The Days of the Rainbow (11 page)

Olwyn’s absence could lead to disaster for Bettini. If the man who had asked for “joy” didn’t show up, how would he explain to all those brave and long-suffering leftist activists who were ready to test him, for example, Little Kinky Flower’s “Waltz of the
No
”?

Would they understand the strategy of diluting the hemlock with syrup?

He’d rather watch the first fifteen minutes of the campaign with them, just in case he had missed any details. He wanted to make sure that
there were no silly images out of context that would jeopardize the broadcasting of the TV ad.

It was necessary to be careful. To denounce without provoking. And even to praise Pinochet, if it were necessary, for the courage of wanting to look like a democratic ruler in the eyes of the entire world. He was going to react right away, even before the censors, to anything that could be perceived as impertinence, so that his reputation remained unharmed.

That’s why he had suggested that the ambassador invite Olwyn to watch the movie.
Impeccable
, he thought.

The minister of the interior’s spies would report that Olwyn had gone to a cultural event at the embassy of the kindred country. He never expected the diplomat to really have a copy of
Flesh
.

“You’re a perfectionist, Ambassador. I’m sure that when you attend a baptism you demand to see a baby, and if you attend a funeral, you get angry if there isn’t a corpse around.”

Bettini himself had provided Olwyn’s stern emissaries with the most comfortable armchairs in an improvised first row. The ambassador lit Dutch Tiparillo cigars for them, Patricia brought some footrests so that they could stretch their legs, and Raúl Alarcón, aka Little Kinky Flower, bowed emphatically as he walked by them.

Che Barrios connected the speakers and then Bettini held out his hand, indicating that the young man should sit next to him. He wanted to have the privilege of watching his own work with the young and improvised technician sitting nearby, just in case it became necessary to interrupt the showing.

The ambassador offered some introductory words before the film. He said he was expecting to be pleasantly surprised by such an illustrious group of artists. He had to tell the distinguished friends in the audience that the minister of the interior had called him on Monday to assure him that all diplomats accredited in Chile could be certain—and to let their respective countries know—that whatever the outcome of the plebiscite, he would recommend that General Pinochet respect the people’s verdict.

“That being said,” the ambassador continued, apologizing in advance for the vulgar remark he would quote literally, and showing a smile with perfect teeth, “he also said to me, ‘When you lose, you have to recognize that you’re in the shit.’ ”

The ambassador to the neighboring country ended his remarks to this “ecumenical” event—smiling once again at finding such a felicitous adjective—where the leaders of the opposition parties would watch Isabel Sarli’s fifteen-minute ad
campaign, which would be broadcast in a few days, in the presence of their own creators.

“Although the Constitution of 1980 requires Pinochet to call this plebiscite, it’s also true that the military forces have the power to put any constitution you know where when they feel like it. So let’s not see things so black and white all the time, you know? The general keeps his promises, you know?”

He pointed at Bettini with his cigar and kept it in that position as he went on with his speech.

“To tell the truth, I’m afraid we’ll now see something terrific, because we all know the résumé of this talented ad agent. A man who’s ‘a bit bitter, like life,’ a man who was asked, not long ago, by the minister of the interior himself to lead the advertising campaign for the
Yes
. He, who defines himself as a David among Goliaths, has chosen, in spite of the many risks involved, to be the president’s adversary. That’s his legitimate right. I can’t wait to see what he has invented to overthrow the general from the Chileans’ heart.”

The ambassador held the video of
Flesh
in one hand and the tape of the
No
in the other, and, leaning over to the delegates of the political parties, asked if he could dispense with Isabel Sarli in spite of “the two powerful reasons she’d have to occupy the screen.”

They all laughed willingly, and Héctor Barrios, the young Chilean student recently repatriated from Argentina, pressed the Play button. The ambassador dimmed the lights, and the fifteen-minute campaign for the
No
began.

SCREENING NO
. 2
.

The young Nico Santos couldn’t attend the private premiere of the
No
campaign. It was opening night of
The Cave of Salamanca
at his school’s auditorium.

The first row was reserved for special guests—the principal and the military official in charge of the school, Lieutenant Bruna, who encouraged cultural activities as an antidote against the political protest the students were so inclined to.

Dressed for his role as the sybaritic, lecherous sacristan, Nico stepped out from behind the curtain. With a ballet-style bow, he acknowledged the applause and cheers of his friends in the audience and, asking for time out, the way basketball coaches do, he cleared his throat. He knew that he was about to violate the pact he had with his father
about not getting into trouble. He missed his dad a lot, but at least he had the consolation that his father would never know about the blunder he was about to make. If Professor Santos were in the audience, he would surely intuit what Nico was about to say, and he would place his finger to his lips, urging his son to keep silent.

