The Rhythm of Memory

by Alyson Richman

  “Well, of course, I was just a little girl…but I do remember that there were some nights, after we children were put to bed, when a band would arrive and the entire garden was illuminated by torchlight. The people would approach in horse-drawn carriages…” She paused and cleared her throat. “I remember, I used to peer out of the window with my little brother and see the ladies stepping out of the coaches with billowing white dresses, their throats wrapped in strings of pearls.”

  “I can’t imagine that happening here. Outside now, there’s nothing but mud.”

  “Back then, they had such tall trees. The big cherimoya, the cinnamon…an almond blossom. There were bushes of roses and honeysuckle. There were rows of African violets and parrot tulips the color of gold.”

  “What a shame. Why’d they turn such a beautiful place into such a shithole? They didn’t have to bulldoze the gardens and pour cement into the reflecting pool. At least the soldiers could have enjoyed it on our off-shifts.” He paused and shook his head.

  Salomé remained quiet.

  “I always wanted to go to a party like that. Dress up in a white suit, white shirt, and ask all the ladies to dance. But, lucky me, I have to watch over all these fucking Reds day in and day out.” He tapped his rifle against one of the cement walls between the cells. “You know, most of these people deserve what they’re getting. They’re not like you and me. They’re no-class pigs, nothing but bloodsucking anarchists.”

  Salomé nodded. She was spooning the last remnants of her bowl of poroto beans into her mouth.

  “I bet your family’s looking for you. They’re going to be surprised when they see you, looking the way that you do.”

  “I must look dreadful.” She tried to smile through the bars of her cell.

  “I’m sure all your friends and family are pulling some strings for you now. I’m sure you won’t be in here much longer.”

  “I hope so, Miguel,” she whispered as she finished her bowl of poroto.

  “Ah, so you know my name now, do you?” he said, taking the empty bowl as she pushed it through the steel bars. “You better remember it!” He laughed. “Tell your fancy friends that at least someone in this hellhole was kind to you.”

  “I will remember. I have a feeling I will remember everything.” And the deep, penetrating sadness in her voice made even the young soldier shiver.

  Thirty-eight

  VESTERÅS, SWEDEN

  FEBRUARY 1975

  “In a way, the stories from my family’s past saved me,” Salomé said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. Samuel remained transfixed, gazing into the eyes of his patient.

  The afternoon sun bathed the small, carefully furnished room with warm yellow light so that in profile, both Salomé and Samuel were radiant. Their olive skins glowed like ripening pears.

  “Well, Dr. Rudin,” Salomé said as she readjusted herself on the couch, “the coup was staged to restore the power of the middle class and upper classes of Chile. It was a backlash against the socialism that Allende had tried to implement to help the working poor.”

  “Yes, I realize that.”

  “Well, the army was clearly on the side of the wealthy and the middle class…the bourgeoisie, if you will. So, I used the stories of my childhood and the information that Chon-Vargas had given to me to convince one of the guards, Miguel, that I was a rich woman who supported the coup, and that my incarceration was a mistake.

  “Night after night, I told Miguel the stories of my childhood, ones that had no connection to my being the wife of Octavio Ribeiro.”

  “Stories?” Samuel prodded her.

  “Well, stories like the legend of my grandmother—the pequeña canaria, who was pecked to death by the birds she was said to love more than her husband. And the story of my family’s hacienda in Talca, where the rooms were vast and sprawling, the windows overlooked miles and miles of land and sky.”

  “And so you were successful in convincing this guard that you were from a bourgeois family…that you were a wealthy woman who was taken by mistake?”

  “Yes. In a way, I was telling the truth. At least a half-truth. I was from such a family. I told stories of my grandfather. How he walked around in a brocade vest with a gold pocket watch, through the orchard of hybrid fruit that he cultivated in his spare time. How he struck his cane at dinnertime to summon his pet snake. All of that was true! It was only the part about my famous actor husband and his critical remarks about the Pinochet regime that I left out.” Salomé took a deep breath. Her cheeks were flushed now.

  “And,” she added, “never in his life had a boy like Miguel, an aspiring bourgeois, heard such stories like the ones I told. I believe he soon became addicted to them so that, every day, he somehow managed to get a shift where he guarded my corridor.”

  “You were very lucky, Salomé, to have someone looking out for you like that.”

  “Yes, I was.” She paused and looked down at her hands. “I know I was.”

  “And so the beatings stopped?”

  “No.” She paused. “They never stopped. They only lessened. Miguel obviously could not be on duty every day, every night. But when he was there, I was safer, and he always managed to make sure that I wasn’t taken to the tower. Unfortunately, there were times when he was placed in other areas of the prison, and I was again taken to the interrogation room.

  “Still, even with Miguel’s presence and his protection, I became increasingly depressed. I never thought I would see my children, my parents, or my husband again.”

  “Of course.”

  “But,” Salomé said with a long sigh, “somehow I managed to endure.” She paused for a moment, as if remembering something else she wanted to say. “You know the strangest part? They had doctors that would come in to visit some of the prisoners. They would take our blood pressure, our pulse…things like that.

