By Night in Chile

That week I dined with Farewell. I could no longer bear the weight, or to be perhaps more precise, the alternatively
    pendular and circular oscillations of my conscience, and the phosphorescent mist, glowing dimly like a marsh at the vesperal hour, through which my lucidity had to make its way, dragging the rest of me along. So when Farewell and I were having pre-dinner drinks, I told him. In spite of Colonel Pérez Latouche’s stern warnings about absolute discretion, I told him about my strange adventure, teaching that secret group of illustrious pupils. And Farewell, who until then had seemed to be floating in the monosyllabic apathy to which he was
    increasingly prone with age, pricked up his ears and begged me to tell the whole story, leaving nothing out. And that is what I did, I told him about how I had been contacted, about the house in Las Condes where the classes took place, the positive reactions of my students, who were most attentive, and unfailingly curious, in spite of the fact that some of the lessons took place late at night, the stipend I received for my labors, and other minor details it is hardly worth even trying to remember now. And then Farewell looked at me, narrowing his eyes, as if I had suddenly become a stranger to him or he had discovered another face behind my face or was suffering an attack of bitter envy, provoked by my
    unexpected visit to the corridors of power, and, in a voice that seemed oddly clipped, as if in that state he could only manage to get half the question out, he asked me what General Pinochet was like. And I shrugged my shoulders, as people do in novels, but never in real life. And Farewell said: A man like that, he must have something that makes him stand out. And I shrugged my shoulders again. And Farewell said: Think, Sebastián, in a tone of voice that might just as well have accompanied other words, such as Think, you little shit of a priest. And I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to be thinking. And with a sort of senile ferocity Farewell’s narrowed eyes kept trying to bore into mine.
    And then I remembered the first time I had a more or less one-to-one
    conversation with the general, before the third or fourth class, a few minutes before the start, I was sitting there balancing a cup of tea on my knees and the general, stately and imposing in uniform, came up to me and asked if I knew what Allende used to read. And I put the teacup on the tray and stood up. And the general said, Sit down, Father. Or perhaps he didn’t actually say anything but indicated that I should sit with a gesture. Then he made a remark about the class that was about to begin, something about a corridor with high walls, something about a throng of pupils. And I smiled beatifically and sat down. And then the general asked me the question, if I knew what Allende read, if I thought Allende was an intellectual. And, caught by surprise, I didn’t know how to answer, as I confessed to Farewell. And the general said to me: Everyone’s presenting him as a martyr and an intellectual now, because plain martyrs are not so interesting any more, are they? And I tilted my head and smiled
    beatifically. But he wasn’t an intellectual, unless you can call someone who doesn’t read or study an intellectual, said the general, What do you think? I shrugged my shoulders like a wounded bird. But you can’t, can you? said the general. If someone doesn’t read or study, he’s not an intellectual, any fool can see that. And what do you think Allende used to read? I moved my head slightly and smiled. Magazines. All he read was magazines. Summaries of books.
    Articles his followers used to cut out for him. I have it from a reliable source, believe me. I always suspected as much, I whispered. Well, your
    suspicions were well founded. And what do you think Frei read? I don’t know, sir, I murmured, with a little more assurance. Nothing. He didn’t read at all.
    Not a word, not even the Bible. How does that strike you, as a priest? I’m not sure I have a firm opinion on the matter, sir, I mumbled. I would have thought one of the founders of the Christian Democrats could at least read the Bible, wouldn’t you? said the general. Perhaps, I stammered. I’m just pointing it out, I don’t mean to be hostile, it’s just an observation, it’s a fact and I’m pointing it out, I’m not drawing any conclusions, not yet anyway, am I? No, I said. And Alessandri? Have you ever wondered what books Alessandri