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Slaughterhouse Chile:
The World of Victor Jara
The Psychoanalytic Psychobiography
Eric J. Lindblom

Playa Pacifica Publishers
© 1999 Eric J. Lindblom

Slaughterhouse Chile
The World of Victor Jara

Eric J. Lindblom

Copr. 2001  Eric J. Lindblom
Copr. 2007  Eric J. Lindblom
All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photo copying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from Eric J. Lindblom.

Preface: The Moment

I couldn’t fall: the bullets slammed into my chest. Everything was in slow motion. There was no pain, no awareness. What was happening? I felt as if in a dream, then I was falling.
White light came toward me. I fell into the light. “What was this? Was I dead?”

Only moments prior, I had been joking with six, big guards. Trying to defuse the situation, I had them laughing. Then they fired. Maybe a sweaty finger slipped on a trigger; I don’t know.
The guards had taken me downstairs toward a truck, which would transport us to Estádio Nacionál (from Estádio Chile). We were waiting for orders from a man known only as “the Leopard” I think his name was Manrique but I don’t know for sure. He never came.
I figured I’d never make it alive. I was past caring for myself. I worried for my students. When I was arrested, I thought some of them had been taken. I don’t know.
Something had slipped. Like a broken tooth on a small gear of a very large machine, the military had attempted a coup and was caught in their own violence. They went insane. I was not that surprised. Not long ago, I was in that military. I served with distinction. How easy could it have been me on the other end of those automatic weapons.
How do I know I’d remain sane if forced into the situation where we’d start arresting everyone? How long would it take for someone to have a nervous trigger finger? Then, when one person shoots, everyone shoots. Human beings are like that: no one is to blame. I do not blame them.
The problem is not in the individual but in the society. It is not just Chile but everywhere. Chile is not to blame.
We were trying to change the society. We were almost ready. It takes time for a people to change. It takes more time than I had.
Others will finish it. The change will arise again and again. Sometime nothing will slip. Then will be the moment.

“What I have felt and what I feel will give birth to the moment.” 2
Victor Jara

This book, Slaughterhouse Chile, is about the military coup in Chile in September of 1973 and of one man, Victor Jara, who tried to bring equality to the society but met torture and death on the way.

Table Of Contents:
Chapter:                        Title:                          Page:

BOOK ONE:
1. Red And White
a. Enrique
2. One Single Star
b. The Rat Sketch
3. Chimeras
c. The Guitar BOOK TWO:
BOOK TWO:
4. Ready, Aim, Fire!
d. La Calchona
5. Manuel And Amanda
e. Tea Cups?
6. Victor And Joan
f. Pisada Del Diablo
7. Galindo
g. The Organist Frederico
8. Angel’s Place
h. Tank Battalion
8. Pablo And Lolita
BOOK THREE:
10. Estádio Chile
11. The Star On The Door
h. Manuel Jara Sketch
12. Manuel And Victor
Epilogue: Lolita Thinks Back
Postscript:
Author’s Note:

How To Read This Book:

“He was just an ordinary man who lived his life according to his values and he died because of that.” Joan Jara
A major factor, in Victor Jara work, is to be factually accurate. There are many stories about him that aren’t true.
A central point is: he was a common man and represented the common people. Victor Jara was not the icon. This book mixes the man and icon: walks the line between fiction and fact, as should a historical novel. The way a psychohistorical process is woven is basic facts are loyal to history: the detail is reconstruction.
In no uncertain terms, this book should be viewed as fiction.
The goal is to enliven history. This work fills the gaps between the known facts with several fictional devices.
First, there is an ongoing story of Victor at the university (State Technical University now known as Úniversidad de Santiago de Chile), which moves to the old boxing arena, Estádio Chile (Chile Stadium).
Second, there are fictional chapters such as “Victor And Joan”, “Pablo And Lolita”. These are true to feeling but are reconstruction. It is the juncture where fact and fiction meet.
Third, there are “inner chapters” which are solidly fictional and are intended to show breadth, to widen the main story. The intent, in using fictional characters, is to introduce Victor Jara alter egos.
So, dear reader, please allow me to take you on a journey through this story with all its amazing facets, dimensions, facts and fictions.
Eric J. Lindblom
San Diego, California
U.S.A.

The Soldier:
“Soldier, don’t shoot me,
Don’t shoot me, soldier!
Who pinned those medals on your chest?
How many lives did they cost?
I know that your hand is trembling,
Don’t kill me,
I am your brother.”4

Victor Jara

Prologue:
The Warnings5

October 15th 1972

“Kill Him!” a voice shouted out of the darkness of the street. Victor heard the threat and knew they meant him.
“It’s that fucking singer!” the voice challenged. A young man dashed into the partial luminescence coming through a street side window. The young man was in paramilitary dress: Nazi.
He paused, unsure, flighty. He looked quickly to the left. His uniform was the color of night, of darkness, of evil. He was a storm about to break. He sneered. He tittered. His grin was cruel, bent, and sharp. A rose would wilt in his hands. The hated swastika encircled his arm like venom. It twisted, turned in the half-light. He hissed through tight teeth, slithered across the street then dashed again, quickly. Jackboots smashed enraged on the pavement, slipping, stomping, impotent. A taxi passed splattering him with sewer water from the gutters. He couldn’t care.
“Kill that Indian!” a second voice shouted. The second young man dashed into the light. The sounds of jackboots running toward Victor were terrifying.
“Patria y Libertad!” the first voice yelled.
“Stop or we will shoot!” the second voice threatened.
“Halt!”
Victor, not saying a word, ducked into the nearest doorway. It was the University of Chile (“La U.”). A group called Patria y Libertad was protesting in front of the university (on the Alameda) and on the adjoining street, Avenida San Diego. After a long, spring day the sun had set but the protestors continued. They weren’t really Nazis but some rich boys who tried to elevate their cause through identification with a larger and more disgusting framework than which they could be entitled: Commandos Gremialistas.  Noticing the commotion, someone from an upstairs window poured a bucket on Victor’s pursuers. It was Lolita; Victor was to learn. She was one of his students.
A door opened from the inside provided a fast escape in time. It was Pablo. Victor let out a whoosh of air and threw himself against the door to close it. He turned, looked at Pablo.
“What are you doing here, Pablo?”
“I’m a student,” Pablo said.

“I knew that,” Victor said. Pablo was another of his students from the other university: “Téchnica”, The State Technical University.
“No, really. I just came to see friends.” Pablo smiled. A rock flew through one of the windows. Pablo kicked at it contemptuously.
“Don’t break your foot,” Victor said.
“Believe me, if I break my foot, it will be on their heads.” Pablo threw the rock out the window. They heard a muffled scream. Someone yelled: “Grenade!”
There was a scuffle of boots tripping, stuttering staccato echoes, leather and taps across storm grates in the sidewalk. Grunts. Pablo’s rock bounced and skittered among them. The Nazi boys ducked waiting for an explosion. Was it only a rock? They suspected not. Eyes in the night went wide, suspicious, terrified, then silence. They waited. They watched. Hidden bodies around corners shivered: tight lips. Idiot’s grins like death heads. Their hands reached for pistols: Lugers. The rock came to rest. It sat silently like the last grenade seconds before lethal disintegration. Nothing happened. It was a rock. They heard Pablo chuckle from inside and knew they had been duped. Tails between legs, they emerged then disappeared into the night.
“Oh... thanks,” Victor said. He flashed an enormous grin.
“For letting you in?” Pablo asked.
“Yeah, for being here,” Victor answered.
“No problem.” Pablo shrugged.
Lolita was descending the stairs toward the ground floor. She had the bucket in her hand. She dropped it.
“Lolita!” Victor exclaimed.
“Yeah, me,” Lolita said.
“Thanks for the water,” Victor said. They could hear the Nazis, still, outside.
“Thirsty?” Lolita asked.
“Why?” Victor asked.
“Because I wasted a whole bottle of Pisco brandy in that bucket,” Lolita said.
“It wasn’t water?” Victor asked.
“Nope,” Lolita answered. She smiled.
“Such a waste,” Victor said.
“Yeah, on a gang of Nazis,” Lolita said.
“There were only two,” Victor stated.
“No, Professor. There are others,” Lolita said.
“Oh,” Victor replied.

Book One:
The First Days:

Chapter One:

Red And White
Birth Of The Moment

Tuesday Morning, September 11, 1973

It was blood red on fresh snow and had one, single star.  Victor Jara’s
eyes refocused away from the Chilean national flag to soldiers
installing a heavy 9mm machine gun pointed toward the Technical
University where the President, was to speak at the Greek Forum
Today in favor of a plebiscite. Victor looked  away.

On top of the once elegant buildings across the wide avenue everyone knew as “The Alameda” there was another heavy machine gun installation. Victor knew the 9 mm machine gun represented horrendous firepower. It could shred a man in seconds.  Near was the central train station and Jotabeche Street where Victor once lived. The station, designed by Eiffel, was a landmark in Santiago and in Victor’s life. The air had the clean scent of spring. A dove flew past.
Victor turned and went back into the University where he taught drama. He was a
Professor. Victor was not an ordinary man. He did teach drama but from a foundation in being a famous Director in theater. His work had toured worldwide. In Chile, he was even more famous as a singer, a composer, and an inspiration to others. Violeta Parra, the best known folk singer, said that Victor was the best voice in the country. He was that good.
Military men were talking far across the avenue from the university, where Victor could not hear. They were fierce and bloodthirsty.
“I hate this fucking duty,” one soldier said.
“Me too, Paco, but what are you going to do?” the second soldier said.
“We have to get this gun to work, Juan.”
Juan and Paco were angry. They were tank soldiers not machine gunners. They resented the lowly assignment in front of the university.
“It doesn’t work, now?” Juan asked.
“You know, they never work right, Mac. These guns are no better than our tank which is what we should be driving,” Paco said.
Their tank hadn’t been serviced since the aborted June coup. It was now September. They hid the tank so officers wouldn’t notice it was disabled. The tank was behind a wooden wall in the Maipu Open Market. The wall had been part of an old empenada meat pie stand before they smashed it with the tank.
“Yeah, and we have to shoot that university or whatever it is with this pee shooter,” Juan said.
“I hate this duty. I have to take a piss,” Paco concluded.
Victor glanced one last time through a window and sighed deeply. He knew these military men who were, now, setting up machine guns. Not that long ago he had been among those hardscrabble ranks. Victor had been a sergeant first class then. Most of the men, now, were just big farm hands or Native American Mapuche. Victor was both in his origins. The military had long been a problem and now they came to harm, perhaps to kill. Victor had received prognostic warnings: he knew that he was a target.
As Victor looked across the wide University lawn toward the street, The Alameda, a rat scurried seeking shelter from the increasing military activity.  Even rats will leave a sinking ship, Victor thought. He thought he recognized one of the soldiers. The man was sighting the machine gun directly at Victor. A chill went down his back. He thought he saw him smile. All of it was hard to tell because of the distance. The grunt must have felt alone because he, next, unzipped his pants and urinated into the street. Victor didn’t know him; he doubted if the man knew himself. Victor thought the greatest loss in life is not to know who you are, unaware of relationship between people. To Victor, the people were everything. In their open hands he placed his life’s work: the theater, the songs, the dance. The work may have begun long ago when he was in the seminary. God, it must have been an age. Probably the change in Victor’s life toward the arts began prior to seminary albeit that experience had been a definitive fulcrum. He had decided to place El Pueblo (the people) first in his life. Even though he was in a seminary for about a year or so, Victor’s worldliness meant he couldn’t stay.  A priori, he felt the priesthood would turn him away from the ways of the world. (He didn’t know how thoroughly he would be tested by that world.)
Victor heard light automatic rifle fire in the distance. It sounded dangerous and was getting closer.  He had heard a lot of it as Marshall Law took the city.  No one knew what exactly was happening.  Whatever was occurring, it was brutal and very badly coordinated. The city was hush in anticipation.
Victor adjusted the guitar sling across his slim shoulders and walked further into the University building toward his office. Victor had an odd look in his eyes. He was at a loss. If Victor had known the extent of the depths to which military men were sinking, his expression would have changed even more dramatically. Life wasn’t meant ever to come to this. We can go very far but not this far. It was said he could envision the future giving him power to feel what his mind could barely conceptualize and, still, remain sane. Puzzlement was the odd expression on Victor’s face this morning. He walked to the university Office Of Extended Studies where he worked in theater.
“ What are we going to do,” the Extended Studies Chief, Cecilia, asked?  (“¿Que Hacemos?”) 6  “We are going to wait and hope,” Victor said, assuring her. (Vámos a esperar.”)
“What, then?” Cecilia asked.
“I’ll stay here for a while, don’t worry, O.K.?”
“O.K., but I am really afraid.” Cecilia said voice trembling.
Everything seemed so normal that inside the University in that the students came, the President (always a close companion) was visiting as he often had; there was the usual excitement and anticipation for the plebiscite being held that day.  Victor was strumming his guitar in the hallways as often he did.  He was working on a new song.
At the same time there was something very wrong.  Time and space had twisted horribly until reality felt alien.   The military was everywhere succeeding only in creating chaos.  Victor couldn’t help but think they were the cause of the problem not the solution.  No one knew least of all the military.  
From the very beginning of the country, the military had been a tragic problem. There had been massacres at San Gregorio, Coruña, Santa Maria de Iquique and more recently at Puerto Montt. There had been an epidemic tendency toward dictatorship. Initially, Chile had been governed from Peru as a colony prior to the first Chilean military coup assisted by Argentinean forces under San Martin. Throughout history, Chile had not been able to escape that model toward a more democratic form. The crux was that the military desired totalitarian ascendancy. The belief was that only a strong hand could control the people. The scene was set for military interference then, now and forever.
There were bizarre military reports and conflicting stories on the radio.  The People didn’t know what to believe.  Most stayed indoors where they would know the least.  Many didn’t want to know.  Victor strummed his guitar. He hummed his new song.
“ I like that tune. ¡Eso!” (Hooray!) It was Lolita. Always excited, she was a theater major who had migrated to the city with her family from San Carlos to the south where Violeta Parra was born. She felt her good fortune extended to study with the pre-eminent Victor Jara. She felt she was at the center of the world.
“¡Todo de Chile!” Victor said flashing his well-loved smile.  Totally Chile was a sentiment Victor liked especially.  The deeper, predicatory meaning was that his new songs represented the heart of the people, the soul of Chile: totally Chile.
Lolita smiled widely.  She couldn’t help it.  “ Power to the People!” she said her high voice reaching past Victor toward the other students in the hallway especially Pablo.  She saw her friend Pablo smile.  I hit the target she thought.
“Let’s have class in the patio today,” Victor suggested.  It was just barely the beginning of spring and the weather could permit a theater class outside.  Victor was thinking that today it was imperative to keep the students to the interior of the University and away from whatever violence happened on the outside. He, also, knew it was important to have some semblance of a class however much. A class would keep the students at the university.
“ Victor!” It was Cecilia peeking out of her office.  In hushed tones she said: “ The students are getting nervous, could you sing to them?  It might calm them a little.”
“ Sure, no problem.” Victor answered.
“ Oh, one more thing, “ Cecilia added, “Your wife called. You should call her back.  She was concerned that you are OK.”
“ Sure, I’m OK.  It’s no problem, really,” Victor smiled again. He began to sing.
Victor’s voice echoed compellingly bouncing back into the patio from university walls. Images began to form in his mind as he sang. Rapt student attention followed his flight into reality. The wind rose. Soulful. A feather drifted to the ground then was caught to soar, again, in the breeze. Disbelief, disillusion fluttered and, at last, came to rest. Victor wondered: How many feathers would be ripped away? How many would float endlessly? Ten thousand? How many souls, dead but never forgotten?
Victor sang his unfinished song, part of a more developed opus never produced fully. Death cut the song short. He image was of hands longing. They weren’t denied. The hand doubled into a fist. Come see the blood. See the slaughter. See the gore. Never forget. Victor sang.
And Mexico, Cuba and the world?
Cry against this atrocity!
We are ten thousand hands
That produces nothing now.
How many are we in all the whole mother country?
The blood of our companion, the President
Has more power than bombs and machine guns.
Thus we struck with our fist again.
By this song, you leave me poor
When most I must sing of horror!
The fear in which I live
And like that I am dying, in fear.
What I feel and have felt
Gives birth to the moment.7

Inner Chapter « a »
Enrique:
Terrorist Or Patriot?
September 11, 1973

Shoot on sight! Who? Shoot him!

“Get down!” Enrique shouted. A military jeep roared past, its machine gun firing short bursts at just about anything.9 There were no dogs or cats left in the neighborhood: target practice. Blood was everywhere. A dove flew past.
Enrique was a member of the MIR. Some people thought he was a terrorist. He didn’t think so. They were out after curfew on the night of the military coup. The military had orders to shoot on sight.
“That was too close,” Enrique’s BRP10  partner, Lalo, yelled above the racket.
“Let’s fire back!” Enrique said excitedly.
“You crazy? They’d be all over us,” Lalo replied.
Another jeep sped past tipping around the corner. It ran over a Coca Cola bottle in the street. It was full and exploded splashing glass everywhere: Chaos.
“I’m going to shoot,” Enrique promised. He brandished his revolver wildly.
“You do, I’ll blow you away,” Lalo threatened. He sneered.
“No way,” Enrique said.
“Well, maybe not but just the same,” Lalo said. The first jeep returned firing at windows. Hot lead splattered everywhere. “Duck!” The jeep went on two wheels around the corner, bullets going wild.
Enrique looked down the street after the jeep. He noticed a form sprawled on the sidewalk. He approached, looked, kept close to the ground. Enrique ducked behind a low, brick wall; looked quickly again. He saw a woman there twitching, moaning. He went closer. Heavy gunfire had obliterated her face. She was shielding a baby who began to cry. “Good God!”  Blood flowed into the gutter. Lalo came closer, tentative and afraid.
“What?” Lalo demanded harshly.
“Baby,” Enrique replied.
“Quiet!” Lalo whispered.
“There’s a baby, here,” Enrique explained.
“So what?” Lalo said flatly.
“So, we take it. We save it,” Enrique said.
Lalo rolled his eyes and focused on the baby. He looked at the woman. She lay still. He glanced at the baby half hidden in the woman’s clothing. He didn’t care any more. Lalo had lost something. He looked at the woman’s ruin of a face and shrugged his shoulders.
“I know this woman,” Enrique said in shock. He looked twice to be sure; he barely believed. The woman was familiar. He looked at her hands grasping the baby.
“Kiss my ass,” Lalo said.
“No, really. I recognize this bracelet,” Enrique said as horror spread across his face.
“No way,” Lalo commented face expressionless.
“My mother gave it to her,” Enrique said. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Your mother,” Lalo said.
“It’s Isabel, she went to our church,” Enrique added.
“Figures,” Lalo said.
Enrique lifted the baby now covered in blood. He wiped his brow, left a bloody streak. Both dashed behind the low wall as military jeep lights lit their area. They left the baby for a minute next to its mother and scrambled. Fire strafed, just where they’d been, hitting the woman. As the jeep passed, Enrique dashed back to retrieve the baby. Bullets had cut it in half. He grabbed for it. “Angelita!” A leg came off in his hand. “For the love of God!” Enrique exclaimed. He ran to the gutter and vomited.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Lalo yelled. He didn’t care about any baby.
“Yeah,” Enrique said weakly. He dropped the baby’s leg and retched.
“Let’s paint a wall. Let’s paint Kill The Pigs,” Lalo suggested making a face.
“No, I have to get back to the university before I am missed,” Enrique said suddenly looking tired. He aged visibly as he stood.
“Chicken!” Lalo challenged.
“I’ll come again,” Enrique promised saying anything to diffuse dread slowly overtaking him. He looked once more at the mother and baby. Enrique went white.
“O.K.,” Lalo conceded.
Lalo and Enrique began the difficult trip to the university ducking behind every wall, using every trick they knew just to stay alive. Enrique was thinking he’d bring Francisco out next time. He had tried to get Pablo and failed. Pablo was no help. He wouldn’t even store the arms Enrique had.
“So, what about the rifles?” Lalo asked Enrique changing the subject anyway he could.
“We’ll cache them,” Enrique said smugly.
“Yeah, right. Where?”
“There’s this disabled tank at the Maipu Open Market.” Enrique said distractedly.
Typical military issue?”
“Yeah, few work right,” Enrique explained.
“Under their noses,”
“Right. Best place,” Enrique said.
“They think the arms are at the university?”
“I think so,” Enrique said.
Enrique was smart. Arms storage in a disabled military tank was genius. Lalo said so. He had automatic rifles and larger weapons. Tanks were all over the streets. Some were active, others not. Arms had to go somewhere and Enrique couldn’t get them into the university.
They heard voices, ducked into the old Maipu open market. They saw a Carabinero Police patrol doing a house-to-house search (brothels). The Police were easy to evade. Enrique and Lalo heard the sound of automatic rifle fire. People were being run out of their homes into the street. It was very dark. Enrique couldn’t see much. He thought the gunfire was from FN FAL automatics. He was glad it was dark: the Police patrol couldn’t see them. Lalo signaled to go left then forward. Keep low; lead is flying Enrique thought. He could catch a stray. Once out of range, they could talk.
“Close call,” Enrique wiped his forehead and left a smear of baby’s blood.
“Not really,” Lalo said.
“Guess you are right,” Enrique admitted.
“They’re pretty stupid como Padre Gatica,” Lalo said recalling the legendary dumb Padre from Chilean history.
“Good thing,” Enrique concluded.
“Now what?” Lalo asked looking for some action. He glanced quickly to the right then the left. Lalo shivered.
“Now, the university for me,” Enrique said knowing he may be missed.
“Good...” Lalo said.
“I’ll be back,” Enrique promised.
“Good luck,” Lalo said.
“Thanks,” Enrique answered.
As they neared the university, they split up. It was too dangerous to stay together.
Enrique hid his pistol and sneaked into the university. He noticed a truck was moving a heavy machine gun to a building across the street. Storage, he figured, they have that problem too. He was wrong. Quickly, he went into the interior of the university.
“So, what’s up?” Enrique said as saw his group of students. Pablo, Lolita and Victor were just leaving.
“Not much,” Victor said over his shoulder as he left. Enrique noticed Francisco. He looked upset. He always seemed upset. Enrique wondered how stable he was. This is a guy who would leap off a cliff before he, even, looked, Enrique thought.
Francisco was like a child Enrique knew when he was a kid: Guido. He had just moved from the country and didn’t know anything. Francisco was like that even though he’d spent his life in Santiago. Enrique decided it didn’t matter where someone was raised.
Victor came back for a second just to say: “I have to check in at the office. Cecilia may have messages.”
Victor broke Enrique’s train of thought. Maybe Victor will sing to us today. “God, I need some inspiration,” Enrique thought weakly. Victor’s music calmed his racing heart. Though he wouldn’t show it, his mind was on the edge of disaster.

Chapter Two:
One, Single Star
Tuesday Afternoon, September 11, 1973

Cecilia took a good, long look at Victor as he was singing to his students. At the moment, he seemed transformed. Sure, he still had the strong, hooked nose, the full head of long, black, wavy hair and those intense eyes. He was a magic man. When he sang, his eyes were still clear and deep. The feeling was that he was singing just for you personally even though he had an unsettling, far away look as if he was transported somewhere else. Cecilia thought it could be because he was said to be half Native American (Pehuenche Mapuche on his mother’s side). The name “huara” (Jara) meant “star”. The Mapuche Nation was a deeply mystical people close to God, she thought. Many people said that Victor’s friend and mentor, Violeta Parra, sang like the Mapuche and, in some indefinable sense, Victor was a lot like her. It could be, Cecilia thought, that the two of them were born only miles apart, she of a schoolteacher, he of a laborer. Maybe that was it. Maybe, also, Violeta being fifteen years older reminded Victor of his own mother who died when he was only a teen. She could see that boy in him.
Cecilia knew Professor Victor Lidio Jara y Martinez as a man, a great man, but she thought he had never lost that of the boy. It was part of his inexhaustible charm.
They were in the patio now, Victor and his students, reciting passages from the play: “Waiting For Godot”.
“So we wait,” Victor offered. His deep eyes looked puzzled.
“So, does Godot ever come?” Lolita asked.
“I think this is destiny,” Pablo stated cryptically. “There is really only one character in this story: a man waits only for himself.”
“It’s a long wait,” Victor added.
“It is such a long wait in a short time like this,” Pablo said quoting the play Viet Rock. Pablo was a mysterious man both by design and intention. He liked the effect.
“What about women?” Lolita demanded. “This story isn’t just about men is it?”
Not to be outdone, Pablo answered with a smile: “ A man waits for a woman as well. No story is ever only about a man.”
“Polemics aside, Men or not, no one need wait long: life is short,” Victor concluded.
Francisco joined the class late as usual. He was often the life of the party but just as often distracting. “The streets are a mess speaking of a short life,” he said. They could hear muffled automatic rifle fire coming from the distant street.
“This is a bad sign,” Pablo remarked. “No one knows what is happening. No one knows anything good.”
“I saw Police shoot someone. It was a long way off but I saw it just the same,” Francisco said.
“The Police are always shooting someone but, still, this is a bad sign,” Pablo said.  “This is 1973, no one would figure.”
“We are O.K. here,” Victor flashed a quizzical smile.
Just as he spoke, a huge rat skittered across the patio and ducked into a hole in the masonry.
“What the hell was that?” Lolita screamed.
“It’s a rat,” Francisco said “I’ve seen them all morning mostly running from the buildings.”
“This is a strange day in Chile,” Pablo concluded. His comment was partially cut short by turbojet aircraft flying over the city.

As they looked, the rat was trying to fit in the hole but wasn’t making it entirely. Her tail was still sticking out. Obviously, she couldn’t see it but everyone else could. Pablo looked at Victor’s smile then at the rat-tail. Neither seemed complete somehow. The rat was almost safe but not quite. Something was very wrong today. Pablo shuddered.
Victor glanced at Pablo, caught the shudder. He knows, Victor thought. He knows the extent. Victor had pieced together the scenario from the strange radio reports, from the military in the street and from small, distant explosions. This was a military coup similar to the small one in July with the tank battalion but this one was not small. He hoped La Moneda, the Presidential Palace, was safe. Victor recognized just how many units were involved from the little he had seen. He knew how they thought. At the same time, he believed it imperative not to alarm the others unduly. They might try to run for the street and could come to harm. Maybe, if he was very lucky, he could shelter them for a time. He could take the brunt: it could cost him his life. Sometimes one must stand, Victor thought. This is my time.
With a flashing smile, Victor took a deep breath and said: “No true story is only about men....” He paused to look at Lolita, “or only of women either, for that matter, as there is more to this universe than just what is in our hands.”
“I guess that is if your hands are open,” Pablo chuckled making a reference to one of Victor’s earlier works.
“Oh, our hands are open all right,” Victor chided.
“This would be if one were only waiting empty handed,” Pablo said continuing the verbal fencing.
“Yes, but our hands must be empty to receive,” Victor said with a much more serious tone.
“Receive what?” Pablo asked sensing he was losing grasp of this repartee.
“Violeta said ‘my song has found a purpose. Meaning, Pablo, is the point of songs and of life itself,” Victor answered. (Victor knew that the citation of Violeta Parra would, pretty much, end the discussion. She was the authority they respected.)
The scream of a jet fighter bomber flying too low broke any concentration they had. At four minutes to twelve, the air force attack started. Streaking across Santiago skies, two Hunter Hawker jets completed eight sorties on the two hundred year old Moneda Presidential Palace. Eighteen rockets smashed the building’s northern side. The President’s office suffered major damage. The sheer volume of sound astounded everyone within miles.
“What the hell was that?” Lolita screamed.
“A jet plane,” Pablo answered.
“Yes, yes, I know that, dummy, but what was that about?” Lolita answered quickly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Pablo said. “It’s just Grupo 7, the big birds, the Air Force.”
“You crazy?” Lolita was just starting to get really upset. When she got that upset, her voice would rise to a pitch rivaled by no other. Students looked out the University windows now but not for the jet plane but at Lolita.
“Our secret weapon,” Pablo said. “The chuncho bird laughs!”11 Pablo recalled the legendary bird that laughed when someone was to die or cried at a marriage.
“Would you stop!” Lolita screamed even louder (and higher).
“It was only a plane,” Victor said trying to minimize the incident. He knew the aircraft. It was military, a British Hunter Hawker F6A71. This one had the number 732 on its side: Chilean Air Force.12 His next comment was cut short by a series of explosions and yet another plane. It was twelve o’clock. He shivered. Victor, too, knew the legend of the chuncho bird. When it laughed, there’d be a nearby death.
“Turn the radio on,” Victor commanded. The others looked at him wide  eyed at the strength of his voice. Someone had a radio. It had been on but now they turned it up loud. It was the President saying something about this being his last address to the people. Was this the moment?
“I don’t think I am understanding this,” Lolita moaned as she started into tears.
“Sorry about my sharp comment,” Pablo said. He looked toward the hole where the rat had disappeared. The tail was barely visible.
“It isn’t that, you nut, it’s all this other craziness. I knew this day wasn’t right,” Lolita said.
“It’s right all right as in right wing. I suspect the military has gone insane this day not that they had far to go,” Pablo said.
One of their favorite musical groups, Quilapayún,13 was coming over the radio. “The People United Will Never Be Defeated!”
Victor knew the group well. After Cúncumen, his first group, he had joined Quilapayún (or “Quila”) as their soloist and artistic director. The cutting edge of a choral accompaniment with a soloist was a combination of old and new styles, which worked. They were the best.
Quila was known as controversial: they sang many of the protest type of song. Consequently, some people were shy of them including the church, which had organized an early festival (First Festival of the New Chilean Song14). Victor Jara had been accepted to sing but Quila had not. Victor invited Quila to back him. They won first prize for “La Plegaría a un Labrador. “15 We’ll go together, united by blood, Now and in the hour of our death.”16 Victor hummed the song.
“At least there is some sanity left.” Victor said listening to the awesome music of the Nueva Canción Chilena movement.17 He smiled. The comment (and the music of Quila) broke the tension.
“They are bombing the President!” the student with the radio shouted from an upstairs window.
“Oh stop it, Enrique!” Pablo shouted back up to him.
“No, really, those jets are attacking La Moneda,” Enrique shouted.
“They wouldn’t dare,” Pablo said softer now but more menacing.
“The Police are shooting people!” Francisco yelled voice weaving erratically out of control. His mind was on the edge of disaster.
“Please, Francisco, do you want to start a riot?” Victor said loudly.
“That’s an idea,” Pablo remarked. He shuddered again.
Another jet screamed too low toward La Moneda. It looked as if it skimmed the rooftops. The sound was like a banshee come to collect the dead and then the staccato rhythm of heavy 30 mm Aden aircraft canons began.
“Mother of God!” Francisco shouted unable to contain himself. Victor walked over and put a hand on Francisco’s shoulder. The boy broke.
“It is a long way to La Moneda, che,” Victor assured.
“Yeah, ten blocks! I hope they are good shots,” Pablo said.
“How could you say that, Pablo? It’s the President,” Lolita bawled.
“He wouldn’t be there,” Pablo said. “It’s just this big, pig establishment building anyway. You don’t think anyone is home do you?” Pablo chided.
“I suppose not, Pablo. But it’s our history! They are against Chile itself,” Lolita was really in tears now.
“It’s La Moneda and it is the President!” Enrique shouted from the window. He was listening to the radio.
“What?” Pablo yelled his face very red. His mind veered.
“They are murdering the President!” Enrique yelled.
“This is a strange day in Chile,” Pablo said quietly. When Pablo got quiet, things got dangerous. Thought usually a nice guy, he had a streak of violence. It came, probably, from the neighborhood in which he was raised: Jotabeche. Pablo knew Victor Jara grew up in the same neighborhood but couldn’t figure why Victor didn’t have the streak as well. Then, there was a huge explosion, the loudest yet. Lolita jumped off her seat. Pablo clenched his big hands and didn’t say a word.
“I think the wind shifted and that is why that last one sounded so loud.” Victor explained. Inside, he was beginning to worry. La Moneda was close: he was trying to calm things with his minimizing comments. Given the right stimulus, some of the students could bolt out into the streets and be in real trouble. He had to hold them. Victor grabbed his guitar and began to sing.

