His Own Man (26 page)

Holding Pedro Henrique’s hand, Marina mustered the strength to climb the steps to the entrance of her new home. In due time, however, the three would settle into a kind of routine, including seeking a nursery school for the child — made easier by the support of the embassy wives this time around. The family bought furniture, since what they’d had in their Montevideo apartment could scarcely fill their much larger house in Chile.

The violence associated with different forms of repression would be felt in the country for many years, with the military committing all kinds of barbaric acts. Occasionally, dispersed opposing forces made attempts on the lives of government officials. All in all, however, the embattled atmosphere of the first few weeks had begun to dissipate by the time Marina and Pedro Henrique came back. And although the city hadn’t quite returned to normal, it was adapting to the new times.

The National Stadium remained full of prisoners. It was widely known that additional captives were being held in the military barracks. The names of the infamous Tacna and
Arenal bases, among many others, were whispered on the city’s street corners. The secret police themselves referred to the José Domingo Cañas detention center as “a torture chamber that ran like clockwork.” Officers were spotted on the patio in shirtsleeves, playing cards between one interrogation and the next.

The cinemas, theaters, and restaurants were gradually reopening and, to the astonishment of those suffering or being persecuted, these establishments had a growing clientele. Yet something had to have changed in the ambience of such places, Marina imagined. Something almost palpable, perhaps conveyed through conversation — which no longer flowed freely, thus depriving the city’s bars and cafés of their charm. Talk was instead carried out in hushed voices, suggesting a degree of intimidation. Occasionally, however, it came across as booming, even raucous, as though commemorating victory. Nevertheless, to those working in these establishments, simply seeking to make ends meet each month, it might have seemed that there was some semblance of routine in the air.

Marina would always see the country in her own distinct way, however. “The worst thing that happened in Chile,” she told me years afterward, “came as time passed. When terror became the norm. And people stopped seeing. Some, out of ignorance. Others, by choice.”

Listening to her, I remembered an article I had read recently, about certain photos in which everything appears normal because of what’s been left out. Like the scenes of Paris during the German occupation, where what matters isn’t so much what is shown in the image — but what isn’t there. The couples sipping coffee along the Rive Gauche or ambling hand in hand in the Bois de Boulogne are not in themselves noteworthy. Except for the fact that, just steps away, at the exact same time, hundreds of Jews — men, women, and children — were being boarded onto trains and sent to concentration camps.

That conversation with Marina took place in 2004, three decades after her time in Santiago. We were on a walk around Lagoa, in Rio de Janeiro. She told me that, as a foreigner in Chile back then, she was an observer who led a privileged life and was spared the ordeals suffered by a significant percentage of the population. An observer, nevertheless, who considered herself entitled to examine the subject from the perspective of one affected by it. As if the violence committed against others had gotten to her.

“The worst came with the slow consolidation of this sad process.…” She searched her memory for words that would best describe what she had witnessed. “The level of violence unleashed by the extreme right in Chile took everyone by surprise. The brutality was blatant. The Chilean military never hesitated. And where they weren’t able to move in, they allowed paramilitary forces to operate. Without restrictions. Without the onus of having to answer to the government.” She shook her head.

“It was all a mystery to me, considering the histories of the two countries I lived in. We weren’t in a place like Argentina, where coups were common. Or even in Brazil, where we’d endured various forms of authoritarian rule. Chile, along with Uruguay, was a nation that was considered ‘the Switzerland of South America.’ And by pitiful and tragic coincidence, I ended up living in both of these Switzerlands, seeing the two of them sink into the same abyss just three months apart.”

The sun was out in Rio, the kind of winter sun that comes and goes between the clouds, ideal for the leisurely stroll we were taking. The statue of Christ the Redeemer atop Corcovado remained blanketed in the distance. The vegetation on the hillside appeared vibrant in the early morning light, however. The city was a sight to behold, the way certain ancient ruins become a source of wonder, stripped of vanity and confident in their beauty.

