The Neruda Case (44 page)

And suddenly, as though obeying some secret order, applause erupted. At first hesitant and inaudible, then strong and determined, and finally thunderous. Cayetano looked at the poet’s house and felt his skin prickle. A group emerged from the door carrying a brown coffin. Behind them walked Matilde, her eyes lowered. The people began to clap and chant the poet’s name, as though attending one of his readings. “Comrade Pablo Nerudaaa!” a tremulous voice shouted from somewhere. “Present! Now and always!” the crowd replied in unison, their faces transfigured with emotion, tears flowing, voices hoarse. “Comrade Pablo Nerudaaa!” someone else repeated, farther away, and the prodigious tide now flooding the streets of Bellavista answered, “Present!” Again Neruda’s name, interspersed with Allende’s, was shouted, and each time it was followed by a reply and applause en masse, and each time someone else, again, would call out, “Comrade Pablo Neruda …” and Cayetano, unable to contain himself, responded with all the strength his lungs could muster: “Present! Now and always!”

Shouting, applauding, sobbing, pushing his way through the multitude, he approached the coffin. The cheers for Neruda, Allende, and Unidad Popular continued, defying the bewildered soldiers. No one was cowed by their guns or uniforms anymore. Now it was the soldiers’ turn to be afraid. The angered mob shouted and clapped under the spring sky. The helicopter reappeared like a desperate buzzing
fly over roofs and chimneys, but headed swiftly away toward Santa Lucía Hill. The chants grew bolder and louder, as though taking place at a political demonstration in the glory days of a democracy now lost.

Cayetano brushed his fingertips against the poet’s burnished coffin just as it entered the funeral car. Before the crowd resumed its chants, he looked over at Matilde, and could have sworn she held his gaze for a few endless seconds; her look was both kind and sad, as though expressing a final conspiratorial nod toward his detective mission. Did she really know who he was and why her husband had hired him, or was he just imagining that her eyes had locked with his? he wondered, unsure, as he watched her walk unsteadily, absently, surrounded by friends, toward a diplomatic vehicle that waited with open doors. At that moment, suddenly, without a single warning, the human tide parted for the widow and closed behind her like the waters of a biblical sea, making Matilde vanish, and leaving him no choice but to join the procession as it began to pour down streets that no longer held soldiers or police officers, only civilian men, women, and youths whose songs and slogans brimmed with hope.

66

T
he radio at the Café del Poeta now played the strong, unmistakable voice of Juanes singing “La Camisa Negra,” and Cayetano Brulé quickly polished off his coffee with a dash of milk. His coffee had long gone cold because his memories had plunged him into a devastating, melancholy loneliness.

The poet’s remains had rested beside Matilde’s since the 1990s, in the garden of their home in Isla Negra, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He never heard from Margaretchen again, even though the Berlin Wall had fallen seventeen years before, and technically he could have gone to visit. Nor had he ever received news of Tina Trinidad. He’d also lost track of Beatriz, who, according to some rumors, had ended her days in a narrow prefabricated apartment in a working-class neighborhood of Zwickau, alone, retired from an institution that had been dissolved in 1989 with the disappearance of East Germany. He occasionally received a little information on Markus, who lived in East Berlin and traveled widely, giving lectures on his extensive experience as a spy. Regarding Ángela Undurraga, his ex-wife, he knew she now resided in Manhattan, was married to a Wall Street magnate, and devoted all her energies to promoting animal rights and vegetarianism. And to think that it had all begun in
Valparaíso, he thought, on that cloudy winter morning when his knuckles had knocked on the aged door of La Sebastiana.