The Cigarrito18
I am going to roll a cigarette
perhaps I have enough tobacco
if I don’t have a bag
Surely there isn’t just a little drag
There is, there is, there is, I crave it,
there is, there is, there is, I crave it.
I am going to roll a cigarette
from my tobacco bag
I smoke it,
I dropped the butt
and whenever I want it I can pick it up.
There it is, there it is, there it is, I crave it,
there it is, there it is, there it is, I crave it,
there it is, there it is, there it is.19

“Someone got a smoke?” Pablo yelled up toward Enrique. He wanted anything to change the subject from the aircraft attack. Pablo was terrified and would never show it. He flexed his big mussels and grinned. Lolita noticed.
“Your mother!” Enrique yelled down to him.
“No mothers, my friend,” Pablo yelled back. (Years ago his mother died. He had never recovered.)
“O.K., here catch!” Enrique threw an American cigarette at Pablo.
“You smoke these?” Pablo yelled the question “They are North American!” A hush came over the group.
Two more jets and another series of explosions cut Enrique’s response. Pablo forgot about Enrique. He let out a whoosh of air, which could be heard at some distance.
“First drag today?” Enrique yelled.
“Your mother!” Pablo shouted.
“I thought we said no mothers.” Enrique quipped. He knew he could get away with it, as Pablo wasn’t near. Enrique could be down the stairs and out in the street before Pablo could get him. He needed to return to Lalo anyway. Any excuse would do it.
“O.K., you got a light?” Pablo asked irately.
Enrique threw a pack of matches. They landed in the patio near the rat’s tail still sticking out of the hole. Pablo retrieved the matches and made a move to stomp the tail. The rat’s tail went into the hole post haste and unscathed. Pablo lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply and looked at Victor.
“Satisfied?” Victor asked. He started to laugh.
“Yeah,” Pablo answered. He took another drag on the cigarette watching Victor light one. Victor had cigarettes the whole time. He just wanted to see what would happen. He smiled.
It was getting late in the day and Victor knew the sun was soon to set. He hoped the military, outside, would take a break for the night. Somehow, he knew they wouldn’t but he could hope. They would, instead, be restless, afraid.
After class, such as it was, Victor could see Pablo and Enrique talking in low tones about twenty feet away. Due to an anomaly of acoustics, Victor could hear them talking.
“But, Pablo!” Enrique said loudly.
“Keep quiet,” Pablo said. Victor missed a few words.
“Don’t!” Pablo shouted threatenly.
“It’s the only way!” Enrique yelled even louder.
“Quiet!” Pablo warned dangerously.
“O.K., but it will be tonight,” Enrique said as he walked away.
Victor wondered about the conversation. What were they planning? He was worried about the students. They need guidance, he thought. He approached Pablo.
“Oh, Pablo,” Victor said. He sounded off hand.
“Yes, sir,” Pablo answered seeing through Victor’s ruse.
“No guns in the university,” Victor stated using his voice of command.
“Yes sir,” Pablo answered.
Victor, then, walked toward the back of the university, toward Portales Street. He looked up. The military set a hidden, heavy machine gun emplacement on top of a back street building, a military radio station.
There were two jeeps running up and down the street both mounted with 9 mm machine guns. Victor shuddered and ducked into the interior of the university toward the School of Arts and Crafts. It had thick walls, which might resist an attack. They could barricade themselves. There is no getting out of here tonight, he thought. As he walked between buildings, he caught a glance at his car, the Citroneta, in the parking lot. He could, probably, drive out of there. The rest couldn’t. Victor decided to stay.
“Professor!” a student yelled. It was Enrique.
“I’m coming,” Victor said.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Enrique warned.
“Yeah, dangerous,” Victor said. The wind rose.
“But the jeeps come and go. The danger passes,”  Enrique said.
Victor decided not to tell him about the hidden gun emplacement. Victor didn’t want to alarm Enrique. Together, they walked farther into the interior of the university to the Arts and Crafts School. All the students were there where it was the safest.
“I suppose they’ll be gone by tomorrow,” Victor said to the wind.
“Who?” Francisco asked.
“The military, the Carabineros,” Victor said.
“Sure, right,” Pablo challenged. “In a pig’s ear. Del dicho al hecho hay mucho trecho. All talk and no action.”
“No, it’s the way they work: quick strike then they’re gone,” Victor explained. “Están donde las papas queman. It is the place where the potatoes burn.”
Both Victor and Pablo knew the military struck fast and hard. They had attacked defenseless minors in the north, for example, in the town of Iquique in the north of Chile.
“Like Santa Maria de Iquique?” Pablo asked.
“Sure,” Victor said.
“Yeah, after they shot 3,000 miners,” Pablo said. “No tienen razón o fuerza. They don’t have either the reason or force.”
“Well, there was that,” Victor admitted. He contained his anger. “Si los tonitos volaran, el cielo pasaría nublado. The world is full of idiots.”
The military committed one atrocity after another and always had. Chile had always been a slaughterhouse and still was.
However, since 1932, when Victor was born, there hadn’t been a successful coup. Victor thought: one can’t use the word “coup” and “successful” in the same sentence. A coup was always unsuccessful by definition. The military had been involved only in what they called “military pronouncements.” They killed children. Those they didn’t kill they sold Argentina style. It was a trade.
One atrocity about which Victor was particularly angry was in a city to the south: the Pampas Irigoin area of the town of Puerto Montt. Fully equipped military units (in 1969) attacked over ninety families for squatting on land that only yesterday had been theirs to use. (Their lease expired.) It was a massacre.
“Or Puerto Montt?” Pablo asked. “Pampa Irigoin?”
“Yeah, I’m angry about that,” Victor said. He flashed a smile.
“You smile, Victor, when things get bad,” Francisco said stupidly.
“True, it breaks the tension,” Victor said.
“I like your attitude,” Pablo tried a smile. His smile didn’t work.
“Sometimes a smile isn’t a smile,” Victor said cryptically.
“Yeah, you show your teeth,” Pablo said.
“Now, you are learning,” Victor said.
“So, what are the pigs going to do?” Pablo asked.
“The military will show their teeth and then go,” Victor said.
“After a massacre,” Pablo added.
“Pablo!” Lolita scolded as she approached.
“The voice,” Pablo said.
“There will be no massacre,” Victor said.
“Makes my day,” Pablo replied.
“Why are you, always, so cynical, Pablo?” Lolita asked.
“Who me?” Pablo smiled. Victor looked at him wondering how he would answer.
“Yeah you!” Lolita challenged boldly.
“I just tell it like it is,” Pablo said. He looked away toward the rat hole.
“Sure, but you always think the worst,” Lolita complained.
Lolita and Pablo went back and forth. It depended on the day. In temper, they were opposites. They were like magnets. Turn them and they snapped together, turn them again and they flew apart. For example, some months prior, they fought over how they felt about an unsuccessful coup (June, 1973). Pablo thought one thing led to another. Lolita didn’t. Lolita surrendered then seduced him. He thought he was a cause. He was the effect.
“All right you two,” Victor said.
“What?” Pablo asked plaintively.
“You sound like an old married couple,” Victor noted.
“I’m not married,” Pablo said.
“Marriage is great,” Victor said.
“Sure,” Pablo answered. “For a while it’s great.”
“Pablo!” Lolita shouted.
“O.K., marry me,” Pablo asked Lolita. “The chuncho bird cries.”
“Here?” Lolita asked.
“Sure,” Pablo answered. Privately, Pablo thought they’d die soon anyway.
“O.K.” Lolita said.
“Then you will be an old married couple,” Victor said. Victor wasn’t surprised at the exchange between Pablo and Lolita. His students were capable of anything. Some were artists, others formed music groups and these two wanted to get married unconventionally. They wanted to ring bells.
They saw bells where there were none. He was cynical, she was flighty. She flew in his face. He expected it. She touched him. He moved. They were like two bells on the same rope each different yet the same.
“So, how about me?” Francisco asked.
“You’ll have to find your own to marry,” Pablo said.
“We could share,” Francisco offered.
“No chance,” Pablo said.
“So, let’s call a priest,” Pablo said.
“You are serious,” Lolita noticed.
“When am I not serious?” Pablo asked.
“Never,” Lolita replied.
Pablo and Lolita went to find a telephone leaving Victor and Francisco to talk. Enrique approached. The sun had set: it would be a long night.
“So, what’s up?” Enrique asked as he looked at the group. He wondered where Pablo and Lolita were going but didn’t ask.
Victor knew Pablo and Lolita couldn’t get far. He didn’t know about the others. Enrique had been outside already. Victor went with Pablo and Lolita.
“Not much,” Victor said over his shoulder as he left.
“I’m afraid,” Francisco said to Enrique.
“Of what?” Enrique asked.
“The Police,” Francisco admitted.
“Why?” Enrique asked.
“I saw them shoot someone,” Francisco explained.20
“Where?” Enrique asked.
“In the street as I came in,” Francisco said voice quivering.
“It’s their job,” Enrique said.
“I know that but it scares me,” Francisco said. He was trembling.
“You’re just a big baby,” Enrique scolded. “Can’t you show some control?”
“I know, but never the less...” Francisco said.
“Let’s get out of here,” Enrique said.
“How?” Francisco asked. He shook.
“Out the back,” Enrique explained.
“Run?” Francisco asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” Enrique answered.
“O.K.” Francisco surrendered.
Victor returned from seeing Pablo and Lolita to a telephone. He looked at Francisco and Enrique. They seemed somehow strange.
“I have to check in at the office. Cecilia may have some information,” Victor thought.
“Bye,” Francisco said. His voice had a sound of finality.
“Let’s go, it’s dark,” Enrique encouraged.
Francisco and Enrique walked to the back of the university keeping close to the buildings so they couldn’t be seen. They were seen but didn’t know it. The machine gun, in the hidden emplacement, moved in their direction.
“Be very quiet,” Enrique warned.
“I can’t go, I’m afraid,” Francisco admitted.
“Come on!” Enrique said. Francisco was making him feel impulsive.
They reached the last building and crouched ready to sprint across Portales Street to safety. Enrique took a deep breath.
“I can’t make it, Enrique.”
“Yes you can.”
“You say ‘When.” Francisco didn’t sound convinced.
A military jeep roared past them. The soldier on the back with a 9 mm machine gun fired a burst at a building across the street. Glass shattered. The gunner didn’t notice Francisco and Enrique. The jeep drove out of sight.
“Now!” Enrique yelled as he started running. He sprinted into the street.
“I’m not ready,” Francisco screamed as he rose from his crouch and tripped over his feet. He lay sprawling on the sidewalk loosening several cement tiles.
Enrique paused, turned and yelled at Francisco. His shouting was interrupted by a burst of fire from the hidden machine gun. Enrique was struck.
“Enrique!” Francisco screamed as he tried to get to his feet. The machine gunner fired several more bursts into Enrique cutting him in half. Francisco was hysterical. Francisco looked at Enrique’s face. His head was at an odd angle, neck broken, body shattered. Blood spread across the cobbled pavement.
“You fucking pigs!” Francisco yelled. The machine gun pointed toward him. Francisco dove toward a wall as fire splintered bricks above him. Francisco scrambled behind the last university building and sprinted into the interior to safety. He ran into the priest Pablo had called for the marriage ceremony. This priest would have a different office today.
Victor, returning from the office, heard the sound of machine gun fire. He had heard a lot of it lately. It, always, was getting closer. Victor was worried sick. His students were capable of anything whether it made sense or not. One might try to run away from safety into the streets, which were a battleground.
One day had changed everything. The world, now, was made of chaos. Victor felt he should have known it would come to this. The aborted June coup was a major warning, a prediction. Now, Victor could see what was building. Prior, he had a strong intuitive sense but very few facts. In that way, he knew the country would face hell. He had premonitions in his dreams. He did warn them. “Maybe I should have spoken more powerfully,” he said to himself. He blamed himself. If only he could have done more, said something. “It is not that I couldn’t see it coming.” Victor felt he knew what would happen and could figure some of how.
“Having a military is like keeping a dangerous animal. They turn on their owners. There will never be peace until the military are disbanded.
I do not blame them for how they are. It is their nature. I blame myself. I didn’t see far enough. I didn’t think they would go wild like this. Most of them are just farm boys. How could I have expected them not to crack? Further, they didn’t break all at once. A lot led to this.”
He wondered how the world had been for the students prior to the coup. He saw them only at the university and the occasional concert. The rest was a mystery to him.
Victor thought of the life, which was happening beyond those university walls. He had often wondered what his students did, how they lived when they were not in classes. Victor wondered what kind of life Pablo led when not at the university. What was the relationship between Pablo and Lolita anyway? He wanted to know their story. If only for a moment could he enter their world, he would know how they were when not playing the part of a student.
Victor saw a rat scampering from the back of the university. Everyone had seen that rat earlier with her tail sticking out of the wall. “Curious,” Victor thought to himself. He felt the military activity must have been driving them. Usually rats weren’t seen. A lot had changed.

Ratling

Curiosity in beings, live-
Fire in dark eyes
Questing, hunting, finding
Beings within beings;
Eyes in eyes looking\
Scurrying glances
Ricochets
Over roots, in walls
Eyes glimmering
Sampling sweet grasses
With a look.
Movements
furtive stones-
eyes dark
in walls of obsidian
seeing in silence
a witness to shame
fire in dark stone
eyes.
Occult screams
In the hush
Slipping in blood
Then free.
Lindblom

Inner Chapter “b”
The Rat Sketch:
Pita, a big rat, woke the morning of September 11, 1973 to the sound of gunfire. She didn’t know what it was. She scratched herself, tried to wake. She began to move. She smoothed her tummy as if adjusting her outfit. It was early and dark.
Time for breakfast; she walked slowly to some garbage cans she knew in the Maipu Open Market near the central train station. She, always, made sure to eat at the best places. “Maybe you can have some rabbit food for desert,” she thought. A woman, Señora Flores, sold bunnies for pets in the market just across from what used to be the best empenada meat pie booth in town. (Pita’s grandmother told her about Amanda, the legend.)
After breakfast, Pita sauntered toward the main avenue, The Alameda. There was, almost, no traffic. Occasionally, a jeep would pass. There were tanks parked in the street but Pita didn’t know what they were. “I wonder if I can cross the avenue?” Pita said to herself. “I’ve never been to the university. It is about time I moved up.” She blinked.
Soldiers in the avenue, in the middle of the avenue, were putting the finishing touches on their equipment. The tanks, in particular, concerned Pita. She looked suspiciously at one of them. The tank was parked behind the wooden wall of an old empenada stand just off the street. (Her uncle, Jose the rat, had told her about tanks.) The Sherman tank was too big! Men kept going in and out of the top of it carrying things. (She didn’t recognize Enrique and Lalo storing arms in the disabled tank.) This must be where they keep their young, Pita decided. Her preference for raising babies was to use a hole in a masonry wall. She had found that walls men build were often hollow. She had always been careful in her selection. The hole couldn’t be large or a cat could slip into the lair and cause problems. Pita wondered if the men in the tanks had that kind of problem. A tank was no place for young, she thought. Men, generally, were impractical. Especially these military men weren’t as smart as rats. They just didn’t seem to have sense. It was just beginning to get light.
Pita decided to cross the wide avenue, The Alameda. It was a big decision. “I’m going to be a university student,” she said to herself. She licked her paw and wiped her nose in anticipation. She ran to the center divide of the avenue. Now, she was committed. Pita licked her nose and made the second dash across the parkway and the other half of the avenue, crossed the sidewalk, crossed Ecuador Street and disappeared toward the university lawn. She was exhausted. “Going to a university is hard!” (If rats are capable of smiling, she accomplished a simper.)
Her simple life had become complex. She had a whole new world to explore. Pita put her nose into the soft grass. Paradise! She rolled in it. A tank moved into a better position in the avenue behind her. Startled, she ran into the interior of the university.
She sensed people ahead. She thought there might be students and professors! Jose the rat had told her about them; they weren’t normal people. Pita wondered if they liked rats. She hoped so.
Tentatively, she stuck her nose beyond the edge of one wall. She sniffed. Everything seemed O.K.  Then, she looked. There were a group of students in a patio reading from books. Pita liked books. The pages made a good lining for her lair. Books were a practical item.
Pita skittered across the patio and ducked into a hole in the masonry. She was almost safe but not quite. Pita could smell a snake. It never hurts to be careful, she thought. She didn’t dare go all the way in the hole all at once. She remained still.
The scream of a jet fighter plane flying too low broke her concentration. She had to go all the way in the hole snake or not. She hesitated.
She, next, heard something directly outside the hole (Pablo). She moved fast. She was ready for attack. The ground rumbled and shuddered from explosions. Pita was having second thoughts about university life. “I didn’t know what it was like over here. I guess I do now,” she said to herself. “It sounds dangerous.” It was a good idea to stay in the hole for a while. Apparently, there was no snake.
Pita was exhausted. Safe in the hollow wall, she snuggled. Her eyelids began to droop. She tucked her front paws under her belly fur. She drifted. She slept and was soon dreaming.

Pita’s Dream:
She grew-up near the railroad tracks in back of the central train station along Exposición Street. In her dream, she was there. The dream had a difference. Pita had transformed into a black cat or, perhaps, the disguise of a cat. She, still, felt the same but looked different. She licked her fur. It felt good. She licked her nose.
She was attracted to something bright on the train track. Perhaps it was something to eat, maybe a sea lit fish. It wasn’t. Instead, a coin lay there squashed by the train. Pita looked at it, decided it was nothing. If you can’t eat it, there is no value; she thought. Being someone else, a cat, made no difference. An organ grinder passed beside the track.
Pita’s body began to morph back to a rat. She was satisfied to be herself. She was no one else. A rat wants only to be a rat. Quickly, simply the dream ended and Pita began to wake. She became transparent for a second then returned to being solid.
At first, she thought she was still home near the train station but realized quickly she had crossed the avenue to the university. Maybe it was a mistake, she thought. She chewed a piece of string. She stuck her nose outside the hole and sniffed. Everything seemed O.K. Then, she looked. She ventured outside, stood on her hind legs and looked again. There were only two students in the patio speaking in hushed tones.
“Let’s get out of here,” Enrique said.
“How?” Francisco asked.
“Out the back,”
“Run?”
“Yeah,”
Pita couldn’t understand the Spanish language but she could feel the tone. It intrigued her. She decided to follow them as they left. “This is ridiculous!” she said to herself but she felt obsessed. It was a long walk. The students stopped and crouched. Must be something to eat, Pita thought. She licked her nose. She sniffed.
Then, one yelled and began to run. What happened next was impossible to describe. One second he was running, then he wasn’t. There was a lot of staccato noise coming from a roof across Portales Street.
Francisco was screaming. Enrique lay dead in the street. Pita was shocked. Why did they do that? They don’t make sense. They have no rationality, no mental capacity. She felt sorry for them. Pita shed a tear.
Her values were better defined. There was an internal logic to most everything she did (except for following people, her only vice). Pita turned and walked back to her hole. She shivered and scratched furiously.
After that experience, Pita slept all night. Tomorrow, she was going to leave. The university life wasn’t worth it. She yawned.
The night was long but not quiet. She heard the same staccato racket all night she heard from the building roof at the back of the university. These people never sleep, she thought.
When Pita emerged in the morning, she found a little food but not much. These people don’t eat either; she thought. They didn’t know how to live.
In late morning, a group of people came out of one of the buildings and marched toward the street. Pita decided to follow. These people were the strangest she had seen. Some were hitting and kicking the others. She was appalled but curious. She crossed the lawn. She sniffed the grass.
As they approached the wide avenue in front of the university, any traffic stopped. Pita realized this was her chance to cross. She ran.
They walked a few blocks to the Union Latinoamericana area, then part of a block right to Estádio Chile, the old boxing stadium. Pita just about missed them: they were fast, she was slow.
There were thousands of people at the stadium. They made Pita nervous. She ducked around the side of the building, past adjoining buildings and found a crack in a wall. She slipped through the crack. Inside, there was a courtyard filled with military trucks but no people except for a lone guard. He didn’t see her.
She slipped past huge military truck wheels skirting spots of stinky oil dripping, disappearing into the earth. Pollution. There were no tanks but, rather, one half track. It was as if someone couldn’t decide what to make. Was it a truck? It stank of petrol. Pita wrinkled her nose. She noticed the treads were old and rusty. The lone guard was young and rusty. Pity didn’t like him. The guard stubbed a cigarette mashing it with his jackboot. Pita watched him throw his butt on the ground and stomp it. He wasn’t watching her. He was looking at a pile of humans lying on the ground. They were dead. She ducked quickly into a hole.
Pita found a way into the Estádio Chile building. She hid under some seats inside and watched the people. Maybe they had food, she thought. She was wrong.
In another hole in the wall, made for water pipes, Pita found her new lair. Part of the area inside the wall was wet (she’d have water) but the rest was dry. Pita hid and watched it all.
All Pita saw was difficult to explain, impossible to describe. “This place is an insane asylum,” she thought.” People were packed like sardines in a tin. They had no place to go. They went were they could. “This isn’t human,” Pita said to herself. They were going to a slaughter. It was a slaughterhouse. It was barbaric. The scene offended Pita’s sensibilities. She was appalled.
“This is a far cry from the students and professors at the university,” she said. They held class. They sang. Oh, it is true they sing here too but the sound of it has a profound difference. The notes were open, there. This place is closed.
Here, nothing was normal. It was total chaos. It was a holocaust. A holocaust can happen to one person, she thought. It does happen like that: person-by-person. A holocaust is definitively personal. Pita saw one boy just jump into space off an upper balcony. He landed hard. His neck was askew. Pita was shocked. She licked her nose. “He didn’t have what it takes to be insane,” Pita said to herself. “I have to get out of here. I’m no crazy person.” She had to sleep first to gain strength for her escape. “Rats always sleep first, she said to herself. Pita settled into her new lair and began to think about the day. Earlier that day, at the university, she had watched one man walking from one building to another. His guard was down. He looked tired, brows knit. He looked exhausted and seemed to be in a place in the middle of here and the other world. She saw him massaging his hands. She often reflected before sleep. “An unreflected life is worthless,” she thought. Craziness continued outside the lair but inside Pita found relative quiet. Gratefully, she slept.

Chapter Three:
Chimeras
Wednesday, September 12, 1973

Victor decided to break from students after class. He massaged his hands. Even with all the chaos caused by the military, Victor was trying (at least) to attempt to maintain some sense of order. His next class wasn’t for several hours. The last class hadn’t been much because of all the insanity of the military. Even with the radio reports, he never quite believed what the military said so he wasn’t sure of the situation. They were fundamentally dishonest. Victor did know it was serious, however; it was like opening a mental ward. It was worse.
Victor walked into the University theater. He always got a strange feeling in a theater as if all the ghosts of the past were there. The theatre wasn’t exactly a natural place but was somehow in the middle of here and the other world. Drama, itself, was like that. He felt a chill go down his back. He massaged his hands. He entered the other world.
This University was more for the common people; maybe that was why it had more ghosts. The common people suffered more. The voice of the people, someway, was stronger in a theater. The intense, soulful feeling of the common reminded Victor of his childhood in Chillán Viejo, a working class community to the south. Now, after all these years, it was just a feeling not a true memory. He was six in 1938 when the family moved away from Chillán Viejo to Lonquén near the capitol, near Santiago.
Lonquén in the countryside not his neighborhood, Jotabeche, in the city was where Victor felt his soul. Victor’s mind began to wander in reverie. His eyelids became heavy and his hands felt warm. He sank heavily into a theater seat in the front row and saw, no, felt his life passing before his eyes on stage. He was in Chillán Viejo (Chiquillán), his birthplace.
There was his house in Chillán Viejo, the huge trees and the old, wooden school behind the house. His family shared the house with another family, he believed. The memory was very fuzzy. He did remember it was a happy household, maybe, but poor as dirt. He couldn’t remember his father being there but he did recall his mother with her pots, pans and guitar.
He remembered or thought he remembered another language there: that of the Mapuche. He wasn’t sure. Probably one reason the memory was so fuzzy is he never talked about it. It wasn’t reinforced. Only lately had he been able to start recovery of his roots. The recollection began around the time he met a wise Mapuche woman, Angelita, in Pocuno further to the south. She was well known in her area. Some said she was a machi, a spiritual healer. To Victor, she was an angel like her name. Her last name, Huenumán, meant “hallowed place of Condors” in the Mapuche language. He didn’t recall the Mapuche words from childhood but was told later. At times, his memory of his own mother, Amanda, and Angelita would blur. He told no one. It happened, the blur, with many older women but especially Angelita.
He planned to return south to do an entire music album on the people (who were a lot like Angelita) in the small town of Chilpaco on the Ranquil River. It was part of his story. Perhaps Chilpaco is now as Chillán Viejo was when I was born, Victor thought. I suspect the feeling of the place is the same and that deep feeling is all I have. It is why I sing.
Victor wasn’t sure why his family left Chillán Viejo in 1938 but he suspected (from reading history) that it was because of the economy. Most likely, the family of five could barely get enough to eat. Victor thought his father, Manuel, may have met someone from Lonquén, maybe Fernando Prieto, and was made an offer; he could farm the land for a share of the crop.
Unfortunately, once moving to Lonquén, Manuel found he was no farmer. He didn’t like the work. Victor thought his father had been a craftsman in Chillán, a carpenter in the Ramirez area. Maybe the change was too much.
“I hate this frigging plow!” Manuel exclaimed. “You take it, Victor.” Manuel glanced aside at his son and gave a tight smile. His intense eyes twinkled. He shook his full head of black hair. “This is no work for a man, it’s insulting.” Manuel took a kick at the plowshare. He missed. “Frigging piece of rotting dung!” Manuel peered at the plow closely. He knew it wasn’t made correctly. “Whoever made this was a frigging idiot!” If only Manuel had his tools (which were in Chillán) he would have made a new plow. Wood was scarce but he could manage somehow. “A frigging idiot!”
Victor remembered Lonquén very well. Unlike his father Manuel, he liked the work in the fields. He would lead the oxen while his father, strapped to the plow, would follow. He’d follow his father and pick stones from the earth. “You pick those frigging stones, Victor. Thy could break this frigging plow.” Manuel’s eyes flashed and sparkled as he spoke. There was, still, fire there and more than a touch of anger. Stones are anathema to a plow, Victor thought, especially a wooden plow. Victor thought of his song, “El Arado” which was about the inquilino experience.

El Arado21                              
I grasp firmly with my hand,
Sink the plow in the earth.
So many years I worked,
It is no wonder I am totally exhausted.

Butterflies fly, Crickets sing
My skin is turning black,
and the sun shines, shines, shines.
The sweat furrows over my brow,
I plow furrows in the ground, forever.

I affirm hope,
when think about the other star.
It is never too late, she says to me,
the dove will fly.

Butterflies fly, Crickets sing
My skin is going black,
and the sun shines, shines, shines.
The sweat furrows my brow,
I plow furrows in the ground, forever

And in the afternoon when I return
in the heavens appears a star.
Never it is too late she says to me,
the dove will fly, will fly, will fly.
The yoke is tight,
I have my fist waiting,
because all will change.

The patron always promised a new, metal plow but somehow it never came. Victor’s father called it the devil’s foot. To make matters worse, the farm couldn’t use horses or mules so oxen pulled the plow. It was slow, hot, dirty work. Because the plow wasn’t made for this kind of work or it wasn’t made correctly, it would often turn in the furrow and had to be straightened. The danger was if the plow strayed too far, it could break and there would be no plow, no livelihood. They could lose everything.
“ Furrows, frigging furrows forever!” Manuel yelled as he slammed himself against the plow handle. “I’d like to meet the man who made this plow, for five minutes, in a dark alley.” Manuel laughed out loud. He laughed when angry, smiled when things went bad. He could be a dangerous man. “This reminds me of the frigging Army.” Manuel remembered how bad that was. “It was this idiot water boy, Pinocchio we called him. He was the south end of a horse going north. His bucket always had a hole in it like his head.” Manuel couldn’t believe how stupid they were. “Everything had holes in it.” Like the plow, nothing worked correctly. Weapons would jam, trucks wouldn’t run, orders made no sense. “A lunatic would feel at home in the frigging Army!”
Victor’s father would throw himself against the grips to right the plow. His shoulders were purple from the continued bruising. He swore when the bruising happened and it happened often. As a child, Victor had a vocabulary of very colorful language (which he never used of course).
It wasn’t the field Victor remembered best. It was the school. There, Victor acquired a more suitable vocabulary. He excelled at everything he tried. The director of the school was amazed. He gave Victor extra work.
In school, Victor learned that the history of Chile was a history of war. For example, the Spanish and the Mapuche Nation kept taking and re taking the same towns. One of these was Chillán, which changed hands many times. South of Chillán, at the Bio Bio River, was even worse. The Spanish invaded unsuccessfully for over 300 years. The history was one slaughter after another. It was a Chilean slaughterhouse. The Mapuche were so enraged at the treatment, it is said, they poured molten gold down the throat of the conquistador Pedro de Valdívia (founder of many of Chile’s major cities including Santiago, the capitol). Victor, for one, thought the story about the gold was typical European propaganda. If the Mapuche had that much gold, why would they use it like that? If anything, Pedro de Valdívia, probably, got hot water.
The Mapuche are hardly a mean people, Victor thought. He was proud (albeit quiet) about his ancestry. If anyone asked, he would say but in many ways, even though a public figure, Victor Jara was a very private man.
“But, enough of that.” Victor, still in the University theater, moved to a different seat for another perspective. The students often made a joke on how often Victor moved. (Among the students, he was known, secretly, as Professor Condor. He was everywhere.) The move didn’t break his reverie. He figured he could be there in the theater for several hours before he was so missed they’d come looking for him.
He looked, again, toward the stage. This time, the experience felt deeper. The stage, the various properties, seemed to melt away and be replaced by scenes of Lonquén flashing quickly in front of his eyes until they stopped at one scene.
He was on the large hill, Pisada del Diablo22, above Lonquén at his favorite place.  Nearby did a meteor form the huge crater. He could see all the way to Talagante, a nearby town known for its witches.  An old woman who was often in his dreams, La Calchona, was there with him. The sky was clear and there was a strong breeze off the mountains to the east.
Suddenly, the breeze picked  up into a stinging wind, a mistral, Victor thought.  It was Meulén (Hullifucha), the spirit of the wind. Usually a mistral like that was only to the north around the town of Vicuña and farther.  Sometimes they hit the Santiago area as well.  Victor, looking east, saw a huge cloud of dust circling like a much larger version of a dust devil but not as huge as a tornado.  It was coming this way.  Even at this distance, he could hear snapping like far machine gun fire.  He imagined dark forms like presageous soldiers rank on rank in the dust. The wind snapped tree limbs. He thought he saw a tree go down but wasn’t sure.  He saw flashes of light as tree branches broke.  At this point Victor, in the theater, didn’t know if he was in reverie, in a trance state, in a magnificent dream or what.  He wasn’t paying attention to that but rather the wind.
His hair was long now as it was when he got older before he cut it.  It whipped around his face.  As the wind approached, Victor stood with both hands toward the sky.  He could feel it was as if lightning bolts flew from these hands.  Words began to form in his mind: “I put all in your open hands.”  Victor rose slightly in the air and stomped on one foot like Cural, the Mapuche god.  The wind stopped as sudden as it came.  All was silent
Victor snapped back in his seat.  “Was this a dream or what?  Am I going crazy?  No, it is the theater.  This theater does something to me.  It makes me live”, Victor thought. “Theater makes me dream.”
“Even with this theater, even with being known as a Director, for what would I become famous?  I sing,” Victor said to himself. He wasn’t bitter but did want to be known as a Director above all. He wasn’t to get his wish.
“I don’t even have a good voice.  The song is in the guitar.  I don’t know where the songs come from.  Maybe it is me but probably it is the guitar.
I don’t even play that well.  I am no Angel Parra.  He can play.  If it weren’t for him and his guitar I wouldn’t have even started playing in public.  Here is yet another Angel for me.
One evening at his nightclub (Pena de los Parra) Angel Parra thrust this guitar into my hands and demanded: “ Play!”  If you’ve ever looked into the eyes of Angel when he is serious, you’d know why you couldn’t say “No.”  Angel can’t be denied when he is like that and he was like that as I began to sing.  It was horrible but I got into it.  I felt my mother was there with me.  She was just to my left with her guitar.  I played one of the songs she taught me.  If it weren’t for her I wouldn’t play at all.  I owe her that.
“The room melted before me as I sang.  I had to remember to open my eyes to look at the people.  Mama taught it was death to lose the audience.  Still, the music transports the artist to somewhere else.  In my case, I always go home,” he thought.
At this point, Victor opened his eyes and was back in the theater with the guitar, somehow, in his hands. Had he actually sung?
“It is a good thing everyone is outside. I don’t mind performance, now, but when I am alone, I like to be alone.”
Victor settled back into his chair thinking of Angel’s Peña nightclub and those times when the Nueva Canción movement was still new. Violeta Parra and Margot Loyola had started it on the heels of Violeta’s singing with her own family. “Now, there is talent,” Victor thought.
Thinking in a stream of consciousness, he strummed his guitar and a new rhythm began to form. It was his new song: The working title was: “We Are Ten Thousand Hands”. He hadn’t, yet, worked out the lyrics. That is the way it, usually, went. Sometimes the music would come first, sometimes the words but seldom together. Everyone thought he did it all at once. He let them think it. It depended. Sometimes the words weren’t even his as in the case of Poema 15. The words belonged to Pablo Neruda. That was a long time ago. Neruda was into that opera thing now about Joaquin Murrieta. That would be a good one to direct, Victor thought.
“Murrieta was no more a bandit than Francisco Villa. He robbed from the rich and gave to the poor like Zorro, didn’t he? The Americans destroyed both. It’s like Chile: I can’t forgive them. Now, it’s Caesar Chavez. They are doing the same thing to him. Maybe they will have his head some day, pour molten gold (or hot water) in his mouth. Always the same people get screwed.”
Another scene was beginning to open on stage in front of Victor’s eyes. He hadn’t quite shaken the reverie. He could hear the staccato pattern of a tree branch on glass and he was back home in Lonquén.
It was Sunday: his mother always took him to church. Maria, his older sister at thirteen years old, would straighten his tie and, sometimes, retie the knot. In some ways Maria, being older, was like a second mother to him. Though still small, Maria would do some of the cooking and a lot of the cleaning.
As Victor was getting ready, he was thinking ahead to the church that was very close to where they lived. Victor liked the priest and wanted to be like him. Though he liked the director of the school better, he thought he should like the priest. His future was in the church.
Young Victor was almost ready. Maria came to straighten his tie. Together, they walked to the church, his mother and her brood. Victor thought, maybe, they looked like a flock of chickens and whispered: “Pio, pio, pio, pio” under his breath like a rooster.
While walking, Victor stooped to pick a rock from the roadway. The blue stone had attracted his attention because it had shiny streaks and a small star. Victor decided, quickly, he’d leave it on the mountain next time he visited Pisada Del Diablo. For now, he put the stone in his pocket.
Soon, they were in the pews.  Maria was next to Victor. Eduardo, his brother, always tried to get that spot but never did.
Maria would touch Victor’s shoulder when they were to kneel. They had been so many times Victor knew the liturgy by heart but always there was the touch. The touch, later when they lived in Santiago, should have been for younger brother, Roberto. He never did get it right. Eduardo was supposed to give Roberto the touch but never did or he’d bump Roberto and the little guy would go down at the wrong times. No one really noticed but Victor. He didn’t say anything because that would only encourage Roberto who wanted to tag along everywhere doing just what Victor did. Victor would never be alone.
Coming back from the church, it was time for the big meal of the day. Once per year, they would have meat and this was the day. They always ate before siesta. Victor’s mother was just finishing the empenada meat pies ready for eating and Maria was to make the tea.
Victor was looking out the window toward the large hill in the back of town where the townspeople had said the devil had been (leaving his footprint) when a loud scream filled the house. Victor snapped his head around to see Maria brushing furiously at her face and screaming and screaming. The empty pot, used for boiling water, lay on the floor at her feet. Boiling water had splashed all over Maria.
Victor’s mother grabbed the pot burning her hand and ran for cold water. Maria ran for the creek. Tears were streaming down his mother’s face and she was mumbling something Victor couldn’t hear. She yelled over her shoulder: “Eduardo, see to your sister!” Eduardo crossed himself and stood there frozen in time. Then they ran to Maria all getting wet as mother splashed cold creek water over all. Mother was sobbing now.
Victor, again, was back in the theater. Only a few minutes had passed but it seemed like hours. Victor, in his mind, could still hear Maria screaming. He ran his hands over the strings of his guitar in his lap. He thought of his mother’s guitar and looked at his own. Victor smiled. Maria’s screams had passed into history. Here was Victor and his constant companion, his guitar.

