* * *

  —

  On one of the trips to the farm, I introduced Harald to the women’s group, and they immediately recognized him as the insane foreigner they’d seen examining the sky with binoculars, spying on the angels. Several of those women were embroidering textiles made from fabric scraps sewn over burlap, creating scenes that represented the harshness of life, prison, lines outside police stations, and soup kitchens. Harald thought the cloths were extraordinary and started sending them to Europe, where they sold well and were even exhibited in galleries and museums as works of resistance art. Since the money went entirely to the creators, word got out and soon there were hundreds of women embroidering burlap all up and down the country. No matter how many textiles the authorities confiscated, more always appeared, so the government created a program to commission more idyllic textiles, depicting children playing in circles and rural women with bouquets of flowers in their hands. No one wanted them.

  That night, talking to Harald about the group of women, I told him that they had given me a new lease on life, but that I felt my contribution was merely one drop of water in a desert of needs.

  “There’s so much to do, Harald!”

  “You do a lot, Violeta. You can’t help every single case that’s presented to you.”

  “How can I protect these women? I met a twelve-year-old girl who told me her ultimate objective was to overthrow the patriarchy.”

  “Well, for the moment that’s a pretty lofty goal. We have to overthrow the dictatorship first.”

  “What I should do is create a foundation to fund programs, instead of individuals. The laws need to change…”

  I first made sure that I had enough money to live decently and to support you, and I put the rest into the Nieves Foundation. Even after I leave this world, the foundation will live on, because the endowment, well invested, will gain interest and remain profitable for a long time. Mailén Kusanovic is in charge, even though it should be your responsibility, Camilo. You could do a lot of good with my money, but you lack the talent to run the foundation; you’re too distracted. Your theory is that God will provide, but God doesn’t provide anything when it comes to money. It is commendable to choose poverty, as you have done, but if you truly want to help others, you’re going to need money. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, however, I’ll get confused. In this part of my story, Mailén was still a teenager, two years younger than you, but much more intelligent and mature. It would be several years before she reentered our lives.

  You were at boarding school at San Ignacio, where the priests were supposedly keeping you safe from yourself. How did you escape so often without getting caught? You’d been trying my patience ever since you were a naughty little boy, protected by Etelvina, who always defended you. I sent you to boarding school not to get rid of you, as you accused me, but because I couldn’t control you. You seem to have conveniently forgotten all your bad behavior. The final straw was when you and a friend broke into a house you thought was empty, and a woman came out with a shotgun and almost blew your heads off. What did you expect me to do? Ship you off to a boarding school run by priests, of course. Corporal punishment was no longer used—a shame, because some spankings would’ve done you good.

  * * *

  —

  Let’s return to Harald Fiske. Who’d ever have imagined that the Scandinavian would become my husband? I usually say he’s my only husband because I always forget I was married to Fabian Schmidt-Engler in my youth. That veterinarian left no traces on my life. I don’t even remember having gone to bed with him, but you know I have a selective memory. I used to keep track of my brief and furtive affairs, writing down the names, dates, and circumstances, and even rating them from one to ten for their efforts, but I stopped because it was a pathetic list that took up only two notebook pages.

  Harald and I had been seeing each other several times a week as good friends for a while, traveling to the south together and going to marches, when Etelvina planted the notion in my head that he was in love with me.

  “What are you talking about, he’s much younger than me. He’s never insinuated anything of the sort.”

  “He must be shy, then,” she insisted.

  “He’s not shy, Etelvina, he’s Norwegian. In his country they don’t have fits of passion like in your telenovelas.”

  “Why don’t you ask him, señora? Then we can clear things up, banish all doubts.”

  “What does this have to do with you, Etelvina?”

  “I live in this house too, don’t I? I have a right to know your plans.”

  “I don’t have any plans.”

  “But Mr. Harald might…”

  I couldn’t get the idea out of my mind, and I started to watch Harald carefully for signs. She who seeks, shall find. He seemed to use any excuse to touch me, and he looked at me with the expression of a lost puppy, I was no longer so sure of myself. A short while later we were in one of those fish shacks on the beach I’ve told you about, sharing broiled sea bass and a bottle of white wine, when I couldn’t take not knowing anymore.

  “Tell me, Harald, what are your intentions with respect to me?”

  “Why do you ask?” he said, perplexed.

  “Because I’m sixty-six and I’m staring down old age. Also, Etelvina wants to know.”

  “Tell her I’m waiting for you to ask for my hand in marriage,” he answered with a wink.

  “Harald Fiske, do you take Violeta Del Valle to be your wife?” I proposed.

  “It depends. Does the woman promise to respect, honor, obey, and care for me as long as we both shall live?”

  “Well, I can at least promise to care for you.”

  We toasted to ourselves and to Etelvina, happy at the prospect of a future full of possibilities fanning out before us. In the car, he held my hand and hummed the whole way, as I nervously imagined the moment I’d have to take my clothes off in front of him. I’ve never gone to the gym, I had flaps of flesh on my arms, a roll on my stomach, and breasts that were drooping down to my knees. Nevertheless, the moment of truth didn’t come as soon as I’d expected, because there was terrible news waiting for us.

