Turing's Delirium (13 page)

He recalls Montenegro's office, a hand-embroidered coat of arms framed on the wall, the gold in brilliant contrast to the red and green. Without leaving his chair, Montenegro looked up and held out his hand. Cardona sat down, unexpectedly humble before the power of that short man with a commanding voice.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, general."

He was a lap dog; all that was missing was for him to bow.

"I've heard very good things about you, judge. We need someone of your stature to become part of our project."

"I'm honored that you thought of me."

"Tell me, can you see yourself as minister of justice?"

"I see myself however you'd like to see me, general." At that moment he remembered his hatred, his promises of vengeance for what had happened to Mirtha. What would she say if she could hear him now? What could she say? She would probably understand that something that had taken place more than twenty years ago would not control his decisions now. What's the use in holding on to old resentments? One had to go on with life; that was that. He couldn't reject the offer. He's a
different
Montenegro, he's
democratic; this
Montenegro would never have his thugs kill Mirtha.

There were mirrors on all the walls. On the desk was a newspaper with a half-solved crossword puzzle and photos from Montenegro's days as a dictator, as if to say to everyone
Times have changed, but I'm not ashamed of my past.

"Judge, my government is going to begin a sweeping campaign against corruption. At all levels. We simply cannot be ranked as one of the most corrupt governments in the world. In South America, only Paraguay is ranked higher." His voice was resonant and thick, his hands waved nervously in the air, his arms crossed and uncrossed.

"I wholeheartedly agree, general."

"So then, I can count on you?"

If there had been even the slightest doubt, a hesitation. But no, the yes came so easily, the hands that reached out, the firm grip, the eyes that locked—if he only knew, or perhaps he did and was delighting in the ease with which the tempted fall into the sticky web of power. They might hate him, but they couldn't say no; the possibility of issuing orders, of meeting with Montenegro in the magnolia-filled gardens of the presidential residence, of trying to make their mark on the country's twisted destiny, was stronger.

"You can count on me, general."

The receptions at the home of the Peruvian consul, the parties at the American embassy.

"I'm very glad to hear it. You've spoken poorly of my government on several occasions. Not to mention of me personally. There are attentive ears everywhere." To use a cane and hat, to feel, all of a sudden, at the center of the action. "But I knew you would accept, despite our differences. You're a patriot, and you know that the nation comes before all else."

"Thank you for your confidence, general. And thank you for accepting that I have had small differences of opinion with you from time to time."

Montenegro is a good person deep down, and he confides in me. He says he hasn't made a mistake with me.

Cardona feels the room sway. He sees himself sitting down, smoking a cigar while he converses with Montenegro; lying on a bed with a tape recorder in his hand; wandering through the room rubbing at the spots on his face; drinking a few glasses of whiskey in order to find the courage to present Montenegro with his resignation, because the government is not what he thought it was. Or better yet, working for the government, he is not who he thought he was. He had believed, for example, that it would be easy to say no to the friend who asked for his help in getting in touch with the minister of the interior regarding bulletproof vests that he had for sale. He had believed that he could ask his friend to leave his office when he said that Cardona's take would be twenty dollars per vest and that he would take forty dollars. Twenty thousand vests were sold. The original price per vest was two hundred and fifty dollars; with all the surcharges—all the money going to people in the government so they would approve the deal—each vest cost the government seven hundred dollars. Cardona didn't have to do anything; he simply had to pretend he hadn't seen anything. And yet, and yet...

Cardona now remembers that one day, in the garden of the presidential residence in San Jorge, at a reception to honor Montenegro's birthday, he saw two deputy ministers wearing British cashmere and Italian loafers, speaking to each other about a deal they had just concluded, and it reminded him of the vests. But later, when he left the residence, he was no longer thinking about them. He was remembering Mirtha, asking himself why he had ever agreed to work for such a despicable man.

He sees himself walking into the Presidential Palace, being led to Montenegro's office. He would like to yell at his former self, block his path, tell him not to make that mistake.

He turns on the tape recorder. He doesn't hear the woman's words or his own, which angrily take possession of the room. The last thing he sees before falling fast asleep is an image of the hand-embroidered coat of arms in Montenegro's office.

The words on the tape recorder, not knowing what else to do, speak to one another.

"Let's begin with your name."

"Ruth Sáenz."

"And you are..."

"A historian. Professor at the Private Central University of Rio Fugitivo."

"Louder, please. If you'd like, you can move a little closer to the table. You were saying. A specialist in..."

"World history of cryptanalysis."

"Rather pretentious, one might say."

"It's my father's fault. He was fanatical about secret messages and passed on his interest when I was a child."

"Married."

"Wife of Miguel Sáenz. Currently head of the archives at the Black Chamber."

"You worked there as well."

"A long time ago. During Montenegro's first government."

"During the dictatorship."

"There was a gringo adviser they called Albert, although I'm not sure that was his real name. Albert had persuaded military leaders that a national service needed to be created for intercepting and decoding messages. That it was the only way to strengthen the dictatorship. Marxist movements in hiding were slowly regrouping. The government had to stay one step ahead of them, intercept their messages, decipher them, and take action. A cousin of mine in the military offered to put us in touch with Albert so we could join the service."

"And you accepted."

"It was a very good offer."

"But you didn't stay long."

"The information we deciphered was used so that groups of paramilitaries could arrest young leftists and send them into exile or kill them. It was difficult for me to do my work impartially, to wash my hands of the end that was brought about by our means."

"Your husband stayed on."

"He's one of those rare apolitical beings. He could distance himself from what was going on around us. Simply concentrate on his work, obey orders."

"You didn't object to his continuing to work for the service."

"I did. Weakly. I justified it by saying that it was sufficient that I didn't dirty my own hands. That he did was another thing. And I used him as a source of information."