Now the city unfolded before him, rife with honking cars, the shouts of street vendors, the songs of beggars, and raucous buses passing by. In today’s Valparaíso, boutique hotels, sophisticated restaurants, and attractive cafés abounded, ready for tourists. The streets featured clean, painted buildings, menus printed in several languages, and a mix of agitated bohemians who danced hip-hop and rap but also nostalgically listened to the Beatles, Gitano Rodríguez, and the Blue Splendor, as well as Inti Illimani, Los Jaivas, and Congreso. And Neruda’s house was now a beautiful museum enjoyed by visitors from all over the world. Hope seemed to newly infuse the people of Valparaíso, as their city revived and reinvented itself on the rubble of failed strategies and political corruption. He left a tip on the table for the goth girl, and left the Café del Poeta for Errázuriz Avenue, anxious about how late he was now for his appointment.

Luckily, a taxi driver with suicidal tendencies got him to his destination in fifteen minutes, dropping him off in front of the imposing office building at 8 North Avenue, in Viña del Mar. It was 1:20 p.m. The subsidiary of Almagro, Ruggiero & Associates was on the eighteenth floor. He took the elevator up, opened a heavy larch door, and entered a spacious, well-lit room decorated with oil paintings by Matta and Cienfuegos. Through the windows, he glimpsed the Pacific, the casino, and beaches filled with vacationers from Reñaca.

“I’m here to see Mr. Almagro and Mr. Ruggiero,” he said. “I’m Cayetano Brulé, they were expecting me at noon.”

“Of course.” The secretary swiftly picked up the phone. “Don Pedro Pablo? Mr. Brulé has just arrived.”

She escorted him through a bronze-handled door into an air-conditioned office with minimalist flair: parquet flooring made with
mañio
wood, a table flanked with erect chairs, a desk with a flat-screen
computer, and leather armchairs. Next to the table stood two smiling men in their sixties, in white shirts and silk ties. From the elegance of their office and attire, Cayetano surmised that they led a highly privileged life, and no doubt downstairs a uniformed chauffeur was waiting for them in their Mercedes-Benzes or BMWs. The secretary left, closing the door.

The bearded man seemed vaguely familiar.

“You’ve made no mistake, Cayetano,” the man said, shaking his hand effusively. “I’m Pedro Diego Almagro. We met one night, a long time ago, in the days of Unidad Popular, at the Hucke factory, when you were guarding it. Remember?”

He recalled the trembling old machines at the factory, the sweep of an army jeep’s searchlights over the cold, damp paving, the echo of faraway gunshots, a hammer he was supposed to bang on the floor in case of alarm. But this man, Pedro Diego, who was he?

“I was studying architecture,” Almagro went on. He stroked his beard, giving Cayetano the chance to admire the impeccable white face of his Patek Phillippe. “You were looking for someone who knew about Pablo Neruda. I suggested you speak to a cousin of mine.”

“With Laura Aréstegui?”

“That’s right.”

“So you’re Prendes? Comandante Camilo Prendes?” he exclaimed, unable to hide his amazement.

“One and the same, in the flesh, Cayetano! You have no idea how glad I am to see you again. You look good, with a few pounds more and less hair, of course, but you’re the same man. Those were crazy years!” Almagro said, fingering his gold cuff links. “Back then I was Prendes, fancying myself a guerrilla fighter, overseeing the takeover of a factory. Of course, then the coup came and we went into exile. You know how it goes. Please, sit down. I went back to the Sorbonne, naturally, where I’d studied in the sixties. Remember?”

“So what happened to Laura?” Cayetano did not sit down. Instead, he gazed at the oil painting of Old Havana, by René Portocarrero, that hung on a white wall. “I never heard any more news of her.”

“Well, she’s doing quite well, with a little restaurant in a neighborhood of Warsaw. She ended up exiled in Poland, poor thing. After the fall of Jaruzelski, she stayed on. She’s not doing badly for herself at all, though she never returned to literature. That’s how life is. But how wonderful to see you, Cayetano!” Almagro insisted, stroking his beard again.

