The Twilight Zone

he put it. The reporter convinced him that his suicidal plan made no sense. She told him to think of his children, to give himself a chance. She offered him protection. She would get in touch with people who could help him. I know—I’m not imagining—that he mulled it over, that he smoked many cigarettes, probably thinking about his children, as the reporter had suggested, or his wife, or some possible future. I know—I’m not imagining—that he accepted the offer of protection and from that moment he put himself in the hands of people who could help him. I know—I’m not imagining—that he didn’t go back to headquarters, that his absence was noticed, and with the passage of time his superiors realized what had happened.

Beyond that, I know nothing. All the rest is the work of the imagination.

Police and military agents scour the country for the disappeared Andrés Valenzuela Morales. Frantic, desperate, frustrated, enraged. Fucking deserter, motherfucking squealer, they must have shouted, waiting to find him and eliminate him, take him to the Cajón del Maipo, cut his fingers off at the first joint, throw him into the river. And as they were hunting for him, they tried to block the publication of his testimony, full of too many secrets. Magazines were banned, photographs censored, and a state of siege declared in order to prevent the circulation of the opposition press, out of fear that the story would open the door to the dark zone, that ultimate portal of evil and stupidity.

There is a section of the museum that I like the best. Well, everybody likes it best because it was designed to seduce visitors, even spoilsports like me. Guides describe it as the heart of the museum. From an observation platform surrounded by candles, which aren’t actually candles but little bulbs, more than a thousand photographs of many of the regime’s victims are visible, hung high up on one wall. The photographs were donated by the victims’ families, so we see them at home, at celebrations, at the beach, smiling at the camera the way we all do when we want to leave a record of ourselves at our best. There are beautiful women who look like movie stars, who must have fixed themselves up flirtatiously, thinking they’d give the photo to a boyfriend, a lover. There’s a young man dressed in a tuxedo and bow tie, ready for some big event or likely in the middle of one. He looks happy, elated. There’s a man on the beach, holding his son’s hand. There’s another man with his arms around people who aren’t fully visible, as if on some outing or picnic in the country. There’s a woman with her mouth open, captured midlaugh. There’s another serious-looking woman, shy in front of the camera. They’re all snapshots, like the pictures I keep of my son, my father, my mother, my friends, the people I love. Protective, luminous images that foster connection despite death and the passage of time. Seen together, they look like a big family. In a way, they are. Uncles and aunts, brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, cousins, grandparents, people related by extreme circumstances. There is a touch screen in the middle of the observation platform that you can click on to search for people and learn how they were arrested and killed.

I click and search for José Weibel.

His photograph appears onscreen. He wears glasses and has a gentle smile. He’s looking off to one side, probably at someone talking to him, in the middle of a calm, trusting conversation. I try to imagine the scene, but then I stop myself. I’ve gone too far already, I think. There’s no need to imagine more. The text that appears on the screen about his detention and assassination comes mostly from the account of the man who tortured people. The information reproduced here is not attributed to him.

I click and search for Carlos Contreras Maluje.

Carlos stares out at me from the screen. He is also wearing thick glasses. It’s a small picture and all you can see is his face, like in an ID photo. But it’s still possible to extrapolate the big, broad-shouldered frame described in the testimony of the man who tortured people. I read in Carlos’s profile that he was a pharmacist and that he had been city councilman for Concepción. I read in his profile that he was arrested twice. The second time was on Calle Nataniel, just a few blocks from the house where I lived as a girl. Again, the text that appears on the screen about his detention and death comes mostly from the confession of the man who tortured people. Again, it’s unattributed.

I click and search for Quila Leo, known for his bravery.

I click and search for Don Alonso Gahona.

I click and search for René Basoa.

I click and search for Carol Flores.

Many of the names I’ve read in the testimony of the man who tortured people come into focus on this screen, acquire a face, an expression, the spark of life. Even if it’s a virtual life, an extension of the photographs hanging on this transparent, celestial wall like a piece of the sky. Or better yet, a piece of outer space where all the faces swallowed up by some twilight zone swim, lost, like untethered astronauts.

This door we unlock with the key of the imagination. Behind it we find another dimension. Ladies and gentlemen, you’re about to enter a secret world of dreams and ideas. You’re about to enter the twilight zone.

In the seventies, sitting in front of a black and white television set in the kitchen of my old house, I watched episode after episode of The Twilight Zone. I’d be lying if I said that I remember the series in detail, but I’m forever marked by that seductive feeling of disquiet and the narrator’s voice inviting viewers into a secret world, a universe unfolding outside the