Manifiesto24
I don’t sing just to sing
Nor do I have a good voice.
I sing because the guitar
Has sense and reason,
Has the heart of the land.
And, alas, the dove
As is holy water
Sacred glory and pain
My song has found a purpose
As Violeta said
The guitar is a worker
With the fragrance of spring.
No way is it the guitar of the rich
Nor that my song seems
of ladders reaching to the stars,
the song has sense
when it pulses in the veins
of who that dies singing the true,
not the fleeting flatteries
nor for foreign fame
but the song of a thin slice of land
to the foundation of the earth.  
Here where it all rises
and where it all begins
I sing the valiant song that
Will always be the Nueva Canción.
Victor Jara

Inner Chapter « c »
The Guitar: “La Campañera”23
1958: A Flashback

Victor’s first guitar was, actually, his mother’s. He may have played it before they moved to Santiago. Once in Santiago, a neighbor, Omar Pulgar, learned of Victor’s fascination and taught Victor a solid start.25
Somehow, Victor’s mother’s guitar didn’t follow him into the University of Chile a few years later but the interest in guitar did. Perhaps he played other people’s guitars but it wasn’t the same as having an instrument available for those moments of inspiration. Victor wanted to have a guitar.
As well, Victor had an interest in travel around that long slice of land that is Chile (for theater and as a singer). He wanted a tour. For that, a guitar was imperative. At the time, Violeta Parra and Margot Loyola were known for their trips around Chile. They inspired many others to tour. Margot Loyola, an instructor at the University of Chile, had formed a music group: Cúncumen (sound of murmuring water in Mapuche) with whom Victor had a considerable contact. He sang with them. What was happening, with the group and many others, was a cutting edge change in Chilean music. Material was being introduced to Santiago from the countryside. The effect was to transform consciousness from a strictly city based style to one which drew from the roots of a more direct, country kind of life. Victor’s friend, Rolando, was as excited as he was.
“Victor! I’m excited,” Rolando said.
“Tell me,” Victor encouraged.
“Cúncumen is looking for new sounds! We are forming a new group,” Rolando said.
“I am happy for you,” Victor smiled.
“No, no, I mean ‘we,” Rolando explained.
“What are you talking about?” Victor asked.
“I want you to be part of it,” Rolando said further.
“I can’t sing,” Victor admitted.
“Sure you can. Everyone can,” Rolando said.
“Sure,” Victor said.
“I mean it. I’d like you to come to a rehearsal,” Rolando offered.
“O.K., my friend, but only to listen,” Victor surrendered.
Rolando Alarcón was a music teacher, had an astounding voice and was an accomplished guitarist. He, also, had significant leadership ability. Victor respected him.26
However, the fact remained that Victor needed a guitar. He had nowhere near enough money. He barely had enough for food. Still, he had the desire to touch base with his countryside roots as a singer. A guitar could do that, he thought.
A wealthy woman (known as Margarita) had taken an interest in Victor. When he mentioned that to his friend, Nelson Villagra, it was suggested that the purchase of a guitar could be mentioned (and if Victor didn’t mention it, Nelson would). Victor didn’t like the idea but did need a guitar. He yielded to the temptation. The three of them went to Casa Amarilla in San Diego Street. The store was the best in Santiago. The wealthy woman not only bought a good guitar for Victor but a case as well. The guitar had gorgeous walnut facing and a body shape like the hips of a woman, Victor thought. It was, by far, the finest possession he had in life.
As the three left the guitar store and went into the street, an organ grinder was just beginning to play his instrument. The music soared above the traffic sounds and touched the rooftops. Margarita gazed at Victor with a longing look. Victor looked at the organist. Victor smiled as in seeing an old friend. He showed the guitar and smiled. The Organist nodded knowingly.
Now, Victor was set. He played with Cúncumen and went on the tour (to El Carmen in the south of Chile). He, still, may not have had food money but he had music. The guitar changed his life.
“So, Rolando, when is the next rehearsal?” Victor asked anxiously.
“I’ll let you know,” Rolando promised.
“No, really, I’m serious,” Victor said.
“I know you are. You are a soloist!” Rolando stated firmly.
“Yeah, I enjoy playing with you,” Victor said ignoring the complement.
“Violeta wrote a couple of songs,” Rolando mentioned.
“Great!” Victor exclaimed.
“Yeah, she wants to record with you,” Rolando said.
“What?” Victor asked not believing what he heard.
“A duet,” Rolando added.
“You’re not serious,” Victor said.
“Care to bet on that?” Rolando asked.
“I’d lose,” Victor admitted.
“You are right about that one,” Rolando said.
“O.K.,” Victor said.
“She, also, wants you to solo,” Rolando added.
“No way!” Victor exclaimed.
“I told you. You are a soloist, Victor.”
“I thought you were saying I wasn’t good enough to sing with a group.”
“Oh, you are good,” Rolando affirmed.
“But, I don’t have a voice,” Victor complained.
“You are correct. It’s irrelevant,” Rolando stated.
“How so?” Victor asked.
“You know how to compensate,” Rolando said.
“I see,” Victor said not seeing at all.
Rolando was honest. Victor could trust him for the truth. Further, when Rolando said what he did, it wouldn’t hurt. He was soft and strong at the same tie. Few people are like that, Victor decided. Rolando was rare. He was, also, an incredible talent. He was becoming Victor’s best friend, mentor, and teacher. Victor had shown Rolando the new guitar right away. There was no criticism. When Rolando strummed that guitar, it came alive. The guitar, thereafter, was if touched by magic like a totem.
In actuality, though he wouldn’t admit it, the touch of Victor’s hands had transformed the instrument from some fine wood and a little metal to an affair of the heart. Hands were the center of who Victor was.27
“So, Victor, when can we sing?” Violeta asked.
“I’m ready when you are,” Victor smiled.
“I wrote two songs,” Violeta said.
“Rolando told me,” Victor admitted.
“That boy!” Violeta exclaimed.
“It is true?” Victor asked.
“What?” Violeta asked.
“That I’m to solo?” Victor said tentatively.
“Of course,” Violeta said with finality.
“I can’t believe it,” Victor admitted.
“You are good,” Violeta stated flatly.
“No!” Victor protested.
“Please don’t contradict me, Victor,” Violeta warned.
“I’m sorry,” Victor apologized.
“It’s O.K., don’t worry,” Violeta said patting his hand.
“O.K.,” Victor said.
“Yes, you are to solo. I’ve written the songs for you to sing,” Violeta said.
“Me?” Victor asked.
“Do you see anyone else here?” Violeta chided.
“No,” Victor replied.
“Well, then, my wild one,” Violeta teased.
“How do you know I’m good?” Victor asked.
“I know,” Violeta said with finality.
Essentially, the Violeta Parra material began Victor’s singing career just as Pablo Neruda’s help had stimulated Violeta’s. She was the best in the country and believed in Victor. She called him Chile’s top folklore singer. Violeta would not be denied. She was very straightforward, hardly ever mean but firm in the extreme when she believed.
Victor, often, flashed back to earlier memories. He drew from his past: his was a reflected life. Victor had strong beliefs. He looked at Violeta. He massaged his hands.
Looking back, he knew he could direct theater. It was his profession. Just as sure, he knew his voice was not the best. It fluttered somehow. When he sang, he could hear his country boy accent more clearly than when he spoke. It leant authenticity to his folklore music but, at the same time, it embarrassed him.
Violeta, in some ways, reminded him of his mother. Both had a way of being strict and open at the same time. Still, they were extremely different. Victor’s mother, Amanda, wasn’t afraid of anything, he thought. She’d challenge even that old witch, La Calchona, given the chance. Victor fingered a blue stone he had in his pocket.
With singing, Victor thought, maybe he could compensate some for the injustices of the world. Chile had experienced many atrocities not just Santa Maria de Iquique and Puerto Montt. He could protest in singing about it. Victor remembered the words of his teacher, Aliro: “Write what you feel about what you see.”

Book Two:
Deep Background

Chapter Four:
Ready, Aim, Fire!28
June 1925

“Fire!” Bullets splattered the nitrate miners. A child went down. Blood fed the earth.

“Fire!” A woman, desperately, tried to protect her baby but it was too late. Her husband lay, already, at her feet. Bullets went through her body as she was thrown to the ground. Her baby went next.

“Fire!” Heavy machine guns threw lead into the rest of the workers hitting many. One man dropped to his knees begging for his life. The next sweep of gunfire cut him down. Riflemen, then, shot the wounded. Artillery destroyed their homes.

That was Coruña (1925) in the north of Chile. It followed yet another massacre (1921) at the San Gregorio mines. President Alessandri tried to stop the cruel General (Ibanéz de Campo) unsuccessfully. The General was bent on a reign of terror. The President resigned: the General took the government.
The Ibanéz coup happened six and a half years before Victor was born. It wasn’t the first in Chilean history nor was it to be the last. The military had a history of massacre. Now, because of the General, heavy government interference accompanied the already authoritarian mining companies and agricultural landowners.
These factors set the stage for the beginning of Victor’s life. He was born to a conflict, which had deep roots. There was a predetermination aspect. The repressive government was called “Portalian” after a former Chilean model (Diego Portales, 1830). In the 1920s, the Ibanéz system was an echo of Primo de Rivera (Spain) and Benito Mussolini (Italy). It was fascism.
Soon after Victor’s birth, in Europe, the Nazi system would become popular. The concept would become young Victor’s enemy and bane. “Fire!” became a common word in Chile.
Victor’s teacher, Sr. Aliro Cárcamo, taught the history of Chile. For Victor, Coruña and San Gregario were the history of Chile. It was a slaughterhouse.
When Victor’s family migrated north to Lonquén, the schoolteacher was their boarder. At the Careamo Cárdenas school in Lonquén, Sr. Cárcamo introduced Victor to the world outside that of the purely rural.
“So, what is the capital of Spain?” Aliro asked.
“Madrid!” Victor answered enthusiastically.
“And the President?”
“He has no name.”
“The philosophy?”
“Fascism.”
“And England?”
“Parliamentary.”
“The difference?”
“The type of authority.”
The teacher smiled. He knew these were rote answers but, at the same time, he was forcing Victor to think beyond the surface, beyond his years. He knew young Victor had no way to fully understand complex political concepts but the lifelong process of deep thought had been started. Victor had the benefit of his Mapuche huerquenes memory. Coupled with Victor’s gift of genius that combination could produce a student capable of critical thinking.
“So, what is the feeling behind the types of authority?” the teacher asked.
“That’s a hard one,” Victor responded.
“I know.”
“Repression, that’s the word? Feels like a plow.”
“Interesting. How?”
“It is heavy, breaks the land and the people.”
“I like your country imagery.”
“Please.”
“Sorry.”
The teacher was a city person and Victor was a country boy. Victor, even at an early age, could see that a rural consciousness had limits. Through instruction, he was just beginning to transcend. He knew there was a world. Living in Lonquén, one could easily lose sight of anywhere else. The isolation was profound.
“So, what do we have here, in Lonquén?” the teacher asked.
“In what respect?” Victor asked.
“Repression.”
“The landowner is a benevolent dictator.”
“What then?”
“It’s the hacienda system here.”
“Hacienda?”
“Like a plantation,” Victor said.
Victor had heard of plantations in other countries but did not realize his hometown was like that until he said it. The authority was not as extreme, not as clear as, for example, a banana republic plantation. Everyone in Lonquén worked for Fernando Prieto or Ruíz-Tagle but there wasn’t a single crop (like bananas). Everything wasn’t produced for export. The Prietos weren’t like the famous United Fruit Company in Central America, Cuba and California. Victor didn’t feel like a slave. He liked the patrón. It was confusing.
“The lack of clarity is intentional,” the teacher said.
“How do you mean?” Victor asked.
“An oppressed people who do not know are docile.”
“There is a word for that.”
“Yes, psychological.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a big word.”
“Yes.”
“But you learned the word: ‘repression.”
“There are a lot of big words aren’t there?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Many.”
“How can I learn them all?”
“One by one.”
The teacher had a goal for Victor. He would teach him one new word per day. Further, he would inter relate the words: one concept would be built upon a former word. The teacher wanted to construct a train of thought, an overall concept of the world. He called it “liberalism”. It was popular in 1940.
“Let me tell you about Ranquil,” the teacher suggested.29
“Where is it?”
“You know the river, Bio Bio?”
Yes, below Chillán.”
“Good.”
“Ranquil is a river in the upper Bio Bio.”
“Good guess, correct.”
“It’s Pehuenche.”
“Right again, Native American.”
“And Spanish.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“It wasn’t so hard.”
“Really?”
“It’s where my people originated.”
“Originated?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t teach you that word.”
“I’m learning on my own, too.”
The teacher, then, learned that Victor had a goal to learn one new word per day. The teacher hadn’t mentioned this was his goal too. He realized Victor had been learning two words per day, one on his own. The teacher was amazed. “It seems I’ve taught him how to learn,” he said to himself.
“Ranquil is a massacre site,” Victor said further. “It was a slaughterhouse.”
“Really?” The teacher feigned ignorance.
“Carabinero national police murdered over 100 peasants.”
“Yes, the newly organized police.”
“Protesting eviction.”
“Yes, the families were being thrown off the land.”
“Why?”
“Their lease expired.”
“That sounds like here.”
The teacher explained that the fate of many people depended on the patron. If he decided to cut costs, he could throw people out of their homes (which he owned). If there was trouble, he could call the police. Should things become heated, there could be shootings. The same kind of process happened at the mining companies. It was a barbaric system: the hacienda system.
“When I grow up, they’ll pay,” Victor said. “My fist is waiting.”
“Yes, but don’t lower yourself to their level,” the teacher responded.
“How?”
“Write.”
“What?”
“What you feel about what you see.”
“And what I hear?”
“Exactly.”
The teacher cautioned Victor never to forget his roots. He felt there were too many people in the country, due to epidemic migrations, who didn’t have a strong connection. Often they’d remember only their anger. The countryside (campos) represented a lot more than anger. The problem was, the teacher explained, that anger stemmed from violence against them, which was frequent and brutal. Violence bred violence. The teacher cited the military as an example. Throughout history, they were never a peacekeeping organization. It was their downfall.
“So, I could be like them?” Victor asked.
“I doubt it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You have sense, they don’t.”
“I see.”
“Violence is the sign of immaturity.”
Victor thought back to his early childhood. There was a kind of violence in his family that associated with alcoholism. He had never thought of that as immaturity. Now, his father was gone a lot. Some of the absence was because he worked in the fields but that, alone, didn’t account for all of it. His father, Manuel, was often gone nights. Sometimes he’d be gone for days. Victor couldn’t explain it even to himself. His father was an enigma. His mother seemed to be working all the time. Oftentimes, when not at school or church, his home life consisted of being with the teacher. Even when at school, it was the teacher not his father. Victor went to church too. He appreciated the attention, thrived on it but often felt alone.
At times like those, he’d climb the tall hill in back of town: The Devil’s Footstep. There was a big rock in a crater. He’d lie on the rock and think. As time passed, he spent more and more time there. Sometimes, he’d sleep.
In dreams, ghostly figures would visit him. One was an old woman, La Calchona. She was an ancient Mapuche medicine woman. Victor learned things from her. He could cure some things. He gave her a blue stone with a star he’d found, learned it had been hers when she was a child. She said that one day he’d have his own blue stone.
When Victor awoke from his dreams, he would walk home thinking of things he had learned while dreaming. He didn’t realize he had been dreaming, didn’t remember. What developed in Victor was a strong sense of intuition: he knew things but not from whence they came. He learned to trust that sense.
Victor didn’t recall La Calchona who was in his dreams per se but he did remember what he was taught. He thought of it as a kind of second sight.
Others, besides La Calchona, came in his dreams on the hill. He never remembered whom but always internalized what he had been taught by them. Most were Native American but not all. Some seemed even more ancient.
Altogether, his various Lonquén experiences (in school and extra curricular) formed a person balanced in some unique ways. Some of the teachings frightened him. He was destined to spend a lifetime battling the unsettling. But, when in dream states, he was grateful for the help from La Calchona.

Inner Chapter d.
La Calchona30

“The evil old woman will come and take you away,” Amanda’s mother would say.

Victor’s mother, Amanda, was adventuresome and decided, one evening, she’d go to the forest and test the legend. “I am not going to let some old woman scare me,” Amanda thought. Sure, she would be in trouble when she returned home but at least, she’d know.
“I’ll walk across that field and enter the woods just there,” Amanda said to herself. She put her hand into her pocket and felt for her doll she’d placed there earlier. “I’ll take the doll for luck,” she said to herself. Amanda walked and walked until she was very tired. She could barely keep her eyes open: she was so sleepy. Crickets sang. Amanda sat on a Monkey Puzzle log to rest. She slid down the log to the soft forest floor. She lay on the soft pine needles and was soon asleep.
Amanda didn’t know how long she slept. The sound of a stick cracking woke her. The sound was as if someone had stepped on some small tree branch littering the leafy floor.
“Who is it?” Amanda asked no one in particular.
“It is only me, La Calchona,” a harsh voice said quietly.
“Am I dreaming?” Amanda asked.
“Maybe you are and maybe you aren’t,” Calchona said.
“So, you are real!” Amanda exclaimed. She shivered as she said it.
“That could be.”
Calchona, with her long black hair, was dressed in a dark blue woven smock fastened with a delicate golden brooch. She looked tranquil and dignified.
“I came to see if you existed. See, I brought my doll to witness,” Amanda said.
“That is a very nice doll. What’s her name?” Calchona asked.
“Vasalisa,” Amanda answered. Amanda gave a very big smile.
“What a lovely name. How did you come to choose it?” Calchona asked. She felt herself softening.
“I read it in a book,” Amanda answered proudly.
“Was the book a story about Baba Yaga?” Calchona asked.
“Yes, how did you know?” Amanda asked.
“Oh, child, I know many things. Besides, the Yaga is like a sister to me in a way,” Calchona explained.
“I have a sister,” Amanda said.
“Lucky you. I know your sister,” Calchona said.
“You know Georgina?” Amanda asked.
“Yes, of course. I know all of your family going way back in time, too,” Calchona said.
“So, what is my father’s name?” Amanda challenged.
“He is Jorge as was his father before him,” Calchona said.
“Wow,” Amanda said eyes going wide. “You know everything.”
“Well, not quite,” Calchona answered.
“Tell me something, please,” Amanda pleaded.
“Like what?” Calchona asked.
“Oh, anything. No, tell me everything,” Amanda said.
“And why should I do that?” Calchona asked.
“Because I’m asking,” Amanda blurted.
“Well, that is the right answer. Maybe I will tell you something,” Calchona said.
“Oh, please,” Amanda begged.
“That, also, is the right thing to say,” Calchona commented. Some of the harshness was beginning to leave her voice. (At first, perhaps, Calchona had appeared a little odd, maybe even a little dangerous more like an animal than a person.)
“Please, please, please,” Amanda continued.
“Well, alright. I’ll tell you a story about Joaquin Murrieta up north,” Calchona said.
“Who was he?” Amanda asked.
“A bandit from Quillota in Chile,” Calchona answered.
“Oh good: I love bandit stories,” Amanda said.
“Well, hush child and I’ll tell you the story,” Calchona said.

Calchona’s Story
One day, when Joaquin was very young, he rose in the morning very early so he’d have the whole day in front of him. He walked to the corral where his father’s horse, Yellowbird, was kept. His dog, Bullet, followed him. Joaquin had permission to ride any time he wanted. The only requirement was to groom the horse after the ride,” Calchona began.
“What is a requirement?” Amanda asked.
“Well child, sometimes when you receive a gift, there is something required in return,” Calchona explained. Calchona handed Amanda a blue stone, a “Calfucura”, a totem.
“Oh thank you!” Amanda exclaimed. She looked at the stone. Gold sparkled in the blue. The stone appeared to become transparent for a second then returned to being solid.
“You deserve the gift and the requirement,” Calchona said.
“Is a requirement like when it goes both ways?” Amanda asked.
“Yes, giving is supposed to go both ways, “ Calchona explained patiently.
“And how do you groom a horse?” Amanda asked.
“We will get to that. Are you ready to continue the story?” Calchona asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” Amanda said.
“You never have to be sorry for anything,” Calchona chided.
“I’m sorry. Oh. I mean not that but...” Amanda stammered. Calchona smiled, her crooked teeth breaking into a grin.
“Well. Joaquin and Bullet, his dog. Yes. Let me see. Oh, yes, the horse. Joaquin, first, put the bridle on the horse, then the blanket then the saddle. He tightened the girth just right so the saddle would stay. Then, he placed the saddlebags. Yes, he had everything he needed. He’d packed rope, a bedroll, food, matches and his trusty rifle in its own scabbard.”
“What’s a scabbard, Calchona?” Amanda asked.
“It is what you put the rifle into, Amanda.”
“Oh.”
“Then Joaquin rode and rode and rode,” Calchona said.
“Did the horse sound like this?” Amanda made hoof beat sounds with her hands.
“Yes, he did but those sound effects in stories are more for small children. You are no child, now, Amanda.”
“I’m sorry. I mean not that but.... What do I mean?” Amanda asked.
“You mean that you are learning,” Calchona said.
“I’m growing up,” Amanda said.
“Yes, back to Joaquin. He rode to the mouth of a cave he knew. There, he built a smoky fire from some wood, which was a little damp. He was able to light the wood with the matches he brought. The smoke was sucked into the cave almost if my magic,” Calchona said.
“I like magic,” Amanda said.
“Yes and then Joaquin rode his horse to the tallest hill. Bullet followed. They waited and watched. They could see smoke from the fire Joaquin built. Then, smoke began pouring from other areas as well. There were two, then three, then more. Joaquin, thereby, had identified an entire cave system. He looked at Bullet. The dog seemed to smile,” Calchona said.
“I saw a dog smile,” Amanda offered.
“Yes, they do. If you know their language, they talk too,” Calchona said.
“What do they say?” Amanda asked.
“They talk about food mostly,” Calchona said.
“No, really. What do they say?” Amanda asked.
“They talk about the wind, the rain and the stars,” Calchona said.
“Oh,” Amanda said.
“Yes, and they smile. That is what Bullet did when he saw what Joaquin had done. What had seemed like only one cave was many. Life is like that, Amanda. There is often more beneath the surface than what appears at first,” Calchona said.
“Knowing that is like a blessing,” Amanda said.
“Blessing? We need no blessings around here. It’s time to be going anyway,” Calchona said. Amanda watched as the old woman walked away and melted into the woods. Amanda was a little surprised at how abrupt the old lady was. She shrugged her shoulders.

Chapter Five:

Manuel And Amanda

Victor was thinking, while in the university theater, of what his mother’s story would have been. He imagined, Amanda, born a small struggling infant near the small town of Quiriquina (Zorro’s lair) in Nuble Province close to Chillán.
Coco Martinez, her father, grew melons on their small patch of land to sell at the huge market in Chillán. He was known as Coco because he was very dark. Jorge was his given name. Amanda’s mother, Maria, took sewing from those who could afford it and was a singer for local festivals, weddings and wakes. She was a full-blooded Native American Mapuche, a descendant from the famous chief: Lau taro. She knew, also, how to gather herbs from the land and was well known for being able to effect a cure for many ills. She was a machi healer.
Their home, made of typical Chilean clay, had four rooms instead of the usual three and the family, generally, was considered to be of comfortable means. The children attended school. There was always plenty to eat. Coco would make wine and brandy from the local grapes, apples and corn. He made the traditional Chilean drinks pipeña, mistela, chicha and pisco. The fourth room in the house contained many oak barrels of fermenting grapes and a still that Coco made. He would sample his product. That was his undoing.
Amanda was very young when he left, he said, to attend to Mapuche tribal business in the town of Lautaro named after Maria’s ancestor, a chief of the Mapuche. Coco never returned and there were many stories about what happened. One story was he was killed in a local brawl. Another way: he became a monk. Yet another was that he married a rich woman and moved to Paris. Mama Maria didn’t believe any of the stories (including the one about going to Lautaro on Mapuche business) and remained steadfast in her opinion he would return having made his fortune. They would be rich some day, she would say. She would prepare her children to become ladies and gentlemen and filled their minds with ambition.
Amanda tended the melons, now, along with her two brothers and four sisters. One day, Amanda looked up from her work and saw a young man on horseback complete with red and black poncho, chupalla hat (achupallya or pita), the short waisted jacket she could see peeking from under the upturned poncho, the leather leggings, sleek black boots trimmed in silver and enormous star spurs which flashed in the sunlight when the horse moved. It was Manuel Jara. Amanda knew him from school.
Manuel worked on the rancho of the very old man Don Eduardo Roberto Victorio de Andalucia. Manuel was dashing. Amanda sighed. Manuel swayed in the saddle but Amanda hardly noticed. Manuel was drunk and was not looking at Amanda at all but rather staring into space in a stupor. Happily, the horse was cropping grass. It was a sure sign the horseman was not in control. Amanda saw only what she wanted to see. Even as a girl, she was strong willed and made reality fit her perceptions. Manuel was a captive even before he knew it. Amanda wanted him. She touched a blue stone in her pocket for luck.
As the sun began to set, the horse began to walk home on its own. Horse and captive rider were on the way to the rancho. Amanda watched them go. She licked her lips.
The family returned to the Adobe in the evenings where Mother Maria would sing and tell stories after dinner. A chair at the head of the table was always set for the return of Coco. It was never occupied except for the large black cat, Patty Cake that Mama Maria kept.
“Oh, Mama, sing a story to us. I want to hear the one about Chief Lautaro!” Amanda would plead.
“Lev Tirau (Lautaro)? Very well, but I must have told that story a thousand times,” Mama Maria said. She smiled.
“Mama, I want to hear it again. Can I strum the guitar while you make the chords?” Amanda asked. She was accustomed to getting her way.
“Well all right, maybe just this once,” Mama Maria answered. The other children gathered around their mother. The fire in the stove burned low. The metal heated to a dull, candescent red. There was no other light except the last rays of the sun coming through the open doorway. Crickets were singing and butterflies had gathered in the yard as if to listen.
“Once upon a time....” Mama Maria began, “ there was a young chief named Lautaro. He had a big horse he took from the Spanish. The horse sounded like this.” Mama Maria clapped her hands on her thighs like the sound of horse’s hoofs and made a whinny sound. The children giggled. Two tried to imitate the hoof sound with their hands. Mama Maria picked up her guitar and began to play. She chanted the story Mapuche style:

“One day the great Lautaro
Climbed upon his great horse
That he had taken from the Spanish.

First, he walked the horse
Then he trotted and then
(Mama Maria paused for effect.)
He went to a full gallop.

Lautaro and his tribe
Rode across the river Bio Bio
And down to the Corral Bay.31
(Mama Maria made a splashing sound.)

At the big Spanish fort
Lautaro stopped his great horse
And gazed upon the ramparts.
(Mama Maria made a sound like a cannon firing.)

Without even a word
The Spanish fired their gun
And Lautaro frowned.
(Mama Maria frowned and the children made faces.)

Lautaro gave a signal
And his men attacked in waves
They fought for three days.
(Mama Maria made all kinds of battle sounds to the peals of laughter of the children.)

The Spanish didn’t have a chance
The fort was destroyed
And Lautaro smiled.
(All the children laughed, smiled and danced around the room)

Then, the great Lautaro
Got on his great horse
To ride home.
(more hoof beats)

First he walked the horse
Then he trotted and then”

(Marie paused and the children recited the last line and cheered.)
“He went to a full gallop.”
Again, the children cheered. One said: “When I grow up, I want to be just like Lautaro!” Another said: “Tell us another story, please Mama, please. Tell us about Chief Colo Colo! Tell us about Chief Caupolitán!”
“I’ll sing as you get into bed. First, wash your faces and be sure you wash behind your ears.” Mama Maria demanded.
They all went outside to the water tub. Mama Maria sat near the door with her guitar and sang. The children lined up according to age and splashed their faces.
“And wash behind your ears!” Mama Maria scolded.
“Oh, Mama, do we have to do it?” Amanda asked.
“If you don’t, the evil old woman, La Calchona, will take you away,” Mama Maria said. Amanda smiled knowingly. La Calchona was not evil. She knew it.
The children laughed but, also, looked around the yard with wide eyes. One by one, they washed and filed obediently into the house as Mama Maria sang. She shook her head and smiled. “Tomorrow, it’s melons to market,” she sighed. “It’s not so bad though; I’ll see all my friends.
Way before sunrise, the children could hear Mama Maria out in the yard getting the carreta cart ready. It was already filled with melons from the prior day. It would be a very long walk to town.
The children rose to help their mother. It would take all of them to push the farm cart. Once it was rolling, it wasn’t so bad except on those days when there were mud holes. Amanda had a knack for missing the holes, so she was always in front. Mama Maria was yoked where a horse should be. The youngest could ride atop the melons if first removing sandals (ojotas), which could scar the fruit. All the children in the Martinez family had sandals, which were unusual in that rural area. Most children had nothing.
“Let’s go!!” Mama Maria shouted. The children began to sing the walking song as they did each week as they trudged to market:
Walking, walking
Here we go to market
With our melons so ripe
For the rich women to buy
To take home to their children!

They would clap twice with every measure, as the song was an old Cueca. After each verse, they would cheer. The chorus was simple:
Tiqui tiqui tiqui ti
Here we go to market.

