Goodbye To The President

GOODBYE

TO THE PRESIDENT

Justin Kerr-Smiley

Merman Books

London, U.K.

Published by Merman Books 2014

Copyright Justin Kerr-Smiley 2014

Merman Books

20 Groom Place

London SW1X 7BA

editorial@mermanbooks.com

For Marc and Oliver

From now on, like a departure seen from a distance,

in funeral positions of smoke or solitary embankments,

from now on I see him hurtling into his death

and behind him I hear the days of time closing.

Pablo Neruda ‘Absence of Joaquín’

He who serves a revolution ploughs the sea.

Simón Bolívar

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae 1973

I Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines

II Deluge

III A Call To Arms

IV To Remain is to Die

V The Palace is Bombed

VI Death Alone

VII Darkness Visible

VIII Weak With The Dawn

IX A Cage Opens

X Dawson Island

XI Brand New Day

XII Tea With Pinochet

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

DRAMATIS PERSONAE 1973

LOYALISTS

Salvador Allende - President, Popular Unity government

Hortensia ‘Tencha’ Allende - his wife

Beatriz ‘Tati’ Allende - eldest daughter

Carmen Paz Allende - middle daughter

Isabel Allende - youngest daughter

Laura Pascal - Communist Deputy and Allende’s sister

Veronica Ahumada - Office of Information and Radio (OIR)

Dr Patricio Arroyo - Palace Medical Team

Dr Danilo Bartulin - Palace Medical Team

Carlos Briones - Minister of the Interior

Miria ‘La Payita’ Contreras - Presidential Personal Secretary

Edgardo Enríquez - Minister of Education

Fernando Flores - General Government Secretary

Joan Garcés - Academic and presidential adviser

Dr Patricio Guijón - Palace Medical Team

Daniel Gutiérrez aka ‘Jano’ - GAP

José Huenchullán - GAP

Enrique Huerta - GAP and Palace Intendant

Arturo Jirón - former Minister of Health

Carlos ‘Negro’ Jorquera - Presidential Press Secretary

Jorge Klein - Socialist and presidential adviser

René Largo Farías - Chief, Office of Information and Radio (OIR)

Orlando Letelier - Minister of Defence

Maria Lizama - Nurse, Central Post Hospital

Augusto ‘Perro’ Olivares - Director National Television

Enrique Paris - Presidential Adviser Education and Science

Eduardo ‘Coco’ Paredes - former Director of Investigations

Osvaldo Puccio - Presidential Secretary, Chief of Staff

Osvaldo Puccio Jnr - his son

Dr Alvaro Reyes - Registrar, Central Post Hospital

Dr Oscar Soto - Head of Palace Medical Team

Vicente Sotta - Socialist Deputy

José Tohá - former Minister of Defence

Ariel Ulloa - Socialist paramilitary

Daniel Vergara - Under Secretary for the Interior

General Alberto Bachelet - Chief of National Distributions

General José Sepulveda - Director General Carabineros

General Jorge Urrutia - Carabineros

Detective Carlos Espinoza - Service of Investigations

Detective Quintin Romero - Service of Investigations

Deputy Inspector Juan Seoane - Service of Investigations

REBELS

General Ernesto Baeza - Director General of Investigations

Admiral Patricio Carvajal - Ministry of Defence, Navy

General Nicanor Díaz - Ministry of Defence, Air Force

Admiral Gustavo Leigh - Commander-in-Chief, Air Force

General Augusto Lutz - Chief of Military Intelligence (SIM)

General César Mendoza - Inspector General, Carabineros

Admiral José Merino - Second-in-Command, Navy

General Javier Palacios - Director of Army Instruction

General Augusto Pinochet - Commander-in-Chief, Army

General Gonzalo Prieto - Minister Of Justice, Junta

General Arturo Yovane - Carabineros

General Mario Bórquez - Director of Health, Air Force

General José Rodriquez - Director of Health, Army

Dr Tomás Tobar - Institute of Medical Law

General Luis Veloso - Director of Health, Carabineros

Dr Miguel Versin - Director of Health, Navy

Commander Sergio Badiola - Military Attaché

Captain Jorge Grez - Naval Attaché

Colonel Eduardo Sanchez - Air Force Attaché

Captain Roberto Garrido - Infantry School Regiment

Colonel Rafael González - Air Force Intelligence (SIFA)

Lieutenant Daniel Guimpert - Navy (MOD)

Lieutenant Colonel Luis Ramírez - CO, Tacna Regiment

I

TONIGHT I CAN WRITE THE SADDEST LINES

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write for example, ‘The night is shattered

and the blue stars shiver in the distance.’

