My Invented Country (11 page)

There is no doubt of a tremendous disparity between rich and poor, just as there is in nearly all of Latin America. At least the Chilean people, poor as they may be, are well educated, informed, and aware of their rights—though
they don't always reap the benefits of them. Poverty, nevertheless, continues to raise its ugly head, especially in times of crisis. I can't resist the temptation to copy a paragraph my mother wrote me from Chile following the floods of the winter of 2002, which buried half the country in an ocean of filthy water and mud.

Just as a Chilean is annoyed by the success of others, he is equally magnanimous during disasters, at which time he sets aside his pettiness and is instantly converted into the most supportive and generous person in this world. There are sev
eral annual television marathons in Chile devoted to charity, and everyone, particularly the most humble among us, throws himself into a true frenzy to see who can give the most. Occasions for appealing to public compassion are never wanting in a nation eternally rocked by catastrophes that shake the foundations of life, floods that sweep away entire towns, gigantic waves that deposit ships in the center of a plaza. We are created in the idea that life is precarious, and we are always waiting for the next calamity to happen. My husband—who is six feet tall and a bit creaky in the knees—could never understand why I keep the glasses and plates on the lowest shelves in the kitchen, which he can reach only when lying on his back . . . until the 1988 earthquake in San Francisco destroyed the neighbors' china while ours escaped unscathed.

Not everything is guilt-ridden breast-beating and charitable works performed in order to redress economic injustices. Oh, no. Our seriousness is amply compensated by our gluttony; in Chile, life is lived around the dining-room table. Most of the executives I know suffer from diabetes because they hold their business meetings at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No one signs a paper without indulging in, at least, cookies and coffee, or a drink.

While it is true that we eat beans every day, on Sundays the menu changes. A typical luncheon at my grandfather's house began with stick-to-the-ribs fried empanadas, meat pies with onion, which can provoke heartburn in the healthiest eater; then came a
cazuela,
a raise-the-dead soup of meat, corn, pota
toes, and vegetables, followed by a succulent seafood
chupe
that flooded the house with its delicious aroma; and to end, we had a selection of irresistible desserts, which always included a tarte of
manjar blanco
or
dulce de leche,
a milk-based caramel (my aunt Cupertina's legendary recipe)—all accompanied by our fatal
pisco
sours and several bottles of good red wine that had been aged for years in the family cellar. Before we left, we were given a tablespoon of milk of magnesia. This dosage was increased by five when an adult birthday was being celebrated: we children didn't merit such deference. I never heard the word
cholesterol
mentioned. My parents, who are over eighty, consume ninety eggs, a quart of cream, a pound of butter, and four pounds of cheese per week. They're healthy and lively as little kids.

Family reunions were not only a fine opportunity for everyone to eat and drink till they dropped, but also a chance to do battle to the death. With the second
pisco
sour the screams and insults among my relatives could be heard through the whole barrio. Afterward, each person went his own way, swearing never to speak to the others again, but the next Sunday everyone was there: no one dared
not
come, my grandfather wouldn't have forgiven it. I understand that this pernicious custom is still being observed in Chile, even though there has been great progress in other regards. I always was intimidated by those compulsory reunions, but now, in the ripe years of my life, I have recreated them in California. My formula for an ideal weekend is to have the house filled with people, to cook for a regiment, and at the end of the day to hear everyone arguing at the tops of their voices.

Feuds among relatives were carried on in private. Privacy is a luxury of the well-to-do because most Chileans have none. Middle-class families and below live in very close quarters, in many homes several people sleep in the same bed. When there is more than one room, the dividing walls are so thin that every sigh comes right through. To make love you have to hide in unimaginable places: public baths, underneath bridges, at the zoo. Considering that the solution to the housing problem may take twenty years—and that's optimistic—it occurs to me that the government has the obligation to provide free motels for desperate couples. That way many mental problems could be avoided.

Every family has more than one troublemaker, but the modus operandi always is to close ranks around the black sheep and avoid scandal. From the cradle, we Chileans learn that “dirty linen is washed in private,” and no one talks about alcoholic relatives, those with money problems, the ones who beat their wives or have served time. Everything is hidden, from a kleptomaniac aunt to the cousin who seduces little old ladies to relieve them of their pitiful savings, and particularly the distant male cousin who sings in a cabaret dressed as Liza Minnelli, because in Chile any originality in matters of sexual preference is unpardonable. There has been a real battle over discussing AIDS in public; no one wants to admit how it is transmitted. Neither is there legislation pertaining to abortion, one of the most serious health problems in the country; everyone hopes that if the subject isn't broached, it will disappear as if by magic.

My mother has a tape containing juicy anecdotes and family scandals, but she won't let me listen to it because
she's afraid I'll divulge the contents. She has promised me that at her death, when she is absolutely safe from the apocalyptic vengeance of her blood kin, I will inherit that recording. I grew up surrounded with secrets, mysteries, whispers, prohibitions, matters that must never be mentioned. I owe a debt of gratitude to the countless skeletons hidden in our armoire because they planted the seeds of literature in my life. In every story I write I try to exorcise one of them.

