His Own Man (11 page)

“Could be,” I conceded. “
Because we’ll be busy paying the price of impunity
. Which will always be a part of the country’s realities from here on.”

Besides feeling powerless and indignant, I was furious with myself. And with fate, for having directed me to sit at Max’s table. I stood up. “Anything else? Or am I free to go, wishing you luck on the banks of the Seine?”

“There is indeed something else. Sit down, my friend. And see if you can handle it. Because it’s not very pleasant.”

He seemed intent on taking our conversation to its conclusion. “If some of the dead and the disappeared you and the press are always referring to,” he said after I sat back down, “not
all
, but
some
, could one day return from heaven or hell, or wherever they are, they would kneel before their friends and relatives,
they would kneel at their feet
, and beg forgiveness for the grief they caused. That
they
caused.”

“Max …”

“For the childishness of their actions,” he continued deafly, “for the stupidity of their decisions, for their immaturity in embracing lost causes. And for the way they let themselves be manipulated by the cunning old foxes of the left. They would be on their knees, begging forgiveness for the suffering they caused. Not of their victims, generally young soldiers (because these were the poor souls who died, not their superiors) or simple bystanders, like the unlucky managers of banks that were held up, or foreigners that the amateur guerrillas mistook for CIA agents. No. They wouldn’t have to ask forgiveness of these individuals, because they were just accidental victims, as we love to say in our line of work. But they would beg forgiveness of the friends and relatives they had loved. And left devastated — if not wounded or mutilated. Because many were imprisoned and tortured
simply for the sad privilege of knowing them
.”

“Max,” I tried to interject, “what about the military, responsible for everything that happened beforehand? Beginning with
the coup? And their accomplices and business backers, the team that covered for the torturers? And trained them? Or provided financial support?”

“They’re better off, relatively speaking.”

“How can that be?”

“Because they would only have to ask forgiveness of their victims. ‘Forgive me, my dear man, but we were at war, you were on one side, I was on the other. And I killed you. Because it was you or me …’ Much easier than asking their loved ones, right?”

Given my silence, he proceeded. “Think about facing your sister, who was raped and tortured for days
just because she happened to be your sister
, with absolutely no connection to the insurgents. And try to open your mouth. Let’s say you’re able to do so. Open your mouth. What words would come out? ‘Lenin and Guevara were right, the party was wrong’? It’s tricky, don’t you think?”

“Max!” I exclaimed, both awed and astonished. “
A world without victims or culprits …
What about Nuremberg? How would that fit?”

“No, my friend. It’s just the opposite: a cruel world in which all are to blame. By action or default. A world in which the borders between good and evil aren’t vague or inexact; they simply don’t exist. Or when they do exist, they shift easily, depending on what part of the globe you’re in.”

“
History as written by the victors
and so forth?”

“A lesser vision, that saying. Superficial, like everything that deals with subjects of this magnitude. But if you want to put it in those reductive terms, yes.”

“And where do notions of aggressor and defender, of victim and perpetrator, fit into these scenarios of yours, devoid of values?”

“Where they always were: in the minds of men.”

He looked straight at me for the first time. “Upon arriving in Paris and assuming my duties, I decided to reread the preamble
of UNESCO’s charter. Do you remember the wording? Did you ever read it?”

“I must have. I don’t remember.”

“No, my friend. You
didn’t
read it.
Because if you had
,
you wouldn’t have forgotten
. It alone accounts for the existence of the United Nations. Poetically, I should add. And its simplicity is stirring, more so than the reams of reports that the UN has been churning out over the course of nearly four decades.”

True to form, he would keep me in suspense. Then, eyes on the stars, he quoted: “ ‘Since wars begin in the minds of men, it is in the minds of men that the defences of peace must be constructed.’ ” He took another puff of his cigar. “ ‘In the minds of men,’ ” he repeated. “According to which side they’re on, of course. What happened in Brazil and continues to happen in South America is a microcosm of what occurs in the world at large. Wherever there are conflicts. And, from the look of it, the universal trend will only get worse. Particularly because we’re talking about a cultural melting pot that thickens with hunger, poverty, and ignorance. And these three ingredients, as we know, are only going to increase.”

