Free The Days of the Rainbow by Antonio Skármeta Page A

again
,
    With twenty mortal murders on their crowns
,
    And push us from our stools
.
    This is more strange
    Than such a murder is
.
    “I’m confident that Professor Paredes will give me a B now,” Nico Santos says, trying to hide a yawn. “What are you thinking about, Don Adrián?”
    Bettini rubs his eyes and strongly presses the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “About reality. Where’s reality, Nico? In Shakespeare, or in all those fools there on the set?”
    Nico Santos stands up, looking at the other side of the studio, where he sees a group of girls in leotards, carrying a rainbow made of papier-mâché.

LAST NIGHT we went to a Prisioneros concert. Well, it was not exactly a concert. It was a “toccata.” When a rock band plays, they call it “toccata.” Except that the one last night was “toccata and fugue,” * because as soon as we left the premises in Matucana, we saw several vans parked at the door and the cops waiting for us.
    At the beginning they were not taking anyone, but this fool shouted at the cops, “Fuck you and your horse!” So the cops took out their clubs and started to hit us on the head. We had to run. The owners of the nearby bars, as soon as they saw the cops coming, closed the metal gates, and it was impossible for us to find a place to hide.
    Los Prisioneros’ lyrics are “daring.” But the country is not as daring as their lyrics. That’s what’s cool about rock. It’s as if the songs were more alive than the people. It’s as if the drums and the guitars electrified our veins. It makes you want to leave the toccata and go throw stones at La Moneda. But the truth is that the following day we’re all walking with our heads hanging down, sleepy, trying to read the history chapter in the last minutes before the quiz.
    And the teachers teach their classes apathetically, looking at their watches every few minutes, to see how long they have before the bell rings. They’re so poorly paid! In Chile, teachers are despised. Tell me about it—my dad is a teacher.
    My favorite song by Los Prisioneros is
    The world needs Latin blood
,
    red furious and young
.
    Good-bye barriers! Good-bye seventies!
    Here comes the strength the voice of the eighties
.
    Patricia Bettini listens to her old man’s records, like the Beatles and that stuff. She also knows some of Joan Baez’s and Bob Dylan’s songs. She says that it’s one thing to sing that the strength of the eighties is coming, and another for it to actuallyever come. She doesn’t think that rock can overthrow Pinochet. However, her national anthem is John Lennon’s “Imagine,” the most pacifist song of all. She thinks that there’s no way to get rid of Pinochet, so once she finishes high school, she’s leaving for Florence.
    I shake when I think about it. Italians are so handsome, they dress like princes, get million-dollar haircuts, and play soccer like gods. As for myself, she says that if I love her, I better start learning Italian.
    It sounds similar to Spanish, but that can be pretty deceiving. She gave me a couple of books, and I underline whatever I understand and like. For example, that cool quotation from Dante: “Libertà va cercando, ch’è sì cara, come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta” (He is looking for that freedom so cherished, that for which he even despises life).
    Professor Santos would wash out my mouth with soap if he heard me saying something like that. He’s the only one who can be a hero in this house. He doesn’t want me to be involved in anything. The other day I learned by heart some verses from a song with which I left Patricia Bettini stoned a few days ago, “Tu sei per me la più bella del mondo” (To me you are the most beautiful girl in the world).
    After school, she was waiting for me. As soon as she saw me, she asked me to hug her, as tightly asI could, and said that she wanted to die. I dropped my backpack and squeezed her behind the hot dog stand, because everybody was looking at us.