The Neruda Case (33 page)

“In Bolivia? What’s she doing there, young man?”

Cayetano told him what he’d managed to find out, though for
the moment he omitted Tina from the story. He didn’t want to raise excessive hopes.

“So you’re sure this is the same Beatriz I knew in Mexico City in 1941?” he asked after listening without interruption.

“As sure as two plus two is four, Don Pablo.”

“It’s just that I don’t understand what role the apartment on Leipziger Strasse has in all this. If Beatriz currently lives in Bolivia, why would her photograph appear in East Berlin? Show me the photo right now.”

Cayetano took an envelope from his jacket and pulled out the photograph. “Do you recognize anyone here?”

The poet picked up the picture and examined it with his magnifying glass.

“This woman is Beatriz,” he exclaimed, voice shaking, eyes wide. “That’s how she was. It’s her! And here is Ángel, a good man, unfortunate victim of our passion. In that era, Beatriz and I were lovers, Cayetano. So it’s probable that after this reception, we saw each other in secret, and I kissed her lips, pressed her girlish form against me, and made love to her.”

He was moved by his own past. Cayetano tried to bring him back to reality. “You two had just met then, Don Pablo.”

In vain.

“October of 1941. The photo doesn’t do justice to her beauty, but it’s enough for me to recognize her. I am the cause of that joy, Cayetano. Do you know what that means? Here she is La Gioconda, and only you and I know why she’s smiling. In that moment we shared a reckless and clandestine passion, and didn’t know that only two years later we’d part forever, and that less than three years later a girl would be born …” He looked at his detective with damp eyes. “Our girl, Cayetano.”

He sat down at the edge of the bed, oppressed by the realization
that the poet, despite his lectures on the hopes of youth and the certainties of age, actually lived on conjectures, on a romantic and idealized vision of his own past. In the distance, the Pacific rose toward the city, whipped by the wind, and to the north the coastal hills loomed and blended into the snowy peaks of the Andes.

“I can tell you’ve become a true detective, young man,” the poet said in satisfaction. “You see that crime novels aren’t only here for entertainment.”

“Could be, Don Pablo. But if you’ll forgive my saying so, I don’t think Maigret is always a very useful guide for me.”

“Of course not. I told you that long ago. He’s a Parisian, Cayetano, like Monsieur Dupin, not a born and bred Latin American like you. You’re different, authentic, ours, a detective with the flavor of empanadas and red wine, as Salvador would say, or of tacos and tequila, or congrí and rum. But …”

“But what?”

“Why do you think Beatriz is in Bolivia?”

“Because of this other photograph, Don Pablo.”

The poet picked up the picture and stared at it anxiously. His breath quickened. He used the magnifying glass.

“It’s her! Years later, but that’s her! No doubt about it,” he murmured, trying to contain his excitement. “This woman is Beatriz Bracamonte, my sweet Mexican love. Those are her eyes, that’s her face, her high, pale forehead, the soft undulation of her lips, only years later …”

“The mid-sixties, Don Pablo.”

“Here she’s less than fifty, then, young man. Still a girl.”

Best to get right to the facts, Cayetano thought. “This was taken in front of a social club in Santa Cruz, in the tropical region of Bolivia, Don Pablo.”

“And him? Who is he? Her husband?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“It must be her current husband. A woman that beautiful can’t stay single for very long.” Don Pablo’s retrospective pride was palpable. “The suitors must have had to stand in line. Where did you get this?”

“It was in an apartment on Leipziger Strasse, Don Pablo.”

“Say
departamento
, Cayetano, not
apartamento
. Learn to speak like a Chilean. Whose apartment was it?”

“An actress in the Berliner Ensemble, who I’m guessing received correspondence from Beatriz.”

“An actress.” He seemed to sink into his thoughts and then return, quick as lightning. “Young or old?”

Cayetano thought the poet was about to get burned, as he might meet with nothing but disappointment. He responded with resignation. “About thirty.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tina Feuerbach.”

The poet stood up and walked toward the lit fireplace, dragging his slippers, hands behind his back, deep in thought. Behind him, the bay spread out like a sheet of frosted glass beneath the crepuscular sun.

“What’s this actress like?”

“I don’t think she’s your daughter, Don Pablo.”

“I’m not saying she is. What’s Tina Feuerbach like? I ask you. Does she look like me?”

No, the sweet Virginia of the Berliner Ensemble stage did not look like this anxious animal.

“I’m not so sure she looked like you,” Cayetano retorted defiantly.

“You saw her, right? Does she look like me or not?” he repeated, waving his arms, his voice impatient.

“She looks more German.”

“Beatriz is half German. Can’t you see it in the photos? That’s why, even though Tina looks German, she could still be my child,” the poet declared as he rummaged through the bottles on the bar with trembling hands. He placed ice cubes in two glasses and filled them with Chivas Regal.

“Is it really a good idea for you to drink, Don Pablo?”

“Don’t pester me, you’re not a doctor,” Neruda warned as he brought over the two glasses, lit with the sunset’s amber glow. “This is too important a day not to celebrate.” He gave Cayetano a glass and sat back down on the bed. He drank and grimaced with his eyes closed. “Does she look like me or not?”

At the sight of him so worked up, Cayetano let down his guard. He vacillated. He sipped the whiskey. “Could be, Don Pablo.”

He immediately regretted having said it. He was acting just like Matilde and the others. That wasn’t what he’d been hired to do.

“What do you mean, ‘could be’?”

“It’s just that I’m not sure.” This was true, but not as true as his fear of being mistaken. Which was why he didn’t dare follow his intuition, which agreed with the poet’s hopes, but preferred to stay objective and uphold a caustic ambiguity.

