Chapter 6
Prove Negatives
They got on the telephone and Anneliese let Laura know where they were and
that they were O.K. She asked how everyone was (all were well
) and promised to be
in daily contact in the future. Love and kisses for all. Ed got to say hi.
"And how is His Darling Preciousness?"
This little grandson was so huggable and kissable, no one could leave him alone.
From early on Eduardo had called him "Your Darling Preciousness." His DP had
early learned to fend people off, trying to push them away with his adorable little
arms. Ed had the wisdom to let him be, though his arms ached to hug him too. One of
the games he had devised to entertain the troops was about all he would allow himself
to do with Matthew. "They shall not pass!"
One day at a family get-together, as Ed descended some stairs inside the house, a
gaggle of giggling little girls was ascending them. He immediately extended his
arms and declared, "They shall not pass!" The volume of giggles, squeals, and
shrieks rose to a high pitch as they struggled to get past. They enjoyed it so much
that soon they were coming at him from above as well as below. Having successfully
evaded his outstretched arms and blocking legs, they were coming back down again
to do it again.
After that, stairs were not required. Ed could kneel on the floor anywhere and
play the game with a little one. With His Darling Preciousness, it was different
though. He would amble right up to Ed (he had just learned to walk) and rather than
attempt to bypass Lalo's blockading arms, he would just give him a shove. Lalo, of
course, would immediately keel over as though hit by a Mack truck. Matthew got a
kick out of this. Sometimes he would barely touch Ed with a fingertip to watch him
go into his act.
Seeing adults' knobby knees must be wearisome to little children. We should get down to their level more often so they can have a proper look at pretty faces and admiring eyes.
Matthew came up with a game of his own. It is a child's job to explore the world,
of course. His DP was familiar with computers and had learned that it was taboo to
play with a keyboard or mouse when an older human was at work (or play) at one. So
with Ed at his computer one day, Matthew deliberately clicked the mouse, causing
windows on the desktop to disappear, reappear and redisappear. Ed reacted predictably
with a show of consternation, so His DP did it again. And again. After that, His
Darling Preciousness had to play the game at least once every visit.
Goethe's Die Wahlverwandtschaften (Elective Affinities) comes to Eduardo's mind
in connection with this. Ed confesses he's never got around to reading it. What a
great title, though! We can elect affinities? They are not inborn, beyond acts of will or
choosing? A natural force you can do nothing about, like the force that causes certain
atoms to combine and stay combined? No.... You mean you can actually elect them?
A startling idea! Yet Eduardo knows that it can be. Who could ever have an affinity
for a bully, for example.
As a 10-year-old, Ed stayed clear of D.S. But Ed had an
affinity for adventure. One day he overheard D.S. mention his collection of Tarzan
books and elected to approach the bully for the first time. Surprisingly, D.S. seemed
to be not all that bad and he invited Ed to check out his books. Ed came away with a
few Tarzan comics and even more Lucky Aces books to read at his leisure. Ed and
D.S. became fast friends. (If he ever reads this, D.S. will know he is D.S. Ed calls him
D.S. because he fears D.S. will resent being called a bully. Now that is smart! Really
smart! Brilliant! Thank you! Thank you! Ed will take a bow. After all, there were
several D.S.s in the neighborhood. This could keep some people guessing, maybe.
Right. Ed could be in bigger trouble than he thinks.)
The problem with natural-born affinities is that too often they are not mutual.
Boy likes girl, girl thinks he's plomo, and he will sink from her interest scope like an
anvil. Spanish plomo comes from Latin plumbum (lead). Plumbers are called that
because lead is so malleable the Romans could easily form it into pipes. Some historians
believe that it wasn't licentious Roman revels that caused the fall of Rome
but all the lead in the Romans' vessels and pipes. A very poisonous element. Being
plomo (slang for dull, boring, unattractive) can poison a relationship or hinder the
establishment of one.
Girl hates to practice piano. Has no great love for the sound of tympanic hammers
striking strings. Mother insists and insists. Girl didn't elect to, but discovers
(Oh, what a discovery!) that she has an atomic-level affinity for it. After all.