The poet’s house is perched above Chile’s Pacific coast, just a few yards from the wave-lashed shore. He is of course Pablo Neruda, the Nobel laureate. I visit his home at Isla Negra on a cloudy, windswept day. It is early summer and although the sun is obscured, the air is warm and swallows flit among the pines which grow upon the escarpment. Below the house the sea booms and crashes upon the rocks and races whitely up the beach, finally dissipating into the sand. I stand in the garden planted with geraniums, agaves and flowering succulents and gaze out towards the distance. Beyond the horizon the next landfall is thousands of miles away. Apart from the occasional ship there is nothing except ocean and sky. A fine place for a poet to live and indeed to die.

Although fatally ill with cancer, Neruda survived long enough to see his beloved country engulfed by the military coup of 11th September 1973. The cataclysm was not only tragic, it was personal. His great friend President Salvador Allende perished in the government palace La Moneda, after it was bombed by air force jets. Rather than surrender he took his own life, it is said, with an AK47 given to him by Fidel Castro: two shots fired in rapid succession to the head. The military, fearful of a public funeral and the anger of the multitude, buried Allende’s body in secret at a relative’s mausoleum the following day. Among his close family only his wife Hortensia was there, the president’s three daughters could not obtain the necessary permission to attend.

I turn away from the sea and enter the poet’s house. Neruda’s residence is filled with various objects, which he collected through the years. There are carved figureheads from the prows of sailing ships, which plied the oceans before finally being broken up for scrap. As tall as the ceiling these guardian angels kept watch over the poet and his wife and muse Matilde. The names of Neruda’s friends who preceded him to the grave are carved into the roof beams, some victims of the Spanish Civil War. One in particular is notable: it is the writer Federico Lorca, murdered by Nationalist soldiers. There is even a bar, where Neruda liked to play barman and make his guests drinks. Every available space seems to be filled with glassware, ceramics or shells. The poet was a magpie and collected anything that took his fancy: from Toby jugs and wooden cowboy stirrups, to rocking horses. He admired the physicality of inanimate objects and said each one had a story. His writing desk is fashioned from a ship’s hatch that washed up on the shore one day. I wander through the rooms and think about the two old comrades, the poet and the politician, sitting in solitude and drinking their whiskies as dusk encroaches, the sea a restless presence outside. As the moon and stars appeared they would refill their glasses and continue to discuss politics and their dreams for Chile.

After touring Neruda’s house I go back outside. I sit on a bench and write some postcards home, the gulls crying and wheeling above my head. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and the ocean turns aquamarine. I can smell the sea and watch lizards scuttle among the rocks. A group of school children see me and say "hola gringo" and laugh. People in Chile are naturally curious and it is hard for the northern European to hide their origins in South America. The postcards written I buy some pretty stamps and send the missives from the nearby post office. I decide to eat before I take the road north to the apartment I have rented in the coastal town of Reñaca and a tour guide tells me there is a restaurant next door.

I walk down the dirt lane and see an old house. It is a traditional single-storey building with a pan-tiled roof and solid adobe walls painted blood red. A sign indicates it is an inn and I am about to enter, when a man sitting at a table hears my footsteps and looks up. He has a mane of silver hair, a thick beard and dark, intelligent eyes. I recognise him. On my shelves at home I have a book about Neruda called ‘Absence and Presence’, a collection of photographs and reminiscences by those who knew him. Among the contributors are a young couple, Charo Cofre and Hugo Arevalo. She is a folk singer and he a musician. They had known Neruda in Paris when he was Chile’s ambassador in the early 1970s and were some of the last people to see him alive.

"Hola, the man says with a smile. Estás visitando mi casa?"

"Si, I reply. Pero es un hostelería o no?"

"Si, es las dos."

And he smiles again.

Please, take a seat, he says in English, with only a slight accent.

Like the children Arevalo also knows that I am a gringo. We introduce ourselves and I sit down, while he pours some coffee from a pot. It is as if he has been expecting me. Or perhaps he is just a friendly sort who always has a spare cup on the table, in case someone drops by.

I’m sure I recognise you, I say, taking the cup and sipping its bitter contents. Chileans like their coffee strong and never add milk. Were you Neruda’s friend?

Arevalo’s dark eyes shine and his face creases into a grin.

