Navidad & Matanza (4 page)

JFV:
And from my side they get their manners, then. (Everyone laughs happily.) In any case, as a family, we're characterized by our
taste for fine things. This includes board games, which are proof of the beauty of human ingenuity, of the human mind, which is a marvel, which we also see in video games. It's the same with nature. Every now and then, my wife, Terelenita, and I, we long for some landscape or climate we've not seen for some time. So we travel. For example, at the end of last year we were watching an American Christmas movie, as a family, everyone together in the projection room, when suddenly we were struck by a powerful nostalgia for snow. It'd been several months since we'd experienced that cold, white, exquisite substance; we missed that feeling of enormity. Except for Bruno, who is a skiing fanatic—when there isn't any snow in Santiago he'll go spend a weekend in Europe or Colorado. (Bruno nods, closing his eyes.) He took second place in the '91 season. So, we all went to Switzerland. Why not? We said. We went for a few days. We still laugh recalling when Bruno tried to teach Alicia how ride a sled. He tried to show her how under a pine tree because it was starting to snow. It was really funny. All of a sudden they realized that the sled had disappeared. They thought someone had taken it without them noticing, but no. The sled went down the hill on its own! Even I was worried when I saw the empty sled show up at the chalet. Tell me that isn't funny. (They all burst out laughing.)

SEA:
So you must already have a trip planned for this summer.

JFV:
The children want to go to the beach. They love swimming in the sea, they look like fish, it's really quite a sight. Yes, we just want to get in the car, head to someplace nearby where the sea is calm, and get in the water. I love swimming in the sea, when I was very young I even swam competitively, at university level.
Besides, both Terelenita and Alicia enjoy the sun, they like to tan. That's why they're so beautiful. But the point is to be together. It'd be nice to take a little trip inside the country and find somewhere to relax. Our beaches are just as beautiful as the great Caribbean or Mediterranean resorts. You have to appreciate what you have, that's why we've already planned to go together as a family—like always—and enjoy the summer here on the central coast. We like to travel, to move, but the most important thing is to be together and to be grateful for the beautiful family we've created.

32

H
OSTERIA
V
ERGANZA
is located on Highway 5 South, at the exit for the city of San Fernando. It's the closest thing to a hotel you can find between Rancagua and Talca, and so it caught the attention of Boris Real—a lover of comfort, after all—who interrupted his trip to Navidad to stay there on the night of January 12
^th
, 1999. None of the employees remember him, except for Alvaro, the bartender who sometimes plays the piano, because on that night he had to prepare nine double-shots of whiskey and twenty-nine grenadines for the end table where Boris Real and another man, a blonde American or European, sat until sunrise. They conversed quietly, they seemed relaxed, says Alvaro. Every time one of them emptied a glass, they burst out laughing and signaled me, snapping their fingers. The rest of the time they wore impassive expressions. Around sunrise, it seemed to me, they spent two hours staring at each other without blinking. But when the morning light began coming in through the windows, I saw that they each were holding
a butter knife in their right hand, and, taking turns, delicately tapping out a tune on wine glasses. At first the sounds were almost imperceptible, but after a few minutes I began to hear sharp, deep, undulating scales. When they were producing a clear melody, one of them half closed his eyes. Seeing this, the other nodded and stopped playing. It seemed like a game, like something invented by children who discover that the piano in the hallway actually works. But this conflicted with their appearance, their impeccable dark suits, their white shirts, their ties, their gelled hair. Around seven-thirty, without a word, they got up from the table. Taking the napkins from their laps, they brushed some crumbs off their jackets. They left some five-dollar bills on the table. The blond man bent over and picked up a heavy, black wooden case that was sitting next to his chair and handed it to the other man. They shook hands. Then they walked down separate hallways to their rooms. Two hours later the blonde man left. The other man left after breakfast, in a Corvette or a Porsche, a car that made an impression on the parking lot attendants.

I reviewed the hotel's register for January of 1999. As I expected, the man to whom some sources attribute the kidnapping of the Vivar siblings wasn't listed. At least not as Boris Real or Francisco Virditti. I asked about the foreigner who'd shared his table the evening of January 12
^th
. Alvaro, the bartender, pointed at the name of Edgar Lee, a Mormon pastor who—visiting Region Six—spent two nights at the Verganza, accompanied by a woman who spent half the day bathing her small child. The housekeeping staff hadn't forgotten them either—the couple had asked to have the sheets changed fourteen times; it was also speculated that they'd stolen
some hand towels from the bathroom. Two lines below, on the same page of the register, appears the name of another foreigner: Patrice Dounn. The famous master of the theremin—an unusual instrument whose operation relies on magnetism—who, days later, would perform at the VIP resort in Navidad and Matanza, on the same night that Bruno and Alicia Vivar disappeared. The employees of the Verganza do not remember a dark-skinned guest from that time, despite the fact that the Congolese Dounn is definitely black, as a photograph from n° 695 of
World Music Express
proves. A different page in that same magazine has an article on the theremin: appearing there is a photograph of the black, wooden case, heavy and rectangular, which musicians often use to transport the instrument. It is, without a doubt, the same case that appeared in Alvaro's story; the same case that, in the vicinity of San Fernando, the Mormon pastor Edgar Lee—the American poet, dead in 1950—gave to Patrice Dounn, the Congolese thereminist who, on that exact date, was participating in the performance of
Symphony No. 4 for orchestra (and optional chorus, theremin et alia)
, by Charles Ives, in London's Royal Albert Hall. This would've been an extravagant way to move ten million dollars of hadón, an illegal substance better known as “the ecstasy of hate,” upon whose discovery the International Police (Interpol) justified shutting down the festival in Matanza and Navidad on the 19
^th
of January 1999.

