A Long Petal of the Sea(65)
Supporters of the utopian socialist revolution in democracy didn’t wait for Congress’s decision. They poured onto the streets to celebrate this long-awaited triumph. Dressed in their Sunday best, entire families, from grandparents to grandchildren, came out singing, euphoric, astonished but without the slightest hint of disorder, as if they had all agreed on some mysterious form of discipline. Victor, Roser, and Marcel mingled with the crowd waving flags and singing that the people united would never be defeated. Carme didn’t go with them, because as she said, at the age of eighty-five she wasn’t going to live long enough to get enthusiastic about anything as unpredictable as politics. In reality, by now she went out very little, devoting herself entirely to looking after Jordi Moline, who was suffering the pangs of old age and rarely wanted to leave home. He had remained young in spirit until he lost his tavern. The Winnipeg, which had become a landmark in the city, had disappeared when the whole block was razed to make way for some tall towers that Moline was convinced would be toppled by the next earthquake.
Carme, by contrast, was as healthy and energetic as ever. She had shrunk until she looked like a plucked bird, a heap of bones and skin, with little hair left and a cigarette permanently dangling from her lips. She was tireless, efficient, brusque in manner but secretly sentimental. She did all the housework and looked after Jordi as she would a backward child. The pair planned to watch the spectacle of the Left’s electoral victory on the television with a bottle of red wine and Spanish serrano ham. They saw the columns of people with banners and torches, and witnessed their fervor and optimism. “We’ve already lived this in Spain, Jordi. You weren’t there in ’36, but I can tell you it’s the same thing. I just hope it doesn’t end badly like it did over there,” was Carme’s only commentary.
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AFTER MIDNIGHT, WHEN THE crowds in the streets began to thin out, the Dalmaus bumped into Felipe del Solar, unmistakable in his camel-hair jacket and mustard-colored suede cap. They embraced like the good friends they were: Victor soaked in sweat and hoarse from shouting, and Felipe as impeccable as ever, smelling of lavender, with the elegant aloofness he had been cultivating for more than twenty years. He bought his clothes in London, where he went twice a year, and British sangfroid suited him well. He was at the demonstration with Juana Nancucheo, whom the Dalmaus recognized instantly because she looked exactly the same as in those far-off days when she took the tram to visit Marcel.
“Don’t tell me you voted for Allende!” Roser exclaimed, embracing Felipe and Juana in turn.
“Of course not, Roser. I voted for the Christian Democrats, even though I don’t believe in the virtues of either democracy or Christianity, but I couldn’t give my father the pleasure of voting for his candidate. I’m a monarchist.”
“A monarchist? Good God! Weren’t you the only progressive among those troglodytes in your clan?” Victor exclaimed good-humoredly.
“A sin of youth. A king or queen is what we need in Chile, just as in England, where everything is more civilized than here.” Felipe laughed, chewing on the unlit pipe he always carried with him as a fashion accessory.
“What are you doing in the street, then?”
“We’re taking the pulse of the rabble. Juana voted for the first time. Women have had the vote for twenty years, but it’s only now she’s used it to vote for the Right. I can’t get it into her head that she belongs to the working class.”
“I vote the same as your father, ni?o Felipe. As Don Isidro says, we’ve seen this story of the mob emboldened before.”
“When?” asked Roser.
“She means Pedro Aguirre Cerda’s government,” Felipe explained.
“It’s thanks to that president that we’re here, Juana. If you remember, he brought over the refugees on the Winnipeg,” said Victor.
“I must be almost eighty, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory, youngster.”
Felipe told them his family was barricaded in Calle Mar del Plata waiting for the Marxist hordes to invade the upper class neighborhoods. They believed in the terror campaign they themselves had created. Isidro del Solar had been so convinced the conservatives would win that he had planned a celebration with friends and fellow right-wingers. The chefs and waiters were still at the house, waiting for divine intervention to change the course of events so that they could serve the champagne and oysters. Juana was the only one who had wanted to see what was going on in the street, out of not political sympathies but curiosity.
“My father announced he was going to take the family to Buenos Aires until this godforsaken country regains its senses, but my mother refuses to move. She doesn’t want to leave Baby alone in the cemetery,” Felipe added.
“What news is there of Ofelia?” asked Roser, realizing Victor didn’t have the nerve to mention her.
“She missed the madness of the election. Matias was appointed chargé d’affaires in Ecuador. He’s a career diplomat, so the new government can’t dismiss him. Ofelia has taken the opportunity to study with the painter Guayasamin. Savage expressionism, sweeping brushstrokes. The family thinks they’re hideous, but I have several of her paintings.”
“And her children?”
“Studying in the United States. They’re going to spend this political cataclysm far from Chile as well.”