The Twilight Zone

imagines flying down the hall, through the whole house, until he reaches the front door, where he looks out to see whether his father is coming. I imagine little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, radar on, looking out from his miniature ship and informing ground control of what he sees. Or rather, what he doesn’t see, because his father, who is the sole objective of his search, has yet to appear. He isn’t walking down the street with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, as always at this time of day. There’s no sign of his slight figure, his coarse short hair, his thick glasses. Then little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, pretends to fly his bishop rocket ship even higher. He imagines that he reaches the roof of the house and that he climbs above the electric lines and up into the clouds and he looks out over the whole block, the whole neighborhood, the whole district, thus perhaps, with his Lilliputian cosmonaut’s eye, detecting his father’s exact location as he walks home.

Between Stop 25 and Stop 26 on Gran Avenida, on his daily walk home, Don Alonso Gahona Chávez has been ambushed by three armed men. One of them is Carol Flores, his former comrade, Communist Party member, close friend, and former fellow La Cisterna municipal employee. I imagine it’s hard for Don Alonso to understand why his comrade is pointing a gun at him and ordering him to place his hands on the wall as the other two men pat him down. Quiet, Alonso, better not to make a scene, he hears him say. I imagine Don Alonso is confused, but he soon realizes what’s going on and he gives himself up because he knows there’s no way out. This is no assault, as some unsuspecting person might think. The people who see what’s happening as they walk home, people out buying bread or getting on a bus, know perfectly well what’s going on. And yet they give a sideways glance and keep going without saying or doing a thing, letting the armed men wrestle Don Alonso Gahona Chávez into a truck.

Little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, and his six-year-old sister, Evelyn, understand that if the chessboard was left untouched all night it’s because something bad has happened to their dad. Probably it was Don Alonso himself who prepared them for an emergency like this. Just as he’d taught them how to move the chess pieces, maybe he also taught them how to act when the king has been snatched from the board. The children help search for Don Alonso, visiting army posts, police stations, hospitals, courthouses, even climbing trees and trying to look into a detention center to see if they can spot him. But it’s no good. Not even by flying over the whole city in his white bishop spaceship can little Major Gagarin, or Yuri Gahona, find a trace of his father. No question about it, the bishop has failed to protect the king.

Let’s open this door. Beyond it is the twilight zone. You’re entering an unknown land of dreams and ideas. You’re entering the twilight zone.

Nido 20. This was the name of one of the secret sites serving as detention centers in the district of La Cisterna, located at 037 Calle Santa Teresa. It got its name because it was run by Air Force Intelligence, and as an institition the air force seems to have a complete monopoly on anything having to do with birds, starting with the nest (nido) where they’re born. The number 20 was chosen because of the site’s location at Stop 20 on Gran Avenida.

I know—I’m not imagining—that Don Alonso Gahona was transferred to this place.

I know—I’m not imagining—that he crossed the threshold of 037 Calle Teresa and at that very moment he entered a dimension from which he would never return.

I search for information about the site and I discover that the house has been turned into a memorial. Former Nido 20 Memorial Site, House Museum of Human Rights Alberto Bachelet Martínez. That’s what they call it. I write to an email address on the web page to ask about visiting hours, and a few hours later I’m sent a telephone number to schedule a meeting with the center’s director. This takes me aback. I don’t think I need an appointment with the director of the memorial. I tend to believe that the directors of anything are busy people, and I just want to visit, see the place, compare what I see to what I know. Since I have no choice, I call the number I’ve been given. After a brief wait, the voice of an older man answers. He’s in his seventies, I calculate, and he’s the director of the memorial. I tell him I’d like to visit, but there are no hours listed on the web page. He replies kindly that in fact there are no visiting hours, but he’ll expect me that afternoon. I explain that it isn’t necessary for him to make special arrangements for me, I don’t want to take up his time, but he tells me he’s the only one who can let me in because there’s no one else to oversee the place. The director doesn’t need my name or any particular information for our appointment, he just calls me comrade and tells me he’ll expect me at 5:00.

When I arrive, the outside of the house surprises me. It’s dingy, and the front yard is full of junk and debris. There’s no bell and the lock on the front gate is broken. A chain wrapped in thick blue plastic is looped uselessly around the two sides of the gate. Inside the gate, a broken-down taxi is parked off to one side. It’s a small, single-story house with a stone chimney, a gate for cars, a red-tiled roof, and a big yard where there was once a pool. With some repairs it could be a snug