Abstract
The son of disappeared parents, Argentine writer
The writer Felix Bruzzone, whose parents were disappeared during Argentina’s military dictatorship
CREDIT: Manuel Iniesta
The story’s main character doesn’t explain what happened to his parents. This is partly because the verb “to disappear” in Argentina is linked automatically to the actions of the dictatorship. But it is also because Bruzzone himself does not know yet what happened to his parents, as their bodies have never been recovered. They were left-wing militants who got caught in the military regime’s masterplan to crush opponents, which resulted in the murder and disappearance of some 30,000 people.
Smoking Under Water is part of 76, a collection of short stories that deal with the dictatorship. Written in 2008, it was the first book published by the award-winning writer, who has been named one of the most important writers from Argentina by Clarín, the largest newspaper in the country.
“I had to deal with this trauma in order to fully dedicate myself to literature,” Bruzzone told Index. “I had to do it explicitly in my writing before I could move away from it.”
The ability to fictionalise part of his biography gave him a sense of freedom. Despite the political nature of the story’s subject, there is nothing sacred about the way the story is told. On the contrary: the story veers away from real-life events and is irreverent. For example, the main character’s loving grandmother, who had raised him, dies of a massive heart attack because she doesn’t want to follow through with her diet. For Bruzzone, breaking the taboo of the dictatorship as a serious political subject is necessary for him to be able to approach it.
“When I wrote 76, I was much more irresponsible than now, because now I know more about the historical process,” he said. “With time, I learnt which words to use, and what is their meaning within this universe. Do I say ‘war’? Do I say ‘compensation’?”
When he mentions the word “compensation” in Smoking Under Water, he does so through the story of a relationship that the main character has with a woman who tells him that he should not accept the government’s compensation, because that is what a sell-out would do. But Bruzzone explains that there are no rules when it comes to overcoming such trauma.
“For us who were affected, what is at stake is our survival. Because we are survivors,” he said.
He accepted compensation, using it to build his home.
“It was very healing to be able to build a house for your family, for your children. Obviously, it doesn’t fix anything – some things are insurmountable – but it works as a sort of reparation,” said Bruzzone, who has three children. He is a dissident voice who has been critical of governments’ responses to the human rights abuses carried out during the dictatorship.
“As a child, you need to know what happened and who did it,” he said. Although trials have taken place, and most military officials are on trial or in jail, many families are still waiting for an answer.
Smoking Under Water started as a literary experiment. Bruzzone wanted to write his autobiography in three pages, but at some point he noticed a common thread: the main character smokes cigarettes, then weed, then other drugs. The character represents an entire generation that does the same: they smoke, alongside – and perhaps in part to help bear – the burdens of the past. In Argentine Spanish, fumar (to smoke) also means to put up with something and the story plays on this double meaning of the verb.
Even though it is told in the first person, and relates just one experience, it represents a journey through Argentina’s history since the military coup in 1976: the silence during the dictatorship; the return to democracy in 1983 with the push towards justice for the victims; the shallow economic bonanza of the 1990s, with big investments and fancy yachts. The character jumps from one phase to another until he comes up with a great invention that gives him access to freedom – he can buy a yacht and sail around the world with his family while smoking waterproof cigarettes. But then comes the inevitable reflection on everything that his generation had to put up with or, as an Argentine might say, smoke.
Smoking Under Water
By Felix Bruzzone
My grandma (Mum’s mum, the one who brought me up) got me a grant for the private school where I went to kindergarten, elementary and high school. During that time, too, several things happened.
When I was in third grade my grandma sent me to a psychologist who, when I asked at one of the first sessions if he knew what my parents had died of, told me to ask at home. And my grandma, who until that moment had said she would tell me when I was bigger, told me. So, by third grade I was already big. One day the psychologist said to me: “I have a boat; would you like to learn to sail?” “Yes,” I said, and we sailed together for almost four years. During all that time, as well as thinking about the sad fate that had befallen my parents, I came to be friends with my psychologist’s son and with another boy whose parents had also disappeared, and who came sailing with us. One summer, his grandma rented a house by the beach and he invited me and my grandma to go and stay with them. This was before I’d started high school.
CREDIT: Sam Darlow
Not long after that, my psychologist died and I never went sailing again. Going to his funeral was like going to Dad’s, except that he had another son and wasn’t really my father.
At high school I switched groups and made new friends, and because they all smoked, I learned to smoke too. My grandma told me not to at first: she said it was bad for me and that girls would notice me regardless. But I did smoke and in the end she didn’t mind.
On Saturday nights I used to go to a friend’s who always threw parties at his house. He lived with his mum (who travelled a lot) and his three sisters. No one knew who his dad was. He was alive, but I think my friend would have preferred him dead. Over time we drank the cellar dry and smoked all the cartons of cigarettes his mum brought back from her travels. Once, one of his sisters gave me a kiss and I fell in love. But I got over it: she kissed everyone.
When I was in fifth grade, my uncle Hugo gave me a tenor sax. I’d wanted one for a long time but because no one ever had any money to spare I’d resigned myself to never having one. I took a few lessons and before long I’d joined a funk band. It was strange: no one in the band smoked. They just drank whisky and snorted cocaine. So, I started doing that too and had some intense moments. One night, at the interval, we acted out a scene from Goodfellas in the toilets. I hadn’t seen the film; now, whenever I see it, I find that scene really funny. Lola always asks me what I’m laughing at and, because she doesn’t know very much about that part of my past, I never tell her anything. Then the band split up. The bass player’s girlfriend got pregnant and he decided to change his life. The day he left, completely sober (which was a surprise) he said the word “priorities” over ten times. That stayed with me. Unlike him, I had no priorities. True, I had to study, so my grandma said, but I either couldn’t or wouldn’t, I don’t know. In any case, studying wasn’t my priority.
