The Days of the Rainbow Read online

  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:

  I’m the Superman of advertising.

  One day I’m here, next day I’m not.

  One day I sell handcuffs, next day I sell freedom.

  I die today with laughter, tomorrow I’ll be shot.

  I’m the Superman of advertising.

  If it doesn’t rain, they hit me

  and if I make it pour, they hit me as well.

  Even if they say they love me, they all hit me.

  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.

  AFTER SCHOOL, I don’t feel like going back home and stay on the street corner. When Dad’s not home I don’t keep things tidy. I don’t do the dishes and let everything pile up in the kitchen.

  I try to remember the phone number of the guy who would talk to the priest. He would probably have some information already. But I shouldn’t call him from home. I wait for the pay phone at the bus stop to become available. I rub the hundred-peso coin until the metal gets warm.

  That’s what I’m doing when Professor Valdivieso approaches me.

  “A cup of coffee, Santos?”

  “What for?”

  “For the cold, I think.”

  We walk up to Café Indianápolis and lean on the counter looking at the waitress’s bottom wrapped in a miniskirt two sizes too small. When they bring us the steamy coffee, the teacher puts his hands around the cup to warm them up, and I pour so much sugar that Patricia Bettini would surely disapprove.

  “Santos,” he says, “this is not an easy situation for me. It’s not my fault that I have to teach you in the class that your father was teaching.”

  “It’s not my father’s fault either.”

  “I accepted the job not to make your father’s life more complicated but because life must go on. Our children have to get an education, no matter what.”

  “An ethical education,” I say.

  “I don’t care what kind of political opinions your father may have had.”

  “Well, they’re nothing special. His fundamental conviction’s to fight against Pinochet.”

  “Do you see? Your father shouldn’t mix a political situation like the one the country’s going through with the philosophy of Plato, who lived two thousand years ago.”

  “Professor Valdivieso, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He takes a sip of coffee and gets some foam above his upper lip, which he wipes off with his sleeve. I see that the pay phone has just become available and squeeze the coin in my pocket.

  He takes a folded piece of paper out of his jacket and flattens it on the metal counter. It’s a handwritten text. He reads it aloud, but comes closer to me, and in a confidential tone: “ ‘We can then say that Chileans under Pinochet’s dictatorship are like the prisoners in Plato’s cave. We’re looking at sheer shadows of reality, misled by a TV that’s corrupt, while brilliant men are confined to dark prison cells.’ ”

  “Where did you get this, Professor?”

  “These are the notes of one of your classmates, Santos. The student handed them over to the principal.”

  I stir my coffee so briskly I spill it all over the saucer. Behind the cashier, there’s a shelf with cigarettes of all brands. The black tobacco my father smokes is there, too.

  If I only knew where he is, I’d bring him a pack.

  “Santos, I hope you won’t hold a grudge because I’ve taken your father’s position.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Valdivieso.”

  “You know that this is Chile’s best school, and that, for a young teacher, getting to work here’s something to be proud of and an asset in his professional career.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “The thing is that I would rather have gotten here under different circumstances. For example, through a public examination, instead of having been handpicked by the principal.”

  I bring the cup to my mouth and blow on the coffee. It’s still too hot. I put it on the counter and pour the coffee in the saucer back into the cup.

  “If you had not accepted the job,” I say, “someone else would’ve.”

  “That’s the problem, Santos. Before calling me, they had offered the job to Dr. Hughes and Professor Ramírez. Why are you smiling, young man?”

  “Your class on Aristotle, Professor Valdivieso, was really good. My father’s a great fan of the Nicomachean Ethics. That’s why he calls me ‘Nico.’ Because ‘Nicomachus’ would be a little too much.”

  The man takes off his John Lennon glasses and rubs his eyes.

  “By the way,” he says, “I’ll see how I can compensate in some way the harm I’m causing you.”

  “No, Professor. I beg you not to worry. I’m okay. I’m great.”

