A Long Petal of the Sea(29)
Neruda had a passionate love of Spain; he loathed Fascism and was so concerned about the fate of the defeated Republicans that he had managed to convince the new Chilean president to allow a certain number of them to come to Chile, in defiance of the intransigent opposition of right-wing parties and the Catholic Church. This was what he had been invited to come to the meeting of the Enraged to talk about, as he was briefly in Santiago, having spent weeks in Argentina and Uruguay organizing economic aid for the refugees. In Chile, the right-wing newspapers claimed that other countries offered money, but none wanted to welcome Reds, those rapists of nuns, murderers, bandits, unscrupulous atheists, and Jews, who were bound to put the country’s security in jeopardy.
Neruda told Felipe and his friends that he would be leaving in a few days for Paris, where he’d been appointed a special consul for Spanish emigration. “They don’t like me in the Chilean Legation in Paris, they’re all right-wing stooges determined to obstruct my mission,” the poet told them. “Our government is sending me there with no money, and I have to find a ship. I’ll have to see what I can do.”
He explained that his orders were to select qualified workers who could teach their trades to their Chilean counterparts. They had to be peace-loving and honorable, not politicians, journalists, or potentially dangerous intellectuals. According to Neruda, Chilean immigration policy had always been racist: consuls were given confidential instructions to refuse visas to several categories, races, and nationalities, from gypsies, negroes, and Jews to the so-called Orientals, a vague term that could mean almost anything. Now a political dimension had been added to this xenophobia: there were to be no communists, socialists, or anarchists—but since this had not yet been officially sanctioned, there was still some room for maneuver. Neruda had a herculean task ahead of him: he had to finance and equip a boat, select the immigrants, and provide them with the amount of money demanded by the government for their upkeep if they didn’t have any family or friends to receive them in Chile. This was three million Chilean pesos, which had to be deposited in the Central Bank before they embarked.
“How many refugees are we talking about?” Felipe asked him.
“Let’s say fifteen hundred men, but there’ll be more than that, because how can we leave their wives and children behind?”
“When will they arrive?”
“At the end of August or the start of September.”
“That means we’ve got more or less three months to raise funds and find them housing and work. We also need a campaign to counteract the right-wing propaganda and mobilize public opinion in favor of those Spaniards,” said Felipe.
“That’ll be easy. Popular sympathy is on the side of the Republicans. Most of the Spanish colony here in Chile, the Basques and Catalans, are ready to help.”
The Enraged said their farewells at one in the morning, and Felipe drove the poet in his Ford to the house where he was staying. On his return, he found Juana waiting for him in the dining room with a jug of hot coffee.
“What’s wrong, Juana? You ought to be asleep.”
“I was listening to what those pals of yours were saying.”
“Spying on us?”
“Your pals eat like jailbirds, not to mention how they drink. And those women with painted faces drink even more than the men. And they’re so rude: they don’t ever say hello or thank you.”
“I can’t believe you waited up just to tell me that.”
“I waited up so that you could explain to me why that poet is famous. He started reciting and would never shut up: more and more nonsense about fish in vests and crepuscular eyes—who knows what kind of illness that is.”
“They’re metaphors, Juana. That’s what poetry is.”
“Go teach your grandmother, may she rest in peace, to suck eggs. I know what poetry is: Mapudungun is pure poetry. I bet you didn’t know that! And I’m sure that Neruda of yours didn’t either. I haven’t heard my language in many years, but I still remember. Poetry is what stays in your head and isn’t forgotten.”
“Of course, and music is what you can whistle, isn’t it?”
“You said it, ni?o Felipe.”
* * *
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ISIDRO DEL SOLAR RECEIVED the telegram from his son Felipe on the last day of their stay at the Savoy Hotel, after spending a whole month in Great Britain with his wife and daughter. In London they visited the usual tourist sights, went shopping, attended the theater and horse races. The Chilean ambassador, yet another of Laura Vizcarra’s many cousins, put an official car at their disposal so that they could tour the countryside and visit the Oxford and Cambridge colleges. He also had them invited for lunch at the castle of a duke or marquess—they weren’t sure of the exact rank, as titles of nobility had long since been abolished in Chile, and no one remembered them. The ambassador warned them about the proper codes of behavior and dress: they were to pretend that the servants did not exist, but it was best to make a fuss over the dogs; they were not to comment on the food, but to go into raptures about the roses; to wear simple and, if possible, old clothes—no flounces or silk neckties, because nobles dressed like the poor in the country. They traveled to Scotland, where Isidro had secured a deal for his Patagonian wool, and to Wales, where he was hoping to do the same, but which fell through.