“I’m happy to hear that. But there is a reason why I cannot accept your offer.”
“Explain yourself!”
“The coalition that supports the No is made up of sixteen political parties! It’s such a broad conglomerate that it’s impossible to think it has its own identity. And advertising a product requires being able to define the product with total clarity. Success is not achieved with ambiguities. There are so many parties behind the No that I don’t even know them. And you?”
“There are sixteen, plus the Communists, who support us but are not part of the coalition.”
“Could you list them?”
“Well, there is us, the Christian Democrats, then the Socialists, the Social Democrats, the Liberal Party, the … Can I now say ‘and so on’?”
“And you expect me to come up with a clear advertising concept from such disparate movements?”
“If we didn’t know that you’re the best, we wouldn’t have turned to you.”
The advertising agent got up, victim of a sudden itch that made him scratch his neck. He drew the curtains and looked at the snowy peaks of the Andes.
“Chile’s such an odd country! Even though I’m its best ad agent, I’ve been laid off in a country where everything’s advertising. Because I’m a good ad agent, I get threats, I’m sent to jail, they torture me, then throw me to the street again, branded as an agitator. When I’m offered a job I cannot accept, it’s the best salary in the world. When I’m offered a campaign I should accept, it’s ad honorem.”
The senator went to the window and put a fraternal hand on Bettini’s shoulder.
“Your personal experience perfectly matches the public situation. A fierce dictatorship that took power with cannon shots, air raids, torture, prison, terror, and exile decides to stay in power not by force but with the Versaillesque gesture of calling a plebiscite. And on top of all that irony, it offers its opponents, for the first time in fifteen years of complete censorship, fifteen minutes on TV to convince the people to vote against the dictator.”
“They’re going to legitimize themselves internationally as a democracy.”
“And the only way to prevent that from happening is if the strategy backfires on them. That is, Mr. Bettini, if you make the No win. What do you say?”
Bettini closed his eyes and rubbed them vigorously as if to get rid of a bad dream.
“My dear Senator, I don’t hold out any hope for the triumph of the No. I don’t think that this country, ideologically poisoned and terrified, will dare to vote against the Yes, and I haven’t the slightest idea what the slogan of the campaign could be.”
Don Patricio patted Bettini’s shoulder affectionately once again, and raising his thick eyebrows, smiled and said, “That’s a good beginning. Do you accept, then?”
Over Don Patricio’s shoulder, Bettini was astounded to see his wife giving him the thumbs-up from behind the half-open door.
“Okay, Senator, here you’ll have the Chilean translation for the Japanese word ‘hara-kiri’—I accept.”
The politician hugged him, then put on his hat left the house in a rush, just in case Bettini changed his mind.
From the window, the advertising agent saw the senator getting into his car. He also observed that, as soon as the senator’s car left, another car left behind his.
He decided not to worry. As long as he didn’t appear publicly in the campaign, the minister of the interior wouldn’t be unhappy. As for Don Patricio’s safety, he should be okay — at least until the plebiscite took place. If what Pinochet wanted right now was to legitimize himself as a democratic ruler, he couldn’t have the leader of the opposition killed. That was Magdalena’s good point. But that would work only in a rational country, not in one where arbitrariness rules.
Now he did allow himself to light a cigarette and exhaled the first puff sitting at the piano. He didn’t come up with a song to promote the No. Instead, as soon as he touched the keys, an ironic circus tune came out of his fingers. Then, like the great Garrick, laughing so as not to cry, he improvised a few verses:
I’m the Superman of advertising.
One day I’m here, next day I’m not.
One day I sell handcuffs, next day I sell freedom.
I die today with laughter, tomorrow I’ll be shot.
I’m the Superman of advertising.
If it doesn’t rain, they hit me
and if I make it pour, they hit me as well.
Even if they say they love me, they all hit me.
Magdalena came into the studio and leaned on the piano.
“So?” Adrián brushed the ash off his lapel and, taking a deep puff of the cigarette, closed the black lid.
“David and Goliath,” she said.
11
AFTER SCHOOL, I don’t feel like going back home and stay on the street corner. When Dad’s not home I don’t keep things tidy. I don’t do the dishes and let everything pile up in the kitchen.
I try to remember the phone number of the guy who would talk to the priest. He would probably have some information already. But I shouldn’t call him from home. I wait for the pay phone at the bus stop to become available. I rub the hundred-peso coin until the metal gets warm.
That’s what I’m doing when Professor Valdivieso approaches me.
“A cup of coffee, Santos?”
“What for?”
“For the cold, I think.”
We walk up to Café Indianápolis and lean on the counter looking at the waitress’s bottom wrapped in a miniskirt two sizes too small. When they bring us the steamy coffee, the teacher puts his hands around the cup to warm them up, and I pour so much sugar that Patricia Bettini would surely disapprove.
“Santos,” he says, “this is not an easy situation for me. It’s not my fault that I have to teach you in the class that your father was teaching.”
“It’s not my father’s fault either.”
“I accepted the job not to make your father’s life more complicated but because life must go on. Our children have to get an education, no matter what.”
“An ethical education,” I say.
“I don’t care what kind of political opinions your father may have had.”
“Well, they’re nothing special. His fundamental conviction’s to fight against Pinochet.”
“Do you see? Your father shouldn’t mix a political situation like the one the country’s going through with the philosophy of Plato, who lived two thousand years ago.”
“Professor Valdivieso, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He takes a sip of coffee and gets some foam above his upper lip, which he wipes off with his sleeve. I see that the pay phone has just become available and squeeze the coin in my pocket.
He takes a folded piece of paper out of his jacket and flattens it on the metal counter. It’s a handwritten text. He reads it aloud, but comes closer to me, and in a confidential tone: “ ‘We can then say that Chileans under Pinochet’s dictatorship are like the prisoners in Plato’s cave. We’re looking at sheer shadows of reality, misled by a TV that’s corrupt, while brilliant men are confined to dark prison cells.’ ”
“Where did you get this, Professor?”
“These are the notes of one of your classmates, Santos. The student handed them over to the principal.”
I stir my coffee so briskly I spill it all over the saucer. Behind the cashier, there’s a shelf with cigarettes of all brands. The black tobacco my father smokes is there, too.