  “They were just there to report back to our interrogators how much more abuse we could take! Did they care if I had blood accumulating in my elbows from the stretching on the ‘grille,’ or if my thorax was so swollen I couldn’t breathe?”

  Samuel was silent.

  “Let me tell you, these men were not doctors! I came from a family of doctors—my father and my grandfather—men who had a sense of vocation! Men who wanted to help people, save lives, and cure diseases.”

  “Yes.”

  “These bastards were of another breed! They only wanted to see how much more torture we could possibly endure. They clicked their pens and glanced at our bloody faces and bruised limbs without a conscience. They didn’t want to help us. They only wanted to maintain us.”

  Samuel shook his head.

  “I tried to trick them, though. I would hold my breath for as long as I could before they monitored my heartbeat, so that its rhythm seemed irregular. I would also immobilize one of my arms for hours at a time, so that the swelling there intensified and I appeared far more fragile than the other prisoners.”

  “You were wise enough to use everything you had. That is ‘survival.’ You had strength, and in that regard, I think you were quite fortunate compared to some of the others.” Samuel paused and looked directly into his patient’s eyes. “You must remember, Salomé, you were able to survive and come back to your family and loved ones.”

  “Yes, Dr. Rudin, I realize all that.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “I recognize I was one of the lucky ones. I had a guard who tried his best to limit my beatings. I even had some medical knowledge that allowed me to fake the intensity of my injuries so I appeared weaker than perhaps I really was.” Salomé hesitated, her eyes falling to her lap. “And by some great miracle, I was released from that godforsaken place.”

  “Yes.”

  “But…I still feel like I am a prisoner. I still suffer every time I read in the newspaper a reference to my country. I am still horrified when I hear the sound of dripping water, because I associate it with the electric shocks. And I still cannot enjoy the simple pleasure of music. I have been robbed of a
ny peace.”

  “I understand, Salomé.”

  “And I guess I can finally say it, Dr. Rudin, without feeling guilty about it.” She paused and took a deep breath.

  Samuel waited a few more seconds for his patient to speak.

  “I guess you can say, I’m so goddamn angry.”

  “Of course you are, Salomé. What was done to you was wrong and unjust.”

  “There’s more. I’m angry at my husband.”

  “Of course, you are angry at him. Have you thought any more about why you’re furious with him?”

  “It’s as I said before, he put his needs before those of our family. He became consumed by his role of ‘political activist, champion of Allende, avenger of his fallen friend…’ ”

  “I don’t know if that is really it, Salomé. I’ve met many German colleagues who have expressed to me great regret that their parents never spoke out against the Nazis. One has to wonder if millions of lives would have been spared if more people had spoken out against what they saw as an injustice.

  “Now we think of those people who hid people or helped gain illegal passports at that time as heroes…but they did this at great risk to their families.”

  Salomé was silent.

  “I think you’re more upset with the fact that he didn’t seem to realize what was at stake.” Samuel shifted in his seat. “Think about what you said in one of our other sessions.” He glanced down at his notepad and turned the pages back to quote something Salomé had said to him weeks before. “ ‘I fell in love with his idealism. It’s ironic that the very trait that I cherished most in him is the one I now resent.’ ”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Salomé nodded her head.

  “I think that’s the key here to why you’re so angry at your husband. Even more than because of the choices he made.”

  Salomé looked at her therapist, her face revealing her puzzlement.

  “Tell me, do you still consider yourself idealistic?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You’ve lost your idealism completely then?”

  “I have seen great evil. I don’t think after seeing that I could ever look at the world in the same way.”

  “So the young woman who was seduced by oranges long ago by her poet-courtier is dead then?”

  “I suppose she is.”

  “You don’t think she could ever return?”

  “I think that would be impossible.”

  “And your husband, you don’t think he has seen the evil you have? You mean to tell me that you don’t believe he has the capacity to imagine how cruel and barbaric humankind can be?”

  “No. I don’t think he has any idea.”

  Samuel’s head tilted slightly. “Don’t you think he envisioned the worst when you were abducted? Don’t you think it crossed his mind the terrible things that could have been done to you?.… And what about when you were returned…don’t you think he wondered how those bruises and burn marks got there?”

  “I think he chose to focus on the fact that I was returned, rather than concentrate on the more troubling aspects such as my scars.”

  “He’s never mentioned them?”

  “No. He cannot bring himself to ask and I choose not to bring it up.”

  “Perhaps you should, Salomé.”

  “What good would it do to dwell on my torture? I want to forget it.”

  “Do you think you can just forget such a thing? I’m afraid it’s part of your history now. The reason you’re here is so that you can find a way to live with that history.”

  Salomé turned her head away from her doctor. She was beginning to find it tiresome lying on this leather couch and discussing the same feelings over and over. She wondered why it couldn’t be enough that she admitted that she was angry at Octavio. She wanted to be done with this exhausting inquisition.

  “In a way, you’re no different than your husband if you choose to maintain the silence between the two of you. You both are avoiding confrontation.”

