By Night in Chile

realize that the pigeon killed by Fever was the mascot for an athletic competition, and the athletes were visibly displeased or perturbed, likewise the local society ladies, who had sponsored the rac e and proposed the idea of opening the proceedings by releasing a dove, and the local communists were displeased too, since they had supported the ladies’ proposal, although for them that dove, now dead but flying free just a moment before, did not symbolize the peaceful sublimation of rivalry in sport, for them it was Picasso’s dove, a bird with a double meaning, so, in a word, all the good folk of Saint Quentin were upset, all but the children, who were searching wide-eyed for Fever’s shadow in the sky, and had gathered around Fr.
    Paul to ask pseudoscientific and pseudotechnical questions about his marvelous bird, and Fr. Paul, with a smile on his face, apologized to those present, and gestured as if to say, Sorry, anyone can make a mistake, and then he turned his attention to the young ones, whom he amused with answers that were always Christian in spirit if sometimes a little free with the facts. And then I went to Paris, where I spent about a month writing poetry, frequenting museums and libraries, visiting churches whose beauty brought tears to my eyes, now and then drafting a bit of my report on the preservation of buildings of national
    historical interest, with special emphasis on the use of falcons, sending my reviews and articles back to Chile, reading the books that arrived from
    Santiago, eating and walking around. From time to time, for no particular reason, Mr. Raef sent me a brief letter. Once a week I would go to the Chilean embassy to peruse our national newspapers and chat with my friend the cultural attaché, a very Chilean, very Christian, not overly cultivated fellow, who was teaching himself French by doing the crossword in
Le Figaro
. Then I traveled to Germany, toured Bavaria, went to Austria and Switzerland. After that I went back to Spain. I traveled around Andalusia. Didn’t think much of it. I returned to Navarre. Splendid. I visited the land of the Galicians. I went to Asturias and the Basque country. I took a train bound for Italy. I went to Rome.
    I knelt before the Holy Father. I cried. I had disturbing dreams. I saw women tearing their clothes. I saw Fr. Antonio, the priest from Burgos, who, as he lay dying, opened one eye and said: It’s wrong, my friend, it’s wrong. I saw a flock of falcons, thousands of falcons flying high over the Atlantic ocean, headed for America. Sometimes the sun went black in my dreams. Sometimes a very fat German priest appeared and told me a joke. Father Lacroix, he said to me, I’m going to tell you a joke. One day the Pope is having a quiet conversation with a German theologian in one of the rooms of the Vatican. Suddenly two French
    archaeologists burst in, very agitated and nervous, and they tell the Holy Father they have just got back from Israel with some very good news and some rather bad news. The Pope beseeches them to come out with it, and not to leave him in suspense. Talking over each other, the Frenchmen say the good news is they have discovered the Holy Sepulchre. The Holy Sepulchre? says the Pope. The Holy Sepulchre. Not a shadow of a doubt. The Pope is moved to tears. What’s the bad news? he asks, drying his eyes. Well, inside the Holy Sepulchre we found the body of Christ. The Pope passes out. The Frenchmen rush to his side and fan his face. The only one who’s calm is the German theologian, and he says: Ah, so Jesus really existed? Sordel, Sordello, that Sordello, the master. One day I decided it was time to go back to Chile. I went by plane. My country was not in a healthy state. This is no time to dream, I said to myself, I must act on my principles. This is no time to go chasing rainbows, I said, I must be a patriot.
    In Chile things were not going well. For me, things had been going well, but not for my country. I am not a fanatical nationalist, but I do sincerely love the land of my birth. Chile, my Chile. What on earth has come over you? I would sometimes ask, leaning out of my open window, looking at the glow of Santiago in the distance. What have they done to you? Have my countrymen gone mad? Who is to blame? And sometimes, walking down a hallway in the college or the newspaper offices, I would ask: How long do you think you can go on like this, Chile? Are you going to change beyond recognition? Become a monster? Then