The Rhythm of Memory (15 page)

As she finished her makeup and dabbed a bit of perfume behind her ears, she wished she had chosen a dress to wear. The suit she had selected the week before seemed painfully plain on the hanger on the closet door. Kaija wondered why she had chosen it in the first place, as it seemed so unremarkable now.

The woman in the shop had told her that the silk was imported from France and that the short hem and notched collar were the latest trend. She also recommended a matching white pillbox hat and soft kidskin gloves.

Kaija unwrapped her purchases from the perfumed tissue paper, slipped into the suit, and pinned the hat on her head with bobby pins. She wiggled her slender fingers into the gloves and readjusted her skirt.

After several careful steps, Kaija took a long, studied look at herself in the mirror. She barely recognized herself. She thought
she looked like an ambassador’s wife, not a bride to be. Her crucifix was hidden behind a smattering of tightly closed buttons, and her braided chignon was covered by the pillbox hat. Even her tiny hands were hidden beneath a casing of leather.

“I cannot possibly go like this,” she thought to herself, her fingers trembling as the clock was already striking half past ten. She was supposed to meet Samuel in less than an hour.

She picked up the photograph of her mother one last time, studying it even more intensely than she had only minutes before.

Her mother was radiant. She looked as a bride should, innocent and youthful.

The contrast with how she felt she looked so depressed Kaija that she decided to remove her pillbox hat and slip off her kidskin gloves. She unbuttoned her suit jacket and slid out of her skirt. Within seconds, she was standing in the center of her bedroom with nothing on but her undergarments, walking toward a closet that had almost nothing to offer her: a couple pairs of trousers, two pleated skirts, and one winter dress and one for summer. The summer dress she had bought the previous year. Made out of linen, it was not white, but rather a pale pink. A dusty rose color with an eyelet hem.

She pulled it out and into the sunlight. “It’s almost white,” she mused as she slipped into it and zipped up the back. It felt so much more comfortable to her than the constricting suit. “This will have to do,” Kaija murmured to herself as she ran to the mirror and twirled around, the skirt billowing up like a bell. Finally, she felt like a giddy bride.

Samuel didn’t even realize that his bride wore pink instead of white. To him, she was already the very image of purity and beauty. When he saw her for the first time that morning walking
up the steps of the town hall, he was overcome with emotion. He couldn’t believe that this exquisite creature had agreed to be with him for life.

She had sprinkled wildflowers in her hair, plucking them from the landlady’s garden as she walked down the path to meet her anxious groom. And she had placed her crucifix around her neck so that it nestled softly between the cleavage of her small, rounded breasts.

Samuel barely noticed the crucifix anymore, as he had grown to accept it as though it were an extension of Kaija’s body. Something that grew out from her, rooted in her heart and woven into her skin. He dared not envision what would happen to her if he asked her to remove it.

That morning, before they were pronounced man and wife, Samuel vowed to cherish Kaija always. He kissed her lightly on the lips and placed his arms around her waist.

“I want a big family,” he teased her as they exited the gilded town hall, and she lovingly squeezed his arm.

“We will make our own family now, my love,” Samuel said as he escorted Kaija into the waiting car. “A dozen little children…” And with that, he winked playfully at his radiant bride.

S
ANTIAGO
, C
HILE

A
PRIL
1970

Octavio arrived at Allende’s house on Guardia Vieja Street, a quiet residence filled with the scent of ripening fig and apple trees. He paid the taxi, walked through the gate, past the unfenced garden, and up to the porch. He straightened his tie, tapped the dirt off his shoes, ran his fingers through his hair, and readjusted his curls.

Nearly seconds after he rang the doorbell, Octavio was formally greeted by Allende’s wife, Hortensia Bussi, a dark and attractive woman with small, delicate features.

“You must be Don Octavio,” she said graciously, and motioned for him to step into the vestibule.

“Yes, and you must be Doña Hortensia.”

She smiled back at him. “Yes, but please call me Tencha,” she said as she extended her hand to him.