Yes. We knew him well. Me and my wife.

I thought so. I have a biography about him. Both of you are in it.

"Ausencia y Presencia, he affirms. A lovely book. Is it in English now?"

Yes, I say and my host beams.

I am so glad! I hoped that would be the case, but I didn’t know.

We sit there drinking coffee and he asks why I am visiting Chile and I explain that I am writing a novel.

About what?

The coup.

"Ay, el golpe."

Arevalo nods slowly as though it is perfectly natural, even right, that a gringo like me should be writing a book about a catastrophe which he has experienced personally.

That is good. Very good. We don’t talk about it in Chile. Not enough anyway. I guess the memories are too painful, and he looks wistful, as if the memory is indeed still raw like a bereavement, or a lover’s broken heart.

I speak in Spanish and he replies in English, until it becomes apparent to both of us that his command of my native tongue, is better than mine of his. I want to know what his impressions are of Neruda. I have never met anyone who has known the poet personally.

He was a great man of course, but also good fun. He had a real sense of mischief. He loved jokes. Any sort, silly jokes, practical jokes. I have a theory that very intelligent men, geniuses, are essentially childish, or maybe child-like is the better word. Apparently Picasso, whom Neruda knew well, was the same. Always making jokes and giggling. I remember his laughter mostly.

You first met him in Paris?

Yes. He was ambassador. I’m sure you know that. Charo and I had been there since August ’72. We were penniless students. I mean really poor. We didn’t have two francs to rub together. When September came Neruda called together all the Chilean students at the Sorbonne and said ‘hey, we’re going to have a party on 18th September,’ which is our national day. ‘Bring branches,’ he said. Branches! and Arevalo starts laughing and gently shakes his head at the memory. "We had no idea what he was going to do, but we came with some branches which I’d stripped off a tree in one of the parks.

Can you imagine? This palace of an embassy was transformed into a peasant inn. He gathered us in the hall and made us sing and we sang without stopping. All sorts of songs, but mostly folk. As we stood there, a footman wearing a powdered wig and dressed in eighteenth century costume announced the ambassadors as they arrived, and Arevalo laughs again. "They must’ve thought we were mad…Anyway, Neruda greeted them all formally wearing a humble peasant suit, which had been made from his Nobel tailcoat. We all drank chicha and pisco and everyone got tight. They were good times…"

Arevalo stirs some sugar into his coffee and takes a sip. He puts the cup down and looks pensive.

When did you come back to Chile?

The following June. It was winter and things were miserable. There was real tension in the air. On the 29th the military staged an uprising…, he looks at me with his dark eyes, to see if I know what he is talking about.

Yes, the Tancazo.

"That’s right. The Tancazo. Well, they failed that time. But we knew they would try again. I think the only person who believed the military would remain loyal was Allende. It’s hard, I guess, if you’re president. A man like Allende only wished to see the positive. Anyway, Chile was in a bad place. We had strikes and lockouts and everything. Not from the workers mind you, from the momios, the rich people. It was just a matter of time…"

There is silence and a wind gets up and whips the myrtle bushes in the garden, making them rattle. A paper napkin flutters off the table like a little bird and I pick it up and place it under my saucer. Arevalo does not notice. He is staring into his coffee cup, deep in his own thoughts.

So, then the coup happened.

My host looks up from his reverie and remembers.

"Yes…the disaster. A few days afterwards we decided to visit Neruda, to see how he was. He wanted his friends around him. We came here to Isla Negra. By this time he was very sick. He was dying. The transformation was pitiful. It hardly seemed like a year had passed, since we had partied at the embassy in Paris. We went upstairs and saw his bed had been moved to the diagonal, so that he could look out over the sea. ‘My children,’ he said. ‘I’m very ill, as never before; they call me from all over the place and I can hardly move my hands. Stay with me, but bring your car in, otherwise they’ll take the number. If you’re connected with me, they’ll come after you.’ He was remembering his own experiences of the Fifties, when he had to flee the country and also his time in Spain during the civil war. It hadn’t occurred to us that we might be in danger. I mean we were just musicians. But we were naïve. We had no idea of the brutality that would happen. Neruda did.

"The TV kept showing pictures of tanks and soldiers in the streets and people being arrested. It was very upsetting. We all watched, although Neruda could barely take it in. I think it was a combination of grief at what was happening and his illness. The next day the phone, which had brought calls from well-wishers from Italy, France, Sweden, Mexico, all around the world, was cut off. Even so Neruda insisted we celebrate our national holiday. A friend had sent him some red wine and he said we could get empanadas from the inn.

