ateliê ciclope - arte e publicação digital

Publicado no caderno Magazine do jornal O Tempo 1997

Se você acabou de comprar um Pentium com kit multimídia e placa de fax modem, achando que estaria livre de mudanças no seu equipamento pelos próximos 2 anos, essa notícia não vai agradá-lo nem um pouco. Até o final deste ano está sendo lançado o Entertainment PC. Um PC turbinado para o lazer que promete tomar o lugar de honra hoje ocupado pela televisão nas horas de folga da família.

É que a tecnologia evoluiu e as empresas de informática querem sua fatia no ‘grande’ mercado doméstico. E para isso o computador tem que perder o ar de sério. A ordem é deixar os escritórios e ganhar a batalha pela sala de visitas. Não vai ser fácil para o micro, deixar de ser um instrumento apenas para o trabalho. A meta é ousada: adeus televisão, adeus telefone, adeus aparelho de som! E lá vai estar apenas ele, mais onipresente que nunca, instalado numa CPU em algum lugar da casa, com terminais espalhados em todos os cômodos, conectando a família aos mais diversos canais de lazer e informação, espalhados nos quatro cantos do mundo.

O processo de incorporação aos micros de recursos de multimídia e de funções de outros aparelhos eletrônicos vem acontecendo já faz alguns anos. Hoje, uma máquina decente sai de fábrica com fax, internet, CD ROM, placa de som, controle remoto e telas coloridas de alta resolução. Numa constante evolução, os CD ROM se tornaram mais velozes, a internet trouxe a comunicação de dados para dentro de casa, chips dedicados foram desenvolvidos para processar áudio e vídeo. Parabólicas do tamanho de pizzas já recebem sinais digitais de satélites e os games no PC se tornaram mais vibrantes com recursos 3D.

O computador se qualificou para usurpar o lugar de outros eletrodomésticos, mas antes precisa enfrentar pra valer um problema que herdou do seu passado. A sua maneira de se relacionar com os usuários – sua interface – não foi feita para o lazer, mas para o trabalho. As telas ainda são pequenas, nem todo mundo sabe usar um teclado e o mouse, o usuário fica muito próximo da tela, o que não é o adequado para se assistir filmes ou realizar tarefas em conjunto. A solução sempre é mudar, e para acelerar essa mudança e buscar padrões comuns para a indústria do entretenimento é que gigantes como a IBM, Compaq, Toshiba e Microsoft estão unidos em um ambicioso projeto: o Entertainment PC. Um computador completamente remodelado para atender às exigentes famílias da classe média planetária.

Estaremos vendo a tela principal dos Entertainment PCs com dimensões de 27 polegadas ou mais, com opção de serem planas a ponto de ser dependuradas na parede. Os computadores terão novas entradas de dados, via cabo (com o uso dos cable modems), via satélite digital (direct tv), via rede local ou através de conexões analógicas que também estarão habilitadas a receber dados. Eles virão de fábrica com o DVD, o disco ótico substituto do CD ROM, capaz de armazenar filmes em alta resolução, com trilha sonora estéreo e digital e canais som para diálogos em várias línguas simultaneamente.

O Entertainment PC estará apto para suportar a chegada da web tevê, onde, via cabo ou satélite, poderemos acessar ou receber diretamente programação de qualquer rádio ou tevê do planeta. Seu teclado não terá mais fio como hoje, se tornando móvel, teremos controles remotos sofisticados e pads – pequenos consoles de cristal líquido, sensíveis ao toque e com tela colorida – que usaremos para programar o que ver na telona central do nosso computador, ou usar como terminal de leitura de homepages no quarto, banheiro e até como agenda na rua. Terminais conectados em rede local, espalhados pela casa, no quarto dos filhos e no escritório, com os antigos mouses e teclados ainda vão existir, para as ‘tarefas do passado’, ligadas ao trabalho.

É ver para crer. E se preparar para a nova ordem no lar. Como se viu, seu Pentium poderá ainda ser uma máquina do presente, mas em volta dele uma infinidade de novos periféricos estarão disponíveis, mudando radicalmente suas características. E a rotina em casa vai mudar também. Pais e filhos terão que discutir horários para uso da telona, afinal a briga entre os filmes e games vai se acirrar. Senhas para proteção de contas secretas na internet e bloqueio injusto de canais com material impróprio serão temas comuns na hora do jantar. Garotas virtuais em 3D, como a inglesa Cindy e sua irmã-clone japonesa, estarão seduzindo interativamente os adolescentes em sexy-caraoquês. Câmeras de tevê ao vivo, conectadas em diversos locais do planeta, transmitirão cenas coloridas em pequenas janelinhas, e milhares de Você Decide, cada vez mais sofisticados, estão nos planos da indústria para o novo cotidiano da sala de visitas, ainda este ano.

Álvaro Andrade Garcia

Publicado no caderno Magazine do jornal O Tempo 1997

Estamos no tempo de grandes transformações na forma como a informação é armazenada e transmitida. A revolução pela qual passamos hoje é comparável ao surgimento da escrita, da impressão de livros e à descoberta da eletricidade e da fotografia, que nos trouxeram o telégrafo, o rádio, o cinema e posteriormente a televisão. Com a tecnologia da multimídia e telecomunicações, o computador se transformou num importante veículo de comunicação, e se posicionou na base da nova era pós-industrial. A chamada Sociedade da Informação já está entre nós.

Nesse momento de transição, a multimídia traz uma importante contribuição. A comunicação digital eliminou as restrições ao número máximo de emissores de informação. Vivemos numa grande rede, onde qualquer um pode emitir, qualquer um pode receber, em qualquer lugar do mundo. Há canais abertos para todos. Mas é preciso partir para a luta. Por que essa disponibilidade não é passiva, o fato de existir um canal é apenas um belo começo. É preciso produzir informação para se veicular ali, é preciso fazê-la chegar a um público que se interesse por ela, é preciso lutar para manter esses canais abertos, por que há interessados em fechá-los.

Hoje a rede oferece uma oportunidade real de desconcentração nas relações de produção-consumo cultural. Mas ao mesmo tempo serve ao poder econômico e à indústria cultural de alguns paises, que vão paulatinamente transformando-a numa grande pirâmide, onde todos vão acessar, mas poucos, lá em cima, vão produzir e dominar a transmissão da informação.

Estamos precisando de uma grande articulação que permita ações simultâneas e integradas em diversos setores. Por que a informação digital é o motor e a mercadoria do futuro e o país que ignorar esse fato vai pagar caro pela cegueira. Precisamos de uma explosão cultural, para alavancar a produção de informação brasileira e fazer com que nossa ‘balança informacional’ inverta sua situação de desequilíbrio crescente entre buscas lá fora e visitas aos nossos sites. Precisamos encorajar o surgimento de novas empresas e o uso ativo da rede por todos os setores da sociedade. Precisamos mudar hábitos, discutir conceitos novos.

Precisamos acordar para o tempo presente. Estamos na era das grandes obras de engenharia eletrônica, pois é necessário assegurar canais velozes, descongestionados, baratos e colaterais aos países em desenvolvimento. Dependendo da situação, hoje é mais rápido acessar um site nos EUA que outro na mesma cidade no Brasil, e isso não pode acontecer. No âmbito político, no que se refere às infovias, devemos estabelecer relações e investimentos baseados em nossos interesses estratégicos. Por que a coisa toda é muito simples. O tráfego da informação funciona em linhas gerais como o tráfego de automóveis. Os usuários tendem a buscar caminhos onde o tráfego é descongestionado e tendem a ir onde há mais informação relevante. Se há um estrangulamento aqui, as pessoas vão passar por ali, se não se produz aqui, vai-se até lá com grande facilidade. A engenharia e a articulação política das infovias é assunto tão relevante, que sua implantação nos EUA é missão do vice-presidente, também candidado assumido à presidência nas próximas eleições.

Por fim, é preciso ampliar o acesso da população a essa nova realidade tecnológica. Computadores nas escolas, nas ruas. Não se trata de mais um eletrodoméstico, estamos falando de um instrumento que é a base da nova sociedade que se avizinha. Na vasta belíndia chamada Brasil precisamos democratizar o acesso à rede, promovendo uma ampla popularização dos computadores multimídia e da internet, caso contrário, teremos o país ainda mais dividido, agora entre analfabetos, alfabetizados e informatizados. É preciso olhar para o futuro, num país que se acomodou ao presente. Vivemos numa época onde falar de planejamento no estado e de autonomia entre países é palavrão, mas seguramente, deixado ao rumo dos ventos, o fluxo de informações da grande rede da Sociedade da Informação tenderá a se organizar num padrão onde a concentração e a polarização em torno dos grandes países será a tônica. Por isso é preciso debater e resolver logo como vai ser nosso caminho, antes que outros paises o façam por nós.

Álvaro Andrade Garcia

Multipoesia – um nome provisório enquanto surge um novo

versão 1: 1998

A Videopoesia, ou poesia ‘para ser vista na tela’ surgiu praticamente junto com o surgimento do cinema, nas experimentações com a nova linguagem. Depois, com o surgimento do vídeo ela teve novo impulso. Com a computação gráfica voltada para produção de vinhetas e animações eletrônicas para vídeo, que se estabeleceu fortemente na década de 80, abriu-se ainda mais o espaço para a palavra em movimento, associada ou não a áudio.

Foi quando comecei a fazer poemas em movimento, usando computação gráfica nos primórdios dessa arte digital, quando um pc xt animava grosseiramente palavras serrilhadas na tela. Depois, ao longo dos anos 90, assisti à explosão da mídia digital, com o surgimento do CD ROM, dos conceitos de multimídia, hipertexto e finalmente a conectividade global com a internet. Nesse período continuei trabalhando com literatura, mas trabalhei muito na produção de informação em suporte digital. Foram dezenas de obras em CD ROM e internet, além de experimentações com video interativo e sistemas públicos de informação cultural.

A partir da minha vivência nessa área, percebi que o termo Videopoesia ainda deixava dúvidas em relação ao suporte da poesia em movimento, se no computador ou no suporte video-filme. Evidentemente que ambas opções de suporte possuem semelhanças e uma distância em relação ao papel. A incorporação do movimento, textura, horizontalidade da área de representação, sincronia com áudio, etc, são algumas dessas semelhanças. Mas há também diferenças entre a forma/conceito dos trabalhos realizados em um ou outro suporte, que vêm aumentando à medida que o tempo passa.

O poema agora tem movimento e tempo; e o poema é muito além, tem múltiplas formas de interação com o usuário, muitas direções a seguir no seu movimento. Ele segue impresso, móvel, visual, sonoro… Mas ele é pleno para se representar numa nova dimensão de exploração. E é para ela que precisamos de uma palavra. Para ressaltar essas novas possibilidades, esse conjunto maior que surgiu e engloba também a Videopoesia.

Multipoesia foi o nome mais entendível nesse momento para guardar por algum tempo o significado dessa nova forma de expressão e comunicação artística que abole as fronteiras que já eram tênues entre diversas formas de arte, as fronteiras entre criador e leitor, as fronteiras entre idiomas, estilos, etc. Multipoesia para representar a poesia em suporte computacional multimídia, ou melhor, a criação-apropriação literária em suporte digital multisensorial e interativo. A poiesis na comunicação digital.

Este nome, entretanto, não tem toda a minha preferência. Eu encontro resistências em aceitá-lo, por que ele ainda se apoia na percepção do antes. Por que ‘multi’ mostra bem que ainda não se percebeu a unicidade de sentidos que a multimídia bem produzida pode trazer. E ‘poesia’ é algo que está ficando difícil de sustentar diante das inúmeras interações com questões visuais e musicais que o novo ambiente propicia. Na verdade estamos vendo uma quebra de fronteiras tradicionais na arte.

Querendo ou não sempre estivemos presos a um suporte para ‘ler’ algo. Sejam os auto-falantes, sejam folhas de papel ou telas. Sempre precisamos de um aparato tecnológico: entalhadeira, caneta, máquina, computador. Precisamos de alguma técnica que reproduza nossa ‘fala’ e possa chegar ao leitor. De tempos em tempos, uma técnica surge e muda-se o suporte. Agora, as características do suporte circundam um novo eixo. O Multipoema é uma forma de linguagem inscrita em bits, programadada num software para executar operações multisensoriais de entrada e saida de informações.

O poema pulsa, comunica-se através de vários meios sensoriais, se refaz ao acaso, ao avesso, explora combinações sintaxicas novas, rumos aleatórios. No texto-no-software guardamos além de conceitos e sintaxe predefinida, novos elementos, tais como a distribuição espaco-temporal de elementos, as possiblidades de reordenamento sintático, de comunicação com o o leitor e de sua interferência. Surge também o conceito de versão, como nos softwares, que começam um dia e estão em permanente mudança depois, na medida em que surgem implementações, novas formas, possibilidades, avanços tecnológicos, etc. As obras nunca estarão acabadas depois de publicadas e isso é uma mudança substancial.

O Multipoema é sem dúvidas um avanço no conceito de Videopoesia, já que ele pode estar ou não na tela. Pode ter áudio ou não, pode ser fechado ou aberto. Na verdade o Multipoema é uma experiência de poiesis que usa uma comunicação via entrada-saída sensorial digitalizada e se estrutura em uma base de dados com sintaxe que incorpora características de software. Esta estrutura permite uma sintaxe mutante baseada em linguagens de programação que se adiciona aos elementos sensoriais da obra. Permite, entre outras coisas, a interferência permanente do criador e do ‘leitor na obra, categorias estas que estão passando também por profundas modificações, tendendo a desaparecer.

