The parties favoring the No called on voters to choose No without hatred, violence, or fear.
On October 5, Bettini arrived at his polling station, near Egaña Square, accompanied by Magdalena and Patricia. He stood in line under a cheerful sun, buying, every once in a while, a few small bottles of mineral water from the street vendors. As he was approaching his voting table, his heart began to pump faster. That apparent routine made him feel happy. He had imagined everything more solemn and complex. But it wasn’t. There he was. One among hundreds in his Ñuñoa. One among hundreds of thousands in Santiago. One among millions in Chile. Where might Little Kinky Flower be voting? Bettini was as thankful for his anonymity as the singer was happy with his popular acclaim.
If the No won, he vowed he wouldn’t ask anything else from life. Maybe to rent a house on the beach, to take his favorite cassettes, his Greek history books. (Hmm! “The gods blind those whom they wish to destroy.”)
If the No won …
Actually, he couldn’t conceive a future beyond the No. It felt weird to think that this was only one step on the way to something bigger. This insignificance, his rainbow, his handful of images, Alarcón’s waltz, deep down, they were … everything.
The crowning moment of his life.
Let others worry about the future. He — he raised a fist and kept it in the air when an acquaintance greeted him from the other side of the line — wanted only to enjoy the present. The eternity of this precise moment.
We only need for the No to win.
——
AT MIDNIGHT, he leaned out of the window just before the secretary of the interior made the results known. The commanders of the armed forces had gauged the country’s climate and it was too late for them to ignore or falsify the votes.
“There are already so many people celebrating in the streets that it would be an atrocity to start shooting,” the minister of the interior reported to the palace.
Undersecretary Cardemil announced that the No had won fifty-three percent of the votes.
The journalists, swinging between ecstasy and disbelief, looked for the minister of the interior. But they didn’t find him.
Finally, Pinochet consented to talk to them. Wearing civilian clothes and overbright makeup, he delivered his verdict before dozens of cameramen from the national and international press. “One day, the Jews also had a plebiscite. They had to choose between Christ and Barabbas. And they chose Barabbas.”
And he left with a smile. “No more questions.”
At Bettini’s house, the glasses of white and red wine were followed by a bottle of champagne, and the champagne and the phone calls were followed by a shift change at the gray car, which remained in the same place since the day it was first parked there.
It was a constant and punctual presence. A massive stillness. Sometimes there was nobody in it. At times two men got in. Sometimes the same two men who were there the first day came back. Sometimes two different guys were there. They turned on the radio, listened to rock music, then shifted to cumbias, and one day they even played Mozart’s A Little Night Music very loud.
The car was never moved. It was always there. Permanently. Without the license plates.
The two men used to bring paper bags from the market on Irarrázabal Street. They’d peel oranges and throw the skin on the ground.
One smoked. The other didn’t.
The guys in the night shift didn’t smoke.
In the morning, a motorcyclist came with a thermos of coffee and sandwiches for them.
At five in the morning, Patricia came in bringing the international press wires. The Italian consul had gotten them for her. He came in with the girl, his teeth chiseled with toothpaste, his hair still wet from an early shower, a decoration on his lapel, and some Parmesan cheese and prosciutto.
He gave Patricia the honor of reading the wire from Le Monde. She got the meaning of the text in a few blinks and mentally translated it.
Relatives and friends had collapsed on the carpet and armchairs like exhausted warriors.
“Le Monde: ‘There are few precedents to judge what has happened and is still happening in Chile. The most authoritarian and repressive regime in the history of the nation has become a magma of hesitation, impotence, and shock.’”
Patricia looked at her father and told him in a solemn tone, “Dad, now I want you to stand up.”
Adrián obeyed her, smacking the air, because he expected a joke. But Patricia was serious. He had never seen her so grave. So respectable. She seemed to have grown up in just a few hours. As if the feast, the wine, the tiredness, the excitement had made her become a grown woman, far beyond her eighteen years.
“And this is El País, from Spain, Dad: ‘Fifteen minutes were enough to put an end to fifteen years.’ ”
Bettini estimated that in the last few weeks there hadn’t been a single night he didn’t feel about to have a heart attack. Not now, please, he ordered his fucking heart. He swallowed saliva and, without even a smile, said to his audience, “El País, from Spain! Se non è vero, è ben trovato”
39
“MR. FERNÁNDEZ. What an honor, Minister!”
“Former minister, Bettini. I’ve just gave my resignation, and I’m putting all my documents together to go home.”
“Life takes many turns, Dr. Fernández.”
“Sure. But don’t think that this is the end of the story. You were able to make sixteen cats and dogs agree to support one candidate, some Mr. No. But now you’ll have to make them agree on nominating one presidential candidate. They’ll rip each other’s eyes out.”
“In this campaign we learned how to work together.”
“Together? With duct tape and glue, Bettini. The real winner of this plebiscite is Pinochet, because the forty-something percent of the votes he got are for him alone. On the contrary, you’ll have to divide your fifty-something percent among sixteen parties. With his forty percent, my general can do whatever he likes.”
“Another coup d’état, like the one in 1973 against Allende?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think so, Minister.”
“Former!”
“I don’t think so, Former Minister. This time he can’t count on the armed forces, or the support of the United States. And there’s something else he had in 1973 that he doesn’t have now.”
“What is that, Bettini?”
“Someone to overthrow! Or will he be kind enough to overthrow himself?”
“My general will be remembered as a great democratic man. Tell me, what other ‘dictator’ called a plebiscite, and when he lost it, went home? Don’t rest on your laurels, my friend. This little country needs to be managed with authority, not with silly songs like, ‘It feels so good to say No.’”
“Why did you call me, Mr. Former Minister?”
“Ah, you’re right. With so much nonsense, I forgot to tell you. Look, Bettini. Take a look out the window. You’ll see a gray car without license plates …”
“Yes. I see it.”
“Well, they’re my boys.”
“Yes, it’s clear that they’re your boys.”
“How many are there?”
“Three, four … Perfect attendance. Gala day.”