His Own Man (15 page)

“Carlos Câmara,” Max mumbled to himself. “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. I knew some of the college officers at one time, they’d call me once in a while to talk, but …”

“Doesn’t matter.
He’s
heard of
you
. Already knows everything about you. That’s the reason for our conversation today. To start thinking about this transition. If all goes well, you and Carlos will have the rare opportunity to be part of a decisive moment in our country’s history.” After a pause, the ambassador continued at cruising speed. “It’s time for you to learn about a project we’re developing here. And in the region.”

“In the region?”

A few more pipe puffs, shorter, almost breathless with impatience. In an ideal world, which would faithfully reproduce the ambassador’s secret desires, there would be no room for questions. Or, more reasonably, for those that repeated words whose echo could still be heard. “Let’s just say, for now, that it’s a delicate operation, in which we’re not playing a very visible role. At most, we’re
interested observers
. If consulted, we give our opinion. Based on what happened in Brazil between 1960 and March 1964. They listen, take a few notes, whisper a lot among themselves.…”

“
They who
, Ambassador?” The question seemed obvious but wasn’t. Max was interested in knowing more about the context of their discussion, since Uruguay had a democratically elected government. What level of the Uruguayan armed forces — because that’s what they were evidently talking about — was the ambassador dealing with? His superior ignored the question, however, like the referee at a soccer game who doesn’t see the blatant foul committed right under his nose.

“Every country in this region lives with its own realities, its own challenges. And many of them have nothing to do with ours. But we’ve already been through a somewhat similar process. And they haven’t. This gives us an advantage on one hand. And an enormous responsibility on the other. We can’t interfere. But neither can we be left out. It’s a scenario that will require considerable patience, given that the situation here and in Chile” —
Chile
, a new piece on the ambassador’s
chessboard — “is going to take a while to come to a head before the unavoidable conflict.”

Max waited, transfixed.

“And we’re alone in this endeavor. The Americans told us they don’t want to get involved. They have enough problems in Vietnam. Besides, they almost got burned in Brazil with Operation Brother Sam, and plenty of Europeans criticized their interfering in our country. Covertly, fine, they’re ready to help. The way they did with us. But not outwardly. I’m willing to bet that Matrone’s visit has to do with this. He’s not high enough up to request a meeting with me. He’s coming to relay a message.”

Max realized that his five years at the secretary-general’s office reading telegrams and dispatches from Montevideo had little to do with the landscape the ambassador was casually sketching around them. As though the distance separating real life from the cables were equivalent to that between a photograph in focus and a rough sketch on blotting paper.

Although accustomed to reading between the lines, and making the most out of the reports at hand, Max was startled to find himself confronting information he knew absolutely nothing about. The revelation led him to better understand the nature of the present conversation — and the direction it might yet take. The ambassador had
two
channels of communication. And Itamaraty was only one of them. The official one, as if it were a façade. Max also understood that his boss, between remarks and puffs on his pipe, was slowly luring him toward a labyrinth in which he felt completely at home — and with which Max needed to familiarize himself as quickly as possible if he wished to survive. He anxiously awaited whatever was to come.

The ambassador glanced at his watch and picked up the phone, requesting that coffee be brought in. Max sank into his chair a bit farther, although this was physically difficult considering the austere piece of furniture on which he was seated.

“Things are going to take a while. A year or two … maybe more. The game will be played with a stacked deck, with a very short break between the two” — he briefly consulted the ceiling — “
proceedings
.”

The ceiling had whispered
countries
. The boss had said
proceedings
. Max heard
coups
.

“
The two proceedings
,” repeated the ambassador, as if to impose order on the voices jostling for position between them. “This interval of three months between the two … 
proceedings
has already been decided. Not by us, fortunately.”

“By whom?” asked Max in a thin voice.

To his surprise, the question merited a response, albeit partial. “As far as that goes, the less you know, the better. Leave that to Carlos. He’s the one who’s going to operate on that front. Yours will be quite different. And, in a way, more important.”

Max didn’t know how to take these words — whether to feel flattered or frightened.

“What matters is that, in the meantime, tensions will increase in both countries. And we’re going to end up having to intervene. But as discreetly as possible. As inconspicuously as the Americans. And note that they could afford the luxury of running some risks, particularly because they always did as they pleased in Latin America. So, what’s one more disaster?” The ambassador was a man of the extreme right. The remark, however, revealed his disgust for Washington’s excesses.

“But not us,” he went on. “We’ll never be accused of involvement. That’s why the fewer people who know about the schemes to be put in place, should they become necessary, the better.” The gravity of the moment coincided with the ambassador’s sadness as he realized that he was getting to the bottom of his pipe. He saw himself compelled to take a shortcut that would bring the conversation to a close without further delay. “Our job consists of mollifying the military,” he continued, without deviating from a previously traced course. “And avoiding hasty moves.”

Here Max dared to formulate a question that was missing in the equation. “And what about Argentina, Ambassador?”

Two sighs and a final puff on his pipe. And, to Max’s surprise, another response — this time providing clarification. “Anything can happen in Argentina. Luckily, Onganía, according to certain international press reports, is beginning to embody the gorilla prototype. This puts our generals at an advantage, comparatively speaking. But the truth is that Peronism has strong roots. And Perón could even come back from Spain. Should this happen, he’ll end up setting fire to the country and reigning over ashes. And the military will be back. This time, fiercer than ever. To stay.”

