The paths that men take in life foretell their ends, says Scrooge. But if a man turns onto a different path, will his end change?
The specter doesn’t answer. It is silent, pointing to the grave. Scrooge walks toward it, and, following the specter’s finger to a neglected and dirty gravestone, he reads his own name: Ebenezer Scrooge.
When I read this book, my teacher gave us an assignment. We had to write an essay telling the story of two Christmases. One that we remembered and one that we imagined in some likely future. I don’t remember what I wrote. Probably something about one of those seventies Christmases shredding wrapping paper under the bright, lavishly decorated tree at my cousins’ house. Or maybe a fantasy about some Christmas to come in the eighties. Maybe I imagined some present I hoped to get or some special holiday food. I’d be lying if I said I thought about what Christmas Eve was like in the secret prisons, the detention centers. I’d be lying if I said I imagined what Christmas was like for people who had lost someone to one of those cells, some gun battle, a torture session, an execution, or whatever it was. Did those families get together to celebrate? Did they open presents? Did they have a plastic tree like mine? A plastic nativity scene like mine? A plastic baby Jesus like mine?
I’d like to imagine that on that December afternoon in 1984 as he’s fleeing the country and nervously making his way to Argentina among all those country folk excited about the holidays, with their gifts in suitcases and baskets, their dreams of Christmas trees and strings of lights made in China, their humming of “Jingle Bells” in a snowy landscape like the ones in glass globes with sleds and Santas, the man who tortured people is visited by the terrible Ghost of Christmas Present. Sitting in his seat with his gaze lost in the snow, he spares a moment, a brief moment, for thoughts of the Flores family, the Weibels, the Contreras Malujes, the children of El Quila Leo, the children of Comrade Yuri, the children of El Pelao Bratti, the children of Lucía Vergara, Sergio Peña, Arturo Villavela, Hugo Ratier, and Alejandro Salgado. Tables set for dinner, with someone present to remember the missing. Empty rooms where a father can sit alone and weep so that the rest of the family doesn’t have to be sad.
The bus reaches the border and everyone has to get out at the customs checkpoint. Suitcases and baskets are searched and all passengers are required to show their identification papers to the customs officers. I don’t know how long the process takes, but I do know that each name is called out by an officer going down the list and asking to see IDs. Loncomilla, Catrilef, Epullanca, Newuan, Kanukeo, Antivilo. Mapuche names, Mapuche faces. The officer checks the information, consults his list, glances at each face and matches it to the ID in his hand. And he goes on, calling those who are left. Loncomilla, Catrilef, Epullanca, Newuan, Kanukeo, Antivilo. And then he speaks the name of the lawyer who’s traveling as a safeguard. It echoes in the room.
The lawyer and the man who tortured people exchange brief, imperceptible looks. The lawyer steps forward with his ID and takes his turn. He smiles at the officer, waits for the latter to consult, check, confirm and then retrieves his ID. Next come more names, more IDs, more faces, until at last the officer calls the fake name of the man who tortured people.
He and the lawyer don’t even try to exchange glances.
They feign indifference.
The man who tortured people steps forward. With careful, practiced nonchalance he hands over his ID. No one in the room can be allowed to suspect how nervous he is. Despite the cold his hands are sweating. His heart is beating fast, like the drum in the Christmas carol. The officer glances at the ID, as he has done with other passengers. He scans, checks his list, confirms that the photograph matches the person standing in front of him.
The lawyer watches from a distance. It’s harder for him to pretend; he has less training. His right leg is quivering imperceptibly. Maybe his right eyelid, too. He feels his stomach clench. Hands, neck, back: every part of him is sweating. He knows that this is the moment. If anything goes wrong, he’ll have to act, have to shout: I’m a lawyer from the Vicariate, wherever they’re taking Agent Valenzuela, I’m going with him, I won’t let anything happen to him.
But the gesture is unnecessary. From his corner he watches the officer return the ID to the man who tortured people. Thank you, the officer seems to say, and the man who tortured people takes his ID and puts it in his wallet. This time he does exchange looks with the lawyer from across the room. It’s a brief but distinct acknowledgment, meaning they’ve passed the test, everything seems to be going as planned.
The officer folds the list and goes into an office. The passengers wait for their baggage to finish being checked so they can get back on the bus. It’s cold. The man who tortured people lights a cigarette. From the distance, the lawyer follows suit. Maybe there’s a place to buy coffee. Maybe they’ve already bought some. Maybe they sip from plastic cups as each imagines what’s to come. A flight to Buenos Aires, a meeting with Argentinean contacts, then another flight to France touching down in a new life, a place where he can finally shake off the smell of death and get rid of that stupid raven following him everywhere with its nevermore.
From the customs agents’ office, the fake name of the man who tortured people is heard. The officer has come to the door and is calling him again.
