the truth!” He banged his fist on the table; the manila folder, with its reams of white paper, slid to the ground.

  “I have told you the truth.”

  “The new regime will not tolerate traitors. I want you to go home and tell your husband that. I want you to tell him that we will be watching him. If he knows what is good for him, he will support General Pinochet, who saved this country from communist bastards like Allende.” He slammed down his folder.

  “Get her the hell out of here!”

  She was blindfolded again, the knots behind her arms retied tighter, before being led to the van and driven back to the main roads of Santiago. It was nearly nightfall when they threw her out of the van. She tumbled onto the sidewalk, not far from Independencía Avenue where Allende himself had once rallied his supporters. But Salomé could barely remember that time now. To her, it seemed like decades ago.

  Twenty-eight

  VESTERÅS, SWEDEN

  JANUARY 1975

  As the political wars in Latin America brought an influx of refugees to Sweden, Samuel became increasingly busy with patients. Often, he returned home exhausted, overwhelmed by all those who needed his care.

  Kaija watched over Sabine during every waking hour, hovering over her as if she were afraid she would awake and the child would be gone.

  As Sabine’s fourth birthday approached, Samuel began to suggest to Kaija that perhaps they should start trying to have another child. “I don’t want Sabine to grow up as an only child. It would be so lonely, and I can think of nothing better than having a dozen little children who resemble you, Kaija.”

  “I want a son. For you, darling, so that I may look into his eyes every day and look at you.” She was playing with the buttons of his shirt. “I hope our next child will have your black curls.” As their bodies slipped deeper into the sheets, she giggled to him, “So you really want a big family, darling.”

  “More than anything,” he whispered, entering her, holding her for several minutes until she let him come into her completely.

  “We can name the next one after you,” she whispered. And he closed his eyes and let himself be warmed by her. Reveling in the fusion between them and the thought of conceiving another child in love.

  Samuel wasn’t prone to fantasy. It wasn’t his nature to let his mind wander to things that were not concrete, not firm and tangible. He needed to see something and hold it to know it was there before him. But having a son was something he could imagine. As he lay next to Kaija, her slender body turned ever so sweetly into his, her delicate curves like the lines of a viola, he was filled with love and contentment.

  The thought of a large family made him smile. He wondered if his mother was gazing down upon him, happy that her child would replenish the family she had lost.

  The following month Kaija missed her period and she confided in Samuel that she believed she was expecting. “I’ll go to the doctor next week so we can know for sure.”

  That evening, as she fed and played with little Sabine, both Samuel and she exchanged knowing looks that perhaps they would soon have another addition to their home.

  She postponed seeing the doctor immediately as she was confident that she was pregnant. She was often flushed and her skin felt constantly warm. She didn’t mind the occasional discomfort, which she attributed to her early pregnancy.

  “You should confirm your suspicion with the doctor,” Samuel reminded her after a week had passed.

  “It’s only a silly test,” she thought to herself, “after all, I know my body by heart.” But eventually, she agreed to go.

  The following week, when the doctor came back to the examining room and told her that she was not with child, she could not believe her ears.

  “That cannot be,” Kaija insisted. “I have missed my period. The only other time I have ever s
kipped a month was when I was pregnant with Sabine!”

  “You are not pregnant, Kaija,” the doctor said softly with a practiced, paternal kindness. “The test was negative.”

  Kaija, dressed only in a paper-thin examining robe, seemed to physically deflate after hearing the disappointing news.

  “But how are you feeling otherwise, Kaija? You experienced no other symptoms except a missed period, right?”

  “Well, I’ve been rather exhausted lately,” she said with a deep sigh. “And I’ve also been a bit warmer than usual.”

  “Warmer?”

  “Yes, it’s as though I’m hot all the time…when everyone else seems to be unaffected by the temperature. But maybe it’s just because I was getting myself excited to be pregnant again.”

  “Yes, maybe.” The doctor’s eyes darted over her chart once more. He scribbled some notes on the margin. “I’d like to do a few more tests before you leave.”

  “Why?” Her face appeared puzzled.

  “I just want to test your thyroid and hormone levels.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll send the nurse in to do the blood work,” he said kindly. “I’ll call you in a few days when the results come back. Don’t worry,” he said paternally, “and get some rest.”

  Kaija did not mention to Samuel that she had visited the doctor that afternoon. She decided that she would tell him that she was not pregnant after she received the results of her tests. It would be easier to tell him everything at once, she thought to herself. The doctor had not led her to believe he was testing her for anything serious, so she did not give it too much thought. Her mind was more focused on her not being pregnant and that she and Samuel would have to try again.

  She revisited her doctor the following Wednesday.

  “I received your test results, Kaija, and it seems that one of your hormonal levels is sharply elevated.”

  Kaija’s face fell. “What does that mean? Do I have something serious?”

  “Serious? Well, if you mean fatal, then the answer is no. But the results might explain why you believed you were pregnant.” He glanced down at his notes once more. “You mentioned the last time you were here, Kaija, that you were suffering from fatigue, an intolerance of heat, and an absence of menstruation, correct?”