come back. They removed the
L
from his passport.”
“What’s your name?”
“Héctor Barrios.”
“And how do they call you? Tito?”
“No. The Chilean.”
“Well, start looking for another nickname, because we’re all Chilean here.”
We run together to the pommel horse, but before jumping he freezes and looks at the teacher in distress.
“What happened, Barrios?”
“I don’t know, sir,” he says, with a strong Argentine accent. “When I got to the thing there I thought I wouldn’t be able to jump over it, I thought.”
“The thing there is perfectly designed for an eighteen-year-old young man. Go back to the line and jump.”
I go back with him to the starting point.
“I jumped one of those once, and I broke my wrist,” he says.
“Okay. Forget it. I’ll tell the teacher.”
“Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Nicomachus. But they call me Nico.”
“In Buenos Aires I had a classmate whose name was Heliogabalus.”
“And what did they call him?”
“Gabo.”
“Like García Márquez.”
“Right.”
I get a running start, keep running, and neatly jump over the leather bar and roll gently on the mat. Then I go toward the teacher.
“What’s wrong with Che?”
“The wrist, teacher. He fractured it pretty badly.”
“In Argentina?”
“Poor guy,” I confirm.
“You’re kidding!” the teacher says to me, and makes a hand gesture asking Barrios to come.
“I spare you this time, Che. In the name of San Martín and O’Higgins’s hug.” *
Barrios pokes my chest with his finger.
“I knew that in Chile I was going to be called Che.”
* A reference to the “hug” between Latin American liberators Bernardo O’Higgins (Chilean) and José de San Martín (Argentine), which took place on April 5, 1818. The battle fought that day against the Spaniards would determine the independence of Chile.
PATRICIA SAW THE MAN , without even shaking the dust off his jacket, stand up from the sidewalk and leave like a dog with its tail between its legs.
“My God, Dad, what have you done?”
Bettini walked into the house, turning his back to Patricia while she was talking to him.
“I’m trying to write the jingle for the ad campaign, and that fool comes to my house to sing ‘No, no, no, no’ to the tune of ‘Blue Danube.’ ”
“Did you kick Tiny out?”
“Tiny, but with a foolishness that is inversely proportional to his height!”
“But, Daddy. He sang that song at the Scuola Italiana yesterday. And it’s a catchy tune. Today, all the students in my class were singing it.”
Bettini stopped abruptly. “All the ‘undecided’ students?”
“Everyone. That waltz is awesome, Dad.”
They walked into the studio and the ad agent cleaned the keyboard with the sleeve of his shirt as if he wanted to erase Alarcón’s fingerprints.
“Awesome! That’s what your boyfriend Nico Santos told me a few minutes ago.”
“But it’s true! He also went to our school and played it for the students. He goes from high school to high school, from college to college, singing that song. Students help him hide when the cops arrive.”
“It wouldn’t be necessary. He’s so short that if he wore a uniform, he would pass for a student.”
Bettini sat at the piano. He pushed the pedal down for emphasis and played the most emblematic melody of Allende’s years:
The people united will never be defeated
.
“I have to come up with a harmony capable of bringing together Liberals, Christian Democrats, Social Democrats, Radicals, leftist Christians, Greens, Humanists, Reborn Christians, Communists, Centrists … What a cacophony!”
Patricia stayed with her father until he gently closed the lid of the piano, putting an end to his defeat.
“Don’t be so old-fashioned, Dad! If you want to encourage people to vote
No
with joy, you have to compose something really cheerful.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. But nothing comes to me.”
“A tune with good vibes!”
“Like
L
from his passport.”
“What’s your name?”
“Héctor Barrios.”
“And how do they call you? Tito?”
“No. The Chilean.”
“Well, start looking for another nickname, because we’re all Chilean here.”
We run together to the pommel horse, but before jumping he freezes and looks at the teacher in distress.
“What happened, Barrios?”
“I don’t know, sir,” he says, with a strong Argentine accent. “When I got to the thing there I thought I wouldn’t be able to jump over it, I thought.”
“The thing there is perfectly designed for an eighteen-year-old young man. Go back to the line and jump.”
I go back with him to the starting point.
“I jumped one of those once, and I broke my wrist,” he says.
“Okay. Forget it. I’ll tell the teacher.”
“Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Nicomachus. But they call me Nico.”
“In Buenos Aires I had a classmate whose name was Heliogabalus.”
“And what did they call him?”
“Gabo.”
“Like García Márquez.”
“Right.”
I get a running start, keep running, and neatly jump over the leather bar and roll gently on the mat. Then I go toward the teacher.
“What’s wrong with Che?”
“The wrist, teacher. He fractured it pretty badly.”
“In Argentina?”
“Poor guy,” I confirm.
“You’re kidding!” the teacher says to me, and makes a hand gesture asking Barrios to come.
“I spare you this time, Che. In the name of San Martín and O’Higgins’s hug.” *
Barrios pokes my chest with his finger.
“I knew that in Chile I was going to be called Che.”
* A reference to the “hug” between Latin American liberators Bernardo O’Higgins (Chilean) and José de San Martín (Argentine), which took place on April 5, 1818. The battle fought that day against the Spaniards would determine the independence of Chile.
PATRICIA SAW THE MAN , without even shaking the dust off his jacket, stand up from the sidewalk and leave like a dog with its tail between its legs.
“My God, Dad, what have you done?”
Bettini walked into the house, turning his back to Patricia while she was talking to him.
“I’m trying to write the jingle for the ad campaign, and that fool comes to my house to sing ‘No, no, no, no’ to the tune of ‘Blue Danube.’ ”
“Did you kick Tiny out?”
“Tiny, but with a foolishness that is inversely proportional to his height!”
“But, Daddy. He sang that song at the Scuola Italiana yesterday. And it’s a catchy tune. Today, all the students in my class were singing it.”
Bettini stopped abruptly. “All the ‘undecided’ students?”
“Everyone. That waltz is awesome, Dad.”
They walked into the studio and the ad agent cleaned the keyboard with the sleeve of his shirt as if he wanted to erase Alarcón’s fingerprints.
“Awesome! That’s what your boyfriend Nico Santos told me a few minutes ago.”
“But it’s true! He also went to our school and played it for the students. He goes from high school to high school, from college to college, singing that song. Students help him hide when the cops arrive.”
“It wouldn’t be necessary. He’s so short that if he wore a uniform, he would pass for a student.”
Bettini sat at the piano. He pushed the pedal down for emphasis and played the most emblematic melody of Allende’s years:
The people united will never be defeated
.
“I have to come up with a harmony capable of bringing together Liberals, Christian Democrats, Social Democrats, Radicals, leftist Christians, Greens, Humanists, Reborn Christians, Communists, Centrists … What a cacophony!”
Patricia stayed with her father until he gently closed the lid of the piano, putting an end to his defeat.
“Don’t be so old-fashioned, Dad! If you want to encourage people to vote
No
with joy, you have to compose something really cheerful.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. But nothing comes to me.”
“A tune with good vibes!”
“Like
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