Is that possible? said General Pinochet. Can that be possible? Are we talking about a woman or a bitch? Is this information correct? It is, said Leigh.
Suddenly I had an idea for a poem about a degenerate woman, and I made a mental note of the first lines and the general drift that night while talking about Basic Elements of Historical Materialism and going back over some points from the Manifesto that they still hadn’t properly grasped. In the seventh class I talked about Lenin and Stalin and Trotsky and the various rival schools of Marxism around the world. I talked about Mao and Tito and Fidel Castro. All of them (except General Mendoza who wasn’t there for the seventh class) had read Basic Elements of Historical Materialism, and when the discussion started to flag we went back to talking about Marta Harnecker. I remember we also discussed Chairman Mao’s military accomplishments. General Pinochet said that the really gifted strategist in that part of the world was not Mao but another Chinaman, whose unpronounceable names he mentioned, but of course I forgot them straightaway. General Leigh said that Marta Harnecker was probably working for the Cuban secret service. Is this information correct? It is. In the eighth class I talked about Lenin again and we examined What Is to Be Done? and then we went over Mao’s Little Red Book (which General Pinochet found very simple and straightforward), and then we came back to Basic Elements of Historical Materialism, by Marta Harnecker. In the ninth class I asked them questions about Harnecker’s Basic Elements.
Overall, the answers were satisfactory. The tenth class was the last. Only General Pinochet came. We talked about religion rather than politics. When it was over, he gave me a gift on behalf of himself and the other members of the Junta. I don’t know why, but I had expected the goodbye to be more personal. It was rather cold, though perfectly polite of course, in strict accordance with state protocol. I asked him if the classes had been useful. Of course, said the general. I asked if I had lived up to their expectations. You may go with a clear conscience, he assured me, you’ve done a splendid job. Colonel Pérez Latouche accompanied me home. When I got there, at two in the morning, after driving through the empty streets of Santiago, reduced to geometry by the curfew, I couldn’t get to sleep and didn’t know what to do. I started walking up and down in my room while a rising tide of images and voices crowded into my brain. Ten classes, I said to myself. Only nine, really. Nine classes. Nine lessons. Not much of a bibliography. Was it all right? Did they learn anything?
Did I teach them anything? Did I do what I had to do? Did I do what I ought to have done? Is Marxism a kind of humanism? Or a diabolical theory? If I told my literary friends what I had done, would they approve? Would some condemn my actions out of hand? Would some understand and forgive me? Is it always possible for a man to know what is good and what is bad? In the midst of these deliberations, I broke down and began to cry helplessly, stretched out on the bed, blaming Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah for my misfortunes (in an intellectual sense) since they were the ones who got me into that business in the first place. Then, before I knew it, I was asleep. That week I dined with Farewell. I could no longer bear the weight, or to be perhaps more precise, the alternatively pendular and circular oscillations of my conscience, and the phosphorescent mist, glowing dimly like a marsh at the vesperal hour, through which my lucidity had to make its way, dragging the rest of me along. So when Farewell and I were having pre-dinner drinks, I told him. In spite of Colonel Pérez Latouche’s stern warnings about absolute discretion, I told him about my strange adventure, teaching that secret group of illustrious pupils. And Farewell, who until then had seemed to be floating in the monosyllabic apathy to which he was increasingly prone with age, pricked up his ears and begged me to tell the whole story, leaving nothing out. And that is what I did, I told him about how I had been contacted, about the house in Las Condes where the classes took place, the positive reactions of my students, who were most attentive, and unfailingly curious, in spite of the fact that some of the lessons took place late at night, the stipend I received for my labors, and other minor details it is hardly worth even trying to remember now. And then Farewell looked at me, narrowing his eyes, as if I had suddenly become a stranger to him or he had discovered another face behind my face or was suffering an attack of bitter envy, provoked by my unexpected visit to the corridors of power, and, in a voice that seemed oddly clipped, as if in that state he could only manage to get half the question out, he asked me what General Pinochet was like. And I shrugged my shoulders, as people do in novels, but never in real life. And Farewell said: A man like that, he must have something that makes him stand out. And I shrugged my shoulders again. And Farewell said: Think, Sebastián, in a tone of voice that might just as well have accompanied other words, such as Think, you little shit of a priest. And I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to be thinking. And with a sort of senile ferocity Farewell’s narrowed eyes kept trying to bore into mine.
And then I remembered the first time I had a more or less one-to-one conversation with the general, before the third or fourth class, a few minutes before the start, I was sitting there balancing a cup of tea on my knees and the general, stately and imposing in uniform, came up to me and asked if I knew what Allende used to read. And I put the teacup on the tray and stood up. And the general said, Sit down, Father. Or perhaps he didn’t actually say anything but indicated that I should sit with a gesture. Then he made a remark about the class that was about to begin, something about a corridor with high walls, something about a throng of pupils. And I smiled beatifically and sat down. And then the general asked me the question, if I knew what Allende read, if I thought Allende was an intellectual. And, caught by surprise, I didn’t know how to answer, as I confessed to Farewell. And the general said to me: Everyone’s presenting him as a martyr and an intellectual now, because plain martyrs are not so interesting any more, are they? And I tilted my head and smiled beatifically. But he wasn’t an intellectual, unless you can call someone who doesn’t read or study an intellectual, said the general, What do you think? I shrugged my shoulders like a wounded bird. But you can’t, can you? said the general. If someone doesn’t read or study, he’s not an intellectual, any fool can see that. And what do you think Allende used to read? I moved my head slightly and smiled. Magazines. All he read was magazines. Summaries of books.
Articles his followers used to cut out for him. I have it from a reliable source, believe me. I always suspected as much, I whispered. Well, your suspicions were well founded. And what do you think Frei read? I don’t know, sir, I murmured, with a little more assurance. Nothing. He didn’t read at all.