Since your exile in Barcelona you’ve said that literature is created with memory. How did the experience that you recount in Persona non grata affect you throughout your life?
With creative memory, memory that invents. In his surrealist manifestos, André Breton spoke about profound memory, a flow that disappears and reappears, that “allows that which floats to float,” a phrase I used as an epigraph in my first novel, El peso de la noche. My work has been a balanced amalgam of memory and fiction, that sometimes leans more to one side and sometimes more to the other.
I was affected by the experience I tell and the publication of the book that tells it. My worst doubts about true socialism were confirmed with my stay on the island of Cuba between December, 1970 and the end of March 1971. From then on, I’ve not changed my criticism, but deepened it, and since then, I haven’t gone back. The publication caused an immediate, unrelenting ban, in the literary, editorial, and personal. It’s a ban that has taught me many things. The red censorship in the West has been one of the greatest and most profound experiences of my life. But I’ve survived fine, and I notice that the health of my censors from that time, if they are alive, is increasingly precarious.
A THOUSAND FORESTS
FROM LAS MÚSCARAS (MASKS)
[STORIES]
On Saturday, just as Verónica had said, the family arrived: the parents, a petite and opinionated aunt, and a boy about ten years old with something monstrous about his face. Verónica had already warned us that her younger brother was a monster. Behind them, in the latest model convertible, came José Raimundo. I found him unpleasant from the start. Short, chubby-cheeked, he gave the impression of a guy who was pampered, soft, and tyrannical at the same time. All of his country clothing looked like it came straight from the store. I watched him get out of the car, shake hands and greet everyone in the same way, with a mechanical nod and smile.
At that time, he showed no preference for you. Not that afternoon either, when we went for a walk with the aunt and the monster. But the following afternoon I noticed that he stayed close to you and tried to make jokes and kid around, and you laughed halfheartedly. Luckily, he announced after lunch that he had to return to Santiago. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I have some business in Santiago first thing tomorrow.” We waited to hear the car’s engine and then, Verónica and I celebrated his departure, Verónica, boisterously, I, with more discretion because I wasn’t in my own home. Aunt Charito leaped to José Raimundo’s defense; she said he was “talented,” always at the top of his class, in high school and university; and his charm was even more significant considering he was an only child, spoiled by a rich family. “Besides,” added Aunt Charito, addressing you spitefully, “it seemed to me that he was fawning over you quite a bit.” You vigorously denied Aunt Charito’s claim, blushing slightly. “Poor Cristina!” Verónica exclaimed. “The admirer she ended up with!” “Why poor?” asked Charito. “A great match! What more could she want?” “Tell me,” asked Verónica, exasperated, appealing to your direct testimony: “What did you think of my cousin? Tell me honestly!” “He’s not that boring,” you responded, conciliatory, and both Verónica and Aunt Charito thought that you admitted they were right. “You see!” exclaimed Aunt Charito, and Verónica protested, absolutely certain that you were speaking that way out of sheer politeness. I had no doubt, for my part, that Verónica was right. With his pudgy plumpness, his clichéd manners, his impeccable clothes, José Raimundo was precisely the type of person we looked down on, who would never have access to the clique that we formed then. We could disagree about many things, you, Verónica, whose affinity had been revealed to us within a few minutes, and I, but a disagreement on this matter seemed inconceivable to us. The discussion about José Raimundo lasted a long time and eventually Aunt Charito retired to her room, upset, emphatically declaring that in that house nobody escaped gossip. “Don’t bad-mouth me, please,” she said, full of resentment, before leaving the living room, and as soon as she disappeared through the doorway, Verónica burst into laughter that must have burned her ears.
We had a great time with Verónica, there’s no denying it. It had been a long time since we’d had such a great time. The monster was a bit annoying, at times; but rather calm. Pallid, with a sickly and hateful expression, he’d rub against his mother’s skirts, and she tolerated his most absurd whims. One time he threw a temper tantrum in the dining room and grabbed a steak with his hand and threw it on the ground. It made me want to throttle him. But, in general, he didn’t interfere with us; he followed after his mother. On the other hand, Aunt Charito liked meddling and giving her opinion. After that first argument, however, she was more discreet. Of course, she didn’t mention the subject of José Raimundo. On the afternoon walks she became philosophical and talked about religion and death. She would look at, for instance, the sunset and say: “How can there be people who do not believe in the existence of God! It’s impossible for there to be a sincere atheist. Impossible!” I dared to contradict her, not everyone has received His grace, which allows them to believe; the Catholic doctrine itself supports it . . . “True,” she said, and nevertheless, the twilight, the vast horizon, filled with red clouds, which she contemplated with her arms crossed, in rapture . . . We stayed silent. At times, Aunt Charito’s passion was contagious.
—What time do you have?, you ask, without lifting your eyes from your sewing.
—It’s still early. Five of nine.
We were on the top of a hill and in the background you could see the narrow creek, with deep water, that slowly licked the branches of the willows. One afternoon we got onto a raft of rotting planks, in swimsuits, and Aunt Charito started screaming at us, hysterically, from the shore, to come back, that the raft could break. To upset her, Verónica, who was a very good swimmer, began to rock the raft, and you clung to me shrieking with fright. I swim perfectly, but that afternoon I was afraid, filled with fear and revulsion at the idea of falling into the cold, slow-moving water, teeming with fish that would suddenly leap near us, without our being able to see them (we only saw them circle on the surface; in the depths we imagined slimy creatures, tadpoles, larvae, the mud on the bank would crumble when we tried to get out, eroded by moisture, roots resembling snakes). Verónica anticipated my fear and prolonged the ride, full of sadistic joy. Only your crying was able to reach her, at last, and she brought the raft closer to shore. “Don’t joke that way again,” pleaded Charito, her nerves shaken. Verónica, without paying her any mind, submerged herself with one leap and swam to the opposite bank. “Get in!” she shouted from there, clinging to some roots, but you said that you swam very badly and I didn’t want to get in. The mud in the creek produced an insurmountable revulsion in me.
—How strange!, you say. It got pretty late.
You start to abandon your sewing. You look toward the dining room. Then you decide that you have nothing else to do, that this work is the best for easing impatience. The clock, a few minutes late, chimes nine times.
—You see?, I say, It’s not that late.
When we returned to Santiago, my father had become significantly worse. Insomnia kept him from getting any rest. At the dinner table he would drum his fingers and stare into the void. At times, the pace would increase and become troubling. Foods seemed bland to him, after trying two or three bites, he would push the plate away with an expression of disgust. “Don’t eat, if you don’t want to, but don’t leave plates in the middle of the table.” His only response, the increasing pace of his fingers. It’s not that he didn’t want to respond; it’s that he hadn’t heard a single syllable. He forgot the most fundamental things—putting on a tie, buttoning his pants—and spoke with little coherence. His habit of walking the halls at night and inopportunely entering bedrooms had gotten worse. No
