had refinished by hand. For the first time she could see clearly that what mattered most to her was not as important to him. She felt a stab of pain every time it occurred to her that his politics were more important to him than she was.
On the Friday of the first full week of classes, she got back to Ireneâs to find Manuel sitting on the front steps of the building. He looked like he hadnât slept in days, and he gave off an odor of stale wine. When he saw her, he stood with difficulty, swaying slightly. He was drunk.
âPlease. Mi amor . Just listen for a moment. Please.â
She stopped, but kept her distance.
âIâm sorry. Iâve cleaned the whole place up, kept the windows open, aired it out. I promise they wonât come over again. Iâm so sorry. Please come back, I â¦â He took a step toward her, but she stepped back. He stopped. âEugenia,â he said, the roughness of tears palpable in his voice. âI love you. I donât know what Iâd do without you. Please come back.â Then he sat back down on the steps, his head in his hands. And he began to sob.
She wasnât entirely sure why sheâd gone back. Had it been that vulnerable streak of his, that from the first time at the Plaza Baquedano had mixed with the hint of danger emanating from the Revolutionary Left? Was it the smell of burnt oranges and black tobacco? What he knew how to do with his fingers, his lips? How every nerve ending in her body stood up, when he simply walked into the room? Until she met Manuel, she hadnât known what real pleasure felt like. But part of it, too, was the allure of the prohibited, her knowledge of how shocked her mother would be if she found out. And she had to admit how good it felt that, out of all the girls, the leader of the Revolutionary Left had chosen her.
Whatever it was, her decision had sealed her fate. After that, their story accelerated along with the political events in Chile. As the economic crisis got worse and the government still refused to send in police against demonstrators taking over farms and factories, the right-wing opposition got more and more militant. At first it was mainly landowners in the countryside whose farms were being taken over by peasants or expropriated by the agrarian reform. Then factory owners and other members of the investing classes got involved. They were encouraged by the women from the upper class who went out into the streets, banging on pots to protest the shortages of goods.
When the neighbors complained about Manuelâs radical politics, they were evicted from their apartment. The polarization between the Allende government with its working-class, radical student, and peasant support, and the right-wing opposition with its coalition of urban and rural upper classes, only got worse through 1972 and the first months of 1973. As strikes and street demonstrations spread, the Allende government lost the support of the middle classes and of their political party, the Christian Democrats. By June of 1973, the smell of tear gas was constantly in the air.
Manuel and Eugenia took to skipping classes at their respective universities. The professors werenât there half the time, anyway. Somehow, Eugenia decided, theyâd probably known that their days together were numbered. They drank coffee in bed for hours in their new third-floor walk-up, the slanting sun of winter tracing highlights in Manuelâs red beard. What she remembered most about those days, what had made her happy, was the feel of Manuelâs red locks between her fingers, the smell of freshly ground coffee at the small Italian shop on the corner, the little pot of English ivy on the windowsill that thrived in spite of their neglect.
Even as they lingered longer in bed in the mornings, Manuel still went out in the afternoons to help build the school at the site of a new working-class community at the edge of town. He dismissed her worries
On the Friday of the first full week of classes, she got back to Ireneâs to find Manuel sitting on the front steps of the building. He looked like he hadnât slept in days, and he gave off an odor of stale wine. When he saw her, he stood with difficulty, swaying slightly. He was drunk.
âPlease. Mi amor . Just listen for a moment. Please.â
She stopped, but kept her distance.
âIâm sorry. Iâve cleaned the whole place up, kept the windows open, aired it out. I promise they wonât come over again. Iâm so sorry. Please come back, I â¦â He took a step toward her, but she stepped back. He stopped. âEugenia,â he said, the roughness of tears palpable in his voice. âI love you. I donât know what Iâd do without you. Please come back.â Then he sat back down on the steps, his head in his hands. And he began to sob.
She wasnât entirely sure why sheâd gone back. Had it been that vulnerable streak of his, that from the first time at the Plaza Baquedano had mixed with the hint of danger emanating from the Revolutionary Left? Was it the smell of burnt oranges and black tobacco? What he knew how to do with his fingers, his lips? How every nerve ending in her body stood up, when he simply walked into the room? Until she met Manuel, she hadnât known what real pleasure felt like. But part of it, too, was the allure of the prohibited, her knowledge of how shocked her mother would be if she found out. And she had to admit how good it felt that, out of all the girls, the leader of the Revolutionary Left had chosen her.
Whatever it was, her decision had sealed her fate. After that, their story accelerated along with the political events in Chile. As the economic crisis got worse and the government still refused to send in police against demonstrators taking over farms and factories, the right-wing opposition got more and more militant. At first it was mainly landowners in the countryside whose farms were being taken over by peasants or expropriated by the agrarian reform. Then factory owners and other members of the investing classes got involved. They were encouraged by the women from the upper class who went out into the streets, banging on pots to protest the shortages of goods.
When the neighbors complained about Manuelâs radical politics, they were evicted from their apartment. The polarization between the Allende government with its working-class, radical student, and peasant support, and the right-wing opposition with its coalition of urban and rural upper classes, only got worse through 1972 and the first months of 1973. As strikes and street demonstrations spread, the Allende government lost the support of the middle classes and of their political party, the Christian Democrats. By June of 1973, the smell of tear gas was constantly in the air.
Manuel and Eugenia took to skipping classes at their respective universities. The professors werenât there half the time, anyway. Somehow, Eugenia decided, theyâd probably known that their days together were numbered. They drank coffee in bed for hours in their new third-floor walk-up, the slanting sun of winter tracing highlights in Manuelâs red beard. What she remembered most about those days, what had made her happy, was the feel of Manuelâs red locks between her fingers, the smell of freshly ground coffee at the small Italian shop on the corner, the little pot of English ivy on the windowsill that thrived in spite of their neglect.
Even as they lingered longer in bed in the mornings, Manuel still went out in the afternoons to help build the school at the site of a new working-class community at the edge of town. He dismissed her worries
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