Free My Invented Country by Isabel Allende Page A

taxi when he felt something like a bear crash onto his shoulders, throwing him to the ground, where he lay squashed like a cockroach. It was his lover, who had charged after him, completely naked and screeching like a banshee. People ran from houses all over the neighborhood to enjoy the spectacle. The men were amused, but as soon as the women realized what was going on, they helped the “wronged” woman hold down my slippery friend, and then among them they lifted him up and carted him back to the bed he’d abandoned during siesta time.
    I could give three hundred additional examples, but surely these are enough.

PRAYING TO GOD
    T he account I just gave you about those ladies of the colonial era, the ones who defied the Inquisition, marks an exceptional moment in our history because in reality the power of the Catholic Church is irrefutable, and now with the strength of fundamentalist Catholic movements like the Opus Dei and the Legionarios de Cristo behind it, that power is even more unassailable.
    Chileans are very religious, although in practice thathas a lot more to do with fetishism and superstition than with mystic restiveness or theological enlightenment. No Chilean calls him or herself an atheist, not even dyed-in-the-wool communists, because the term is considered an insult. The word agnostic is preferred, and usually even the strongest nonbelievers are converted on their deathbeds since they risk too much if they don’t, and a last-hour confession never hurt anyone. This spiritual compulsion rises from the earth itself: a people who live amid mountains logically turn their eyes toward the heavens. Manifestations of faith are impressive. Convoked by the Church, thousands and thousands of young people carrying candles and flowers march in long processions giving praise to the Virgin Mary or praying for peace at a deafening decibel level, screaming with the enthusiasm teenagers in other countries exhibit at rock concerts. It used to be enormously popular to say the rosary as a family, and the celebrations of the month of Mary always scored a great success, but recently the television soaps have boasted more fans.
    As you might expect, an esoteric strain runs through my family. One of my uncles has spent seventy years of his life preaching about the encounter with nothingness. He has many followers. If I had paid attention to him when I was young, I wouldn’t be studying Buddhism today and trying fruitlessly to stand on my head in my yoga class. When it comes to matters of holiness, however, that poor demented hundred-year-old woman who disguised herself as a nun and tried to reform the prostitutes on Calle Maipú can’t hold a candle to my great-aunt who sprouted wings. They weren’twings with golden feathers, like those of Renaissance angels, that would have attracted everyone’s attention; they were discreet little stumps on her shoulders, erroneously diagnosed by doctors as a bone deformity. Sometimes, depending on where the light was coming from, we could see a halo like a plate of light floating above her head. I recounted her drama in the Stories of Eva Luna, and I don’t want to repeat it here. It’s enough to say that in contrast with the Chilean’s general tendency to complain about everything, she was always content, even though she had a tragic fate. In another person that attitude of unfounded happiness would have been unpardonable, but in such a transparent woman it was easy to tolerate. I have always kept her photograph on my desk so I will recognize her when she slips slyly into the pages of a book or appears in some corner of the house.
    In Chile there is a plethora of saints of all stripes, which isn’t strange, considering it is the most Catholic country in the world—more Catholic than Ireland, and certainly much more so than the Vatican. A few years ago we had a young girl, in appearance very like the statue of Saint Sebastian the Martyr, who