I decided to cut to the chase. “If that’s the case, why did you feel compelled to take a stand in 1964? To switch sides without even batting an eye? What happened in the mind of Marcílio Andrade Xavier?”

Unflappable as always, Max looked me head-on and asked, “Who told you I switched sides?”

I glanced around. Apart from a waiter, we were the only ones left in the garden. The other guests had disappeared into the house, from which muted voices, interspersed with laughter and the strains of a piano, drifted. Then I heard Max saying, “Convictions are a luxury, my friend. Reserved for those who don’t play the game.
I played the game
.”

Still silent, I slid over the clean ashtray the waiter had just set on the table and snuffed out my cigar. I took my time with this activity, as though pondering some final plan that would lead me to victory in a battle whose hidden meaning almost eluded me.

Max slowly stood and crossed his arms, as he bestowed his professorial treatment on me. “The truth,” he declared, “is that we’ll never know what would have happened to the country if the military
hadn’t
staged the coup. Quite likely we would have done the same had we been in their shoes.”

Voices and laughter continued to drift from the house. The piano chords, however, had given way to a Chopin étude, which seemed to be missing several crucial notes. I was beginning to feel somewhat helpless.

Calmer, almost relieved, Max concluded in a casual tone, as though now dealing with secondary details, “As for the rest of the population, other than the group who took up arms (and then regretted it, as they themselves will admit someday), or those who chose exile, everyone adapted to the new realities. And tried to get on with their lives as best they could.”

It was my turn to stand. I felt more nauseated than tired. I hadn’t had that much to drink. Or so I thought. I took a few steps across the lawn, breathing deeply, while Max, who remained where he was, appeared to be looking for the other guests. He hadn’t noticed that we were alone in the garden, lost like two ghosts in a landscape overtaken by darkness. He made his way over unsteadily and placed his right hand on my shoulder, probably hoping we might still salvage some vestige of friendship between us.

Unable to move, I decided to react. “Not everyone, Max,” I managed to say. “Not everyone, to use your words,
tried to get on with their lives as best they could
. More than six thousand people were thrown in jail in the two weeks following the coup. Those who remained incarcerated, for months or years, or who eventually died from mistreatment or starvation, left behind families who couldn’t rebuild their lives.”

To my relief, since I no longer had the energy to duel with him, Max nodded. Whether it was in agreement or from drink, I couldn’t guess.

“The others resisted in their own way,” I went on, more forcefully, gradually regaining my strength and, with it, a certain degree of lucidness. “Without taking up arms but defending their principles. They too would pay a high price. University professors were fired. They survived by giving private classes. I studied with several. Hundreds of members of parliament were ousted and had their political rights suspended. For ten years — an eternity, considering they were in the prime of their lives.
Ten years
 … Union leaders were tortured. The ones who survived quickly learned to keep their mouths shut.”

Max kept nodding, as if he could read my mind and was already waiting for me at the finish line. I forged ahead nonetheless. “Liberal professionals lost their contracts and saw former associates crossing the street to avoid them. I knew of dozens of such cases. Shameful, humiliating cases, because the damage
affecting us seldom had anything to do with blatant violence. It happened in out-of-the-way places, sometimes in modest home settings frequented only by the victims and their closest kin. In alleyways, rather than in the town streets or squares. Beneath torches, so to speak, not searchlights or high beams.”

I was inspired. If Max was awaiting me somewhere, he’d best set up camp. “Others had their loan applications denied. Your ex-father-in-law’s bank was one of the few that continued to help those it shouldn’t have, according to the regime. This led to bankruptcy. Many of my friends had to pull their children out of school. Others had to move to a different neighborhood or city. Marriages fell apart, from pure tension or fear, leaving behind a legacy of lost, insecure children. A considerable number of these people went into exile, uprooting entire families. We’re talking about thousands and thousands of human beings, Max.”