It was hard to celebrate, it was more like a wake. All the time the same scenes on the TV. We didn’t care to watch, but it was impossible not to. Neruda warned everybody about the repression that would follow. He told everyone to be under no illusions. I think he was trying to tell us to get the hell out while we still could.

Arevalo pauses and offers some more coffee from the pot, but there are only dregs. I raise my hands as if to say it doesn’t matter and ask him to continue. He frowns in concentration as though trying to piece together fragments of memory, which were buried long ago and only now have been unearthed.

That night we heard him cry out from our room. ‘It’s so cold in here, can they bring a stove?’ We knew it would not be long. Matilde woke us at dawn. ‘Pablo has had a terrible night,’ she said. ‘He’s writing at the moment…’

The sun remains behind the clouds and the air is noticeably colder. A shiver passes through me as I sit there and wonder what it must have been like to witness the great man’s final days. Arevalo draws himself up in his chair and sighs.

We never saw Neruda again. An ambulance came that morning and took him away and we drove after it to the clinic in Santiago, where he died shortly afterwards. And so, that was his last day and his last night at Isla Negra.

The wind rushes madly around the garden and with it comes the sound of the sea. It is time to talk about something else and so I ask my host what Chile is like now and as we are discussing the current climate, an attractive middle-aged woman appears. She smiles broadly, her dark hair is streaked with white and drawn back in a bun and she wears a long, floral patterned dress. I realise this must be Charo.

"Ay Charita! says Arevalo, throwing his arms wide open. Come and meet my new friend Justin. He’s come all the way from London to see us."

I stand and Charo gives me a kiss on the cheek, then we sit down. She immediately asks if I would like to join them for lunch.

It’s just fish, she says. Please stay.

I can hardly refuse. Not only are they Neruda’s friends, but Chile has some of the best fish in the world and we are a hundred metres from the ocean. After a short while a waiter appears and we start with a popular dish called machas: a shellfish not unlike a razor clam which is split open, sprinkled with grated cheese and grilled. They look like cats’ tongues and sure enough are known as lenguas del gato. This is followed by pan-fried merluza, or hake. It comes with boiled rice and a tomato and onion salad dressed with lemon juice and olive oil and lightly seasoned. The meal is washed down with a bottle of chilled Chardonnay from the local vineyard. After the plates are cleared we drink coffee and Charo and her husband smoke cigarettes and we talk some more about Chile and their work. Charo Cofre is a popular folk singer, who is often travelling and performs all over the world. Apart from being a musician, Arevalo is also a documentary film-maker and has made several videos of her concerts. They kindly ask me to stay the night, but I feel that I have impinged on their hospitality enough and tell them I must return to Reñaca. I only have one spare day in Santiago, before my flight back to London. We promise to keep in touch.

As we say our farewells the sun comes out and the air is filled with birdsong. A yellow-billed thrush flits through the trees and alights on a branch near us. We watch as the bird tilts back its head and pours forth a stream of music.

The poet has come to say goodbye, says Charo and we all laugh.

I walk up the road and turn round one last time. The couple are standing at the gate, smiling and waving in the afternoon light. Arevalo has an arm draped over his wife’s shoulder.

I drive away and it is early evening when I reach my apartment. The day began with a visit to Neruda’s house and has ended with meeting two of his oldest friends. I can hardly believe my good fortune. I open the glass doors of the sitting-room and step onto the balcony and look out across the water, towards the rocks and its colony of sea lions. They yelp and bark as they dive into the ocean and I realise they must have occupied the same place since the beginning of time. Evening draws in and I go inside and get a pen and a sheet of paper from a drawer. I want to write and wonder if the words will come.

I watch the seals cavort in the surf as an incandescent sun sinks beyond the horizon, the clouds catching fire in its wake. I want to pay homage to Neruda and also have a memory of the day. I look out across the sea, then start to write. After an hour the sun has gone and the poem is finished, or at least I have finished writing it. I read it again and realise the work is no good and put it aside. I am finding it harder to write poetry these days and I wonder if it is because I have become so obsessed with this novel. I used to write a lot of poetry, but not any more. I remember a poet, I cannot recall which one, who said that writing poetry, ‘is like trying to catch a black cat in the dark.’ It certainly feels that way now. I wish I could write poetry like Neruda’s friend Nicanor Parra. The old boy is one our greatest living authors and recently celebrated his 100th birthday. He is very popular in Chile and indeed across the world. Parra also wrote one of my favourite poems ‘I Take Back Everything I’ve Said’, which is what he calls an ‘anti-poem’. He often recites it at the end of a reading.

