Bloody Twilight

In Memoriam R. S.

At one point in time one slides through the icy lake of life, uninterrupted and more or less freely, and suddenly the ground opens up, a trapdoor appears and one is swallowed by an upside down world where everything is new and uncertain; even beautiful, in a morbid sort of way.

Buenos Aires, 1978, winter, shortly after 2 am. A bang and a broken front door. Several seconds go by before my uncle comes about his senses; enough time to turn on the bedside lamp and count 14 men of the paramilitary group Triple A around the bed holding machineguns and asking for my cousin Celeste. Five seconds later the men repeat almost in unison: “Where is Celeste?” To my uncle it seems as if one hour had passed; he replies that she is out with her boyfriend. The men do not believe my uncle’s words and he and his wife are forced out of bed; a plastic rope is placed tight about their writs, a tape on their lips, and they are led out of the bedroom and into the library.

My uncle sits on the floor, next to my aunt. They can’t move or speak. All they can do is think, and he thinks of Celeste and feels relieved that she had gone out. Otherwise, he probably would never see her again – he knows this quite well. People disappear in this country. He then thinks of his son, who is still in his room sleeping, but he doesn’t despair. He understands that there is no point in turning despondent. Life has taught him to be obedient to fate.

He finally looks at his wife in the eyes, and as through a language that only they understand, they tell each other: “let’s close our eyes and dream”.

Hours go by, and the morning light begins to filter through the venetian blinds and sets on the large marine tank; once a beautiful tank, and now with its turbid and disturbed waters and upside-down live rock, tells the story of someone searching for something within. My uncle’s eyes move slowly about the room and they see that my little cousin Federico too had been tied up next to them; unexplainably, he feels content. He continues scanning over things: cushions ripped open, books that neatly lined up in the shelves of the library are now scattered on the floor, boxes and their contents are disseminated all over the carpet, and three empty bottles of whiskey sit on the coffee table; he counts 14 glasses. He doesn’t understand how he could have slept through all of this, but he is glad he did and hopes that his wife and son did too.

Suddenly the Triple A men appear in the room and one of them says: “Tell Celeste that we’ll find her”. They take their leave. And after a couple of minutes the unmistakable smell of gas permeates the air. My uncle looks towards his wife and son and notices that they are still asleep. For the first time he is frightened, drops of sweat fall on his eyes and like a heavy curtain they begin to impair his vision, his pulse races, he thinks quickly and decides to let his body fall over to awake my aunt, but quickly too he realizes that it is better to die in the sleep and allows them to continue living in their dreams. He closes his eyes and contrary to what it is said about the dying man, his life does not flash like a movie in front of him. There is nothing in his mind, and peacefully he gives in to the smell that no longer alarms him; he begins to feel sleepy.

His state of freefalling into the other side is interrupted by the voice of one of the Triple A men who had returned. After cutting my little cousin loose he tells him: “hurry up, you have very little time left!” God only knows why didn’t this man shut off the gas himself. It would have been quicker and easier. With the same speed he entered the room he disappeared behind the thick velvet curtain that separates the library from the living room.

Federico doesn’t understand what is happening until his eyes meet his father’s; then he runs to the kitchen. When all three are free from the ropes, none of them shed a tear, nor they seem upset. They are free from the tape that sealed their lips, but they don’t utter a word.

Silently they dress and sit at the kitchen table to have breakfast. With eyes wide open and a face whiter than a white sheet of paper, Celeste walks in and joins them. She knows that questions about the state of the house are not necessary and that they are probably unwelcomed; she’s been through this with a few of her friends. She is aware that a raid had just taken place.

Every citizen of Argentina during those years had gone through this ordeal at least once, either himself or herself or with a friend or relative.

Celeste knows her father all too well, and doesn’t offer any resistance when he pushes her into the car and drives to the nearest police station. Together, in silence, they walk up to the information desk and my uncle addresses the officer in charge: “The Triple A paid us a visit last night. They were looking for my daughter; here she is. If she’s clean I’ll take her home with me, but if she isn’t she stays here with you.” Celeste’s composure is incomprehensible and almost unreal. They are led to a small room, they take their fingerprints, and their ID cards are taken away. During six hours father and daughter sit facing each other across a table. Their eyes meet; their lips don’t speak. Words have no meaning in moments like these.

They are finally released and as they drive back the sun begins to sit in the horizon. The crepuscular hour in Buenos Aires during wintertime is always uplifting, but that day the sky looks like a bleeding stabbed belly, staining the blue vault of heaven with streams of smoking blood. They enter that new world that used to be their home: all lights are out, but the sunset bathes the interior of the upside down rooms turning every piece of furniture red. My uncle crosses the large park and enters his factory, which sits in the far back of his house, the bloody twilight pouring over the recently destroyed machines becomes an omen of his fate. He too, years later, would collapse as his entire world did that winter night: cyanide was his choice.

“Old things, sad things, faded away things, things without a voice or color, know the secrets of dead times, of lives that no one any longer remembers” wrote José Asunción Silva. And as I write down these words in a language that is not mine, a faded away black and white photograph of my uncle standing on the deck of his fishing boat, holding a large Mahi Mahi, lays on my writing desk. Even the most courageous men falter in the light of a bloody sunset, but I remember him alive.