Ed doesn't like broccoli. Anneliese uses logic, cuts out articles extolling broccoli,
tries all kinds of recipes on him. Broccolì, broccolà. It begins to sound like a comic
Italian aria. The broccolian atomic forces do not attract. They repel. Ed is overdoing
this, typically. He really likes her special cream cheese broccoli (he thinks it is called).
So, see? People pick and choose and repick. Picky-picky people can learn to pick.
We can elect affinities, no matter how contrary to nature it may appear or how recalcitrant
and picky we may be.
So at first, for example, it is possible that a baby will eat its pap because the
mother makes the spoon buzz around doing acrobatics like an airplane before it
reaches its mouth. Baby doesn't like the pap but it likes the game and eventually
eats the pap. Baby learns to like the pap. This has happened! But there are babies
like the first-born of some friends of the Pérez's surnamed Hall. He was given the
moniker Independence almost from the cradle. From the receiving blanket, it is said,
but even Independence Hall is capable of making up his mind to like something.
Often this is just a matter of setting your mind to it.
It's a fact. If someone catches Lalo unawares, they can tickle him and make him
laugh. Give him a split second to see what you're up to, though, and he will set his
mind against it and you might as well try tickling a board.
If you are wondering....
Yes. He finally set his mind to liking broccoli. He is not allergic to it and it is very
good for his heart. He prefers broccolà (for raw). If it is served boiled, he really likes
gobbling it down as fast as he can.
Learn from this, you who are having marital problems. Set your minds to liking
each other. You can do it! It's hard for love to be there without liking. So like and love
each other like your lives depend on it! You can elect to! Do it for your own sakes and
for others. You will end up liking yourselves more. Make the discordant harmonious.
You'll love yourselves for it. Change your hearts. Your minds should be made to serve
generous purposes, not wasted keeping score and getting even. Let your hearts set
your minds to work on better things. And make them mind!
Matthew and his cousin Cheryl (her name for this novel), age 24, a softly glowing
pastel picture of pure, demure, gentle loveliness, have an astounding mutual affinity
for each other. His Darling Preciousness has to go to her house every day, come aitch
or high water. Anyone else could read the same books to him, play with the same
toys with him or whatever. Forget it! Try to pick and choose atomically all you want.
Elect all you want. It is Matthew for Cheryl and Cheryl for Matthew. It could make
Linda, his own mother, jealous. (There is no one like a mother, though.)
Now why did Pérez have to go and tack this on? Doesn't it contradict somewhat
the foregoing? Not at all. The foregoing is perfectly true. Nevertheless it cannot be
denied that some affinities are instant and forever. It's as Mark Twain said in reference
to college curricula of his day: "There is no Accounting for women." And there is
no accounting for some affinities. Look around you and believe it.
A bit of dialog from the following morning:
"Just think what we've had to go through just because of an itty bitty hi-tech
gadget!'" Anneliese said.
"True, but we've had a little adventure and excitement in our lives because of it."
"An itty bitty little gadget like that! I can't get over it. Reminds me of a Zungenbrecher
[tongue-twister—literally, tongue-breaker] I learned as a little girl:
Klitzekleine Katzen kotzen klitzekleine Kotze. Klitzekleine Kotze kotzen klitzekleine
Katzen. (Itty-bitty kitties vomit itty-bitty vomit. Itty-bitty vomit vomit itty-bitty
kitties.)
"Try it. You could break your tongue on it."
Eduart tried it. "I c-c-c-c-could and did!"
"Gewiss! And how, you did!
"I almost vomited, too."
"Genug! Schon genug! Enough of this levity. No more frivolity! We've got to settle
down. We are going to sit down right now, list our priorities, prepare strict schedules
and get to work. This is what you will do. I'll help you. Write this down.
1. Contact only you know who. Explain our situation. Get him to put someone on
Plumpi and Chanta. Detail the evidence you have on them. Tell him about Snow, too.
2. Make it very clear that we want action. At our age we don't intend to be placed
under a protection program, ruining the rest of our lives—given new identities, shipped
off to places we don't want to be.
