His Own Man (7 page)

What bothered me most about Max at that stage wasn’t so much his defense of the right, no matter how cynical it sounded to me at times. Nor was it his tendency to downplay the abuses committed by the military. (Despite the censorship, we received word of these regularly.) After all, we had met when he was at the secretary-general’s office, working quite closely with those in power. No, what bothered me then, perhaps from what little I knew of him in other contexts, was a more troubling flaw, because it was rooted in one of the most vulnerable aspects of human frailty — flattery. He was a master in the refined art of pleasing those in power by appealing to intellectual qualities they rarely possessed.

Influenced by his readings, he upheld a theory of vanity that he continued to perfect throughout his career. For him, the only true antidote to vanity was pride. When someone was said to be “a man without vanity,” he was most likely an individual with a strong sense of pride. According to Max, because the proud were so confident, they “didn’t need others’ stamp of approval.” It was as if they were immune to some lesser evil.

Despite the unsavoriness associated with the sin of pride, for Max it implied greatness. And since this trait was becoming scarce at the ministry, he was left with the more prosaic alternative of dealing with the vain.

He moved well on this fertile ground, however, whatever shape it took — and there were many, which in turn required good judgment and a certain selectivity. In order to set himself apart from other colleagues also competing for favors, Max had chosen a single course: literature.

In this particular field he had no rivals. He worked with the precision of a surgeon, able to wend his way with a scalpel through the most twisted and delicate passages. “One doesn’t praise a poem the way one does a necktie,” he would declare.

He earned the trust of his superiors, who submitted their manuscripts to him. He would eloquently extol the virtues of texts that deserved eternal damnation. Or he would comment on poems with tears welling in his eyes — and then later reread these to me while howling with laughter. As such, he encouraged mediocre authors, within and outside Itamaraty, to publish their works in books or offprints, assuring them that they didn’t deserve the obscurity to which they’d been relegated.

Even though his victims didn’t rank among people I particularly respected, I felt sorry for them without exception. In the more modest pantheon of lesser evils, it seems to me, there is no greater sin than taking advantage of others’ weaknesses to further one’s own cause. And Max proved to be a pro at this, great pretender that he was. When the targets of these maneuvers
happened to be the bosses’ wives, when the poems (or canvases, or embroidery, or pottery, or whatever else they may have created in a moment of inspiration) were theirs, the cruelty was even worse — for it often affected the innocent and the naïve. “Secretary Xavier said that my poems are
intriguing
,” a major’s wife once shared with me, twisting the white scarf she held in her hands.

“
Who?
” I asked in surprise.

“Your colleague. The secretary …”

“Oh,
Max
. And what was it he said?”

“He said” — and here she lowered her voice, sensing that certain things aren’t to be repeated with impunity — “that my poems are intriguing.”

The major was traveling on business to Montevideo, accompanied by his wife. Max and I were also a part of the mission. The proximity of our airplane seats had provided for a certain intimacy among our foursome during the flight. We had chatted about beaches, barbecues, sports, and TV shows. After lunch, the major and Max had fallen asleep, each in his aisle seat, leaving us trapped in the middle of the row.

“You don’t say,” I replied cautiously. “
Intriguing
 …”

She took a deep breath and, slightly embarrassed, glanced at her husband as if making sure he was still asleep. Quietly, she recited the poem for me. It was long and mostly unintelligible, as it competed with the noise of the engines and her companion’s snoring. But the last stanza was perfectly audible. In it the hero returns home at dawn, his olive green uniform stained with blood: “
From where would he be coming
,
my holy warrior
,
at the break of dawn?
”

Her reverent tone made me realize she was totally unaware of her husband’s activities, and yet it seemed eerily prescient. Where indeed were they coming from, these holy warriors? Where were they headed? And what deeds were they performing on their nightly raids that might give rise to a romantic poem in one home — and such grief in others?

