Something Fierce (33 page)

“But they have cameras.”

“Oh, I know. It's just a matter of checking where the cameras are, making no fast movements, and never losing your composure. How do you think I've defied starvation all these years?”

I'd received a tear-stained letter from the Cousin within a month of my return. Since then, there'd been many more. He cracked my heart open every time. It was dangerous enough to have to lean on buildings when a wave of terror hit me. To couple that with the weak-in-the-knees sensation of illicit love was just plain stupid. And there was my secret betrayal of Alejandro. He was a comrade, a companion, a brother, a soulmate, but I'd come to realize I loved him in those ways, not as a lover. By late November 1987, the height of spring, I knew I had to leave him, and not for the Cousin. For myself. But first, the flight into Chile had to be completed.

Juan paid us a visit in Neuquén. We met him at a bus stop, then rode with him in the back seat of a bus that wound along dirt roads through the apple orchards, picking up and dropping off the peons and maids who worked in the area. We could talk safely there, as long as we kept our voices low.

“Now I want you to show me the plane,” Juan said, after we'd discussed our flight plan. “I need to see how much space there is. The first time you'll drop off goods. The ultimate goal is to drop off people, of course.”

“Of course.”

At the flying club, we introduced him as Alejandro's uncle, visiting from Mendoza. Juan was disappointed at how small the Tomahawk was, but he cheered up when we showed him the larger Cessna.

“So you'll start with the Tomahawk, and we'll see how that goes.”

“That's right.”

“Excellent work.”

Pinochet had announced he would hold a plebiscite in 1988, now only a month away. The people of Chile would be asked a yes or no question: do you want Pinochet to govern for another eight years? If the Yes side won, all would proceed as usual. If the No side won, elections would be held a year later. The plebiscite was worrisome to people in the resistance. For one thing, the entire adult population would be required by law to register for the vote, providing personal information like addresses, phone numbers, place of work, names of family members and ID card numbers. Many believed this “registration” was just a way of collecting information for the secret police.

If the No side were to succeed—which seemed likely, since seventeen opposition parties in Chile had joined forces—the Christian Democratic leader, head of the opposition coalition, would win the elections that followed. There would be widespread euphoria at first. Most human rights abuses would undoubtedly cease. But the neoliberal economic structure of Chile would remain intact, and the new government would inherit a staggering foreign debt. As in Argentina, the IMF and the World Bank would demand that the new government set up a “structural adjustment plan” to repay that debt, meaning social services would not be reinstated and government spending would be cut back even further. The constitution put in place by Pinochet in 1980 would remain the same, barring the new government from prosecuting anyone for crimes against humanity and giving Pinochet a seat in the senate, as well as allowing him to keep his position as commander-in-chief of the armed forces. The secret police and other repressive apparatus would remain intact; probably dormant, but there all the same.

To many in the resistance, the plebiscite looked like the worst thing that could happen. The increasing polarization and unrest in Chile pointed to the possibility of radical change. If power could be seized soon through a revolution, the resulting provisional government could rip up the constitution, imprison members of the military, kick out the IMF, the World Bank and the multinational corporations, and work on re-establishing a democratically run socialist state.

The resistance, its members exhausted after fifteen years of persecution, was beginning to split. Some believed it was time to throw in the towel and join the coalition. Others believed the resistance still had a chance. For the latter group, time was of the essence.

“We need to organize this first drop-off of goods as soon as possible,” Juan informed us. “Go to the post office box every day, and the instructions will be there.”

In mid-December, Alejandro and I signed out the Tomahawk from the flying club for a day trip, loading it with goods we'd wrapped in towels and blankets and stashed inside two gym bags. A couple of young Argentinian men had dropped them off the night before at a busy greasy spoon.

Flying as low as we possibly could, we navigated through the mountain range. Alejandro had scouted the route twice earlier, accompanied by a rich daredevil skydiver who frequented the club. He made not a peep during Alejandro's “accidental” forays across the border.

“There they are!” Alejandro said now, pointing from the pilot's seat.

Two people below waved from an open field.

Thanks to Alejandro's skill, we landed safely. We unloaded the bundles and handed them to a man and a woman. They were clearly Mapuche. Within a minute it was done, with no words spoken. Everybody's hands shook.

My heart was in my mouth as we flew back. Not only because at any moment our lives could end, but because we'd achieved what we set out to do: deliver goods for a revolution whose goal was that the poor could eat, would have access to medical care and education and shelter. The other lives I constantly imagined gave way to this one. I was coasting in a plane through the Andes with a man who loved me unconditionally, a compañero who was squeezing my hand now as tears rolled down his face.

THAT CHRISTMAS EVE, my grandmother was reunited with her three children for the first time since the days of Allende. Mami and Uncle Boris had flown to Chile, filled with emotion, when the noreturn list was finally erased, thanks to the Pope's continued pressure. At dinner, I sat between Alejandro and the Cousin, symbols of the two halves of my heart. Joining us around the dining room table, to which the kitchen table had been added, were Ale, who'd reinvented herself as the head aerobics instructor at Vancouver's trendiest gym; Lalito; my cousin Elena, hiding an out-of-wedlock pregnancy from my grandmother; my uncle Carlos and aunt Vicky; my aunt Magdalena; my little cousin Sarita; my mother's new partner, Bill; and the Cousin's eight-year-old daughter, Princesa, whom he'd had with the maid I'd met in Concepción on my first visit to his home.

My grandmother beamed during the whole week-long visit. We went through the boxes she'd stored in the back, every object we uncovered inspiring an anecdote. The adults told story after story of Chile during the dark years. My grandmother was still shaken up by the broadcast on national television a few weeks earlier of a young resistance member making a confession.

