The television news starts at eight, quarter to eight is the cartoon, then the ads, then a watch hand circles the screen for a full three minutes, then a globe dances in rhythm to a symphony and cosmic rolls of thunder, continents float by, the world begins with giant Africa and little Europe, then come the two Americas, the vast silent ocean and Asia, by the symphony’s end Africa and Europe are back, and then Mufid Memija’s face, his tie in a bulky knot, a piece of paper in hand, the latest from Santiago de Chile, the presidential palace is still holding out, the military junta’s forces are advancing, the truck drivers’ strike continues, Salvador Allende has sent out a dramatic appeal to all Chileans and the international community. . Are we the international community too? I ask Grandma. On the one hand we are. . On which hand aren’t we?. . On the hand you’re waving in front of the screen so I can’t see anything.
I got an F in math and immediately decided to keep it quiet. Parent-teacher interviews aren’t for another fifteen days. That’s how long Mom won’t know. I already felt like a prisoner on death row with only fifteen days left to live. Luckily I was only seven, and when you’re seven fifteen days seems like fifteen years. A long and slow stretch lay ahead of me; the older I get, the faster the time will go by, it’ll speed up like a big intercontinental, intergalactic truck, until it goes so fast I won’t be able to catch up, so it’ll get way out in front of me and it’ll seem the biggest part of my life was back then, when I was seven years old. A quarter of a century later I’ll have the experience of a seven-year-old who accidentally fell into a machine for premature aging. Having kept quiet about the first F, I’ll keep quiet about all the next ones too, until I get tired and old, until I finish school and Mom ends up getting bored with worrying about my Fs.
I’d come home from school with a secret. I thought they might be able to read the secret F on my face. Mom couldn’t, she didn’t read what was written on my face, same goes for Dad, he didn’t dare read it because he was only here to visit his son, but Grandma, she definitely could have read it, but she doesn’t care about my Fs. She’s already sitting in front of the television, it’s almost eight, she’s smoking anxiously, waiting for the news to start. Chilean President Salvador Allende has been killed in the presidential palace of La Moneda, says Mufid Memija, bless his poor mother, says Grandma. A man with a mustache and a helmet on his head enters the palace.
Augusto Pinochet, says Memija, fascist pig, says Grandma, who’s that, I ask, he killed Allende, says Grandma, why didn’t we defend him?. . How were we supposed to defend him from Sarajevo?. . Well, didn’t he ask us to?. . What, who did he ask?. . Us, on the one hand we’re the international community. . Well, on the hand that we’re the international community, on that hand we did defend him, bless his poor mother. . Who’s Salvador Allende’s mother?. . I don’t know, poor thing, she’s probably not alive. . Why wouldn’t she be alive?. . She’s better off not alive if they killed her son. . And what if they’d killed her, would it be better if he wasn’t alive?. . No, that’s different. Sons should outlive their mothers. I looked at my mom. She wasn’t paying the news any mind. She was sitting at the kitchen table and eating beans. She’s just got back from work, and when Mom comes home from work she usually eats beans or she has a migraine, and will skip the beans, go to her room, pull the blinds, and lie down and groan so we can all hear.
Why was Salvador Allende killed? I ask her. She puts the spoon in the bowl, leans her elbows on the table, and rests her head in her hands: because fascists killed him. It is, of course, all clear to me, when fascists kill, you don’t ask why they kill; she looks at me, somehow full of pride, she’s young, and in those years young mothers were happy when their sons asked about Salvador Allende. Death didn’t give me the creeps then; death still had a certain allure, still just a scratch on the face of the earth. Fall was just a scratch too, soft, sumptuous, and auburn. I didn’t know anything about beckoning death, and I wasn’t superstitious either, so I didn’t know you shouldn’t mention death too often and invite it in, but in any case I still didn’t ask Mom whether she was going to die before I did or if she’d watch pictures on television from La Moneda Palace, like Allende’s mom. That’s if Allende’s mom was still alive of course, and I’m sure she must be when Grandma’s been dreading it so much. Everything she ever dreaded always happened.
Saturday came around, Mom was vacuuming the house and I was playing with a plastic pistol. I don’t know who I was playing war against, probably against Pinochet. Mom bent down and tried to vacuum the dust under the couch. I went up to her, pressed the pistol on her temple, and pulled the trigger. She dropped the vacuum cleaner hose, stood ramrod straight, her face in horror. I thought she was going to hit me, she didn’t, tears were streaming down her face, she ran out of the living room yelling Mom, Mom. Grandma was sitting on the terrace reading the newspaper. I knew I’d done something terrible, but that I wasn’t going to get a hiding. I slunk into the hallway, tiptoed to the terrace door, and peeked out. Mom was sobbing convulsively, her head in Grandma’s lap, Grandma was caressing her and saying it’s all right, it’ll be all right, calm down, it’s nothing. . How is it nothing, I gave birth to a monster. I went back to the living room, opened the encyclopedia to the page with the circus, but I didn’t see anything. It was hard for me to look at anything. If I’m a monster, something scary is going to happen.
Why did you do it? Grandma asked me. Mom was at work so we were alone. Because of Allende’s mom. . What’s Allende’s mom got to do with your mother, why did you shoot her?. . I was just playing. . What were you playing?. . Chile. . You were playing Chile and shot your mother?. . I was Allende. . Allende didn’t shoot his mother, for God’s sake! I’d never seen Grandma like this, she was deadly serious, but not angry, just really sad. You said it would be better if Allende’s mom weren’t alive, I was already messy with tears. I said that, but Miljenko. . Well if you said it, what did I do wrong, I was just playing Allende and just wanted his mom not to be alive. I’d never been so inconsolable. Don’t cry, Allende was good and would never have killed his mom. . Why not if it’s better she weren’t alive. I didn’t even notice that Grandma was getting more and more upset with every sentence. Sons never kill their mothers, ever, not even when it’s better, because it’s never better when sons kill their mothers and now give Allende a rest, play something else, play Partisans and Germans, kill them if you want to kill someone, but don’t you ever shoot your mother again.
By the afternoon everything was fine. Mom had forgotten I’d shot her and was quietly eating her beans. I’d quit playing Allende and was waiting for the evening news on television, for news from Santiago de Chile. At some soccer stadium Pinochet had cut a guitarist’s fingers off, a friend of Allende’s, and it was then I swore I’d never play guitar.