Pretendo explorar neste sítio estas novas perpectivas, inicialmente com experiências introdutórias em diversos pontos de intersecção: visual-interativo, visual-sonoro, sonoro-interativo, linear-deslinear ordenado e aleatório. Teremos a limitação da linguagem Java e do espaço de comunicação apertada dos navegadores, mas ganharemos amplidão no acesso de leitores. Ao longo do ano estarei produzindo peças também em CD ROM, onde poderemos explorar mais os elementos de ‘banda larga’, tais como vídeo, áudio e telas em alta resolução. Este texto, para não fugir ao novo cenário, estará em permanente mudança. Incorporando a experiência que só o tempo nos trará. Por isso pode mudar de versão com o tempo.

* Para conhecer alguns multipoemas basta ir à seção Multipoesia. Se você deseja conhecer mais sobre estes novos campos de arte, leia também: Videopoesia (1994).

Álvaro Andrade Garcia

versão 1: 2000

Uma previsível revolução está em curso no mundo digital. Estamos na era do desktop video. Depois de anos de marginalidade em função das suas exigências de memória e capacidade de processamento, o vídeo se incorpora ao cenário digital da mesma forma que a editoração eletrônica fez na década de 1980.

Naquele momento, no mundo editorial, se viu desaparecerem as máquinas de escrever e a composição gráfica tradicional para hoje estes lugares estarem ocupados por computadores, de notebooks a potentes máquinas de produção de fotolito e até mesmo rotativas digitais.

O vídeo, durante este tempo, andou um pouco fora de moda dentro do computador, especialmente quando os processadores eram lentos e também leitores de CD ROM. Abriam-se janelinhas que exibiam catrancando os poucos vídeos existentes nos aplicativos multimídia.

Depois disso veio a internet e a situação piorou. As linhas telefônicas eram ainda mais lentas que os leitores de CD ROM e a palavra era voltar para trás, usando a boa tela com fotos pequenas e ganhar conectividade. O DVD custou a chegar, em função do arrasto de uma discussão sobre seus formatos mundiais, um contrasenso para manter o controle dos estúdios sobre o calendário de lançamentos e a disseminação das cópias de filmes. Acabou que quando foi lançado a internet estava no auge da popularidade e o DVD não decolou como anteriormente se pensava que decolaria. Muitos chegaram a dizer que morreria antes mesmo de nascer… e só agora começa a ganhar terreno.

Fora dos computadores o vídeo ficou numa encruzilhada algum tempo. Depois do VHS vieram outros formatos, mas nenhum chegou a agradar aos amadores. O Hi-8, o SVHS, e outros buscaram ocupar um nicho de mercado que ficou sem sucessores, na medida em que a qualidade dos equipamentos melhorava muito mais que a qualidade do formato padrão e nenhum outro formato se tornava um padrão de fato.

No vídeo profissional os formatos mudaram pouco. Surgiram os formatos componentes de alta qualidade, com sinais ainda analógicos, tais como o Betacam. Eclodiram diversos formatos digitais, cada um buscando ocupar um nicho de mercado que parecia promissor. A discussão sobre a televisão de alta definição permaneceu no ar, mas nada se resolveu a ponto de podermos falar de uma grande mudança.

A partir do início dos 1990, as ilhas digitais não lineares se tornaram grandes atrações. Pré montagem de filmes e vídeos em ilhas Avid, Fast, Media 100, etc, etc começaram a mostrar a quem trabalhava com vídeo e cinema que as possibilidades de composição, edição e manipulação de imagem e áudio num ambiente digital eram inimagináveis. O computador pôs o pé de vez no mercado. Surgiram os primeiros filmes rodados com câmeras digitais e a indústria de computação gráfica de alta qualidade atingiu sua maioridade.

E chegamos aos 2000 com o computador nas ilhas de edição profissional e um considerável número de emissoras e captadores trabalhando em formato digital. Entretanto, continuava a separação, que diga-se de passagem, sempre interessou à indústria eletrônica, entre equipamentos e ambiente profissional e ambiente amador. Além disso, o mercado amador ficou sem uma evolução próxima ao que aconteceu nas grandes ilhas de edição.

E mais uma vez a história dos computadores passou pela cabeça de um de seus pais e executivos mais brilhantes. Steve Jobs lança os novos Macs, todos com portas firewire, um tipo de conexão muito rápida e simples de se usar. Eu mesmo me perguntei na época, ‘são autopistas de entrada e saída de dados muito, muito mais rápidas que as necessidades atuais, onde está o pulo do gato?’ Claro que ele já sabia. Os principais fabricantes de câmeras do mundo aderiram à idéia e lançaram diversas câmeras digitais nas quais incluiram portas firewire.

Estava pronta uma boa idéia. Uma câmera digital, ligada diretamente a um computador, onde software dedicado captura as cenas, edita e as ‘imprime’ de volta para a fita ou reconverte para um dos vários formatos de circulação eletrônica de vídeo e áudio. A idéia dele é clara: fazer uma revolução igual à que a Kodak fez quando popularizou as câmeras fotográficas.

A qualidade da imagem no formato que foi escolhido é mais que satisfatória, e é um salto enorme em relação ao VHS. O Mini DV, com sinal SVHS e o DV CAM com sinal componente se tornaram um padrão. Existem câmeras que cabem na palma da minha mão capazes de gerar imagens que suplantam muitas das enormes câmeras analógicas de alta qualidade que conheço. E é claro, diversos fabricantes de PCs já incorporam portas firewire nas suas máquinas. Vemos então uma explosão na variedade de softwares, câmeras e acessórios para este mercado.

Além destas facilidades técnicas que o ajudaram a se disseminar, o vídeo digital encontra também ressonância no comportamento das pessoas em relação à produção/consumo de imagem em movimento. Paralelamente ao apogeu do cinema/indústria onde graças a uma sofisticação e integração inimagináveis de elementos do mundo físico com elementos gerados e aplicados em computador surge fortemente nas pessoas, especialmente na geração mais nova, uma sede de ‘espontaneidade’. As pessoas sabem que a imagem perfeita traz no seu fundo um pecado mortal: ela é muito cara e muito estudada. E nesse sentido se afasta do registro de realidades mais frágeis que não se mostram dessa maneira.

Na publicidade já se fala de uma nova geração que gosta de pão-pão queijo-queijo. Nos EUA estão sendo estudados. Não querem comprar mais jeans por que alguém muito bonito e especial usa. Gostam de imagens diretas: ‘esse é o jeans, ele é assim ó’. Talvez esse desejo seja resultado de uma overdose de imagens na cabeça dessa geração. O fato é que o desejo da imagem mais direta e menos ‘produzida’ hoje paira no imaginário. É obvio que os publicitários e a indústria do cinema e tv já perceberam esta onda. E estão sendo produzidos n produtos com ‘cara’ de diretos e sinceros. Mas isso é assunto para outro texto.

O que assistimos então? Ao apogeu do cinema/video indústria, com total integração de meios digitais e de computação gráfica aos cenários e ao mesmo tempo o surgimento exuberante de novos mercados e espaços para idéias ligadas a outras formas de produção e circulação da imagem em movimento.

O grupo Dogma da Dinamarca, por exemplo, produziu diversos filmes a partir do estabelecimento de premissas visando ‘desproduzir’ o material áudio visual. Cenas sem luz artificial, câmeras na mão, mínimo de processamento nas edições, etc, etc. Win Wenders também gravou seu documentário sobre o Buena Vista Social Club, em Cuba, com câmeras na mão. Mesmo as câmeras fixas. Sabemos que usou super câmeras digitais e steady cams, mas fez imagens que não se ousava fazer antes num cinema de maioridade. No Brasil ‘uma ideía na cabeça e uma câmera na mão’ está de volta e muitos filmes e vídeos estão sendo feitos nessa base.

Evidentemente, que de uma web cam na redação de um jornal, ou apontada para uma avenida em movimento, de um batisado da sobrinha, à incorporação de elementos dessa nova linguagem pela indústria do cinema, há um grande espaço que está sendo ocupado de todas as formas imagináveis pelos criadores. E é nesse grande espaço que se situa um que considero muito promissor: o do artesanato e dos mini estúdios eletrônicos.

Falo justamente dessa possibilidade da imagem em movimento voltar a ter a liberdade que teve antes da indústria do cinema e da tv. Câmeras baratas, pequenas, ligadas a computadores, necessidade de pouca gente, alta qualidade de imagem e som, canais novos de distribuição, novas estéticas e novos tempos – no sentido musical do termo. Estamos falando de milhões de novos realizadores buscando caminhos de expressão fora da estreita faixa existente na indústria tradicional. Estou falando da possibilidade de se fazer vídeo com uma câmera e um notebook e evidentemente uma estética e uma nova técnica na cabeça. Nunca esteve tão editar bons trabalhos com recursos.

Na minha experiência pessoal com estes novos equipamentos, o que mais atrai a atenção na câmera é seu reduzido tamanho, sua alta sensibilidade para ausência de luz e a presença de visores de cristal líquido que te permitem despregar o olho da câmera. Só estas três qualidades fazem qualquer um alegre. O impacto que uma equipe grande, iluminação e equipamentos periféricos ocasiona em certas cenas torna a sua realização extremamente difícil e algumas vezes impossível.

Com estas câmeras, que gostaria mais de chamar de capturadores que de câmeras, podemos digitalizar impressionantes volumes de vídeo, áudio, fotos, etc com uma redução brutal da nossa interferência no meio onde gravamos. Evidente que isso influi na ‘espontaneidade da cena’ e também no orçamento necessário para se produzir aquela cena, e que isso tem finalmente implicações na liberdade de quem grava e participa daquela cena.

A câmera solta dos olhos e pequena abre diversas novas possibilidades de enquadramento e movimentação. Estamos no fim da era câmera nos ombros. Deixar a câmera vendo em planos e posições diferentes dos nossos olhos, de forma fácil e gestual é uma grande coisa. Evidentemente que poderia-se questionar que este tipo de ganho existe em outros sistemas, não é algo inerente ao vídeo digital. Mas o que estou salientando é o conjunto harmonioso de novas possibilidades com simplicidade e baixo custo que ocasiona uma base para mudanças estéticas. Além disso falamos de um senso estético associado.

Quando largamos a ilha de edição tradicional, estamos falando de abandonar centenas de milhares de dólares e ambientes climatizados para estar num quarto de hotel, por exemplo, diante de um notebook e com uma cerveja na mão dando acabamento no seu último vídeo. Ou numa mesa de trabalho comum diante da tela. Com o arsenal existente hoje, é possível editar ilimitadamente as imagens, agregar áudio de qualidade, mixar, interferir e também processar para saída em diversos formatos. A edição do vídeo digital nos computadores de baixo custo ainda exige algum tempo de render, mas isso é uma questão de tempo. Para quem viu computadores de última duração demorando 50 minutos para fazer um frame e depois outros tantos para gravar isso numa fita quadro a quadro como eu é bastante aceitável esperar a régua do Première se preencher de vermelho em seis a oito minutos.

Resumindo, estamos mesmo diante de novos sistemas de custo baixo que exigem cada vez menos equipes, que se dissemina mundialmente, aumentando em milhares de vezes a base de criadores de imagens capaz de ofertar novas obras. Esta expansão tecnológica está sincronizada com um sentimento de época que busca mais artesanato e menos indústria, no seu processo de produção e circulação.

E onde vamos parar? Existe uma nova geração que não sabe o que é ilha de edição. E mais, em breve as câmeras não terão mais fitas e sim discos óticos ou magnéticos não lineares. A velocidade da rede esta crescendo e o video digital que circula ainda em VHS ou na televisao vai se tornar a base de um novo momento da internet. Os Macs agora têm programas de edição de vídeo que fazem parte do sistema operacional! É só esperar mais alguns anos que o vídeo interativo vai se tornar uma nova metáfora de navegação na web e nos DVDs e boa parte dele deverá ser produzida diretamente pelas pessoas e grupos, com suas novas próteses audio-visuais digitais, em novos tipos de ‘produtoras’.

Álvaro Andrade Garcia

versão 1: 2000

O vídeo chegou à internet e o que tenho visto é o de sempre: o vídeo, que foi feito para um meio onde ele ocupa a tela toda e tem linearidade obrigatória, é simplesmente digitalizado. Ocorre que CD ROMs, DVDs, etc agora são rápidos suficiente para colocar vídeos em tamanho grande e com qualidade na tela. Além disso, com a compressão mpeg estão acontecendo coisas impressionantes no que se refere à qualidade de vídeos na internet. Se você soma isso à interatividade que estes meios têm…

Estamos na era do desktop vídeo, como estivemos antes na era do desktop publishing. Os Macs com firewire do Steve Jobs, mais uma vez inovador, foram feitos para anunciar este mercado, assim como as câmeras com portas firewire que estão se proliferando como moscas. Vivemos este momento, que é muito engraçado para mim. É como se tivéssemos esperado demais para que os computadores começassem a suportar a imagem em movimento. Isso levou tempo, são 30 fotos por segundo em sucessão. O fluxo não pode parar que a imagem fica comprometida.

E aqui estamos. Inaugurando esta era, buscando conversar sobre os novos assuntos. Nessa linha resolvemos publicar i-vídeos. Neles, estamos exercitando na fronteira do dia, onde a imagem em movimento se integra a uma interface multimídia trazendo novas questões, pois o movimento tem uma temporalidade que acaba repercutindo na apresentação e na relação da informação com as pessoas.