Neighbors could hear them coming. Sometimes farm boys would stare with shy eyes. Many children would look longingly at all those beautiful sandals. They would run back into their houses imploring of their parents for a pair. Occasionally, a parent would stop the Martinez caravan and ask after the sandals. Amanda made them. The next week, as they went to market, some lucky child might get a pair of Amanda’s sandals. All along the road to Chillán, the luckiest children had a pair.
“Mama! Mud hole up ahead!” Amanda shouted.
“Thanks, Amanda.” Mama Maria said.
“Oh, Mama?” Amanda asked.
“What, child?” Mama Maria asked wearily.
“There is this girl who has no sandals,” Amanda explained.
“You mean up at that big turn in the road?” Mama Maria asked.
“Yes, that’s the one. I don’t think she has any money,” Amanda advanced.
“That’s like a lot of them,” Mama Maria explained.
“Well, she should have a pair of sandals,” Amanda said.
“I quite agree,” Mama Maria said.
“Could I give her a pair, Mama?” Amanda pleaded.
“Is this how you feel, Amanda?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, then, I guess it would be alright.”
“Thanks, Mama!”
Amanda went skipping down the road and around the turn. A few minutes later, she returned, still carrying the gift sandals. She was crying. Amanda explained that the poor little girl, Mafie, was very sick.
“It’s all my fault, Mama. I should have thought of this!”
“No, child, it is not your fault. Let’s see if we can do something.” Mama Maria grabbed her bag of herbs. The parents of the little girl were in the yard. The mother looked worried. Amanda took the herbs Mama Maria selected to them and explained they were for healing tea for her little friend. Amanda returned to the cart smiling.
“That should do it,” Mama Maria said. She knew what disease was going around the area. Some said she had second sight, too.
“How did you know which herbs to use?” Amanda asked.
“I just knew,” Her mother explained. She fingered a special blue stone in her pocket. The real power was in the stone not the herbs, she thought.
The marketplace was close ahead. They could hear the music and smell fresh baked empanada meat pies. The empenada ingredients (onions, raisins, olives and eggs) smelled heavenly, she thought.
“Can I have empanadas, Mama?” Amanda asked.
“May I?” Mama Maria prompted.
“May I have empenadas, Mamita?” Amanda asked.
“Maybe one, Amanda. It depends on how we do. Let’s sell melons, O.K.?” Mama Maria said.
“Wonderful, I’ll do my best to sell them all,” Amanda promised.
They pushed the cart to the same place in the market they were every week. Mama Maria spread an old poncho on the ground and sat with her guitar. She sang.
“Melons! Melons!” Amanda hawked even before they got set. She was wasting no time. Many people were attracted to Mama Maria’s beautiful voice. Even though their location in the market was far from the best, they did well. The melons went quickly and at a good price. The price was Amanda’s department. She, always, pressed an advantage and got more money for melons than anyone else. Mama Maria could never figure it. When it came time to buy empenadas, Amanda got a discount. She would charm the people coming and going.
There was something in Amanda’s voice. The market had many hawkers for just about anything one could imagine. Amanda’s cry was always above the rest. Mama Maria thought it was the timbre of the voice. Maybe Amanda could sing, Mama Maria thought: I’ll teach her.
Amanda was standing in line waiting for empenadas when she felt a presence behind her. She turned, it was Manuel Jara. She gasped.
“Manuel, you scared me!” she accused. It was a statement to get time to regain her composure. Manuel didn’t frighten her, she bragged to herself.
“Sorry,” Manuel said.
“We sold everything. Did you sell all of yours? How did you do?” Amanda asked rapid fire.
“Yes,” Manuel said as he searched for words.
“Next week, there is the big fandango, the fiesta! Are you going?” Amanda asked boldly.
“I guess,” Manuel said sheepishly. Awkwardly, he adjusted his poncho cloak.
“You don’t say much do you?” Amanda accused.
“Not much,” Manuel admitted.
“Well, that’s O.K. I am a big talker. I can say enough for the both of us, don’t you think, huh?” Amanda rattled. Manuel looked at her quizzically.
“Empenadas?” the vendor asked.
Amanda had turned to buy the meat pies and, when she looked around again, Manuel had disappeared. She looked to her right and to her left, no Manuel. This boy can just vanish when he wants, Amanda thought. She shrugged her shoulders and moved back to the cart with her prizes. There were empanadas for everyone.
As they returned home with the empty cart, they passed the home of Mafie, the little sick girl. She was sitting in the doorway smiling at them. Amanda gave her the sandals. Her laughter had the sound of silver.
Amanda saw Manuel at the fiesta the next week and thereafter many times. One day, Manuel came to speak to Mama Maria. Amanda didn’t know what they discussed but she hoped it was she.
Two days later, Manuel rode into the yard asking for Amanda. He looked like a knight. He asked Mama Maria if he could take Amanda for a ride. Mama Maria thought that would be all right as long as they were still in sight. The sun was setting; crickets were singing. The black cat followed them when they mounted the horse. They rode near the creek in front of the house.
“Amanda, I wanted to talk with you.” Manuel said.
“Yes?” Amanda asked.
“It is so beautiful here,” Manuel said.
“Oh, yes,” Amanda said.
“Crickets singing,” Manuel offered. “Butterflies...Sunset.”
“Oh, Manuel,” Amanda sighed.
“Beautiful... here.” Manuel said. “You, too.”
“Really, Manuel?” Amanda asked.
“Yes,” Manuel said. “I guess I should go.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Why?”
“Thinking of a family,” Manuel said.
“Whose, Manuel?”
“Ours.”
“You want to marry me, Manuel?” Amanda asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll think about it,” Amanda said. “Come tomorrow.”
“O.K.”
They rode back into the yard. Amanda, sitting behind Manuel on the horse sidesaddle, had her arms around him. She could feel his big muscles. She thought she could hear his heart.
“Bye, Manuel,” Amanda said dismounting.
“Bye,” Manuel answered. He turned the horse and rode home. Mama Maria came rushing to Amanda asking: “Well?”
“He asked me,” Amanda said.
“Well, what did you say?” Mama Maria asked breathlessly.
“I told him I’d think about it.” Amanda said.
“Well then, it is settled. What are you going to wear?” Mama Maria asked.
“When?”
“Amanda!”
“Oh.”
“I’ll sew something,” Mama Maria offered.
“Thanks, Mama.”
“My little girl,” Mama Maria said embracing Amanda. They cried as they walked inside the house.
The wedding day came and went. The ritual was traditional. Manuel thought Amanda was a princess. He was in love. They found a house in the nearby town of Chillán Viejo. They shared it with a family they knew from the market. Manuel took work as a carpenter. Amanda took sewing from the rich women in Chillán across the Maipón creek. Very soon, Amanda was to have a child. The child would be named “Maria” after Amanda’s mother. Manuel was at work the day the baby was delivered and didn’t come home that night. Amanda slept. She’d wake to feed the baby, and then sleep again. The next night, Manuel returned but Amanda had gotten the nights mixed up so she didn’t know for sure he’d been gone. Thereafter, Manuel was gone a lot. Amanda would make excuses for him. He was working. He fell asleep at the carpentry shop. He had to go out of town. None of it was true but she didn’t know. Manuel was drunk and couldn’t find his way home. He’d return surely, have his way with Amanda then sleep and be gone again. He wouldn’t bring his pay home. All he did was make babies happen. There was already baby Maria then came Georgina (Coca), Eduardo (Lalo), Victor and soon Roberto.
The country fell on hard economic times. There had been a worldwide depression. Manuel got an offer of work from the rich Prieto or Ruíz-Tagle families in Lonquén many miles to the north near the city of Santiago.
“We’re moving,” Manuel announced one night.
“What? Where?” Amanda asked.
“Lonquén,” Manuel said and stomped out of the house with no further explanation. Amanda had never heard of it. Lonquén? Where was that, she thought? Manuel came back, told them to pack and left again. A change had come over him.
The first Amanda saw of Lonquén was the barren hills. She thought they had moved to hell. Manuel labored in the fields. Amanda thought this was no work for a horseman. She took sewing from those who could afford it. She sang at fiestas. They had a boarder, the local teacher. That helped with money. Amanda cooked and cleaned for him as well as for the rest. Manuel was hardly ever home. Maria, the older girl, helped until one day she was badly burned with boiling water. While trying to set a log in the stove fire, Maria bumped a pot of boiling water from the stove and was immersed and scalded.
Amanda’s relationship with Manuel was not going well and Maria’s accident brought the family to a crisis. Manuel didn’t want to move to Santiago nearer medical attention and he didn’t want to stay in Lonquén. Amanda knew they’d have to move with or without Manuel’s help. The marriage began to crack irreparably. There was nothing Amanda could do about it. Finally, she gave up even a try. She realized it was she who had been holding the relationship together all of these years. He just drank. She let go.
It seemed that, one-day, he drifted away from the family and kept drifting. Amanda didn’t even know when that started. Maybe it was from the first day. Amanda and the family without Manuel went to Santiago to live. Manuel went to an area south of town to raise melons.
Amanda had her eyes open now. She’d take care of business: she had a family to support. From now on, life would be all work in Santiago.
The weeks and months, which followed Maria’s accident with the boiling water, were a horror for the family. Maria was in bed with a high fever. Her face was wrapped in bandages.
“Mama, could you change my bandages?” Maria asked one early morning as Mama Amanda was preparing empanadas for sale in the Maipu Open Market in Santiago.
“Oh, child, I am so tired. Sure, I’ll help,” Amanda, said as she worked the dough.
“I can help, Mama, it’s just I can’t see very well,” Maria said.
“That’s O.K., child, you just rest. Mama will take care of it,” Amanda said as she paused in her work to replace Maria’s face bandages.
“Thank you, Mamita. Mama? Do I, still, look pretty?” Maria asked.
“Oh, yes child, you are my beautiful girl,” Amanda answered. She touched her blue stone in her pocket.
“Thanks, Mama,” Maria said not quite believing it.
“Lonquén sure seems far away, now, doesn’t it?” Amanda asked.
“Yes, Mama,” Maria answered with a sigh.
Lonquén wasn’t a town where there were physicians. Mostly, the people depended on medicos (paramedical practitioners) who would heal with herbs and potions. Amanda’s knowledge wouldn’t go far enough.
Maria’s case was medically complex. There was infection. Santiago was the nearest place for treatment. At first, only Maria and her mother made the trip leaving the rest of the family home in Lonquén. They didn’t fully realize the permanent direction of migration would be to Santiago, away from Lonquén and everything for which it stood. The change was a crux, a turning point, and a fulcrum all at once. The smaller group of children, left in Lonquén, had never functioned without Mama Amanda and Maria. A major problem was in that Victor’s father, Manuel, was seldom home and Eduardo couldn’t be a surrogate. They had relied on Maria for that and, now, she couldn’t. The family began to break. None realized the extent of the problem they faced.
“Victor, could you do something about those dishes?” Eduardo demanded.
“Like what?” Victor said smiling.
“Like wash them,” Eduardo said.
“Why don’t you wash them yourself?” Victor asked.
“Because I am trying to do laundry,” Eduardo explained.
“I’ll get them later,” Victor said. “I have home work from school.”
“I want you to do them now,” Eduardo said forcefully.
“Well, you are just going to have to wait,” Victor said stubbornly.
“I’ll do them,” Georgina offered.
“I asked Victor,” Eduardo replied.
“Georgina can do them this time and I’ll get them next time,” Victor offered.
“I give up,” Eduardo said.
“Good,” Victor replied.
“So, when is Mamita going to get a place for us in Santiago? Georgina asked.
“Pretty quick, don’t worry,” Victor said.
“I don’t want to go,” Georgina stated.
“Sure you do,” Eduardo said.
“Do not,” Georgina countered.
“Do too,” Eduardo replied.
“We are all going,” Victor concluded.
“I’m staying,” Georgina said.
“Me too,” “Eduardo echoed.
Soon, Victor’s mother found a place for them all in Santiago. First they lived in Barrio Nogales then Jotabeche Street. Victor would leave Lonquén in every way but in his heart. After the move from Lonquén, they lived in Santiago over a restaurant where Victor’s mother worked. It was near the central train station and near the Technical University.
The place they lived was very small, very different from Lonquén. It was as if the earth had shattered and Santiago was the remnant.
Victor’s mother had no time for anything but work. The family had food (because of the restaurant) but little else. Victor was afraid of the streets. He had never in his life seen so much traffic. There were people, horses, carts, and busses everywhere. Santiago was chaotic. The only quiet was in church. Otherwise, Santiago had just too much sound.
Eventually, Victor ventured into the streets even though afraid. Maria never did. Georgina had no problem. She was a fighter. Eduardo was almost hit by a taxi as he and Georgina were crossing the wide avenue, The Alameda, one day: he didn’t tell his mother. The taxi was a huge American car.
Victor did like to go to the open market, though. It was very close. They sold rabbits for pets there. Victor wanted one. It reminded him of home. There was no way they could keep even a rabbit. Eduardo laughed when he heard Victor’s idea. Victor looked away.
Time passed. Victor didn’t know how much. Those years were a jumble. There was church and school and the streets. Maria’s health had improved during that time but not much else had happened.
One day, Victor’s mother came upstairs and announced she had found a bigger place. It was on Jotabeche Street not far away and it had a small garden.
“Victor, could you help with the packing? I’m so tired.” Mama Amanda asked. “I have a migrane.”
“Yes, Mamita. I can help.” Victor answered.
“Just pack the essentials, first. Can you do that?” Mama Amanda asked.
“Are you feeling O.K., Mamita? You look so, so tired.” Victor asked.
“I’ll be alright, Victor, with your help. Thanks for asking.” Mama Amanda said.
“In our new place, Mamita, can I have a rabbit?” Victor asked.
“We’ll see. If we have room, sure you can have anything you want.” Mama Amanda said.
“Thanks, Mamita.” Victor concluded. He loved his mother more than anyone else in the world and didn’t think he could live without her.
The Jotabeche neighborhood was better but still, rough. The difference was that the kind people on Jotabeche looked out for each other. Some had known their neighbors for generations. The Jara family was accepted there.
Maria, staying inside because of the burn scar, ran the house while Victor’s mother sold the empenadas in the Maipu market. They would get up in the middle of the night to prepare the food for the early morning customers. Maria, being younger, could handle the strain but Amanda was starting to show the effects of the stress.
It wasn’t that the market was a bad place but that it was a lot of hard work and Amanda was alone with all the work. Amanda’s life was like a pressure cooker.
One day, she just didn’t come home. Eduardo, Victor and Roberto went to look for her. The empenada booth was unattended as if everything had just been left. Street people, obviously, had taken the food. Some broken pieces were littered across the floor. Disarray was not like Amanda.
Senora Flores, from across the way, was just putting her rabbits in their cage. During the day, she let them run on a table. “Are you looking for Senora Amanda?” she asked. She had met the children once or twice and thought she recognized them.
A taxi roared between them splashing water everywhere. At least Victor hoped it was water. You could never tell with Santiago. They could hear Sra. Flores across the way yelling at them to be careful. Taxis weren’t supposed to be driving through the market but they always had their shortcuts. “The Senora Amanda is at the hospital,” Sra. Flores was yelling. “You go there.”
Victor was confused. Why the hospital? He knew which one, the hospital for the poor, but he couldn’t imagine why.
They didn’t even have enough money for a microbus and, certainly, not enough for a taxi. Victor had never been in a taxi. They walked.
“What happened?” Eduardo asked Victor.
“How would I know?” Victor answered.
“How would I know?” Roberto echoed.
“Would you stop!” Victor glared at Roberto, “This is serious.”
“Very serious,” Roberto said. He smiled as if he did not at all comprehend what was happening. None of them realized the extent of the problem they faced. Their world had just collapsed.
None of them knew anything. Their mother was their lifeline to the world. Without her, they would have nothing. They, barely, had anything now.
“What are we going to do now?” Eduardo asked.
“Go to the hospital,” Victor answered.
“I don’t mean that. What are we going to do about Mama?” Eduardo asked.
“We’ll wait and hope. We’ll see what happens,” Victor said.
“Well, alright, if you say so,” Eduardo said.
“I do say so,” Victor answered.
Soon, they were at the hospital. Soon they knew what happened, a stroke. Amanda was gone. Just like that, she went to work. Just like that, she didn’t return. It was like blowing out a candle but, oh, what a candle.
Victor was so confused he didn’t even know he could cry. He didn’t know what the others were doing. Victor was in shock. His world shuddered.
The children, Eduardo, Victor and Roberto, left the hospital and walked home bewildered. They had no idea what to do. Especially since their father was gone, they relied entirely on Mama Amanda. Now, they had only Maria and she refused to run the empenada booth because, with her heavily scarred face, she couldn’t stand to be seen in public.
A street dog, the children knew as “Galleta” (Cookie), approached the group returning from the hospital hoping for a little food. They had nothing.
“Such a good dog,” Victor said petting Galleta. Roberto reached to pet the dog. Galleta whimpered. She was starving. A tear formed in the corner of Victor’s eye. How could an animal so good be treated so harshly, he wondered.
“Does that feel good?” Victor asked as he scratched Galleta behind the ears. The dog licked his hand. She whimpered softly.
“I’ll get you something to eat, I promise,” Victor said. Galleta followed.
Eduardo and Roberto went inside their house once returning but Victor decided to walk for a while. Victor wandered to the central train station. Galleta followed him. In a daze, Victor watched the rich people getting on the train wishing he could go anywhere else. There was no way.
There was one late train to Chillán and beyond, none home to Lonquén. Victor hated Santiago then and dreamed of going far away. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t he who had died. Victor was still here and did not want to be.
“Get out of the way, boy!” a train conductor yelled at Victor.
“Yes, sir,” Victor replied and moved.
“You know you could get killed in a place like this, boy?” the conductor said.
“Yes sir, I do,” Victor replied. Victor touched a blue stone they had, for no reason, given him at the hospital. He kept it in his pocket.
“Then, get out of here,” the conductor said.
“Yes, sir,” Victor replied.
“And get that dog out of here too!” the conductor yelled.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir!” Victor replied.
“These kids these days,” the conductor said with a sigh.
Victor walked to find something to eat for Galleta. He just didn’t have food money, never had. Victor relied on his mother for everything. Galleta relied on him. He wouldn’t let her down...ever. Galleta never again suffered for lack of food.
Victor walked home from the train station with Galleta. It wasn’t far. When he arrived home, he found the place was in chaos. Maria couldn’t stop crying. Eduardo and Roberto were fighting. Georgina didn’t know what to do. Victor lifted the guitar leaning next to the front door and began to play. The atmosphere in the house began to calm.
Georgina decided to serve tea. If nothing else, they had cups. Tea, at times, substituted for food. The black cups with tiny flowers came from a man they knew down the street. There was never any money involved. They didn’t have any. For the old cup maker, they would run errands, clean house, mix clay and slip, and carry boxes of cups to the buyers. The old man was like a grandfather. They needed someone, anyone. Guillermo, the teacup maker, was more than anyone. He was quite a story.

Book Three:
The Final Days

Inner Chapter e.
Tea Cups:
Juego de té
September 1958
Guillermo made teacups. He had made them all his life in a small room at the back of his house in Estación Central. Many people had small businesses in his neighborhood, as did Guillermo. “I am a manufacturer,” the old man said to himself. He talked to himself and always had.
Today, he was going to make teacups for his favorite place: The Saõ Paulo Café on Huérfanos Street downtown.32 “Special people will drink from my cups,” Guillermo said. This set of cups would be decorated with tiny Picaflor flowers, the pride of Chile. Each was hand painted as usual. Guillermo looked at his black hat hanging from a nail just above his black cat lying on a teacup box. The cat stretched, yawned. “I love black,” Guillermo said to himself. “These cups will be black.”
At one time, he would go to the river to find clay but he bought it now. The river held too many memories, anyway. Bodies were in the river from time to time. Times had changed. “Of course, the clay I use now is better quality,” he said to himself looking toward the cat for any comment to the contrary. The black cat, Pescador Legarreta, didn’t say a word. Guillermo, contentedly, turned back to his work. The first cup in a set would always be hand made. The rest would come from the mold he fashioned around that first cup. He had a trick. “Most craftsmen will break that first cup from the mold but I don’t,” he boasted to the cat. “Mine is an act of love.” Pescador yawned.
Above his hat hanging on the wall were many shelves where first cups were in rows like soldiers. “It’s my army,” he said. “A tea cup makes a statement. A collection, like Neruda, is everything.” The Nobel Laureate, Pablo Neruda, was Guillermo’s favorite poet. Neruda was known for his huge collections of bottles, shells and books. Guillermo, with his teacup collection, was not about to be outdone. “Ha!” he exclaimed looking at the cups.
Guillermo, with quick hands, finished the first cup, attaching the handle and placed it on the worktable to dry. He smiled. “Time for a glass of Pisco brandy to celebrate!” He reached for the bottle. It was almost empty. “This won’t do.” He poured what little Pisco there was into an old cup from one of his first sets and drank it in one swallow. “Ah.” Guillermo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started to get ready for the next bottle from Mario’s grocery store.
From a shelf, he took the moneybox. Inside were coins from days gone past. He looked at one. He thought the coin had the visage of Manuel Rodriguez. It didn’t. “I used to lay these on the train tracks when I lived in Lonquén. Boys would pick them from the ground after the train had squashed them flat,” Guillermo chuckled to himself. He was old even then but knew all the young people. He knew Victor Jara. Keeping current with the young was his defense against age. “I think I was born old. I don’t remember anything else.” He had been sent to work early in life. His father, also, worked in clay but made pots not cups. Guillermo would be sent to the desert near Lonquén, an area known as “The Ovens”, to gather clay. The work was hot, dusty and hard. Adobe clay is of the hardest kind of coarse clay in the world, he thought. Guillermo’s life was made of Adobe clay. His house was made of it. His mother’s pots were made of it. Guillermo’s school, which he could seldom attend due to work, was made of it. The church was made of it. He hated Adobe with an intense passion. He hated pots even more. He thought that work with the clay made him old when young.
The clay took his childhood. It shaped his life they way a potter would shape his newest work. His father broke the first pot from the mold.
But, today in Santiago, Guillermo wasn’t going for clay. He was going for Pisco brandy. He wanted a new bottle. He smacked his lips. His cat looked at him as he lifted his black hat off its nail. He put his poncho over his old, tired shoulders then put the hat on his head. Guillermo looked at himself in the old, cracked mirror on the wall. “I look old and cracked just like that poor, old mirror,” he said to himself.
Guillermo hobbled out the back door. He kicked an old pot as he passed. “That one is for you, Dad, “ he said to himself. He fumbled for his keys to lock the door forgetting that the lock had rotted years ago. “I can never break a habit,” he said disgustedly. The keys stayed in his pocket. It was then he noticed he’d forgotten to put money (for the Pisco) in that pocket. “Jesus,” he said calling on the deity. “Sweet Jesus, I’ll have to get credit again at the store with Mario. It would take forever to find that money box, anyway.” He said forgetting he had just looked in the box. Guillermo limped through the narrow hallway to Jose Miguel Carrera Street and down to Blanco Encalada, the wide avenue bisecting his neighborhood.
Mario’s store, “Sepulveda’s”33 was on the corner. It wouldn’t be a long walk for a young man. Guillermo had trouble with it. He thought about the fresh bottle of Pisco as he finally entered Mario’s store.
“Hola, Guillermo! The usual?” Mario greeted him.
“Any Chicha?” Guillermo asked.
“What, no Pisco? I have Control Pisco today!” Mario said. Guillermo smacked his lips.34
“Sure, but I was looking for an appetizer as well: Chicha!” Guillermo said.
“For you, no problem.” Mario kept a bottle of Chicha wine just for Guillermo so he could have it no matter what time of year. Chicha was, usually, made only at the beginning of spring in time for the Independence Day celebrations. Chicha, full bodied, goes smoothly. Like a scorpion, it hides its sting behind and then strikes much later, much stronger.
“Ah,” Guillermo exclaimed. “Chicha is the élan vital. Chicha is an ancient word. It is from the Antilles and means drink.”
“I just happen to have a bottle of Chicha,” Mario said rolling his eyes.
“A new bottle?” Guillermo asked.
“Of course. This one isn’t too old,” Mario said knowing full well it was the same bottle from last year he always offered Guillermo. Mario smiled.
“A clean glass?” Guillermo asked.
“No, a tea cup,” Mario teased.
“I don’t drink tea, Mario,” Guillermo admitted.
“Then, how about some Chicha?” Mario suggested.
“That’s an idea,” Guillermo said as he watched Mario pour a dark brown (delicious) liquid into a tall glass. Guillermo smacked his lips.
“Just for you, old friend,” Mario said.
“You are a life saver,” Guillermo said as he reached for the glass of Chicha. He sipped. He slurped. Guillermo transcended reality into the realm of pure pleasure. He became transparent for a second then returned to being solid. Mario didn’t notice.
“So, what’s the news?” Mario asked knowing that Guillermo always kept current on the latest politics.
“President Alessandri, the younger, thinks that there should be less government interference,” Guillermo said.35
“Since when?” Mario asked.
“Maybe, he thinks he can avoid the riots like last year,” Guillermo suggested.
“People are pretty angry,” Mario stated. “The landowners want to kill them.”
“Yes, and Allende is going to run for President again in 1964,” Guillermo announced. “He will protect the people from those murderous hacienderos.”
“ He is running yet again?” Mario asked.
“Yes, again. Also, I heard that President Alessandri is planning to reduce the landowner’s power through a reduction of some of the large estates,” Guillermo remarked.
“Oh, is that all?” Mario asked. “Pepe Pato, a snob.”
“Not all. They call it ‘the flower pot reform’ (Reforma de Macetero),” Guillermo said. “Pots! The world needs less of them and more cups.”
“I don’t care what they call it,” Mario said. “It is a cracked pot reform.”
Guillermo took a last swallow of Chicha. He closed his eyes. He smiled. He wept. His nose wrinkled and twitched. “This is heaven,” he thought to himself. Chicha, almost black, (his magic color). It was dark, thick and so so sweet. Agua Vida, the elixir of a well spent life: contentment from the vine splashed in apple nectar. Nothing expresses a full life like Chicha in the cup unless it is Pisco. Guillermo opened his eyes, came back, remembered his drying first cup, dried his eyes and returned to the world.
“I care that they call it ‘Chicha!” Guillermo exclaimed.
“What?” Mario asked.
“Oh, excuse me, my mind wandered,” Guillermo apologized.
“First time?” Mario asked.
“Whatever. I need to get back to work,” Guillermo said.
“Already?” Mario complained.
“Yeah, that cup should be dry by now,” Guillermo said.
“O.K., see you later. Here is your Pisco,” Mario said offering the bottle.
“Credit?” Guillermo smiled a wide grin.
“Sure,” Mario rolled his eyes to the heavens. He wagged his head.
Guillermo walked slowly back to his shop hugging the bottle of Pisco. He was thinking of how happy the customers at the Galindo and the Saõ Paulo Cafés would be with his work. It made him happy. Guillermo smiled. The Galindo Cafe, especially, was his favorite. There was nothing better to sit with a cup of cappuccino and a good book at Galindo.

Chapter Six:
Victor And Joan:
Victor Thinking Back

September 3, 1973 Galindo Café: Lolita
“Is my heart your heart?” Garcia Lorca

Victor was thinking back to better times with Joan. They had met several times at the University of Chile and other places. In his memory, Victor recalled he was sitting in the Galindo Café reading a book over cappuccino looking toward, almost beyond, the front café window. His flashing black eyes, excited, gazed intently above the dramatic arc of his hooked nose. His sensual lips embraced his enormous smile. His face was so open anyone would feel at ease.
A young woman, probably in her early twenties, opened the café door, walked in and sat across from Victor without a word. Victor’s eyes refocused from looking through the café window toward his new table companion. It was Lolita. She ordered tea. It came in a beautiful, black cup decorated with tiny flowers.
“So, Lolita, is it time already for your guitar lesson?” Victor asked.
“No, that’s tomorrow,” Lolita said as she starred at Victor, her hands interlaced under her chin.
“So, then what?” Victor asked.
“Then, nothing,” Lolita said cryptically.
“You have a question?” Victor asked raising his eyebrows.
“No,” Lolita said.
“Feeling bad?” Victor asked.
“No,” Lolita answered.
“Good?” Victor asked.
“Not particularly,” Lolita answered.
“You wanted to talk,” Victor suggested.
“How did you know?” Lolita asked surprised.
“Lucky guess,” Victor smiled broadly.
“It’s Pablo,” Lolita admitted.
“I could have guessed,” Victor stated.
“Then, why didn’t you tell me?” Lolita complained.
“It’s better if you say,” Victor said.
“Well, Pablo is in trouble,” Lolita explained.
“Oh?” Victor asked. He frowned.
“He’s part of that leftist movement. You know, the revolutionaries?” Lolita said.
“Yes, I know them, the MIR?” Victor asked.
“Yes, and they have guns,” Lolita exclaimed.
“So, I’ve heard,” Victor said.
“A lot of big guns, too,” Lolita explained.
“Big, you say?” Victor asked. She wouldn’t be talking about artillery but, probably, about anti tank weapons. Victor thought about his military days. Some of those weapons were fearsome.
“Yes and grenades,” Lolita said her voice rising.
“This could be a problem,” Victor stated wincing at the high voice. If the guns were at the university, the military would come, an “allanamiento” under an arms seizure warrant.36
“And, they want Pablo to put them at the university in a basement,” Lolita said.
“We can’t have that,” Victor said. A look of extreme seriousness crossed his face.
“I think he is going to do it,” Lolita said.
“I’ll talk to him,” Victor said.
“Tell him not to do it. Please!” Lolita sounded desperate.
“Don’t worry,” Victor said. “He won’t.”
“O.K., bye.” Lolita without further words dashed from the café smiling.
Lolita reminded Victor a little of Joan whom he’d met at a similar café, The Saõ Paulo, perhaps, ten years or so earlier. It was one of their very first meetings. There were differences in the two women. Joan was a mature, sophisticated woman in Victor’s eyes. Lolita was just a kid.
Victor’s mind wandered back to that time he’d met Joan at the café.

October 28, 1960 Sao Paulo Café: Joan
“Someone said: ‘Rise up!’ and I found myself where you were.” Rafael Alberti

A graceful woman (perhaps a dancer) walked by the café window, paused, looked at the menu and moved like a cloud across the glass. She came back. She looked at the menu again. He lit a cigarette.
She was Joan Turner, English. Victor knew her. She worked at the same university, “La U” (La Ooh) where Victor was a student director in theater. The University of Chile had the best dance department in the country. It was where Victor first saw her. He brought her flowers once; she didn’t take him seriously. Victor was serious. He couldn’t fail what could be the most important thing in his life. He was beginning to fall in love. He peered through the window at Joan.
Victor stared through the glass ignoring the many people behind her in Huérfanos Street.  Victor saw his reflection in the window. He looked through to her. The sun, coming from behind the clouds, lit her hair for a moment. The world disappeared except for Joan. He stubbed the cigarette out.
Victor saw her as alive with energy, quick in movement but unhurried, like the clouds across the glass. His heart pounded. The glass rattled. For a second, Victor thought the sound was from his own heart. Could she hear his heart? Victor knew the sound of his heart couldn’t shatter the window but, if it did, his own reflection would break as well. Victor looked down at his hands: he was shaking. One hand massaged the other and he calmed.
Joan, making up her mind to have cappuccino, walked into the Sao Paulo, past Victor and placed her order. She could feel Victor behind her. She smiled but he didn’t see. She was well composed on the surface. Victor was barely controlling himself behind her. He was not doing well. He covered with a smile. She wasn’t looking. He was glad no one was looking at him smiling, massaging his hands. What would anyone think?
Suddenly, she turned and looked straight at Victor. His heart leaped. He smiled again and said: “Care to join me?” Joan pondered then said: “Yes”.37
Victor fumbled quickly for an idea to start conversation. “I saw the famous ballet Carmina Burana.” Victor stated boldly. He had seen her dance.
“Oh really, how did it strike you,” Joan asked?
“There was tremendous depth.” Victor managed to say. His heart started to calm.
“Some of it was pretty deep. You didn’t like the rest of it?” Joan challenged.
“All of it was very solid and also there were a lot of high points,” Victor was a talent when it came to a challenge. Everything about Joan was.
“I quite agree. I liked the rest of it myself,” Joan smiled. She liked his answer to her challenge.
“I loved the presentation qualities of the ballet and the part about the monk leaving the seminary for the real world,” Victor offered. He laughed. Leaving the priesthood was what he had done.
Impressions flowed across Victor’s mind. The ballet, Carmina Burana, flowed from the sublime to the vulgar and back, into a meld of sacred and profane. Carmina was very old (assembled from historical sources) and recently re-assembled. Carmina was reincarnated. It was old. It was modern. It deconstructed reality. Carmina reconstructed a view of life, which was simple and complex side by side. It soared. It plummeted. The ballet moved and it moved Victor, wondrous music, brilliant.  The Director, Ernest Utoff, was a genius. Joan danced on a table in the tavern scene. Victor’s mind wandered; maybe (no probably) it was love.
“Yes, yet when I danced, my feet were killing me,” Joan admitted. “I danced on a table, as you recall.”
“There is that. Sometimes when I play the guitar for a long time, my hands hurt,” Victor said snapping from his reverie.
“I didn’t know that. I’ll take your hands and you can have my feet,” Joan quipped.
“I’d have four feet like a horse,” Victor realized. “You’d have four hands like a goddess.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I love Carmina Burana. In the performance last year, I was a tenor. I had to dress like a monk,” Victor said.
“You were in Carmina?” Joan asked.  Joan thought she knew but wasn’t certain. She had seen the ballet the prior year. She knew dressed as one or not Victor was no monk, though.
“Yes, same ballet, same director but a different year,” Victor said.38
“Oh really? So, what are you doing now?” Joan asked.
“I thought I’d have another cappuccino,” Victor smiled.
“I mean what are you doing now in your life?” Joan asked.
“Oh that. Well, to start, it’s almost noon and I am waiting for Violeta,” Victor answered.
“Violeta Parra?” Joan asked. She thought, perhaps, Victor had dropped a name.
“Yes, do you know her?” Victor asked.
“No, not really. I’ve seen her and, of course, everyone knows the name. She is only the top folk singer in the country, you know,” Joan said smugly.
“Well, then you have to meet her. She’ll be here in a few minutes,” Victor said.
“You mean a few minutes in Chilean time. I have to be back at school in a couple of hours,” Joan said. She smiled.
“No, no. Violeta will be here. You see, I know her secret,” Victor said.
“And what is that?” Joan asked. Joan was feeling feisty.
“She gets hungry,” Victor answered.
“Ha! This is the one thing a Chilean would never miss,” Joan said.
“You don’t like the food?” Victor feigned being hurt.
“It’s the best in the world. Give me an empenada meat pie and chicha to drink and I am happy,” Joan admitted.
“I know a place where they have the best. It is The Galindo Cafe in the Bellavista neighborhood. Let’s go sometime,” Victor said.
“I’d like that. I need a place where I can go rest my feet,” Joan said before she could think about it.
“Well, Galindo Café is the best foot resting place in the world. Is it a date, then?” Victor asked.
Joan paused, took a breath and said: “Yes.” It had been a long time since she had said yes to anyone.
The door of the café opened wider than needed to admit one person. A small woman dressed like a peasant came in followed by seven men, one holding the door and others going forward to find a table. No one in the world was Violeta Parra save her. She was a true folk singer, the best. Her heavy music inspired many.
Victor looked up. Joan sat. An organ grinder passed in the street.
“Violeta!” Victor said a little too loudly. “We’ve saved room for you. Rolando! Patricio! Come, come.”
“Victor, is that you?” Violeta asked in a high pitched, reedy voice laced with undertones of a richer voice underneath.
“Yes, it’s me and I brought someone!” Victor said as he smiled at Joan. Joan kicked him lightly under the table.
“I’ve been looking for you. You are just the person I wanted to see. I’ve written a song for you,” Violeta said. She grabbed Lolita’s teacup from the table and took a sip. She ordered an empenada.
“And I have written a song for you!” Victor was not to be outdone.
“For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have done it. You really wrote it for me?” Violeta asked.
“Yes, for you. I’ll sing it for you at your house later,” Victor offered.
Often, Violeta invited everyone she could find to her home in La Reina, a Santiago neighborhood. She’d feed everyone Chilean beans made from haricot beans, corn, pumpkin, basil, goat’s cheese and, in Violeta’s case, sugar. Her’s were sweet. Then, they’d sing until the small hours of the morning. Sometimes, they’d alternate locations with an artist friend. Violeta was arranging for a tent near her place to accommodate larger crowds. It’s the way she was.
“Well, now that is taken care of, what more do you have to tell me?” Violeta asked.
“I met someone. She is Joan and is sitting right next to me. Joan? Violeta. Violeta? Joan.”
“With pleasure, I am so glad to see you again,” Violeta said.
“You know me?” Joan was non-plussed.
“I know everyone, my dear. You do work with my best friend Margot Loyola at the university, do you not?” Violeta explained.
“ Of course but...” Joan was at a loss for words. Words weren’t Joan’s friends. She was a genius in dance. She was very well respected not for what she said but how she moved.
“ Well, then.  Of course I know you and some of your work as well.  You did dance for Uthoff didn’t you?  Well, that is clear.  He likes you, you know. Margot told me.  He likes Patrício too.  That would be your husband wouldn’t it? ”
“Ex husband, ” Joan blushed.  She had never met someone so straight  forward.
“ Well, yes. Uthoff is very pleased with your work, I assure you, ” Violeta, then, fell silent as if someone had turned a switch.  She smiled over her teacup. Tiny Picaflor flowers danced on her cup. Rolando came with a pot of tea and cups for everyone else.
“ So, Victor, I heard you had written another song.  I heard it was a good one,” Rolando said.
“ I just finished it yesterday.  How does word get around so fast? ” Victor said.
“A dove told me, ” Rolando said.
“ Oh man!  Do I know the name of this dove? ” Victor asked.
“ Yes, you do.  Remember Amanda? ” Rolando asked.
“ My mother? ” Victor asked. He flashed a smile.
“ No, not your mother, your student, ” Rolando said.
“ Yes, my student to whom I am teaching guitar, ” Victor said taking a wild guess. Who else could it be but Lolita?
“ She told her little sister, Jo Jo, who goes to my school,” Rolando explained.
“ Small world, ” Victor said. ” Her name isn’t Amanda, anyway, it’s Lolita.”
“ Whatever.  Word gets around.  Even Neruda’s poems get announced ahead of time.  Yours are no different,” Rolando said. He got a cup of water and poured it into the dirt of a potted plant near the front window of the café.
“ I’m no Pablo Neruda, Rolando.”
“ It depends upon who you ask.  He, of course, is the grand master and you are just starting.”
“ Starting? I think I just finished, ” Victor said. He feigned a serious expression.
“ What do you mean?”  Rolando asked taken-in completely.
“ That was my last song, Rolando. ”
“ You aren’t going to write any more, Victor? ”
“ Well, not until next time anyway. ” Victor recalled that he had looked over to Violeta who was still peering over her teacup.  He looked at the tiny flowers on the black tea cup and smiled. They were the pride of Chile. Her eyes were smiling.  Victor looked again.  There was some sense of tragedy in those eyes as well.  He knew even then that things were not going well for Violeta.  He didn’t know the details but rather had a sense of premonition, a second sight.
He could see Violeta was in trouble. It could be for love or money? It went deep and so did she, Victor remembered. He wouldn’t forget Violeta. No one did. She charmed them all save herself. Maybe she couldn’t believe it. Violeta distrusted fame, Victor could tell. It was a shame he couldn’t tell her. “You can always tell someone in love but you can’t tell them much,” Victor said to himself.
“ Speaking of Neruda, ” Patrício said. “ I’ve heard he has a new poem. Patrício sat slightly behind Rolando who was still standing.  Victor remembered that the others had found chairs as well and were listening.  Patrício thought they were waiting for Violeta to speak looked and maybe she knew it too.
“ A new poem? ” Violeta asked.  “ What is this one? ”
“ I think it is about the sea,” Patrício said. ”It’s not yet published.” Neruda is still in Paris.
“ Yes, he plans to return in February. All his poems are about the sea in some way, ” Violeta said.  “ Even the ones, which are about something else, have the sea close to them. Does it begin: ‘A single entity, but no blood?”
“Yes,” acknowledged Patrício.
“ I suppose if there were no sea there’d be no Pablo Neruda, ” Victor added.
“ If there were no sea, there wouldn’t be any of us, ” Violeta countered quoting Pablo Neruda: “The sea comes in and puts our lives together...”
“ Oh, there would be Mapuche, Violeta, we came from the sky and volcanoes.”
“ And some of you are still in the sky, Victor, ” Violeta said. “ Well, enough of that.  We are going to eat some beans at my house.  Care to join us, Victor?  Joan too, of course,” Violeta invited.
“ Yes, the beans.  Joan has another hour she says, ” Victor answered turning to Joan raising his eyebrows as a question.
“ Yes, that would be fine.  Thanks for inviting us, ” Joan said.
“ Then it’s settled, let’s go. ” Violeta looked at the others, they rose.  Victor recalled that as one person, they moved from the cafe to into Huérfanos St. and were gone. A slight ambience remained from Violeta.
Violeta filled a room. For one so small, she spread her presence a long way. When she was near, everyone knew. Heads would turn. The air would change, become thicker, heavier like that of a Turkish harem. She kept people. They would follow Violeta everywhere, anywhere, like a scent. Talent followed her. The best artists were near. They couldn’t help themselves. She helped. Fame followed those Violeta assisted. Victor and Joan were left in the café to follow a short time later.
“ I’m going to call and cancel my appointment at the university.  I’ll have more time, ” Joan said.
“ I think that’s a good idea.  I was feeling the time squeeze myself, ” Victor said.
Victor was, forever, in a storm of activity. He did ten, no twenty things at once. He was involved. He touched every art favoring theater, music. Always there were others. They were his people. He was theirs. No one followed: they went as one. Victor could fill a room, a small stadium such as Estádio Chile or fill a huge stadium as he did for Pablo Neruda celebrations. Everyone came.
“ Did you mean what you said about Neruda, about the sea? ” Joan asked.
“ I meant it.  However, Pablo Neruda is a complex person not so simplistically explained. You know, he even writes in sea green ink?”
“I’d heard that. Are you sure it isn’t sea water?” Joan asked.
“Maybe it can cure tired feet,” Victor said.
“Or tired hands,” Joan returned.
“Shall we go? I’m feeling a little hungry and Violeta is the world’s greatest living cook,” Victor said.
“I’d like that,” Joan answered.
Victor recalled that they went from the café onto the street. Victor held the door for her. She smiled and made a mental note. He walked on the outside of the walkway, the side next to the traffic. She held his elbow when crossing streets.  A dove flew past.
They caught a microbus to La Reina, to Violeta’s place. They’d be gone longer than an hour. She thought Victor knew that all along.  “He’s pretty sure of himself, that one.” She said to herself.
Victor recalled that as they sat on the bus, he could feel Joan next to him. She felt good. He wasn’t sure she’d say “Yes.” He had come close to stumbling over his words several times with her. She was a lady and he had mean beginnings. He wondered if she noticed. His accent, sometimes, was not the best. The more excited he got, the more he sounded like a country boy. He was a country boy. It bothered him sometimes.
“Well, here we are. We only have to walk a couple of blocks and that’s it,” Victor said.
“Beans,” Joan replied.
“Yes, beans; the best! ” Victor bragged. Chilean food was important to him. Joan was British and Victor wanted her to like everything Chilean. He wanted her to like him.
“This neighborhood looks a bit frightening. Are you sure we are alright?” Joan asked looking around at the poverty. She looked up at the darkening clouds.
Joan thought many of Santiago’s neighborhoods threaten (like dark clouds). Most are old: a lot have narrow streets. They aren’t lit. Houses have big walls in front. The people, themselves, have no internal walls. They are open, friendly, inviting. You can go into their houses. They insist, feed you. Then there is Chicha, Pisco and, literally, dozens of Chilean beverages.
“Trust me,” Victor stated.
Joan realized she did trust Victor. She couldn’t tell just why. It was somewhat of an adventure just being with him.
As they got off the bus, he thanked the driver. They walked. It was more like a few blocks than a couple. Joan smiled. Chileans worshiped precision but there, also, was a lot of latitude here. She liked that. Chile is not like Europe, she thought. A lot of people said Santiago was a European city but there was a difference. Santiago was both very cultured and very relaxed at the same time.
“Here it is,” Victor announced.
“Oh, I like this little place,” Joan said.
“You do?” Victor encouraged hopefully.
“Yes, it is so...so...I don’t know the word,” Joan said.
“Campesino?” Victor offered.
“Farmer?” Joan asked. She knew the word in Spanish but realized it had more depth for Victor than just a mere word.
“Yes, like the country. We call it ‘Campesino,” Victor explained.
“Oh, well, yes it is like that Campesino, you say,” Joan said.
As they approached Violeta’s open front door, they could hear music inside the house. Rolando was singing: “Si somos Americanos, somos hermanos, senores.” (If we are Americans, we are brothers.) They could smell the rich scents of food. There were many, many people. There were children and old people. Violeta was feeding everyone.
Everyone greeted Victor. He just about stopped all conversation. Someone handed him a guitar. He put one foot up, balanced the guitar, tuned and began to sing. Joan saw Victor was looking directly at her as he sang. Then, he closed his eyes. She focused on the pulsing of his throat, the way he bent over his guitar, and then he looked up and out as if he was seeing something, which transcends ordinary reality. Joan’s heart missed a beat.
He sang a song from Cúncumen, the music group he had joined. It was one of the old Cueca songs from Roberto Parra, Violeta’s older brother. He could see the tears in Violeta’s eyes as she recognized the song.
A couple began to dance the Cueca. Victor saw the dancers as like a rooster and a hen. The dance was very graceful and, at the same time, lively. Everyone else clapped their hands in the Cueca rhythm during the chorus parts. Joan stood closer to Victor now. He asked Violeta how she knew about the Neruda poem. “I know him,” she answered.
The gathering had turned into a fiesta, which went into the wee hours of the morning. It was typical Chilean: Todo de Chile.
Everyone had a chance to sing. In listening to several songs by different people, Joan could sense a transition in the music from that which sounded like a choir to those who were soloists. Victor was both. His background, Joan learned, was in Gregorian chants and in the solo music of his mother. Victor was asked almost as often to sing solo, as was Violeta. The air was thick, heavy, impregnated. Everywhere was movement, movement.
Joan noticed people had been drinking Pipeña new wine and Chicha, the inexpensive liquor made from grapes and apples. As the party progressed, someone brought a bottle of Pisco from La Serena. It was a Chilean brandy Joan had tried only once or twice prior. She didn’t like it. To be polite, she accepted a small amount. It tasted wonderful that night. The Pisco burned all the way down. Victor put some cola into the Pisco. “This is the way we drink it in Chile, Piscola.” Joan liked that as well: it didn’t burn.
Someone brought a punch bowl that was, now, filled with new wine. Diced fruit (pears and peaches) floated in the wine. People were drinking the punch and getting the fruit stuck in their teeth. They had pear smiles. They had peach grins. Tongues whipped around teeth. Lips smacked. People wavered as the punch took effect. They took more. Tongues wagged. The same someone refilled the punch bowl. Fruit dove to the bottom. They fished for it: peach fish, pear fish like goldfish smoothly swimming free, now caught.
Victor remembered that the rest of Violeta’s fiesta went as smoothly through the night as did the Piscola. Most everyone was sleeping as the sun began to rise. Joan was sleeping with her head on Victor’s shoulder. The guitar was on his lap. Victor began to rouse. After a long night, it was hard.
The sun was arriving but not yet rising. It slept a little longer. The sun tested the sky with a few rays. The heavy night sky became lighter. A microbus began to climb toward La Reina. Sunlight burned on its sides, its glass. Victor yawned.
“The microbus will begin to run soon and we can go,” Victor said.
“Ummmm.” Joan replied. Vaguely she thought that Victor knew the busses didn’t run at night and they’d be there until this morning but it didn’t matter. She trusted him. She thought that just maybe she’d consider him seriously then she drifted back into the world of dreams. Clouds drifted across the moon as the sky began to clear.
Victor and Joan rose with the sun. He fingered the blue stone in his pocket, took it out, and looked at it. He had all but rubbed the streaks of gold from the stone. Now, it was as clear and blue as the sky. From some ancient memory, Victor drew an insight. His mother did have a stone like that. He realized there was no other stone like his. Long, long ago in Lonquén, his mother had mentioned it, he thought. The memory was vague as were all his early experiences. There was some kind of mental block he had only recently been able to overcome. For Victor, the folklore music was the tie. It was more than simple “Campesino” as the thread stretched farther to ancient Pehuenche Mapuche origins: there was a connection, he thought, to the old story of Calchona the Mapuche witch doctor and with the large meteor stuck hill Pisada del Diablo (footstep of the devil). Victor couldn’t quite get the connection straight in his mind but it was there somewhere. The blue stone was the reminder. “Maybe, someday, I will remember,” Victor said to himself.

