A Secret for Julia A Novel

by Sagastizabal, Patricia; Zatz, Asa

• ISBN13: 9780393050448
• ISBN10: 0393050440
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2001-08-17
• Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company

Summary

With the harrowing power of Ariel Dorfman's Death and the Maiden comes a remarkable work of fiction. Winner of the prestigious Premio La Nacion Prize for Fiction in 2000, A Secret for Julia brilliantly depicts the lasting psychological attacks of Argentina's reign of repression and terror on a new, seemingly innocent generation. Set mainly in 1990s London, interlaced with vivid flashbacks to Buenos Aires, Patricia Sagastizabal's novel tells the emotionally wrenching story of Mercedes Beecher, an Argentinian writer living in self-imposed exile in London with her teenaged daughter, Julia. When a mysterious figures appears from her past, Mercedes must endure a new round of psychological terror and reveal herself to her inquisitive but embittered, daughter in a way that she never believed possible. A dramatic story of retribution and conscience, A Secret for Julia touches on many compelling themes: the politics of institutionalized and sanctioned cruelty; the wistfulness of a life lived in exile; the bonds of family, justice, and redemption. Much of A Secret for Julia reads like a personal diary, yet Sagastizabal propels it forward with elements of astonishing intrigue, drama, and terror. The savage murders and tortures that came to decimate an entire generation of Argentinian students and activists in the 1970s may remain'”even twenty-five years later'”so vivid and searing that they can be expressed only through the palette of fiction. In this way, Sagastizabal's novel represents the voice of the fallout from Argentina's so-called "dirty war," the voice of the next generation'”Julia's generation. A Secret for Julia is a testament to the changing of the guard'”an unforgettable, astounding novel for one simple reason: the reader is left with the lingering notion that it might be frighteningly close to the truth.

Excerpts

Chapter One

* A man of foreign nationality was arrested in London on Wednesday in an operation involving a contingent of some twenty police officers and an unspecified number of agents of Interpol. The incident, which occurred at Hobbes' Place, a restaurant located at Huntley and Capper Streets, Bloomsbury, aroused considerable curiosity among the public inasmuch as neither police nor government sources (also believed to be concerned) have released any statements to the press regarding the event, nor what charges, if any, have been brought.

    News agency sources hint at a possible connection between the detained foreigner and smuggling involving Bonmayer, adviser to the Foreign Minister on Security and Defense. However, other off-the-record sources suggest a possible association with a network of mercenaries brought in to thwart the peace negotiations in Ireland. For the victims of the assault--if the incident at Hobbes' Place may be categorized as such--the course of events remains unclear. Nine people were present at the locale, of whom seven appear to have connections with a foundation that provides advisory and support services to political parties and nongovernmental organizations. The other two are the restaurant's proprietors, who have no police records; the only complaint docketed against their place of business dates back to the 1980s, when it was closed briefly after an incident involving football rowdies.

    Two persons were injured with gunshot wounds to the face. The foreigner's identity continues to be withheld but unofficial information indicates that he is an Argentine wanted by the French authorities.

* I was there and can shed light on this incident, if not on the reason why the man was taken into custody. Since words fail me adequately to characterize this sort of individual, I should perhaps confine myself to saying that many years ago under other circumstances he was invested with minimal, yet monstrous power. And he wielded it against me as well as many others. "Fate," or perhaps "portent," would be a more appropriate word to apply to his having entered my life once again, here in England. My name is Mercedes Beecham and what I am about to recount is part of quite a convoluted tale.

    He burst into Joyce's restaurant that night with the intention of extracting information from me that was evidently of utmost importance to him. Brandishing a gun and obviously in a state bordering on frenzy, he forced my friends to lie facedown on the floor, pushed me up against the bar, and launched into a disjointed harangue in which, by perverting the nature of certain actions committed in my country, he sought to justify those that were perpetrated by him along with so many others.

    Vile monster !--I screamed to myself--as I listened to him hold forth like an unctuous politician. Then, all of a sudden, he came toward me, and in a tone of bitter, controlled fury said that he'd had it with the game I was playing. Evidently, he was obsessed by an uncontrollable need for the answer to a puzzle only I could provide. But, realizing that I was not about to respond to whatever it was he wanted, he seized me by the throat and proceeded to choke me. My eyes fixed on his chilly glare, I was beginning to pass out. Expert that he was in such activities, he knew just when to relax thumb and forefinger enough to enable me to draw breath again. When I was able to speak, despite my quivering insides, I spat out that I had no answer to give. His face twisted into a grimace of enraged frustration an instant before his fist smashed into my face.

    A moment later, there was bedlam: screams, the sound of fighting and glass breaking. Then, suddenly, a pair of shots. I could see blood, Eric and Todd sprawled on the floor, and the man gripping a gun. The sight exploded the pent-up hatred of years, and I leaped at him, tearing the gun from his hand. Where the strength came from, I have no idea. I think I can remember, yes, staring at the weapon, bewildered, calculating the possibility of letting Eric, or anybody else, take control. I could do nothing more.