“Come this way.” She ushered him through the dimly lit corridor, past Allende’s study, the intimate parlor, and through two French doors that opened up onto a sunny terrace that overlooked a blooming garden of dahlias and sterling roses. There, Allende was sitting on one of the chaise longues with his hat pulled slightly over his brow.

“Salvador,” Tencha called out to him, “Don Octavio has arrived.”

The sun cast shadows over Allende’s face. He now held his hat
in his hand and was sitting upright, smoothing his trouser pleats with his left palm.

“Good afternoon, Don Octavio, so good of you to come. Can we offer you something to drink? A whiskey, some pisco, or perhaps a little boldo tea?”

“Yes, maybe some tea. If it is not inconvenient…”

“No, no, my good friend.” Allende went to pat Octavio on the back. “A little tea sounds good before we sit down for some work. You must excuse my little nap. I have been working such late hours that I must have fallen asleep in my chair!”

“It happens to us all, Doctor,” Octavio said as he sat down. “I’ve done it myself on many an occasion.”

“Yes. Yes.” Allende cleared his throat. “Well, how would you like to go about this little tutorial?”

“Well, I think it is best that we begin working on the presentation of your speeches. Have you any that you have recently prepared?”

“Yes, I do. They are in my study.”

“Let’s take a look at those. I’ll have you read from them, and you pretend that I am the cameraman standing there in front of you.”

“I’ve always done better in front of crowds. I feed off their energy. It gets my adrenaline going.”

“Yes, I understand.” Octavio’s voice was warm and compassionate. “That is one of the differences between the stage and the screen. In a studio it is only you, your fellow actors, and the crew. In the theater, you have the thrill of the crowds. The interaction between the audience and the performer is invigorating.”

“Exactly!”

“But now you must forget about those impassioned speeches that you used to give on top of Santa Lucía Hill, in Tierra del
Fuego, deep within the copper mines, or in the freezing cellars of the meat-packing plants. I cannot teach you what you already know. However, television is an entirely different arena.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So I will teach you how to master it. I will instruct you how to hold your head, where to rest your hands, and when to raise your palms. When you make your political promises, you should gaze directly into the lens, and when you comment on the decline of our children’s health and educational system, I will encourage you to bow your head ever so slightly.” Octavio paused. “Dr. Allende, I will teach you to manipulate the camera to your advantage.”

So, that afternoon, after Tencha had brought out the steaming cups of boldo tea, the two men practiced until evening fell upon the house on Guardia Vieja Street.

Octavio arranged the chairs so that Allende sat facing him, the speech he had drafted only hours before resting neatly on a garden stool in front of him.

“Men and women of Chile,” he began, “I have dedicated my life to serving the people—”

“Slower, my friend,” Octavio interrupted. “And when you are speaking, stare at my finger.” He lifted his forefinger and positioned it so that it centered Allende’s gaze.

“I have been inside the mines and seen the conditions in which our nation’s people work for pitiful wages, for foreign companies whose only interest is to fatten their own wallets…”

“Good!”

“I have seen the small child whose limbs are twisted and whose growth is stunted because his family could not afford the proper nourishment that no child should be deprived of…”

“Yes, now take off your glasses and shake your head slightly to emphasize the shame of this!”

“But I won’t be able to see…”

“You’ll put them on as soon as you finish the sentence. I will have the cameraman focus on your eyes at that point. Dr. Allende, you are probably the only sincere politician alive. Let the viewers see that in your gaze. It is what attracted me into accepting this job, and I am confident it will have the same effect on the voters.”

“I must confess, Don Octavio, that I am beginning to think this ‘staging’ of my speeches is bordering on insincere.”

“You shouldn’t think of it as that way.”

“Perhaps the public should see me just as I am. An occasional hesitation of speech can’t completely obliterate a past dedicated to community service?”

Octavio was silent for a moment. “I agree with you on a certain level. My wife actually shares a philosophy similar to yours. But, as Neruda pointed out, the Kennedy-Nixon debates showed that the public is partial to not only the more eloquent candidate but, also, to the more photogenic one. Neruda tells me that Nixon looked absolutely dreadful on camera, which probably cost him the election.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, but…”

“If you trust me, I will make sure that you look your best and that your words are heard, without any distractions. There is nothing insincere about that. After all, they will be your speeches, crafted from your heart and carved from your mind.”