“You must be wondering, respectable audience, what I’m doing here dressed as a sacristan …”

“Yes!” the students roared.

“I’m a character from Cervantes’s play
The Cave of Salamanca
.”

“Bad cave, bad luck,”
^*
a funny one shouted from the last row.

The burst of laughter filled the auditorium. And Nico, in an accommodating mood, decided to join the racket without losing sight of his goal.

“I hope you have fun with this little piece by Cervantes. You know Cervantes, right?”

Lieutenant Bruna nodded, satisfied. “
Don Quixote
” the official said loudly.

“The author of
Don Quixote of La Mancha
,” confirmed Nico, crediting the lieutenant with a smile for his precise info. “This is a brief piece that I hope you like. We had scheduled its premiere
for next week, but considering the distressing circumstances surrounding Professor Paredes, the director of this play, we have decided to bring the premiere forward as a way to call the attention of all of you, comrades and school authorities, to the abduction of Professor Paredes, who, as of today, is a”—Nico swallowed— “ ‘missing detainee.’ ”

All the teachers who had escorted the principal and the lieutenant to the honor row simultaneously lost their smiles. The expression “missing detainee” was taboo. The most you could say was “missing,” and you had to immediately add, as in the news, “in unknown circumstances.”

Nico Santos had just lighted a bomb fuse. All the students looked toward the exit door, wishing they were somewhere else.

The principal snapped his fingers and made a signal to Nico to raise the curtain.

“Let the show begin,” he said as cheerfully as he could.

But Nico Santos stayed restless on the proscenium, possessed by a sudden recklessness that clouded his brain and loosened his tongue.

“I’m especially addressing you, Lieutenant Bruna, to ask you to make the most of your high rank and influence on the military forces, and to act accordingly, so that we can have our dear English teacher and director of this play back with us.”

Bruna nodded with a crisp movement of his chin. “We’ll do all we can.”

For ten seconds, Santos and the lieutenant looked at each other amid the overwhelming silence that filled the room. Until the beautiful teenager from High School 1 for girls, who played the role of the wife, dressed in such a way that the lubricous young audience wouldn’t miss the volume of her breasts, broke onto the stage caressing her husband, while crying false tears whose hypocrisy she underscored by pointing at them with a finger as they flowed down her cheek.

As soon as her husband, and future cuckold, comes onto the stage, she makes the obscene gesture with her finger upward and shouts, “Go down, lightning, to the house of that whore, Ana Díaz. May you go and never come back, like smoke.”

From offstage, Nico Santos watches Lieutenant Bruna, in the first row, with his right leg crossed over his left leg, impatiently jiggling his right foot. Nico Santos lifts up the skirt of his purple sacristan gown to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

BETTINI
’
S FAVORITE LINE
was by Camus: “Everything I know about morality and the duty of man I owe to soccer.” Especially, he added, that the ball never comes where one expects it to.

The bitter-faced man chosen by the parties’ delegates to be the spokesperson for all authorized the ambassador to put one more ice cube in his whiskey and then raised the glass to his lips.

“I think Olwyn was wrong, Bettini. You’re not the best anymore. You used to be the best.”

“Did you find the campaign that bad?”

“As harmless as a mint tea. That supposedly ironic parade of commanders, with Strauss’s little waltz as background music, makes even the military look nice.”

“Does it mean that you’re not going to approve it?”

“A little waltz by Strauss! We don’t have any time to change anything. We’re screwed!”

“ ‘A little waltz by Strauss,’ ” Bettini repeated while rubbing the glass of whiskey over his forehead to sooth the heat.

“I was expecting Troy to burn—you attacking Pinochet with the issue of the missing detainees, human rights, torture, exile, layoffs … And you come up with a little joke here, a little joke there … Strauss’s little waltz! Tell me, Bettini—”

“Mr.…?”

“Cifuentes. When, exactly, did you lose your way?”

“I really don’t know. I’ve been unemployed for so many years!”

“Pinochet may win the plebiscite just because he has balls. Instead, you seem to have only songs.”

The ad agent mumbled something so softly that Cifuentes had to lean forward to hear him.

“What did you say, Bettini?”

“Songs and broken collarbones.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, man!”

The ambassador hugged them both and walked them to the balcony. On Vicuña Mackenna Avenue, the traffic was moving very slowly.

“What a disaster!” the ambassador said. “It seems there are only red lights on this street!”

I TEAR OUT
the calendar page. This month is full of holidays. Independence Day, Coup d’État Day, Army Day. I heard on the radio that, for this month of national holidays, there will be an amnesty for political prisoners. Maybe they’ll let my dad go.