    I simply backed off to the center of the room, my eyes fixed on his malevolent face, obscene drops of perspiration coursing down the forehead. The brute was sweating. When I demanded that he beg me to forgive him, he let out a howl of laughter, a sound from the distant past, ugly as it was familiar. My reaction was so violent and visceral that I brought my hands together, gripped the gun, waited an instant, then pulled the trigger. The fraction of a second that elapsed gave me time to ask myself the question that had tormented me all these years: Could killing that man ever compensate for what he did to me?

    As soon as I came to my senses, I realized I had done no more than shoot him in the leg. I watched him slither away and fall on the basement stairs. Eric's voice came through to me, as I felt his hands pressing mine, the gun slipping from my fingers, then I heard steps, recognized the shapes of friends in the darkness. Exhaustion and the urge to burst into tears were overpowering. Yet I managed to stumble to the stairs and go slowly to within inches of the man's body grotesquely doubled over, his hands already tied behind his back, as he lay unconscious with his eyes wide open. Afterwards, I learned that in trying to escape being shot, he had fallen and struck the back of his head against the edge of the door frame near the bar.

    A strange compulsion came over me, a need to dwell on the sight of that face: the same aquiline nose, white skin, eyes of a vague color, a mixture of off-blue and leaden gray. I lingered at this inspection a few moments, having struggled my way down for another reason. I had to get close enough to search him. My hands shaking, I fumbled frantically in his pockets: passport, other ID, credit cards, money; a tiny Blessed Virgin medallion pinned under his lapel. Finally, I found what I was looking for--photographs. A chill went through me as I recognized one of Julia in a park, apparently talking to Mickey and Shelley; others in the envelope of her, me, and friends of mine.

    Then, leaving everything in his pockets, I climbed up the stairs, weeping. I recall Todd hugging me, unfamiliar voices, the commands of police taking over.

* It's all over, I keep telling myself, and now I can look forward to a future without fear of being stalked. The house is quiet. I look out at the sky, at the floating white clouds, not an unfamiliar sight anymore on this island. I must be patient, though. It is still too soon for my body to feel that it is at peace.

    A few days have gone by and I've had time to think, to reconstruct the loathsome scenes I sought for years to put behind me. Incredible. The man who wiped out my identity and that of my friends and comrades was arrested for robbery or smuggling; petty crimes, in any case. And, as I contemplate the square in the twilight, the wet pavement, and the languidly swaying trees, I continue to feel uneasy. He won't be tried for those other crimes of his, the crimes of that unspeakable past. And what relief can I expect now from this unexpected denouement? Those in power thrust him into my life, and now others, equally empowered, are removing him. As haphazardly, as inconceivably, as that.

    I have found no explanation for what I've been through. No simple one, that is.

    Speculations come to mind--whether other's or my own is unimportant anymore. These conjectures concern impunity, that is to say, the impunity enjoyed by certain human beings who come to consider themselves exempt from punishment. These are individuals whose contempt for the fate of others enables them to avoid contemplating their own finality. Reality for such people is whatever they decide it to be. There is even a moment, perhaps, when conscience or spirit--the names we give to that nebulous zone where human values reside--makes its way into the flesh, filters through like a radiance ignoring the senses, to be transformed into an ethereal, almost unnoticed essence capable of being forever forgotten. And, in that case, of course, failure must become inconceivable. If there is a threshold that sets good actions apart from bad, and it is crossed once, and then crossed again, the point may be reached when the difference between the two no longer matters.

* But now my life, which had come to a halt during this period, had to be put back on track. I will be doing my book presentation this evening at the university at seven o'clock. I am picturing the faces of that audience as they merge with the image of that last expression on Julia's face.

    I shall be leaving in just a few hours, but am unable to string together any thoughts or words unrelated to my daughter. One of Julia's dolls is on my lap. I stroke its hair as if it were she. I still long to see her walk through the door and into my arms. I must get her to forgive me. I can't leave without seeing her.

    Julia now knows the truth. And though it may sound strange, I feel as though the meaning of life has been wrenched from me. Keeping that secret for so many years; hedging and inventing subterfuges in order to avoid the harrowing reply. Finally, the time came when my daughter refused to tolerate another evasion or lies. I had to speak out, bring everything into the open. It was a recapitulation of my life and hers--some of the scenes, the necessary words surfacing for conveying the enigma, dates, names, and places. I see her face in my memory. It expressed no jubilation, only calm deliberation. I would have had to make it clear to her that it was impossible for this account of mine to convey the utter unreality of the circumstances. It could never encompass all the motivations, nor the intimate conflict I had kept secret for so long.

    My behavior was irrational, there's no denying it. Julia raked over the information in each word, in every gesture. She heard me out to the most insignificant detail. Then she told me she had to be alone to think it over. Watching her leave the house, little purse in hand, I wanted to stop her, but didn't. I now realize that I lived in perpetual fear for both of us. These recent events have made me reassess my behavior: blaming Julia for my desperation, I situated her at the locus of memory where obsession makes understanding impossible at any level.

Excerpted from A Secret for Julia by Patricia Sagastizábal. Copyright © 2000 by Patricia Sagastizábal.
Translation copyright © 2001 W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.