34

A
FEW DAYS BEFORE
the publication of my article in
SEA
, I got a phone call at the journal's office from a one Juan Carlos Montes. I
hadn't thought again about the Vivar family, but during that phone conversation I felt, what I'd call now, my first suspicion of the mess the kidnapping of the siblings would uncover. And a certainty: I too would get dirty. Or that I was dirty already. For his part, Montes had no problem beginning the conversation with a lie.

– I live down the street from the Vivar's home. I saw a car with your journal's logo on the door and hoped that finally a journalist with a sense of smell had arrived.

In reality, as I verified later, Juan Carlos Montes not only lived on a different street than he claimed, he lived in a different country.

– Sense of smell?

– I'm calling to find out what sort of story you're writing. If it's not too much trouble, of course.

– Forgive me, but I don't know what you mean by sense of smell.

– A nose.

– Obviously. I don't understand why you're calling.

– Do you like your job at
SEA
?

– Sir, if this is regarding a story you should speak to the editor. It doesn't seem like . . .

– Listen to me. My son was a classmate of Bruno's, the oldest child of the Vivar's. One day Terelenita called us to invite him to a birthday party. I don't know, I guess he was turning five.

– Don't make me hang up. I'm not interested.

I lied.

– At seven in the evening I went across the street to pick up Juan Carlitos. As always, the front door was open and no one greeted me. No doubt Juan Francisco and Terelenita were in their room, you know what I mean.

– No. And I don't see the reason for this conversation. I must insist.

– Please, don't interrupt me, I don't have much time. As I was saying, I went to see if there was anyone in the living room, but the house was empty. A lot of noise was coming from the garden, where the kids were running around and swimming in the pool, watched over by men who looked like house staff. Then all of a sudden I looked at the chimney. It was a reflex. Or I was somehow compelled. I'd seen something that caught my attention, a piece of skin among the flowers. It was hanging from the chimney, it was summer. The piece of skin was . . .

– What?

– A nose. They'd torn off someone's nose and left it stuck to the chimney.

I was silent.

– I don't know if you know who I am. I'm a surgeon, although I don't practice my specialty. I knew right away that it'd been torn off recently. It was still warm.

– A nose?

– Yes. Do you understand now that this little journal where you work doesn't provide you with what you need to write good stories?

– Hang on.

My secretary needed something; I dealt with it as quickly as possible. I picked up the phone:

– Mr. Montes, I'd like to meet with you to discuss this at greater length.

– Yes, yes. But, please, let me finish. I tore a page from a notebook that was in a wastebasket and wrapped the nose inside it.
I was about to put it in my pocket when I heard the children screaming.

– What happened to the nose?

– I left it there, in the living room. I think a big dog came and started chewing on it, something I seem to have seen as I ran as fast I could out to the garden because my son Juan Carlitos had a cramp and was drowning. That's what an employee told me, a butler who worked in the house. I wanted to see my son, but ten large men dressed in suits surrounded the pool. The children were running around wildly, screaming: “The fish, the fish.” They were terrified, as if they'd seen a monster. It was horrible. There was a lot of fear and violence and hate, I don't know if I can explain it, a lot of fear and hate in that house.

– Okay. And what happened to your son?

– Juan Carlitos? I couldn't see anything because those guards—who said they were butlers too, but who were speaking into walkie-talkies the whole time—surrounded my son and carried him to a car. They said they were taking him to a clinic, but they didn't say which one. I never saw any of them again. Those fucking criminals evaporated. That was fifteen years ago and I've never seen him since. That's why I'm calling you.

– They took your son?

– They told me he died. Vivar swears my son was never in his house, and he hasn't allowed me to speak to that woman, Terelenita. I filed a report and the police briefly opened an investigation. Shortly thereafter they told me he was dead. The judge said his body might be found in mass grave of disappeared-detainees in Pisagua, but that was another lie. I've spoken with many people and found nothing: my case will never be on television or in the
newspapers. I don't want them to discuss the state my wife is in. It pains me even to speak of it.

– Mr. Montes, may I call you later to set up an interview? This is serious. What's your phone number?

– Uh, no, not now. I just want attention put on the Vivar's. I'll call you. Goodbye.

Juan Carlos Montes hung up. I never heard from him again. The old woman who answered the phone at the number from which the call had been made swore at me every time I told her who I was. After what happened in Navidad and Matanza I thought there was an obvious link between the disappearance of the Vivar siblings and Juan Carlitos Montes. But I was wrong. One night in April of 1999, after eating dinner with a friend, I told him about the bizarre story I was interested in writing. My friend, a salesman for a pharmaceutical company, was surprised when I mentioned Juan Carlos Montes.

– Montes? I know Juan Carlos Montes. He hasn't disappeared. He won't leave me alone. He's the product manager of Masters Lab in Chile.

According to my friend, this individual's father, Juan Carlos Montes senior, lived in California; he owned the business.

– A man of means; there's a reason you can't track him down.

Of course, the game's pieces didn't fit together. If this were the same Juan Carlos Montes who'd been kidnapped, according to the story of the man on the telephone, he'd be nineteen years old now. Maybe he was a whiz kid. A boy genius, I said. No, my friend responded, with a smile that reflected the words the man from the telephone had repeated. Hate, fear.

– You have to understand the side effects of hadón, the extremely addicting and popular drug: rapid aging and then death.

I asked him if there was a cure for this addiction. My friend raised his wine glass and made a toast:

– There is nothing that frees us from death, but yes, there is something that frees us from its side effects.