Laura,
I’m writing to tell you, only you, that I’m leaving to Europe on the third of January. Why would I go to Temuco? I’m so bored of fighting with my father. And if you could see my head as it’s going crazy. I have fifteen days and I only have enough money for the passage alone. What will I eat in Genoa? Smoke? Let’s see if you can get a hold of some.
Your Brother
At this point, obtaining a post abroad through the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was a real possibility for Neruda. In Latin America, especially in the first half of the twentieth century, poets and intellectuals were often named to diplomatic posts, ad honorem, where they could live on a simple salary while working on their craft and acting as emissaries of their country’s culture. Neruda realized this was his best option, his best way out of the country and his financial peril. While for the most part it was a nonpartisan nomination, it didn’t hurt that Neruda was no longer acting like the young radical of previous years. There was a marked lull in his political activity at this time, as he shifted toward a self-centered focus on his own concerns. That “bonfire of my rebellion” was just smoldering now. Instead of answering the call of the poor compañeros on Claridad’s front page, he began a persistent campaign to obtain a post abroad.
Back around 1924, Neruda had had a friend speak on his behalf to a department head in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The department head already knew of Neruda’s poetry and soon invited him to his stately office in the presidential palace, La Moneda. There, Neruda was put at ease, but he soon became frustrated by the department head, who started by saying he was fond of Neruda’s poetry and that “I know of your ambitions.” He invited Neruda to sit down in a comfortable armchair. He then told Neruda how lucky he was to be a young poet, complained about being in a cubbyhole, and launched into an hour-long, aimless conversation. Neruda left with a handshake and an empty promise that he’d be assigned to a post.
For nearly three years, Neruda kept visiting this department head, who, as soon as he saw Neruda coming, would arch his eyebrows and call one of his secretaries, saying, “I’m not in for anyone. The only spiritual thing in this ministry is the poet’s visit. I hope to God he never abandons us.” Every time, Neruda entered with the singular intention of being assigned a consular position. If he could get a meeting, the department head would just ramble on about topics from the English novel to anthropology, always leaving Neruda with the assurance that he would get his post soon.
Nothing came from the man at the ministry until April 1927, when Neruda ran into one of his friends, Manuel Bianchi. Manuel was well established in the diplomatic corps, and he knew how to work the system. “They still haven’t given you your appointment yet?” he said.
“I’ll have it any moment now. A high patron of the arts in the ministry assured me of it.”
Bianchi smiled and said, “Let’s go see the minister.” He took Neruda by the arm up a marble stairway. As they walked, functionaries stepped aside out of respect to Bianchi, which surprised Neruda. After all this time, he finally saw the actual minister of foreign affairs, who hopped on top of his desk in order to compensate for how short he was. Bianchi told the minister how badly his friend wanted to leave Chile. Without missing a beat, the minister pressed a buzzer, and the department head Neruda had been visiting all this time appeared at the office door.
“What posts in the service are available?” the minister asked him.
The elegant functionary, now unable to wax poetic about Tchaikovsky or English novels, instantly rattled off all the cities scattered around the world where consuls were needed. In the rapid flow of foreign names, Neruda seemed to catch just one, Rangoon (now Yangon), which he had never heard or read about before. It was the capital of Burma (now Myanmar). After hearing the list of names, when the foreign minister asked him, “Where do you want to go, Pablo?” with no hesitation he answered: “To Rangoon.”
The minister told the department head to name Neruda to the post.
Rangoon certainly wasn’t Paris, but it wasn’t Chile either.
There was a globe in the minister’s office. Neruda and Bianchi looked for the mysterious city named Rangoon. The old map had a deep dent in part of Asia and it was in this depression that they found it. “Rangoon. There’s Rangoon.”
Chapter Eight
Afar
I’m alone among ruined matter,
The rain falls over me and I am like the rain,
with its absurdity, alone in the dead world,
rejected as it falls, stubborn yet nebulous.
—“Dawn’s Dim Light”
Neruda was eager to leave Chile but distraught that neither of his lovers would go with him. He pleaded with both Albertina Azócar and Laura Arrué to marry him. He went to visit Laura in her hometown in the fertile valley of Colchagua one last time before he left. Laura loved him, but it was to no avail. She was only twenty years old, and her family would not let her go. Neruda did hand her the original manuscript of venture of the infinite man and a portrait of him taken by the rising French photographer Georges Sauré. They weren’t exactly gifts; as Laura described it, he wanted her to keep them safe while he was gone. It seemed Neruda’s main intent behind this apparently heartfelt imposition was simply to keep her attention on him, that with his presence, via the manuscript and photograph, beside her, their bond wouldn’t dilute too thin in his absence.
Even as he wooed Laura,