Allende smiled. “All right then, let’s get back to work.”

For several hours each week, Octavio continued to visit the Allende household in private. There, the doctor relinquished his role as
aspiring Chilean presidential candidate and became a student of elocution and mannerisms that would transfer elegantly onto film. He listened as Octavio read the speeches that Allende had prepared the night before, studying the inflection that Octavio placed on certain words and mimicking his hands when he wished to emphasize certain points. After several sessions, Allende began to learn the art that Octavio had become famous for. It was as if one were seducing with one’s words, with one’s gaze. “Imagine you are staring into a beautiful woman’s eyes, like the way you did to your wife, Tencha, the first night after you were wed.”

And, indeed, Allende understood the language in which Octavio spoke. He could envision all the images the actor urged him to think of when he was speaking. He heard Octavio’s voice whispering in his head even when he slept, so that, even in his dreams, he was speaking in a mellifluous voice and holding his head straight and his spine erect. If he had searched the world over, he would never have found a better teacher than Octavio.

For weeks, they practiced maintaining eye contact and perfected the art of the pregnant pause. He assured Allende that, when his eye began to blink, if he paid it no attention and continued to speak eloquently, then people too would ignore it and concentrate on his words.

As the doctor triumphantly grew more confident in front of the camera, the stutter eventually ceased. And in the weeks that followed, he seemed more zealous than ever before.

It was inevitable that, by hearing Allende’s speeches each day, Octavio became a passionate and learned listener of Allende’s ideas. Sometimes, as he made his way back to his dusty pink house, Octavio would recite some of the lines from Allende’s latest speech and gesticulate on the street as if he were on a podium himself. The doctor’s words inspired him. It brought out the performer in
him. But these were not empty words from a script. They were passionate, well-intentioned words, ones with vision and the capacity to change the very fiber of Chile. Where men were treated equal regardless of class, and where industries were owned by the people, rather than by the rich multinationals. The more time Octavio spent with Allende, the more he came to agree and support him politically. He was no longer aiding him because it flattered him as an actor, but because he truly believed that Allende was the best candidate for Chile.

As time passed, Octavio grew to have enormous respect for Allende, not only as his candidate of choice, but also as a man, a husband, and a father. To each of his responsibilities, he seemed deeply devoted. Octavio was touched by the way Allende consulted with both Tencha and their daughter, Tati, about his campaign. He was mesmerized by the doctor as Allende recounted his meetings with Che Guevara and Fidel Castro.

When Allende offered to pay him for his services, Octavio refused. “When I do things, I do them for the passion or the purpose,” he told the doctor. “I don’t need the money.”

“I want to compensate you somehow,” Allende said firmly. “You deserve something for your efforts. What can I give you?”

“If you are elected, and only if my instruction has paid off, you can send my wife and me on an exotic trip for a few months.”

“Very well,” he replied, content with Octavio’s reply. “Tell your wife in a few weeks’ time she’ll be off on an adventure.”

By the time Allende’s camera debut approached, he had benefited from nearly four months of intensive training.

“You will make sure the camera takes me from the appropriate angles.”

“Yes, of course, Doctor, I will make sure. I will take care of it.”

The two men had grown close to each other over the past few months. So much so that Allende embraced him before he went on air. “No matter the outcome of this election, I will always be grateful to you, Octavio. I will always be indebted.”

Octavio laughed. “Go out there in the name of Chile and make me proud.”

Allende sat down at the desk that had been prepared for him by the television studio. The television camera loomed in the foreground, and as he stared into the large black lens, he remembered what Octavio had told him.

“Keep your chin up high and your eyes focused on the center of the lens. Pretend it is the eyes of your wife on your wedding day.” Allende remembered how he and Tencha had gone to the court-house that afternoon so many years before. It had been a private day between them. No pomp or circumstance. No flowers in her hair. But he had looked into her dark eyes and promised himself to her. He had sworn his undying devotion to her, just as he was willing now to do to the people of Chile.