Inner Chapter f.
Pisada Del Diablo:
September 1541
Every year since the meteor struck Lom Ngen (Lonquén), the young girls of the community would walk singing up the small mountain, Footstep of the Devil. In the valley, the huge Neicurehuén Festival, the celebration of the spirit stone, would be held. In recent years, the tradition had come to a standstill but in the days before the Spanish invaded Chile (1535), the festival was the best event of the year.
In the Mapuche village of Lom Ngen, the people could hardly wait for spring. Winters were long and cold. Mama Quilacoya and her daughter, Carahue (Cara), had waited for the fiesta seemingly forever.
Preparations would begin weeks in advance. Mama Quilacoya40 had, already, prepared young Cara’s costume.41 Mama Coya had spent a lot of time sewing bright stones into the fabric. It was fit for a queen.
“Don’t fidget,” Mama Coya said as she tried to fit the costume to her squirming daughter.
“Oh, Mama!” Cara complained. She loved the clothing but didn’t like to stand still. When she could be active, she was happy. (She had, even, learned all the songs for the procession up the mountain.) Standing still to be fitted was almost impossible.
“You know, Cara, that these stones are sacred to Cural and the meteor stone is the most sacred of all stones.”
“I know, Mama, but I want all of it, the procession and everything, to happen right now. I can’t wait,” Cara said.
“Hush, child, don’t you be concerned,” Mama Coya chided.
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Cara said.
“You are the prettiest girl in town,” Mama Coya said.
“Thanks, Mama,” Cara said.
It was springtime in Lom Ngen, the most beautiful time of year especially for Cara. She loved when nature would quicken after a long winter. September 28, fiesta day, was her favorite. It was the celebration time and, this year, she was the right age to be in the Mapuche procession. The procession was for the god of the stones: Cural (Ngen Kurra) due to the meteor stone under the earth. They, each, were to ask a question of the god. Cara wanted to know if Cural was real and, if so, could she learn the secrets of the healing stones, especially blue ones; they were her favorite. She had waited: it seemed, forever. Cara didn’t like to wait. Each year, she would ask her mother if this was the year. This time her mother said: “Yes.” That answer brought tears to Cara’s eyes. When Mama Coya saw the tears, she cried too. Soon, Cara would be a woman.
“Mamita?” Cara asked.
“Yes, Cara,” Mama Coya replied.
“Tell me the story about the footprint on the mountain,” Cara begged.
“Well, one year a very long time ago, there was a little girl just like you. She was Lonca. In a dream, a spirit came to her telling her to go to the mountain. She was to go on an early spring day. The spirit taught her a song to sing. It was a magic song much like the ones you have learned. She was to sing it to the one footed god, Cural, who is master of the stone.”
“Is he really a devil, Mama?” Cara asked.
“No, child, that is a myth,” Mama Coya corrected.
“Who is he?” Cara asked.
“He is the one who cures the sick,” Mama Coya said.
“With stones?” Cara asked.
“Yes,” Mama Coya confirmed.
“How does he do that?” Cara asked.
“It’s magic, Cara,” Mama Coya explained.
“Oh,” Cara said.
“The stones have a power,” Mama Coya explained.
“Why?” Cara asked.
“Because they come from below in the earth,” Mama Coya explained. “Lom Ngen means ‘we are below,’ you know.”
“The earth has power?” Cara asked.
“Yes, child,” Mama Coya explained that things, that come from below the surface of the earth, are good not devilish. It is Chilemapu, the good earth. Some people, she said, think the earth is bad. It isn’t true. However, those earth forces can be as dangerous as they are helpful. Nothing is either one way or the other except for the earth itself.
“Dangerous?” Cara asked.
“Yes,” Mama Coya replied.
“Helpful?” Cara asked.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Mama Coya noted.
“I’m sorry, Mamita,” Cara apologized.
“You never have to be sorry for anything,” Mama Coya said.
Mama Coya continued to make small changes to Cara’s fiesta outfit. She paid special attention to the stones. They were very old. Most had gold and silver in streaks, which sparkled and shined. They were touchstones. The streaks of gold were from years of striking gold on the rock to test for purity. If the gold streaked the rock, it was real. One touchstone had a small star. Mama Coya told Cara to put that blue stone in her pocket.
“Tell me the rest of the Neicurehuén story, Mama,” Cara asked.42
“Well, yes, Cural saw Lonca climbing the mountain singing. The pilgrimage pleased him but the song did not. You see Cural is both dangerous and helpful. The song protects the girls from the dangerous side. He didn’t like that. When Cural heard the music, he sent a meteor crashing to the earth. It didn’t hit Lonca, though; she was protected. The meteor left a footprint on the mountain. That is how the mountain got its name.
“So, what about the devil, Mama?” Cara asked.
“It’s a misconception,” Mama Coya explained. “Everything from below isn’t evil.”
“Oh,” Cara said.
“Not everyone understands everything,” Mama Coya stated.
“Oh,” Cara said.
“They get it wrong, miss the point,” Mama Coya explained.
“Oh,” Cara said. The day of the Neicurehuén festival came and Cara rose very early in the morning. She was very excited and couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop asking questions. Mama Coya became very tired early but also, had a great deal of patience. She needed it.
“Mama, I’m so excited!” Cara exclaimed.
“Me too, child,” Mama Coya agreed.
“I want all of it to happen now and it is happening now. And, and, and the day is here and, did I tell you, I’m excited,” Cara said words all a jumble.
“So I gathered,” Mama Coya said.
“Tell me the story, again, about Cural,” Cara begged.
“No, child, today you are old enough to know that story,” Mama Coya explained.
“I guess,” Cara admitted.
“Be sure of it,” Mama Coya said.
“O.K.,” Cara agreed.
“After today, I’ll teach you how to use the stones to cure people,” Mama Coya offered.
“Really?” Cara asked.
“Yes, I’ve decided,” Mama Coya said.
“I want to learn,” Cara said.
“Well, we will begin.”
“With what?”
“Your secret name, Cara.”
“Secret?”
“Yes, your name, between us, is Calchona: blue angel.”
“Calchona?”
“Yes, my dearest daughter.”
The new Calchona fingered the blue stone in her pocket realizing she had taken the step toward womanhood. The stone was a symbol of a transition in which she was now involved. Today, she’d meet Cural who had power enough to send meteors. Calchona blanched. She wondered if she could manage that much responsibility.
Calchona looked toward the hiss at the back of the town. The moon was now full. She could see the meteor indentation. Many years ago, perhaps an ancient Mapuche woman (Lonca) may have seen the meteor falling from the heavens. She could hear it. The sound and light shattered the tranquility of the lonely outpost of Lom Ngen. Nothing could ever be the same again with the god now in residence. Calchona fingered the blue stone in her pocket.

Chapter Seven:
Galindo
Victor Thinking Back
May 23, 196043

“Points of latent light give signs of a hidden shadow.” Jorge Guilén

After several attempts, Victor was able to convince Joan to go on a date. He fingered Calchona’s old blue stone in his pocket for luck. Victor had selected Galindo Café in the Santiago neighborhood of Bellavista. He knew the café would make a good impression. It was the best café in Santiago. Galindo was where the bohemians went. Victor, at this point in his life, could identify with the bohemian movement and hoped Joan would be intrigued.
They had to walk past Parque Forestal and, later, past shops, which sold expensive Lapis Lazuli jewelry, the blue stones, but first past many street vendors who sold just about anything one could imagine. Violeta Parra was one of the street vendors. She was sitting in an old deck chair singing when they approached. Victor and Joan stopped by the blanket Violeta had spread on the ground next to the street and listened as Violeta finished a new song she had written. Violeta, then, noticed Victor.
“Victor, how are you?” Violeta exclaimed.
Taking her hand, Victor introduced Joan, again, to Violeta then noticed the new tapestries Violeta had made for sale. Each quilted tapestry told a story.
“These are beautiful!” Victor flashed an enormous smile.
“I’m glad you like them,” Violeta, with a smaller, tighter smile, answered. She waved away some smoke from the many charcoal fires nearby.
“Like them? I love them!” Victor exclaimed. Violeta began strumming her guitar preparing for another song. It was one Violeta had written for Victor to sing: “Dona Maria te ruego.” (Lady Maria, I’m begging you). After listening, Victor and Joan walked away into the crowd holding hands. Victor sighed.
As Victor and Joan walked, they passed an organ grinder playing the most exquisite music either had ever heard. The music soared into the trees and bounced off the many buildings. It was very romantic.
Victor had taken Joan’s hand. (He had been thinking about this moment for a very long time.) He had dreamed about it. Hands were the center of Victor’s life. In some sense this was the link to how he was raised, his roots, his culture. In the countryside, everything was done by hand; it was the way someone could make a family, a livelihood. Life, itself, depended on hands in Chillán Viejo, in Lonquén. Without them, someone couldn’t work.
Especially for Victor, hands were what held the guitar. He cradled it, stroked it, and caressed the strings. More than with any other sense, his feeling was tactile. Victor’s songs were interwoven with images of touch, things that are felt. The general principle of a touch related life carried throughout Victor’s various interests. He grasped Joan’s hand firmly.
Walking toward the café through mysterious shadows cast by lights in the trees, Victor and Joan approached the great Mapocho River, which flowed through Santiago separating the center city from the bohemian neighborhood of Bellavista. Points of light sparked in the waters.
“I want you to see this!” Victor said as they walked half way across the river bridge and looked at the water rushing fast from the source deep in the Andes Mountains. The Mapocho was a river touched by humanity. Once fresh (near springs) it felt the impact of dumped, cast off refuse. Hard worked, the mighty waters carried anything to the sea. Children built small shantytowns under its bridges: homeless homes. Soldiers lined people against its banks to shoot. Bodies floated down the Mapocho. The Brigada Ramona Parra (BRT) painted slogans on river walls telling of the plight of the people. A child’s toy tumbled in the waters next to a melon.
Victor knew the very word “Mapocho” was a contraction of “Mapuche” (people of the land). It was a treated word. The river was treated as well as the people. It was a powerful symbol of all that was happening. Only when the Mapocho runs fresh will the people be free, Victor thought.
“I feel as if my heart is being swept away by the water,” Joan said almost losing her balance. Victor held her hand more firmly.
“It is a very fast river, isn’t it?” Victor offered.
“Fast isn’t the word for it. The rushing water takes me away,” Joan answered.
“Can you feel the breeze? It’s from the water!” Victor said.
“Yes, actually, I can feel it now you mention it.”
“This is what life is all about,” Victor concluded. He smiled then frowned.
They walked into Bellavista past even more street vendors. One vendor tried to sell roasted peanuts to them. His roaster was in the shape of a steam ship belching smoke as the peanuts were roasted. “Peanuts?”
“No, no thank you,” Victor said always the gentleman.
“But, you can have them plain or sweet with sugar,” the vendor pleaded.
“No, no that’s all right,” Victor said.
“I’ll give you a discount,” The vendor said. Victor smiled but was firm.
“No, thanks.”
“You are that singer, aren’t you?” the vendor’s eyes went wide.
“Yes, I do sing,” Victor admitted.
“I’m sure of it. Here, the peanuts are free. For you, no charge,” the vendor said.
“Oh, I couldn’t take them,” Victor said patiently. The vendor stuffed a small bag in Victor’s shirt pocket.
“Here, these are the best ones, just for you,” the vendor said.
“Thank you. My name is Victor and this is Joan,” Victor said.
“Mine’s Ivan. With much pleasure, sir,” the vendor said.
“Equally! Until later,” Victor said. Victor and Joan walked again into the crowd, and then crossed the street where there were less people. They glanced back where they had been. There were vendors of every description lining the sidewalk selling books, crafts, clothing and artwork. It was a great place to buy presents, Victor thought, and a far cry from the big, capitalist department stores. These vendors, in Bellavista, were the common people (more like Violeta). There were some real artists here not like the big galleries downtown where rich people shopped. That was it; Bellavista was real.
Pablo Neruda lived there. His house was at the end of a cul de sac further on toward the San Cristobál hill at the top of Bellavista. Neruda’s home was very real. Most artists, at one time or another, were invited there for breakfast, for parties, for discussions or to hear Neruda’s latest poem. La Chascona, the house, was a center of Santiago. Maybe it was the center.
“This side of this street is always better,” Victor said. “It isn’t as busy.”
“I agree. You really know this city, Victor.”
“Besides, the restaurant is this way,” Victor smiled.
“And I thought you were being knowledgeable,” Joan said.
“I was, I mean, I am. I do know this place,” Victor said.
“I thought you knew only Jotabeche and Nogales,” Joan teased.
“No, I know Bellavista. It is where the artists and poets live,” Victor said.
“Oh really,” Joan said. She knew that many of her dance students lived here.
“Yes, really! You know Pablo Neruda lives just up the street,” Victor said.
“La Chascona?” Joan knew the name of Neruda’s house. She lived nearby.
“See? You know this city, too! You get to love it after a while,” Victor said.
Galindo was one block from Bellavista’s main street, Pio Nono. From the major street, they turned on Dardinac Street to walk the block to the café. As they walked away, all the activity of Bellavista’s main street faded into the background and they were alone. The street was much darker, mysterious. Joan shivered. She wondered if it was safe.
The doorway of the Galindo Café faced the corner. Victor led the way. Someone shouted his name. Everyone in the café turned as if one person and looked toward Victor and Joan. Someone handed Victor a guitar. It was his own.
Joan began to suspect a conspiracy. Victor acted as if nothing unusual had happened. Everyone looked away as Victor and Joan found a table. Victor ordered Pipeña new wine, which was always served with diced fruit in the mixture. Pipeña was special. It was made in wooden casks (pipas) and tasted wonderful because of it.
At last, after the huge crowds of the main street, they were alone. Joan thought she caught someone smiling at them. She’d turn; they’d look away. After some small talk, Victor and Joan started into the substance of their encounter.
“Touch is the most important thing a person can do.” Victor said as he lifted his guitar into his lap.
“I guess it tells a lot about a person’s character,” Joan said.
“Here, touch this,” Victor said indicating the guitar. She did.
“ I think I feel something like a little electricity,” Joan said as she touched the instrument. She felt the soul.
“Yes, it’s from the songs which are in the guitar. It’s an electric guitar,” Victor said.
“It isn’t,” Joan insisted.
“O.K., it isn’t exactly but it is electric none the less,” Victor explained. “There are electric guitars then there are electric guitars.”
“It’s all in the touch,” Joan said.
“No smoke and mirrors there. This music grows out of the land,” Victor said.
“What do you mean?” Joan asked.
“I have no idea,” Victor smiled.
“No, really,” Joan insisted.
“Well, when you put the guitar on the ground, it sucks the songs from the earth and stores them in here.” Victor peered into the opening in the guitar body and made a face. Joan laughed. She thought: “I haven’t laughed for quite a while.” A tear formed at the corner of one eye.
“Then you strum it like this and the song falls out.” Victor shook the instrument lightly and made the note “La” with his mouth blowing across the strings. Again, everyone in the café looked in his direction. Joan thought they couldn’t have heard the single note in the busy café. Perhaps they sensed it. Maybe Victor blew dust off the strings every time he played and they knew the sign.
A child came to their table.
“Would you play a song, Victor?” the child pleaded.
“Maybe later, Jo Jo, maybe later,” Victor said. Victor touched his blue stone he had in his pocket.
“Oh, please, won’t you, huh?” the child begged further. She waved a handkerchief, the traditional accoutrement for the national dance: the Cueca.
The pañuelo (handkerchief) could be said to be the national symbol of Chile, Victor thought. When laid flat, it was the land. When waved, it shows tremendous spirit. Margot Loyola, who started the Nueva Canción movement said that a people who dance won’t die. It was true.
“Go ahead, play a song, Victor!” someone said. Everyone in the café turned and clapped their hands. “They all know him!” Joan thought.
“No, no. My throat is too dry.” Victor said. Someone passed him a bottle of Pisco brandy. Victor laughed out loud. (Victor could be convinced to sing for friends.)
“Come on, Victor! Sing for us.” Everyone started shouting. There were many requests for specific songs. Someone mentioned that any money collected would go for earthquake relief for the poor people hit hard in the south that morning. Victor was convinced to sing.
“Well, maybe just one. There is this one I collected in Nuble Province last time I was down south near where I was born. It’s a Cueca style of song.”  Victor explained as he began to strum the guitar. “I’m dedicating this one to the people in the south: El Pueblo.”
“Could someone hold this bottle of Pisco! I don’t want to sing like fire but more the song of the earth which this Cueca is,” Victor said. Joan took the bottle. Victor, now, could use both hands to play.
Joan watched Victor become transformed as he sang. It was as if the singing gave wings to his soul. Joan was falling in love. She could feel her heart break and crack as if a shell casing was falling away. She felt free, like shouting, like singing, like dancing.
Rolando came from the crowd. Joan hadn’t realized he was there. He indicated several others who had started dancing the Cueca, waving pañuelos, and invited Joan to dance with the group. Victor nodded and kept singing. Others were clapping a rhythm during the chorus parts of the song. One by one, the entire room rose to its feet. Joan, still, had the bottle of Pisco.
“Here, have a glass for that,” Rolando said trying to hand her two. She showed him she was already holding the bottle of Pisco and couldn’t take the glasses. Rolando smiled. He waved his pañuelo.
“I’m dancing!” Joan stated flatly. Rolando’s smile got bigger. He began to dance with her following the Cueca zapateo rhythm.
He held the glasses for Joan to pour Pisco.
“But, those glasses have something in them,” Joan objected.
“It’s cola. With Pisco, it makes Piscola,” Rolando said as he began to circle Joan. He didn’t spill a drop his movement was so fluid.
“O.K., I’ll try to pour,” Joan pulled the half drawn cork from the bottle with her teeth and aimed the mouth of the bottle toward one glass. She continued to dance all the while. She made her body movement as graceful as Rolando’s and kept the fast Cueca rhythm with her feet. It was like being two people, body of one with feet of another.
“Now, you are doing the Cueca!” Rolando exclaimed. Joan realized Rolando was teaching a lesson. Joan poured Pisco into each glass with ease. Rolando beamed.
The child, Jo Jo, approached Rolando with an equally big smile. “Senor Alarcon, would you dance with me? Please!”
‘Of course, honey, come right here. You know the steps.”
“Tiqui, tiqui, tiqui, ti!” Jo Jo sang excitedly.
Joan put two and two together. She had been dancing with the famous folksinger Rolando Alarcón! He was a teacher, the best music teacher in Santiago; no wonder the lesson. Joan looked around the room and had a vague feeling she had seen many of these faces. They were, mostly, musicians, she thought. I suspect this group is organized and not just for Victor’s benefit either. They are a family. She knew that a lot of musicians were active around the university group: Cúncumen. Margot Loyola had inspired them. “The world owed her a debt,” Joan said to herself. “They are her family.”
“Come, sit,” Victor said to Joan. He patted the chair next to him. Victor had finished the song and Joan hadn’t heard the music stop. She could, still, hear Victor singing in her heart. Joan sat. She found she had the bottle of Pisco in one hand. In her other hand was one of the glasses of Piscola. She didn’t remember how it got there. Rolando toasted her from the dance floor. Jo Jo, dancing with Rolando, turned and smiled. She waved her pañuelo.
Victor’s eyes wandered out the front door and saw the peanut vendor passing in the street. He was walking Pablo Neruda home with the help of Calchona.
“Drink,” Victor said. Joan tried the Piscola. It was delicious.
“This is the best brandy I’ve ever tasted.” Joan said.
“It’s Piscola,” Victor stated.
“Yes, I know! I love it,” Joan answered.
“ It’s both Piscola and you love it as well. Lucky Piscola,” Victor said. Joan looked perplexed and was going to ask but Victor had begun another song. It was a slow dance.
Victor paused a fraction of a second and asked: “Dance?”
“With me?” Joan asked. Victor rose from his chair, smiled and joined Joan on the dance floor still singing, still playing his guitar. He didn’t miss a beat.
Looking at Victor, Joan realized he was singing just to her. Joan’s heart melted. Victor, standing in front of Joan, began to dance. Then, he raised his guitar very high over Joan’s head. The instrument and both Victor’s arms encircled Joan so the guitar was behind Joan’s back while Victor, still playing, sang and danced in perfect rhythm in front of her. Joan was awestruck. She was, literally, in the middle of the music: his voice inches from her mouth, the guitar hugging her lower back as he played. She was in Victor’s arms.
“You are very good,” Joan remarked. Victor smiled as he sang. He was so close Joan had to lower her eyes to see his smile. She flashed her eyes back to his but the effect of lowering eyes had already been made. She thought she heard Victor laugh. Could anyone laugh, sing, dance and play an instrument at the same time? Joan realized Victor could. Not only that but he could get her in this position in his arms. I’ve met Victor Jara, Joan decided. Then, she stopped thinking. The music carried them away. Joan wanted it to last forever: a moment of infinity.
“All right you two,” Rolando broke the spell. Some whistles came from other dancers. Rolando, taking the Pisco bottle, filled Joan’s glass (which, now, was behind Victor’s back but, still, in her hand). Without fully realizing it, she had embraced him. She wasn’t thinking and no longer cared. Victor’s song went longer than the usual. Joan wanted it never to end, never to have a conclusion.
“Victor, Victor!” the other dancers shouted as the crescendo was reached. Jo Jo was shouting the loudest. She had the biggest smile Joan had seen except, perhaps, for Victor. She wasn’t going to look down again at his teeth to check. Joan looked Victor straight in the eyes.
“Your eyes, your eyes,” Joan said half aloud as Victor sang. Tears traced a delicate pattern down her cheeks. Joan was crying, a dam had broken.
Victor did finish the song even as it continued in Joan’s memory. If only she could hear this song for a lifetime, Joan thought. She was thinking again. (It was anathema to a dancer but rarely could she overcome thinking. Only when the dance was very good could she transcend. She lived for those times. This was one of those times.)
“How did you like that one?” Victor asked. “I just wrote it.” Joan couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak.
“I mean, I just wrote it as we were dancing,” Victor said. Joan lost all her defenses and the tears just flowed and flowed.
“That bad,” Victor said.
“No, no!” Joan managed, “It, it, it was...”
“Improvisation,” Victor said teasingly. Joan began to laugh through her tears.
“No, no, beautiful!” Joan said. She had broken into speaking in English.
“Vee ooo tee fool,” Victor repeated in imitation. Reverting to Spanish, he asked: “I know that word?”
“You are that word, Victor,” Joan said in Spanish.
“Vee u tee ful,” Victor repeated. “ Just how many words is that anyway?”
“There is only one,” Joan said.
“A shame, I can hear an entire universe in your one word, Joan.”
“It could be a universe without end,” Joan said half to herself, half to Victor.
“Let’s dance!” Victor said.
“After you,” Joan teased.
Musicians began to play around the area where Victor had been singing. Joan looked at a big drum. Joan hadn’t realized how many of them were at Galindo but, then again, she had thought they were alone on a romantic date. Chileans were never alone, Joan thought. This is not Great Britain.
“Eso!” (Hooray!) Victor was shouting. His smile was so big his nose wrinkled. Sparks seemed to fly from Victor’s eyes as he danced. Joan’s feet were moving in perfect rhythm to the music.
Victor, then, began to circle Joan. He was crouching low. Give him wings and he’d be a rooster, Joan thought. She laughed.
Someone gave Victor a pañuelo that he waved in the air as he danced. Joan laughed. The dance was a lot of fun and, somehow, serious at the same time. “Eso!”
The people withdrew from the dance area to give Victor and Joan more room. Everyone was clapping in rhythm. Victor was dancing first very close then far away. Joan thought he was trying to get behind her but every time he came close, Joan would turn. Then Victor would dart away.
Sometimes a huge Bombo drum would pound even more. Joan would look. Victor would dance close behind her. She’d turn and he would be gone. This happened many times. Even the drummer, it seemed, was part of the conspiracy.
Then, Rolando began singing. (The song was: “Quién Fuera Como El Gallo” or “Who went like the Rooster?”) Joan was entranced. She laughed in spite of herself. Never had she heard such a voice. The man was a master, Joan thought.
Joan turned looking for Victor. He had returned to his chair picking his guitar from the hands of a friend and was beginning to play. The guitar became transparent for a second then returned to being solid. Joan came close and danced for him.
“Eso!” someone yelled.
Rolando, still singing, moved a table close to Joan and a chair she could use as a step. Joan took a big swig of Piscola, climbed on the chair then the table and began to dance. She table danced in the ballet Carmina Burana; she could do it here, she thought. Again, she stopped thinking. She danced.
“Eso!” Victor shouted. The whole room began to whirl with Cueca dancers. Joan, almost, missed her step but she was a pro. She recovered: no one noticed. Time ceased to exist. For Joan, the room disappeared. The world and all of its troubles vanished for her. She was free.
Victor smiled and smiled and smiled. He was laughing and singing. He had picked up what looked like sleigh bells and was shaking them. Someone else had a trumpet made of cane and horn. The trumpet was formed in a circle like a post horn the foxhunters use. Joan had begun to let her mind come back into the room. She took a big sip of Piscola to steady herself. Victor, rising, helped her from the table.
Then, almost instantly it seemed, they were in the street in front of Galindo. “It must be the Piscola,” Joan thought. “It changes the nature of time.” Joan suggested a taxi. Victor didn’t have change. Joan did.
“It’s time,” Victor said.
“For?” Joan asked.
“It’s time to go home. We work tomorrow,” Victor said.
“What time is it?” Joan asked.
“Five,” Victor said.
“Five in the morning?” Joan asked.
“No, five in the afternoon,” Victor teased. Joan laughed. He hailed a taxi. They got into the car. Joan put her head on Victor’s shoulder. Victor gave directions.
In seconds, it seemed, Joan was home. She looked out the window to the street. Victor waved from the taxi then they sped into the night. He was so quick Joan’s head spun.
“How did I get up stairs?” Joan asked herself. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
She flopped on the bed. Several hours passed. The effects of the Pisco began to dissipate. Joan was very soon asleep and dreaming.
Joan’s dream:
In the dream, Joan was walking as a child along a railroad track. She was back home in Great Britain. Along the track, she found a coin, which had been squashed by a passing tram. It was some kind of commemorative specie showing the head of Robin Hood. Some thought Robin was only a bandit but Joan thought of him as a clever man. She liked bandit stories. Robin, often, disguised himself to elude the military. The authorities seldom realized who he was. To Joan, Robin Hood was a good man who felt he must be disguised.
Joan, sometimes, thought that her profession, dance, depended on disguise. To portray feeling, one must act as if someone else. In reality, there was no character but only the dancer. An audience, often, would see only the character. Technically, it was called “suspension of disbelief.” Without that willingness, dance would lose communication. There would be artful form but no function.
In the dream, Joan saw Robin Hood as both the dancer and the character. The guise made no difference in the hands of an honest person. He was no one else.
The Robin Hood figure melted into Victor standing at Machu Pichu in a poncho cape. Somehow, especially in a dream, both figures could become one and the same.
Then, as Joan took another look at the squashed coin, it became reformed and whole again. It was Victor’s profile on the coin.
Just as fast as the dream came, it left and Joan sank into deep sleep. The effects of the Pisco were gone.
As Joan slept, the organist passed in the street. He paused, looked up at Joan’s room and started his organ. It was Victor’s romantic lullaby: “Luchín”
.

