Listening to Mozart by Mario Benedetti Just think, Captain Montes, you would have been able to continue napping during siesta. Actually, you’re tired. One has to admit that last night’s work was difficult; those twelve prisoners arrived together, already quite battered, and you had to hurt them a little more. Doing that always leaves you uneasy, especially when you can’t force them to divulge anything, not even their shoe or shirt size. The few times when someone talks, thinking (poor naive creature) that perhaps that signifies the end of hell, then the dirty work leaves you at least minimally satisfied. After all, you were taught that the end justifies the means, but you no longer remember very much about what the end is. The means were always your specialty, and these should be blunt, unforgiving, and efficient. You were made to think that these young boys, so fresh, so healthy, so determined (you would add: and so fanatical), were your friends, but at this point you’re no longer sure of who your friends are. At least you know for sure that Colonel Ochoa isn’t your friend. The colonel, who never dirties his pinkie with any sickening work, thinks you’re a weakling, and he’s told you so in front of Lieutenant Vélez and Major Falero. You don’t always manage to understand how Falero and Vélez can calmly carry out one interrogation after the other without losing their composure, loosening a button, or ruffling their hairdo; Falero’s is black and oily and Vélez's is red and wavy. Siesta always leaves you in a bad mood, but today you’re in an especially bad mood. Perhaps that’s because last night Amanda timidly suggested, after having made love with an inevitable and frustrating tension, if it would not be better if . . . and you exploded, you almost roared with indignation and spite, maybe because you also thought the same thing, you, who now considered seeking retirement, a topic that always awakens annoying suspicions and apprehension. And besides, during “a period of internal warfare,” the pretext would have to be dreadful: never less than cancer, a detached retina, or cirrhosis. But it’s regrettable that Amanda had thought of it, simply thought of it. “I think about Jorgito and I panic.” And what does Amanda think? That you envision a splendid future? And that’s considering that she doesn’t know the details of each day’s events. She doesn’t know how you felt when the young woman who was killed in La Teja had to have her teeth removed, one by one, with patience and zeal. Or when you realized that after a single work session, that little chubby-cheeked worker had ended up ready to have his testicle amputated. She doesn’t know anything. Sometimes she even asks if the bad and even worse rumors are true: if in a particular barracks and in a particular regiment, confessions are wrested through horrific procedures. And it’s incredible that she tells you: “Let’s hope you’re never asked to do something like that. Because, of course, you would have to refuse and who knows what would happen.” And you, calming her down as usual, unable to confess that the first time you were given the order you didn’t even hint at a timid protest, because you couldn’t hand Colonel Ochoa an easy excuse on a platter. It was during that bitter day that you played your role and decided not to lose, and even though you were vomiting at night for hours, and Amanda, upon being woken by the clamor of your retching, asked you what was wrong, and you made up the story about the roasted suckling pig that had made you sick, the issue didn’t end there, and for many nights you dreamed about that young man who, every time you resumed the punishment, would open his mouth without emitting any sound and would close his eyes and stiffen his neck like a wooden beam. Of course, now you think that there isn’t anything more to think about. Once you decided, that was it, so long. In any case, you think that you have moral reasons for doing what you do. But the problem is that you almost don’t remember what those moral reasons are. Instead, you clearly and exclusively remember a bleeding mouth or a body that doubles over. So that apparently it’s quite logical that you plug in the record player and place any one of the Mozart symphonies on the turntable. Until quite recently, the music cleansed you, balanced you, purified you, adjusted you. Right now, during this spiritual ascension, this vivacious piece of music, you move away from the somber images, the courtyard of the barracks, the heartrending screams, your own shame. The violins play like galley slaves, the violas accompany them like very faithful females, and the horn interrogates without too much conviction. But it doesn’t matter. Sometimes, you too interrogate without conviction, and if you use electric shock, that’s precisely the reason why; because you don’t have any