3. Remind them of all you've done to counter Communism, drug running, terrorism
and crime. You might tactfully let them know that your pay for this could have
been a little more handsome.
4. Rack your brain and figure out who could be after you. For something done in
Austria, Germany, Italy, Chile, Argentina, Mexico, Guatemala.... I know you've been
involved in undercover stuff in all those places and probably a lot more that you've
never told me about.
5. Have a close look at Onkel Hobart's papers. Find a specialist to look at them, if
necessary. You could try that synthetic diamond manufacturing place where Jaime
and Cynthia used to work.
6. Schedule two days for the above. Then you have to help me research beauty
pageants and all that goes with them. And alopecia. Start with alopecia areata,
then totalis, then...."
"If that's all you have for me, I'll do it today!"
"I said no more frivolity!"
"All riggghhhtt! As you noticed—since I was in your way—I got the G5 all connected
up to the internet while you fixed breakfast. I'll get that 'spare' keyboard and
flat monitor out, too. I suppose you think that they're just backup parts for the G5.
I'm going to let you in on something secret. Hush-hush. You can work at the G5 while
I'm working at another computer assigned to me by the Agency that I haven't told
you about. I'll kick my shoes off and settle myself comfortably at the table here with
my amazing little hi-tech devices connected wirelessly to a supercomputer sealed off
below the deck. First, I'll send my contact a message in a secure, unbreakable code
and fill you in as soon as the reply is in and automatically deciphered."
"Well, how nice, but don't go shifting around, whistling, humming, cracking your
knuckles, scratching your.... head, and otherwise disturbing me. I need perfect silence
for what I'll be doing."
Eduardo cleared his throat and went silent.
After sending off a message to his contact, he leaned back and thought back, ticking
off one place after another. Communists in Chile? Hardly, although the Commie
librarian of the Municipal Library in Viña del Mar was really ticked off at him. The
Municipality had generously turned over rent-free to the Instituto the entire upper
floor of the library so that a sucursal, a branch, of the Institute could be opened there.
This of course, had really teed her off. But a little later the Instituto had moved out
to a much larger location and donated a lot of books to fill the empty shelves left
behind. That uncomfortable situation seemed to have ended somewhat
satisfactorily.
There was also the bugging of the Cuban Binational Center, El Instituto Chileno-Cubano de Cultura—no doubt eventually discovered and with which they surely
would connect him. It was on the occasion of a recitation of his poems by Pablo
Neruda, the world's greatest living poet at the time—according to Chileans and
many others. Eduardo had never visited the Cuban Institute and was eager to do so
for that reason alone. Even more so, though, he wanted to meet Neruda.
María Elia Rodríguez, librarian at the Instituto Chileno-Norteamericano, had warned Eduardo that though Pablo Neruda was the world's greatest poet, he was also the world's dullest reciter of poetry. One of her assistants, Pilar Lizarzaburu, seconded this. As you can tell from her surname, Pilar is of Basque origin. Basque country includes parts of northern Spain and southern France, particularly along the Pyrenees. She taught Pérez some common expressions in vascuense or Euskara, as the Basques call their language.
Pilar is a popular name wherever Spanish is spoken (though especially in northern Spain), given to girls in honor of la Virgen del Pilar. It is the surname, Lizarzaburu, that conclusively reveals the Basque connection to the knowledgeable. The Basques have many catchy proverbs. Here are two that Pilar taught him: Eroriz, eroriz, oinez ikasten da (We learn to walk by falling down). Esana esan, emana eman (What's said is said, what's given is given; i.e., you can't take things back, so hold your tongue and control your impulses.) Euskara has no demonstrated relationship with any other language on earth. Isn't it beautiful? Esana esan!
It was raining hard the night that Ed went forth in raincoat and brimmed hat to
enter hostile territory—looking exactly like a movie or TV spy, he told himself. He
arrived at the scheduled time, which in Chilean time, la hora chilena, was a good
half-hour early. Everybody counts on it, so no problem. It gave him time to plant the
bug the PAO had given him (capable of picking up speech through walls and behind
closed doors) with time left over to look around. There was a small table next to the
office door with Instituto information and propaganda on it. Eduardo simply attached
the bug underneath the table top with the heavy adhesive provided and ¡listo!