  Salomé let out a deep sigh. She could not disguise her frustration. “Doctor, I am just so tired of talking. I’m just so exhausted by having my husband constantly ask how I feel. Shouldn’t it be obvious? I was abducted, I was interrogated, I was tortured. How the hell does he think I feel? I feel awful!”

  “Perhaps he still doesn’t know how to approach such a delicate subject, Salomé. Men aren’t equipped to deal with things that are as emotional and traumatic as the issues we’re discussing here. He’s probably having a hard time with it.”

  Salomé shook her head. “The problem with my husband is that he lives his life as though it were a screenplay. He expects a happy ending but doesn’t want to work towards one.”

  “That is a problem.” Samuel nodded his head. “I agree with you.”

  Salomé cupped her palms over her face. “I love my husband, I will always love him. But the very fact that he maintains this rosy vision of the world makes it difficult for me to live with him. It’s not that I want him to lose his idealism completely.…If he were as jaded as I’ve become, then what kind of couple would we be?” Salomé took a deep breath. She could feel her skin flush underneath her blouse. “Life has its difficult and ugly moments, and I wish my husband could finally accept that.”

  Samuel nodded. “I think it’s good that you’re acknowledging these feelings.”

  “Is it? Now how am I going to go home and lie next to a man whom I know I’m angry with? I mean, he wasn’t even able to save me. I had to rescue myself. He failed at even that.”

  “You cannot blame him for that,” Samuel said objectively. “It was an impossible situation.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She smoothed out her skirt. “I just don’t want to go home now and deal with all of this. The children have been struggling in school. Rafael has been looking after his sisters because I’ve been too exhausted to be a proper mother. And Octavio seems to be sinking deeper into depression.”

  “You need to concentrate on your healing.”

  “I know…I’ve been trying…”

  “Well, try and keep your chin up, Salomé. You’re tackling some heavy things in our sessions, and you should be proud of yourself.”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes I feel worse when I leave than I did when I got here.”

  “I know,” Samuel said compassionately. “But we’re moving forward.”

  “Yes,” Salomé said as she stood up to leave. She knew the doctor had let her speak a few minutes over her allotted fifty-minute session, so she tried to compose herself as quickly as she could. “I guess I’ll see you next week then.”

  As she left, Samuel watched her exit elegantly through the door.

  Thirty-nine

  SANTIAGO, CHILE

  JANUARY 1974

  Octavio could no longer sleep. His mind raced. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He did not know where to begin. Octavio was crippled by a moral dilemma. His actions and his commitment to his principles had gotten him and his family into this terrible situation. He had always prided himself on his conviction, his steadfast morals. Had he supported a regime that had executed the nation’s president and ruled as a military dictatorship, he would have been a hypocrite. And just hearing that word made Octavio cringe.

  Yet now, these convictions directly jeopardized his family’s safety. His wife had been kidnapped and was possibly being tortured, all because of his stubborn refusal to go against his beliefs. It was too much for him to bear.

  As each hour passed and Salomé still did not surface, Octavio’s anxiety worsened. He contemplated calling up a newspaper and publicly renouncing all the criticisms he had previously launched at the new regime. He thought about writing to one of the army’s generals and arranging a secret meeting in which he would say that he had rethought his views and now believed that Pinochet was a just and rightful leader. “How wrong I’ve been,” he contemplated saying. “Just give me back my wife and I’ll be a diligent and steadfast servant of the state.”r />
  But, eventually, Octavio reconsidered. What use would that be? The generals would know he was lying, and he and his family would still remain under suspicion. No, he would not renounce his statements, but he would also not exacerbate the situation by making any more remarks criticizing the new regime.

  “Tomorrow, I will drive until I find this Villa Grimaldi,” he told himself. He would rescue his wife. He would find a way to make their lives good again.

  The next morning, after his mother-in-law had told him where she suspected the Villa Grimaldi was, Octavio Ribeiro set out in his small orange Lancia to find his wife.

  He gulped down a cup of coffee, kissed his children on their foreheads, and told the maid he was unsure of his exact return. “I am not sure how long I will be gone,” he said. “But I will not stop until I have found their mother.”

  He still was in disbelief. He couldn’t believe that in Chile a woman could be abducted from her family and held for a crime she had not committed.

  He had to maintain the hope that she was still alive and that he could save her. Without that as inspiration he wouldn’t be able to play this role that he hadn’t asked for—the role of rescuer and penitent husband. If he couldn’t get her back, how could he live with having been responsible for her abduction? He hadn’t listened to her, he knew that now. She had foreseen the trouble before he had.

  He drove through the winding streets of Santiago. Past the rows of houses with their neatly manicured lawns and blossoming gardens, and past the schools with the busloads of arriving children. How could things seem so deceptively normal? Octavio thought to himself. If he had not known Allende personally, and had he not had his wife abducted from their house in broad daylight, perhaps he too would have thought that life in Chile had returned to normal.

  He didn’t know what he would do when he got there. He had no idea what the place looked like or how he’d get in. But he couldn’t focus on all that now. He just had to get there, and then he would decide how to proceed.