The Days of the Rainbow Read Online Free PDF Page A

the plebiscite took place. If what Pinochet wanted right now was to legitimize himself as a democratic ruler, he couldn’t have the leader of the opposition killed. That was Magdalena’s good point. But thatwould work only in a rational country, not in one where arbitrariness rules.
    Now he did allow himself to light a cigarette and exhaled the first puff sitting at the piano. He didn’t come up with a song to promote the
No
. Instead, as soon as he touched the keys, an ironic circus tune came out of his fingers. Then, like the great Garrick, laughing so as not to cry, he improvised a few verses:
    I’m the Superman of advertising
.
    One day I’m here, next day I’m not
.
    One day I sell handcuffs, next day I sell freedom
.
    I die today with laughter, tomorrow I’ll be shot
.
    I’m the Superman of advertising
.
    If it doesn’t rain, they hit me
    and if I make it pour, they hit me as well
.
    Even if they say they love me, they all hit me
.
    Magdalena came into the studio and leaned on the piano.
    “So?” Adrián brushed the ash off his lapel and, taking a deep puff of the cigarette, closed the black lid.
    “David and Goliath,” she said.

AFTER SCHOOL , I don’t feel like going back home and stay on the street corner. When Dad’s not home I don’t keep things tidy. I don’t do the dishes and let everything pile up in the kitchen.
    I try to remember the phone number of the guy who would talk to the priest. He would probably have some information already. But I shouldn’t call him from home. I wait for the pay phone at the bus stop to become available. I rub the hundred-peso coin until the metal gets warm.
    That’s what I’m doing when Professor Valdivieso approaches me.
    “A cup of coffee, Santos?”
    “What for?”
    “For the cold, I think.”
    We walk up to Café Indianápolis and lean on the counter looking at the waitress’s bottomwrapped in a miniskirt two sizes too small. When they bring us the steamy coffee, the teacher puts his hands around the cup to warm them up, and I pour so much sugar that Patricia Bettini would surely disapprove.
    “Santos,” he says, “this is not an easy situation for me. It’s not my fault that I have to teach you in the class that your father was teaching.”
    “It’s not my father’s fault either.”
    “I accepted the job not to make your father’s life more complicated but because life must go on. Our children have to get an education, no matter what.”
    “An
ethical
education,” I say.
    “I don’t care what kind of political opinions your father may have had.”
    “Well, they’re nothing special. His fundamental conviction’s to fight against Pinochet.”
    “Do you see? Your father shouldn’t mix a political situation like the one the country’s going through with the philosophy of Plato, who lived two thousand years ago.”
    “Professor Valdivieso, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    He takes a sip of coffee and gets some foam above his upper lip, which he wipes off with his sleeve. I see that the pay phone has just become available and squeeze the coin in my pocket.
    He takes a folded piece of paper out of his jacket and flattens it on the metal counter. It’s a handwritten text. He reads it aloud, but comes closer to me, and in a confidential tone: “ ‘We can then say that Chileans under Pinochet’s dictatorship are like the prisoners in Plato’s cave. We’re looking at sheer shadows of reality, misled by a TV that’s corrupt, while brilliant men are confined to dark prison cells.’ ”
    “Where did you get this, Professor?”
    “These are the notes of one of your classmates, Santos. The student handed them over to the principal.”
    I stir my coffee so briskly I spill it all over the saucer. Behind the cashier, there’s a shelf with cigarettes of all brands. The black tobacco my father smokes is there, too.
    If I only knew where he is, I’d bring him a pack.
    “Santos, I hope you won’t hold a grudge because I’ve