That trip to Uruguay, although only three days long, ended up having an important impact on Max’s career, since it was there that he met one of the most sinister Brazilian career diplomats of the time: the head of our embassy in Montevideo. The man displayed a singular efficiency in that universe laced with secrets and conspiracies. A dramatic starkness was evidenced in his speech and gestures — even in his attire. On formal occasions, he had a habit of donning a black waist-length cape over his dark suit, a throwback to another century. He was, in this sense, a courtly figure, but of frosty demeanor. For many at Itamaraty, who spoke of him only in hushed voices yet didn’t think twice about embellishing the myth, he was the kind of man who would carry a dagger at his waist.
With a diamond-encrusted handle
, the more inspired would add.

Arriving at a reception — with no shortage of witnesses on hand — the ambassador would casually loosen his black cape and allow it to drop, following his grand entrance, certain that the servants or, in their absence, some younger diplomat in charge of protocol, would rush to retrieve the illustrious cloth before it touched the ground.

Positioned to the right of the right ever since his youth, this high official focused his energies on the all-out battle against communism, in whatever form it might take throughout the international political scene. He admired Karl Marx’s work, but only on the conceptual level — since the spirit of those theories
tended to confirm the inherent danger of dreams and utopias. But what really riled him was Marxism’s growing appeal in Brazil, especially following the Cuban revolution. He considered it a curse that this admiration had created roots (which he judged to be romantic and, therefore, dangerous) among the formulators of Brazilian foreign policy prior to his esteemed “Revolution.” To his way of thinking, the association between Marxism-Leninism and the populist traditions of Latin American politicians (
politicians
with the smallest
p
available in good Western typefaces, he liked to emphasize) would destabilize the region. Being an intelligent man, he knew that social changes were necessary, and that delaying them for another hundred years might prove unwise. But like many of his generation, he thought it would be better to let them evolve through predictable patterns and processes, whose repercussions would be under constant scrutiny, than to import foreign ideas formulated for other cultures.

On the night of March 31, 1964 — as he would later disclose to Max — the ambassador opened the small refrigerator in his lodgings, where he had kept a half bottle of the finest French champagne stored for months. Wrapped in a silk scarf and dressing gown, he toasted the new times from the balcony of his residence. In contrast to several of his colleagues, who had quickly aligned themselves with the military, he had opted to remain behind the scenes — recognizing that his ideas were too well known.

What he sought and, as was discovered later, had already accomplished at the time I refer to was to form an elite network, within and outside the ministry, which would help the military consolidate its power until it became inviolable. (In less formal circles, or when he had a second drink, he used to introduce a more conciliatory variant into this equation of his: “Or until the people learn to vote.”) Should there prove to be interest, we would not shy away from sharing experiences with other
countries. As a simple exchange of ideas, naturally. And there was no lack of interest around us, as History would soon reveal.

By one of those coincidences that well-organized social events sometimes afford, Max happened to have a private conversation with the ambassador during a reception the embassy held for the Brazilian delegation visiting Uruguay. This occurred with utmost discretion, as did almost everything else taking place at the residence that night — the guests tiptoeing, doing their best to occupy the least amount of space possible, and soundlessly taking care of their personal agendas.

While I concentrated my best efforts on subtly serving myself a second helping of the excellent lobster salad from the lavish buffet, Max wandered, whiskey in hand, through rooms and hallways, studying paintings, etchings, and Persian rugs, quietly taking note of the mysterious and seductive objects in that collection of antiques set against walls covered with brocades and textiles from other eras. Until he came across the library — and our host on the phone. He quickly retreated, but not soon enough. The ambassador, who was just hanging up, invited him, with a friendly gesture, to peruse the shelves of leather-bound books in his company.

The conversation that followed drew them closer together, although the actual bridge that would ultimately connect them remained hidden for the time being. Well before falling into the orbit of the ambassador’s political influence, Max allowed himself to be seduced by his literary prowess, evidenced in the library’s collection, as the two discussed books and authors in an exchange of ideas that had gradually mapped out their personal preferences.

