The Days of the Rainbow (4 page)

“Pinochet has been bombarding the country with advertising for fifteen years and I would have only fifteen minutes on TV. It’s like the battle of David and Goliath.”

“Adrián.”

“What?”

“Who won?”

“Who won what?”

“The battle of David and Goliath.”

Bettini fell back onto the seat and covered his ears with both hands. In the last year, Magdalena had gotten into the habit of stopping the car every time she thought she had said something clever. Now Bettini didn’t know what was upsetting him most—her words or the honking of the cars behind them.

TODAY
’
S MONDAY
.
The sky’s covered with black and gray clouds, but it’s not raining. The city of Santiago feels heavy on people’s necks and everyone walks fast with their heads bent down. I barely slept last night, and now, as I walk to school, I yawn ten times per minute. Our first class is history; then we have philosophy.

That means that I’ll have the chance to sleep at my desk. When I get to school, I remember Dad again. I wonder if he has cigarettes and if he’s allowed to smoke. I see a butt on the floor and I smash it with my shoe.

When it is time for our philosophy class, we enter the classroom all at once, without lining up first in the corridor. A couple of classmates pat me on my shoulder and I wrap my blue scarf around my neck. It’s freezing cold. To avoid having to talk with
the boy next to me, I take out my pencil case and start sharpening a pencil with my metal sharpener.

Then the philosophy teacher comes in.

He’s not Mr. Santos. He’s a young man with thick eyebrows and turned-up nose. He wears round glasses like John Lennon’s and a shiny blue blazer. He’s very slim, and as if to show his strength, he lets the attendance book fall on his desk with a thud. Then he opens it, clears his throat, and starts taking attendance.

After saying each name and hearing the word “Here,” he looks up and makes an affirmative gesture, as if he already knew the students. When he calls “Santos,” I stand up, but he doesn’t make that affirmative gesture—he keeps his eyes fixed on the attendance book. Then he looks up again—32, Tironi; 33, Vásquez; 34, Wacquez; and 35, Zabaleta.

He takes a piece of chalk from the edge of the blackboard, tosses it up and catches it without looking at it. That gesture makes him look even younger. Then, he says, “My name is Javier Valdivieso, like the Valdivieso champagne. I have seen Professor Santos’s notes and I know that you have already studied the pre-Socratics and Plato. So today we’ll start to study Aristotle. Aristotle’s ethics. Write this down: ‘None of the moral virtues arises in us by nature, for nothing that exists by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature. For instance, the stone
that by nature moves downward when we drop it cannot be habituated to move upward, not even if one throws it up ten thousand times, for it would end up falling down ten thousand times.

“ ‘The virtues, therefore, arise in us neither by nature nor against nature; rather, human beings possess a natural aptitude to receive them and perfect them by habit. That way, by performing just actions we become just, and being afraid or acting valiantly in front of danger makes us either cowards or brave.’ ”

And then he says, “On Wednesday, we’ll have a quiz on Plato and the allegory of the cave.”

BEFORE ADRIÁN
inserted the key, Magdalena opened the door for him from the inside. She kissed him energetically on his cheek and made a gesture with her head toward the living room.

The opposition leader, Don Patricio Olwyn, was smiling at him with an expression that seemed cut from the same cloth as Jack Nicholson’s.

“Coffee, Senator?”

“Thank you.”

“Sugar, Senator?”

“That’s fine. And don’t call me ‘senator,’ I beg you. Since those beasts closed the Congress, what’s left is just my longing for that title.”

“And what brings you here, Don Patricio?”

“Something big, something that can become magnificent.”

“Tell me about it.”

“For the October fifth plebiscite, Pinochet is going to authorize the opposition to do a fifteen-minute campaign against him on TV.”

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“The election is thirty days away, and our ad must start broadcasting next week.”

“There’s no time for anything.”

Bettini touched the pocket of his shirt and was about to take out a cigarette when he thought that it would be impolite to smoke in front of such an important person. He kept the box between his hands, caressing the cellophane wrapper.

“That’s the dictator’s strategy. Strike fast, so the enemy doesn’t have a chance to react.”

To place more emphasis on his words, he stood up.

“My friend Bettini, on behalf of the sixteen political parties that have agreed to vote against Pinochet, I came to offer you the leadership of the advertising campaign for the
No
.”

Adrián Bettini stood up as well and, with a gentle gesture, asked his wife and daughter to leave the living room. Still, he was able to read what Magdalena’s lips were saying behind her smile: “Go ahead!”

Once he was alone with Don Patricio, Bettini replied, with no tact whatsoever, “How much are you paying?”

“The pay is … well … it’s
ad honorem
.”

“What do the polls say?”