O video interativo agora é parte de uma interface multimídia, de um conjunto muito maior de elementos de linguagem que interagem num espaço mais amplo que toda a tela. Se a gente for lembrar, o vídeo, num aplicativo multimídia começou ocupando uma janela, usualmente acionada por um botão, de preferencia um botão com aquela maquinha de filmar. Agora o que experimenta a possibilidade de ser âncora da navegação, abrindo janelas de textos e janelas de informação, além de interagir com elas.

Tecnicamente ainda temos muitas restrições. A compressão ainda é alta, é baixa velocidade de transmissão de dados, os artefatos estão em todo lugar. Mas a coisa é muito empolgante e a gente acaba esquecendo que enfrenta essas limitações. Surgem novos espaços, para a videoilustração, a audioilustração, a vídeoancoragem, o cruzamento de veios de imagem com elementos de tela.

A forma de pensar as telas nos aplicativos web e multimídia é o que mais muda, pois o vídeo traz o conceito de movimento permanente que vale uma boa discussão. Como já salientei quando apresentei o CD ROM Descobrindo o Brasil, a informação agora não mais fica parada esperando pela interação, ela está contida nos fluxos imagéticos que se constituiem nos novos aplicativos, onde os estímulos sensoriais estão começando a trabalhar mais integrados.

A internet é um espaço para o vídeo digital, que de certa forma nos oferece um retorno ao artesanato, muito distanciado do cinema e do vídeo, estabelecidos ao longo do século XX mais como espaços industriais. Fazemos parte de uma geração que nasceu imersa no mundo eletrônico e que agora tem o privilégio de usar estas habilidades em lidar com próteses sensoriais eletrônicas, cada vez mais cotidianas e reais neste momento, como fazem os ceramistas ou tapeceiros, trazendo-as para ambientes pessoais e diretamente ligados à nossa intimidade.

O vídeo interativo muda as noções de temporalidade na interface dos softwares multimídia. Os I-vídeos têm duração e nesse sentido ajudam a quebrar a estrutura atual de menus e ferramentas, sempre disponíveis para o acesso imediato nas interfaces multimídia tradicionais.

Com a vídeo ancoragem podemos acelerar os percursos, mover para frente, para trás, para os lados, pular, mas sempre estamos confrontados com a necessidade de aguardar o tempo para chegar ou partir para de algum lugar.

versão 1: 2006
publicado no jornal de poesia Dez Faces em dezembro de 2006

 

Vários autores contemporâneos pontuam a crescente velocidade que atinge nossa vida. Tudo se torna cada vez mais rápido a ponto de estarmos numa era onde a velocidade da luz é praticamente atingida com as conexões eletrônicas. Nossas extensões sensoriais midiáticas web conectadas e em breve exércitos de robôs e equipamentos de trabalho e manipulação à distância, inclusos aqui os guerreiros, estarão povoando a terra conosco.

Milhões já passaram pela experiência dessa humanidade cada vez mais ansiosa e agora cada vez mais deprimida. A ansiedade era para alcançar a velocidade desejável e a depressão é a constatação de que isso nunca ocorrerá. Surge uma velocidade tão rápida, que não nos apercebemos que ela se transforma em total imobilismo, num mundo cada vez mais revestido de texturas sem contornos, que deixa muitos atônitos e atordoados.

Essa ideologia absurda que acelera os ciclos industriais e de consumo, aumenta cada vez mais o descarte de produtos, serviços e pessoas. Fazemos cada vez melhor e mais para desperdiçar cada vez mais, para satisfazer desejos que não existiam há pouco tempo atrás. Somos o burro atrás da cenoura. E na ponta dessa indústria encontramos as novas tecnologias, a seu serviço. Cada vez mais rápido, cada vez mais conectado, cada vez mais tarifado.

Muitos falam de boca cheia da sociedade da informação, que teria vindo para substitutir a era industrial. Ora, não foi isso que aconteceu, a informação se tornou uma valiosa mercadoria, inesgotável e facilmente reproduzível. A indústria da informação tem impactos ecológicos menores que o de outras indústrias, em tempos de escassez de matérias primas, e força suficiente para exercer a dominação e submissão das massas ao status quo. Temos aí os mídia, uma espécie de classe à parte de pessoas que se ocupa em preencher espaços, páginas e mais páginas, telas e mais telas, com suas vidas-referência para os que não conseguem ser mais que um número-rosto na impiedosa urbe que se agiganta.

A pretexto de nos proteger (os artistas e os inventores) os defensores do copyright estão promovendo a maior usurpação de todos os tempos. Hoje, em escala planetária já estão na mão dos grandes conglomerados capitalistas os bens e meios de produção, e não satisfeitos agora têm a posse dos bens e meios mentais, os símbolos e linguagens usados em nossa vida cultural. Estamos vendo mais do que nunca a apropriação da mente. O copyright, não no sentido de remuneração do trabalho do autor, mas no sentido do controle e tarifação da circulação cultural, já se torna uma questão tão séria que surgem partidos políticos para combatê-lo em vários países.

A neurose do controle total está aí, a troca da liberdade pela ‘segurança’ é marca dos tempos atuais. Produzem-se conflitos e ameaças e também sistemas cada vez mais sofisticados e caros para nos proteger deles. O panóptico nos vigia numa espécie de grande irmão, surpreendentemente numa sociedade capitalista, e não como imaginado, num mundo stalinista. E o mais paradoxal é constatar a ineficácia desses meios para aumentar a segurança. Estamos sendo enganados, a violência é fruto inequívoco desse sistema que a alimenta, e finge nos proteger, com uma tecnologia que na verdade serve para nos controlar cada vez mais.

Vivemos nesse contexto, de globalização capitalista, da hiperinformação, da criação de demandas inexistentes e sua posterior tarifação. O que se gasta com impulsos em celulares, tv por assinatura e internet já compete em valores com despesas com itens antes considerados mais essenciais à vida como alimentos, saúde, educação e moradia.

Vemos a tecnologia gerar demissões em massa, automatizar procedimentos e exigir mão de obra cada vez mais especializada, gerando em pleno século 21 os enormes contingentes de pessoas fora de toda oportunidade de integração. Estamos vivendo a era das mega cidades, com a aglomeração de pessoas desocupadas, enquanto a tecnologia segue seu alucinante rumo, atrelada ao sistema.

Nesse contexto, temos que ver a tecnologia com bastante parcimônia e critério. Ela não é esse dourado inebriante que a mídia tanto nos vende e que muitos de nós, artistas, ajudamos a propagar, lidando com ela sem crítica e inovação. Ela não é uma locomotiva a nos puxar rumo ao futuro. Ela é parte integrante e importante de todo esse sistema de devoração, anal e acumulativo, como diria Freud sem hesitar.

Em tempos de eclipse de opções político filosóficas e estéticas para essas questões que nos afligem, dei-me a liberdade de imaginar uma proposta que contemplasse uma das soluções possíveis para lidar com as angústias diante do curso do mundo, ativar desejos vitais, num projeto em tese realizável. A idéia aqui é partir de uma proposição e costurar através dela um novo funcionamento possível para a humanidade, ou pelo menos para uma parte dela, disposta a experimentar essa opção. O exercício não tem a pretensão de se tornar um manifesto ou uma proposição normativa, mas a de construir uma opção válida, ainda que no plano literário, nosso grande espaço de reconhecimento do novo e da liberdade. Seguir nessa direção já seria suficiente para dar ânimo à vida em condições tão adversas.

Existem várias formas de mudar o rumo desses acontecimentos, em pequenas comunidades, países e até em escala globalizada. Podemos usar toda essa tecnologia que foi criada em nosso benefício, para dar voz ao que é humano. A técnica não tem em si nenhum viés, como já nos disse Walter Benjamim. É sua utilização e apropriações pelos homens que a tornam vital ou mortífera.

A esperança está na articulação crescente entre comunidades que se organizaram para romper essa roda veloz que a todos devora. No plano mental do ciber espaço, temos que nos engajar na construção do software livre, que é mais que apenas software gratuito, mas sim uma nova forma colaborativa de construir linguagens e soluções, que privilegia a disseminação e a apropriação do conhecimento desenvolvido. Temos que investir em dados que possam circular livres, como nos propõe Ted Nelson com a transliteratura e o transcopyright. Temos que integrar isso à economia solidária e a novas formas de produção agro-artesanais, de moradia e transporte baseadas no uso intensivo de tecnologia não poluente.

No Brasil, onde ainda temos vastas extensões de terra desabitada e devastada pela passagem dessa nuvem de gafanhotos chamada ‘modernidade’, podemos gerar um retorno ao campo para parte da população que hoje superpovoa nossas metrópoles. As cidades ficariam para os que gostam imensamente delas, mas estariam menos inchadas, mais cordiais e poderiam ser visitadas pelos tecnoroceiros, em busca de trocas e lazer.

Temos que inventar uma nova reforma agrária. Uma que não ocorreria simplesmente dando terra e condições para as pessoas plantarem e viverem para o sistema vigente. Isso nunca vai funcionar, como já tem sido demonstrado. Como ter a ilusão de que a competição entre uma pequena cooperativa de produtores de milho orgânico poderá vencer a competição com um grande conglomerado da agroindústria? Temos que aceitar essa derrota no plano da competição e partir para o estímulo à colaboração. Pão para o corpo e idéias para a mente, alimentos saudáveis e uma nova cultura de paz, numa velocidade mais sincronizada com os grandes tempos do planeta e da vida.

A minha experiência de vida mostra que isso é plausível. Quanto mais conheço a casa da roça e sua ecologia intrínseca, mais percebo que a solução está debaixo do nosso nariz. Temos que juntar mundos que aprendemos a considerar inconciliáveis As conexões em rede distribuída, as possibilidades da cultura se universalizar chegando aos mais distantes lugares, a integração de formas amenas e arcaicas de vida e produção com as mais sofisticadas tecnologias podem sim colaborar no sentido de preservar a vida e o planeta dessa veloz maia que ilude a humanidade nos seus últimos séculos.

Os desafios são enormes. O software livre é combatido pelas grandes com uma avalanche de processos judiciais, a economia solidária, hoje apoiada pelo estado, será combatida, pois vai colocar em cheque as injustas tarifações e os impostos, já que as pessoas passam a trocar entre si diretamente os insumos que necessitam para viver, os latifundiários vão continuar a boicotar a distribuição justa da terra.

Como já coloquei num texto anterior, Multimídia Imaginação e Poesia Zen, a literatura deve se engajar e contribuir na construção dessa nova cultura. “Na era da informação, a poesia deve entrar nos computadores e se ligar na rede, mas é preciso ter em mente que o poema não está ali para hiperestimular moribundos. O poema deve imaginar como fazer as pessoas mais vitais. O poema deve saber dar uma banana a tudo e instituir o silêncio que todos precisamos ouvir.”É a hora de criar a nova voz sintonizada com as comunidades empenhadas na construção colaborativa e na recolocação das questões da humanidade.

Antes do planeta incinerar, com o calor, a violência e a exclusão que são produzidos de forma tão intensa.

Álvaro Andrade Garcia

Chapter 38

Keith accepted the steak and the beers. He had his dinner. Afterwards he lay and tried to take a nap. He couldn’t because he was tense. All the shit about Cayman Operation, and its connections, came to his mind. He got up, anxious. He turned on the lights, walked round the room and finally sat at a table. He opened his briefcase and took out some sheets of paper. He made some drafts. He wrote a letter and made some notes about his discoveries. The letter addressed to Ralph would be posted the following day as a matter of security. The day was dawning when he fell asleep at the table.

As soon as he woke up, he searched for his watch and checked the time: 7:12 am. He went to the bathroom, washed his face and had a quick shower. He threw everything he had into a suitcase, put his notes into his hand luggage. He went to the hotel lobby, posted the letter to Ralph and ordered a taxi. He paid the bill, said goodbye in a friendly way, handed out a few tips and got into the first taxi he saw.

“To the airport, please.”

“Sure, senor,” answered the driver.

The boot was closed and the car get off. He was seeing the streets of San Salvador for the last time. That chapter of his life was over. He was going back to London, to a civilized country, where living was not so risky nor so difficult.

“Are you going on a trip, senor? ,” asked the driver.

“I’m off to Europe.”

“Ah, I could tell by the accent. Where’re you from?”

“England.”

The driver, a fat man with long hair, continued with his questions. “Did you like being with us ? The night life ? What about las chicas?”

Keith answered in a friendly way. Words fell innocently from his lips. It was good to talk about different things. The world was lighter again. The streets were passing by. Keith felt himself released and sad. “You’re extraordinary people. Progress’ll be a reality here,” said Keith.

The traffic light turned red.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“A little bit, why?”

“I’d like to buy some cigarettes on the corner,” the driver said.

“Please, go and buy two packets,” answered Keith, handing over some change.

The driver stopped the car and got out. He bought the cigarettes and came back. He got into the car and took a long time to get it started.

“Anything wrong ?” asked Keith.

“I think so.”

“What?”

A black long cane, pointed at the journalist’s forehead made him understand the situation.

“A second, senor. Don’t move and nothing’ll happen,” said the man.

A partner came out of the bar and entered the car by the rear door. He sat beside the journalist and pulled out a gun. The driver took his revolver and returned to the steering-wheel. The car moved off.

“What do you want from me ?” asked Keith, after recovering from the shock.

“A little conversation…”

“Do you want money?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“How much ?”

“How much are you offering ?”

“500 dollars.”

“Come on, you have much more than this. We wouldn’t betray the organization for so little.”

“Who do you work for?”

“You’ll know some day.”

“Please, senor O’Brien, be quiet. Talking won’t help you. Cooperate with us and nothing will happen to you.” The car turned off the road to the airport and went towards the coast.

.