Done! Finito! He assumed that a room directly below had already been rented.
On every wall beyond the closed office door were posters stridently depicting U.S.
atrocities. Examples: A bloody dagger with EE.UU. printed on it embedded in a map
of Cuba. Capitalist hands—gaudy, heavy rings on every finger—dripping with the
innocent blood of victims of capitalism. ¡Las manos fuera de Cuba! Keep your hands
off Cuba! Depictions of U.S. soldiers savagely slaughtering women and children in
Viet Nam.
In this hostile atmosphere, on the top floor of one of Valparaíso's tallest
buildings— frequent earthquakes kept almost all of them smaller—and with a rickety
old elevator the only way out of there, Eduardo came close to feeling like an actual
skulking, vulnerable, warmongering, capitalist spy.
(EE.UU. = Estados Unidos, United States. Double initials are often used to indicate
plurals. The building referred to had 14 floors, as Pérez recalls.)
Finally people started filing in. A rainy night but considerable interest in the
poet. The director del instituto introduced Neruda in a typically flowery but untypically
succinct manner. A long introduction was not necessary. Pablo Neruda was
well known by all. The director's appearance and manner surprised Pérez. He looked
no more fanatically, violently revolutionary than Pérez's slender fingers (bare of heavy gaudy
rings) looked flabbily capitalistic. A mouse of a man. Might have been Vladimir
Ilyich Lenin with somewhat more benignly arched eyebrows. Not fierce-looking at all.
Obviously not dangerous.
Steel stiffened el director's words and spine and eyebrows, however, when he castigated
the non-Communist world and the United States of North America for
blocking Neruda's candidacy for the Nobel Prize in Literature. (A prize awarded him
shortly afterward in 1971.) Brrrrr. The capitalist spy was glad to have removed his
G-man hat and raincoat, though without them he almost shivered unheroically. That
proverb about "still waters run deep" edged into his consciousness. This man obviously
meant deep trouble the moment that bug was discovered.
Pablo Neruda took the stage. That is, he sat himself before a table, a book of his
poems open before him. Pérez thought he had a studiously rumpled look about him,
somewhat on the order of Rumpole of the Bailey. Pérez hopes you have seen Leo
McKern as Rumpole in the British TV series which has been featured on PBS. Pérez
remains quite impressed by the garb and mien of both—both of them stagy performers
in their inimitable way, before the court at Old Bailey or courting adoring
poetry-loving fans. Their voices, though.... Advantage Rumpole.
Neruda began to read "Ya parte el galgo terrible" (The terrible hound is on its
way/has been loosed). The poem was later set to music by Víctor Jara. Chilenos have
a term, "pat' 'e perro" (pata de perro, dogfoot), which is applied to those among them
who travel far and wide. Chileans can be found almost anywhere it seems. The
poem's setting is the California gold rush (from 1849 until some years later when gold
extraction became more mechanical and industrialized.) Many gold seekers rushed
to California by land, some by sea. No Panama Canal then, so ships had to round el
Cabo de Hornos (Cape Horn) and a sea voyage took about four months—roughly the same length of time as journeying overland.
Ships invariably put in at Valparaíso
and pateperros infected by gold fever began to come aboard. The "hounds" of the
poem are the American ruffians who attack these Chileans in California as ferociously
as the terrible mastiffs Cortés and his men employed to viciously subdue the
Aztecs. In Neruda's poem the hounds destroy helpless and defenseless Chileans and
also Mexicans and Panamanians, exterminating niños morenos (children with dark
skin). So there sat Neruda, reciting these horrible atrocities in the monotonous
monotone that María Elia Rodríguez and Pilar Lizarzaburu had predicted. The
strangest thing!
As Neruda read on, awareness of a shabbily dressed youth probably no older
than 16 obtruded itself into Eduardo's narrow focus on the poet. The enraptured
young fellow was emoting toward the stage as only an Eugenio Dreves could emote
from on one. Neruda's plodding words were energizing one entranced youth alone
(alas!). They were putting all but two in the audience to sleep, so lacking in animation
were the syllables issuing slowly from his drawling southern mouth.