Inner Chapter g.
The Organist Frederico:
May 21, 1960
Jo Jo dashed into the street screaming at the top of her lungs: “Stop! Stop!” She had heard the organist all her life but never had seen him. She wanted to know if he was real. She wanted to find out before dark. It was five in the afternoon.
“Mr. Organist, stop, please, please,” Jo Jo pleaded as she ran. He heard her above the sound of the traffic, above the sound of the organ. Her voice carried, as did that of her big sister, Lolita. The Organist stopped.
“Who are you?” Jo Jo blurted.
“It’s only me, Frederico,” The Organist said.
“Are you ... are you real?” Jo Jo asked.
“It’s possible,” Frederico said.
“I came to see you, Frederico.”
“I’m here.”
“Can I touch you, Frederico?”
“You can shake my hand.”
Jo Jo shook his hand and, on impulse, gave him a big hug. She was so glad to meet him after all this time. Frederico was moved. A tear formed in the corner of his eye.
“Now, that’s enough, young lady.”
“Yes sir.”
“So, you are Jo Jo.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Oh, I know many things.”
“Do you know my sister?”
“Yes. Lolita.”
“You know everyone!” Jo Jo said eyes going wide.
“Well, not quite.”
“Do you know my daddy?”
“Yes.”
“What is his name, then?”
“Ivan.”
“And what does he do?”
“He sells peanuts in Bellavista.”
“Really?”
“Yes, his cart is in the shape of a steam ship.”
“I didn’t know that.” Jo Jo said.
“You don’t know him?” Frederico asked incredulously.
“No.”
“You like peanuts?” Frederico asked recovering quickly.
“Oh, yes, mister!”
“The sweet ones?”
“I love them best.”
“I’ll bring some for you.”
Frederico was shocked. He knew that uniting Jo Jo with her father was as important as anything he’d done in life but it had to be handled carefully. He had not known she never met him. The children had been given the story their father was killed in a copper mine accident. It wasn’t true. The sun was beginning to set. A dove flew past.
“Would you bring peanuts for me?”
“From your father’s cart, yes.”
“My father?”
“Yes, he has the peanut cart.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Jo Jo said. Frederico could see she didn’t comprehend.
“It’s time for little girls to be indoors.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, run along.” Frederico handed Jo Jo a coin flattened by a train and smiled.
“O.K., bye,” Jo Jo said, beaming as the accepted the coin.

Frederico watched Jo Jo as she ran up steps to her place. He smiled. She, almost, slipped on the top step in her hurry but caught herself in time. Frederico started his organ. It was an Old Spanish love song from the Civil War. He saw Lolita peering out an upstairs window. She couldn’t see him; it was dark. Frederico disappeared around a corner.
It was getting late in the spring. Frederico knew there would another earthquake. He needed to be prepared. The organ couldn’t be damaged. The earthquake would hit but he didn’t know how far the effects could be felt. In the meantime, he had a night ahead of him. Frederico had an odd feeling many things would happen this night. His first quick stop would be the school. Rolando would be working late. They needed to talk. Frederico approached the school, the door and knocked.
“Who is it?” Rolando asked. His classroom was near the front school door.
“Frederico.”
“Just a minute,” Rolando said.
“I do have a minute,” Frederico said smiling to himself. He knew he had eternity. A minute was not too much to ask.
“Oh, Frederico! It’s you, I didn’t realize.”
“Yes, it is I.”
“We have to talk.”
“My words exactly.”
“Come in, what’s on your mind?”
“You know your student Jo Jo.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I found, tonight, she doesn’t know her father.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But I do.”
“Do what?”
“Know her father.”
“I see.”
“He sells peanuts in Bellavista.”
“Really.”
“They should meet.”
“Yes.”
“Over peanuts.”
“True.”
“Taken for a treat by her teacher.”
“I see.” Rolando massaged his chin. “It will be done.”
Frederico explained he was, at times, involved in the particular affairs of people not just the grand occupations. He smiled. It was how he worked. Small changes produce great results. Sometimes, something as small as a peanut can change the universe.
“So, are you singing tonight, Rolando?”
“Yes, at Angel’s Pena.”
“Good, I’ll be there.”
“Thanks.”
They said goodbye and Frederico quickly moved down the streets toward the Alameda. He started his organ. He had a lot to do. Second, he had to stop at Gaspiani’s flower shop, “La Chona’s”, to get a buttoneer for his lapel. He did that every day since the time he lived in Spain. It was his trademark, here: a red carnation. Later, he knew the daily carnation would go for Victor. Tonight, he’d wear it. It was getting late; he’d better hurry. He saw the flower shop ahead on the right.
“Gaspiani!”
“Frederico!”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, how are you?”
“You work so late, Chono.” Frederico used Gaspiani’s nickname. His middle name was Asunción and Chono was the short form.
“It’s my job to work late.”
“Flowers.”
“Yes.”
“Symbols.”
“Often.”
“I brought you a gift.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Hmm, let me see.” Chono said with a huge smile.
“Guess what it is.”
“It couldn’t be flowers.”
“Something better.”
“Grand, Frederico!”
“A token of my affection.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Quite the contrary.”
Frederico took a good look at Chono. He liked what he saw. It fit that he should sell flowers. Frederico smiled. He pulled a packet of sugar peanuts from his pocket. Somehow, they were still warm. Frederico was a magic man.
“Peanuts?” Chono asked.
“Yes, they have a special meaning to me.”
“Really? I love them too!” Strange gift, Chono thought.
“They mean family.”
“Peanuts?” (Maybe not such a strange gift.)
“It’s families and lovers who buy them.”
“I never noticed.”
“I suspect you have.”
“Well, maybe.”
“Children around the peanut cart?”
“Yes, I have seen them.”
“The excitement?”
“Now you mention it.”
“The focus.”
“Yes.”
Frederico didn’t say, at that time, but Chono reminded him of family. That was his unspoken connection. He liked him a lot.
“A favor?” Frederico asked.
“Sure.”
“When the President’s aide comes in?”
“Yes, every day.”
“Tell them to be kind to the campesinos.”
“O.K.”
“Put a word in their ear.”
“No problem.”
Frederico placed the butoneer in his lapel. Chono adjusted it. He gave him a kiss on the cheek. He blushed. Frederico, somewhat reluctantly, said goodbye and returned to the street. He started his organ. A wealthy looking passerby gave him a large bill. It was a lot of money. It was the Presidential aide.
The next stop on Frederico’s agenda was Isabel and Angel Parra’s Peña, the nightclub. It was three blocks south of The Alameda on Carmen Street. Frederico hummed a song of Victor’s about Carmencita: he played it on the organ. He liked the song, which was on his favorite subject. He liked Victor. He smiled. Then he frowned. He had tried to save the real Carmencita from herself and had failed. Sometimes life destroys people, he thought sadly. He was too late. She desired everything and found nothing. It was too late.
It was very late. The Peña was going strongly. Frederico babysat the organ in the street and listened. He heard Rolando Alarcón singing.
“Frederico!” Isabel said coming for a breath of fresh air.
“So, it’s the big night,” Frederico said. “Look, even the moon dances for Victor!”
“Yes.”
“You think Angel is going to ask Victor to sing, I mean demand.”
“I haven’t said anything to either of them.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“How is that?”
“You are a lady.”
“Please.”
“No, I mean it.”
“Get along with you.”
“Royalty.”
“Oh, come on Frederico!”
“It’s true.”
“Thanks,” Isabel surrendered.
Isabel knew Frederico was sincere despite the decidedly unliberated complement. Frederico was always sincere. It’s why she accepted his otherwise ridiculous assertion. “Royalty! The idea!” she said to herself. Rolando, having finished his song, joined them. Frederico gave Isabel a bag of peanuts. She just looked at him and wagged her head. Rolando looked tired, didn’t say much. They listened to Victor’s debut. Rolando and Isabel returned inside. Frederico settled in to wait. Hours passed. He heard all the music then walked back to The Alameda.
The night became so late it was early. The sun was just beginning to light the sky. Frederico saw Victor walking. His brows were knit, and then looking up, he smiled. Victor and Frederico exchanged greetings. It was their first meeting but Frederico knew it would not be their last. The task was to help prepare Victor for the years ahead. Frederico did just that.

Chapter Eight:
Angel’s Place:44
May 28, 1965

“You must play!” Angel Parra thrust his guitar in Victor’s hands.
“But...” Victor tried to reply.
“Come on, Victor,” Isabel encouraged loudly. She smiled at the others.
“Well, O.K.,” Victor answered. He knew when he was outnumbered.
Victor got up from his place in the audience next to Joan, Patrício and Rolando. They, always, shared a table as they sat on rough wooden benches. It was the Peña de los Parra. Victor was to play (and sing) for the first time in public rather than just for friends. He was very nervous. He decided on the song: “Se Me Ha Escapado Un Suspiro” (A Sigh Escapes Me).
“¡Eso!” Rolando shouted. He knocked the table candle over in his enthusiasm.
For Victor, the room began to fade as he began. Images of Lonquén came to mind. He could feel the country people in his song. They were smiling. Victor’s mother’s presence was very strong in the room. In his mind’s eye, he could see her in the audience with her guitar. She accompanied him as ever in his heart.
“¡Eso!” Patrício yelled.
Joan was sitting, now, next to Isabel who had taken Victor’s seat while he sang. They smiled. Joan was amazed by Isabel and liked her sense of presence. Victor said she was the best new voice in the country. Joan agreed. Everyone was wild about her. Victor’s song went quickly and he returned to the table. Isabel rose to sing.
“Eso!” Victor shouted. Isabel sang one of Victor’s songs: “El Cigarrito”. Her voice was as if an angel had descended into the world. After the performance, the whole room was silent. Isabel frowned worriedly. Then, everyone rose, cheered. She had brought the house down. She smiled.
“Chabela!” shouted Angel.
Victor was next. “How do I follow that?”  He asked himself. He was terrified, thinking fast. He decided to go first for love and then for humor. He sang the song “Paloma Quiero Contarte” (Sweet woman, I want to count on you!)45 a love song to Joan composed when he was touring internationally. The room exploded. Then, Victor sang “La Beata,” a song about a very pious woman, a Chilean stereotype.
“That song,” Joan said to herself smiling. “La Beata” had been recorded; people knew it well. The humor had created uproar all over the country. Victor had made public the quirky private humor of Chile. Joan had heard a lot of it. At first, she couldn’t understand. The humor depended on innuendo, wit and the irreverent. The President, himself, wanted it banned. Espinosa, of the church, was scandalized. Joan thought all of it was very strange, a double standard. A central point of Chile was breached.
“Eso!” several people yelled. They were in tears. Victor was smiling so much his entire face wrinkled. Joan laughed in spite of herself. Rolando gave her a big hug. She was first shocked then laughed out loud. Victor sang some more then returned to the table. There was a lull in the performances.
“Now, I’ve done it,” Victor said smiling.
“What do you mean?” Joan asked.
“They are going to kill me for this,” Victor said.
“You silly,” Joan teased.
“Just wait,” Victor said solemnly.
“Eso!” Rolando shouted joining them again.
“That was incredible!” Patrício exclaimed. “Chiribiribiri!”
“And you thought you couldn’t sing,” Rolando chided.
“I can’t,” Victor said. Everyone laughed.
“More Pipeña!” Patrício said enthusiastically.
“Eso!”
It was getting very late: the Peña was open all night. Victor had to work in the morning. He thought, though, it was worth it. Angel and Isabel Parra’s Peña was a smash hit. It was the center of the center. Patrício, next, sang his hit: “Arriba en la cordillera” (High in the Andes Mountains). It was so beautiful, very romantic. This man has a voice, Joan thought. What a talent. He was at the top of the charts.
“Bravo!” Angel’s wife, Marta, said softly. Joan looked at her. What a striking woman, she thought. Amazing people. Joan’s friend, Frida, reached and patted Joan’s hand. She accepted the touch. Joan was changing, slowly becoming fully Chilean. She smiled.
“It is a long way from Cúncumen,” Rolando said. There was, immediately, a pause in the conversation. Joan, Marta and Frieda left the table for a few minutes of refreshment.
“Margot Loyola is, still, the best,” Victor said.
“I didn’t mean that,” Rolando said.
“Yes, you did,” Victor said.
“I meant, it has evolved,” Rolando said.
“It’s true,” Victor admitted tiredly. He sighed.
“Times change, Victor,”
“Yeah, I’m feeling old.”
Victor was doing so many things with his life, he was tired all of the time. He was up all night, up all day. “When did he sleep?” Rolando wondered.  However, the same was true for him. Rolando taught school all day, sang all night. He didn’t think they could take the strain. Something was bound to break.
“I’m tired,” Victor stated flatly.
“As am I, my friend,” Rolando echoed.
“What time is it?” Victor asked.
“Three thirty,” Rolando answered.
“Oh God,” Victor said. He massaged his face with his hands, lit a cigarette. Victor didn’t usually show how tired he was. Rolando suspected it wasn’t just physical. He thought Victor was stretching it too thin, bad for health. “We can’t keep this pace,” he said to himself.
“Get some sleep!” Rolando said.
“In a while; I’m nervous,” Victor answered.
“About what?”
“The earthquakes.”
“You’re serious?”
“The two today were 7.3 and 7.4.”46
“That big.”
“They are saying 500 people died.”
“Oh.”
Victor and Rolando knew well how Chile suffered from earthquakes. They remembered the 1960 quake, which devastated the entire south. Victor read that thousands of people died. Chillán, his hometown, was hit hard. “It’s always the country people who suffer the most,” he thought. Joan came back to the table, looked at Victor, and was concerned.
“You look tired, Victor,” Joan noticed.
“I’m fine,” Victor said without enthusiasm.
“No, really,” Joan persisted. With anyone else, Victor would have flashed a smile, made an excuse but this was Joan. He nodded.
“We’ll go in a minute.”
“Good idea,” Joan said with the slightest edge in her voice.
They stayed through another of Patrício’s songs and Victor did one. It was very late. Victor put Joan in a taxi and said: “I think I’ll walk, have to think.” Joan was accustomed to his need to be alone at times. Joan said goodnight.
Victor watched the taxi speed up the street around a curve to The Alameda. A sigh escaped his lips and he began to walk. He noted that most houses south of The Alameda looked a little seedy. He knew these neighborhoods. Victor walked toward The Alameda perhaps to catch a microbus.
As he approached The Alameda, he looked up at the Santa Lucia hill. He noted the castle at the top and smiled. “Many fond memories of that place,” he thought. On his left was the Union Building. “Fond memories.”
The Alameda was deserted at the early hour except for a few thugs. Victor shrugged his shoulders. His brows were knit. It wasn’t the earthquakes but the political situation, which bothered him. Something was happening to the country under President Frei: he wasn’t kind to the campesinos. Victor could feel it. Recent events such as the government’s attempt at Chileanization of the copper mines left the workers in a bad position as usual.47 The government should just take the mines, Victor thought. Then, let the workers run them. The government promises a lot and delivers little. Victor feared there would be more violence.
He walked stopping often to rest. There wasn’t time to go home to sleep; he had to be at work. “Everyone thinks I have limitless energy,” he thought. “This is wearing me out.” Victor walked; he looked at all the statuary in the center of The Alameda. It was like a journey through the pages of history to see all the figures in bronze, many on horses in attitudes of war.
It was war he feared the most. Currently, the world was getting enmeshed in Viet Nam. He’d heard about the play: “Viet Rock”. He wanted to direct it in Santiago. He’d heard stories of North American advisors there. “War is escalating,” Victor thought. He felt, even at that early date, that Viet Nam would be something to watch.
In the distance, Victor saw an organ grinder pushing his cart along the street. The sun was just beginning to light the sky. The Organist came closer. He smiled. Victor’s brows were knit.
“Hello,” Frederico said.
“Yes,” Victor looked up, answered automatically. His face went blank.
“I’ve been worried about you.”
“Me?” Victor responded incredulously.
“You look tired.”
“No. I’m O.K.,” Victor gave Frederico an odd look. Had he seen him prior?
“Forgive me, you’re not O.K.”
“You’re right,” Victor admitted uncharacteristically.
“I know what is bothering you.”
“What?”
“It’s war. The right wing will take the country.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Let me see if I’m hearing you.”
“You know the same people always get screwed.”
“I’ve said it.”
“This time is no different.”
“Yes, this bothers me,” Victor admitted hesitatingly. His brows knit.
“It’s the center, isn’t it?”
“In a way, yes.”
“The rich win, the poor lose.”
“It can’t be.”
“This is why there is you, Victor.”
“Me?”
“You are the common man.”
“Yes, it’s embarrassing.”
Victor looked at the Organist wondering how he knew. There was something otherworldly about Frederico. He seemed more a ghost than a man. Maybe I’m dreaming, Victor thought. Is this man real? Frederico, a man or not, was correct. It was uncanny but he had identified the central issue. Victor looked at Frederico, at his hands. They were worn, the hands of a workingman.
“It’s in the hands,” Victor said.
“I realize,” Frederico said knowingly. “I’m hip.”
“The hands show the man.”
“That’s how you tell.”
“What?”
“The central issue.”
“And that would be?” Victor wanted elucidation.
“If someone works.”
“Sure, you can fake everything else contra natura.”
“More than that.”
“More?”
“Yes, hands show if a person works as a person,” Frederico said smiling.
“How do you mean?”
“Hands show integrity.”
“This is what is needed.”
“True. The society has a ways to go.”
“Toward integrity?”
“Well, there is that. It’s an oversimplification.”
“More?”
“Yes.”
“Such as?”
“Maturity of society.”
Federico explained that society around the world was in an infancy stage of evolution. They needed parents, authority. All they had was authoritarianism. They were afraid to mature. So, the people would pick some General as a father figure instead of taking personal responsibility. Victor objected; a General would take the people by force. It was all he knew. Frederico reminded Victor that the people created the General. “He is their dark side,” Frederico stated. “He is their devil. They yearn for him.”
“So, the people create their problems?”
“And their solutions.”
“I see.”
“It’s not a bad society,” Frederico said emphatically.
“That is what I was hoping.”
“You are correct, Victor.”
“In what way?”
“People are basically good.”
Victor realized that the devil wasn’t external. The enemy was within. His grandmother had taught that an evil old woman, La Calchona, would take you away if you weren’t good. He realized that Calchona would only take you within. Hell wasn’t a place outside the person: the devil was not without.
Victor wanted to meet La Calchona now. He wanted the truth. He fingered the blue stone in his pocket and realized this was what had come from Calchona through his mother. He was shocked to the core. The word, “Cal” in Mapuche was “blue”. A “Calfucura”, thereby, was a Cural blue stone from La Calchona, a gift of remembrance. Meeting La Calchona was, then, the confrontation with one’s own soul (within). This act made the shaman or “machi”. Victor had the evidence in his pocket al along. He went to work.
He realized he’d need the good luck the stone represented. He feared more violence. He could deal with the devil within, now, but didn’t yet know what he’d do with the external factors. Since his days in the military, he hadn’t known quite what to do with the world. Everything had been very clear when he was in the seminary just prior to enlistment. It was then he decided to go into the world rather than cloister himself. That meant facing the tank battalions, the military. That was the center of the problem.

Inner Chapter h.
Tancazo:
The Tank Battalion:
June 29, 1973
Three months before the September 11 coup, Juan and Paco were soldiers with the Second Tank Regiment of Santiago: General Souper commanding.  For Juan, the Intelligence Services were his next assignment. For Paco, the heavy machine gun was to be his profession. Both military men were expert with the 9 mm weapon. (They would get that duty when they weren’t needed to man a tank.)
“I heard you might sign for another tour of duty, Juan,” Paco said.
“Shut up about that,” Juan replied.
“Something about Intelligence?” Paco asked.
“I don’t know nothing about intelligence,” Juan replied.
“Just asking,” Paco said.
“Ask questions, get shot, I say,” Juan said.
“It’s that secret?” Paco asked.
“Yeah,” Juan answered.
Juan and Paco got off guard duty and headed for the enlisted mess for breakfast. They noticed other guys loading the tanks with gasoline. Usually, the connections were poor for getting anything, especially fuel, but not this time. Juan figured there were orders from high command. He noticed the tanks were being armed. Strange, he thought.
They approached the mess. The food smelled bad as usual (burned) but there was plenty of it. They were glad to get it considering that inflation was at 300%. No one could afford even to go to a soda fountain.
“I’m hungry,” Paco announced.
“Me too,” Juan chimed.
“So, what’s with the tanks, Mac?” Paco asked.
“Probably maneuvers,” Juan speculated.’
“Yeah,” Paco said. “Juan Segura.”
“Against those revolutionaries,” Juan stated.
“The Altamiranistas?” Paco asked.
“No, the MIR revolutionaries,” Juan replied.
“Yeah,” Paco said.
“It will be soon,” Juan said.
“How do you know?” Paco asked.
“Intelligence,” Juan replied.
The military food wasn’t that bad this time. Yes, it was a little burned but not ruined as usual. They, even, had small empenadas to go with the spinach boudin casserole. Even the rice wasn’t sticky. It was a full meal, which was very unusual for breakfast. It was more like dinner but this was the Army. They did things like that. Juan Segura figured there was money coming from somewhere and it, probably, was from above General Prats at high command. Maybe it was the old Decree Law 520 which allowed the government to requisition, intervene or expropriate.48 They had to do something, Juan thought, because the country was close to being out of control. The situation was very explosive, Juan thought.
After breakfast, Juan and Paco went to the yard to look at their tank. They noticed, immediately, it had been fully serviced. Juan didn’t remember that happening since he joined the Second Tank Regiment. The tank looked as if it had been washed. That, if nothing else, started to make Juan suspicious.
“Something is up,” Juan looked at Paco.
“I think we will move real soon,” Paco said.
“Yeah,” Juan said.
“Let’s get ready,” Paco suggested.
“Good idea. Where’s the tank commander?” Juan asked.
“Araya? No idea,” Paco answered.
“Half the time, he isn’t even here,” Juan complained.
“Yeah,” Paco replied.
“Like now,” Juan said.
“Yeah,” Paco replied.
Juan started his inspection of the tank. He started with the engine, then the treads. All the bolts were in place. Everything was clean, too. It was then he heard the bugle. It was the summons to “mount up”. Juan completed his inspection quickly, got in the tank and started it. The engine caught immediately. Juan was surprised.
Paco got in the top hatch. He figured the tank commander, Araya, wouldn’t show as usual. They’d sign him in and out. Neither Juan nor Paco cared. Neither liked officers. Juan, looking up at Paco from the driver’s seat, reached and slapped Paco hard on the leg. Juan enjoyed hitting. Paco didn’t seem to care.
The order came for formation. Juan knew, by now, exactly where in line they should be. He moved the tank into position. The order came over the radio to arm the artillery. Strange. They did it. Paco checked the machine gun belts.
They didn’t know where they were going and knew better than to ask questions. They’d only get in trouble. They headed for the main road to Santiago. Police escorted them.
Now, Juan was really suspicious. He knew tanks ruined roads. No one seemed to care. Maybe there had been another riot.
“Hey, Paco!” Juan yelled as loud as he could.
“What did you say?” Paco asked.
“I said: ‘Hey,” Juan repeated.
“Yeah?” Paco replied.
“Can you see ahead?” Juan asked.
“What? Oh, yeah,” Paco said.
“What’s up?” Juan asked.
“A convoy to Santiago,” Paco answered.
“Oh,” Juan said.
This stupid military, Juan thought. They never tell you anything. Juan got an order, over the radio, to accelerate. This whole thing is weird, he thought.
They drove at accelerated speed for an hour. This placed them in the city when the order to decelerate came. Soon, they were near the Presidential Palace (La Moneda) when the order to return to the tank base came. They waited for a while then returned home. It took longer. No order to accelerate came.
“Hey, Paco!” Juan exclaimed.
“What was that all about?” Paco asked.
“Don’t ask me,” Juan replied.
“I’m asking,” Paco said.
“What did you see?” Juan asked.
“The whole Second Regiment was out,” Paco answered.
“Riot?” Juan speculated.
“Probably,” Paco agreed.
“Any rounds fired?” Juan asked.
“Couldn’t tell,” Paco said.
“This is pretty stupid,” Juan said.
“Don’t say anything,” Paco warned.
Only when Juan and Paco had signed out (and for Araya as well) did they learn that their commanding officer, General Souper, had been arrested. What they had done that day was to stage an unsuccessful coup d’etat. It was June 1973, the beginning of a long winter.
In September of the same year, Juan and Paco participated in a real coup d’etat. They were assigned to the Technical University first in front (on the Alameda) then reassigned to the back: Portales Street. The strategy was to secret an emplacement to catch dissident escape attempts. Both Juan and Paco were angry. They wanted tank duty not the machine gun. To compensate, they brought a couple bottles of Pisco. One bottle was enough to knock a horse on its ass, Juan figured. The brandy would run right through Paco; he couldn’t handle his liquor. Juan did a little better but none the less, both were drunk out of their minds after a very short while. Both drank more. Neither could sight. They saw things, shot bursts of deadly 9 mm fire at just about anything. They couldn’t tell what effect.

Chapter Nine:
Pablo And Lolita:
Construction In Pablo’s Imagination
June 1973
Winter in Santiago! Pablo loved it as the sun rose over the Andes (the tribute to Antu the god of the sun). The city was sleeping. Because of the tremendous height of the mountains, Santiago was always late to see the sun. Pablo felt it set the tone for any day. A dove flew past.
Thin rays of winter sunlight would choose the lofty modern towers first then settle for the more squat, Spanish homes hitting steel roofs then flashing across double carriage doors on the fronts of each house lighting each shiny stud in those heavy doors one by one. Pablo noticed that only then would sunlight strike the cobblestones of the streets spreading a shine across the stone worn smooth by years of coach wheels.
The largest street, named for the first President (Bernardo O’Higgins) but called, “The Alameda”, was, already at the early hour, crowded with bus traffic taking laborers to work and taxis which carried the moderately rich. Pablo estimated that the busses outnumbered the taxis twenty to one.
“Come on, come on,” a Police officer yelled. “Do you think we have all day?” She was cold and irritable.
“Stop that! Alright, now go!” another officer shouted.
“The light is green, stupid!” the first officer announced loudly.
“That light is red, you idiot!” the second officer yelled. Both blew their Police whistles often and the traffic sped by them. Actually, they couldn’t be heard above the traffic noise but never quite realized it.
Red stoplights turned to green and ten busses surged forward eructating huge amounts of exhaust smoke. Police signaled to the busses when the lights turned as if the Police thought drivers wouldn’t know. A taxi stopped in a right lane (reserved as a bus lane) discharging passengers and Police whistles would blow telling taxis to keep moving. Limousines of the very rich stopped anywhere they wanted. Police turned their heads away and motioned to some expectant bus driver that yet another light was green. Pablo thought that drivers first smiled at the Police but then frowned as soon as they passed.
Pablo moved down the street-dodging shoppers. He looked at the street vendors displaying their wares on blankets near El Liberatador Hotel. Suddenly, like a flock of gulls, they gathered what they had and flew across the wide street barely missing busses and taxis. Two Carabinero police appeared from nowhere to chase them. The vendors escaped. Pablo shook his head and glared. “Pacos!”
He walked toward Lolita’s apartment behind the University of Chile. Though they both went to Téchnica, many of their friends went to “La U.” as it was called. Pablo and Lolita were part of both student bodies. They had been able to transcend the class difference. Pablo held carnations.
Today, Pablo was looking forward to seeing Lolita alone at her place. Often they did not have much time. Life was hectic. Pablo balanced school with work he did on the side. He had heard that computers were the wave of the future and learned how to fix them. Few hours paid very well. Lolita got money from her parents and was an usher at a local theater: ITUCH. Victor had gotten her the job. Lolita supplemented that work by making quilts and beaded curtains. She liked the work. The type of quilt (arpillas) she made told a story.
At home in Santiago, Lolita woke to a new day. It was June and cold. Lolita snuggled back under the covers. She felt dreamy. Doves had come to settle in the big Roble tree outside her window. She heard them arrive on whistling wings. Love birds, she thought. She’d see Pablo today. She stretched lazily letting one arm flop languidly toward the radio. Without thinking, she flipped the switch and the voice of Violeta Parra filled the room. It was “Gracias A La Vida”, Lolita’s favorite song; she always listened to the one folk song station: Radio Magellanes. Her mind wandered. The doves flew away.
Maybe some tea and a roll, Lolita thought. She let one leg fall off the bed toward the floor. The effort rolled her body toward the edge of the bed. Her toes searched for a slipper. Violeta was still singing; it was a very long song, ten verses maybe, she thought.
Lolita began to move her other leg toward the edge of the bed. It was too much effort. The other found a slipper and tried to wiggle into it. Lolita was like two people, one awake barely and the other asleep.
Then came a knock at the door. “Pablo?”, Lolita asked. “Yes,” was the answer. She could hear Pablo fiddling with the lock. Pablo remembered that if the handle was turned slowly to the right and then, quickly, to the left; the door could be opened though locked. It was an old door and he knew the trick. With a loud click, the lock opened. Pablo pushed the door open and looked inside. Pablo bent and picked a piece of string from the floor. As he rose again, he saw Lolita half in and half out of the bed.
“What are you doing?” Pablo demanded. He set aside the carnations he brought for her.
“I’m sleeping,” Lolita answered.
“Oh,” Pablo came into the room, looked at Lolita again, shrugged and got into bed with his feet still in boots protruding over the end of the bed. With one foot, he pried the boot off the other foot. He removed his shirt and looked around the room for a place to throw it. Pablo looked at the empty chuico (five liter bottle in a basket container) and shrugged. It seemed every surface had candles and some were still lit from the previous night. Wax had dripped in many places onto the floor, onto books and papers, onto the tail of the black cat sleeping half under the dresser. She should never feed Pipeña new wine to that cat, Pablo thought. The cat, even, ate the fruit, which was always put into Pipeña. “What kind of cat is that?” She must think she is a fruit bat but that drunk who would know the difference anyway?
Pablo began to remove his pants but there was, still, one boot. He left it. Pablo closed his eyes.
Lolita was beginning to wake. She wanted tea. It would mean walking. The kitchen seemed so far away. She looked toward the beaded curtains in the kitchen doorway. She began to move, slid off the bed onto the floor, which was about a foot because the bed was on the floor, Bohemian style.
Lolita, then, half walked, half crawled to the kitchen almost stepping on the cat’s tail. “Aristotle!” she moaned. “Why are you always underfoot? You are drunk aren’t you?” The cat opened one eye and looked at her.
Lolita stumbled almost bringing the beaded curtain down on top of her. The cat closed the one eye. “This is a day, definitely, of almost.” Lolita said to herself.
“Who are you talking to, Lolita?” Pablo asked rousing himself.
“Who is that?” Lolita asked turning quickly and, again, missing the cat’s tail by inches.
“It’s me, Pablo.”
“Oh, Pablo. When did you get here?” Lolita forgot. She was still a little drunk from the previous night.
“I’m not sure. I think it was minutes,” Pablo said. He yawned.
“Want some tea, Pablo? I think I have some left from last night. Its in the pot.”
“Yeah, sure. Any rolls?” Pablo asked.
“I’ve got rolls and maybe some jam. We can have breakfast,” Lolita answered as she got completely to her feet and went into the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose looking at the fruit in the cat bowl. She noticed Pablo’s carnations, smiled.
Lolita lit the gas under the teapot with a match. Her mind wandered back to the radio. It was the news now. There was something about a tank battalion on the rampage in the far southern part of the city. It didn’t make much sense.
“Did you hear that, Pablo?”
“Did I hear what?”
“Did you hear about that tank battalion?”
“Yeah, I heard and yes I’d like sugar in the tea,” Pablo answered sleepily.
“You didn’t hear me, Pablo!”
“I heard you, I heard you. Two lumps.”
“Pablo!”
“For the love of God, Lolita, why did you have to have such a high pitched voice? You sound like a banshee.”
“Thanks a lot, Pablo.”
“Though, I admit, you are pretty cute for a banshee.”
“Pablo!”
O.K., O.K. maybe not a banshee.”
“That’s better, Pablo.”
“Like a poor, lost bird!”
“Pablo!”
“Maybe more like a cat wounded with wax on its tail.”
“Pablo!” Lolita couldn’t remain serious. Pablo was so ridiculous. She couldn’t stay angry with him.
“Maybe like a drunken cat,” Pablo said.
“Yeah, with fruit stuck in it’s teeth,” Lolita quipped.
“And with it’s tail dipped in wax it was so drunk it never knew the difference,” Pablo mocked. “The Law of the Excluded Middle.”
“You know, you are right?” Lolita began to laugh even more. She, almost, lost her balance, steadied herself grabbing at the beaded curtain. She pulled a string loose. Time froze as she looked at the string of beads in shock. Then, all of the beads rushed off the string onto the floor. One bead landed in the cat bowl. Lolita slid to the floor pealing in laughter.
“I’ve come to a complete madhouse,” Pablo said. The teapot began singing.
“Want tea, Pablo?”
“Yeah, sure! What was that about a rampage of tanks?” Pablo asked.
“Pablo! You heard me all along. Pablo!”
“Yeah, I heard you. How can I help it? I just didn’t hear the news broadcast,” Pablo said.
“So what?” Lolita asked.
“So, there was this minor coup, a golpe. The story was all over the streets this morning,” Pablo said.
“So, tell me, Pablo!”
“Well, this battalion went insane. You know, the usual.”
“What then?” Lolita asked.
“Then they stopped,” Pablo explained.
“They can’t just stop just like that can they?” Lolita asked.
“Sure they can; they aren’t normal people like you and me,” Pablo said.
“I guess you are right, Pablo.” Lolita looked at Pablo with a seductive smile. Her gown had slipped off one shoulder. Pablo looked at her. He liked what he saw.
“Come to bed. I have something I want to show you,” Pablo said smiling.
A breeze stirred the sheer curtains in the open windows. A burst of fresh air rushed into the room. Lolita moved toward the bed. The breeze lifted her gown slightly then dropped it softly against her leg. Lolita dropped her eyes.
Pablo looked around the room then back toward Lolita. She was moving slowly toward him. Pablo pushed the blankets onto the floor. A cloud passed across the sun.
Lolita unbuttoned her gown and let it drop to the floor. It fell with a sigh.
Pablo kicked off his remaining boot. It landed soundlessly on the blankets. He removed his pants.
Lolita’s dark eyes flashed as she approached. The breeze was in her hair.
She kissed him. More clouds passed in front of the sun. It might rain.
For a heartbeat, Pablo found himself suspended in time not knowing what to do. Then nature took its course. He enlarged.
Lolita knew what to do. She kissed him on the lips, on the chest. She smelled the fragrance of his skin. She followed her line of kisses and didn’t stop. She went lower and lower. Thunderclouds passed over the sun.
Lolita guided Pablo’s hands. Pablo found his way home. She moaned softly as he slipped into heaven.
Thunder struck the heavens as the storm broke. Lightening threw strange, shadowy apparitions across the room. The breeze became a howling wind. The curtains whipped the windowpanes. Rain came through the open windows.
Pablo heard Lolita screaming but the wind was fiercer. Rain splattered across the floor. The pitch rose. Pablo and Lolita were writhing on the bed. Water from the rain was everywhere making their bodies glisten.
A bolt of lightening slashed the heavens. Pablo screamed in release. Seconds passed and the skies filled with the sound of the thunderclap. Lolita screamed. Pablo rolled onto his back exhausted pulling Lolita on top of him. She began to cry.
Pablo began to drift into sleep. Lolita followed him glowing. The storm began to subside but in the sky lingered dark spectral clouds. Lolita snuggled into the hair on Pablo’s chest. She felt dreamy. She fell into a deep sleep.
Sometime later, she couldn’t tell how long, Lolita began to wake. The night was dark storm clouds. All the room was in ghostly shadows now. Lolita drifted between sleep and dreams.
One shadow in the room began to take form. There was a man standing with a far away look in his half formed, misty eyes. He had the strong hooked nose, the full head of long, black, wavy hair and those intense eyes. Lolita looked. It was Victor Jara. Blood was splattered all over his ruin of a chest. His face was laced with bleeding marks. Victor held open, wounded hands in front of him. Lolita opened her mouth to scream but there was no sound, only hush.
Behind Professor Jara, Lolita could see half formed shadows of other people of Estádio Chile bearing torches. All had terrible wounds. All were singing and chanting: “The people united will never be defeated.” La Calchona was there. Lolita looked deeply into the face of Victor Jara. He was speaking.
The words, seeming from far away, were: “I forgive Chile for this. It is not the fault of this country or any country but of the world.”
Lolita looked back at the open chest of Victor, at his heart at his sacred heart, which she could see pounding and open for all to see. Weak from fatigue due to seeing the image, she began to sink into sleep.
The following morning, the sun rose over the Andes casting long, peaked shadows of the cordillera mountains across the sleeping city. The few storm clouds passed quickly dissipating to the north. One purple cloud lingered then moved to catch its brothers. Condors circled the mountaintops: four, no five now. Their six-foot wings caressed the rarified air.
The city far below began to rouse. Busses were running. Shoppers were looking for bargains. Students were finishing a night’s study. Shoeshine men were getting ready for business in the Plaza de Armas. The same woman who was always there pushed her helado ice cream cart near the Manandial Bookstore. Another woman was playing a guitar, her two children still asleep in her skirts. Others were coming from morning mass taking one last look over their shoulders at the National Cathedral. The sunlight began to travel down The Alameda toward the University of Chile and to an apartment in back near the guitar store, Casa Amarilla.
Lolita, in bed, opened one eye, shut it. She flipped the radio switch. Intí Illimani, Chile’s current top folklore group was singing about Simón Bolivar. Lolita loved the song and thought, maybe, she loved Simón too. The music moved into a Charango solo. It was so beautiful, Lolita thought. She owned a Charango made of armadillo but couldn’t play its ten strings. Sure, it was like a guitar and Victor was teaching her that but the Charango was so small.
With her other hand, Lolita reached for Pablo. Nothing. “Pablo!” she cried bursting into tears. He was gone.
Aristotle, her cat, mewed. It wasn’t for Pablo or even Lolita but for food. The cat was hungry. “You would be hungry after all that drinking,” Lolita mumbled. Aristotle began to wash his face. He looked pleased. “I’ll get you some milk in a minute but first tea.” Aristotle looked more pleased. Lolita began to rise and crawled toward the kitchen getting to her feet at last. She looked at the beaded curtain, used the kitchen counter to steady herself and lit a flame under the teapot. It was soon hot: she had tea.
Her mind wandered to the radio. Rolando Alarcon was singing. She liked him: he was a friend of Victor’s and her sister’s, Jo Jo’s, teacher. He was singing about his grandmother who danced a Sirilla type of dance.
Then, she remembered the dream she had the former night. She dropped her teacup. It shattered. She stepped on the shards, bloodied her feet. She screamed. Lolita ran to her bed and buried herself under the covers sobbing. “It was real,” she whimpered. Lolita lay there shaking. A song of Victor’s was on the radio, El Direcho de Vivir En Paz (The right to live in peace). She couldn’t bear to turn it off.
Lolita lay in bed for a very long time drifting in and out of sleep. She missed a class at school, didn’t care.
She knew something horrible was going to happen. Prior, she had prophetic dreams. In her half sleep, she tried to think of something pleasant. She thought of Victor’s concerts at Estádio Chile. She had been to several. She took Pablo. The concerts were wonderful, inspiring. Lolita couldn’t believe she was lucky enough to know the man. Victor would hold his guitar close and knit his eyebrows when he sang some songs. Lolita thought he was about to cry. She cried. For other songs, Victor would wrinkle his whole face into one huge smile. He was so funny. That made Lolita cry too. She loved Estádio Chile. The old, wooden floors shined with new wax. Music, bouncing around the strange curves of the roof, seemed amplified somehow yet soft at the same time. Pablo was so romantic. He, even, wore a clean shirt. Their favorite spot was in the bleachers near the stage up front. She smiled at Victor when he sang.
As Lolita lay in bed, she found she could think of many things, which were pleasant. It surprised her. The memory of the Victor dream was pushed to the back of her memory. An organist passed in the street. Lolita forgot about Estádio Chile.