confidence in your own line of reasoning, because you know that no one is suddenly going to turn into a traitor just because you evoke the fatherland or curse at them. You’ve liked Mozart ever since you and Amanda used to go to the concerts in Sodre, when neither Jorgito nor subversion existed yet, and the most aberrant duty in the barracks was to drink maté, which indeed the soldier Martínez prepared so well. You like Mozart, but you didn’t always until Amanda taught you to like him. And look, how strange, now Amanda doesn’t feel like listening to music, any music, not Mozart, not a damn note, simply because she’s scared and fears assaults and watches over Jorgito, and of course, Mozart can’t be heard while feeling afraid but with a free spirit and calm conscience. In other words, it would be better if you turned off the record player. You’re better off that way. In any case, the violins, see, continue to sound like a miracle that is slowly deteriorating, just like the shrieks of pain that sometimes continue to emanate from the barracks when no one is screaming any longer. You’re alone in the house. A lovely house. You note that Amanda went to see her rotten mother, a busybody, and that handsome little Jorgito still hasn’t returned from Neptuno. You’re alone, and the sunny image of the garden enters through the large living room window. Ochoa should be with Vélez and Falero now. The colonel only trusts them to find allies against you. Because he hates you, of course. No one doubts that. It’s possible that you hate the prisoners for no other reason than that they are the excuse for Ochoa’s hatred. Farfetched, no? You work hard and nevertheless understand that it’s useless. Despite how strong and heartless you are, or seem to be, you know quite well that Ochoa will never forgive you. Because it was you who, one night, between interrogations, asked him if it was true that his daughter “had joined the underground movement.” You asked him cautiously, and also with a threat of solidarity, because after all, despite your clashes with the man, your esprit de corps is quite deep-rooted. You’re never going to forget the resentful look he gave you, because of course, it was true: that splendid kid, Aurora Ochoa, alias Zulema, had joined the underground movement and was mentioned in the eight o’clock official bulletin. Meanwhile, the colonel had originated an exorcistic phrase which he clung to with fervor: “Don’t mention that degenerate to me; she’s no longer my daughter.” Nevertheless, he didn’t say that to you, and perhaps that was the most important thing. He simply pierced you with a look, and ordered: “Captain Montes, step away.” And you, after the ritual salute, moved away. You had not asked him the question to be vindictive, especially because you were accepting that which represented for Ochoa the fact (horrifying for any officer) that subversion had slipped into his own home. But you gave up, and with that retreat you understood that while Ochoa remained the head of the unit, you were doomed. Now you serve yourself whiskey, despite how much you dislike to start so early. But don’t torture yourself, torturer; it isn’t possible for you to go without Mozart and run out of whiskey both at once. At least, it isn’t necessary for you to have a clear conscience to enjoy each drink. Furthermore, a guilty conscience with two ice cubes is a bella combinazione, as the right-wing Captain Cardarelli is fond of saying when a respite is granted at midnight, after administering a complex session of electric shocks to the roof of the mouth, water torture like the “dry submarine,” and blows to the kidneys. Have you ever thought about what would have happened to you if you had refused? Of course you’ve thought about it. And you have very current and informative records: Lieutenant Ramos’ brutal sanction and the humiliating degradation of the leftist Captain Silva. They made no effort to take charge of the dirty work, nor did they empower themselves, even though that decision would ruin their careers. Or maybe they were simply decent, heaven knows. Decent or undisciplined. A million dollar question: where will your sense of discipline lead you, Captain Montes? Will it lead you to commit more crimes on behalf of others? Shrink from your image in the mirrors? Where will your sense of discipline lead you, little Captain Montes? To begin suppressing your capacity to love? Turn your hatred into a routine? Or allow your routine to assault, wound, pierce, fracture, rape, amputate, asphyxiate, sacrifice? Succeed in having every sacrifice leave you thinner, colder, more rotten, more lifeless? Where will your sense of discipline lead you, captain, little captain? Have you ever considered that the sanctioned Ramos and the degraded Silva might listen to Mozart, or Troilo, the tango musician, or whoever