  We arrived home to find the dean of the San Ignacio school consoling Etelvina, sobbing because they’d arrested the light of her life. It wasn’t the first time the dean had accused you of some evil deed; he’d threatened to expel you after you pooped on top of the school mascot, a turtle, and when you climbed like a spider up the façade of the Central Bank and hung from the flagpole until the firemen pulled you down. But this time it was something more serious.

  “Camilo once again escaped from school and he was caught painting anti-government graffiti. There were two other boys with him, but they weren’t our students. They ran away, but your grandson was apprehended with a can of spray paint in his hand. We’re trying to find out where they’ve taken him, Señora Del Valle. We should have some information soon,” the dean said.

  I lost my mind, I admit it. The methods employed by the police were common knowledge, and the fact that my grandson was a minor would not protect him. My thoughts instantly ran through all the terrible stories I’d heard through my foundation and I recalled the victims in the cave outside of Nahuel. In the few hours that had passed they could’ve already destroyed you.

  * * *

  —

  I’ll never forgive you for doing something so stupid, Camilo. You were an idiotic little monster, and you had me scared to death: I still get mad whenever I think of it. You were completely irresponsible; you knew how government repression functioned, but you thought you could once again misbehave without paying the consequences. You and your friends had vandalized the marble base of the Monument to the Saviors of the Nation, a monstrosity built in the purest Third Reich style, crowned by an eternal flame blazing against the capital skyline, marred by your black spray paint. I want to believe that it wasn’t your idea, that you were just going along with your friends. You never confessed their names, not to the dean, not to me, not to anyone; you only told me, confidentially, that they were from Albert Benoit’s shantytown. The police split your face open. “Who were the other boys?” “Where did you meet them?” “Their names! Speak, you little shit!”

  In that situation I’d have given my life to have Julián Bravo there. Your grandfather had always been a man of infinite resources and contacts, and in other times he would’ve known what to do, whom to bribe. But because of me he’d lost his power and was isolated from the world on his ranch in Patagonia. Even if he answered my call and still had some contacts in the government, he wouldn’t have been able to get there in time. I went with the dean to the cathedral to see if we could get help from one of the vicarage’s lawyers. I was in such a nervous state that he had to fill out the form for me, while I impatiently counted the minutes we lost to paperwork.

  “Have courage, ma’am, this could take a while…” he tried to explain, but I couldn’t listen; I was too upset.

  In the meantime Harald Fiske sprang into action. The Norwegian embassy, like many other diplomatic seats, was disliked by the government because they’d been offering asylum to fugitives of the regime for years. As representative of that country, Harald lacked influence, but he was friends with the United States ambassador, with whom he often went mountain biking. By then, the government no longer had the Americans’ unconditional support because the dictatorship was weak and the situation in the world was changing. It wasn’t in their interest to support a regime that had fallen out of favor. The United States ambassador had a secret mission to lay the groundwork for the return of democracy in our country. A democracy with conditions, of course.

  “The boy is my girlfriend’s son. He did something stupid, but he’s not a terrorist,” Harald told him.

  In reality, it was my grandson, I wasn’t yet Harald’s girlfriend, and you’d been a terrorist from the age of two, but those details were unimportant. The American offered to intervene on your behalf.

  * * *

  —

  I suppose you remember all too well the time you spent in the hands of the police. I haven’t forgotten a single moment of those two horrible days, which would’ve been an eternity if they’d transferred you to Security Headquarters, where not even the blessed American ambassador would’ve been able to save you. They beat you until you were unconscious, and would have submitted you to another round if you hadn’t been a Del Valle and a student at San Ignacio. Even there, in the dungeons of the police station, the social hierarchy was firmly intact, Camilo. Be thankful that you weren’t one of those other two boys who vandalized the monument alongside you. They would’ve received even more brutal treatment.

  They released you in a deplorable state, with your face swollen up like a pumpkin, your eyes blackened, your shirt bloody, and bruises all over your body. While Etelvina iced your wounds, gave you kisses, and simultaneously smacked you for being so stupid, the dean of your school informed me that you had caused too many problems, you got terrible grades because you didn’t like doing homework, and your conduct was atrocious.

  “Camilo put a mouse inside the music teacher’s purse and emptied a bottle of laxatives into the staff lunch. He was caught smoking marijuana in the bathroom and raffling off pictures from dirty magazines to the elementary school boys. In short, your grandson would be better off in military school—”

  “That’s your fault!” I interrupted, shouting. “How did he get hold of marijuana, laxatives, and pictures of naked women? Who’s watching the children at that boarding school of yours?”

  “We’re a school, ma’am, not a prison. We don’t treat our students like juvenile delinquents.”

  “You can’t expel Camilo, Father,” I begged, changing tactics.

