Free The Neruda Case by Roberto Ampuero Page A
Authors: Roberto Ampuero
replied, stung. He was irritated by his wife’s impetuous vehemence, her tendency to make decisions hastily.
“It’s better to have a mediocre time in your own country than a good time in a foreign one.”
“Ángela, don’t try to run my life, especially not now.”
“At least I’m honest.”
“You’re accustomed to making decisions that affect the lives of others—in this case, mine.”
“It’s just not working between us, Cayetano. Don’t kid yourself. What do you want me to say? Does my frankness bother you?”
“I thank you for it. And as far as it not working between us, there’s no need for you to remind me. That’s why I don’t make a fuss when you leave the house for several days at a time. You live your life, I live mine.”
“I’ll have you know, darling, that I’m out there doing political work, not having love affairs. Let’s be clear about that,” she shouted, impassioned.
“I couldn’t care less what you’re doing, but don’t even think of sending me off to Havana. If our marriage is completely broken, then I’ll decide what I do and where the hell I go.”
He had let himself be seduced by her words before. As a result he’d ended up in this very Valparaíso house. Before that, he was living tranquilly in Hialeah, which, if it wasn’t Havana, at least had a climate and fauna similar to Cuba’s that inspired in him a perpetual nostalgia for the island. It was strange. Cubans loved their island, butfrom a distance, while Chileans suffered in their own country but refused to leave it or change for anything in the world. And since he’d fallen in love with Ángela in the United States and become convinced it would be a good idea to participate in Allende’s revolutionary process, he’d followed her to Chile, in March of 1971. At that time, the revolution was running smoothly, Chileans were full of hope, the world celebrated their government’s efforts, while he himself enjoyed the enthusiasm that had swept the nation and heralded a new beginning. He wasn’t acquainted with the socialism of the island, and in Florida he’d become accustomed to enjoying Cuban culture and character through newspapers and radio stations run by exiles, making up for his lack of actual Cuban experiences with the pranks that memory can play. He wasn’t all that familiar with the tropical revolution that Ángela supported so enthusiastically from a distance, and now he was in a nation that wasn’t his own, in which he’d arrived through a curious mix of love and politics. Chile was diametrically opposed to his native island, with winters that cracked the lips and presaged the end of the world; with its profoundly grave and solemn people, so far from the whimsical irreverence of the Caribbean; with an ethic of work and sacrifice unheard of on Cuba, the island of the never-ending party. In the Southern Cone, he concluded sadly, life was taken as seriously as in Frederick the Great’s Prussia. No, he wouldn’t take his wife’s advice again. She might be very refined and delicate, conscious of the injustices and inequities of life, a graduate of La Maisonette and gringo colleges, an experienced skier and equestrian, the daughter of a family with land in Colchagua and company stocks, but he would not obey her. He was done with being a sheep, bowing down to a woman who lived off an allowance from her capitalist father but at the same time had no qualms about backing the expropriation of his properties. He’d never again take her advice; it had brought him only misfortune. From now on he’d do whatever called to him.
“You should go to Cuba, live there, soak up the revolution,” Ángela insisted. The wooden floorboards creaked under her moccasins. Next to the still-open suitcase lay a bottle of Chanel No. 5, and a silk Hermès scarf poked out between the zippers.
“What you’re saying shows how much you don’t know me. What I long for most is independence, for God’s sake, to be the way I
“It’s better to have a mediocre time in your own country than a good time in a foreign one.”
“Ángela, don’t try to run my life, especially not now.”
“At least I’m honest.”
“You’re accustomed to making decisions that affect the lives of others—in this case, mine.”
“It’s just not working between us, Cayetano. Don’t kid yourself. What do you want me to say? Does my frankness bother you?”
“I thank you for it. And as far as it not working between us, there’s no need for you to remind me. That’s why I don’t make a fuss when you leave the house for several days at a time. You live your life, I live mine.”
“I’ll have you know, darling, that I’m out there doing political work, not having love affairs. Let’s be clear about that,” she shouted, impassioned.
“I couldn’t care less what you’re doing, but don’t even think of sending me off to Havana. If our marriage is completely broken, then I’ll decide what I do and where the hell I go.”
He had let himself be seduced by her words before. As a result he’d ended up in this very Valparaíso house. Before that, he was living tranquilly in Hialeah, which, if it wasn’t Havana, at least had a climate and fauna similar to Cuba’s that inspired in him a perpetual nostalgia for the island. It was strange. Cubans loved their island, butfrom a distance, while Chileans suffered in their own country but refused to leave it or change for anything in the world. And since he’d fallen in love with Ángela in the United States and become convinced it would be a good idea to participate in Allende’s revolutionary process, he’d followed her to Chile, in March of 1971. At that time, the revolution was running smoothly, Chileans were full of hope, the world celebrated their government’s efforts, while he himself enjoyed the enthusiasm that had swept the nation and heralded a new beginning. He wasn’t acquainted with the socialism of the island, and in Florida he’d become accustomed to enjoying Cuban culture and character through newspapers and radio stations run by exiles, making up for his lack of actual Cuban experiences with the pranks that memory can play. He wasn’t all that familiar with the tropical revolution that Ángela supported so enthusiastically from a distance, and now he was in a nation that wasn’t his own, in which he’d arrived through a curious mix of love and politics. Chile was diametrically opposed to his native island, with winters that cracked the lips and presaged the end of the world; with its profoundly grave and solemn people, so far from the whimsical irreverence of the Caribbean; with an ethic of work and sacrifice unheard of on Cuba, the island of the never-ending party. In the Southern Cone, he concluded sadly, life was taken as seriously as in Frederick the Great’s Prussia. No, he wouldn’t take his wife’s advice again. She might be very refined and delicate, conscious of the injustices and inequities of life, a graduate of La Maisonette and gringo colleges, an experienced skier and equestrian, the daughter of a family with land in Colchagua and company stocks, but he would not obey her. He was done with being a sheep, bowing down to a woman who lived off an allowance from her capitalist father but at the same time had no qualms about backing the expropriation of his properties. He’d never again take her advice; it had brought him only misfortune. From now on he’d do whatever called to him.
“You should go to Cuba, live there, soak up the revolution,” Ángela insisted. The wooden floorboards creaked under her moccasins. Next to the still-open suitcase lay a bottle of Chanel No. 5, and a silk Hermès scarf poked out between the zippers.
“What you’re saying shows how much you don’t know me. What I long for most is independence, for God’s sake, to be the way I