The Curtain

The Curtain

for Nadezda Ivanova

Back in those days the Café británico, where the novel On Heroes and Tombs was written, was one of my favorites for many reasons: there were many cats walking around very slowly, as if time was non-existent to them; sometimes one of the cats would jump on an empty chair at my table and fall asleep on it. I also liked this place because of the music playing in the background, most of the time a tango. But one main reason for liking the Tánico, as it was called, was the gathering of bibliophiles. Being a bibliophile during those days in Buenos Aires was not a very safe hobby, because the dictators’ list of banned books was growing day by day. But it was in this café where sometimes, by chance, I would find some interesting people and books.

We always feel attracted towards what is prohibited.

At the Tánico, one particular autumn day of the year 1979, while having a cup of coffee and reading The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exúpery, through well-tuned speakers permeated the sound of Piazzolla’s ‘Libertango.’ After my experience that night when I heard the cries of a tortured man filtering through the notes of this tango at the 17^th Precinct, each time I hear this piece I would begin to shiver. That day I wasn’t the only one affected by this piece: the man with his back towards me, sitting at a nearby table, also began shivering when he heard ‘Libertango’ playing. I noticed him shaking and moving uneasily in his chair while reaching for his shoulder blades with both hands to rub them, as if trying to shake off the cold running down his spine. I observed him closely, and it was clear that he felt restless. At last he stood up and began walking in my direction to suddenly come to a stop. As my eyes met his, I saw that his face turned pale.

I didn’t recognize the man, but when he spoke to say ‘what are you doing here, kid?’ a truckload of memories struck me violently. What are the chances of meeting for a second time in a city of over ten million people someone we met only once before? Slim. But chance is no longer chance once it happens, and I was looking up into the face of the police officer that set me free that dreadful night, before it was my turn to enter the interrogation chamber. The most surprising thing to me was that he remembered my face. Why? Did he remember every single one of his prisoners?

I did not answer his question. A mixture of rage and compassion overcame me and moved me to address him with petulance: ‘what is a person like you doing here? are you here as a spy? come on, tell me!’

The officer hesitated for an instant, looked around as if trying to spot a place in particular he new existed in the café, began walking and finally disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain covering the opening of the hallway leading to the restrooms. I followed him with my eyes and I fixed my attention on the curtain to realize that though I had never noticed it before, it was clear that it had been hanging there for many years. Its once vermilion red color was now a faded pink, and its hairs that were once soft and luxurious now appeared to be displeasing to the touch, giving the place an air of cheapness. As my eyes moved from the top of the curtain down, I encountered the tips of two black shoes sticking out, motionless. A few seconds later the shoes moved and the officer came out from behind the curtain walking towards me again. ‘Forgive me, kid’ – he said shyly – ‘I always come to this café to read.’

I don’t know how I had the audacity to speak the way I did once again to a person of his type; one did not provoke a police officer during those days. Once one might be forgiven, but rarely twice. Without thinking of the consequences, and as if I were a doll responding to the ventriloquist’s will, I spoke with a severe tone of voice that did not appear to be mine. ‘How is it possible to see another human being suffer atrocities by your interrogation techniques and go home at the end of the day without feeling at least dirty?’ – I said. And this man surprised me once again: he looked at me with dreadful eyes, turned on his heels and disappeared behind the curtain for a second time, to emerge thirty seconds later or less, changed, as if he had regained his valor to answer my second question.

‘Kid’ – he said with teary and reddish eyes – ‘not one day goes by without me crying on my way home at the end of a shift; not one day goes by without me getting home and running to the shower to scrub myself under the boiling-hot water until bleeding, hoping to cleanse myself. But, kid, I am a weak man. I am weak and a coward; so much so that I don’t even have the courage to take my own life. My only hope is that someone will kill me, purposely or by accident, it doesn’t matter. Forgive me, kid.’

And with tears in his eyes I saw him disappear behind the same curtain for the last time, to never see him again in my life.

The many months following that chanced meeting, I read avidly the newspapers every morning; I don’t know why, perhaps hoping to read about the news of the death of a certain police officer from the 17^th precinct of the Federal Police. The news never reached my eyes. But, after all, the press during those days was another curtain.