  “I’m afraid, ma’am, that—”

  “My grandson is becoming a Marxist and an atheist…”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You heard me, Father. Marxist and atheist. He’s at a difficult age, he needs spiritual guidance. A sergeant at some military school isn’t going to be able to offer that, is he?”

  The dean gave me a murderous look, but after a long pause he began to laugh loudly. He didn’t kick you out of school. I’ve often asked myself if that wasn’t one of those crossroads that determine our destinies, which I’ve talked to you about already. If they had kicked you out of San Ignacio, you might actually be a Marxist and an atheist instead of a priest; maybe you’d be a normal guy, married to some young woman I adored, and you’d even have given me some great-grandchildren. Hey, I’m free to dream.

  The world, our country, and our lives changed dramatically at the end of the eighties. We watched as the Berliners, in a single night, used hammers to tear down the wall that had divided Germany for twenty-eight years. A short while later the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union ended, and for too brief a time some of us breathed easy with the hope of peace. But there is always a war somewhere. Our wounded continent, with some sad exceptions, began to heal from the plague of caudillos, revolutions, guerrillas, military coups, tyranny, murder, torture, and genocide.

  Here the dictatorship collapsed under its own weight, pushed out from below by collective efforts, without violence or too much turmoil, and we awoke one morning to the news that democracy was back. It was something young people had never known and the rest of us had forgotten. We took to the streets to celebrate and you disappeared for a couple of days to the shantytown where you had so many friends. They were preparing a party to welcome Albert Benoit, who had never even unpacked his suitcase in France because he was anxiously awaiting the moment he could return to his adopted land. He received a hero’s welcome from the people he’d defended from tanks and bullets with outstretched arms. Some, like you, who had been beardless children when they marched alongside him armed with stones, were now men and women, but Benoit remembered each one by name.

  At first we had a transitional government, a conditional and cautious democracy that would last for several years. Democracy didn’t bring with it the descent into chaos that the dictatorship’s propaganda had forewarned; those who scandalously benefited from the economic system kept their power; no one paid for the crimes committed. The political parties that had survived in the shadows reemerged, along with other new ones; institutions we’d given up for dead were revived, and we tacitly agreed not to make too much commotion so as not to provoke the military. The dictator went calmly home, cheered on by his followers and defended by the right. The press shook off the burden of censorship and little by little the more sinister aspects of those years came to light. Still, the consensus was that we should leave the past behind and focus on building the future.

  * * *

  —

  Among the secrets that were aired once freedom of the press was restored were those of Colonia Esperanza, which had been protected by the military for years. Now the new government was finally allowed inside. It had been turned into a clandestine prison camp where medical experiments were performed on the political prisoners, and many were executed. The director escaped unscathed, and I believe he lived peacefully in Switzerland until his death. Do you see what I’m telling you, Camilo? Bad guys have good luck. The whole thing caused a tremendous scandal, confirming the story published in Germany several years prior, which alleged that the members of the colony, even the children, were all victims of a regime of terror.

  Some of the people associated with the infamous colony were discussed on television, among them Fabian Schmidt-Engler. He looked very different from the husband of my youth. He was almost seventy, he’d gained weight, and he had very little hair left; if they hadn’t said his name, I might not have recognized him. They mentioned the respected and honorable Schmidt-Engler family, which had grown into a dynasty of wealthy farmers and hoteliers in the south. They said that Fabian had served as liaison between the colony and the military security apparatus, but that he hadn’t been aware of the atrocities being committed within the compound. He wasn’t accused of any specific crime. I looked everywhere for information on Julián Bravo and his mysterious flights, but I didn’t find anything. They mentioned the military helicopters that transported prisoners, but there was nothing about the private planes that he piloted.

  That was the last I ever heard of Fabian until he died in 2000, and I saw his obituary in the newspaper. He was survived by a wife, two daughters, and several grandchildren. I heard that the daughters were adopted, as he wasn’t able to have kids with his second wife either. I was glad he finally got the family he’d always wanted.

  Juan Martín came from Norway with his wife and my grandkids to celebrate the country’s political freedom. The infamous blacklist no longer existed. Their plan was to stay a month, travel the country from north to south, and enjoy the best our tourism had to offer. But after only two weeks Juan Martín realized that he no longer fit in here and he made up an excuse to return to Norway. He’d felt like a foreigner there for many years, but those two weeks here were enough to cure him of his nostalgia and the pain of exile, so that he could definitively put down roots in the country that had welcomed him when his own had failed him. Since then he’s been back only a handful of times, and he always visits alone. I don’t think his wife and kids are as fond of this country as Harald Fiske was.

  * * *

  —

  My life changed during those years too, as I entered another stretch of my road. According to the poem by Antonio Machado, “there is no road, the road is made by walking,” but in my case it felt more like I was stumbling down narrow, winding paths that were often swallowed up by vegetation. Still, I entered my seventh decade with an easy spirit, free of material ties, and with a new love.