Woes of the True Policeman

I, thought Amalfitano, who was a creative, loving, happy child, the brightest at my elementary school lost on the muddy plain and the bravest at my high school lost in the mountains and the fog, I who was the most cowardly of adolescents and who spent afternoons of slingshot fights reading and dreaming over the maps in my geography book, I who learned to dance rock and roll and the twist, boleros and the tango, but not the cueca, though more than once I bounded under the leafy bower, handkerchief at the ready and driven by something deep inside me because I had no friends in my burst of patriotism, only enemies, purist hicks scandalized by my heel-tapping cueca, my needless and suicidal heterodoxy, I who slept off drinking binges under a tree and who met the imploring eyes of Carmencita Martínez, I who swam one stormy afternoon at Las Ventanas, I who made the best coffee in the apartment I shared with other students in the center of Santiago, and my roommates, southerners like me, would say wonderful coffee, Óscar, you make the most wonderful coffee, though actually it’s a little strong, actually it’s too Italian, I who heard the call of the Absolute Lazy Motherfuckers, time and time again, on buses and in restaurants, as if I had gone mad, as if Nature, sharpening my senses, wanted to warn me of something terrible and invisible, I who joined the Communist Party and the Association of Progressive Students, I who wrote pamphlets and read Das Kapital, I who worshipped and married Edith Lieberman, the most beautiful and loving woman in the Southern Hemisphere, I who didn’t realize that Edith Lieberman deserved it all, the sun and the moon and a thousand kisses and then another thousand and another, I who drank with Jorge Teillier and talked psychoanalysis with Enrique Lihn, I who was expelled from the Party and who kept believing in the class struggle and the fight for the revolution of the Americas, I who taught literature at the University of Chile, I who translated John Donne and bits of Ben Jonson and Spenser and Henry Howard, I who signed proclamations and letters from leftist groups, I who believed in change, in doing my bit to wipe away some of the world’s misery and abjection (without knowing yet-innocent that I was-the real nature of misery and abjection), I who was a romantic and who in my heart of hearts just wanted to stroll bright boulevards with Edith Lieberman, up and down, feeling her warm hand in mine, at peace, in love, while storms and hurricanes and great earthquakes of fate built up behind us, I who predicted the fall of Allende and yet did nothing to prepare for it, I who was arrested and brought in blindfolded to be interrogated, and who withstood torture when stronger men were broken, I who heard the cries of three Conservatory students as they were tortured and raped and killed, I who spent months at the Tejas Verdes concentration camp, I who came out alive and was reunited with my wife in Buenos Aires, I who kept up my ties with leftist groups, that gallery of romantics (or modernists), gunmen, psychopaths, dogmatists, and fools, all brave notwithstanding, but what good is bravery? how long do we have to keep being brave? I who taught at the University of Buenos Aires, I who translated J.M.G. Arcimboldi’s The Endless Rose for a Buenos Aires publishing house, listening as my beloved Edith speculated that our daughter’s name was an homage to the title of Arcimboldi’s novel and not, as I claimed, a tribute to Rosa Luxemburg, I who watched my daughter smile in Argentina and crawl in Colombia and take her first steps in Costa Rica and then in Canada, moving from university to university, leaving countries for political reasons and entering them for academic ones, carting along the remains of my library, as well as the few dresses belonging to my wife, who was in increasingly poor health, and the very few toys belonging to my daughter, and my only pair of shoes, which I called the Invincibles, miraculous leather tooled in the shop of an old Italian shoemaker in the Buenos Aires neighborhood of La Boca, I who spent sweltering evenings talking to the new radicals of Latin America, I who watched smoke drift from a volcano and aquatic mammals that looked like women frolicking in a coffee-colored river, I who joined the Sandinista Revolution, I who left my wife and daughter and entered Nicaragua with a guerrilla column, I who brought my wife and daughter to Managua and when they asked me what battles I had fought in, I answered none, I said that I was always behind the lines, but that I had seen the wounded and the dying and many dead, I had seen the eyes of those on their way back from the fighting, and such beauty mixed with such shit made me retch every day of the