After a moment of reflection, he went on. “The hatred there goes way back. It’s deep-seated, embedded in chronic disillusion. There’s something inexplicable about that country, extraordinary in so many ways. Something that, oddly, may explain the intensity and elaborate nature of its art, from the tango to Borges. Whatever takes place in Argentina will be more brutal than whatever happens in Chile. Although …”

The ambassador hesitated. Whether from lack of ideas or words, Max didn’t know. The fact is, he turned his attention to another battle front. “That’s not all: if Argentina and Chile put their historical differences behind them someday, and even join up with Uruguay, we can’t be left out. Especially because, in the long run, we’ll have been the pioneers of this whole process. We were the first to take the risks. Two years before Argentina! And the first to set the tone for what would come.
And is still to come
.” Max then received the most intense look of the morning, without embellishment, wordplay, or pipe smoke.

“The picture, Marcílio, is simple: the survival of each of these countries, ours included, depends on the collective security of the four. Not that Brazil is, at the present juncture, facing the least danger. But there’s no question that our future security will, in large part, eventually depend on theirs. Except that
Itamaraty isn’t convinced of this.
These colleagues of ours can be slow-witted!
They refuse to understand that this entire process is linked.” A feeble gesture followed, directed at the ceiling more than at Max.

“So I had no other recourse. I began to deal directly with the SNI. And even with them I had to play hardball.” He preferred to remain silent about the specifics. The old warrior had fought on countless fronts.

He took another tack in the conversation. “On the other hand, once this initial phase of civil conflict is over, we can’t remain vulnerable to a shared stability among these countries. And the union that might result from it. We need to join their club.”

“Of which we’re founding members …”

“Don’t kid about this, Marcílio!” Max had never imagined the ambassador to be the excitable sort. “Especially because, in the meantime, you’ll have become a notable specialist in technical cooperation,
with particular emphasis in the complex area of personnel training
. And you’ll be called upon to coordinate projects that justify and ensure our disinterested participation in … 
the internal problems that our friends have been facing
.”

The tobacco was gone. Only the sweet smell lingered in the air. “Not only for strategic reasons,” he whispered, at peace with himself once more. “For other, equally important reasons.”

“Such as, for instance …,” Max ventured.

“Such as,
for instance
, creating a middle class in the region. A
reliable
middle class that will one day finally learn how to vote and thereby slash the Marxist threat by the only root that matters.”

“Access to social welfare?”

“Access to the market.”

Soon, however, came the condescending yet almost tender follow-up. “Okay, Marcílio, okay … 
access to social welfare
. Anyway, one is tied to the other. And I’m not saying the first isn’t
important. But it’s because of
the second
that the Americans, who are responsible for this circus around us” —
circus
, the word surprised Max — “are going to suggest that we dismantle it in ten or fifteen years. Worse, they’re going to pressure us in that direction. Because, by then, the Cuban threat and the danger represented by Allende in Chile will have disappeared. And liberalism will rule once more. The region will cease to invest in arms and will buy televisions, refrigerators, and stoves instead. Or whatever else may be invented going forward. Not bad, right?”

Thankfully, the coffee was served. It came with two glasses of water and a plate with an apple cut in four.

The ambassador pulled a small vial from his vest pocket. “Forgive me, son. I have to eat a piece of fruit before I choke down this awful medicine. But drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

Oddly, the
son
didn’t bother him as much now. Maybe because, this time, it was offered soothingly, deceptive though it might have been. Even so, Max had been feeling unsettled for several minutes, the reasons for which he couldn’t quite fathom.

A half hour earlier, he had been doing nothing other than contemplating the deserted street beyond his office window, putting off the moment when he would dedicate himself to peacefully reading the newspaper, followed by the equally pleasant perusal of the day’s telegrams brought in by Esmeralda — which were waiting on his desk. Now, however, he found himself involved in a plot of at least regional proportions. In which, if he understood correctly, he would be called upon to play a rather important role. All of this, from the look of it, without Itamaraty’s official knowledge. The ministry was only providing the framework, allowing the ambassador, and his eventual allies (
accomplices
, some would surely say), to operate toward an unknown goal.

Previously, he had approached such topics in an informal, almost offhanded way, and this had served him well. But now the circumstances had begun to change, and the environment around him threatened to become quite constricting. Although mildly alarmed, he could hardly contain the excitement that was slowly coming over him. He had never imagined making … 
History
.

The ambassador, who was watching him closely, interrupted his thoughts. “
Yes and no
, Marcílio.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t worry. The big international schemes take place at this level. On a very small chessboard, where the pieces are either black or white. There are no shades of gray or the kinds of speculating the academic community is so fond of. No
maybe
s. That’s what you were thinking about, right?”

“More or less.”

“That’s why you’re here today, to begin the demystification process. Which has two aims. First, understanding the scope of our challenge. This has to do with the fact that the region, in and of itself, is of no importance whatsoever in this game. Except as a reflection of another.”

“A reflection of another,” Max echoed dumbly.

“That’s right. To the Americans, we’re nothing more than tomorrow’s Vietnam. As far as they’re concerned, we’re just a headache that can be wiped out with aspirin.”

“How come?”

“Because that’s what we’re dealing with here. Do you think a man like Nixon understands Latin America? Aside from the border problems with Mexico? He understands the Soviet Union and the cold war. He respects or fears China. He probably holds Europe in contempt.
But Latin America?
We’re barely a blip on his radar. Radar on which Africa doesn’t even exist, except for Egypt because of Israel.”

“And the second?
The second aim?
”

“That one is more important. And more pleasant: getting to know the mechanism you’re a part of.”

Finally they’d reached the heart of the matter.

“Mechanism?” Max asked.

Having finished the apple, the ambassador now took his medicine. Then he gave three quick taps on the rim of the ashtray to clean out his pipe. Sighing, he replaced it in his desk drawer along with the tin of tobacco and took two sips of coffee. Only then did he casually remark, “Marcílio, you can’t be
surprised
by all of this.… Let’s be honest!” Without giving Max a chance to react, he added, “Your name was part of our plans at least two years ago, as I told you.”