Book Three:
The Final Days

Chapter Ten:
Estádio Chile
Wednesday, September 12, 1973

Victor Jara was in the theater at the university dreaming of his past. His reverie had lasted a long time. He didn’t know if it was a trance state, a dream or what. Flashing back to earlier memories, he is found sitting in a big, plush theater seat.
It had been a dream. Victor was in the theater at the university flashing back to earlier memories of home, of childhood. He was, again, sitting in a big, plush theater seat. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his hands. It had all been a dream. When his hands dropped again to the guitar in his laps, there were tears there. He blew on the strings and made the sound “La.”
Victor looked at those tears and understood in an instant how he poured himself into his guitar and how the guitar, in turn, made music from his tears, his sentiments, his ideas and his soul.
Maybe the guitar makes the music but I pour my essence to make that music too. This is how it happens. I never realized that fully, Victor thought.
“At least I was able to get some sleep though there were a lot of dreams.” Victor said to himself. “I wish I could remember them all.” He remembered thinking about his mother, Amanda, and La Calchona. He remembered well his experience of meeting Joan at the Saõ Paulo Cafe. He recalled Angel’s place and Galindo. What a life.
Victor stretched his hands over his head and yawned. “I suppose it is time to get back to work.” Victor felt very tired. Like his mother, he was working himself to death. He didn’t usually sleep well either, too many nightmares.
He looked at his watch. An hour had passed. He shook the watch not believing how little time had elapsed. He shook it. The watch was working perfectly. I’ve still time until the next class, he thought, He could hear the sound of small arms fire coming from the street. Give those military men half a chance and they will shoot at anything even each other. There had been incidents all along, Victor remembered. The military had given signs. If I ever run for President, the first thing I will do is disband the military, Victor thought. “They are good for nothing but trouble. They say the army is maintained to prevent invasion from Argentina.” Victor laughed. “When was the last time that happened? San Martin?” Victor recalled that San Martin had come from Argentina when the country was first liberated from Peru. “The military and the National Police, the Carabineros, are just a cheap excuse for the rich to stuff their pockets with ill gotten gain.
“Well, enough of that.”
Victor walked out of the theater blinking his eyes against the sun. It was almost a lovely spring day. He walked toward his office. He heard the sound of big guns close. Victor walked a little faster. A hawk flew past.
“Oh, Cecilia, there you are,” Victor said reaching his office.
“Your wife called, you should call her.” Cecilia said.
“Didn’t I call her?” Victor asked.
“In a word, “no,” Cecilia answered.
“I’ll call her. I was just in the theater and I had the strangest dream,” Victor said.
“Excuse me, I have a telephone call,” Cecilia said. “Téchnica.... Yes.... Explosions? Yes... General Prats is coming south with an army? We have no information on that, sorry... Yes... You’ll have to call the Ministry of Defense... Yes... Yes... Thank you for calling. Good bye.”
“What was that all about?” Victor asked.
“They’ve been calling all day. They want to know what is happening. Why do they think we’d know?” Cecilia asked.
“Because we are a university,” Victor answered.
“Well, anyway, you were saying something about a dream?” Cecilia offered.
“I don’t remember it real well but I do recall it was about Lonquén,” Victor said.
“I’ve always been curious about that. Half the people I know think you were raised in Nogales barrio or Estación Central on Jotabeche Street,” Cecilia said.
“We moved to Jotabeche just before I turned fifteen, just before my Mama died,” Victor said.
“I’m sorry,” Cecilia said
“Don’t be. It was bound to happen. Mama Amanda, literally, worked herself to death in the Maipu market. She had a massive stroke. If she had lived, she may have been paralyzed,” Victor said.
“Maybe, then, it was for the best. She went to a better place,” Cecilia said.
“I suppose so. She is an angel now. She is still close, watching and guiding,” Victor said. He missed her terribly and wished with all his heart she were still alive. A tear formed in the corner of his eye.
“She is an angel,” Cecilia said.
“True. A lot of people think: oh, poor Victor who lost his mother at fifteen. While it is true she did die, I never lost her. It could have been worse.” Victor said smiling.
“You always look at the bright side no matter how bad things get. I’ve noticed that,” Cecilia said.
Victor got a cup of water and poured it into the dirt of a potted plant in the office. He sighed. He didn’t always look on the bright side.
“That’s easy. Things will never be as bad as they were then. The whole world shattered for me and I survived it just fine. It may sound strange, but nothing scares me after that. I am never afraid for myself anyway,” Victor said.
“I read something recently about survivor children. Is it like that?” Cecilia asked.
“I would like people to understand that about me. I need no pity for whatever happens,” Victor said.
“Considering whatever is happening now, it could be serious,” Cecilia said.
“I considered that when I decided not to go into exile as did so many. Don’t think we didn’t know things could get rough,” Victor said.
“You didn’t know this was coming did you?” Cecilia asked.
“I knew for sure something was coming but we didn’t know what form it would take,” Victor said.
“What do you mean we?” Cecilia asked.
“J.O.T.A.”
“Oh, yes, your student group,” Cecilia said.
“I stay because there are the students to consider,” Victor said.
“That’s it, the students?” Cecilia asked.
“Professionally. Personally, it’s my family, it’s friends.”
“And co workers?”
“I’m sorry,” Victor flashed a huge smile. “And co workers.”
Victor turned and looked out the window. There were the military in the street. The same men were putting finishing touches on the machine gun emplacement. Victor frowned. “These 9 mm guns can do a lot of damage in a short period of time,” he thought to himself. He hadn’t been trained with the machine gun while in the military but he did see, on occasion, what they could do. A weapon like that could blow a man to pieces leaving nothing but a wet spot where he once stood. “Weapons like that should be outlawed,” Victor thought. He made a mental note.
“ So, what’s with this dream?” Cecilia asked.
“Well, part of it was about Lonquén but part is about Santiago too. I never liked this place at first but I’ve changed my mind. I love the people here. Sure, I spend my vacations in the country but I return here,” Victor said.
“You no longer live in Jotabeche either but Independéncia now. It is a much better neighborhood. You have your house and that great patio.”
“Surely, that is part of it. I live better now than if I was in Lonquén. I have a car, the Citronetta. I work at a great place with fantastic co workers. I couldn’t have a better family.”
“I am interested in that dream. If it were my dream, I’d be tempted to return to the pastoral existence,” Cecilia offered.
“I think that is the catch. The life of the campesino is not pastoral. It is slow, hot, dirty work. In my song about the plow (El Arado), I think I got it about right. City people glorify the countryside. I’m not saying it doesn’t have its benefits but the life is hardly all fun and games,” Victor said.
“Isn’t life simpler there?” Cecilia asked.
“Sure it’s simple. You wake up, work like an animal, eat and go to sleep. The next day is the same,” Victor said.
“Then, how is it that the music is so rich?” Cecilia asked.
“I’ve thought about that. Part of it is that you don’t work on Sunday. There is the church. The other part is you don’t work sometimes when it is raining. There is, also, the occasional fiesta,” Victor proposed.
“So, the music comes from the church, the rainy season, the fiesta?” Cecilia asked.
“No, not exactly. These create non work times in which the music can evolve. The music, itself, comes from the people, from their hearts, from their souls and, ultimately, from the land itself,” Victor said.
Victor had glanced out the window several times during the conversation. The military men seemed busy as if getting ready for something. Victor had seen this kind of activity prior. The men would polish the equipment ready for the inspection and then there would be a military action. Besides, Victor thought he could see the men glancing toward the university as they polished the machine guns. From time to time, the gun would be moved accidentally and the gun would be trained again on the university. It was easy, thereby, to see the direction of their interest. It wasn’t just that they were guarding the street. Something specific was going to happen. Victor didn’t like the signs.
“What do you mean: ‘From the land,’ Victor?” Cecilia asked.
“What did you say?” Victor asked. He had been lost in thought.
“From the land?” Cecilia repeated.
“Oh, yes, the land. Well, as you know, the word ‘Chile’ comes from the Mapuche language meaning ‘the land’. Under all is Chile mapu, the land. Let’s say the land itself, Chile, has a soul of its own. In Mapuche this is ngen. This is a source for music,” Victor explained.
“How is that?” Cecilia asked.
“I don’t think I know how to explain it in words. It is a deep feeling. This is what attracts the attention in my music. As I say: ‘Todo de Chile,’ It is totally the land.” Victor explained further.
“Maybe that is what I really meant by my words ‘pastoral’ and ‘simple,” Cecilia said.
“I suspect you did,” Victor returned. “Everyone feels the soul in one way or another even the military.” Victor glanced out the window once more. “This is what terrifies them. This is why they answer with violence. It is why they can never win. They can scorch the earth but they can’t destroy it,” Victor said.
“They try to control it. Out of control, it feels like chaos to them,” Cecilia offered.
“They are chaos,” Victor said.
“How?”
“They are like cockroaches scurrying over the land. When they pass, there is no trace of their ever being there except for their leavings,” Victor said.
Victor looked steadily at Cecilia. She felt a shiver go down her spine. His eyes were very intense. She thought he had explained the central reason for his songs. “The man is a genius,” She thought to herself. Cecilia had nothing but admiration for Victor. He should be the next President, she thought. We’d benefit a lot from that kind of thinking. He was, after all, correct in his perceptions, a very keen observer and the most articulate man she had ever known. He brought the life out of the earth and was able to sing that, she thought.
“And the music and the land live?” Cecilia asked.
“Exactly. The land lives and that is what is in the music,” Victor explained.
“So, where do you fit in?” Cecilia asked.
“I don’t. All I can do is serve. It is a calling. Perhaps I joined a priesthood after all,” Victor gave a big smile. “No matter how I turned, it came back to me just the same,” Victor said.
“But, people say you are a great man. What about that?” Cecilia asked.
“I am just a man,” Victor said.
A huge explosion shattered the silence of the conversation. A window burst showering the floor with glass. There were more explosions, sounds of tanks, light and heavy machine guns. From the front of the university, there was a lot of other noise coming from the streets. There was the obscene clacking of military equipment: half-tracks and tanks. Around the corner came an entire detachment of military looking as if they expected to be attacked at any moment (by the children who attended the University). A military officer (Manrique) was yelling orders and a sergeant was repeating every order as if no one had heard. “Forward!” the officer yelled. “Forward!” the sergeant repeated.
In the meantime, the National Police: the Carabineros de Chile not being military, were wandering through the hallways not knowing what they were doing. Most had never even been to a place like the State Technical University.
“We are looking for the President of the University, the President of the student body and one professor: Victor Jara Martinez,” Officer Manrique shouted at no one in particular. His moustache twitched nervously as he spoke.
Victor stepped into the hallway facing the detachment and said: “Here am I.”
Manrique just looked at him as if he hadn’t heard and repeated the orders. The sergeant started to repeat it again but stopped red faced when the officer looked at him.  “Shut up, Juan!” Manrique shouted. As he turned, he hit another officer by accident with the sword on his hip and knocked the potted plant to the floor.
“We want the President, the President and the Jara!” Officer Manrique shouted.
“It looks to me as if you, already, got the President!” Victor sneered showing his teeth.
“Are you he?” Manrique asked.
“No, I am not the President,” Victor answered unable to imagine how stupid the officer was.
“Then, state your full name!” Manrique yelled. His face turned red.
“Victor Lidio Jara Martinez reporting, sir!” Victor said sarcastically.
“Well then,” Manrique said calming.
There was a hush all over the campus except toward the back where many students were escaping. Victor was stalling for time. As long as he could occupy their small, military minds here, the others could escape, he thought.
“You deny that you are the President? I think you are! You are University President Enrique Kirberg!” the officer said.
“No, I am Victor Jara.”
“Liar!” Manrique said before he could help it. The man was, obviously, on the edge of a breakdown (not that he had far to go anyway). In the meantime, the two Presidents in question had arrived in the hallway to try to avert more trouble. They identified themselves.
“We have warrants for your arrest. You will come with us.” The officer said knowing full well he had no warrants.
“On what charge?” President Kirberg asked. A soldier hit him with a gun butt.
“About face!” Officer Manrique shouted.
“About face!” the sergeant repeated.
“Forward!” the officer shouted.
“Forward!” the sergeant repeated.
As quickly as they had come, they were gone. Cecilia was just standing there dumfounded. Was this the moment? She didn’t know what had just happened. Victor was there and now he wasn’t. It was like blowing out a candle.
Other military detachments had arrived at the university in force. They were shooting at everything. In the middle of the action, a drunken man staggered through the ranks. He was, obviously, no military man. Tanks and Jeeps fitted with 9 mm machine guns swerved to avoid him. A second drunk appeared from around a corner to grab at the first drunk’s bottle. He missed and fell on the lawn in front of the university. The other drunk tried to help him stand but was unsuccessful. Units of military men were rushing forward ignoring the two drunks as if they couldn’t see them. One of the drunks tried to bite a machine gunner on the leg but his teeth felt only cloth from the pants of the gunner. No one in the charging military unit even paused to look at the drunks. They ran bloodthirsty yelling at the top of their lungs.
In the meantime, Manrique, with Victor and the other prisoners, walked into the street to Estádio Chile (the boxing stadium). Manrique ordered the prisoners to stand in a line for identification. Other military kicked, hit and spat on the prisoners. A rat followed them.
“Passport? Driver’s License? Birth Certificate?” the soldiers were demanding. “You, come here!” they would shout. “Identify yourself, pig.”
There was so much confusion, Victor figured he could just walk away and no one would notice but he thought he saw one of the students in the line ahead of him. He couldn’t tell who it was but decided he’d better stay. Perhaps he could attract enough attention to take the brunt of whatever was coming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the rat scurry across the alley obviously afraid of an organist across the street. Perhaps the noise disturbs her, Victor thought.
Victor looked around. They were in an alley in back of what had once been some stately homes of the rich. The stadium, itself, was an unusually ugly building with paint peeling off the walls; iron bars everywhere and a hideous swayback roof. Curiously, Victor had sung in this stadium. No one was singing now. Victor began to sing one of his songs to himself and was surprised that the person next to him in line knew the words. Soon, several people were singing softly.
“Shut up back there!” an officer yelled. The music stopped.
“That is the one they call ‘The Prince,” the man next to Victor said. Victor looked at The Prince, one of the vilest human beings he’d seen in his life. Somehow, the man looked familiar. Maybe it’s a memory from military days, Victor thought.
“Name?” the Prince shouted.
“Mac?” Victor asked.
“No, what is your name, pig,” the Prince demanded smacking Victor hard.
“Victor Jara Martinez!” Victor said arising.
“Victor Martinez, pass!” a corporal standing behind the Prince yelled.
Victor entered the Estádio Chile through a short entry corridor to the stairs and up to the gallery. It was very cold. There were a lot of people in the stadium and he had to wait to get upstairs.
“Aren’t you that fucking singer Victor Jara?” one of the guards asked. The others snickered behind their hands. Victor ignored them. They looked like typical farm boys in the city for the first time. He had been like that once but no longer. Victor thought again he saw the student on the stairs above him. He hurried forward.
There was a press of people from behind also. Victor almost lost his footing. All was in the confusion typical to the military. Victor thought: This isn’t going to last too long. The people will get hungry and everyone will have to go home. They’d be asked to return tomorrow most likely. (Victor had heard over the radio that officials of the government, the good guys, were being asked to report to the Ministry of Defense. It was all pretty standard.)
“Shut up, up there!” an officer yelled from below.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” another officer said to the first one.
That was the first thing Victor thought peculiar here. Were the officers leaving? He had seen that before this when he was in the military. The officers left when there was something they didn’t want to see. The enlisted men could do things some of which was sadistic.
The man ahead of Victor started to hum the song again, turned and smiled. Victor gave him a big grin.
“I caught your last concert here.” The man said. “I didn’t know I could get in for free this time!”
“They make you pay up ahead.” Victor said smiling.
“You too?” the man said.
“Sure!” Victor said.
“My name is Carlos Orellana. I’m glad to meet you,” The man said.
“Mine is Victor. I am equally glad to meet you,” Victor said.
“I don’t like this situation one bit,” Carlos said.
“Aren’t you with the Department of Culture?” Victor asked.
“Why, yes I am. How did you know?” Carlos asked.
“I’ve seen you,” Victor explained.
“And, I’ve seen you,” Carlos quipped.
“Let me introduce Osiel just behind me and Sergio just behind him,” Victor said.
“With much pleasure,” Carlos returned acknowledging the men.
“Equally,” Osiel said.
They got to the top of the stairs. Victor knew the place so he thought he’d edge toward the left. There may be more room. Others were making room for themselves on the bleacher seats to the right and down. Carlos accompanied Victor.
The boxing ring, itself, had been removed from the main floor and the area (below) was filled with people. Guards were on the edges of the crowd with automatic weapons. They hit the people often. “This is typical military, too,” Victor said to himself. It would be so easy for one of those FN FAL weapons to discharge accidentally and there would be a stampede. Stupid.
Victor couldn’t see any officers anywhere. It was, as he thought: the cowards left. It could be these arrests were illegal. Officers could lose their careers. It was still peculiar even though Victor had seen this kind of thing prior. Victor felt a shiver go down his back. In the confusion, he had lost sight of the student ahead of him. Thinking back, he thought it could have been a female student. There were a lot of women in the Stadium this night, more than one might expect. That was strange. “This is not a normal situation,” Victor said to himself.
“We just want to ask you a few questions. We will call you by name one by one, ask questions and you can go. It’s just routine.” a uniformed man said. Victor thought he recognized the man but wasn’t sure. Was it “Mac” something? What he said sounded like routine questioning but something, still, seemed bizarre about all of this. It wasn’t just the disappearance of the officers or the presence of an inordinate amount of women.
Also, there appeared to be too many people for this Stadium. People were packed like sardines already and more were on their way. Victor heard a scream close. He stepped back.
“My foot! You broke my foot!” a woman sobbed.
“Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” Victor apologized.
“Oh, my foot,” the woman cried.
Victor bent down to see what he could do. The foot didn’t seem broken. It was then he noticed the woman had no shoes. She had the tough, bare feet of a street person. The military were indiscriminate in gathering everyone. Stupid.
“We need some help over here!” Victor yelled.
“Shut up over there!” was the answer; the man pointed his FN FAL machine gun at Victor. He shuddered. There was another scream from across the Stadium. There were a lot of feet, Victor thought. He realized he had heard several screams as more people were being packed into the Stadium. Some screams were loud enough to wake the dead. One scream he had heard was very high pitched, like a banshee, and loud enough to rival no other. It seemed to come from up and in front of him where he thought the female student disappeared.
It was dark in the Stadium. It felt like a dungeon, a torture chamber. Packing so many people in such a small space was inhuman. The screams continued.
“I’m a Doctor,” A man walked to where Victor was standing. He pushed through the crowd.
“Good, over here! I think I may have, inadvertently, damaged this woman’s foot,” Victor explained.
The Doctor, Danilo, leaned over the woman and checked the foot. “This woman needs a binding and, for God’s sake, Victor, get her some shoes.” Danilo said obviously agitated.
“You look like you have been hurt, yourself. Are you O.K.?” Victor asked.
“Yeah, I’m O.K. I just got kicked a few times at La Moneda, that’s all,” Danilo said. “They kept threatening us with mock executions.”
“You were at The Presidential Palace? What happened over there?” Victor asked.
“It’s quite a story. They bombed La Moneda and, you know. It was a full-scale invasion. They shot a lot of people. It was a mess. I’ve seen piles of bodies. Those are here, too,” Danilo explained.
“And the President?” Victor asked.
“I think he shot himself but, in all the confusion, it was hard to tell. They tried to tell me what to think, what to say. People put words in my mouth. He had been drinking. I don’t blame him. After the address on the radio, he was very upset. There was nothing that could be done anyway. The military went insane. In any case, he didn’t make it but, I can tell you, he died like a man. I’ve never seen a man with so much courage. History will remember Salvador Allende as one of the greatest Presidents,” Danilo explained.
“That he was. He had the people in his heart,” Victor said.
“Sure, he made a lot of mistakes. Anyone would. I don’t blame him. Anyway, this woman’s foot is going to be O.K. I’m going to see what I can do across the way,” Danilo said.
“Thanks, Doc, for your help and good luck,” Victor said. Victor’s mind was wandering.
The woman was, still, gently sobbing. Someone had given her their own shoes. The foot had been bound with cloth from God knows where. Victor smiled. People were really good to each other, he thought.
“Victor Martinez!” a guard shouted. Victor pressed forward.
“We have only a couple of questions. It’s just routine. Do you know the members of the leftist student group: J.O.T.A.?” the guard asked.
“No,” Victor answered. He thought: so this is what this is about. They are trying to round up dissidents.
“That is all. We’ll be wanting to talk to you later, Mr. Martinez. Wait here,” the guard said. He wrote a number on Victor’s forearm.
“It’s Victor Jara Martinez,” Victor said but the guard didn’t hear him. The guard had shouted another name: “Boris Navia!”.
This thing is really disorganized, Victor thought. These people have no idea what they are doing.
Victor sat.

Chapter Eleven:
“X”, The Star On The Door
Thursday, September 13, 1973
The night passed at Estádio Chile with even more of the same. Victor was losing track of time. More people were arriving. There was such confusion that Victor could have slipped out the building but he was concerned there were students inside. So far, he thought he saw several at a distance but it was so dark it was hard to tell. There was such a press of people. Victor estimated 5,000 people. He heard machine guns.
He thought he got some sleep, though in this situation, it was only half sleep really. He half remembered a dream about Lonquén. It was the same one as in the theater at the University. How long ago had that been?
Victor, then, slipped into a dream. The dream had a small difference. He had been walking along the railroad track at the back of the house. Trains didn’t come often and it was a pretty safe walk. Kids would put things on the track to get squashed and then forget about them. Victor would look for those. He found a coin once, which was squashed flat. He couldn’t tell exactly which one it was but, in his dazed state, thought it was Manuel Rodriguez, the Chilean hero, on the coin. Some thought Rodriguez was only a terrorist but Victor thought of him as a clever man. Manuel Rodriguez, an attorney, had disguised himself as a monk to elude his pursuers. When the military came, Rodriguez met them, talked with them and they never knew who he was. To Victor, Rodriguez was like a Zorro figure, a good man in a disguise. Victor began to wake. He wondered: does a man have to be in a disguise to be thought as good?
Victor, sometimes, thought of the guitar as a disguise. A lot of musicians hide behind their instrument, he thought. It was a mask. Really, there was no such thing as a musician; there was only a man like any other man. An audience would elevate the man to a status he didn’t have. They were looking for gods and missed the point. The music came from the people not the man. Victor elevated the people. He served.
Still, it felt good (albeit embarrassing as Victor was very shy) to be honored. Victor had to be sure that honor never turned his head. So far, he had not lost the concept in the elevation.
Victor didn’t consider himself a singer, anyway. He was a dramatist. When he sang, he was still a dramatist. Singing was theater.
Lately, he had planned celebrations for Neruda, the Nobel poet. That was theater as well. When he filled a stadium, the focus was not just on one man. This was theater of the people. Victor was glad he did it even though it was exhausting. He wished he wouldn’t get so tired and he tried never to show it. He was squashed flat like a coin.
“Victor Jara!” a guard shouted.
‘Yes, here,” Victor shouted best he could.
“We have a few questions for you, sir,” the guard said. “Come this way.”
This is interesting, Victor thought. When they questioned me prior, I didn’t have to walk anywhere. What is this about calling me “sir”? This time, I am headed for one of those rooms in back. I don’t like the look of this.
“You are Victor Jara, the singer,” the guard asked?
“Yes, I am.”
“Did you lie about your name?”
“No, I am Victor Jara.”
“I think you lied about your name.”
“I didn’t, I am Victor Jara.”
“Don’t talk back to me, singer.” The words rolled off the guard’s tongue like something distasteful. He spat. Drool ran down his chin. As Victor was walking into the little room in back, the door opened suddenly and slammed Victor in the face. It was that little pig known as The Prince. (Victor did recognize him, now, from his military days.)
“Out of the way!” the Prince shouted. “Aren’t you that singer?” he asked.
“I am, Mac,” Victor answered. The Prince ignored the reference to his name.
“I have some questions for you but not now, I am busy. Just stay out of my way, do you hear me?”
“No problem.”
Victor just stood there waiting. It felt as if they had just forgotten about him. His head throbbed from where he’d been hit by the door. A mark the size of a rose was now on his forehead.
He heard a scream. The lights blinked for a second. He’d been hearing screams all day or was it all night? This one, though, had a different quality. It wasn’t that it was louder. The scream was very high pitched like a banshee. It was that, somehow, it registered more pain. “Your mind is wandering,” Victor said to himself. It must have been that door. His head was throbbing now. The slam had affected his hearing somehow. He was dazed.
“Victor Jara?” a voice out of nowhere said.
“Yes, sir!” Victor said sarcastically.
“No, it’s me,” Francisco said. It was his student from the university.
“Who?” Victor asked.
“You are hurt, your forehead!” Francisco exclaimed.
“It’s nothing, really,” Victor said.
“I can’t stand it!” Francisco cried horribly.
“What?” Victor asked trying to get an idea what was happening.
“You pigs! I’m not ready!” Francisco shouted.
“Who?” Victor asked.
“Run! Enrique!” Francisco pawed at the air frantically. He yelled as he rushed forward to jump off the balcony into space. A woman screamed.
Danilo, from the balcony above with Victor, looked over the edge. Francisco lay splattered on the floor below. He grabbed at a sudden pain in his stomach, retched. He could see Francisco’s head was at an odd angle. No help. He thought he heard the sound of a street organ. “No, I must be losing my mind,” he thought.
Danilo had arrived back to check the woman’s foot. She was down in front of the bleacher seats. He looked up. Victor was just going in the door of one of the little rooms up there; it could have been a bathroom. There was an “X” shaped like a star on the door. (The room, in the past when Victor had performed at Estádio Chile, had been used as the star’s dressing room.)
The foot looked O.K. When Danilo thought to look up again, Victor was coming out of the room. How long had it been? Danilo was surprised: he couldn’t gage the passing of time any more. I must be disoriented, he thought. Victor was walking toward him now looking very pale. The mark on his forehead showed fresh blood and his cheeks were badly scratched. Then, it may have been the lighting. “I’m in denial,” Danilo said to himself.
“The woman’s foot will be fine, Victor,” Danilo said. Victor mumbled something unintelligible and sank heavily into a seat. “You don’t look too good, yourself,” Danilo said. “The blood vessels in your eyes are hemorrhaging.”
“Oh, I’m alright. I got hit with a door, that’s all,” Victor said. He attempted a smile.
“What are they doing up there? Danilo asked.
“Nothing,” Victor replied.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Danilo thought the evasive answer peculiar but decided not to press the point. Victor looked like he was in shock. He had aged.
“You’d better sit a while. Here is some water,” Danilo volunteered.
“Molten gold,” Victor said not making sense. Victor touched the blue stone in his pocket. His teeth were chattering so hard he couldn’t stop.
“What?” Danilo had only half heard what Victor said. He had begun to lose the meaning of words. Danilo was going into shock as well.
“Nothing.”
“There is your forehead. Let me do something about that.”
“No, I’m fine: my red badge of courage.” Victor smiled.49
“I guess you are right, Victor. This is a civil war.”
“No, not a war, stupidity. They’d like you to think it’s a war but it, certainly, is not.” Victor’s words seemed slurred to Danilo.
“If it isn’t a war, then what do you call it, a mock execution?” Danilo asked no longer making sense.
“I call it a massacre. It takes no courage to attack unarmed people. That is the mark of true cowardice,” Victor said.
“You are right. This is no war. There is, at least, honor in battle.” Danilo said.
“I am sorry my friend but there is no honor in war. It is the act of immaturity,” Victor managed to say. Victor sounded very angry but, at the same time, his speech seemed to be more slurred the more he talked. He hid how he felt less than he ever did. Victor’s smile was gone, now. Victor fingered the blue stone in his pocket then dropped it to the floor.
“You mean puerile?” Danilo asked.
“Exactly so,” Victor answered impatiently.
“If I ever get out of this place, I’ll recount what you say, Victor.”
“Yes, tell them like it is. Tell them the military attacked women and children.”
“I’ll accomplish that.”
“Oh, there is one more thing. Tell the Americans they’d be wise to take a look at themselves.” Victor sank into silence.
There was a commotion from the front of the building. Not a few (like in the Stadium) but many machine guns were firing. Distant screams of terror ripped the night.
“That’s the 9 mm units,” Victor said in a tired voice.
“There must be something big happening on the Alameda around the Union Latinoamericana,” Danilo said.
“It sounds like the world is coming to an end. The pain is clouding my mind. You wouldn’t happen to have anything for a headache would you?” Victor asked. His voice sounded weaker.
“I just might have. Take these. They aren’t for a headache per se but they will knock you out.”
Victor took the tablets Danilo offered and lapsed into a fitful sleep filled with strange nightmares.
Victor was dreaming of all the strange places he had traveled: the South American countries, Cuba, Russia, the United States.
In his dream state, Victor was in the heights of Machu Pichu. This time, the Inca were still living there as in the old times. He brought his guitar with him and was wearing a poncho cape. They were fascinated with it. The Inca had flutes and drums made of stone, rawhide and wood. He strummed a Peruvian song he knew wondering if they’d recognize it. They did. The Inca began to dance eerily like ghosts. All of Victor’s friends were there. Rolando Alarcon and the Parras from the past with Salvador Allende and Pablo Neruda. La Calchona was there. Victor’s father and mother smiled at him. It was a grand fiesta.
They sang and played instruments. The music went far into the night. Neruda said that Victor looked like Zorro with his cape. Neruda, always the host, made the Great Cockeleton with his secret recipe, which consisted of: champagne, cognac, Cointreau and orange juice.