campaign, I who was a professor of literature in Managua and who knew no greater privilege than to give seminars on Elizabethan literature and teach the poetry of Huidobro, Neruda, de Rokha, Borges, Girondo, Martín Adán, Macedonio Fernández, Vallejo, Rosamel del Valle, Owen, Pellicer, in exchange for a miserable salary and the indifference of my poor students, who lived desperate, precarious lives, I who ended up leaving for Brazil, where I would make more money and could pay for the medical care that my wife needed, I who swam with my daughter on my shoulders on the most beautiful beaches in the world while Edith Lieberman, who was more beautiful than the beaches, watched us from the shore, barefoot on the sand, as if she knew things that I would never know and that she would never tell me, I who was left a widower one night, one plastic night of shattered windows, one night at a quarter to four as I sat at the bedside of Edith Lieberman, Chilean, Jew, French teacher, and in the next bed a Brazilian woman dreamed of a crocodile, a windup crocodile that chased a girl through mountains of ashes, I who had to carry on, father and mother now to my daughter, but who didn’t know how to do it and who heaped suffering upon suffering, I who hired a servant for the first time in my life, Rosinha, northeasterner, twenty-one, mother of two little girls left behind in the village, my daughter’s good fairy, I who one night after listening to Rosinha’s tales of woe slept with her and probably brought her only misfortune, I who translated Osman Lins and was Osman Lins’s friend though my translations never sold, I who in Rio met the nicest leftists on the planet, I who-for their sake, for my own sake, for the love of art, out of a sense of defiance, out of a fucked-up sense of obligation, out of a sense of conviction, for no reason, for fun-got mixed up in the old trouble and had to leave Brazil with time enough only to pack the little we could take with us, I who in the Rio airport watched my daughter cry and Rosinha cry and Moreira say what’s wrong with these women and Luiz Lima say write us as soon as you arrive and the people coming and going through the airport lounges and the ghost of Edith Lieberman up higher than the Christ of Corcovado, I who at the same time could see nothing, not the people coming and going, not my friends, not Rosinha, not my daughter, not the silent and smiling ghost of Edith Lieberman that we were leaving behind, I who arrived in Paris with no job and scarcely any money, I who worked hanging posters and sweeping offices while my daughter slept in our chambre de bonne on the rue des Eaux, I who strove and strove until I got a job at a high school, I who found work at a German university, I who took my daughter on trips to Greece and Turkey, I who took my daughter on a trip down the Nile, always the two of us, with friends who came close but couldn’t reach the secret heart of our affection, I who found work at a Dutch university and taught a seminar on Felisberto Hernández that got me noticed and even made me a little bit famous, I who wrote for the weekly So Much the Worse, published by French anarchists and Latin American leftists and I who discovered how nice it was to be a dissident in a civilized country, I who discovered the first signs of age (or exhaustion), long present in my body but previously ignored, I who went to live in Italy and work in Italy and travel in Italy, land of my grandparents, I who wrote about Rodolfo Wilcock, beloved son of Marcel Schwob, I who took part in conferences and colloquia all over Europe, flying from place to place like a corporate honcho, sleeping in five-star hotels and dining in Michelin-starred restaurants, all in order to talk about literature, about the people who made literature, I who finally washed up at the University of Barcelona, where I threw myself into my work with earnestness and zeal, I who discovered my homosexuality at the same time that the Russians discovered their passion for capitalism, I who was discovered by Joan Padilla the way a continent is discovered, I who was swept away and rediscovered pleasure and paid the price, I who am the source of mockery, disgrace of the halls of academe, labeled a filthy South American, faggot sudaca, corruptor of minors, queen of the Southern Cone, I who now sit in my flat writing letters, beseeching friends, seeking a job at some university, and time goes by, days, weeks, and no one gets back to me, as if everyone had suddenly stopped existing, as if in these times of crisis literature professors weren’t needed anywhere, I who’ve done so many things and believed in so many things and who is now meant to believe that he’s nothing but a dirty old man and that no one will give me a job, no one cares…