His Own Man (4 page)

The two men’s backgrounds thus ended up lending a certain charm to their conversation. Glued to his seat and silenced by the seriousness of the occasion, our note taker had focused on his task. Only his hands moved, the left securing the writing pad, the right flying across the sheets of paper. In this latest encounter between old rivals, the two speakers, both worthy heirs of venerable traditions, replaced with metaphors and pleasantries the cauldrons of scalding oil that their predecessors had poured down on one another from their castle walls.

The minister had removed from his bookshelf the silver-framed photo in which he and his wife appeared in the company
of the Pope and placed it prominently on the small central coffee table. The cardinal brought the minister a box of sweets, recalling that his host had revealed on a previous social occasion that he had a weakness for them. And no one made them quite like the nuns of his archdiocese. The two men regarded each other with a certain curiosity. They would have been better friends were it not for their distinct missions: in the minister’s case, giving shape and continuity to an independent foreign policy; in the cardinal’s, ensuring the greatest possible distance between Brazil and hell.

The minister, given his extensive background, sensed the simple truth that their disparate points of view, which at the moment seemed irreconcilable, were so only in appearance —just as yesterday’s troubles cause us to smile today and lose their meaning by tomorrow. Without referring specifically to Evil, he did his best to suggest that, like anything in life, it shouldn’t be seen as unchanging. Especially since it could, potentially at least, one day come close to Good. And he illustrated his point with remarks about the foreign policy of other eras, the aims of which, put in perspective, seemed far less compelling or important on that spring morning.

They spoke for an hour. The fact that they were sitting in what had been the Baron of Rio Branco’s office during his lifetime — the room where the great wise man had worked like few others on behalf of our country, and in which he had eventually died, surrounded by maps, books, papers, and tremendous admiration — didn’t escape either of them. At no point did they become contentious. Anyone who overheard their conversation might even have imagined they were taking part in an academic seminar on topics of no great relevance to the real world.

Max had remained attuned to the rhythm of their words. Lulled by them, he had sensed that his fate would need to follow the narrow path he glimpsed between the two men. There, among their mellifluous tones that harmonized with the breeze
rustling the palace’s imperial palms, he would see to it that his career came to flourish.

The young man who had entered the minister’s office that morning in a smart suit and tie, pen and paper in hand, emerged from those chambers in a monk’s habit and Franciscan sandals. He accompanied the cardinal to his car and kissed his ring with fervor and humility. The gesture had deeply moved His Eminence, who would not forget it that night in his prayers. The cardinal’s secretary, who had not taken part in the meeting with the minister but remained in the waiting area, reciting the rosary, had gone one step farther: he had made a point of writing down the kind diplomat’s name and home phone number. Divine intervention takes many forms. Sometimes as insignificant as a few lines hastily scrawled in a random notebook and tucked away in the pocket of a worn cassock.

Months later, as the military coup unfolded, the now former minister naturally assumed he might be imprisoned at any moment. Hours after his dismissal, he packed a black leather suitcase with pajamas, a change of clothing, and a collection of Machado de Assis short stories, along with a few toiletries and a pair of slippers. Then, sitting in the living room with his wife, he awaited the car that, by his calculations, would be coming to get him.

While exchanging a few words with his wife, he noticed their photo with the Pope, which he’d retrieved from his office that same afternoon along with a few books and personal papers. He then recalled the cardinal’s visit. If he were imprisoned, would he receive sweets from the prelate? Deep down, he knew he probably wouldn’t be arrested or experience further disgrace. These seemed reserved for the workers, students, and intellectuals who would inevitably fall into the hands of the repression. But he did feel certain that his career would end here. He consoled himself with the prospect of finally beginning the first volume of his memoirs. Three weeks earlier, which now seemed so distant, one of his staff members, whom he’d gotten used to calling by his nickname, had offered to help with this undertaking.

