The Days of the Rainbow Read online

  “Mr. Minister, what are you proposing to me?”

  “Since I assume that the opposition will hire you as the creative director of the campaign for the No to Pinochet option, I’m offering you the position of head of the advertising campaign for Yes.”

  “Yes to Pinochet?”

  “Yes to Pinochet. I’d have expected any reaction from you to such a proposal but a smile. Believe me, I feel relieved. Why are you smiling?”

  Patricia Bettini’s father pressed his nose with three fingers as if he wanted to ease a pain.

  “Life takes so many turns! When Pinochet led the coup and made you one of his ministers, I was fired from my job, sent to jail, and tortured. And now, the same person who sent me to jail and laid me off is offering me a job.”

  “I’m aware of the paradoxical nature of this situation. But you’re the best advertising agent in the country, and for this campaign I want only the best. A professional! You might criticize our government as much as you want, but you can’t deny that we have a brilliant team of professionals. Our economy’s flourishing!”

  “For the rich.”

  “But the time will soon come when there will be so much wealth that it will trickle down to the poor.”

  “There you have the slogan you need for your campaign: ‘When the wealthy have enough, they’ll throw the banquet leftovers to the poor.’ ”

  “I’m confident that you’ll come up with something better, Bettini. What do you say?”

  “What do I say? I say that they say that nothing that happens in this country escapes you.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard that exaggeration too.”

  “They say that not even a leaf falls without your consent.”

  “My fame sometimes pleases me and sometimes makes matters more difficult for me.”

  Bettini filled his glass with mineral water, took a sip, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “My daughter, Patricia, is worried because your men arrested her boyfriend’s philosophy teacher.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s an old man, an expert in Greek philosophy. He’s a threat to no one. Just an old guy.”

  “So old that he sold toffee at the Roman circus?”

  The minister stroked his legs, celebrating his own joke with a burst of laughter, and then opened a green file cabinet.

  “He’s not young anymore.”

  “Forgive my joke, Bettini. Many people worry for no reason. Sometimes my men ask a couple of routine questions and then the detainees can go back home as if nothing had happened.”

  “Mr. Minister, more than three thousand people are missing.”

  “Those statistics are an exaggeration! The country has already overcome the crisis. Didn’t I tell you that we’re going to call a hundred percent democratic plebiscite? Your daughter doesn’t have anything to worry about.”

  Bettini stood up and touched the knot of his tie to hide the movement of his Adam’s apple while he swallowed the saliva accumulated in his mouth.

  “Santos,” he said hoarsely.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Santos. The philosophy teacher’s name is Rodrigo Santos.”

  The minister put his hands on top of the file cabinet and, smoothing a piece of paper, traced a circle with his ballpoint pen.

  “School?”

  “National Institute.”

  “Wow! ‘The nation’s first spotlight.’ ”

  “Excuse me?”

  “ ‘The nation’s first spotlight.’ That’s what the institute’s anthem says. Where did the events take place?”

  “The classroom.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “More than thirty students. They were in the middle of class.”

  The official sighed with a sudden air of fatigue.

  “Physical appearance of the officers?”

  “Short hair, young, raincoats …”

  “Like in the movies. Date?”

  “Wednesday. Last Wednesday, early in the morning.”

  The minister closed the folder with a blow while lifting his chin. After a long silence that seemed full of meaning, he started to talk again.

  “So, Bettini, what can you tell me about our business?”

  “Our business,” the ad agent said to himself. So he had something in common with the minister of the interior. “Our business.”

  “How long can I think about it?”

  “You can take a couple of days.”

  “I’ll call you on Monday, then.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll come in person. I’ll send a couple of guys to bring you right here.”

  “See you on Monday, Dr. Fernández.”

  The minister stood up and held out his hand to say good-bye.

  “Philosophy. I remember a bit from my school years. ‘I only know that I know nothing.’ Who said that?”

  “Socrates.”

  “And the other thing about the river?”

  “Heraclitus. ‘You cannot step into the same river twice.’ ”

  “See you, Bettini.”

  I CALLED the first number but nobody answered. This was the phone number where supposedly there would always be somebody to answer. If nobody answered, it would mean that the person who should’ve answered had been taken prisoner.

  So I dialed the second number.