Chapter 39

Ten o’clock in the morning. Antonia was getting impatient at the airport. She telephoned the Hotel Granada. It was almost two hours since Keith had left. Her hand was shaking as she replaced the receiver. She had a strange feeling.

The taxi was parked on a deserted road, near the sea. The three men walked through the vegetation to the edge of a high cliff.

“Hey guys, what do you want ? A thousand ? Three thousand ? …I’ve got much more. Do you want me to tell you anything ?”

Keith tried to speak. One of the men was pushing him forward with an automatic gun in his back. The other man with a gun in his hand wasn’t speaking. He was searching the journalist’s briefcase. Keith noticed something and shut up.

“Why don’t you finish it ?” he shouted at them.

He was pushed.

“Goodbye, Mr. O’Brien.”

The cliff was more than a hundred metres high. Dark rocks appeared in the sea below. Keith’s body whirled in the air. He turned slightly to the left. The journalist thought inside and forgot everything. Suddenly the body turned again and sank in the sea.

.

Chapter 40

From the top of the cliff the two men continued checking the reporter’s leather briefcase.

“How much does he have here?”

“I’ve already found 1200 dollars.”

“And in this pocket ?”

“A lot of paper, certainly a report. Do you read English?”

” A little bit.”

“You, being from the Caribbean, should understand the foreigner’s language better.”

“I can read it. Give me those documents.”

The Russian passed the notes to the driver. Frowning, he tried hard to read. While he was testing his ability in English, the other cleaned out the briefcase and took what was worthwhile.

“Everything’s done. Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, but first I need to tell you one thing,” said the driver, looking up.

“Come on, speak.”

“We’re trapped. The guy came here to find out the truth. This material contradicts the story he published.”

“Don’t bullshit me!”

“Me ? I wish I were. It says here that CIA was responsible all the time. And there’s proof. He says that Cayman Operation was one of the most successful operations in counter-espionage ever carried out. And we did this…”

The two looked at the document.

“We’re in trouble… And now? Let’s see the targets… If we take this to USSR …”

“…they’ll break our necks for killing the man.”

“Right. He’s disappeared. Let’s do the same with these documents. Nobody saw, nobody heard. Everything will be as it was.”

The two moved to the edge of the cliff and threw the papers away. In the distance, two men hidden in the trees were observing the scene through binoculars. One of them took out a cigarette, pulled out his lighter with the mandragore and smiled:

“The case is over. They did the job for us.”

.

Chapter 41

The Englishman’s body, his briefcase and his notes weren’t found. In the letter addressed to Ralph, written in the hotel on the eve of his disappearance, there was this report:

“Ralph, old chap,

The living always reappear! I’m still taking risks because of what I’ve discovered these last few days. I’m off to London tomorrow morning and I can’t wait to tell you everything I know. I was a victim of a damned trick arranged by the CIA, Cayman Operation, executed with the purpose of spoiling the Soviet’s policy of glasnost. I arrived today in San Salvador, coming from the mountains. You can’t imagine what I went through and how happy I am knowing that I’ll escape on flight 734. After this thing, I’ll change my life. Closeness to death makes us think twice.

Adventures? Only with life insurance. I’m stubborn, but I’ve thought recently about quitting. Ralph, what about investing money in something related to international business? You’ll know personally what I’m talking about. “I can’t sleep and I need to kill time. So, I’m trying to formulate my ideas. The CIA wanted someone important in the international press to give credence to their plan. Guess who was chosen? I not only put out the story, but I did more, I defended it with all my strength. The CIA planned and executed the Operation, Ralph! How? Well, how! The counter-espionage Agency convinced Yuri to change sides at the beginning of the year for a few million dollars. What a good bribe can do to the best of spies! Yes, but the idiot didn’t get his hands on it. He, who was a bridge between the KGB and the European Terrorist organizations, started to play the American game. The staff from Special Operations and from the Latin-American Service did a good job. They made Yuri contact men from the European left and mercenaries who were sent to El Salvador thinking they were taking guns to the guerrillas. What happened, in fact, was that the CIA was buying sophisticated weaponry on the European Market, which today is in the possession of the Salvadorean army. This load arrived at the correct destination, breaking the embargo on military aid for the El Salvador government.

“Guns for the army, prison for the European terrorists (specially guerrillas from the People’s Army) and the scandal that undermined the process of detente with the Soviets, everything weakened the guerrilla movement and restored North-America’s reputation. For that they counted on the”capacity” of a brilliant man who was used to transmit false news. Is it possible to continue in journalism after that? Ralph, have you ever thought of doing anything else in your life? You stay there, sitting in your room, collecting data… it doesn’t help. This information doesn’t form a coherent picture. Sometimes it just seems to be a war of words. Life, old chap, is missing from the pages of your newspaper. In Central America, you must be on the right side. The information we have access to as journalists could be a good earner in the business world. Later you can help the side you want to win the battle. But that’s another story. Do you want to know more?

“While the transport operation and the contracting of men was organized, the journalists who were going to Central America were certainly following the story. The rest is easy, isn’t it? As I was chosen to break the news, they didn’t allow me to have contacts with the other side. I was constantly followed. The meeting with the guerrillas, arranged in a brothel in San Salvador, had to be avoided. They killed everybody. Enrique,”the guerrilla”, who passed information in La Guardia, didn’t have anything to do with the left wing. He was connected to the Agency and was killed to destroy”the file.” And the men who were guarding the barns where the special containers were managed to escape. They are”disappeared” till now. They were, by an amazing coincidence, men trusted by the Agency. One of them was my cell-mate when I was arrested by the guerrillas.

“Yuri is the other one who was screwed. He was betrayed by the CIA. He was left without the million dollars that he expected to be paid after the operation and at the end of the story he was sent to prison and condemned in El Salvador. He’ll be killed soon, for sure. Domingos was also involved in the trap. In charge of escorting me, he was the one who took me to the performance in that abandoned farm. Domingos played his role perfectly. Later, he received his”payment” from the Americans and went to spend the money in Europe. If I hadn’t met him accidentally in the South of France, I would never have discovered the truth.

“We gringos, as they say here, can’t lose, Ralph. You’ve never been far from the comfort of your armchair. You can’t imagine how much it costs to have the pleasure of smoking your favourite cigarette. In prison, I discovered that I was born to own things. Everything, Ralph, it doesn’t matter which side you’re on.

“Day is breaking. Despite all this craziness, there’s still Antonia. I found out that she was used, like me. By the way, very few people knew all the truth about the operation. Who is the son of a bitch that is laughing now in Washington, thinking he is a genius?

“There are a lot of pieces in this puzzle of bad taste called Cayman Operation. I’ve passed many hours racking my brain to understand the trick. Where should I start my next article ? From what Yuri told Philippe ? No, it doesn’t make sense. You can’t imagine how much I got in that cell ! Poor guy… What a man won’t say when he is close to death…He talked a lot, explained many things. My return to London will be brief. I’ll be anonymous when I arrive. This is what I’ve got to do at this time. I’d like to meet the wife of the American prisoner and tell her what happened. Evellyn… I’ve got her address. There is also a contact with an agent that I must try. I should say that there are new clues in the case. Maybe there won’t be a new story. I don’t want to be divided anymore, half journalist, half human being. Ralph, there are other things that interest me in that circus in Latin America. “I’m sleepy. I want to sleep but I can’t. I’m going to wait till the day begins. Now I only think about flying to London… Put on some of the weight I’ve lost…I want my CD playing Night and Day, the enchanting sound of Lee Konitz and one whole night with Antonia.”

THE END

–

1989 – Copyright of the Portuguese version by
Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
1992 – Copyright of the English version by
Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
Mario Viggiano
Kevin Keys

Chapter 27

It was night. The guerrillas’ torches were still searching the jungle around the camp. The movement of the men was counterpointed by the fire-flies. Some shots echoed among voices and commands.

Keith had run as hard as he could till he arrived at a rocky wall near the mountain ridge. From there he took note of his surroundings. There was nothing else that he could see but the forest and the lights from the village run by the guerrillas. It was time to decide. The guerrillas would certainly expect him to go towards the town and the roads. There he would surely meet his death. He decided to take the most difficult route, among the rocks, taking advantage of his rudimentary knowledge of climbing. He went through the rocks, going down the steepest part, balancing his body and holding on to the ledges his nails found.

During the night he stayed doubled up in a small hole among the rocks. There was heavy tropical rain. With his head resting on a rock covered with moss and surrounded by thick vegetation, Keith recovered and lived some moments of peace. The rain was falling over his hurt and aching body. His mouth was desperate for liquid. At night, the noise of the jungle increased. Many animals went out to hunt, but the shots were coming from a distant place. One thing he was sure of: the guerrillas were temporarily defeated. A new and dangerous battle lay ahead of him. It was necessary to face the jungle, cure his injuries and try to get back to San Salvador. He was alone. He felt the heady sensation of fear and pleasure. He was an animal and a man. He needed strength to survive, intelligence to go back. He was in trouble, but it was peace, peace and nothing else he could feel when he slept, soaking wet.

.

Chapter 28

In the morning, the rain eased off a little. The pain in his body was more intense. Keith yawned and stretched his stiff legs. A dense wet mist surrounded the ridge and the forest. It was impossible to see the sky. Keith craned his neck and started to listen attentively. He tried to identify the sounds he could hear. Amongst the clicking, the whispering branches, he heard birdsong and other sounds of forest animals. The guerrillas were not in the vicinity. He stood up. He looked around him and he couldn’t believe what he saw. He came to the edge of the precipice where he had taken refuge. He looked down. He had slept on a steep hill with abysses and ditches in all directions. His foot was bleeding. A large gash in his heel would make the journey difficult.

A man under such violent pressures reacts with a power equally intense. All his thoughts turn to survival and all his doubts focus on defeating the obstacles. At this moment he rids himself of all doubt and concentrates on the immediate challenges. Keith was no exception. He started moving through the rocks. He descended, carefully holding on to the branches and gaps in the rock face. The rocks were still wet and slippery. His body teetered in the air a couple of times. His heart was beating quickly, but a strange calmness came upon him at the right moment. With some skill, he reached the bottom of the mountain some hours later. He had a rest and drank some water from a mine.

His next target was to find food. He allowed himself to laugh and find things funny. He promised himself a decent dinner as soon as he reached San Salvador. He looked for food until evening. He found almost nothing. A small tree of berries, some of the fruit still green.

The second night in the middle of the jungle was more frightening than the one before. The noises of the animals and the darkness increased and with them the lack of perspective. Keith was so afraid that he couldn’t close his eyes. He slept a little and woke up startled many times. The new morning brought him some peace. As soon as his eyes could see, Keith planned out a straight line, fashioned a kind of walking stick and set out, cutting his way through the jungle.

He walked for many hours. The jungle didn’t allow for speed. There were entangled creepers, plants blocking the way, the difficult terrain. His foot was infected and his fever was more intense. At the end of the day he was tired and had started to cough.

The following day he continued walking, but he had a surprise: he passed through a part of the jungle that he already knew. He was walking in circles – a lost person almost always does. It was difficult to guide himself. It was not possible to follow the sun or the stars and there weren’t any clear tracks in the forest either. Almost everything looked the same. He became desperate. He began to think he wouldn’t make it. He started to panic and felt death closing in, until he slept were he was, sitting on an old tree trunk.

On the third day in the forest since his escape, he woke up with a fever and with a huge abcess on his foot. He coughed and felt his strength fading. He searched for food and again he found nothing. He walked till he came across a stream, which solved one of his problems. He started to follow the direction of the water. He would certainly reach the plain. There he would have more chance of finding help.

.

Chapter 29

A man without direction oscillates between moments of despair and others of firm conviction. Keith followed the stream. The discovery of a way of getting out was encouraging. He went on almost in a state of euphoria. He walked as much as the obstacles and his infected foot allowed.

Eating little, sleeping in the open air and making as much effort as he could, he developed a serious pneumonia. The cough was at that moment intense and the fever was so high that he shivered during the day. His hope of finding a way out of his situation was diminishing. Had he been in good shape, he could have resisted, but he wasn’t. Each hour that passed he walked less and felt worse.

An observer with a map of his route would see Keith descending the ridge through the region that was most distant from any inhabited place. The Englishman would be seen walking some days towards the frontier with Honduras, in the opposite direction to the Salvadorean villages. It was only later that, following the Hermoso stream, he began to walk towards the villages and farms where there would be some kind of help.

The route avoided the way that led to El Plantio, occupied by the guerrillas, but made him draw a route like a huge arch that passed near other villages. His fever worsened and Keith lost his resistance. He walked a few more kilometres and then let himself collapse on a bank by the river.

His body felt soft then. His head was heavy. He shuffled sideways and used a stone as a pillow. Above him clouds were passing, beside him there was the forest. The flowing water murmured repetitively. Keith let himself go.

.

Chapter 30

His body collapsed from the rock and fell in the direction of the sky. The clouds made a kind of vortex and erased the landscape around him. Keith fell into empty space. He screamed and moaned. A flash of memories. He was passing through a sort of tunnel that blurred all reference to space and time. Everything disappeared. Colours, sensations. He shouted and woke up, startled, in a dark, circular valley. Around him there were a hundred or more mutilated bodies moving and groaning. People without arms, others without legs. Children and women with broken shoulders and blind eyes. Pieces composed of intestines and organs, split abdomens. What place was this ? He tried to escape, but he couldn’t. The ground was made of bodies that were decomposing and were moving ceaselessly in a kind of sticky sea. His feet were sinking, crushing people, suffocating, transforming them into a viscous liquid. Some arms stuck out, waving. Their fingers were missing and some of them were only elbows. Bodies without heads were groaning with guttural sounds as if the voices were coming from their guts. The sky above was black and groaning too.