Before I go

I’m supposed to get a last wish:

generous reader

burn this book.

It’s not at all what I wanted to say

even though it’s written in blood.

It’s not what I wanted to say…

It is clever and ironic, not unlike Parra himself, who also used to teach physics at the University of Chile. He comes from a talented family. His sister was the folk singer Violeta Parra, who tragically committed suicide; (of course it was tragic, suicide always is, but it looks naked without the adverb, so it stays). People sang Violeta’s songs at protests during the Pinochet era. But, enough of poetry and the Parras, it’s time to get back to the narrative…

The waves crash and boil upon the shore. The air is cool and the sky a dark cloth rinsed with stars. A full moon rises above the sea and hangs in the heavens like a ship’s lantern, its ghostly light reflecting upon the oily water. Apart from the occasional bark by the sea lions, everything is quiet. Night becomes a prayer. I leave the doors of the balcony open and go to my bedroom. I undress and get beneath the covers and watch as moonlight streams silver across the opposite wall. It has been a long day and I fall asleep with the sound of the ocean roaring in my ears.

*

The city of Santiago lies in a rocky bowl ringed by the Andes and is divided by the shallow waters of the Mapocho River. To the west rises Manquehue mountain. It is over four-thousand feet high and while by no means the largest peak in the cordillera, it is certainly the most distinctive. With its sheer sides and flat top, it looks as though a veil has been draped over a chalice. Its name in the Mapuche language means ‘eagle’s nest’. In summer the skies are boundless and the deep blue of lapis lazuli. In winter the weather is cold and clouds descend for days at a time. When it rains the whole world turns grey. Then, just as suddenly the rain stops and the sun comes out. The smog is cleared and everything appears brand new. On their peaks the mountains wear a dazzling mantua of snow.

The city was founded by Pedro de Valdivia in 1541. It was officially named Santiago de Extremadura, after its patron saint James the Apostle and the region of western Spain, from where the conquistador came. The Spanish presence in Chile was always precarious and there were several uprisings by native Indians, particularly further south. In 1553 Valdivia and a small force were ambushed by the Mapuche at Tucapel. The Spaniards were massacred and only their commander and a priest survived. There are various legends as to how Valdivia died, all of them gruesome. One claims that his heart was torn out by a warrior with a knife and handed still beating to his chief who drank its blood, while another says that Valdivia had molten gold poured down his throat. Yet another legend states that his forearms were hacked off and roasted and eaten in front of him, before he was beheaded. In any event the Spaniard’s own death must have come as a relief.

Few conquistador buildings remain in Santiago, as the country is prone to earthquakes. One that has survived is the church of San Francisco, although it has not been unscathed and the bell tower has been rebuilt twice. A Franciscan monastery was founded on the site in 1544 and the first stone of the church was laid in 1572. It also contains the image of the Virgen del Socorro, an icon brought over by Valdivia.

The church lies in the city centre on Avenida Bernardo O’Higgins, marooned by traffic and dwarfed by glass and steel office blocks. Santiago, like most modern cities, is forever evolving, the skyline constantly changing as new tower blocks are built and older buildings torn down. The glories of once grand neighbourhoods have faded like dowager duchesses, shiny new suburbs springing up as society moves ever outwards.

The jewel in Santiago’s crown is the government palace La Moneda. It was once the national mint where all the country’s coins were made and where the gold was secured, hence its name. It is a handsome neo-classical building shaped in a rectangle. Within its solid walls there are twin courtyards: the Cannons’ Patio and the Oranges’ Patio. The palm trees which line the main street known as the Alameda are filled with bullet holes, a legacy of the coup. In the Plaza de Armas behind the palace stands a bronze statue of a man in a gown, wearing thick-framed spectacles. The inscription reads: ‘Salvador Allende Gossens’ and the date 1908-1973. Beneath it is the simple inscription: Tengo fe en Chile y su destino. ‘I have faith in Chile and her destiny.’ Words he uttered on the last day of his life.

It is also my last day in Santiago and I have an important meeting. It is with Miguel Lawner, a Socialist and a former member of the Popular Unity government, which was toppled by the coup. He is one of the few surviving members of Allende’s cabinet. Lawner is now in his eighties and lives