“The atmosphere was stifling,” Marina went on. “An authoritarian arrogance could be felt in the air on the most casual occasions. Not to mention the formal ones, which were always heavy and somber, even when they supposedly celebrated something light: the national holiday of a neighboring country, the opening of an art exhibit, a music or film festival. It was as if … as if a gray cloud had settled over the nation for good. The Chileans already tend to be sort of gloomy and depressed by nature. Imagine wrapping them in another layer of melancholy, which affected them all, even those who supported the government. It hung over the entire society, dividing families and friends, undermining the country in a thousand ways. Not even the prosperity that would gradually follow (as it invariably does for a certain social class in these situations) could compensate for this type of loss. It ended up silencing an entire generation.”

Her speech had taken on a solemn tone. Marina was no longer a jean-clad friend ambling alongside me — and I soon understood why. My companion was gathering strength, like an athlete gearing up for the final sprint.

“The only reason I didn’t go out of my mind, despite the nice, comfortable life I led, was that I met up with Paolo. The Italian photographer I told you about. That’s when I really lost it.…”

My friend’s eyes avoided mine as she struggled with an adolescent sense of shame.

“We struck up a conversation at a party hosted by a French colleague of Marcílio. At one point, completely out of the blue, he said to me, ‘If there’s one country where I don’t want to put down any kind of roots, it’s Chile.’ And then he added, ‘Paradoxically, it’s also a place I haven’t been able to tear myself away from for almost four months.’ And with that, he cast his lure, in the form of a challenge: ‘I feel alive thanks to this apparent contradiction.’ ”

How many vulnerable women had he used the same lines on?
I asked myself.

“It was a ridiculous remark,” Marina continued, now quite ready to delve into this part of her past. “But, on the flip side, I could relate because, unlike Paolo’s experience, the contradictions of my life were slowly killing me.

“Three parties later, we met again. This time I was ready: I downed two glasses of wine when I saw him come in. With that, I built up the courage to broach the subject from my point of view. I mentioned his paradox. At the time, he didn’t even seem to remember. I brought up mine. Then he remembered and led me up a set of stairs to the apartment terrace. Marcílio had stayed below with a group of friends. On the terrace, Paolo gave a naughty grin and pulled from his pocket a small canister, which he set on the railing. Then he wet his finger and held it up to check the wind. And he made his pitch: ‘If you want, we can combine our contradictions. It’s more fun than trying to figure out what we have in common.’ ”

She fell silent at this point. But she soon got back to what she was saying. “I took the plunge. For almost a year. That’s how long I was involved with him. And with cocaine.” She smoothed her hair, as if it needed tidying. She was a respectable lady, after all. With grandchildren …

“Meanwhile, Marcílio was busy with his private war. He was always at war. Overtly or covertly. Against Carlos Câmara, against his former boss in Montevideo, against the whole world.
Against himself, when it came down to it … And it was hardly worth it. Because, back then, he’d already gotten everything he wanted! He’d set up his office, hired his team, bought his cars, and received an entertainment budget from Itamaraty that was the equivalent of what the New York office got. So our house was always full of Chilean businessmen, Brazilians, even journalists.

“And Paolo was always there, with the crowd of journalists and photographers. Because he ended up making friends in that environment, more for the coke than for his talent, I suspect. Marcílio found him quite amusing. He treated him as a rarity, something between an objet d’art and a purebred dog. Our living room was always packed, no small feat, given the country’s devastation. It was the beginning of Marcílio’s social prestige, which he would build up from then on like few others.

“In Montevideo we’d hardly had anyone to the house except close friends and even then not very often. I think that had to do with Marcílio’s job in technical cooperation. I never knew just what he did there, but” — she paused briefly and threw me a sideways glance, as if gauging my reaction — “we certainly had no social life. Whereas in Chile … no one at the embassy could believe it. Newton Cordeiro, whose influence continued to grow in certain circles, had more than repaid the favors Marcílio had done him. And despite his being a foreigner, the colonel had opened doors for us. Because money talks. The funds came from São Paulo businessmen, some of whom became friends of ours at the time. Nowadays, every so often I’ll see one of their names cited in connection with the financing of torture in Brazil.…

“Be that as it may, thanks to their money, and the middle ground established by Newton Cordeiro, who was a pro at such things, Marcílio had access to the upper entrepreneurial class. They were at our house around the clock, having lunch or dinner with Brazilians passing through, with whom they’d then spend hours locked in endless conversation, smoking Cuban cigars.