  Someone answered. Following the rules of the Baroque syllogism, I did not ask who was there, nor did I identify myself. I only said that Professor Santos had been taken prisoner. The man on the other end of the line said that he would take care of it.

  He asked if there were any witnesses.

  “Of course there were. There are thirty-five of us in the class, and I’m the thirty-first in the roll. That’s because of the S. The S in Santos.”

  “Fine, then,” said the man. And he repeated that he would take care of it.

  I know perfectly well what it means to take care of someone in a case like this. The man will go to see the priests, one of the priests will talk to the cardinal, the cardinal will talk to the minister of the interior, and the minister of the interior will say to the cardinal, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” According to the Baroque plan, I don’t have to do anything else, because if I go to the police, they may arrest me, and if that happens, then for sure my old man will go mad.

  So that Wednesday, I go back home and see the two plates for lunch that had been set there that morning on top of the blue-and-white plaid tablecloth. Next to Dad’s glass there’s a small carafe of red wine, half full, and next to my place, the bottle of apple juice.

  I sit at the table. I don’t feel like going to the kitchen to warm up the stuffed potatoes left from the night before. I stay there for half an hour not knowing what to do and unable to think about anything. Every time I try to start thinking, I grab my fork and hit the empty dish.

  At last, I go to my bedroom and lie down on my bed and read the sport magazine Don Balón. My favorite team, University of Chile, is not doing well. The problem’s that when the team has a good player, they sell him to another country, Spain or Italy, and so the team gets weaker.

  It’s cold and the electric heater’s unplugged. Dad says it uses too much energy and his salary’s not enough to keep it on all winter. I cover up with the blanket.

  “SO?”

  “My answer is no.”

  “Bear in mind that the compensation would be very good.”

  “Just out of curiosity, how much is it?”

  “You tell me. There’s no limit.”

  Bettini looked at the wall behind the desk. There was a color picture of the dictator and nothing else competing with his presence.

  “Actually, this is the best offer I have ever received. It makes me really mad to have to say no, especially when I’m still out of work.”

  “A star like you still out of work!”

  “Advertising agencies have a black list of professionals, issued by your office, in which it’s ‘recommended’ not to hir
e me.”

  “My goodness, Bettini! How do you make a living?”

  “My wife has a job, and I make a few bucks writing jingles under a pseudonym.”

  The minister moved his neck for a while as if to show a sort of supportive surprise and indignation. He put his finger on his lower lip and stroked it repeatedly.

  “Okay, Bettini. So what do you say?”

  “I thought a lot about it. Thank you, Mr. Minister. But I can’t accept it.”

  “For moral reasons?”

  “Yes, sir. For moral reasons.”

  He stood up and straightened the edge of his jacket.

  “But right now your behavior’s not moral at all. It’s not ethical to reject someone’s offer based on political differences. What if a doctor refused to help someone who’s sick only because the patient’s his political enemy. Would you call that ethical behavior?”

  “Honestly, sir, if the patient were Pinochet, yes, I’d say that’s ethical.”

  The minister walked to the window and drew the curtain a little. Santiago’s grayish smog was right there, punctual and tenacious.

  He talked to the advertising agent in an abrupt voice and with his back turned to him.

  “I’m sorry that I can’t count on your services, Bettini. It’ll be a tough campaign. Thank you for coming.”

  He kept looking out the window, without turning around. But Bettini remained still until the minister was forced to turn and look at him.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. I came here trustingly because you sent for me. I’d really like to leave this place in the same way I came in. You know what I mean …”

  The minister smiled broadly and then burst into loud laughter. “I guarantee it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He walked toward the door, but his own steps on the soft carpet pushed him down and held him back. The relief he felt when he reached the door was abruptly interrupted.

  “Bettini.”

  “Sir?”

  “If you want to give me a thrill, don’t agree to lead the campaign for the No.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Fernández.”

  “Good-bye, Bettini.”

  THE DOORBELL RINGS. According to the Baroque plan, it cannot be my father because he has the key. If it were the cops, they would be coming either for me or to search Daddy’s desk. I jump up and check what he left on his table. There’s a document addressed to the minister of education, Mr. Guzmán, requesting that our school—the school where he teaches and I study—no longer be led by a military officer. It also says that the presence of that officer at the nation’s oldest school is an insult to teachers’ dignity and goes against freedom of speech. On top of the page, the manifesto reads, “We, the undersigned …,” but the only signature on it is his—Professor Santos. I wad up the document and throw it out the window.

