9/22/2007

Author's note: This is what I refer to as quasi-fictional memoir. The events and characters are mainly as they happened to me when I traveled to Chile in the fall of 1971, when Allende was the first democratically elected socialist president of Chile. It is part of a larger work in progress, so some of the characters and references that appear in other sections of the work are not fully developed in this piece. When I returned from Chile, before the coup and death of Allende, I was extraordinarily overwhelmed and confused by much of what I had experienced on this adventure in search of some high falutin' "truth" about revolutionary change. I wanted to witness and write, but I didn't . It's been a long time coming to fruition. Today I am beyond being ashamed of my ignorance, and not nearly as fearful of my own opinions.


Feliz Navidad

Martha was gone for good, Doris and Annival were off to the South to explore vineyards and casinos, and Nel was left alone in the house. It didn't feel much like Christmas, after all; it was almost summer in Chile. Every day the weather went through a radical shift, with the afternoon rain predicted by the ants who would take shelter in the house, outlining the corners of the rooms with their carapaced migration. How did they know it would soon rain? It was no use to try to stop this daily incursion. They always departed as they came when the rain let up. Everyone was gone, even the party comers were few and far between these days. It was an opportune time to sit and write, Nel counseled herself. She was just too damned restless and feeling shut in. And shut out. Why did it seem she was always destined to be left home alone? What crime did she commit to be alone on Christmas? Did she drive everyone away with her relentless harping, trying to keep order in a household that had no center except for the drift of stoned speculation, the heady high of fresh sex, the rhythm of drums and guitar and the night long revisions of stories of self and transformation: prayers and dreams for safe passage into a new era? She was drained and angry, so very tired of being "Maria La Domestica. " "Ah well, there they sit! Can't say there is nothing to do," Nel grumbled to herself, eyeing the precariously balanced stack of dirty dishes on the kitchen sideboard. The original and authentic Maria had long since quit cleaning the house, and who could blame her! With a keen awareness of the irony, Nel who had written her Bachelor's Thesis on women's liberation just the year before, had now been serving the revolution by cooking and cleaning and trying to keep the garbage out. Somewhere, sometime, Nel had heard the pronouncement that after the revolution the most highly paid workers would be the trash collectors-which wasn't such a bad idea, even though it might just have been her very own pipe dream. She rose from the table in the main room and, bringing the remainders in her coffee cup, perched it safely above the drainboard on a shelf. She turned on the cassette player and began singing along with Edith Piaf-who always somehow lifted her spirits-"Rien de Rien, non, je ne regrette rien! (I have no regrets)". She freed the dishpan from the debris at the bottom of the sink, rinsed it, and began filling it with warm water. '"Ni Le Bien Qu`on M`a Fait, Ni Le Mal-Tout Ca M`est Bien Egal (Neither the good that's happened, nor the bad-they are all equal)." The pile began shifting from her left to her right. Startled by an odd sound from the window above the sink, she stopped singing and glanced up. There, framed in the window, dangled a perfect long-stemmed red rose. The noise had been petals tapping the frame. The window was open, any breeze was a plus these days. "Hola?" Nel queried the rose. "Happy Christmas!" came the accented reply. The rose slipped out of sight and Paulo's face replaced it in the frame. Wow! Nel's eyes lit up.