Max
 … To keep from dwelling on unpleasant subjects, the ex-minister focused briefly on the curious personality of this recent graduate of the Rio Branco Institute. In their few months
working together, the efficient assistant had never ceased to amaze him. It all had started on the day of the cardinal’s visit. That morning, the young man had gone completely unnoticed, as though he were part of the furniture. But the quality of his notes had left an excellent impression, capturing with absolute faithfulness what the two men had said. There was more, though, something only a discerning reader would have picked up between the lines: the two men’s
thoughts
. To convey these, the young man had used parentheses, interspersed throughout the text like random brushstrokes, and inserted within them were his own brief comments.

At first the minister had been annoyed. But on examining the text more closely, he’d given in to the charm (and effectiveness) of the novelty. He had then told the chief of staff, “Keep an eye on this guy, he’s a mind reader.” And, without batting an eye, he had added, “I want him at all future meetings.” For if Max could read his thoughts — and decipher those of the cardinal with equal skill — he surely had other talents.

Word had soon spread around the minister’s office. From then on, everyone listened to Max without interruption, except to praise or reinforce what he was saying. The minister submitted documents for Max to edit and offer suggestions. It was up to him to decide on the number and frequency of quotes, as well as to balance these with objective data that would accurately reflect the reality of Brazilian society.

The young assistant had been part of the select group of diplomats accompanying the minister to the United Nations. All versions of the celebrated speech given by Brazil at the opening of the UN’s General Assembly had been run past him, without, truth be told, his contributing a single word to the original. But the fact that the drafts had been sent to him for review at the minister’s orders spoke volumes.

So thought the former minister, from the depth of his sofa, his eyes on the Pope — and on the suitcase by the door. So
thought the veteran diplomat, as he considered the abyss into which the country would now sink. Oh, well, one or two generations would be sacrificed; clouds of intolerance and arrogance would hang over the country, possibly over the entire region. But one day, the truth would reign once more — it was simply a matter of time.

At that very hour, in his room in Humaitá, Max was busy exploring different worlds. His fantasies were soaring in sync with the Bach prelude he was listening to. The room was dark, except for the reddish tints from the blinking Coca-Cola sign at the corner bakery not far from his window. Max smiled, his face alternately shadowy and red. He had just received a reassuring phone call regarding his fate from the Cardinal Archbishop’s secretary, with whom he’d discreetly kept in touch since the meeting between His Eminence and the ex-minister. True patriots would not be hounded or harassed by the military, he had been told. And there was more: a place had been reserved for him at the celebratory mass at Candelária Church. In the eighth pew, where the colonels would be seated — and, with any luck, if they arrived from Rio Grande do Sul in time, two generals.

Over the weeks that followed, Max’s colleagues, who were just embarking on their careers, felt lost, like actors stepping onto a set without knowing their lines. Being very young, they were disoriented. Their studies had prepared them to enter an institution whose scenarios and realities were now suddenly gone. Ideas, commitments, and loyalties had been swept away. Like the baby swans precariously balancing on their feet on the palace lawns, they sought signs on their superiors’ faces indicating which direction to take.

Seen collectively, the seasoned diplomats could be considered “right-minded liberals,” in other words, moderates, who could readily serve the left, as they’d done in recent years, or the right, as they were preparing to do — provided the latter presented itself in a palatable form. These moderates set aside
the past and confronted the future with a clinical eye, claiming to serve the State, not the Government — given that any administration was temporary by definition. As such, they wove a large, accommodating veil under which they would soon seek shelter.

For Max’s group, who received third- or fourthhand the scraps of rumors circulating along the corridors of the recently established power, the biggest surprise turned out to be the smooth landing of their most distinguished colleague. Max, as might be expected, left the demoted minister’s office. But, contrary to what had happened to his former colleagues — who were relegated to obscure, menial, or insignificant jobs — he wound up in another prestigious office, that of the ministry’s new secretary-general.