  But when I finally make that phone call, I’m not okay anymore. I’m not great at all.

  The priests don’t know in what cell Professor Santos had been thrown.

  IN THE AFTERNOON, Adrián Bettini ended up in downtown Santiago. In that mixture of bank clerks, store managers, financial executives, and secretaries wearing too much makeup and miniskirts so short they provoked long gazes from men, he believed he could feel the truth of a city destroyed by violence.

  From downtown, everyone went back to their neighborhoods, either rich, middle class, or a poor housing area. Downtown offered them the chance to be in physical contact where all the differences of a country so sharply divided seemed to dissolve. At night, there wouldn’t be any amusement for them other than watching TV. There, unless the dictator changed his mind, his own fifteen-minute show would appear, encouraging that defeated mass, wrapped in worn-out coats and frayed scarves, to vote against Pinochet. The way they drank their coffee, in silence, at Café Haiti, letting their absent gaze slide down the waitresses’ hips, was a good sign of apathy.

  On the front page of La Segunda, below the newspaper’s green logo, a headline in red print stood out: OCTOBER 5 PLEBISCITE. But nobody was buying the newspaper. Only he stopped to read a subheading in bold, “The No Campaign Is Authorized to Be on TV.”

  He used to run into friends from the advertising industry in that café. Or journalists. Nowadays, most of them had left the country, and all that his lively old-days café friends were doing now was discussing soccer and the ups and downs of the exchange rate. These men would be some of his campaign’s target group. Rather than inscrutable, their faces seemed to be uniformly expressionless. It wasn’t because of fear, but because of their simple daily lives emptied of all hope. They had their coffees in a long ritual designed to delay going back to their offices, where they would stare at their computer monitors with someone else’s numbers and products. Exactly that, like someone else’s, their lives didn’t concern them at all.

  He arrived home late. On his desk, he found Magdalena’s message: “Warm up the stew in the microwave.” There was a bottle of red wine, unopened, and several bread rolls, not so fresh. He poured himself a glass of wine and, without knocking, entered Patricia’s room.

  In the semidarkness, he saw his daughter sleeping with an arm around the pillow. He turned on the soft light of the table lamp and stayed there, looking at her for a while. Who could teach him how to make her happy? He regretted the hard years when trying to survive without a steady job made him accept temporary positions that didn’t leave him any time or money to give his little one. He could barely make the Scuola Italiana’s monthly payments, and even that, only with a burdensome loan.


  He talked to her in a soft voice. “Patricia, wake up.”

  The girl sat up abruptly in her bed. “Anything going on, Dad?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. But I have to ask you something important.”

  “Tell me. What is it?”

  “What are you going to vote for in the plebiscite?”

  “And you wake me up only for that, Dad?”

  “Please, answer me. What are you going to vote for?”

  “No!”

  “What a relief! At least one person is going to vote No.”

  “No, Dad. You misunderstood me. I’m not going to vote No. I’m just not going to vote.”

  Bettini swallowed. He wished he had a glass of water.

  “Why not?”

  “We have already discussed that many times at school. I want to go back to sleep.”

  “But it’s very important that you tell me now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve just accepted the ad campaign for the No.”

  “Oh, Dad, you’re crazy!”

  “Yes, we agree on that. Now, tell me why you’re not going to vote. I need that information. Professionally.”

  “Because Pinochet will commit fraud. No dictator calls a plebiscite to lose it. Because the politicians who are in favor of the No are a jumble of groups that have no idea of how to lead the country if they win. Because I’m convinced that this country has no way out. I don’t believe that a dictator who came to power by force of arms could be overthrown by putting little papers in a ballot box.”

  “What do the other students think?”

  “The ones in lower grades, who are under eighteen, don’t vote. In my class, they think like me.”

  “They all think the same way?”

  “No. The usual cuckoos think that it makes sense to vote No.”

  “Like me.”

  “Like you.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”