they damn well please, even if in memory? Now that Jorgito has finally returned and approaches to kiss you, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to think about him. Do you think that with time your son will forgive what he now ignores? Perhaps you love him. In your own way, of course. But your way has also changed. Before, you were honest with him. The strict discipline has not only instilled you with rigor, but also with something that you called, unnecessarily, the truth. Before, in the barracks, you would grip your weapons only for drill maneuvers. And in your house you would grasp the truth, also for drill maneuvers. Whenever you surprised Jorgito in some insignificant lie, you would take your sacred anger out on him. Your most holy trinity was made up of God, the Commander in Chief, and the Truth. Many times you hit Jorgito because he had not returned some miserable amount of change to Amanda, or because he was saying that he knew the 7 times table and it wasn’t true. That was a long time ago, and in reality, there were very few of those fits. The subversion was still being handled in a mere law enforcement atmosphere and you continued to drink maté in the barracks. But those times when Jorgito received the first blows of his life without a single tear, were, remember, inevitably followed by the first frustrating nights during which you were unable to continue listening to Mozart. On one occasion you even lost your temper, and, in front of a stupefied Amanda, smashed a concerto for flute and orchestra record to pieces, and, as a result of the tantrum, she had to repair the “Garrard” turntable. But you blotted out the truth a long time ago. The most holy trinity was reduced to a still infallible duality: God and the Commander in Chief. And it’s not too risky to predict the final unit right now: just the Commander in Chief. Now you don’t urgently demand that Jorgito tell you the strict, immaculate truth, stripped of exaggeration and pretense, perhaps because you would never dare to tell him the truth, the shockingly dirty truth about your job. Just think, Captain Montes, little captain, that you could have continued napping during siesta, and in that case, you still hadn’t faced (perhaps you’ll have to face it tomorrow, although one never knows the basis of children’s forgetfulness) the question that your son is asking you at this moment, sitting in front of you in the black chair: “Dad, is it true that you torture?” And nor will you have felt forced, like now, after swallowing hard, to respond with a question: “And where did you get that from?” Even though you know beforehand that Jorgito’s reply is going to be: “I was told in school.” And of course, considering each syllable, you say: “It’s not true. It’s not the way they say. But, son, you have to understand that we’re fighting against very, very dangerous people who want to kill your dad, your mom, and many other people that you love. And sometimes there’s no other choice but to scare them a little, so that they will confess the atrocities that they are planning.” But he persists: “All right, but do you . . . torture?” And suddenly you feel fenced-in, blocked, cramped. You only manage to continue asking: “But what do you call torture?” Jorgito is well informed for his eight years: “What do I call torture? The submarine, dad. And electric shock, and ear cuffs.” For the first time those words bore into you, anger you. You feel yourself turning red and you don’t know any way to avoid it. The red of rage, of shame. You quickly try to restore a certain image of serenity, but the only thing that you stammer is: “Can you tell me which one of your little friends is filling your head with that garbage?” But as you can see, Jorgito is relentless: “Why do you want to know? So you can have them tortured?” That’s too much for you. Suddenly you realize — you don’t exactly know if you’re horrified or stupefied — that you’re devoid of love. You place the glass with the rest of the whiskey on the little brown place mat and you start to pace, taking slow, pronounced steps. Jorgito continues to sit in the black chair, with his green eyes becoming increasingly more innocent and pitiless. You walk around in a wide circle to situate yourself behind the back of the chair, and with both hands caress that helpless, exonerated neck, with its fine, soft hair and moles, and start to tell him: “You don’t have to listen to them, son, sometimes people are very bad, very bad. Understand, son?” And no sooner does the child say: “But dad,” with certain vigor, than you continue caressing that nape, gently squeezing that throat, and then, renouncing (now, yes) Mozart forever, you squeeze, mercilessly squeeze, while in the beautiful and desolate house one can only hear your unwavering voice: “Have you understood, you little son of a bitch?”