In stark
contrast, the young teenager's mobile features were vivifying and animating every
Neruda word like a Disney artist rapidly sketching Daffy Duck. Terrible: His face
delineated ferocity. Galgo: His visage sketched a snarl. Y golpean las mujeres (and
they beat the women): He winced and his features twisted in fear and pain. Pérez is
not overdoing this. The joven (young man) was so caught up in a vision of
capitalistic North American villainy that he was living every word.
(Neruda grew up in Temuco, southern Chile, where he received encouragement
from future Nobel prize winning poet Gabriela Mistral, head of the girls' secondary school there. Neruda was 12
when they met.)
Pérez had seen that face before. Had seen those eyes burning into his with searing
intensity. Only a few weeks previously. At a foro, a forum or panel discussion,
at the Instituto Chileno-Norteamericano. On economics. A foro which readily could
have been construed as anti-Communist. Afterward, as was his custom, Eduardo
circulated among those present, absorbing their impressions, getting to know as
many of them as possible just a little. The youth moved forward and accosted him.
"You can have your precious freedom and democracy!" he hissed, as though spitting
on the sacred words. "What we need is bread, not fancy words! I would exchange
all this glorious freedom of mine, this democracy for the rich, for a little bread for my
family!"
Pérez attempted to mildly reason with him, but participants in the foro had
already said whatever needed saying about the "abundance" of bread in Cuba and
other Communist nations, so he just tried to exhibit sincere concern, understanding,
sympathy and friendliness, hoping that this might be reciprocated to a small degree.
The youth was having none of that. Though he knew it would be futile, even counterproductive,
Pérez stated that as one individual he couldn't do much, but he would
like to do what he could personally to alleviate poverty and distress and offered the
joven a couple of lucas (thousand peso bills—not worth as much as it might seem,
given the terrible inflation).
"For your family."
"Keep your filthy money! You low-down dirty capitalist pigs think you can buy us
out with your tainted ill-got gain mercilessly pounded out of the poorest of the poor!"
Spanish has a variety of words for pig. The mildest is chancho. A mother may call
her adorable messy child a chanchito (little pig). Puerco and cerdo are harsher. Cochino
is harsher still. Capitalist pig Pérez was a cochino.
The worst term is
marrano. The pitilessly, implacably persecuted Jews who converted to Christianity
and were suspected of doing so insincerely just to protect their skins and their property,
were marrano-swine in the Spanish Inquisition. (The same word was employed
in Portugal.) Practicing Jews do not eat pork. In its racist, bigoted, exploitive, un-Christian evil, marrano is a horrible word. But it's all history now—only a historical
expression at present, your Spanish-English dictionary indicates.
Possibly you have seen Il Postino (The Postman), the Italian film with Phillipe
Noiret in the role of Neruda, based on Ardiente Paciencia (Fiery Patience) by Chilean
novelist Antonio Skarmeta. Engagingly charming, lovingly produced, the film can lull
and seduce viewers into believing that Communism is equally charming and loving.
Il postino, portrayed by Massimo Troisi, dies at the hands of reactionary police
ordered to break up a strike by poverty-stricken workers. Certainly, such abuses
have happened and happen. Our hearts are pierced with pity at the death of a vulnerable,
admirable, struggling young Communist with poetic aspirations and the courage to
fight the exploiters and oppressors.
No one could fault the aspirations or the
struggle. The problem is the ideology and its consequences. The poor cry out for
bread. The Communists give them stones. Communism has destroyed country after
country, economically, politically, socially, morally.
Liberal apologists claim that Communism has never been given a fair chance. Of
course it couldn't succeed under despots like Stalin! It could, ostensibly, under benign
maximum leader Fidel Castro if the U.S. would just lift its evil embargo. The
apologists conveniently overlook the fact that Communism requires ruthless tyranny
and oppressive centralized serfdom in order to establish and maintain itself.
But without freedom, without competition, everything withers and crumbles.