“Why didn’t you bring me a photo of her, then? Isn’t she an actress?”

He tried to buy time. “That’s just it, Don Pablo. In
Life of Galileo
, she plays the part of Virginia, the astronomer’s daughter. That is to say, she’s in disguise, and wearing a lot of makeup. And in the signs in the foyer, she doesn’t look like herself, but like the daughter of Galileo. See what I mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the poet answered brusquely. “You’d better tell me straight out: does she look like me or not?” He stood up with surprising vitality.

Don Pablo wanted to force an affirmative answer, as if Cayetano’s or doubts were the only barrier between him and his daughter. But his insistence was leading to the opposite reaction.

“She’s a German woman with some Latin American features, Don Pablo, but …”

“But what?”

“Ángel Bracamonte was also Latin American.”

The poet put his glass down on an end table, beside a manuscript, sat down on the bed, and hung his head, as though wounded. “You’re right,” he admitted sadly. He sighed and slouched, palms on his knees. “I forgot about Ángel yet again.” He was silent for a few moments and didn’t even look up to ask the next question, as if to recuse himself from taking any more initiative. “What do we do now?”

50

A
nd then something marvelous literally came from the sky and broke the spell of their disenchantment. The beat of helicopter blades approached La Sebastiana. A twisting wind swept papers in Collado Way and frightened the dogs at the Mauri Theater. The living room began to vibrate as though gripped by an earthquake. The poet and Cayetano stared at each other in surprise before hurrying to the window. Then they saw it. It was high up, and resembled a giant dragonfly with its enormous head of shining glass and its reddish tail. It flew raucously around La Sebastiana, emitting furious flashes under the morning sun, thundering through the sky like a tin drum, alarming all the neighbors on Florida Hill.

“Sebastián Collado Mauri must be turning with joy in his grave,” the poet exclaimed, raising his arms toward the sky. “At last his dream comes true! They’re aiming for his UFO landing strip!”

The helicopter flew over La Sebastiana at a low altitude, studying its roof. Dogs barked furiously, children ran up the slanted streets, women stopped hanging clothes on lines in the wind, and even the people lined up in front of grocery stores forgot the exhausting wait and the shortages and turned their astonished gazes toward the sky,
at something they’d never seen up close and had never dreamed would be so striking. Now the helicopter grazed corrugated iron roofs and flagpoles, so close to light cables and the tops of banana trees that it was possible to glimpse the two people traveling inside.

“It’s landing on Modesto’s roof!” the poet shouted euphorically when the chauffeur entered the living room. Modesto Collado was the original owner of the house. “Let’s go up—nobody’s ever used that landing strip before!”

They ascended the spiral staircase, full of excitement, the poet out of breath, moving his legs with great effort, cursing the pain in his knees; Cayetano followed him, with Sergio bringing up the rear, impatient, intrigued, and silent, spying on events with the all-seeing eyes of the house. When they arrived in the wooden studio, they feared the gusts from helicopter blades would tear it off the building. The poet rushed to open the door adorned with a picture of Whitman, and all three of them stepped onto the roof, where the wind vigorously shook their hair and clothes. In one fell swoop it snatched the poet’s cap from his head and pulled it into the air, where it danced in circles, greeting the hills of Valparaíso. The scene reminded Cayetano of Cuban hurricanes, though the terrified driver, who had never seen such a thing, tried to hide behind the door and avoid walking farther onto the terrace.

“It’s Salvador!” the poet shouted suddenly into the roar of rotors and fierce air.

“Who?”

“The president!” the poet shouted again, joyfully, gesturing toward the helicopter.

At that instant Cayetano recognized the figure next to the uniformed pilot. It was Allende, waving in his glass bubble, wearing sunglasses, in a striped jacket and tie, his hair combed back. It was him. There was no doubt about it.

“I should leave, Don Pablo!” Cayetano managed to exclaim.

“Don’t be an idiot. Stay, I’ll introduce you.”

“He’s here to see you, not me!” Cayetano answered at the top of his lungs.

The helicopter’s black wheels were touching down on the cracked roof, and Valparaíso seemed to regain its color and stillness in the midst of the gale.

“Okay, quit clowning around and run to the wardrobe, where you’ll find a waiter’s costume,” the poet ordered. “Put it on and go down to the bar and mix us a drink. You can’t miss this. He likes whiskey on the rocks, no water, and make one for me, too, to keep him company. Look for the eighteen-year-old Chivas, and some ice cubes. The one that’s eighteen years old. Don’t get confused.”

His naked sorrow for his lost daughter seemed to have vanished. Cayetano decided to play his game. He returned to the studio, where he found the costume and put it on as, through the window, he watched the president disembark, approach the poet with erect, decisive strides, and embrace him. Cayetano studied himself in the bathroom mirror and had to admit that he looked like a real waiter. With his mustache and glasses, he came off as the kind of waiter who presided over linen tablecloths and real crystal. He found the whiskey bottle just as the poet and the president were descending the spiral staircase. They sat down in front of the picture window, the poet in his Nube, the president in the floral-print armchair, and started talking about the trip, how green and beautiful the central zone looked from the air, the turbulence of the wind through twisted streets, the city’s infinite stairs and hills. They conversed as though no misfortunes plagued them.

“Well, here you have me, Pablo,” the president said after a while, glancing sidelong at Neruda’s bed in the dining room. “You wanted to read me your latest collection of poems. I understand it’s quite
political. So I was on my way from the south and told Captain Vergara to fly to your house. When Mohammed doesn’t come to the mountain, the mountain comes to Mohammed.”