“Ours? That the
No
could win.”

“And theirs?”

“That the
Yes
wins.”

“And what do you think?”

“I don’t know. But I can assure you that our polls are not embellished to please ourselves. In Chile, there’s a lot of unrest and anger against Pinochet, and that unrest represents the feeling of the majority. The problem is that this plebiscite will be determined by those who, as of today, are undecided.”

“Are there any undecided people in Chile today, after fifteen years of terror?”

“Pinochet has convinced everyone that if he loses, Chile will go to hell. He appeals to those who don’t have good memories of the overthrown Socialist government.”

“You were an enemy of that Socialist regime, and one of the Christian Democrats who promoted the riots that led to the military coup.”

“This is not the time for blame. You and I are now in the same team—against Pinochet!”

Bettini let himself fall on the couch and, somber, kept his eyes fixed on the coffee he hadn’t even tasted. At the same time, Don Patricio sat courteously and turned his head, observing Bettini expectantly.

“I’m happy to hear that. But there is a reason why I cannot accept your offer.”

“Explain yourself!”

“The coalition that supports the
No
is made up of sixteen political parties! It’s such a broad conglomerate that it’s impossible to think it has its own identity. And advertising a product requires being able to define the product with total clarity. Success is not achieved with ambiguities. There are so many parties behind the
No
that I don’t even know them. And you?”

“There are sixteen, plus the Communists, who support us but are not part of the coalition.”

“Could you list them?”

“Well, there is us, the Christian Democrats, then the Socialists, the Social Democrats, the Liberal Party, the … Can I now say ‘and so on’?”

“And you expect me to come up with a clear advertising concept from such disparate movements?”

“If we didn’t know that you’re the best, we wouldn’t have turned to you.”

The advertising agent got up, victim of a sudden itch that made him scratch his neck. He drew the curtains and looked at the snowy peaks of the Andes.

“Chile’s such an odd country! Even though I’m its best ad agent, I’ve been laid off in a country where everything’s advertising. Because I’m a good
ad agent, I get threats, I’m sent to jail, they torture me, then throw me to the street again, branded as an agitator. When I’m offered a job I cannot accept, it’s the best salary in the world. When I’m offered a campaign I should accept, it’s
ad honorem
.”

The senator went to the window and put a fraternal hand on Bettini’s shoulder.

“Your personal experience perfectly matches the public situation. A fierce dictatorship that took power with cannon shots, air raids, torture, prison, terror, and exile decides to stay in power not by force but with the Versaillesque gesture of calling a plebiscite. And on top of all that irony, it offers its opponents, for the first time in fifteen years of complete censorship, fifteen minutes on TV to convince the people to vote against the dictator.”

“They’re going to legitimize themselves internationally as a democracy.”

“And the only way to prevent that from happening is if the strategy backfires on them. That is, Mr. Bettini, if you make the
No
win. What do you say?”

Bettini closed his eyes and rubbed them vigorously as if to get rid of a bad dream.

“My dear Senator, I don’t hold out any hope for the triumph of the
No
. I don’t think that this country, ideologically poisoned and terrified, will dare to
vote against the
Yes
, and I haven’t the slightest idea what the slogan of the campaign could be.”

Don Patricio patted Bettini’s shoulder affectionately once again, and raising his thick eyebrows, smiled and said, “That’s a good beginning. Do you accept, then?”

Over Don Patricio’s shoulder, Bettini was astounded to see his wife giving him the thumbs-up from behind the half-open door.

“Okay, Senator, here you’ll have the Chilean translation for the Japanese word ‘hara-kiri’—I accept.”

The politician hugged him, then put on his hat left the house in a rush, just in case Bettini changed his mind.

From the window, the advertising agent saw the senator getting into his car. He also observed that, as soon as the senator’s car left, another car left behind his.

He decided not to worry. As long as he didn’t appear publicly in the campaign, the minister of the interior wouldn’t be unhappy. As for Don Patricio’s safety, he should be okay—at least until the plebiscite took place. If what Pinochet wanted right now was to legitimize himself as a democratic ruler, he couldn’t have the leader of the opposition killed. That was Magdalena’s good point. But that
would work only in a rational country, not in one where arbitrariness rules.

Now he did allow himself to light a cigarette and exhaled the first puff sitting at the piano. He didn’t come up with a song to promote the
No
. Instead, as soon as he touched the keys, an ironic circus tune came out of his fingers. Then, like the great Garrick, laughing so as not to cry, he improvised a few verses:

Magdalena came into the studio and leaned on the piano.

“So?” Adrián brushed the ash off his lapel and, taking a deep puff of the cigarette, closed the black lid.

“David and Goliath,” she said.