By Night in Chile

read? No sir, I whispered, smiling. Well, he read romances. President Alessandri read
    romances, I ask you, romances, what do you think of that? It’s amazing, sir.
    Although of course, it’s what one would have expected from Alessandri, or at least it makes sense that he should have been drawn to that sort of reading matter. Do you see what I’m getting at? I’m afraid I don’t, sir, I said, looking pained. Well, poor old Alessandri, said General Pinochet, fixing me with his gaze. Oh, of course, I said. Do you see now? Yes I do, sir, I said. Can you remember a single article he wrote, something he actually wrote himself, as opposed to what his hacks used to turn out? I don’t think I can, sir, I
    murmured. Of course you can’t, because he never wrote anything. And the same goes for Frei and Allende. They didn’t read, they didn’t write. They pretended to be cultured, but not one of them was a reader or a writer. Maybe they knew something about the press, but they knew nothing about books. Indeed, sir, quite, I said, smiling beatifically. And then the general said: How many books do you think I’ve written? My blood ran cold, as I said to Farewell. I had no idea. Three or four, said Farewell confidently. In any case I just didn’t know.
    And I had to admit it. Three, said the general. But the thing is they have all been with little-known or specialist publishers. But drink your tea, Father, or it’ll get cold. What a wonderful surprise, I said, I didn’t know. Well, they’re military books, military history, geopolitics, aimed at a specialist readership.
    That’s marvellous, three books, I said, my voice faltering. And I’ve published countless articles in journals, even in North America, translated into English, of course. I would love to read one of your books, sir, I whispered. Go to the National Library, they’re all there. I’ll be there tomorrow, without fail, I said. The general didn’t seem to have heard. Nobody helped me, I wrote them all on my own, three books, one of them quite a thick book, with no help, burning the midnight oil. And then he said: Countless articles, on all sorts of topics, but always of course related to military matters. For a while we sat there in silence, although I kept nodding the whole time, as if inviting him to go on talking. Why do you think I’m telling you all this? he said, out of the blue. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled beatifically. To avoid any misunderstanding, he declared. So you know I’m an avid reader, I read books about history and
    political theory, I even read novels. The last one I read was
White
    Dove
by Lafourcade, very much a book for the younger generation, but I’m not one of those snobs who never looks at anything new, so I read it, and I enjoyed it. Have you read it? Yes sir, I said. And what did you think? It’s excellent, sir, in fact I reviewed it in quite glowing terms. Well it’s nothing to get carried away about either, said Pinochet. No, not carried away, I said.
    And there we sat in silence again. Suddenly the General put his hand on my knee, I said to Farewell. A shiver ran down my spine. For a moment my mind was prey to a surging multitude of hands. Why do you think I want to learn about the
    fundamentals of Marxism? he asked. The better to serve our country, sir.
    Exactly, in order to understand Chile’s enemies, to find out how they think, to get an idea of how far they are prepared to go. I know how far I am prepared to go myself, I assure you. But I also want to know how far they are prepared to go. And I’m not afraid of studying. One should aim to learn something new every day. I’m always reading and writing. All the time. Which is more than you could say for Allende or Frei or Alessandri, isn’t it? I nodded three times. So what I’m saying, Father, is that you won’t be wasting your time with me, and I won’t be wasting my time with you, will I? Absolutely not, sir, I said. And when I finished telling this story, Farewell was still staring at me, his half closed eyes like empty bear traps ruined by time and rain and freezing cold. It was as if Chile’s great twentieth-century literary critic were dead. Farewell, I whispered, Did I do the right thing or not? And since there was no reply, I repeated the question: Did I do my duty, or did I go beyond it? And Farewell replied with another question: Was it a necessary or an unnecessary course of action? Necessary, necessary, necessary, I said. That seemed