In Victor’s dream, Neruda asked: “So, Victor, when are you going to join us?”
I didn’t know you were dead,” Victor explained.
“We have no memory of dying,” Neruda said.
“I don’t know if that is very funny,” Victor said. He didn’t smile.
“Oh, nothing is funny about it,” Neruda said.
“So, what is this about me joining you?” Victor asked.
“You are due, Victor. You have enemies now. You must realize that. Time is an element in your audience now.”
“I do know there were warnings. I was approached by gangs a couple of times.”
“It’s not the gangs, Victor. It is the capitalists,” Neruda said.
“Well, there is that. I thought it was the military who staged this.”
“Don’t fool yourself. They are pawns.”
“The thought crossed my mind a time or two,” Victor said.
“Yes.”
“I am thinking of my wife and my children, what about them?”
“Well, let me tell you, Victor; they are going to have a rough time. I’m taking it as my personal responsibility to watch over them,” Neruda promised.
“I’m going to hold you to that promise, Pablo.”
“For a lifetime, Joan, Manuela and Amanda will have an angel. Something goes and living continues.”
“I’ve heard people call you a lot of things but never an angel,” Victor flashed a grin. He, then, grimaced with the pain.
“Well, times change, Victor, and all we can do is change with them.”
“O.K., you’ve convinced me. I won’t worry at least not too much anyway.”
“Good.”
“Oh, one more thing, Pablo,”
“Sure.”
“Do me a favor?”
“No problem, Victor.”
“I wrote a song, here,” Victor said indicating a scholastic notebook.
“Really?”
“Could you deliver it?”
“Sure, I’ll see someone gets it,” Pablo said.
“Thanks, Pablo.”
Victor continued to sleep and dream. He didn’t know if it was night or day. Danilo’s tablets had worked their spell.
“Wake up! Victor, wake up. They are calling your name, wake up.” It was Rolando Carrasco, one of Victor’s old friends appearing out of nowhere.
“Ay,” Victor mumbled as he tried to get to his feet. He was, still, feeling the effects of the drug. That was all he felt. He was feeling no pain as they half carried him up to one of the little rooms for interrogation. The swine known as The Prince was there.
“Get him up here: I have some questions for this one,” the Prince snorted.
Victor wasn’t sure what they did to him this time. He heard himself screaming but he was so far removed it seemed like it was someone else. All he remembered was that he answered no questions and was very insulting which made the Prince, who was barely sane, even more angry and abusive. Victor couldn’t care less. He called the Prince and his entire ancestry every name he could conceive. That part felt good. When they, finally, let him go; he was past caring. The interrogation was an abject failure. The Prince felt like a fool (which he was). Worse for him, the other military men thought him an idiot. The Prince would never recover his sanity.
Victor returned to his pew and began to laugh. He sang “Pio, pio, pio, pio” under his breath. His laugh started; first, with a hysterical chuckle and soon worked it’s way into a full belly laugh. The Prince looked out of his door and Victor laughed in his face.
Victor felt exhilarated. He wasn’t rational. He didn’t care. He began to sing the song “Venceremos” (We shall win). Everyone around him recognized the words and began to sing. Soon, most in the entire Stadium were singing (5,000 voices.). The military could do nothing. Some of them sang too. Others fired their weapons into the air.
Victor could have walked right out the door with all the people behind him singing. The power of the music was overwhelming. Hearts overflowed.
Victor stayed with his people. He didn’t leave. There was that quality in the nature of the man. He never thought twice when it came to standing for what he believed.

Venceremos:
In the deep crucible of the country the popular cry arises
Already the new is announced provocatively, All of Chile begins to sing.  
Recall the brave soldier, whose example was made immortal,
Up front, first we face death, to betray to the country never.  
We will win, we will win,
A thousand chains there shall be to break,
we will win, we will win,
we will know how to defeat misery.  
Farmers, soldiers, miners,
the woman of the country also,
students, employed and working,
will pay our debt.  
We will sow the ground of glory,
socialists will be the future.
All groups will be history,
to pay, to pay, to pay.  
We will win, we will win,
A thousand chains will break,
we will win, we will win,
we will know how to defeat misery.50
As he sang, Victor was thinking of his father, Manuel. His mind drifted to the past, perhaps as a defense to what was happening in Estádio Chile. His father’s life was not like Victor’s. Manuel abused the world and himself. “Maybe we are opposites,” Victor thought.

Inner Chapter “i.”
Manuel Jara Sketch:
October 1930
Born near Chillán in the south of Chile, Manuel had many aspirations for life when he was young but ill fortune always seemed to come his way instead. He thought the only good thing, which happened, was he married Amanda but even that he abused.
Manuel wanted to be someone and never was. There was something missing: a void. His mother had been over protective and fearful. From an early age, Manuel was afraid. He couldn’t control his anger well. He didn’t know why. Never was it anything specific.
“Mamita, may I go outside and play?” Manuel would ask.
“Yes, but be careful not to soil your clothes,” Mama Jara cautioned.
“Yes, Mama,” Manuel answered.
“And don’t talk to strangers,”
“I won’t, Mama,”
“Just don’t go near the horses.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The only thing Manuel wanted in the world was a horse. The patron owned many. Manuel would watch them for hours from a distance. He liked horses better than people. One horse was his favorite, a black one. He dreamed of riding “Zorro”. When young, he didn’t go near the horses. He didn’t even sit down for fear of getting his pants dirty. Manuel just looked, watched. He massaged his hands.
One day, the patron, don Eduardo, rode past Manuel. He had seen the boy watching the horses. “Maybe this one could be a cowboy some day,” don Eduardo thought. Good horsemen were hard to find. Most didn’t really care about the animals. Ultimately, that cost money. Don Eduardo hated getting less for a horse than he thought it was worth. It not attended properly; a horse wouldn’t have the right disposition. That would cost. Don Eduardo decided to make Manuel a horseman.
“Hey, boy!” don Eduardo yelled.
“Yes, sir?” Manuel asked.
“I want you to ride the horses not just look at them,” don Eduardo commanded.
“My mother won’t let me,” Manuel said.’
“Yes she will,” don Eduardo contradicted.
“Really?” Manuel asked.
I need an exercise boy,” don Eduardo said.
“You do?” Manuel asked.
“I just said so,” don Eduardo repeated.
“Yes, Patrón,” Manuel replied.
“You are that Jara boy,” don Eduardo stated.
“Yes, sir,” Manuel answered.
“I’ll expect you tomorrow morning,” don Eduardo said as he left.
From that point, Manuel rode horses, cleaned stables, soaped tack. His special task was to clean the silver conchos that decorated the patrón’s saddles. He wondered why his mother never objected. Not one word was passed. He decided don Eduardo was more to be feared than a horse.
More immediate was the foreman, Agosto (a huaso). Often, he’d tell Manuel what he was doing wrong. The foreman was gruff. Actually, he was drunk most of the time. He’d give Manuel a sip from time to time and wink. As time progressed, the sips became bigger until Manuel was drinking regularly. Agosto hadn’t done it out of kindness but because he felt better if he wasn’t the only one.
“Get those frigging conchos clean, boy,” Agosto yelled.
“Yes sir, right away sir,” Manuel replied.
“That’s not some stupid frigging ox! That’s a horse. Treat him like one, boy!”
“I do.”
“Don’t frigging cross me, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir!”
“That’s frigging better.”
If Manuel was a quiet boy when he started at the hacienda, he was even more silent the more he worked there. Manuel was drunk most of the time. Agosto would pass out drunk in the early afternoon. Manuel would work hard in the morning and hardly work thereafter. He liked the life.
One day, after years had passed, the patron visited his horses. Luckily it was morning and both horsemen were working. The patron decided to promote Manuel to horse trainer. It didn’t mean more money; they weren’t paid. It did mean more status and that Manuel could take more food home from the crop. It meant the patron would send workers to Manuel’s house. A trainer couldn’t live in a hovel. The house was enlarged. The patron smiled. He liked the feeling he was a magnanimous man.
Eventually, while riding, Manuel saw Amanda. He had seen her at school when he went but, over night, it seemed she had grown. He was instantly in love.
Occasionally, thereafter, he’d see her at market or fiestas and developed a sudden interest in attending school in the afternoon. He was so shy and so inarticulate (and drunk) he didn’t approach her. He would watch her for hours at a distance.
“Hello Amanda!” Manuel would imagine conversations.
“Manuel!” Amanda would flash her big, brown eyes.
“Nice weather we are having,” Manuel said.
“Very nice,” Amanda replied.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
“Oh, thank you, Manuel.”
“And you have big, beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you, Manuel.”
“And, I want to marry you too.”
“O.K., Manuel.”
Manuel would sigh about the imagined conversations. There were many. Probably this kind of activity constituted the quintessential metaphor of Manuel’s life. He dreamed. In Amanda’s case, there was a difference. He married her. Resolution of his dreams was the one thing in life he could not handle. He was at a total loss. He was a man who saw failure in success.
Thereafter, he escaped the reality he had created. He left utopia finding it intolerable. The imagined conversations ceased. His dreams stopped. His reason for living was abandoned. Manuel was destitute.
Worse, just before his marriage, the patron visited in the afternoon to find his horsemen drunk and sleeping. The discovery was inevitable. Manuel was dismissed, blamed, castigated, and humiliated. The patron shouted and stamped for over an hour. His world of horses, romance, and horsemen had been shattered. The realization broke him as a man. Agosto was retained faultless for some reason Manuel could never understand.
It was then that Manuel’s new life with Amanda began. They moved into town. Manuel was a broken man. Soon thereafter, they moved from the area altogether. The reason was not that Manuel had better prospects but that he couldn’t remain in a town of broken dreams. He punished himself, in Lonquén, by working with oxen. It was the work of a man who had been destroyed: a “roto”.
In later years, Manuel was able to recover to some extent. It wasn’t easy. He went to raise melons on a small plot south of Santiago. There, he dreamed again of Amanda. He bought a horse to pull his melon cart and was as happy as was possible.
In the end, he came to his son, Victor, in a dream to attempt amends. Victor was always his favorite. He followed Victor’s career. His son did what Manuel only imagined. It was that for which he lived.
These factors had a tremendous impact on Victor’s life. To see Victor, it is essential to understand his father. Though Victor acknowledged a tremendous debt to his mother (which was real), he may not have seen his father’s influence. In a sense, it was Victor’s dreams, which led his life. Victor was a dream realizer.
There were times when Victor’s father’s rhetoric sounded was tempered with a country consciousness. Manuel didn’t say much but his few comments were powerful. He would swear. Most of it was a complaint against oppression of the common man by the rich, large landowners.
“The frigging President is going to reduce the frigging estates.” Manuel would say. He would answer himself.
“You think, Manuel?” Much of the rest of the monologue would be beneath his voice punctuated with foul language.
“The frigging President has his frigging head up his frigging ass!” Manuel knew landowners wouldn’t just give their estates away.
“What, just ask? Mr. Patrón, we’d like your frigging property. Why sure, Mr. President, no problem.”
Victor would listen and smile. Manuel was funny. Every once in a while, Manuel would glance aside and crack a wry smile at Victor. Then, he’d go back to his swearing.
Lonquén was all clay, all adobe. Victor knew: he helped plow it. Nothing could be harder.
“This frigging clay is as hard as a frigging rock!” Manuel would say.
“I hate this frigging stuff.” Manuel glanced askance at Victor and cracked a grin.
“No wonder I am totally exhausted. No man should be made to grovel in the dirt like this. I’ve been dirty all of my life.”

Chapter Twelve:
Manuel And Victor
“Victor Martinez!” the Prince shouted. No one answered. “Oh, Victor Jara Martinez,” the Prince corrected himself. He stammered the words as he said them.
Victor thought he saw the Prince blush but he wasn’t sure. Everything was swimming in front of his eyes. Barely able to think, he could still stand and walk to the new queue despite his injuries. He massaged his hands. Victor thought he recognized one of the other five in line: Littre Quiroga.
Victor though looking directly at the Prince, saw yet another man, a dark figure, an officer behind the Prince. Nothing was easy to see as the Stadium was all shadows and Victor’s eyes were watering considerably: he was dazed.
The other man stepped forward. He was some kind of officer. He had small eyes like a wolf (and wore sun glasses even in the dark). Victor thought the officer looked like a vampire. He had thin mustachios above carnivorous teeth formed into a predatory smirk like a dog about to tear flesh. He had thick jowls, waddles; bloodless lips pouting, oversized ears. Victor shuddered: he recognized the man.
The officer looked at the Prince: “It seems we have a surprise inspection here, don’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” the Prince answered not sure if the officer was joking, insane or what.
The officer’s hand slipped to his holster and caressed his 9 mm pistol. He unbuttoned the holster cover and withdrew his weapon brandishing it. All eyes were on the gun. He sneered. He frowned. Like a casual gesture of the hand, the officer moved the pistol through the air and stopped directly pointing at Victor. His derisive grin mocked Victor’s vulnerable position.
“Ah yes, we have the famous fucking singer, Victor Jara, have we not?” the official noted. “I know you.”
“Confirmed! Yes, sir, Victor Jara, sir!” the Prince shouted identifying Victor.
“Shut up you swine,” the officer said. “Open your mouth again and I blow your ass straight to hell.” The Prince looked startled but kept quiet. He shuddered.
“These five come downstairs with me, Juan,” the officer said.
“Yes, sir!” the Prince shouted but his response was shortened as the officer swung the pistol toward the Prince’s nose. The Prince’s eyes went wide. Death is so close, he thought.
“Pow!” the officer said making a mock noise of a pistol shot. He, then, blew on the mouth of the barrel as if, like in the movies, to blow the smoke away. The officer giggled. “Ever hear of sanctioned with extreme prejudice?”
“You are pretty much an idiot,” Victor volunteered in a low, scratchy voice.
“What?” the officer screeched.
“I said: ‘Your mother,” Victor sneered.
“Just for that, you get to see these pigs die first,” the officer said.
The group descended the stairs. Victor studied the officer in the darkness. “Was he serious?” Victor asked himself. Sweat began to trickle down Victor’s forehead in furrows of red across his head wound.
The downstairs was a mess. The floor was littered with discarded clothing, feces. A man, obviously dead, lay twisted on the floor. He was so badly beaten Victor could barely believe what he was seeing.  He didn’t know it was Pablo. Beside the dead man was what looked like a singed pile of laundry. He couldn’t tell if it was another person or not. He couldn’t tell it was Lolita. (She was alive.)
The rest of the floor was a place for vermin. The air was thick, reeking. A rat came from a hole in the wall, licked her nose, looked at the group and ran. The officer trained his pistol on the departing rodent and fired several times. The sound was deafening. Victor flinched. His ears rang. The rat, splattered, lay in pieces. The officer stepped on its head squashing brains and blood onto the floor as he passed.
“Forward, assholes! Guards to me!” the officer shouted. Six guards descended the stairs toward the group. Each held a FN FAL automatic weapon. They stepped over the rat.
“You afraid of a little blood?” the officer teased.
Indicating a wall, the officer told the prisoners to get in line. The guards fidgeted   and glanced in extreme agitation for a way out. There was no exit. Victor felt a sense of dread. He made a joke to try to defuse the situation but it didn’t work. “Del dicho al hecho hay mucho trecho. All talk and no action.)
The guards were tittering nervously. Victor looked, again, long and hard at the officer but this time, he did think the officer was deadly serious. Was this the moment? The man was a lunatic. The officer’s face wavered as Victor’s eyes watered. Victor looked away.
“READY!” the officer yelled. Victor looked back quickly. The whole scene appeared to swim before his eyes. Time slowed then froze.
Victor, though looking directly at the officer, saw yet another man almost lost in the gloom. “That man is about my father’s size,” Victor said to himself. Manuel Jara was a man who stood taller than he, actually, was. Maybe it is because fathers look big to sons. Manuel had a strong, hooked nose, a full head of black wavy hair and unusually intense eyes. He had a far away, unsettling look. He didn’t look entirely solid.
Victor looked, once more, at the officer. He was frozen. Time stopped dead. The guards were as ice. Victor felt very cold. His face blanched. He backed into the wall. “At least that is solid,” Victor said to himself. He looked back at his father.
A phantasm stepped from behind the glacial officer.
“My son,” the specter said.
“Father!” Victor mouthed the word silently. A chill went down his back.
“Yes,” Victor’s father, Manuel, said. The ghostly voice wavered as if Manuel was only partly there. Victor pressed his back to the wall.
“Are you alive? Are you dead? What is this?” Victor demanded.
“You know the answer to that. I don’t have much time. Death is always close,” Manuel said dismissively. His voice sounded as if he were far away. Victor strained to hear, took a step forward.
“AIM!” the officer screeched. Victor backed against the wall.
“Now, when it is too late, you come,” Victor accused his father.
“My son,” Manuel said.
“How can you call me that after all you have done?” Victor charged.
“”Because, it is true,” Manuel said without repentance.
“You deserted us,” Victor protested.
“Sorry,” Manuel returned.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
“No.”
“You come here like this?”
“Here am I,” Manuel said offering no justification.
“I can’t believe how pathetic you are!” Victor shrieked.
“It’s true,” Manuel observed.
“You take everything and offer nothing. How can you even call yourself a man?”
“Here is no man,” Manuel said pointed to the frozen officer.
“True,” Victor said. He sounded like his father. The voice was the same. “True,” Victor repeated. This time, his voice carried strong conviction. Victor reached for the blue stone in his pocket but it was gone.
“But here...” Manuel indicated himself, “Is a man.” He, then, indicated Victor and repeated the statement firmly. Manuel looked Victor in the eye.
“Yes,” Victor said. He sighed. He stepped forward. The room began to waver anew. The apparition that was Manuel dissolved, blinked and was gone. The officer and guards began, again, to move. The real world had, again, invaded.
“FIRE!” The officer bellowed at the top of his voice as he emptied his pistol into the first prisoner in line, Littre Quiroga. The body crumpled to the floor. Blood spread across the floor. Loud gasps for breath filled the air. The officer’s pistol kept clicking to fire but it was already empty. One ricochet bullet had hit the officer in the leg. He began cackling like a maniac, kicking the body and slipping in the blood.
At the sound of the pistol shot, the guards, in confusion, sprayed all the captives with concentrated fire from close range. Victor was slammed hard into the wall.
Sound faded into silence. The officer was, still, yelling but his voice was far away and insignificant. He was saying something about not shooting all the prisoners all at once but that too, was lost as the power of oblivion took hold. The voice faded into the nothingness from whence it came.
The winds of the town breathed new air into the Stadium. A delicate light came from somewhere. There were new voices singing softly to the music of a street organ. Victor opened his eyes. He was in a park: Zanjon de la Aguada near Nogales bario. Some neighbors had gathered. One recognized Victor’s face and called the authorities.
For Victor, everything was as if in a dream. He felt clear for the first time in days but everything around him was cloudy. Victor felt a strange sense of being only partly there like those first moments on a Sunday morning when he tried to figure where he was.
It was night. He could see the neighbors, thought he recognized one. They didn’t look at him but were gathered closely around six forms lying on the ground. One picked up a piece of string and was making a cat’s cradle of it. Another exclaimed: “This is Victor Jara.”
“So we wait and hope,” Victor said to himself. He had no idea for what. The others seemed to be waiting also and he was curious. It was as if something was about to happen. He smiled to himself.
The scene shifted suddenly as it does in dreams. He was lying on a cold floor in a large room. It was the city morgue (Instituto Médico Legal). Others were lined in rows as if asleep. La Calchona was sitting in a corner watching. Slowly Victor became aware he wasn’t exactly in his body. It was difficult to explain. He was floating just above his body. He became transparent for a second then returned to being solid. His wife, Joan, was there.
Beyond description, the expression on Joan’s face haunted Victor. He looked at her. The world was shattering. “This isn’t fair,” Victor said to himself. Life is never to come to this, he thought. “I don’t care, really, if I die but not this. We can go very far but not this far.” He looked at Joan again. A peculiar look came into his eyes. He massaged his hands.

October 31, 1998 Pacific Beach, California   County of San Diego
Copyright 1998 Eric J. Lindblom
© 2001 Eric J. Lindblom

Epilogue:
Lolita Thinking Back
Lolita was incarcerated during the military coup and so was Pablo. They had been arrested at the university and had been marched with the taunts and kicks of their guards to the old boxing arena: Estádio Chile (Chile Stadium). Others had been locked in Estádio Nacionál (National Stadium), which was much larger and newer but as deadly. Lolita had heard that Joan Jara had escaped both stadiums and was on her way back to England in exile.
That deadly night, in Estádio Chile, Lolita slipped past guards processing others. She escaped. She had, simply, walked to the street. On the street, she saw the sun for the first time in days. Other guards in the street made only rude calls telling her how beautiful she was. They never realized they were supposed to be guarding her. She didn’t feel very beautiful. Her clothes were singed from electric shock. Her hair was awry. Upon a close look there was blood, Pablo’s blood.
No, Pablo was not with her as she escaped. Pablo wouldn’t ever be with her. Lolita began to cry. She hid her tears.
Her life had become a nightmare, which couldn’t be stopped. She opened her mouth gasping for air to scream but there was no sound only hush. Lolita had no power. Death had been foreign to her until now.
She walked in the grand avenue at the center of the city not knowing where she was. There were military vehicles scattered everywhere and many, many machine gun emplacements. Always there were the rude calls from the military men.
Lolita walked many blocks in a stupor. She kept seeing Pablo in her mind and then there was Professor Jara. Pablo and she had seen him sitting with his bloody hands held in front of him: he never saw them, she thought. Actually, Victor Jara had seen Pablo so badly beaten to be unrecognizable but Lolita had blanked that part out of her mind. She didn’t know Pablo was gone.
A dog ran across the road. Lolita blanched. She didn’t know Galleta. It seemed she was afraid of everything now. She looked at a taxi weaving in and out of the military stations in the street. She was afraid the taxi would hit her. The taxi just about did hit her but she was saved by whatever powerful fate was guiding her home. She fingered the blue stone that was, now, in her pocket. She’d found it on the floor of Estádio Chile.
Shadows lengthened as the day passed. Lolita kept walking. She lived in the Providéncia neighborhood just east of the central part of the city. It was a distance.
To her left was a bombed building still smoking. In her dazed state, she had a vague memory that the building, La Moneda, had belonged to the President. She couldn’t quite remember. Lolita walked around a tank. Men on duty leered at her.
The high mountains in the distance were turning to purple. Violent gray clouds encircled the peaks. A hawk flew chasing a dove.
“Better get along little lady before curfew,” one of the military men said. Other than their appreciating looks, they ignored her. Another taxi sped down the avenue. One of the men flipped a half smoked cigarette after it. Another man turned his machine gun toward the taxi and said: “Pow!” then laughed. The laughter was twisted.
Lolita walked. On the Alameda, she passed statues of all the past heroes of the country like going through the pages of a huge history book. A lot had been damaged by the military. Once she knew who they were but not today. She heard the music of a street organ nearby but didn’t recognize what it was.
It was getting dark. More military men and national police were in the street. This time they looked nervously at her and hurried her on her way with thinly veiled threats. Lolita was close to home.
She turned down her street. It was dark and quiet. It was too quiet. Lolita looked quickly over her shoulder. There was only the silence punctuated by the occasional howl of a distant dog.
Lolita shuddered. The sun set as she reached her door. She didn’t seem to have her key so she knocked. After a minute the door opened.
“Mama?”
“Lolita! Oh, Lolita, where have you been? We’ve been frantic. Are you O.K.?”
“No, Mama, I am not O.K. May I come in?”
“Oh, child, come here. Come in. Where’s Pablo?”
“I don’t know, Mamita. I just need to sit down.”
“Come in and I’ll fix you some soup. Does that sound good? Sure it does.”
“Yes, Mama. I’m so very tired, Mama,” Lolita began to sob.
Lolita and Mama X went deep into the house away from the windows. Mama poured soup. It was tomato, Lolita’s favorite.
“What happened to your hair, my child?”
“I don’t know, Mama, I just don’t know. It was all so terrible, Mama. I don’t know what happened.”
“That’s all right, child. Don’t you worry about it. You just finish the soup then you can go to bed and tell me about it tomorrow.”
Between sobs, Lolita drank the hot soup. She wanted to tell Mama about all of it but she just couldn’t remember most of it. She kept thinking she’d hear Pablo’s knock at the door but knew, somehow, it would never come. She had, only, partial memory.
“Now to bed.” Mama said. “Sleep, my little Calchonita.”
Lolita climbed the stairs, past sister Jo Jo’s room, to her old room. Her feet clattered on the bare, polished stairs. The staccato sound made her flinch. She could hear short bursts of machine gun fire coming from the street as if in answer to her footsteps. She looked, again, over her shoulder; stumbled to bed and slept for a day and a half.
In later years, Lolita would remember that day at Estádio Chile in bits and pieces as if in snapshots from a dream.
She had begun to write in those days. In a dream, someone had suggested she write a testimony to what she’d seen and heard. Her style slowly improved. She published.
Lolita lived to see the aftermath. The Eleventh of September coup lasted a week to a few months but the abuse lasted seventeen years: a generation. It affected Lolita’s children. Her husband, Coco, felt terrible about that.
“Twenty five years have passed and it continues,” Coco complained.
“What, honey?” Lolita couldn’t imagine what he was talking about.
“The coup, the golpe,” Coco explained.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Lolita stated flatly.
“It’s the children,” Coco said.
“It’s O.K., Coco, I want to forget about it,” Lolita reassured.
“I’m worried,” Coco said.
“About what?” Lolita asked.
“About Victoria, our daughter,” Coco said.
Victoria was born just after the coup. Lolita and Coco had just met. They had been intimate. Lolita was bothered, as Victoria didn’t look like Coco. She looked like Pablo. Technically, it could have been either but Lolita’s intuitive sense said Pablo.
Even after years had passed, Lolita was fuzzy about that time. Sometimes she would remember clearly things she knew did not happen. For example, at times she could see Enrique getting shot. She wasn’t there but the image was clear, like a snapshot in her mind. False memory confused her. She wondered if she was sane. In every other aspect of her life, she figured, she was completely rational. It was just the one thing. It’s the thing itself. She wanted more than anything just to get rid of it as if it never happened. At rare times, she’d think the coup didn’t happen. There would be a total blank space. Then, without warning, it would all come crashing into her memory.
She felt guilty about it especially when it came to her children. At times, it seemed Victoria shared her memory: there was a telepathic relationship. Somehow, Victoria knew what Lolita knew. During the coup, Victoria was there in the womb. She did know on some fundamental, primitive, embryonic level. Genetically, she knew Pablo. Lolita would see it. Victoria had some of his gestures, some of his inflections of voice. Lolita could see Pablo in her. That hurt.
“Victoria, have you done your homework paper?” Mama Lolita would ask.
“What?” Victoria asked.
“Your homework paper,” Mama Lolita reaffirmed.
“Oh, that old thing?” Victoria asked.
“Yes, that old thing,” Mama Lolita said.
“It’s just some stupid assignment,” Victoria said sounding like Pablo.
“Victoria!”
“What?”
“Do it!”
“All right, Mama, but it doesn’t make much sense,” Victoria would surrender.
Lolita paused in her thinking, listened to an organ grinder going by outside in the street. Lolita went downstairs to the street looking for the organist, hearing him disappear around a corner. She walked nearer. No one was there. The music was coming, now, from an opposite corner as the echo bounced around buildings. Did he exist? He must: he left his music behind him. Maybe it was Victor, Lolita thought for a fraction of a second. Then, she slapped herself mentally. I have too many ghosts. “They stay with me,” she said to herself as she climbed upstairs again. I’m getting too old for this, she thought. A dove flew past.
“Mama!” Victoria exclaimed.
“What, child?” Mama Lolita asked.
“Did you hear it?” Victoria asked.
“Did I hear what?” Mama Lolita asked.
“The music,” Victoria explained.
“Yes, I did,” Lolita answered.
“He always comes at special times, you know,” Victoria stated.
“I know,” Mama Lolita admitted.
“But I never see him,” Victoria said.
“Yes,” Mama Lolita said.
“I hear him, Mamita,” Victoria said.
“As do I,” Lolita said.
“He is my daddy,” Victoria stated boldly.
“Oh?” Lolita asked.

“A thousand years of footsteps may tread this space but the blood of those who died here will not be wiped away, and the hour of their death will not be forgotten, though a thousand voices may break the silence.”
Pablo Neruda
Lonquén Memorial51

Author’s Note:
Victor Jara, present now and forever!
Joan Jara said her many years of Victor Jara work were, in ways, like a continuous funeral. In the four years I spent writing this book I had that feeling. My nightmares, however, were the worst. When I started, I never knew the work would take blood. It did.
Eric J. Lindblom
Pacific Beach, California
Copr. 1999 Eric J. Lindblom

Father Of Loaves
When he sang, everything
Victor felt moved listeners-
The damp walls
Wept red
For his song
Floated wet and strong
Tears bled
From his open heart;
Victor made songs with his hands
Like Bread
Like fish and loaves;
Swimmers
Roots of wheat now baked
Dark, sensual, sitting
Along damp walls
Splattered with blood.
Lindblom
9/24/99

Footnotes

2 Jara, Victor, Estádio Chile (his last poem)
3 Gelb, Jon “Standing In The Stream, A Conversation With Joan Jara, CHIPNEWS, http://derechoschile.com/english/news/19980119.htm, 01/12/99, 12:51PM
4 Jara, Joan, Victor, The Unfinished Song p. 118)
5 Jara, Joan, Victor, An Unfinished Song This incident is taken from Joan Jara’s book and is fictionalized to make it come alive. The facts, essentially, are true.
6 Crónica de la Muerte de Victor Jara
7
8 MIR (Movimiento Izquierda Revolucionario)
9 Image credit: “Missing”, the movie.
10 Brigada Ramona Parra (BTP) was an organization which painted political slogans on walls.
11 http://paralelo42.com/cultura/cap7.htm, 12/18/98, 10:40 a.m.
12 Barroux, R Juan Carlos, American Military   Chile   Furze Aerea de Chile (FACh)   Hawker Siddley Hunter, www.geocities.com/Pentagon/6972/CL_FACh_Hunter.html, 1/13/99,12:18 p.m.
13 Quilapayún, in Mapuche, means “three beards” denoting three bearded original members of the music group.
14 A ground breaking first New Song festival organized by the Vice Rectoria de Comunicaciones de Úniversidad Catholica
15 Plea For A Laborer
16 Jara, Victor, La Plegaría a un Labrador (The Plea of a Worker), a song.
17 New Song Movement of Chile: the name of the central focus of Victor Jara’s work and of the other folklore singers of the 1950s through the 1970s.
18 Jara, Victor, El Cigarrito, translation Eric J. Lindblom
19 The song isn’t particular to smoking, per se, but to wanting. It is as in: “How does it feel to want?”
20 During the coup, the military and the police had a policy to shoot on sight. The government of the coup (a highly questionable entity) stated they executed 140 people summarily. The numbers, most likely, are in gross error.
21 Jara, Victor, El Arado (The Plow). Translation by Eric J. Lindblom
22 The Devil’s Footstep
23 “The Companion”
24 translation: Eric J. Lindblom
25 Jara, Joan, Victor, The Unfinished Song.
26 Alarcon, Rolando, “Todo Rolando Alarcon”,  Alerce Produciones Fonográficas, S.A., Santiago de Chile, 1995.
27 Jara, Joan, article on Victor’s hands.
28 Loveman, Brian Chile, The History Of Hispanic Capitalism, massacres: San Gregorio, 1921 and Coruña, June 1925 in preparation for the military “coup” or “golpe” of 1925
29 Loveman, Brian, Ranquil massacre (1924)
30 http://paralelo42.com/cultura/glosa.htm, 12/18/98, 10:51 a.m.
31 Mapuche = Cuyamo, hurón or roble tree. P 69 Voz
32 Source: conversation with Joan Jara, Fundación Victor Jara, Santiago, Chile.
33 A play on words: relates to coup General Mario Sepulveda.
34 “Control” is a brand name for a kind of Pisco.
35 Source: Loveman, Brian.
36 Loveman, Brian.
37 Joan, in life, didn’t say “Yes” right away.
38 Carl Uthoff directed Carmina Burana.
39 Lonquén (Mapuche= lom “below” and ngen “We are”. Lonquén means “We are below” as in the meteor is below the surface of the earth. P. 45 Idioma Mapuche, p. 144 Voz de Arauco
40 Mapuche= Quilacoya where Quila is “three” and Coyam is “Roble” or “Oak trees”
41 Mapuche= Carahue where Cara is “City” and Hue is “place”.
42 Neicurehuén is the festival for Cural (in this case), which is for the inauguration of a new medicine woman or “machi”. P 179 Voz
43 Earthquake information:  10:02 a.m. May 21, 1960 (Rector Scale: 7.3), May 22, 1960 (?), 7:11 p.m. May 22, 1960 (Rector Scale: 8.5), source: U.S. Government., National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration statistics.
44 Pena originally “La Casona” (owned by Juan Capra)
45 (Sweet Woman, I want to count on you”  referenced in Jara, Joan, Victor, The Unfinished Song, p. 86.
46 National Geophysical Data Center, www.ngdc.noaa.gov/cgi bin/seg/haz/ffq_result.pl
47 Loveman
48 Loveman
49 “On her temples a bleeding rose” from the song “Who Killed Carmencita?” in Jara, Victor, Victor Jara, The Complete Works.
50 Venceremos:  Text: Claudio Iturra Musik: Sergio Ortega
51 www.amnesty.org/ailib/aipub/1996/AMR/22200196.htm, 1/12/99/10:24a.m.

241 pages
54841 words
Final Edit: Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Victor Jara Psychobiography
© 2001 Eric J. Lindblom

Copr. 2007 Eric Lindblom
All rights reserved

Please note that this is Version 3 of Slaughterhouse Chile. There are subsequent edits in existence and hardback copies that would establish the copyright rights. Lindblom

*********************
Slaughterhouse Chile
Dedicated to: Tracy Anne Pochodowicz
*********************

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