“The ambassador didn’t understand any of it and was consumed by envy. Besides the military leaders, the only people he spent time with were the countless priests, whose masses he attended with his wife and children, and a handful of horribly boring traditional local families. Marcílio used to kid that when they were invited to dinner, they would show up covered in cobwebs! The guy had a great sense of humor.… But one thing is clear: the ambassador couldn’t come to terms with Marcílio’s standing.” She gave a laugh. “They say the man would pace the hallways snorting, ‘I want to see our business stats next year. That’s what I want to see.’ And, from what I heard, there was always someone to reply, ‘By next year, Ambassador, our counselor will be long gone.’

“Marcílio kept a desk available for Newton in his office. Did you know he was killed a few years later in Beirut, or Damascus, selling arms? That’s right — he was a dealer! There he’d be, twice a month, in Santiago! Always with his entrepreneurs in tow. He’d shower more and more lavish gifts on Pedro Henrique, who didn’t even like his uncle Newton. That’s what he wanted the poor boy to call him —
Uncle Newton
, can you believe it? Pedro Henrique couldn’t stand the colonel.”

“Wise child,” I managed to whisper, in somewhat of a daze from all she’d spilled.

“The ambassador had attributed Marcílio’s change of status at the embassy (which he referred to as ‘one slick move’) to his colleague at the president’s office, our old boss in Montevideo. Carlos Câmara must have been the only one to realize the appointment had originated elsewhere. As Marcílio would say whenever he talked about him, ‘He must have been just waiting for the shot that would take him down.’ And true enough, a few years later, Carlos was forced to retire. When the military fell. Because of all those articles that came out about him in the press, written by who knows whom. Carlos still had another fifteen years of career ahead of him. He blew it.”

Every time I recall our walk around Lagoa in 2004, and think about the plane crash in Europe that would take my friend’s life later that year, I’m struck by how Marina’s revelations foretold her farewell. Maybe because of the wistfulness I could feel between her words, even at the lighter moments of our conversation.

By that morning in June, Marina was no longer living with Nilo Montenegro and hadn’t for some time. Yet she was doing quite well. She’d lost weight and didn’t look anywhere near her age. She’d been rejuvenated once she’d gotten close to her kids again, after having lost custody during the divorce upon their return from Washington.

At the time of the separation, Pedro Henrique was eleven, Maria Isabel about five. Max had gained custody in the courts after a painful legal battle, which the social columns had followed with the tenaciousness usually reserved for celebrities. Based on some of the ugly details that came out, and others he invented, Max had poisoned his children against Marina for years, which had made contact between them difficult. The few days the children spent with their mother, moreover, contrasted with the stable lifestyle their father was able to provide them abroad, not to mention the standard of living they were used to as the children of a diplomat. This differed from Marina’s situation, as her social standing had slipped following her father’s death not long after his bank went under.

It was only once they were adults (and themselves married) that Pedro Henrique and Maria Isabel reconnected with their mother. And even then the relationship remained in flux. The reason was simple and said a lot about Marina’s character: she had never revealed to her children why she’d left — much less what kind of man they had for a father.

“You understand, it was something I couldn’t talk about,” she confided along our walk. “If they have to know someday who their father really is, or was at one point, let them find out for themselves. Not from me. That’s why the fight for the kids’ affection was always so uneven between Marcílio and me. In their eyes, I was a mother who had abandoned ship. After creating a home with them in three different foreign cities, I had thrown in the towel and broken up our family.” She stopped walking and looked out over the water of Lagoa.