Nel only knew Paulo as a handsome Brazilian who sometimes lurked at the gatherings that were held almost nightly in their home ever since the "guerillas" invaded. She had a vague recollection that he was involved with Lucille, and it flitted through her mind that he might be the father of the child Lucille carried. She really had no clue why he had come around today. Given her mood, she was more than ready to be distracted, so she banished all qualms about loyalty to Lucille, or what might have prompted Paulo's visit. The rose in the window was sooo 'romancero Chileno'! "¡Venido con mí! No debes estar aquí todo solo hoy. ¡Tengo un suprise para ti! (Come with me! You should not be alone here today. I have a surprise for you!)" Paulo announced as he came through the door and presented the rose with a flourish. "Momentito! Debo poner una vestido." Nel realized she was still in her nightgown. She left him standing in the salon, flew into her bedroom and shut the door. It took only three or four minutes to slip into a cotton print dress, run a brush through her curly shag, grab her purse and lock up the house. Paulo put Nel's arm through his and they began walking. She glowed with appreciation. This should be fun! They promenaded arm-in-arm for about eight blocks to a small square. Paulo told her that he hadn't been sure of finding anyone at the house, but really felt a little lonely himself and wanted to do something to celebrate. He said he was working with no rest and felt he deserved a day off. This explanation took a while because his English wasn't totally fluent and Nel's Spanish was - well, you already know it was fairly primitive. Besides, now that he was done with his grand opening, Paulo was just a hair reserved. Nel tried to put him at ease. "Where oh where are we going?" she teased in a flirtatious singsong. The house was a pink Spanish colonial right on the square with a large walled garden. A bit past its prime, the place needed paint, but obviously it had a proud history. As they entered through the front gate Paulo informed her that he shared the home with a professor from Peru, a colleague who worked with him in one of the more contentious arenas of Allende's regime - land reclamation. The house was a fringe benefit of this work. The owners and their assets had left Chile. They had neglected their land for several years, leaving the people who lived on their estates outside Santiago without work or sustenance. To Nel, this story was familiar. Her friend Lucille was also involved in this work, investigating histories of land use to justify governmental takeover. The battle for land in Chile had been ongoing for a long time, even before Allende was elected. His predecessor President, Christian Democrat Eduardo Frei, reclaimed some twenty percent of large, unproductive land holdings; agricultural production had increased throughout this process. Still, the Chilenos who gathered in their informal "salon" of late complained that it should not be necessary for Chile to import food, that Chile had as much rich agricultural land as California, and that the private landowners didn't give a damn, preferring to spend their money and live elsewhere. Then there were the claims of the Mapuche, the indigenous people of Chile who had been promised the rights to their own land by the colonials. She knew Paulo's work in the countryside was fraught with danger. Nel had picked up most of her understanding of Chilean politics by studying the lyrics of the Quilapayún, an vibrant group of revolutionary folk singers who were constantly touring the length of the country in support of Allende's efforts. The Quilapayún were popular with all the students she had met in the last weeks. Much of their music seemed stilted to Nel, overly heroic and dramatic. But she loved La Batea, a dancible and enthusiastic tale about the changes that were ongoing in Chile, as exmplified by the water splashing in the tub traditionally used for washing clothes . Nel had already discovered more than once that she only had to hum this tune or utter a phrase of its lyrics in order to convey solidarity or create quick understanding. She was curious about Paulo's job, although from previous encounters in Chile, she resigned herself to the probability that he would not speak much about what he actually did. Most of the time when she met people they were either too stoned or inebriated to speak seriously, except from the lyrical core of candor that sometimes flowed late in the night. Like a Bird on a Wire, Like a Drunk in a Midnight Choir. She was beginning to realize it could take years to really understand this country and its politics. Its soul and its heart were palpable and transparent, however, and for now she was thrilled to absorb that. She hadn't figured out what to ask, or even how to ask the questions that did come to mind without feeling ignorant. Paulo led Nel inside and proudly showed her the things he had done to transform the stately old home. The antique gilt picture frames were filled with brilliantly colored revolutionary posters, many from Cuba. He had cleared out all the stiff carved and satin upolstered colonial furniture from the main salon and replaced it with a large futon and several big pillows. She was awestruck by his design effort and his humor; impressed yet again by how much contemporary vision these Latins shared with her own culture. Before her arrival, she had imagined a much more hidebound colonial perspective would predominate. Now, every day rienforced her appreciation of her own ignorance. He put on the latest Jimmy Hendrix casette. The professor, returning from the States, had given it to him for Navidad. Then he sat her down on the futon, rolled a ridiculously decent joint, and told her he had planned a very special meal for their Christmas. She was not to lift a finger; in fact she was told in no uncertain terms that his feelings would be hurt if she attempted to help. "¡Destruirías todos mis planes! ¡ Relajar y gozar de Navidad, por favor! (You would ruin all my planning! Relax and enjoy Christmas!)"

He uncorked a bottle of wine, and pouring her a glass, disappeared in the direction of the interior of the house. Nel was not about to argue with his injunction against helping. She lay back against the cushions and sipped red wine. So what if it was only early afternoon? It was Christmas and she had a gentle, fascinating man to explore. For all his friendliness, Paulo had a certain upright formality in his manner. He seemed content just to spend time getting to know her. As a gringa who was used to men who groped first and saved talk, if that was even on the agenda, for later, Nel found this inviting. His deference made her long to reach out and trespass the seductively courteous distance he maintained. He moved with economy and grace, like someone who knew how to dance. She felt safe with him, and looked forward to the moment when their banter would move on to deeper intimacy. She wanted meltdown, she wanted to hold him and be held, she wanted to pleasure him, make him tremble and gasp and smile, even if only for a few precious hours. She wanted shelter from the fear and anxiety and confusion of living in Chile through the past few weeks, when she had been fearful even to leave her house without company. She wanted to share absolution, comfort and peace. In Nel's philosophy, passion and unleashed sexuality played a significant role in social change. Endorphins were liberating, on a cellular level. Loving touch defied the conventional separation of gender, class, language, nationality and history. From what she had seen, South America could use a good dose of Marcuse! Besides, good sex simply felt good. Ahhhhh! This promised to be a fine day!