.

Chapter 31

“Senor, senor !” – he heard the voice, distant and weak.

He tried to open his eyes and face the light.

“Senor!”

A couple of sharp slaps to his face made him wake up. The first thing he saw was a thatched roof, then mud walls, a couple of peasants and the attentive eyes of five children. The woman, with a small yellow cloth round her head had the smell of the land and was cleaning the injury on the journalist’s foot. Her husband was trying to revive him. “Senor!”

“Uhh…,” murmured Keith.

The children edged closer. Two went out to play. Keith became frightened and quickly tried to get up. His foot struck the woman and was grabbed by the man.

“They’re shooting,” shouted Keith, in English.

“Calm down senor, calm down. You’re getting better. Soon you’ll be well.”

Some time later Keith discovered where he was. He was in the Venturas’ house, peasants that had escaped from the civil war and had fled to the forest, far from the conflict. According to his host, Keith was found delirious by the river. Lying on the ground, he was shouting sideway with his tongue twisted as if he were possessed by the Devil. It had been difficult to get him home.

He had been unconcious for two days when he woke and shouted the same things. They had prepared teas, applied some medicinal roots and taken care of him until that day. The injury on his heel was almost cured. Though free of pus, the area was still red and painful. His cough was less constant and weak and he was recovering from the pneumonia. The fever was abating.

“I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me.”

“It’s an obligation for a catholic to help anyone who needs it,” answered the man.

The children smiled shyly. The woman leaned on the wall and looked down.

“Senor, a few days more and your tongue will not be twisted anymore,” said the man.

Keith smiled.

“I hope so,” he said.

“There aren’t many people like you around here. By any chance, are you a relative of the Granados’ ?”

“No, I come from a distant place.”

“From San Juan?”

“Not exactly. I’m sorry to ask, but I don’t know where I am.”

“You are five leagues from San Antonio.”

“And what about San Salvador?”

“San Salvador?”

“The capital.”

“The capital must be somewhere very far from here. We have never been there.”

“And the nearest town to San Antonio?”

“It’s San Juan. Do you intend to travel?”

“I have to travel.”

“You should rest a bit more.”

“I need to go. And the war? Who is in control here? The government or the guerrillas ?”

“Have you lost your memory?”

“I think so.”

“The war is in the North. Here there is nothing. No towns, people or farms. Nobody owns this land.”

“And San Antonio?”

“Now it’s controlled by the government.”

“How can we get there?”

“There’s a fair there every Saturday. The next one, you’ll come with us.”

Keith relaxed. Then he sneezed.

“God bless you,” said the peasant shyly.

.

Chapter 32

The news of Keith’s escape arrived at Los Rosales and travelled down the mountain to Las Flores from where an informer carried the news to Antonia. Through this man she discovered that the Englishman really was Keith O’Brien and that he had disappeared in the jungle for almost a week.

After so many false leads, the news coming from the mountain revived her hopes. With a map of the region, she drew possible routes for the journalist’s return. She asked for ten men and posted them around the neighbouring villages where Keith had last been seen.

.

Chapter 33

The wheels of the cart rattled along the track. One last bend and San Antonio appeared, down in the valley, surrounded by pasture. The tall church tower stood out from the coloured houses lining the winding contour of the valley.

The peasant family, wearing their best clothes, were on their way, together with the neighbours from the country, to the fair and to mass. In borrowed clothes, Keith was among the adults on foot. They all were sweating. It was almost mid-day and they had been walking for some hours. The men were talking aloud, reciting extracts from the Bible and old popular songs. The women walked silently, holding their parasols. “Senor ! Soon you’ll be back home. God hasn’t failed in helping you,” said Jose.

“That’s what I most want now,” answered Keith.

“You can catch the three o’clock bus. It’s the one that goes to San Juan.”

“Before that I’ll need some money and documents.”

“Priest Leiden is a very good man. He’ll help you, with the blessing of God.”

“I hope so, I hope so…”

On Saturday the streets of the town were taken over by the crowd of visitors. They came from the surrounding countryside, strolling among the various stalls that sold everything from maize to flour and meat. The square was surrounded by four dusty lanes, and most people headed there. The peasants not only went to the church services celebrated every hour during the weekend, specially on holy dates, but they also went shopping. In the middle of the confusion, Keith shook hands with the family that had helped him. Among the stalls, flour sacks and grains he thanked them for their hospitality and regretted not being able to recompense them for what they had done for him. The Salvadoreans said goodbye. The children became shy and the woman emotional, becoming a little distant. The husband made the sign that it was God’s desire. Without wasting his time, the Englishman climbed up the steps of the church, looking for the priest. Jose threw a sack of maize on to his back and turned away, tugging his wife after him. The children followed them. They moved away, vanishing into the crowd.

.

Chapter 34

In seat number 7, Keith was still thinking about recent events. The priest from the village, a Dutchman in penitence in that distant place, had been living there since l947. An enigmatic and intelligent man, he had decided to dedicate his life to God’s children and ignore his own comfort. Without travelling, even to the capital, the priest had incorporated a great deal of the local culture. He still had a strong accent and a humanistic culture, gleaned from his private library and in correspondence with Europe.

Keith had been honest with the priest and had no difficulties in arranging lunch, clothes and the small amount of money that would be enough to take him to San Salvador. He also asked the priest to invent a false story to secure the temporary documents for the trip.

In his seat, waiting for the departure of the bus, as usual full of passengers and animals, he remembered with affection the people who had saved his life without asking for anything in return. He remembered the moments he lived through in the jungle and amongst the poverty, not behaving like a man. He sighed, feeling released. Being there was a kind of miracle. He had joined a war that wasn’t his. At that moment he was escaping from it.

A tall, strong man sat beside him.

“Good afternoon, senor O’Brien. There’s no need to be frightened. I’m here on Miss Vidal’s behalf. She has been following you since you disappeared in Europe. She asked me to give you this.”

He leaned over and gave Keith a sealed envelope containing a brief message. Keith read it.

“I want you to send a message to Senorita Antonia,” said Keith.”Tell her I will call her as soon as I arrive in San Salvador and tell her that…” (“I love her”) he thought without speaking.

“Can you say where you’ll be?”

“At the moment no.”

.

Chapter 35

The return to San Salvador seemed endless. Finally the bus defeated the quagmires and the barriers, arriving at the capital. Keith caught a taxi and went to the hotel where he had stayed under the name of Thomas Whitehead. It was ten p.m. when he arrived at the Hotel Granada. He collected his belongings and the money that were with the manager and a room was arranged. The caretaker recognized him.

“You took a long time,” the man commented.

“I had some problems. In my job things never go the way we plan.”

“And the farms, senor? What are they like?”

“Promising, dear boy, promising,” answered Keith.”With a bit of technology, you’ll be able to produce a lot of food.”

The Englishman received his key and went to his room. The caretaker picked up the phone and made a single call.

.

Chapter 36

The lift door opened. Keith dragged his case to his room. He went in. He filled his lungs with air. He felt happy being alive. He smiled.”What should I do first? ,” he thought. There was a bath waiting, the window to open, to lie in bed and stretch out his legs. He could call London immediately, or perhaps Antonia. He could order a steak. If possible, he would get drunk on beer. He went to the window, opened it and breathed the air deeply. He called room service.

“Please, two beers and a Cuban steak… I’ll be having a bath. If I don’t answer the door, keep trying,” he asked. He was free, back to the world he knew. He went to have his bath.

The informer contracted by Antonia had followed Keith to the hotel entrance. She, at home, had already been contacted, receiving news of her lover. She was looking forward to Keith’s call, pacing from one side of theroom to the other. Her watch read 11:23 pm.

.

Chapter 37

When Keith finished his bath, another man, in a beige suit, lighted a cigarette. He was in the street, opposite the hotel. The mandragore, the sign on his lighter, shone in the night. He and an assistant were talking to the caretaker.

Keith lay naked on his bed and put through a call to Antonia. His heart started to beat faster. She answered. Since the episode in the South of France, when Domingos was found, he had grown suspicious of her. Because of her connections with the man and her frequent trips abroad, Keith took it for granted that she was involved in espionage, specially regarding Cayman Operation. After what he had discovered on his return to Central America, it was clear that she had been used innocently in an operation never seen before in the history of counter-espionage in Central America.

“Antonia, darling!”

“Keith… I can’t believe the voice I’m hearing,” she stammered.”How my heart aches! What happened to you? Why did you disappear?”

“It’s a long story. I found out some things and I decided to investigate.”

“You were almost killed !”

“I took a few risks, that’s why I didn’t want to involve you.”

“All I’ve been doing is looking for you all this time. Why did you vanish without telling me anything?”

“Some problems…”

“You didn’t trust me.”

“…I needed to disappear for some time.”

“In Europe they think you were killed.”

“Good ! It’ll be fun to play a trick on them.”

“Keith, Keith, I love you so much! I want to see you now!”

“I miss you too. I must tell you, they want to kill me. I’ve got some priceless information. I’m going to leave the country as soon as possible. Actually, tomorrow morning. I’ve got plans for us. I wouldn’t like to risk your life by meeting you here.”

“I wouldn’t care if it meant I could see you now.”

“Let’s be sensible. I’m crazy to kiss you. But I want more than that – will you come with me?”

“How ?”

“Come with me ? Shall we go away tomorrow ? We can have a real honeymoon wherever you want. And, I promise not disappear again…”

Antonia hesitated at the other end of the line.

“My love, I disappeared because I had to know more about that Operation. Give me a chance. Meet me tomorrow at nine in the airport restaurant.”

“Nine?”

“I can’t wait to get away from here.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please.”

“Nine o’clock in the morning ?”

“With all your luggage packed.”

“Nine o’clock with my luggage packed. Ok, I’ll be there…”

Silence.

“And can’t I see you now?”

“Pack your things. Let’s not take any risks. Leave discreetly tomorrow.”

“Where are you?”

“Hotel Granada. Please, all I ask you now is: don’t come, meet me at the airport.”

“I love you.”

“See you in the morning. You are going to forgive me, I’m sure.”

The bell rang. Keith continued on the phone.

“My dinner has just arrived. The service here is not very good. Would you believe it if I told you that I ordered my dinner forty minutes ago? I’m hungry. See you tomorrow.”

–

1989 – Copyright of the Portuguese version by
Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
1992 – Copyright of the English version by
Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
Mario Viggiano
Kevin Keys

–

 Chapter 38 (click to continue)

Chapter 13

In the morning, they took the first bus towards the most conflict-ridden region of the country. Avoiding obvious routes, they changed vehicles twice and they risked passing secretly through army road-blocks and rebel crossing points. Philippe knew the region as if he had been born there. Behind his glasses, only the flicker of his eyes showed his anxiety; otherwise he moved calmly and rhythmically, precisely in the hispanic manner. They travelled most of the time absorbed in their own thoughts.

They arrived at a village lost in the middle of the forest where they were welcomed by an unknown host. Philippe’s friend was fifty years old and had curly grey hair. He was Venezuelan and had a thick moustache covering his upper lip. If the moustache hid other visual characteristics, it didn’t dampen the sound of his voice. The man had a thick voice and coughed frequently.

He led them to the forest to a small cleaning where there were some guerrillas from the FMLN. From there they were escorted for some miles to the edge of a stream near a line of mountains in the region. They stayed with the troops and the rebel families. Keith shared his fate with those men.

The camp seemed to be an advanced Red Cross post. It gave protection to refugee families and men who were in danger. Besides that, they were admitting people who wanted to take part in the guerrilla war and gave them some training. Despite the instructors’ willingness, it was difficult to deal with the situation. The food and hygiene conditions were precarious. The lack of guns and munition forced people to train with pieces of wood. The mosquitoes were the only ones in control.

The first night, Keith slept because he was exhausted. He sat down and started to watch the shadows thrown by the kerosene lamps. He started to think:

“I’ve never fought for anything that we could call the truth. What makes these people take so many risks? Why do I insist on chasing the truth like a fox-hound? Maybe this is the first time I’m really a journalist. Maybe… nobody normal would take risks in a war that is not theirs.

“Apparently nothing makes sense, but there must be something in this mess. Everything is marked by uncertainty and I want to make sure of the news I report. Everyday I am forced to live with new facts. Each new fact spreads the net and I can’t find the thread. I should abandon speculation. I must go on. It’s all or nothing. I know that this is not the way to work, but I’m getting some results.

“I have no personal truths. What a distance from these people who are searching for more than that! They want something new, a fair human order, a utopia… It is impressive the way they risk their lives, knowing that victory is almost impossible.

“I had some difficulties with Philippe. He strikes me as a bit strange anyway. Does he really trust me? He seems to. I only have to look around and see that I’m with the guerrillas. Tomorrow I’ll climb the mountains and see if I can which way things are moving. The impressions I have of this country change everyday. The way I arrived here frightens me. Philippe’s calmness when he talked to the men, the Venezuelan…it was as if, on the two sides of the war, there were people who had free passage and who can trade in goods and information.

“I am close to discovering important things. It is difficult to know which side of the war I’m on. I take more risks on this journey every day. I’m not here for the news but for my reputation. I’ve only got a packet of cigarettes. It’s ironic to see guerrillas asking me where I’m going -“Senor, what is your destination? – and how they ask for cigarettes…”

.

Chapter 14

“It’s time we left,” said Philippe.

“Hey, first of all, good morning,” answered Keith, rubbing his eyes.

“Hurry up! Javier Cabana’s command is about to leave.”

