Despite the old adage, history provides precious few examples of whats gone around coming around again. Distressed by the manifest lack of divine justice here on Earth, creative thinkers of yore came up with the handy notion of a hereafter in which just deserts might be invisibly delivered. For those among the living still unconvinced, memory does matter. Only a proper reckoning of the past, and the courage to face it, can provide any hope of a future not founded in hypocrisy. Such a hope may seem slender, but it is this slim chance that keeps writers committed to truth-telling at their desks, pens atremble with responsibility.
It is with this burden in mind that Marc Cooper wrote Pinochet and Me, the journalist and longtime Pacifica Radio hosts anti-memoir of a 30-year relationship with Chile, so-called because a memoir attempts to reassemble parts of a forgotten or fading past . . . [M]y task is not nostalgic. In Chile the past has not been forgotten. In Chile the past has never been recognized. Instead, it has been systematically denied and brutally repressed in the years since Augusto Pinochets 1973 coup, which, with the help of the United States government, overthrew the democratically elected socialist presidency of Salvador Allende and signaled the start of a 17-year-long night of dictatorship, death and terror.
Tragic, suspenseful and filled with the tiny personal details that bring history to life, Pinochet and Me begins in 1971, when the 20-year-old Cooper, inspired by Allendes revolutionary promise, arrived in Santiago. Within months, he was working for Allende as a translator, and had an inside view on both the radical hopes of the administration, which took form in a flurry of street rallies, land appropriations and factory takeovers, and the powerful forces working against it, from internal partisan squabbles, to a U.S.-sponsored destabilization campaign, to Allendes paradoxical reliance on the same military that would eventually topple him. Eight days after Pinochets coup, during which Allende committed suicide and activists and foreigners were rounded up and killed, Cooper fled the country.
Two years later, traveling on a fake passport, he slipped back in to a Chile still in the grip of a homicidal spasm, his old friends disappeared or broken by torture, the economy in shambles thanks to Pinochets willingness to use the country as a laboratory for that fiscal Frankenstein, the neoliberal economic policies of Milton Friedman, which would eventually take over the entire continent and much of the world. Union leaders were murdered, wages kept down, markets opened to foreign capital, the free market left to regulate itself.
Cooper went back in 1983 to find a nation reasserting itself, the slums of Santiago a-riot with resistance, and again in 1998 to find that the dreams of social justice so alive under Allende, and that had been stirring again 10 years after his death, had vanished into collective amnesia. He describes a nation once unique for its sense of collective destiny disfigured by consumerism and the vast individualism of the market, a commercial culture grafted onto a body politic charred to the bone. And he returned last year, after Pinochets arrest in England had highlighted the stomach-turning cowardice of Chiles nominally center-left civilian government, which sprang to Pinochets defense. Stripped of his immunity, Pinochet now faces charges at home, but socialist President Ricardo Lagos avoids mention of the case. Cooper, fortunately, does not, maintaining faith that the struggle for Chiles future resides in interpreting its past.
Forgetting is not the only possible crime against history. Kitsch can do just as much damage, far more perniciously. And there are few genres more vulnerable to kitsch than the epic novel, particularly the romantic sort, in which Love traverses decades and continents unmolested; in which the riot and tumble of the times provide background and color for the workings of unconquerable Destiny; in which no character is introduced for even a moment who will not reappear years later by some wild coincidence (or is it Fate?) to save the day or ruin it. Just such a novel is Richard Rayners The Cloud Sketcher, in which one-eyed Finnish architect Esko Vaananen pursues the mysterious Russian beauty Katerina Malysheva from childhood on into the nervous, boundless, brilliant, top-speed days of the late 1920s (lest we forget, Rayner reminds us, more than once, that these were giddy, dangerous, perhaps heroic times). The tale of their doomed and destined love, and of Eskos dream of building a skyscraper, describes the rise of modernity with all the gritty veracity of a 30-minute History Channel docudrama.
In short: Dreamy disfigured Finnish boy becomes obsessed with the idea of the elevator (What does it mean? he asks), meets a beautiful young Russian aristocrat for just a moment, falls in love forever, learns the meaning of elevators (skyscrapers!), becomes an architect, meets the Russian beauty again (now married to his best friend), is moved by her tales of horror at the hands of the Red butchers to join up with the Whites in the Finnish Civil War, experiences the horror of war, survives (though the best friend is killed and Katerina believed to be dead), marries a kind and sturdy nurse who happens to be an architect too. Esko no sooner ties the knot than he sees Katerinas name in an American magazine, sails for New York (a city unkempt and unshorn, ecstatic, material, jazzy, pleasure driven), saves the life of a fiery young Italian riveter, finds Katerina married to a friend, yet again redesigns her apartment, sleeps with her at last but immediately loses her, builds speakeasies for his Italian friend (now a gangster), is reunited with Katerina at last, but is forced by their tragic love to enter into a Faustian bargain with said gangster that will be his downfall, though his long-dreamed-of skyscraper will stand as a monument to that love, to his buoyant modernist faith.