“They accused that young woman of being an accomplice in the abduction of a high-ranking military man and interrogated her for the whole country to see,” my grandmother said. “Her scalp was oozing pus, her eyes were swollen shut, her head was held up by a hand at the base of her skull, and they shone a light in her face while making her say into the camera that she was a terrorist, that she had helped with the abduction and she regretted it. They put her on during
María Belongs to Nobody
, the siesta soap opera, when they knew everyone would be watching. And she was rich, with a German last name, from a well-to-do family, well connected, a brilliant student from Las Condes.”

There was silence at the table as my grandmother wiped her eyes. After a moment, Uncle Carlos remarked on the perfect comedic timing of the resistance: when Miss Chile had won the Miss Universe contest that winter, there'd been a blackout just as Pinochet had come on TV to use the win as a huge media vehicle for himself. Everyone laughed as we remembered that.

We dreamed about what the future might hold for our family. We made outings to Viña del Mar and Valparaíso, both packed with returning exile families. All around us, parents translated for children conversing in English, Swedish, German and French. The fifteen of us posed for pictures on the seawall and bought fresh seafood at the port, as Uncle Boris cracked one joke after another. Both he and my mother found a moment to nod knowingly at Alejandro and me. When everyone left again for Canada, my heart broke for the millionth time.

Soon after we got back to Neuquén, I told Alejandro I wanted to end our marriage. Our conversation stretched over twelve hours, during which no food or drink was consumed. Finally, lost in the maze of words that tried to make sense of what had gone wrong, he went numb. I doubled over in pain.

I left Alejandro, but I remained true to the resistance, staying in Neuquén and continuing to follow orders. I rented a downtown apartment with a roommate named Fabiana, a fellow English teacher. She was right-wing, the daughter of a decorated military man. She was a hard worker and a party girl, and we'd go dancing together. Through her I met a professional basketball player who was the antithesis of Alejandro: a macho playboy from the Argentinian middle class, with centrist politics and an anti-feminist stance. With Estéban, it was all about wining and dining, dancing and sex. He had no idea about my resistance side. I got a separate post office box, but Alejandro and I remained in constant touch. My life and heart were now completely compartmentalized.

“IS FABIANA HOME?”

“No. She won't be back till much later.”

“Here they are. This is all I could get.”

Luisa emptied the contents of her backpack onto the dining room table in my apartment: a dozen Argentinian ID cards. I was still waiting for my own card, checking at the government office regularly.

“I put my pickpocket skills to use during Sunday mass. Hope this helps.”

It was July 1988. The plebiscite was only three months away, and the repression in Chile was relentless. The No campaign was so huge, so popular that rallies were now happening on a daily basis. The month before, the resistance had called for an underground congress, the first in sixteen years, in Santiago to discuss strategies. Alejandro went to Santiago on our behalf, but he never made it to the congress.

He'd waited on the designated corner once he got to Santiago, he told me later at a downtown Neuquén café. It was a Friday night, and Santiago was crazy with people and traffic. When a white Datsun stopped, Alejandro jumped in. There were five people in the car, and the driver told everybody to shut their eyes. Soon they were in a garage, then being ushered into a house through the back door. The walls in the house were covered with newspaper, and all the furniture had been removed. I thought of Rulo and Soledad's political education session in La Paz. “I tried not to look directly into the faces of the others,” Alejandro said, “but I did notice that every other person there looked poor. Really poor. It made me proud, honoured to be in a movement with them. And relieved to see with my own eyes that we're not just a bunch of middle-class assholes telling others what to do. A moment passed, and then another door opened and a man flanked by two bodyguards came in. He seemed familiar. Then it hit me. It was him, Skinny, the leader who's always lived inside Chile, who's never left, whose pictures are plastered everywhere with the words ‘Most Wanted' stamped across his face. He looked haggard, completely done for, but there was a light in his eye, and I felt admiration. I couldn't believe I was lucky enough to be in his presence.”

But then there'd been three knocks on the wall, Alejandro continued. Soft, but very clear. In one second, the two bodyguards and the five men who'd been there when Alejandro's group arrived pulled out submachine guns and prepared for combat. The back door of the house opened, and wordlessly Alejandro and his companions were shown out.

“I prepared to run, but the white Datsun was ready to take us. It sped through the streets, throwing us against the car doors at every corner. At one point it screeched to a stop, and the driver yelled, ‘You, the last one to get in, you're the first one to get off! Open the door and roll out, comrade, roll, stand as quickly as you can, and walk calmly away. Make contact with your superior when you are safe and sound.' I did as I was told. When I stood up, I realized I was by the River Mapocho, downtown again. I walked to the long-distance bus station and came home.” Alejandro took a sip of his coffee. “We should find out soon if the congress happened. We know no one was caught, because there's been nothing in the news about it. Catching a bunch of resistance members heading to a congress would be Pinochet's last trophy before he steps down, right?”

In the midst of the elation that gripped Chile, the secret police had continued their dirty work, in the poor neighbourhoods especially, almost undetected by the population at large. Soon after Alejandro got back I'd received a note in my post office box asking me to assemble thirty Argentinian ID cards. There were people who needed to get out of Chile immediately, and the fastest way was to simply change the pictures on real ID cards. And so it was that Luisa, my new helper, came in handy.

I'd recruited her while we were having a late-night coffee at one of our regular hangouts on a side street off Argentina Avenue.

“You know what's happening in Chile, right?”

“Yes.”

“Obviously you know about Pinochet and all that.”

“Of course.”

“You must also assume that there's a resistance to the dictatorship.”