Keith got up, knelt and unzipped his tent. The Central American morning. An intense noise of birds, a haze of green and the smooth aroma of fresh coffee. Around the camp, a dozen mules were being loaded with food and water. Two big pans on the camp-fire contained soup made from manioc and bones. The smell hung in the trees. Pale light filtering through the branches brought the sun in a dense and hot mist.

“Aren’t you coming with us ?” asked Keith.

“I’ve done it before, dear boy. You’re going to pass through a very dangerous region. After the mountain range there is a plain until the next range. I don’t want to get into trouble taking a ride in a story that isn’t mine.” “You’ve already helped me enough.”

“I trusted you. I hope I’m not helping the army to destroy the guerrillas.”

“You should’ve known that I don’t work like that.”

“I hope not. Anyway, they have ways of taking care of themselves. You’re going to do a lot of walking before you reach the important men. I recommended you personally. I’m sending a letter with your escort to Major Esteban, the military-chief of this area. I told him that you’re one of our reporters. Another thing. They’ll blindfold you for some days. Maybe two.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Listen, Keith, I don’t want to have the deaths of lots of people of my conscience. It doesn’t cost a lot to have some protection in a war. The fact I trust you doesn’t mean forgetting security. I don’t know where the guys are now. The simplest torture can open the mouth of the most loyal comrade.”

“I’ll go. Anyway, it’s too late to turn back.”

“C’est vrai…”

“Philippe, a very private question. How involved are you with the guerrillas ?”

.

Chapter 15

For some time Keith felt only the heat that came from the mule he had been given. Red through the cloth that blindfolded him indicated the sun, and black, night. He hardly knew which of the two sensations were the worst. There was nothing to see under that black or luminous and thing over his face.

The movement of the animal jerked him around in the saddle. That endlessly repeated movement allowed him to concentrate only on his more immediate impressions. He felt his buttocks ache and he was sweating all over. Human smells mingled with that of the beast and the damp of the trees. The mosquitoes attacked any exposed flesh.

His thoughts were always distracted by sudden noises such as horses in the water or shouts from the troops. He heard birdsong, as well as anti-imperialists hymns. The days passed slowly. The Anglo-Saxon insults and promises of revenge went side by side with popular songs and laughter. The men didn’t sing well, but they didn’t stop. They rarely stayed very long in one place to rest. The journalist’s bones seemed to dissolve into a shapeless mass. The hours didn’t exist anymore. Keith at that moment surrended to brute sensations without understanding them.

His face was scratched, he was fed by rude hands that offered him iguanas, cuzucos and monkey meat mashed with corn. Everything was cold and stale. The bad taste of the old fat stayed in the mouth for hours. He had constipation and had difficulty urinating.

He became accostumed to an invisible presence. A kind of shadow projected in his mind without visual form. Someone was always around. The scents and gestures were always the same. He became familiar with the aggressive voice of the person who had been chosen to take care of him.

He got used to being blindfolded. His ears and nostrils tried to make out what he couldn’t see. And his head started to imagine hypotheses and conjectures. He asked many times about smells and noises. He got no answer. His escorts didn’t trust that red man with a yankee accent.

“It is difficult for us not to associate your voice with the history of centuries of oppression on our people,”

explained the commander of the troop in one occasion. But being Philippe’s friend, you won’t have any problems.”

.

Chapter 16

They were only in danger during the mountain climb when they were ambushed by an army patrol. For some hours, Keith’s mule was surrounded by the noise of bullets. The journalist doubled up, staying close to the animal’s body. He shouted to be set free, but nobody answered. The only thing he could do was to hold on tight to the animal’s skin and cry. He didn’t know if he was going on with the guerrillas or if he was lost in the middle of the battle, or about to be shot.

.

Chapter 17

When he opened his eyes, he felt a deep happiness. He tried hard to see beyond the shining outlines. His eyes wept and blinked a great deal after they released him. The images of trees and the blue of the sky began to take shape. He felt like a blind man who had recovered his vision. He moved his arms, touched his face searching for scars. He looked around.

The men had gathered at the foot of a rocky wall to the west of the Del Sacramento plain and many of them were hurt. Part of the food was lost, but there was something to feed the comrades at the top of the mountain. A meeting was deciding the next move for the command. They were discussing whether or not to wait for those who had been separated from the group. Some thought that they should be abandoned. The group was risking coming under a renewed attack from the army.

All around, the forest seemed to be as beautiful as always. Cicadas and insects buzzed. A heron landed near him. Keith sat down and watched the activity around the injured. An improvised doctor was trying to take out bullets and apply bandages. He got up and went over. He looked at the faces in pain. The red of the blood seeping out of bodies was all he could see at that moment. One of the men shouted in pain.

.

Chapter 18

While Keith was climbing the mountains of Sierra de la Esperanza, Antonia was asking questions around San Salvador. She visited police stations involved with political activities and immigration. She inquired in almost all the hotels in the capital. She found nothing. She went to the British Club and to the Embassy. She discovered very little. With the help of a friend in the police, she visited some clandestine cemeteries. There wasn’t a body like Keith’s. Only the stench of rotting flesh.

With her hope shaken and pressed by business that was demanding her attention, Antonia started running Izalco Investiments again and playing her part in the social and political life of the Salvadorean capital. In a Government interview with foreign journalists, she accidentally ran into Philippe. He was just back from the forest where he had left Keith.

The place was crowded. Journalists were mixing with politicians, diplomats and high ranking officers. All of them were listening to a statement about the new army attacks that were defeating the guerrillas in the remote mountains of the region of Chalatenango. Philippe passed in front of Antonia and greeted her. She answered with a wave and a smile. The photographer introduced himself.

“Philippe Montferrand.”

“Antonia Vidal.”

“I’ve seen you before.”

“Really ?” she asked.”I don’t remember talking to you before,” she added, frowning.

“No, no. In fact I know you.”

“Ah…”

“I went to that party at your father’s house. I know the family well, and some of your friends.”

“What’s the interview like?”

“It’s tiring. These meetings are always the same. I need to make money with pictures of the puppets. If it wasn’t for that I’d be breathing some fresh air out there.”

“Am I disturbing you ?”

“Of course not. I’ve already got what I came for. Shall we go on to the verandah ?”

Antonia hesitated, then agreed. They both walked on to the verandah. They had been observed.

“What an interesting thing! I’m here talking to Antonia Vidal, the famous businesswoman.”

“I wouldn’t like you to play tricks on me,” she said reprimanding him.

“I’m sorry. I’m always kidding. Listen to me. What about your boyfriend? He really is a very strange guy…”

Antonia was surprised by the mention of Keith.

“What do you mean by that ?” she asked half frightened, half irritated.

“Not too much. He asked me to keep his secret, but I don’t think his girlfriend should be left out of the picture.”

Antonia felt something in the air. She played innocent. Philippe seemed to be checking something.

“And when is he going to come back ?” asked Antonia.

“You know better than I do. Things there happen at a different speed. At this time he could be meeting the commander if he hasn’t kicked the bucket. He’s a man outside the rules, isn’t he? He has everything for a quiet life, but he insists on getting involved in this crazy adventure. He’s hiding something from us.”

Antonia was happy inside. Finally she knew where her man was. It was not possible to get there, but he had been found. At that moment it was important to keep cool, hide her hands so as not to show she was shaking and try to get more out of Philippe. Antonia took the photographer’s arm and smiled at him.

“This is really very boring. Are you coming with me for a drink?”

.

Chapter 19

Some days later, on a sunny afternoon, a brown car pulled over to the sidewalk beside Philippe. The photographer was walking back to the hotel. Three tall and well-built men with a revolver, a shotgun and a machine-gun surrounded the Frenchman. One of them pulled him towards the car while the others kept watch. Philippe fell on to the back seat of the vehicle. Then the two men entered the car again, one from each side, shoving their guns against his ribs. The other looked around, hid his revolver and got into the car. He sat beside the driver. The car drove rapidly to the outskirts of the city.

Locked in a small room with neither windows nor light, Philippe received three blows to his face. Then they threw water at him. They kicked him. When he opened his eyes again, he was in another room hanging from a kind of rack. He was kicked in the small of the back. They held his head and checked that he was conscious. One of the man shoved a stick into his anus. He was given some electric shocks. Nobody said anything. He didn’t know if it were night or day. He stayed in that torture machine until someone started talking:

“It’s simple. Everything will end as soon as you tell us details of your relationship with the guerrillas. Principally your relationship with the Englishman.”

The voice echoed into the distance. A bucket of water in his face helped him to feel better. He coughed and choked. He tried to speak. His ribs were aching. His arms and legs were weak. He whispered something. He couldn’t remember a word.

They left him for some days alone and locked up. They didn’t let him sleep. They introduced some needles under his nails. Someone scratched his skin. He confessed everything he knew and was beaten again. Then he was hung on a wall, naked. They beat him seriously this time, with an iron bar. His bones shattered as he screamed with pain. They started on his legs, then his arms…

The room spun around him. He could make out only random flashes of light and sound. The pain stopped. Everything was dream-like, unreal. The punching and the shouting were far away. The sensation of pain and humiliation were fading. He died.

.

Chapter 20

After crossing a lateral crevice in the Del Sol cliff, the guerrillas climbed up and down other valleys and mountains to El Plantio. The village was controlled by the guerrillas. Its three single lanes had the same appearance as the cities controlled by the government. Except the farmers’ houses that were used as schools and barns of food and guns, the streets were still dirty and the houses very poor. The people were hungry. Their faces were more tense. The possibility of attacks from government troops always existed. There was no time for them to work in peace. After being there for two days, Keith went up a new mountain to the edge of an extinct volcano. A semi-circle of eight tents and three sheds was the main camp of the Javier Cabanas command from the FMLN. Surrounded by guards, it seemed to be the headquarters of an important centre of guerrilla activity. The modern weaponry, the preparedness for a sudden departure, the presence of aerials and the huge quantity of communication equipment confirmed the importance of the camp.

Keith was taken into the presence of the commanders. Two bearded men of about thirty years, dressed in combat uniform glanced towards the journalist, watching his moves closely.

“He is Philippe’s friend,” said Keith’s escort.

The guerrillas’ faces were serious and unsmiling.

“Welcome to the Javier Cabanas command,” said one of them,coming over and offering his hand.

Keith returned the gesture. His escort gave one of them the letter written by Philippe. Calmly, the man opened the envelope and stood by the stream. He started to read.

“How long have you been travelling ?” the other asked the journalist.

“For almost a week. We had problems on the plain. A set-to with the army.”

“Common things in a war.”

“Indeed, but not agreeable for a man who is blindfolded,” added the journalist.

“Well, senor…”

“Thomas.”

“…Thomas, we can’t play soft in this kind of job,” said the man, smiling.

“I understand your point-of-view,” agreed Keith.

“Where do you come from ?”

“I’m English.”

“English… One of you put us in a difficult situation some time ago. It’s good to have you here among us to change this bad impression.”

It was three o’clock. The sun was hidden. The cloudy sky hurt the eyes: white and pale. Some soldiers passed in front of the men talking. Commander Esteban approached the group again, folded the letter and said:

“What do you want from us, senor Thomas?”

“An interview to clear up certain events.”

“Only that ?”

“I don’t know. Only after talking will I know.”

“Right. We need only to check with headquarters.”

“Senores,” he said with irony to the men that were passing,”take our guest to the wash-house to clean up and rest. Offer him something to eat. You’re hungry, aren’t you ?” he asked the journalist.

“Some food wouldn’t be bad,” Keith said gratefully.

The Englishman approached Esteban. The man gave him Philippe’s letter.

“Read this,” he said.

The commander’s eyes shone. He smiled. A piece of metal shone in his mouth. His teeth were almost black.

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Chapter 21

Keith read the photographer’s letter:

“Comrades, this is a warning. The man I’m sending you with dyed hair and false documents is Keith O’Brien, the well-known imperialist agent who actively participated in Cayman Operation. For some unknown reason, which should be investigated, he changed his identity and risked his life to find you. I thought it would be better not to show my suspicions, leading him to you as if everything were normal.

“I recommend you to be cautious and give him a good, long interview to get the information we want. Here in the capital, things are not very good. I feel I have been followed. I think about leaving the country as soon as possible. I’ll do that when the support command Ricardo in charge of our partners in Nicaragua allows me to do so.

Revolutionary Greetings.”

Two soldiers approached and pointed their machine guns. The commander approached and spat in Keith’s face.

“Bastard.”

The journalist didn’t react. He was shocked. His heart started pounding and his hands were trembling. The letters had been mixed up. He looked up and saw the guns. He fainted.

“Soldiers,” said the commander,”take him to prison. Let him stay with his friend.”Mr. O’Brien,” the commander said to the journalist looking at him furiously,”what makes a man like you do this sort of thing? Hijo de perra!”

Keith didn’t answer. Philippe hadn’t trusted him. He was in trouble. The other guerrilla commander took the letter from his hands and read. His escort came over and read it too.

“Get this rat out of here,” shouted Esteban to the other soldiers.

He took two steps towards Keith and punched him in the face.

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Chapter 22

The soldiers rough-handled him. They dragged the journalist, kicking and punching him, to a small stream. They ordered him to bathe. Every now and then one would step over and hit him again. One of them almost drowned him by holding his head under water. From the stream he was taken to a kind of cavern near the ravine. This would be his jail. A door made of tree trunks was opened and Keith was thrown inside.

The entrance was a narrow corridor that opened into a circular space. When he entered he felt relieved. He was safe while out of the guerillas hands. He calmed down. His senses tested the atmosphere. The cell was wet, dark and malodorous. It stank of mould and urine. There was neither furniture nor objects, only a mat on the floor. The only illumination came from the sun that filtered through the door.

