wound
in my people sunken in adversity
.
I never thought that destiny
would have the rhythm of a song
,
but today I have no doubt
,
as clear as water I see all now
.
That’s why, my dear, without hesitation
we’ll say no
.
“No,” the precious jewel
,
wave of my sea
,
cloud of my sky
,
fire that sings
,
“no,” my beautiful lover
of flaming eyes
,
snow of my dream
,
mountain range of my wine
,
say no more
,
we don’t need any words
.
Let’s just say “no”
and we’ll be together all along
.
Captain Carrasco kept moving his jaw rhythmically as if following the cadence of the poem. Bettini noticed that his face, which had been pale, was now blushing. Listening to the text of his song, which would be broadcast on the last day of the campaign, was like listening to an execution sentence. Every image in those stanzas seemed awful, when only a few hours before—before
all
the disasters—they had seemed brilliant to him, lines that Chileans of all ages, lovers of the sea and the mountains, apoliticals, the undecided, would respond to. Why had he succumbed to his teenage daughter’s poor judgmentwhen she tried to talk him into singing “It feels so good to say ‘no’ ” even though he had never ever used, as all young Chileans do, the recurrent tag “d’ya feel it?” to ask if they had been understood.
D’ya feel it
?
No, Adrián Bettini, holy father of the naïve, he admitted to himself. He hadn’t
felt
a thing! Hearing the lyrics of his song from the mouth of a cop who was used to giving orders but who was somehow slow when it came to the pronunciation of metaphors, had sunk him in the deepest humiliation. He never imagined that hell always has one more level, deeper, and then another one, Comrade Dante, after which one can keep descending on and on, endlessly.
Carrasco was polite enough to raise the volume of the speaker even more, so that Bettini could hear “live and direct” the minister’s comments to his rhymes. Then, after letting out a nonchalant laugh, the minister of the interior said, “In effect, very interesting material, Carrasco.”
“From the political or the poetic point of view, Minister?”
“Both of them. Tell me, Captain, what’s the name of my Neruda behind bars?”
The man in uniform covered the mouthpiece of the telephone and, lifting his chin, turned to the ad agent.
“What did you say your name was, asshole?”
“Bettini. Adrián Bettini.”
“He says that his name is Adrián Bettini.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and then cheerful laughter.
“You don’t say! You have Adrián Bettini himself right there!”
“Who’s he, Minister?
“He’s the leading person in the campaign for the
No
to Pinochet.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“Not at all! With those rhymes … he’s not messing with anybody.”
“But in these papers he talks about insurrection. Shall I scare him a little?”
“No, man. Under no circumstances. Don’t touch him even with a rose petal. We’re in a democracy, my friend. Bettini can write all the nonsense he wants.”
“But not against my general!”
“Even if it’s against our general. That’s democracy, Captain. A simple statistical exaggeration. Those assholes’ votes count as much as ours.”
“Then?”
“Give him back his stupid papers and let him go.”
“And what should we do with his car? He hit the precinct van pretty hard.”
“Send it to the auto repair shop on Carmen Street. They have a dent guy who works miracles.”
“And the bill?”
“Mail it to the Department of the Interior, Carrasco. And tell Bettini that this one’s on the house.”
“Seriously, Minister?”
“Seriously, Captain.”
“So I let him go? Just like that?”
“Just like that. Now, if you feel like it, make yourself happy and kick his ass.”
Once he hung up, Carrasco, thoughtful, scratched his left temple. He made the car keys clink together once again and then threw them to Bettini,
in my people sunken in adversity
.
I never thought that destiny
would have the rhythm of a song
,
but today I have no doubt
,
as clear as water I see all now
.
That’s why, my dear, without hesitation
we’ll say no
.
“No,” the precious jewel
,
wave of my sea
,
cloud of my sky
,
fire that sings
,
“no,” my beautiful lover
of flaming eyes
,
snow of my dream
,
mountain range of my wine
,
say no more
,
we don’t need any words
.
Let’s just say “no”
and we’ll be together all along
.
Captain Carrasco kept moving his jaw rhythmically as if following the cadence of the poem. Bettini noticed that his face, which had been pale, was now blushing. Listening to the text of his song, which would be broadcast on the last day of the campaign, was like listening to an execution sentence. Every image in those stanzas seemed awful, when only a few hours before—before
all
the disasters—they had seemed brilliant to him, lines that Chileans of all ages, lovers of the sea and the mountains, apoliticals, the undecided, would respond to. Why had he succumbed to his teenage daughter’s poor judgmentwhen she tried to talk him into singing “It feels so good to say ‘no’ ” even though he had never ever used, as all young Chileans do, the recurrent tag “d’ya feel it?” to ask if they had been understood.
D’ya feel it
?
No, Adrián Bettini, holy father of the naïve, he admitted to himself. He hadn’t
felt
a thing! Hearing the lyrics of his song from the mouth of a cop who was used to giving orders but who was somehow slow when it came to the pronunciation of metaphors, had sunk him in the deepest humiliation. He never imagined that hell always has one more level, deeper, and then another one, Comrade Dante, after which one can keep descending on and on, endlessly.
Carrasco was polite enough to raise the volume of the speaker even more, so that Bettini could hear “live and direct” the minister’s comments to his rhymes. Then, after letting out a nonchalant laugh, the minister of the interior said, “In effect, very interesting material, Carrasco.”
“From the political or the poetic point of view, Minister?”
“Both of them. Tell me, Captain, what’s the name of my Neruda behind bars?”
The man in uniform covered the mouthpiece of the telephone and, lifting his chin, turned to the ad agent.
“What did you say your name was, asshole?”
“Bettini. Adrián Bettini.”
“He says that his name is Adrián Bettini.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and then cheerful laughter.
“You don’t say! You have Adrián Bettini himself right there!”
“Who’s he, Minister?
“He’s the leading person in the campaign for the
No
to Pinochet.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“Not at all! With those rhymes … he’s not messing with anybody.”
“But in these papers he talks about insurrection. Shall I scare him a little?”
“No, man. Under no circumstances. Don’t touch him even with a rose petal. We’re in a democracy, my friend. Bettini can write all the nonsense he wants.”
“But not against my general!”
“Even if it’s against our general. That’s democracy, Captain. A simple statistical exaggeration. Those assholes’ votes count as much as ours.”
“Then?”
“Give him back his stupid papers and let him go.”
“And what should we do with his car? He hit the precinct van pretty hard.”
“Send it to the auto repair shop on Carmen Street. They have a dent guy who works miracles.”
“And the bill?”
“Mail it to the Department of the Interior, Carrasco. And tell Bettini that this one’s on the house.”
“Seriously, Minister?”
“Seriously, Captain.”
“So I let him go? Just like that?”
“Just like that. Now, if you feel like it, make yourself happy and kick his ass.”
Once he hung up, Carrasco, thoughtful, scratched his left temple. He made the car keys clink together once again and then threw them to Bettini,
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