Several guests, myself among them, saw Max return to the living room with the ambassador’s hand resting on his shoulder in a familiar manner, as if the two, at the end of that conversation, had shared an intimate moment. Both then made a concerted effort to rejoin the reception and casually insert themselves into different groups.

Later that night, once the foreign guests had left and only the Brazilians remained (“the inner circle,” in the tired expression someone always used on such occasions), the ambassador probed Max on his personal plans for transfer abroad. During their talk, our host acknowledged that his young colleague must have had a specific foreign post in mind, access to which would be facilitated by his having worked at the secretary-general’s office for years. He added, however, that Max shouldn’t rule out Montevideo as an option — given his experience with South American issues. According to him, the fragile state of the local democratic regime, combined with the concentration of exiled Brazilians of all social levels and classes, “beginning with our ex-president and his deranged brother-in-law,” made work in Uruguay highly stimulating.

“A broad leftist coalition has formed here too,” he said at one point, hands crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “And if they win the next election, there’s going to be trouble. A
great deal
of trouble …”

After a sober pause, during which no one said a word, the ambassador continued, “And that’s not all.”

He went on to sketch the geopolitical picture in neighboring countries, doing so with cool detachment. To my ears his conclusions seemed to point to an imminent series of Greek tragedies. In fact, as he predicted, without lowering his eyes — as if the script of the calamities to come were etched on the ceiling — Uruguay did become the domino piece that, after Brazil and Argentina, would complete the shadow the military cast over the region. The one that would herald the next coup, this time in Chile.

“I’m leaving for the Kingdom of the Tupamaros!” Max would announce to me days later when we had returned to Rio de Janeiro, in a euphoric tone that made me think of a Crusader on the way to the Holy Land.

I wouldn’t have been any more surprised had he unsheathed
a sword. But it was his next line that really struck me: “In exchange, I even got a promotion. I’ll be going as first secretary.”

And in a lower voice, which enhanced rather than contained his joy, he added, “Leapfrogging forty-seven colleagues, to boot.”

His fate was sealed. Because if up until then he had acted like an amateur whose information the military appreciated, in Montevideo, under the ambassador’s tutelage, his opinions would soon earn accolades as doctrine.

Max’s transfer abroad coincided with the beginning of Itamaraty’s move from Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia, which in a way reinforced my feeling that we had both gone into exile. In fact, the new Brazilian capital in early 1970 looked more foreign to my colleagues and me than anyplace beyond our borders. Max, in Montevideo, quite likely felt closer to Rio than did those of us who imagined we were on Mars.

We began to exchange letters regularly through the diplomatic pouch. Mine were long and typically reported on the deteriorating political climate we were living in. Max never commented on my criticisms. On the contrary, he tended to share details of social life on weekends in Punta del Este or trips to the countryside. Marina had friends in Uruguay, the children of bankers her parents knew, who had opened their stately homes to the new arrivals.

Whenever the couple came to Brazil on vacation, or took advantage of some long holiday to leave the post, I almost always found a way to travel to Rio de Janeiro to be with them, which also enabled me to see my family. We would have dinner together in small groups at the Casa da Suíça in Lapa, or at the Château, a lovely restaurant on Anita Garibaldi in Copacabana, which, to our dismay, disappeared a few years later. In these two settings, which rarely varied, we would swap stories about our experiences, bad-mouth our bosses and their wives, and philosophize about the future. Max hardly ever referred
to his job other than in very general terms. From what he led us to believe, he was primarily involved in technical cooperation. And he belonged to a poker group, to Marina’s displeasure, since she was home alone two nights a week.

During these trips to Rio, the visitors would usually hold a big luncheon for friends and acquaintances at Marina’s parents’ place. Colonel Cordeiro never failed to show up. Often, when coffee and liqueurs were being served, he would retreat with Max to some remote room for a private talk, the content of which, despite my many attempts, I never managed to learn.