To those who were astonished by his effortless transfer, given that it had occurred against a jarring backdrop of dislocations and revenge, Max explained that the
Revolution
(he pronounced the word with a hint of irony) needed to find men, within the ministry, who would “help ensure a smooth transition to the new era.” He jokingly added, as if he’d really had no other choice, “men who can not only think but
write
.”

So it was a kind of personal sacrifice
was what the more naïve came to believe. A sacrifice that would enable him to assist in the effort to preserve the institution to which they all belonged. Even if to do so (and here our hero, with a show of modesty, had lowered his eyes) he had to surrender his personal convictions — which, incidentally, as he also hastened to make clear, “had never been thoroughly aligned with the previous populist regime.” Thus, poised at the crossroads, Max once again felt the unique burden of his position.

Being the disciplined man that he was, however, he learned how to use his next years at the secretary-general’s office to deepen his contacts and solidify alliances, within and outside the ministry. He handled South American issues, prepared the
documentation for meetings, reviewed the speeches that would be given at regional events, and took part in high-level conferences. He didn’t exactly formulate policy but helped implement it. Day by day on the job, he gained experience in treating matters objectively — along with something else that he himself would have had trouble defining but that his colleagues had no problem identifying: Max was discreetly, but systematically, consolidating his own authority.

“It was something,” a diplomat who dealt with him often at that time confided to me, “that came through primarily in the
tone
of his voice.” Far from the feigned humility that had characterized his speech during his first few weeks at the ministry, his tone had become steely. “There was a hint of impatience to it, even in mundane situations.” This colleague also detected what I would later confirm: the almost imperceptible conceit with which Max addressed superiors he didn’t particularly respect, as though he were sharpening his claws and suggesting the obvious: that the years separating them denoted age, not experience.

At my first lunch with Max in 1968, I was intrigued by the fact that he was still in Brazil after five years of service. I remember mentioning this over coffee, though only in passing, since we were not yet close friends. Instead of staying in Rio de Janeiro, he might have opted for a post in Europe, as was customary after a long stint at headquarters. Had he left, his path might have gone the way of so many others who paid lip service to the current regime and retreated into the landscape without further damage to their personal image.

It just so happened, however, that Max had gotten used to living in the precincts of power. The chemistry that bound him to its scenarios and players was so intense and intoxicating that he could no longer do without it. “In Paris, I would have the Seine, the Louvre, the Champs-Elysées,” he once told me, lighting one of the Cuban cigars he used to smoke back then.
“Here,” he added between puffs, “I have the ear of those calling the shots.”

The ear of those calling the shots
. What could be more exhilarating? No one who has worked in government would fail to appreciate such an enticing treasure, albeit hard to put into words. Being one of the anointed, having it reinforced daily over a shared cup of coffee — such intimacy undoubtedly conferred an exquisite sense of fulfillment. “The minister’s office kindly requests that …” The velvety opening phrases perfectly conveyed the tone imposed by the higher-ups: they demanded, to be sure, but they did so with the utmost courtesy. The order was thus delivered with a soft touch, almost a caress. That the request couldn’t be refused was a fact that went unnoticed. As unnoticed as the servers who circulated among them in silence with their trays of water or coffee.

Although no one suspected at the time, it would surface later that from the very onset of the military regime Max had helped build a bridge between the ministry and the
security community
, the seed of what would become the National Intelligence Service — the much-feared SNI.

It all began at the casual, seemingly offhand suggestion of the cardinal’s secretary, a man with good military contacts whose name would eventually appear on the list of the privileged few who received a daily phone call from SNI headquarters. “I think I have just the man for you,” the priest had said at the time.

Although Max’s special connections weren’t common knowledge at the secretary-general’s office, where he performed the same kinds of tasks as his colleagues, no one could overlook one particular anomaly in that environment: his desk wasn’t in one of the main rooms, where staff sat clustered in groups of three or four, but in a separate area, the entrance to which remained shielded by a partition diplomats rarely passed through.