A man of about forty, ragged, white and fetid, was his partner in the cell. He was as far away as he could get from a mound of shit that was crawling with mosquitoes. Keith’s jaw was aching after the beatings. He felt sick.

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Chapter 23

While the journalist was in the Salvadorean mountains, the investigation by the information agencies continued. The CIA knew about Philippe’s statements extracted by the police during interrogation. With these clues, they reconstructed Keith’s route to a village beyond Tejutla, where Philippe would have left him. From there, the agents in charge had no references.

The combat region was not appropriate for inquiries and that led back to the capital. The military assistant in El Salvador passed on the information about the case in a check to headquarters in Washington. It was decided was that it would be better wait for the right moment to act. The men began to watch the airport, the hotels and to keep a check on KGB movements.

Antonia’s starting point was what she had got out of the night before his disappearance. She couldn’t tell exactly where the journalist was. Even with all her seductive powers, she couldn’t get enough hints. Some days later, however, she received a call from one of her contacts in the Salvadorean police. She was informed of the reasons for the photographer’s disappearance and death. She received the same information transmitted to the CIA with all the details. She arranged two body-guards and went immediately into the country, retracing her boyfriend’s route. KGB agents were shadowing her.

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Chapter 24

Some days passed. Without doubts they were worst of the journalist’s life. Locked in the cellar, he ate little and vomited many times because of the stink. The injuries caused by the beating he had had were infected. He had permanent and frequent diarrhoea. He had excruciating stomach pains.

He thought about suicide. Another idea that obssessed him was to escape before his position worsened. He searched desperately for a way out, but there was no opportunity. The guards were on constant look-out. During the time they passed together, his companion in the cellar gave him important information about Cayman Operation and others being mounted in Central America. Activities which he had followed closely involved a captured American in the mountains. The American complained about his solitude, speaking a language other than English and said that he had known his fate since he had been arrested: he would be killed. He only thought it strange because it was taking so long. Sad and hopeless, the man revealed all the secrets he knew. He talked more. During the nights he groaned and remembered his past in North America. His parents were Cuban immigrants, his garden covered with grass, a pleasant lawn running down to the street … they used to play baseball.

The only external movement besides the men’s conversation in the cellar was the passage of the portion of light that was coming in through the door. Every now and then a shadow appeared as the head of a guerrilla came to see the new prisoner.

“You must be very famous,” said Walter.

The journalist didn’t give his name.

“They are mistaking me for someone else.”

“In my country, the innocent have to prove they are not guilty. And there is not always time for that…”

Keith nodded. The afternoon was almost over. The mosquitoes were intensifying their attacks. The door opened. Three men entered and picked up the American. They looked with disdain at the Englishman. They dragged the man out. Five minutes later Keith heard two shots and a hollow groan.

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Chapter 25

“He was lucky. We don’t treat our prisoners like the army. He died because he was a counter-revolutionary like you. We don’t have hate, but principles, in this war.”

“He was a poor man,” whispered Keith.

“A poor man today. When he was working, he didn’t care about the small men. His dirty work helped to kill many people.”

“I’ve already told you, but I’d like to repeat it: I’m not the one you think I am. Philippe must’ve been mad when he wrote that message.”

“Better mad than dead.”

“What?”

“Come on, Mr. O’Brien, at certain times your cynicism bothers me. Philippe was arrested and tortured as soon as he returned to San Salvador. His body was found two days ago. We should’ve done the same with you as they did to him. But we did it in a different way. You had a summary trial. And your destiny is already sealed. You’ll die like a man, with all your dignity.”

“At least we’re going to finish this,” murmured Keith.

“It’s going to take a little longer.”

“What else is missing?”

“Your cooperation. We want some information.”

“And what do I get ?” “Who knows ? more time ?”

“I’d rather die.”

” A lot of things are involved. The illusion of freedom. We will be more reasonable if you cooperate.”

“I’ve told you that it’s a question of misunderstanding. I can explain.”

“So tell us.”

Keith stopped. He breathed deeply and searched for words.

“I was a CIA victim like you.”

“You are such a hypocrite that I wish I could take my gun and kill you now.”

“Why don’t you?”

“It’s not time yet, but I’ll be the one to do it,” answered the guerrilla.

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Chapter 26

Keith was smart in the first interrogations. The commanders’ lack of malice gave him an important clue. They were waiting for someone to come and question him and decide his destiny. What they wanted was to get something out of him before the other man arrived to demonstrate their competence.

The Englishman, recognising this need of his hosts, tried to gain some time with a fantasy version of his intentions. In this strange game during interrogation, between hesitations and plausible statements, another week passed and he became healthy again. Due to his cooperation, he was allowed out of the cellar once a day, in the afternoon, to defecate and to bathe.

Feeling better, he cleaned the cellar and started to try the to enlist the guard’s support. He wasn’t successful. The only chance of escape happened once when he went to the stream near the camp. He was getting ready for his bath when some monkeys approached. The noise and movement in the creepers distracted the soldiers’ attention. He had a few seconds to decide to make for the forest. It was that or nothing.

He ran. His legs moved ahead of his thoughts. He dived into the forest. The guards realised their mistake. They spotted the man running through the trees. They fired . They followed him. Keith ran as hard as he could, pushing away the branches that were blocking his way. The hillside was steep. His stiffened feet were dragging his body over hills and hollows.

The soldiers crashed through the forest shooting at any movement they saw. The monkeys started to scream even more. Some of them were killed and others escaped. Keith heard the shots but didn’t look back. He ran on. The scenery seemed to be made of paper, obstacles that could be pushed aside without leaving any trace on his body.

–

1989 – Copyright of the Portuguese version by

Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
1992 – Copyright of the English version by
Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
Mario Viggiano
Kevin Keys

–

 Chapter 27 (click to continue)

PART 3

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Chapter 1

THE CAYMAN OPERATION: Keith O’Brien missing.

The English journalist Keith O’Brien – who, after uncovering Cayman Operation, was resting on the Cote D’Azur between Antibes and Juan-Les-Pins with his girlfriend – has not been seen for a week and there are no hints of where he is. For security reasons, the identity of the girl – who has already left France and is in a safe place – has not been revealed by the police.

The news was released in London and confirmed by French and Spanish police, who are also co-operating in the case. Sources from Scotland Yard believe that the journalist may have been victim of a KGB reprisal. Tom Laughwood, in charge of the case, has not dismissed the hypothesis that he might have been killed. What is known is that, a little before disappearing, O’Brien was involved in an incident on the beach with an unknown person accompanied by a dancer of Spanish nationality.

The news of Keith O’Brien’s disappearance sparked off a series of demonstrations all around Europe. Human Rights organisations re-staged, yesterday afternoon, a demonstration in front of the Soviet Embassy in London. Security has been intensified in all East European consulates in the West.

The Soviet Union’s Ambassador to London, Leon Dievuchkin, was non-committed when asked about the latest events. “We regret what has happened to the journalist Keith O’Brien and we hope he can be found as soon as possible,” he said. “This is not the first time they have tried to involve our country in scandals of a political nature,” he emphasized. “The Americans are trying to find a reason to avoid signing the new arms limitation agreement,” Dievuchkin continued, saying that the Soviet Union would soon prove its innocence in the episode. Because of the disappearance of the journalist, many countries from the EEC promised to consider economic sanctions against the Soviets. Among the experts in Soviet affairs, there is a rumour that Gorbachev’s opponents in the Communist Party Central Committee are not concealing their satisfaction at the latest events. According to the specialists, the case of Keith O’Brien may be the principal anti-glasnost recipe.

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Chapter 2

The telephone rang yet again in Keith’s London flat. The sound of the bell echoed among the furniture and the rooms. Nobody answered. Antonia let the phone drop and sighed as if she were on the point of giving up. She was in London, after trying to find Keith in France.

Her boyfriend, according to what she could remember, had arrived at the chalet early in the evening that he disappeared. Keith was with a strange blonde who had said nothing, waiting for him by the door. He entered, said hello and in a few words he explained that he had to solve something, he didn’t say what. She only felt a certain reserve in his voice, a perceptible change in intonation. Then he went out with a briefcase and didn’t come back. He took some clothes with him, all his money, his diary and various documents.

The following morning, Antonia, sensing something abnormal in the air, telephoned the French police. A couple of detectives were put on the case and quickly associated the name of the journalist with the episode on the beach in Cap D’Antibes, seen by a local detective. It was not difficult to find the blonde’s room and her companion in a luxury hotel nearby. They found nothing else but the manager angry about the unpaid bill. Neither the companion, the blonde nor the journalist were found. What was known about Keith was that he had left the woman at the train station and had been seen alone, for the last time, in the station cafe.

The investigations continued but didn’t reveal very much. The blonde had crossed the frontier with Spain and the French police could do nothing more. The Spanish had no interest in the case. The businessman Leonardo Jimenez, her escort, wasn’t found there and his name did not appear at the passport control. The Spanish authorities promised to check the departure files at the frontier with France, but they didn’t know how long it would take. Up to that moment, nothing had been found.

As she was sure it was a case of kidnapping, Antonia internationalized the incident, seeking out the European press and some friends in Interpol. She had little success. Despite publishing news about the strange episode in the South of France, almost nothing concrete had been added to the case. One or another chancellor made a speech accusing the KGB.

In London, hoping to find him, Antonia had telephoned his house many times in the last few days. After one more failure, anguished, she went into the street. She called a taxi and drove to the London Chronicle building. “Ralph, you must help me. I feel that Keith is in danger. The French police say that two well-known Russian agents had been discovered asking questions at the same places we’d been to.”

“Take it easy, Antonia, everything will be all right. Keith’s done this before and came out safely in the end.”

“Don’t you understand? This time it’s different. They could already have killed him. He maybe never come back again…”

“…perhaps…”

“…so don’t just stand there. Help me. Publish more on the case. You don’t mention the subject anymore. Ralph, he’s your friend.”

“I know, I know. The problem is that the press can’t go on announcing that a man’s disappeared. Keith vanished, I know, but I can’t do more than I’ve done already.”

“You must, Ralph !” she said, her voice rising.

“I can’t do anything else. The case doesn’t interest people. There’re other things to worry about.”

“Ralph, how can you be so insensitive? He’s the newspaper’s reporter and has disappeared.”

“Men disappear.”

“I’m getting sick of that. For almost two months I’ve done nothing else but looked for a lead.”

“What I can recommend you is to be calm. Relax. Take care of your life. Let’s wait a little longer and things will solve themselves. You said before that he could be here in England. Let’s be reasonable.”

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Chapter 3

“I don’t want anything else from incompetents, nothing ! You’ve missed the guy and exposed yourselves so that the French police could photograph you. You are a bunch of idiots. That’s what you are,” said the chief to the agents that had been in France.” The man was right under your noses and now nobody knows anything about him. General Dimitri wants your butts. By the way, were they sunbathing or working in Cote D’Azur?”

The two agents stood motionless. One was staring fixedly at the pattern in the rug. The other was constantly looking away, searching for an non-existent point in the air.

“He was very lucky,” said one of them.”Everything was ready for a crash on the road. At the exact moment the car had a puncture. Later, when he arrived in Cannes, we programmed an accident for the next day. The guy left the hotel early in the morning and disappeared. Nobody was expecting that.”

“He must’ve noticed something.”

“He disappeared and I’m afraid we lost sight of him.”

“Well, the rest I already know. It was come out that you’d been to Antibes asking questions. The police photographed you at their leisure and you got out quickly before something worse could happen. Meanwhile, the newspapers showed your beautiful smiling teeth.”

“Nobody would’ve thought that a provincial detective would be interested in our presence there.”

” `Nobody would’ve thought, nobody was expecting this!’ Come on, everything happens in this kind of job. Maybe the CIA was also interested in the guy. It might not have been difficult for them to discover who you are. And they’ve scored some more goals with the noise from the press.”

“Give us a chance,” said the agent, pulling at his long nose.

“Just one more chance.”

“This is unbelievable. Sure, I’ll give you a chance… But where’re you going to look for him? Where are you going to find the man ?”

“What’s going on with the investigations in Spain ?” asked the agent who had been silent up until that moment. The chief handed him a file.

“Read this, and be ready to act.”

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Chapter 4

Not only the investigations by the CIA and the KGB but also those of the Spanish police failed to uncover very much. The information was contradictory and there were no clues as to where the journalist was.

The nightclub La Guapa, on the outskirts of Barcelona, was visited and revisited many times. Maria Elena testified again and again and Leonardo Jimenez’s life was investigated. The photographs at the beach in the South of France, an artist’s impression of the businessman and interviews with girls from La Guapa were in the main newspapers and magazines on the Continent and in America. Despite the intense search and suggestive clues, few people could concot a coherent hypothesis.

The blonde girl said that she had met Leonardo Jimenez in the nightclub where she used to work. He said he was a businessman who had just arrived in the city and who wanted to build up a shoe factory. He often went to the nightclub looking for company. He quickly became well-known not only because of the high prices he used to pay his companions but also for the extravagant parties he used to throw. Furthermore, it was known that he had a green Ford that was rented. Nobody knew where he lived, the location of the factory or if he had any friends. He was always alone.

Some investigating agencies managed to discover that the man took frequent trips to Switzerland and Luxemburg, probably to withdraw money from his accounts. He had a regular bank account in Spain. The personal details he had given to the bank were false and the branch clerks didn’t remember much of him.

Some days later, an old woman who had read the paper appeared, saying she was the landlady of the house where he had been living. Her statement added almost nothing. Her guest seemed to be honest and had paid a year’s rent in advance. He went about on his own. He bought all the furniture and utensils in the market in Barcelona. The only thing she could add to the description was that he had a strange accent that she couldn’t recognize.