In my family no one spread gossip, and in that we were somewhat different from the ordinary
homo chilensis
because the national sport is to talk about the person who just left the room. In this, too, we are different from our idols, the English, whose principles forbid them from making personal remarks. (I know a former soldier in the British army, married, the father of four children and grandfather of several, who decided to change gender. Overnight he appeared dressed as a woman and no one, absolutely no one, in the English village where he had lived for forty years made the least comment.) In Chile we even have a term for talking about our friends and neighbors—
plucking
—the etymology of which surely comes from plucking chickens, or denuding the out-of-earshot victim of his feathers. This habit is so prevalent that no one wants to be the first to leave, which is why farewells take an eternity at the door. In our family, in contrast, the norm of not speaking ill of others, a rule imposed by my grandfather, reached such an extreme that he never told my mother the reasons why he opposed her marriage to the man who would become my father. He refused to repeat the rumors that were circulating about his
conduct and his character because he didn't have proof, and rather than defame my mother's suitor, he preferred to risk the future of his daughter, who in blissful ignorance ended up marrying a man who didn't deserve her. Over the years I have freed myself from this family trait. I have no scruples about repeating gossip, talking behind others' backs, or spreading their secrets in my books, the reason why half my relatives don't speak to me.

Relatives who don't speak to you are a common occurrence. The renowned novelist José Donoso found himself forced by family pressure to eliminate from his memoirs a chapter about an extraordinary great-grandmother, who when widowed opened a clandestine gaming house with attractive female croupiers. It's said that the stain on the family name prevented her son from becoming president, and a century later her descendants are still trying to hide her story. I regret that that great-granny didn't belong to my tribe. If she had, I would have taken justifiable pride in exploring her story. With an ancestor like her, think of all the delicious novels I could have written.

I
n my family nearly all the men studied law, although I don't remember a single one who passed the bar. The Chilean loves laws, the more complicated the better. Nothing fasci
nates us as much as red tape and multiple forms. When some minor negotiation seems simple, we immediately suspect that it's illegal. (I, for example, have always doubted that my marriage to Willie is valid, since it took place in fewer than five minutes, simply by writing our signatures in a book. In Chile it would have meant wading through several weeks of bureaucracy.) The Chilean is a legal animal. There's no better job in the country than being a notary public: we want everything on paper, sealed, with multiple copies and stamps on every page. We are so legalistic that General Pinochet wanted to pass into history as a president, not a usurper of power, and to do that he had to change the constitution. Through one of those ironies that are so abundant in history, he later found himself trapped in the laws he himself had created in order to perpetuate his tenure in office. According to the terms of his constitution, he was to fulfill his role for eight additional years—he had already been in power for several—that is, until 1988, when he would call a referendum so the people could decide whether he was to continue or to call an election. He lost that referendum and the following year lost the election and had to turn over the presidential sash to his opponent, the democratic candidate. It's difficult to explain to anyone outside of Chile how the dictatorship could be brought down when it could count on the unconditional support of the armed forces, the right, and a large part of the population. Political parties had been suspended, Congress disbanded, and the press was censored. As the general had often boasted: “Not a leaf stirs in this country without my consent.” How, then, could he have been defeated in a democratic vote? This
could happen only in Chile. In similar fashion, using a loophole in the law, an attempt is currently underway to try him along with other military men, even though he had appointed the Supreme Court and an amnesty protects the military from bearing responsibility for illegal acts committed during the years of his government. It turns out that there are hundreds of persons who were arrested but whom the military denies having killed; since they haven't appeared, it is assumed that they were kidnapped. In such cases the crime remains on record, so the accused cannot take shelter behind the amnesty.

Love for regulations, however unworkable they may be, finds its best exponents in the enormous bureaucracy of our suffering country. That bureaucracy is the paradise of the people in their uniform gray suits. There such a person can vegetate to his pleasure, completely safe from the traps of imagination, perfectly secure in his post to the day he retires—unless he is imprudent enough to try to change things, an observation made by the author-sociologist Pablo Huneeus (who is, I might add in passing, one of the few eccentric Chileans who isn't related to my family). A public official must understand from his first day in office that any show of initiative will signal the end of his career because he isn't there to be meritorious but to reach his level of incompetence with dignity. The point of moving papers with seals and stamps from one perusal to the next is not to resolve problems, but to obstruct solutions. If the problems were resolved, the bureaucracy would lose power and many honest people would be left without employ
ment; on the other hand, if things get worse, the state increases the budget and hires more people, and thus lowers the index of the unemployed. Everyone is happy. The official abuses every smidgen of his power, starting from the premise that the public is his enemy, a sentiment that is fully reciprocated. It was a shock to find that in the United States all that's needed to move about the country is a driver's license, and that most transactions can be accomplished by mail. In Chile, the clerk on duty demands that the poor petitioner produce proof that he was born, that he isn't a criminal, that he paid his taxes, that he registered to vote, and that he's still alive, because even if he throws a tantrum to prove that he hasn't died, he is obliged to present a “certificate of survival.” The problem has reached such proportions that the government itself has created an office to combat bureaucracy. Citizens may now complain of being shabbily treated and may file charges against incompetent officials . . . on a form requiring a seal and three copies, of course. Recently, a busload of us tourists crossing the border between Chile and Argentina had to wait an hour and a half while our documents were checked. Getting through the Berlin Wall was easier. Kafka was Chilean.