"Explain what you mean."

"I told myself that one day I would write a book that would justify my actions. In it I would reveal everything I knew about the dictatorship. So I started to take notes, patiently, of all the cases in which Miguel had taken part. When they began, when they ended. What specifically Miguel's job had been. What the final outcome was. The dates, names of those arrested, those murdered, those who disappeared. In many cases, concrete proof. In others, merely conjecture."

"A sort of black book on the dictatorship. Or rather than a book, a chapter. Could you give it to me? To use as evidence."

"Yes. So many years have passed. I can't lie to myself any longer."

"There will be very serious consequences. For your husband, perhaps even for you. You may regret it."

"Perhaps. But that comes later, and right now I'm only concerned with the present."

R
UTH SÁENZ'S HEELS
echo on the pavement. She walks with a cigarette between her fingers, glancing left and right every now and then, making sure that no one is following her. She has done so ever since she left the hotel. The military and a vociferous group of young protesters brandishing signs insulting the government and GlobaLux were arriving just as she was leaving. She had been lucky—a few minutes later and she would not have been able to leave the plaza. She holds on tightly to her purse, which contains tranquilizers that have no effect on her, a cell phone that rings but that she never answers, a worn photo of Flavia, tubes of lipstick, and pens.

She has no idea where she is headed. Her path has been erratic, determined by which streets are still open. Rio Fugitivo is a city under siege; the blockade called for by the Coalition has begun. Stones, chairs, and corrugated iron have been piled on streets and avenues to cut off traffic, which has begun to back up. It is still moving freely on very few roads. Armored jeeps and army trucks patrol the streets, and military police are on the bridges, camouflaged and in combat position. Those behind the barricades heatedly chant protests and insult the soldiers, who are avoiding direct confrontation—at least for now. Tension in the city is rising, and everywhere the whir of helicopter blades can be heard overhead.

Ruth is sure of one thing: she does not want to go home. After leaving her voice on the tape recorder, she felt empty; she had no desire to see Miguel again, to act as if everything were continuing as usual. Miguel would soon hear about her conversation; she is sure that the government knows of Cardona's plans to bring Montenegro to justice. Cardona told her that he had not spoken of the matter with anyone, but this is a small country, and plots and insurrections come to light sooner rather than later. Truth is fabricated in whispers, late at night and early in the morning in the persistent drizzle.

She has left downtown, is walking along a street stained by the resin from pepper trees. Like the spots on Cardona's cheeks.

"Let's talk specifics." Cardona's irritable voice, at last getting down to what really interests him. "September of 1976, for example. The Tarapacá plot, young officers who wanted to overthrow Montenegro. Do you remember?"

"I'm a historian. It's my job to remember dates."

"After the dictatorship intensified in 1974, a group of officers planned to surprise Montenegro on one of his frequent visits to Santa Cruz. It was a plan that had taken many months to organize, down to the last detail—perhaps the one that came closest to overthrowing Montenegro. Days before it was to be put into place, in the most mysterious manner, chilling in its effectiveness, all of the conspirators who had anything to do with the plan, both military and civilian, were eliminated."

"I know the details."

"Was your husband involved in any way?"

"So many things happened during that decade. Why does that one in particular interest you?"

"There may be both ethical and personal reasons at once. So you won't talk?"

Walking under the pepper trees, Ruth remembers that instant, which already seems remote to her. Her last opportunity to keep quiet and burn her manuscript. You don't talk one day, don't talk another, and soon months and years have gone by without talking, and silence is no longer an option, becoming instead the dark side of your personality. Habit is often stronger than conviction.

"And will everyone know of your personal reasons?" she asks, trying to gain time. "Doesn't that discredit you? Aren't you the least appropriate person to carry out an impartial trial? Perhaps the Argentine judge who's interested in extraditing Montenegro is the right person for the job."

"I would also be discredited for having been a minister of Montenegro's," Cardona says, continuing to look at her fixedly, as if to intimidate her, to prevent his prey from escaping at the last moment. "The way things are, or better yet, the way things are here, there's no one better to see this through. Everyone, one way or another, is discredited. If we wait for that impartial person, history will hand down its judgment long after we're gone. And Montenegro should pay for his crimes in life, he should be judged by his peers."

"You'd better hurry. Rumors say that his lung cancer is in its final stages."

"Let them not say we were cowards who let him do whatever he wanted. Let them not say we were afraid and forgetful, and that as a prize we democratically elected him president. Well, let them say that, but not only that. Cancer. I didn't know. Other rumors say he's senile."

"The fact of the matter is that he's sick and won't be with us for long."

"Which would be a shame. That is, if he dies of natural causes before we can accuse him."

"Aren't you afraid?"

"I'm afraid." His voice quavers. "Very afraid. Of everything. Of the dark and the light of day. Of my enemies and my friends. Of big gatherings and empty rooms. Of busy streets and quiet ones. I'm even afraid of myself. I've always lived with fear. I was afraid of spiders and bees when I was young. I'm afraid of being afraid. I've been afraid since long before I met Montenegro. I've been much more afraid ever since I met him. I simply want to do one thing in my life that is free of fear. One thing will be enough."

Ruth contemplates that aging face in the semidarkness of the room and for the first time thinks of Judge Cardona as a person. She knows what circumstances brought her to this grave moment, but what led him here? What events? He had been Montenegro's minister of justice. Had he come to know him so well that he had discovered the truth in what they said about him? What the hell had the man done to make Cardona so eager for vengeance? She has her suspicions, but the truth is evasive. Ruth puts her hands together, interlacing her fingers—adorned by nothing more than her wedding ring—feeling the sweat on her palms. She observes the gray day through the white, partially opened curtains. The sky is weighed down by heavy, threatening clouds—it will start to rain at any moment.