He returned bringing a tray with dishes of food. Grilled bistec, fried potatoes and salad. A bowl of oranges. A plate of sliced pastel de Navidad (a sort of lightweight fruitcake). Setting this down on the large coffee table, he knelt on the futon and offered her a plate and silverware. "!Qué comida maravillosa! (What a great meal!)" Nel murmured. Paulo had really gone all out. "Muchas gracias. Pero no soy el cocinero (I am not the cook)," he replied modestly, with a wry smile. As he poured himself a glass of wine, she lifted her own in salute. "¡Viva la gente!," she offered. "Long live the people!" he rejoined. It was a long meal, full of the ritual exchange of morsels of identity. They spoke of their homelife. Her political mother. Her home in California. Her European and indigenous ancestry, her ancient and radical uncle whose final advice before she left the states, was to always tell people in Chile that she was there just to study the Indians. He grinned at that. When they were done eating, they smoked that fat joint, poured more wine and continued talking. As they talked, Nel developed a growing appreciation of his sculpted lips, the heat and sorrow of his eyes, the way he told stories with his hands, and his classical restraint. They talked of Rio, where he was born. He told her of the huge discrepancies between the beachfront in Rio that was sanitized for the wealthy and the tourists, and the repression and poverty of the ordinary Brazilians. Living in Brazil made him feel trapped, "I had the choice of living quietly, serving the bureaucracy and ignoring the injustice all around me, or fighting to change things, bringing danger to my family, maybe getting myself killed in the process. Such a choice is grinding, depressing." They laughed about how people from Chile often thought she was Brazilian because Nel had stolen her Spanish from French, having learned French in Switzerland when she was twelve. As a result the output bore a resemblance to Portuguese. Nel confessed that this made her a bit embarrassed, because she knew even less about Brazil than she did about Chile. They talked about Brazilean cinema, about the moving beauty of the music and cinematography in the film Black Orpheus that she had seen in New York. They shared pictures of themselves from before coming to Chile. This was commonly done during introductions in those days. Paulo looked pinched and pale in his passport photo, and several years younger. "I am much happier now even though my life is not easy here," he confided. "I worked as an engineer in Rio, and was going to be married when I was arrested with some of my friends for my politics. I spent six months en la cárcel before I was liberated, and my friends helped me escape to Chile via Argentina," he sighed and lay back against the mattress. "I guess I am lucky to be alive, libre y con un estómago lleno (free and with a full stomach). But now, at Navidad, I miss Rio and my family..." "I miss my family too, and I am so glad you brought me here today, Navidad turned out so much better than I expected." Nel returned his sigh as she caressed his face and then lowered herself gently into his embrace. She never got around to asking about his work, why he went to jail or how he was freed. She didn't even speak of their encounter with her friends, worried that she might have violated her friendship with Lucille. The morning after, embracing in the garden before Paulo escorted her back home, she shed a few smiling tears for what might have, in another time and place, been a more lasting relationship. It was clear that this one was going to remain a simple celebration of serendipity. Paulo was returning to the countryside and she needed to plan her next move, as Lucille was returning to occupy the house where Nel was living for the birth of her child. They would not be likely to cross paths again.

I never will forget the gift of that Christmas, not because of Paulo as an individual-I never really got to know him that well-nor for the sake of "unrequited love," but for the comfort we took and shared as young people, related in our spirit and dreams. Sometimes in the middle of the night I wonder if he still lives and remembers. I want to believe so. When I shut my eyes on this day in 2007, safely back in my patio in the land of my birth, I can still see the bold black and white posters that enclosed the corner of his bedroom, surrounding the red cotton futon on the floor. He had somehow aquired six copies, and they framed the corner. Hands grasping prison bars reaching for the sky. I can see Paulo in profile, sleeping beneath those hands.

La Batea (Quilapayún)
Mira la batea, como se menea
como se menea el agua en la batea.(bis)

El gobierno va marchando, qué felicidad,
la derecha conspirando, qué barbaridad,
va marchando, conspirando,
pero el pueblo ya conoce la verdad.

Mira la batea, como se menea
como se menea el agua en la batea.(bis)

Por el paso de Uspallata, qué barbaridad,
el momiaje ya se escapa, qué felicidad,
En Uspallata hacen nata,
que se vayan y no vuelvan nunca más.

Mira la batea, como se menea
como se menea el agua en la batea.(bis)
Ya perdieron la cordura, qué barbaridad,
sabotear la agricultura, qué fatalidad,
que chuecura las verduras
los culpables son de Patria y Libertad.

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