Here he held up his free hand, in a clear sign of assent, implicitly recognizing the validity of the points raised — as well as of others I might yet wish to bring up. “
Almost everyone
, if you prefer,” he amended. “Almost everyone tried to get on with their lives as best they could.”

We took a few steps toward the house, his hand still resting on my shoulder. He seemed pleased with the fact that some scrap of conversation could still take place between us. And when he began to speak again, his voice sounded untroubled for the first time. Not aggressive or annoyed, nor impatient or ironic — but tranquil and thoughtful.

“In general, engineers and architects constructed buildings that were praised and inhabited by numerous families, doctors and dentists treated their patients, teachers gave their classes, farmers and workers planted soy and coffee, lawyers practiced law, judges judged, bureaucrats clocked in, without ever failing to take their vacations and sabbaticals. And virtually all received their salaries at the end of the month, including you and me.
Almost all
, for twenty years.
Almost all stood by
. Some out of conviction. Others, I recognize, because they had no other option. Or because they imagined that things would change over time. Just as we at Itamaraty did, living isolated from the real world, moreover. Here and abroad.”

Under the pretext of drawing a cigarette from my jacket pocket, I managed to free my shoulder from his hand.
Isolated from the real world
 … Might as well give up, I decided, flicking my lighter. And, for the last time that night, I contemplated the stars. As if, from the universe beyond, they could deal with the frustration I felt. Meanwhile, Max allowed himself to slump into a chair. He appeared to be on the verge of surrendering. To fatigue, however, never to me. Only it was a fatigue far greater than I could ever have imagined,
nearly two decades old
.

“We’re going to have to wait and see,” he said quietly. “It will take the Argentineans a long time to overcome the nightmares they were victims of. What happened among them was beyond terrible. The scars remain deep and won’t heal quickly. Two long and brutal periods of dictatorship, separated by a short neo-Peronist interval and capped by a ridiculous war.
Thirty thousand dead in seventeen years …
No election can fix that. President Alfonsín will take over chained to cadavers; he’ll govern amid ghosts. The smell of death hangs over the country.”

He might as well have been talking about something that had happened on Mars, the mere fault of inattentive gods.

He continued in the same tone. “The Chileans will live through their hell for years to come. There, they talk of five or six thousand dead —
for now
. Because, unlike Brazil” — he allowed himself a glance in my direction, to verify that I was following closely — “in Chile there’s no solution in sight. From what I could understand of the country during the time I lived in Santiago, the right is entrenched. It will hold firm for a long while. When inspired, my ex-boss in Montevideo used to assert, ‘If there are worthy disciples of the old Prussian military school
remaining anywhere in the world, it’s in Chile.’ He would say this with pride, as if he himself were Chilean.”

With tenderness, he went on to touch upon the least dramatic of the tragedies — in his view, at least. “The Uruguayans suffered even greater human losses, proportionally speaking. But the chaos took a different toll there. For a nation that proudly flaunted the most democratic traditions on the continent, those were
eleven long years
. Enough time to affect the population’s most precious resource: its pride, its dignity. We, on the other hand …” He’d come full circle and was now reaching what he took to be the crown jewel. His tone was no longer distant. As if the entire region he had referred to — its dead and its disappeared included — had become part of the same mural, set on a curved wall in a museum. “We will solve our problems easily … despite these never-ending twenty years.”

He grew quiet, then straightened up in his chair and gave a forced yawn to downplay his remarks. The performance didn’t hide the essential: Max was moving on, taking his first steps toward the future. Just as he’d done years before in a moment of inspiration, kissing the ring of the Cardinal Archbishop of Rio de Janeiro. It was a fascinating and pathetic moment to witness. A moment that, in the case of some animals, involves shedding fur or a skin, but for humans occurs on a subtler level — when some sense of the self survives personal devastation.