  The doorbell rings again and I put on my coat. If they’re going to take me, I’d better go well wrapped up. I’m very sensitive to cold. During class recess I always look for the sunny walls and I shrug my shoulders as if by doing so I could accumulate heat. When at last I open the door, the person who’s there, with her finger still pressing the doorbell, is Patricia Bettini. She comes and hugs me. Then she says, “My poor dear love.”

  She asks if I have had lunch. I tell her that I hate stuffed potatoes. She goes to the kitchen and makes an omelet with oil, eggs, cheese, and tomatoes. She cuts the omelet in half. I put salt on mine and dip a piece of French bread in it. She doesn’t use any salt because she says that salt makes you gain weight. She has a lot of theories about how to lead a healthy life; she refuses to put salt or butter in her food, and she’s a great fan of Ionesco’s plays. She played the role of Ms. Smith in The Bald Soprano. Anyhow, everyone’s name in The Bald Soprano is Smith. But now, after graduating from high school, she’s going to study architecture, not drama.

  “We have to find your father,” she says.

  “But how?”

  “Asking everywhere for him.”

  “I already did what I had to do.”

  I explain to her the whole Baroque syllogism. She listens carefully and shakes her head.

  “In cases like these, good people cannot do anything, because they’re all afraid. We should try to make the others do something.”

  “The bad ones?”

  “Nobody’s one hundred percent good or completely bad.”

  “My father thinks that you have no principles and that an ethical person must have principles.”

  “I do have principles. My principle’s that I love your father and I love you.”

  “Those are not principles. Those are feelings.”

  “Okay, then, my feelings are my principles.”

  Patricia Bettini does not answer. She takes a cassette tape out of her purse and plays it in the Sony cassette player. It’s Billy Joel, and the song is “Just the Way You Are.” It’s in English:

  Don’t go changing, to try and please me

  You never let me down before

  Don’t imagine you’re too familiar

  And I don’t see you anymore.

  I wouldn’t leave you in times of trouble

  We never could have come this far

  I took the good times, I’ll take the bad times

  I’ll take you just the way you are.

  ADRIÁN BETTINI’S WIFE didn’t want to turn off the headlights or move the car from the parking space reserved for members of the government until her husband came back from his appointment with the minister of the interior. That’s what she haughtily and clearly told the captain who, with excessively courteous manners, asked her to move her car. While he used his cell phone to contact Fernández’s office, she twirled her wedding ring around her index finger until the metal seemed to be burning her fingertip. When the guy in uniform was walking away, she saw Adrián coming, so she quickly turned on the engine, as if they were fleeing after robbing a bank.

  “How did it go?” she asked while driving around Italia Square and checking the rearview mirror to see whether someone was following them.

  “See for yourself. I’m alive.”

  “Did he insist that you work for the Yes to Pinochet?”

  “Of course.”

  Even though the light was not red, Magdalena stopped the car, ignoring the horns of all the cars behind her.

  “So?”

  Bettini smiled. Trying to imitate Fernández’s resounding voice, he said in his deepest possible tone, “Right now, your behavior’s not moral.”

  “But where did he get the idea that you might work for them?”

  “Some computer might have told them that I’m the best ad agent in the whole country.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “In spite of the total consensus between my wife and that computer, nobody gives me a job. Do you want me to drive?”

  The honks of the cars behind were getting louder and louder, so Magdalena set off at once.

  “And finally, what did you tell him?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Were you polite?”

  “As much as I was able to be.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “ ‘That I could give him a thrill by refusing to lead the ad campaign for the No.”

  Now it was Magdalena who kept smiling for a long while.

  “As soon as it was announced on the radio that there would be a plebiscite, Don Patricio called to offer you to lead the advertising campaign for the No.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “You have to accept it. I’d be so proud of you if you did it.”

  “Magda, if I accept, the minister won’t be thrilled. And you know what that means.”

  “If you were the advertising director for the No, your visibility would protect you. The government cannot pretend they are calling a democratic plebiscite and kill the director of the opposition’s advertising campaign.”

  Bettini rubb
ed his eyes. Everything seemed so normal and real. However, he still had a slight hope that it was all just a bad dream.

  “I must admit that you have a point. Even so, there’s another reason why I shouldn’t accept it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “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.