Fingerprints in the house didn’t reveal much. After goings on in France, the man returned to Spain, picking up some clothes and other belongings. He had vanished into thin air. His Ford was found later in Castellon. A group was uncovered in the Spanish Ministry of the Interior which may have been responsible for his false passport. But this had to be dropped because the information might compromise the reputation of the state security and endanger important refugees.

There was a story about the presence of the KGB in France that led many people to believe in a kidnap or in the assassination of the journalist. A lot of newspapers published and investigated this possibility. Even Antonia considered it. She searched for possible leads amongst the organized crime of Marseilles. She directed her attention to the area around Juan-les-Pins.

Others tried to open up new areas, especially the KGB. The agency knew that they didn’t have the journalist in their hands. As well as the Spanish connection, they investigated other regions in France. After some dead-ends, they came up with some useful information. The journalist had left the blonde in Nice and had probably gone North alone. Based upon this supposition, they thought his route might include London. They concentrated their attention on the Paris-London traffic.

The CIA also suspected this and worked with their French colleagues watching the border in northern France. The investigations were successful. They discovered that the journalist had returned to England. This was quickly passed on to Antonia by her friend in the CIA who had worked in El Salvador as a clerk in the embassy.

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Chapter 5

A woman stood apart. She was wearing a pleated white dress and a big hat was hiding her hair and face. She was in the middle of a bright square. The sun fell on the scene, dissolving outlines and bleaching out details. The square was silent. Leaves spun in the dust. Pale houses appeared vaguely in the distance. The woman ran towards an ancient building, an old house with wide doors and windows.

Keith headed that way, sure that it was Antonia. He entered the building. The door gave on to a large living room, sparsely furnished. The wooden floor gleamed, impeccably smooth. He heard footsteps, looked up at the stairs where he glimpsed the ankles and shoes of a woman. He ran towards her without hearing his own steps. They ran up two flights. Breathless, he could hear nothing. They passed through rooms and corridors and travelled in old elevators. A pantographic door closed behind him. He went up several floors.

When the elevator door opened again, he was in front of the set of stairs and saw the woman arrive. He couldn’t see her face. She turned round and ran towards a wide, windowless corridor.He walked more quickly. Everything was silent. Rugs and old trunks. The woman reached the end of the corridor and passed through a wall. Keith was walking more slowly at that moment. He hesitated, but he passed through the wall too.

Everything dissolved. A lot of lights cast bland and colourless tones. The outline of things were indistinct. They were apparently on a great, limitless patio. Keith tried to call her. He became confused. Did he know that woman?

Did he know her name?

When he tried to see her again, he saw himself in front of a flight of marble stairs. She was on the last step, about to open a white door. He ran up, excited and out of breath. He went to the door. She had already passed through. He walked more quickly and held the door-knob. He took a step back and looked at the design. There was a golden snake with two green, shining eyes.

Suddenly someone touched his shoulder. He was sweating and was afraid of looking back and seeing the dead man who had been walking on the beach in France.

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Chapter 6

Keith stretched out and struck the telephone beside his bed. He woke up in a fright. It was not yet morning. He looked around his room, searching for something. He turned on the light. A pile of paper, pen, lighter, an envelope of aspirins half-opened were on the bedside table. There were also some visiting cards and an ashtray full of cigarette ends. His heart slowed. He took a glass of water from the other side of the bed. He swallowed it in two mouthfuls. He put his head under the pillow and fell asleep again.

In the morning a doorbell rang in the hotel room. Breakfast arrived. Thomas Whitehead, the representative of an English agro-chemical enterprise answered it. He gave a small tip to the waiter and went to the bathroom. Keith was proud of his new identity. His hand trembled while he was putting in his contact lenses. He had changed. He had just dyed his hair, his eyes were brown and he had grown a beard. Washed and brushed, he had breakfast and went out, locking in his room signs of Keith O’Brien.

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Chapter 7

“Can I help you, sir ?” the French photographer Philippe Montferrand asked at the other end of the line.

“My name is Thomas Whitehead. I was told by the BBC to look you up as soon as I arrived. Terry Wilson told me that maybe I could count on you. I’m looking for some information.”

“If you’re from Terry, everything’s OK, man. In my opinion, there’s no mystery. Is there anything that I can clear up on the ‘phone ?”

“I’d prefer to meet.”

“I’ve been rather busy recently.”

“I’m not going to take long. It’ll be brief.”

“Here in the hotel?”

“Are you going out tonight?”

“Well, I have to go downtown to get some documents.”

“It would be better if we could meet there. Do you know somewhere quiet ?”

“Well, let me see, there’s the Valet. It’s near the corner of Avenida Cuscatlan with calle Delgado.”

“Excellent. I know the place.”

“Is five o’clock OK?”

“Excellent.”

“How can I identify you?”

“Well, I have brown eyes and my hair is almost red. I’ll be wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. Moreover, I’ve got some of your photos. It won’t be difficult for me to find you.”

“I didn’t think I was famous in Europe.”

“That’s life.”

“Well Thomas…er…”

“…Whitehead.”

“See you there.”

“Right. Thanks a lot.”

“Not at all, bye.”

Keith put the phone down and coughed several times. He reverted to his normal voice by singing and got ready to go out. He had been in El Salvador for two weeks without raising any suspicions. He knew that he had to be careful and that he was a marked man. Thomas Whitehead wouldn’t last long. He would start behaving like a journalist and then he would be more exposed. For this reason his appointment with Philippe would be risky; but he needed help from someone.

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Chapter 8

Keith O’Brien was a marked man. The KGB agents had instructions to kill him at all costs. Concern about international opinion regarding a possible assassination no longer existed. It was not necessary to plan an accident. That same week the Soviets started pursuing the journalist again. From the statements of the waiter and from a man who saw the incident in France, they concluded that a man with the name of Leonardo Jimenez was in fact Domingos Herrera, a key figure in the events in Central America and said to be dead.

Based upon this new hypothesis, the main inquires were conducted in Central America. Informers from the Central-American continent said that a strange Englishman was doing the same thing as Keith O’Brien had done previously. He had been in the same village in the Northwest of San Salvador and had visited the family of the dead informer. Some peasants said that they had seen this man with fair hair and brown eyes in the region. It might be another person, but it could also be the journalist in disguise.

The agents in Salvadorean territory had, however, lost the track of the man and couldn’t say where he might have gone after passing through the villages. The KGB kept up the surveillance and closed all possibilities of failure. They had men following Antonia Vidal and Ralph Foster. If they met the lover or friend, they would be accompanied by two of the best killers in the organization.

Concerning the search for a Spaniard called Leonardo, the instructions were also strict. If they found him, they would get as much as possible from him as they could before killing him. His head was worth its weight in gold for the Soviet agents. There was no hope for the people involved in Cayman Operation.

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Chapter 9

The Valet was crowded with customers. There were round tables overflowing onto the sidewalks that were full of people all day long. Beer and savouries attracted clerks, the unemployed and all those who wanted to escape from the hot weather with a quiet conversation under the shadow of a fig tree. Philippe was sitting down at one of the tables. He was drinking his third beer. He was getting impatient. His watch read a quarter past five.

A tall man with reddish brown hair approached and asked to sit down. Philippe greeted him and offered a seat. Thomas Whitehead introduced himself. The photographer kept his eyes on the man’s features. Something about the man reminded him of someone he knew. Before he could decide anything he heard the man say:

“Let’s not waste our time. I’m O’Brien, Keith O’Brien.”

Philippe was surprised. His companion’s voice had changed, was different, more relaxed, close to the one he knew.

“It’s me. Don’t you remember your friends anymore?”

“Well,” answered Philippe,”you have changed a bit.”

“It was necessary.”

“I didn’t expect to find you here. Let’s do something. I’m going to order an extra dose of tequila and two more beers, because I’ve already seen that things are going to be on fire Mr…”

“Whitehead, Thomas.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Hey, come on, the waiter is waiting for your order.”

“Fuck off. How did you have the courage to do what you did?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Didn’t you? You played according to the United States’ point-of-view. After your article, things got worse than ever. The army has more power and more money, much more money. There are a lot of people who want your ass…”

“Calm down. I know that you are angry with me. I respect your ideological position. I’d like you just to listen to me for a few minutes. Then I’ll listen to your problems.”

“I’ll try. You know, if I were a decent man I’d get out of here and leave talking to yourself.”

“I’ll be honest and objective. I’m exposing myself coming here to talk to you. My life is in danger now. I’ve got more information in Europe that can add things to Cayman Operation. Deep connections that are still a mystery to me. I found Domingos. Do you remember him? Alive and kicking! I couldn’t talk to him, but something happened. The KGB followed me during my trip to France. I can’t trust anybody else. The size of Cayman Operation seems to be bigger than came out in the press. I’m sensing crazy things in the air.”

“What’s the point?”

“I want you to listen to me without interrupting. I need you. There are things that I can’t do. One of them is to see Yuri and get from him some details to fit with what I’m going to tell you. Another thing, Philippe. Despite everything that happened, I’d like you to take me to the guerrillas. And I know you can do it.”

The photographer laughed. He refused, reminding him that his reputation among European journalists wasn’t very good. He told him that he wouldn’t be involved. Keith stopped, waited some minutes and started to talk again, this time in a more balanced way and more slowly. He had some notes in his hand and he read them aloud. The fig tree rustled in the wind. Philippe’s expression changed.

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Chapter 10

The CIA office in Britain investigating Keith O’Brien’s whereabouts met a discreet clerk from the immigration service. He was an expert in false passports. The man, who was accostumed to working for Scotland Yard and other Western forces in Europe, had no difficulty recognizing Keith O’Brien and pointing out his new identity: Thomas Whitehead. With these data, the CIA discovered that the man had left London on a flight to Miami. From there, he flew to Central America, destination: El Salvador.

A file with the route and dates of the journalist’s itinerary was delivered to the Latin American Desk of the Agency in Washington. They also knew that the KGB was trying to find the journalist in Central America. Assassins connected to the organization had entered El Salvador.

The CIA staff responsible for the development of the Cayman Operation had a meeting and decided to monitor the situation closely, sending agents to find the journalist before the KGB did.

The service that was the responsible for the hotel registers, kept by the police of the Salvadorean capital, was called in. They quickly discovered the hotel and the room where there had been an employee of an agrochemical – Thomas Whitehead. Three agents were dispatched to the place.

At the same time, in Spain, a body similar to the one previously reported by people as Leonardo Jimenez was found in a wood near Sevilha. The man had been shot five times and had been get alight with gasoline, making the body almost unrecognisable.

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Chapter 11

Antonia insisted:

“We falling behind in the investigation. There are no signs of him in Europe. The dead man in Spain was Domingos. The next one will surely be Keith. Information networks over the whole world are following your friend and you don’t lift a finger to help. Neither you, nor the management of this god-damned newspaper. Doesn’t, the news about this situation at least interest you? It’s obvious his life means nothing to you…”

Ralph scratched his nose and became impatient. He turned his chair and shuffled his feet. Antonia had insisted on visiting the newspaper in order to find something out about her friend. She had, as time passed, become increasingly bad-tempered and aggressive, especially when she came up against the inertia of Keith’s friends. “My life isn’t the same. I’m getting older by the day with this useless search and you don’t even give a damn.”

“Antonia, I’ve already said it and I’ll say it again: Keith knows how to take care of himself. If it had been a kidnapping we would’ve known. He must be trying to discover something. Don’t you think you are turning this into an obsession?”

“Obsession? Christ ! I give up. Ralph, go to hell! I don’t want to know anything else about you. I’ll do it myself. I see that I can’t count on you.”

The editor remained impassive. He was tapping his pen on the desk and avoiding eye contact. Antonia stood up and came over to him, jabbing her finger at him:

“Listen carefully. I’m going to find Keith and then he’ll know how you’ve been behaving.”

The woman swung round and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Ralph walked to the window and waited to see her pass down the street. Smiling slightly, he sighed. He was acting his part. He knew about his friend. He had no details about what exactly had happened in France, but he was sure that Keith was all right, following up his inquiry.

The woman hurried away, looking angry. Ralph watched her and asked himself if it were possible for someone to act so well. He was not thinking about himself, but about her. Because, according to Keith, she was working as an undercover agent.

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Chapter 12

Three days after the meeting between the two pressmen in the Bar Valet, Keith left without leaving any clue as his destination. He walked through lanes and shops downtown until he felt sure that nobody was following him. He took a taxi to a small suburban guest house in San Salvador. There, according to what he said in the bar, he met Philippe. Together, they went, as hitch-hikers, on a truck to the north of El Salvador.

Through changing the scenery, Keith was silent. The movements of the truck and the constant presence of Indians and people around him inhibited his curiosity about what Philippe had in for him. Even when night came, he said nothing. What was attracting his attention more was the impression that the stars, because of the movements of the truck, were moving in the sky.

Maybe Philippe was accustomed to that way of travelling. The familiarity with which he spoke to other people, the ease with which he negotiated with the authorities at the frontiers and the fluency of his Spanish showed that this kind of journey was something quite normal for him. It was the first time in many years of professional contact that they were doing something together. That night Keith felt a kind of admiration towards the Frenchman.

At the end of the journey the Englishman felt very ragged.Every bone and muscle was aching. Philippe tried to talk to him in their small room in Opico. Keith’s eyelids gently closed and he saw nothing more.

–

1989 – Copyright of the Portuguese version by
Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
1992 – Copyright of the English version by
Alvaro Andrade Garcia
Delfim Afonso Jr.
Mario Flecha
Roberto Barros de Carvalho
Mario Viggiano
Kevin Keys

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 Chapter 13 (click to continue)