El Negro was there, El Yoyopulos, El Pelao Lito, El Chirola.
I was the only one from Papudo, which is how I got my name.
And it stuck. Papudo.
I don’t know whether I liked being called that or not.
It wasn’t the kind of thing I asked myself back then.
I was a kid, I had just enlisted, I never complained.
Nobody calls me that anymore.
Chile isn’t so clear in my mind now, I’m forgetting it. But not Papudo.
Sometimes it all comes back to me. Not the person I was, but the place.
The sea. The smell of the beach and the black sand sticking to my toes.
And the taste of clams.
CONTACT ZONE
Once again I imagine him walking down a city street. He’s a tall man, thin, black hair, that bushy mustache. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on in the photograph in Cauce magazine, I think: a checkered shirt and a denim jacket. This time I don’t imagine him smoking. He has his hands in his pockets, maybe because of the cold this August afternoon in 1984. He’s already seen the reporter. He’s just left her office and now he has a new objective. With him is another man who seems to be leading the way. They’re heading toward a plaza. Specifically, the Plaza Santa Ana, between Calle Catedral and Calle San Martín. People are everywhere. Passersby on their way from one place to another, like them. I imagine him scanning each face, staring anxiously and trying to guess which among them is his next contact. That man who seems to be waiting for a bus, or that man reading the newspaper on a bench, that man talking on the phone in a booth, that man eating sopaipillas with hot sauce at the stand in the middle of the plaza. Or someone else, could be anyone.
His companion stops at the corner. In a low voice, he tells the man who tortured people to keep walking, that in a few feet, at a certain spot in the plaza, someone will be waiting for him. I imagine the man follows instructions. I imagine from the distance he spies a discreet signal from his new contact. A dark man with short hair and a mustache, watching him from behind a pair of sunglasses. He looks like a detective, though he isn’t. I imagine the man who tortured people walks casually toward him, rousing no suspicions. Once they meet, the contact turns and gestures for the man to follow him to a car, with no word of greeting or any exchange at all. It’s a Renault van, parked with a driver inside. I imagine they walk toward it calmly and get in as anyone might, as if they’ve known each other forever, as if they’re trained in the act of simulation. I imagine once they’re inside their eyes meet for the first time, in recognition.
I’m a lawyer at the Vicariate. I know who you are and I know what you told them at the magazine, says the new contact. Or that’s what I imagine he says, as the man who tortured people listens, surrendering himself to the situation. And I know our time is short, so let’s head straight to the places you mentioned in your testimony.
I imagine the man doesn’t question this. I imagine he nods. Because this is precisely what he’s chosen to do: talk, show, testify. To the reporter. To this lawyer; to whoever wants to listen while there’s still time. And yet the question comes out of his mouth, a tiny act of rebellion. Or maybe exhaustion. Sheer exhaustion.
Now?
Now, says the lawyer as the driver starts the van.
A little while ago, the documentary I worked on about the Vicariate of Solidarity was released. I was traveling abroad, so I wasn’t there for the premiere. I was sorry not to get to meet the characters who had for some time occupied my computer screen and taken over my very life. By the end, their faces and voices had become more than familiar to me. I’d spent hours listening to them and trying to find the key to their stories. I would have recognized them on the street if I saw them, whereas they had no idea who I was or how many hours I’d spent spying on them.
Now that I’m back I’ll see the film in the theater. I’ve watched the final cut, but I want the experience of seeing it on the big screen, in Dolby Surround Sound, sitting in a comfortable seat and maybe eating a bag of popcorn—why not? I invite my mother to join me for a noon screening. It’s the only showing she can make, so I pick her up and we walk into the Hoyts La Reina Cinema like any other pair of moviegoers, hiding our secret connection to the film we’ll be seeing.
A motley lineup is playing. Avengers 2: Age of Ultron fills almost all the theaters in assorted versions and at assorted times: 2-D dubbed versions, 2-D subtitled versions, 3-D dubbed versions, 3-D original-language versions, 4-DX dubbed and subtitled versions, and so on, to satisfy each and every special desire to see this band of superheroes. In the movie, supervillain Ultron, assisted by an army of ultrabad guys, tries to destroy humanity. He’s challenged by the Avengers, who do their best to save the world. Iron Man, Hulk, Captain America, Black Widow, Thor, Hawkeye, Scarlet Witch, and other Marvel notables I can’t recall are the heroes. One character’s super speed is complemented by another’s super vision, or super strength, or super intelligence, or super humor, or super sex appeal. They work together, they’re good-looking, they’re fun, they’re smart, and though it isn’t easy, they do save the planet. I saw the movie with my son a few weeks ago at a screening jam-packed with shrieking kids and teenagers accompanied by adults like me happy to tag along and watch
