topics, he twice declared, “But this, you have to admit, is a matter of principle.” And with that, one of his many masks came off.
I don’t recall exactly what we were talking about, but hearing “you have to admit” followed by “a matter of principle” conjured for me a sinister world of innuendos in which compromise would prove impossible should differences of opinion arise.
If linguists one day undertake a more refined study of speech from this authoritarian period, they’ll find that numerous phrases during those dark times went from being innocuous to intimidating. We were to hear “But this, you have to admit, is a matter of principle” at Itamaraty countless times over the next few years. The interjection “my good man” would often be thrown in for emphasis, as if the term of endearment held an additional veiled threat.
But to return to Max’s friend, at one point, as we were speaking of the Coffee Institute, the colonel raised his eyes skyward and sighed. “The revolution hasn’t gotten there yet.” Right after that, in a theatrical gesture, he lowered his head and devoted himself to a moment of almost melancholic reflection. As if, in his view, the “revolution” hadn’t reached a number of places. Which would thus explain the corruption prevalent in them.
The idea of a Greater Brazil wasn’t yet being broached. It would take a few years before that entity bared its fangs in the economic and commercial sectors. And we hadn’t yet won the 1970 World Cup, which would boost our national pride considerably. Even so, the colonel turned out to be a harbinger of those times.
What intrigued me most that day, further illustrating my naïveté with respect to Max and his labyrinths, was the fascination this character held for my friend. Evidently Max hadn’t reached this stage through an admiration based on moral orintellectual values. Or through more trivial motives, which sometimes lead a man to value in others talents he himself lacks. No. To my surprise, his fascination had darker origins, as he himself would hint to me one day, in a conversation about the colonel.
“It’s that he’s different from us,” he explained at the time, averting his eyes.
“Different how?” I asked innocently.
And Max murmured, “He’s killed a man.”
Certain revelations leave an indelible impression on those who hear them. Clearly that anonymous death had deeply affected Max. It was as if by taking a life, the colonel had made his own less insipid.
9
The armed forces never really worried about Itamaraty as a focal point of subversive activities. The ministry was held to be an elite group, given the rigorous admission process that had been in place for generations. The generals tended to regard leftist leanings that might exist within it as more intellectual than radical in nature. Besides, they were dealing with far more serious challenges on other fronts.
The military commanders nonetheless needed to find people to monitor us, people who would blend in, since the idea of having SNI agents infiltrate our environment was unthinkable. At first, as had been done in other government offices, a Division of Security and Information (DSI) was created at Itamaraty. This proved to be merely a smokescreen, a seemingly innocuous oversight agency. Behind it, however, lay the real agents, selected from among our own diplomats. Thanks to them, the regime had access to everything we wrote. Though few in number, these intermediaries wove an invisible, intimidating web around the rest of us. Their names would remain largely unknown, even after the regime was over.
Since none of this was common knowledge, we lived in a nebulous world, dealing with international issues that seemed strangely removed from our government’s stance. This often led to some bizarre situations: in a right-wing country, we were increasingly allowed to formulate a left-leaning foreign policy. As a result, we would be the first government to
I don’t recall exactly what we were talking about, but hearing “you have to admit” followed by “a matter of principle” conjured for me a sinister world of innuendos in which compromise would prove impossible should differences of opinion arise.
If linguists one day undertake a more refined study of speech from this authoritarian period, they’ll find that numerous phrases during those dark times went from being innocuous to intimidating. We were to hear “But this, you have to admit, is a matter of principle” at Itamaraty countless times over the next few years. The interjection “my good man” would often be thrown in for emphasis, as if the term of endearment held an additional veiled threat.
But to return to Max’s friend, at one point, as we were speaking of the Coffee Institute, the colonel raised his eyes skyward and sighed. “The revolution hasn’t gotten there yet.” Right after that, in a theatrical gesture, he lowered his head and devoted himself to a moment of almost melancholic reflection. As if, in his view, the “revolution” hadn’t reached a number of places. Which would thus explain the corruption prevalent in them.
The idea of a Greater Brazil wasn’t yet being broached. It would take a few years before that entity bared its fangs in the economic and commercial sectors. And we hadn’t yet won the 1970 World Cup, which would boost our national pride considerably. Even so, the colonel turned out to be a harbinger of those times.
What intrigued me most that day, further illustrating my naïveté with respect to Max and his labyrinths, was the fascination this character held for my friend. Evidently Max hadn’t reached this stage through an admiration based on moral orintellectual values. Or through more trivial motives, which sometimes lead a man to value in others talents he himself lacks. No. To my surprise, his fascination had darker origins, as he himself would hint to me one day, in a conversation about the colonel.
“It’s that he’s different from us,” he explained at the time, averting his eyes.
“Different how?” I asked innocently.
And Max murmured, “He’s killed a man.”
Certain revelations leave an indelible impression on those who hear them. Clearly that anonymous death had deeply affected Max. It was as if by taking a life, the colonel had made his own less insipid.
9
The armed forces never really worried about Itamaraty as a focal point of subversive activities. The ministry was held to be an elite group, given the rigorous admission process that had been in place for generations. The generals tended to regard leftist leanings that might exist within it as more intellectual than radical in nature. Besides, they were dealing with far more serious challenges on other fronts.
The military commanders nonetheless needed to find people to monitor us, people who would blend in, since the idea of having SNI agents infiltrate our environment was unthinkable. At first, as had been done in other government offices, a Division of Security and Information (DSI) was created at Itamaraty. This proved to be merely a smokescreen, a seemingly innocuous oversight agency. Behind it, however, lay the real agents, selected from among our own diplomats. Thanks to them, the regime had access to everything we wrote. Though few in number, these intermediaries wove an invisible, intimidating web around the rest of us. Their names would remain largely unknown, even after the regime was over.
Since none of this was common knowledge, we lived in a nebulous world, dealing with international issues that seemed strangely removed from our government’s stance. This often led to some bizarre situations: in a right-wing country, we were increasingly allowed to formulate a left-leaning foreign policy. As a result, we would be the first government to
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