“You and I also know each other,” the second man stated in a serious tone. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his damask tie was held in place with a gold pin. He seemed to be playing up his undeniable resemblance to Richard Branson, the blond owner of Virgin Airlines. “I’m Anselmo Ruggiero Manfredi. I remember you perfectly, because it was the first time in my life I ever spoke to a Cuban. I’ve been following your professional career in the local paper.” He revealed his impeccably white teeth. “It’s a pleasure to shake the hand of such a distinguished sleuth. Do you remember me?”

“I’d be lying if I said yes.” Ruggiero was shaking his hand again, this time with the zeal of a weight lifter. “No matter how long I look at you, I still can’t associate you with anyone I know.”

“A few years ago it would have been most inconvenient to remember the circumstances in which we met, but things have changed a great deal …and just as well.”

“I still don’t recognize you. Please give me a hint.”

“September 1973. The highway between Valparaíso and Isla Negra. Does that ring a bell?”

Cayetano could see the highway oscillating into the distance, under the sun, the roadside kiosk, the woman listening to the bombing of La Moneda on her radio. Then he recalled the truck crammed with prisoners, coming toward him. He bit his lips, still unable to
place Ruggiero, who now pressed his index finger against Cayetano’s green-and-purple guanaco tie, and smiled.

“A friend of mine pushed you into that truck,” he said. “They took you to Puchuncaví. You stayed there, under my orders, in a cool room, with a window through which you could see boldo plants, flowering blackwoods, and the clean, clear September sky.”

“Dante?” Cayetano whispered in astonishment. Now he began to connect this man with the young official who had interrogated him at Puchuncaví. He had played the part of the understanding interrogator. He hadn’t mistreated him, unlike the soldier called Salinas, who had beaten him to make him confess where he was hiding weapons. He recalled, out loud, the quotation from
Inferno
written on gray cardboard that had hung at his office door. Lasciate ogni speranza …

“…
‘voi ch’entrate …’
But who among us wasn’t a poet in his youth, Cayetano?” Ruggiero exclaimed, laughing loudly, eyes wide, face red with emotion. “Anyone who wasn’t a poet in his youth simply has no soul.”

“Of course, now I know who you are, damn it! Dante! The twists and turns of life, for God’s sake. We meet again, and once again in your office. But this time, in your office, under democracy, Dante,” Cayetano added thoughtfully. “Damn it, how things change in this country.”

“In the end, you were only with us for a few days,” Ruggiero added, glancing sidelong at Almagro. “It was for your own good. The highway was dangerous. People were getting killed at the drop of a hat. And you see, our intervention gave you something. Today you’re here, in a renovated, reconciled nation, modern and prosperous, transformed into a peerless, irreplaceable private investigator.”

“Don’t flatter me, Dante.”

“Of course, back then you had an enviable godfather …”

“What do you mean?”

“After a few days, we received an order to release you. The order came from Santiago. We weren’t the only ones who were lucky, Cayetano,” Ruggiero said, letting out another booming laugh.

“Who gave that order?”

“We never found out. But it came from high up. Very high up. You’re a sharp one, Cayetano, a sharp one.”

Almagro and Ruggiero smiled, hands in their pockets, ties flashing, teeth brilliantly white.

“Now I recall you both perfectly,” Cayetano said uncomfortably, wondering bitterly who might have interceded on his behalf all that time ago. “I hadn’t forgotten anything that happened, only your faces. We’ve all changed quite a bit in thirty-three years.”

“Well, I think it’s fantastic that we can keep working together after, let’s say, this long parenthesis, Cayetano,” Almagro said, to summarize. “It’s a sign the nation has reconciled. With my associate here, who’s long retired from the military, I cofounded this international consulting firm some time ago. And we’re doing splendidly. We say with pride”—he placed a hand on his chest—“that we’re almost as old as the democracy itself, and enjoy the very best connections with government and business, with ministries and the opposition party. We represent our clients in a loyal and responsible way. You understand. And we can’t complain. Anyone who wants something from the government, no matter their professed political beliefs, knows to come first to AR and A. We have the keys they’re looking for …”