The hypocrisy of liberals and the spin they put on things could enrage a perfect
little angel. They loathe, revile and condemn Augusto Pinochet, while standing by
Castro. By their fruits ye shall know them. Castro murdered and eliminated far, far
more "enemies of the people" in his fight to come to power and to stay in power than
Pinochet did. Castro overthrew a corrupt, comparatively mild dictatorship to establish
an absolute one. Pinochet overthrew a Socialist-Communist regime elected by a
slim majority in a three-way presidential campaign which was openly working to
establish a totalitarian Communist nation patterned after Cuba. Pinochet rightly
stepped in and saved Chile.
The metaphor is so old and stale that Pérez would be very pleased to come up
with a new one, but no other can equal it. If a cancer is discovered and removed
promptly, the victim is saved. Otherwise, as it advances it causes terrible suffering
and death. Any qualified surgeon, knowing the facts, would commend the application
of this metaphor to Chile. Pinochet, for all the accusations against him, acted like a
skilled surgeon, harming the patient as little as possible. There were deplorable
excesses on the part of some. Pérez knew personally some of those wrongly affected.
But what is this compared with Communist excesses? Not a piddly drop of piddle in
a puddle! Not a leak in a lake.
Pinochet, like others in power, made the mistake of remaining in authority too
long. He should have been content with the role of admired mentor to younger men
and women qualified to replace him. But tell us, caring, bleeding-heart liberals who
denounce Pinochet for this, what about Castro? President for life! Long live Fidel!
Talk about monstrous hypocrisy! Liberals are said to have warped minds. Liberals
of this persuasion have no minds.
All right, Pérez is sorry. Do you remember the contest between the cold wind and
the sun? To see which could get a guy to take his coat off.... The icy wind blasted and
shook him but he only pulled his coat tighter around himself. The sun beamed it's
gentle rays on him and off it came. Pérez is beaming his warmest smile at you. It is
a sincere smile. He wishes only the best for liberals, our country, and others everywhere.
Let's all set our minds to this.
Pinochet brought in U.S. economic specialists and established a strong free-enterprise
system in Chile. Since then, Chile has had one of the best economies (often
the best) in Latin America, despite unfair practices promoted against it.
Anneliese
and Eduardo were in Chile when Chilean grapes were ruled unfit for human consumption
by U.S. manipulators who infected other manipulators in Europe. The best
grapes in the world, in the Pérez's widely traveled opinion! Unable to export them,
Chile's producers had to give grapes away to school children and practically give
them away to everyone. The Pérezes were buying grapes for a few cents a kilo.
Neither they, the school children, nor anyone else got sick from eating them—even
though gorging themselves on them, they are so delicious. But in spite of this and
other unfair and unethical actions, Chile is surging forward. With problems, but
manageable ones for an economy on the right track—problems of a sort that tyrants
like Fidel Castro could be only too glad to have.
(Chile is in the southern hemisphere. The seasons are reversed. Off-season competition
was too much for our feeble old United States of America?)
Well, poor Pinochet is old and tired. He has heart problems. But his enemies are
hounding him to the bitter end. Would that the many, many more, who have suffered much,
much more, might as successfully hound Fidel! Liberal Britishers did their utmost
to get don Augusto Pinochet extradited to Spain, where he doubtless would have
been condemned and punished to the full severity of Spanish law. He only escaped
because of the infirmities of age, no longer able to express himself very coherently or
remember anything clearly.
It would have enraged liberals if Pinochet were to respond to interrogations with
a liberal "Ah don' rimembah," like so many Clinton supporters appearing before congressional
committees. "Ah don' rimembah." "Ah don' rimembah." "Ah don' rimembah."
Or else they would consult with a minimum of four lawyers and after ten
minutes of consultation would still be unable to utter a simple yes or no.
So the latest news is that Pinochet was finally permitted to return to Chile,
where perhaps without excessive liberal tumult he will be allowed to pass on to his
reward, which is up to God, not liberals—liberals who "feel our pain" but no answerability
to God or history. History, they can spin.
Take courage and comfort, don Augusto, together with all those so advanced in
years that they are oppressed as never before by gravity (the weight of age pressing
heavily down on them), from "How Firm a Foundation," Verse 6:
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