So there I was, with no priorities, until one day, on a TV show, I saw that the children of some disappeared persons had formed an organisation. My first thought was to call my friend from my sailing days. My grandma told me he was living with a friend now. I called. Before hanging up, his friend said: “My boyfriend’s not here.” A few months went by. One afternoon, finally, I visited the Hijos headquarters on Calle Venezuela. I found out more about what they were doing and, although none of the activities interested me all that much, I stayed. What really interested me most was Gaby. Her parents hadn’t disappeared; she was there because she liked helping. She was also an expert marijuana smoker, something I didn’t know much about, but about which she ended up teaching me everything. We smoked together and I felt good. Sometimes, after the meetings, we’d head down to the waterfront park; we’d kiss and go into the nature reserve as far as the river, and if it was hot, we’d splash about barefoot in the mud. It was absurd, but Gaby, whose parents hadn’t disappeared, was capable of doing anything to get me more involved. But I don’t know if her dedication to Hijos was on my account; I suppose not.
It was also around that time that I first heard about the compensation that the government was going to hand out. I wasn’t sure whether I should apply but, once I did, Gaby, who was against it all, left me. Tough luck, I thought: she might call it “crumbs”, but for me it could come in handy. When I received the bonds they gave me I sold them and, not knowing what to do, I spent my time going out with the two or three remaining friends I had from high school. We had a good time, but I always had the feeling something was missing.
One night, in a bar, I met Vero. My grandma liked Vero: she had simple ideas, she didn’t smoke and, because she was a vegetarian, they would talk together about the diets my grandma had to go on because of her heart problems. Vero liked to travel, too, so we travelled a lot and, one day, in Palenque, in southern Mexico, we discovered a way of smoking that we both loved. And it sure was powerful. Days went by and we were in paradise. But there came a time when we started to lose our minds. I think I nearly lost mine forever. Vero really did lose hers: she joined a group of Zapatistas and I never heard from her again.
Back home and with little to lose, I went to the bank. The investment officer offered me a plot somewhere new, in a private development with a marina and golf course, and he showed me some photos: blue water, green grass, all the things that reminded me of my sailing days. I accepted, and everything was fine until I took possession of the land and realised I’d been duped: the earth was useless, and to replenish it I’d have to use so much topsoil that I’d end up spending more on that than I had buying the plot of land. Nevertheless, while I waited for prices to rise so I could sell it and make some profit, I took care to make it as serviceable as I could. So I bought a spade and a wheelbarrow and lugged topsoil for months. At that time I wanted to quit smoking, but I couldn’t. I guess the effort of to-ing and fro-ing with a wheelbarrow prevents the giving up of vices.
Then, because I still had some money left over and didn’t want to get conned again, I took advice from some people I trusted and eventually met Sergio, a friend who’d designed some nappies for dogs. “It’s a bit of a secret,” he told me, and said he still had to apply for the patents and find investors to produce them on a large scale. So I paid for the patents and we sat down to wait.
The following year, my Uncle Hugo told me that Lola, who had studied economics, had met some young entrepreneurs from overseas on a student exchange who were looking to invest in a project like ours. This was our chance. Lola, whom I hadn’t seen since her fifteenth birthday, put me in touch with them, and after a few conversations we agreed that my friend and I would receive a cut from every sale. Lola was excited by the careless, confident, indifferent way I handled the negotiations. Even to this day she still thinks I had it all scrupulously planned: every stress, every slight twitch of the fingers. And, truth be told, it didn’t take me long, either, to fall in love with that young businesswoman. Everything went well. In my love life: marriage to Lola and the birth of our first child. In my business life: Lola helped me sell my land and with that, along with the earnings from our venture with Sergio, we bought a flat in Puerto Madero, a sailing boat, a mooring and a little coupe so I could visit my grandma until the day when, having forgotten her diets, saying: “I’d rather live well,” she died from a massive heart attack. And Sergio carried on with his inventions, all of them useless, but that one way or another made us dream of things that really were important.
Until one day, at the flat, smoking out on the terrace (the river on one side, the docks and Lola’s favourite restaurants on the other), it started to rain and I suddenly imagined (I still can’t explain how: Sergio was the inventor in our group) a cigarette that would stay alight in the rain. The lights from the city, from the edge of the city, reflected in the water: in the rain, the river and the docks. The mere thought of being able to lean on the balcony smoking and getting wet filled me with excitement. A special additive for the tobacco, a wrapping that was like the paper, but waterproof. He developed it; I helped him. It took us nearly two years, and a few days before the birth of my second child everything was ready. The investors (Lola always did her job well) took no time to appear. Cigarettes for smoking in the rain. That sure was an invention. So from then on, with everything finally in place, all that remained was to plan a happy future. Now, for example, I want to spruce up the boat (better kit, stronger sails) to take my family on a trip around the world. And, yes, during the trip, one rainy night, when everyone’s asleep, to go out on deck, light one of those cigarettes we invented and remember, as I smoke, everything that happened. Yes, to think about it a lot. And about just how much the young people of my generation, in all that time, smoked.
Footnotes
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