La Aguita: The Little Water

By Jenny Kingham

Volunteering in a rural development program in the south of Chile, Laura is initially overwhelmed by the poverty and hardship she encounters. The country is ruled by the dictatorship of General Augusto Pinochet. As she begins to find fulfillment in her work, she becomes attracted to a young activist called Marcelo from the nearby shanty town of La Aguita.

When an assassination attempt against General Pinochet fails, a wave of repression against opposition groups is unleashed. Laura is swept up in the aftermath with the rural development team. Marcelo goes into hiding, accused of possessing weapons. When Laura decides to save Marcelo, he disappears and seems lost forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Nov 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543404678

Jenny Kingham

Jenny Kingham worked from 1984 to 1989 in the south of Chile after she graduated from Sydney University with a veterinary science degree. Spurred on by a life long love of fiction, this is the author’s first novel. Currently living on a few acres in the southern highlands of NSW, Australia, the author is married to a Chilean and retains strong ties with family and friends in Chile.

Book preview

I

Concepción, Chile

Laura came to live in Los Pinos in the autumn of 1986, twelve and a half years after General Pinochet’s coup. The street was lined with grand semi-detached houses, built to a single design. Large with generous well-aired rooms, all the houses included three bedrooms and a small room for a live-in empleada or maid. The only thing that distinguished Laura’s house from others on the street was a brass number three placed carefully next to the security gate. Inside the gate was a small patch of lawn and a garden bed with five tall rose bushes yet to be cut back for winter. Of all the rose bushes, only one was still in flower, and its delicate apricot blossom stood out against the cream-coloured house. At the back of the house was a cement patio where a line was strung from one side to the other, for hanging clothes. As the front of the house faced north, and a tree and vine-laden hill rose steeply behind, the back patio almost never saw the sun and was a dark, cold space not well suited to drying. The clothesline was rarely used except for those days over summer when the sun shone and the breeze made its way gently between the washing.

The house on Los Pinos was second from the corner and bordered the población, La Agüita de la Perdiz. Señora Elena, the empleada, told Laura that La Agüita meant small water, something akin to a creek, and the Perdiz was a partridge-like bird, native to the south of Chile. The población sat in a narrow valley at the end of Los Pinos and was separated from the centre of Concepción by a spur of hills covered in luxuriant growth generated by the heavy rainfall. While La Agüita was first populated decades earlier by squatters during a toma, by the time Laura came to live in Barrio Universitario, the población was well established. However, its muddy streets, tiny wooden houses, stray dogs, and non-existent planning laws spoke of its history. The houses that lined the dirt road forming the main street of La Agüita were built on top of each other, in a muddled fashion, up the side of the hills. In some cases, their very existence seemed precarious, especially after periods of torrential rain.

Laura’s house sat on the edge of Barrio Universitario, the suburb encompassing La Universidad de Concepción. The university was open, without walls or gates to prevent the public from entering. At first glance, the university was a peaceful place with lawns and trees, and a beautiful pond. The pond was home to black and white swans. On weekends, young couples came with their children to throw bread to the swans and sit on the sweet green grass. At the heart of the university was an open area, el foro, where students gathered after class to share notes and swap stories, or where young couples embraced and kissed. Despite this air of tranquillity, a police bus or water cannon, el guanaco, was frequently stationed in Plaza Peru, opposite the main entry to the university to dissuade students from participating in anti-government protests. The university was known as la combativa.

In Concepción, history was not displayed in old buildings, because the severe earthquakes that wreaked havoc in this part of the world from time to time had destroyed most of these. In Concepción, history was preserved in street names and in statues. In the central plaza stood a statue of the Spanish conquistador Pedro de Valdivia, who founded Concepción and the fledgling Spanish colony of Chile. On the opposite corner of the plaza was a statue of Lautaro, the Mapuche leader who destroyed the early settlement not once, but twice, in 1553 and 1554, and later killed Pedro de Valdivia in battle. Streets that ran through the city were named after Mapuche warriors Caupolicán and Colo Colo, as well as the independence figure O’Higgins.

The evidence of more recent history, the history that was not yet commemorated in statues or streets’ names, was still displayed for the astute to see. This history was written on walls in words that appeared and disappeared with some frequency. Words such as MIR, Allende, libertad, and presos politicos provided evidence of a more recent struggle. While these words went almost unnoticed by Laura at first, before she left Chile in January of 1987, she searched them out with her camera, in an effort to record them. A photo of this graffiti was later framed and kept on her bedside table when she returned to live in her homeland, Australia.

The first day when Laura moved into the house on Los Pinos, as she looked out her window into the pouring rain, she saw an oxen-drawn cart slowly moving up the street. The man walking ahead of the two black-and-white oxen wore a grey poncho and hat and carried a long wooden pole. The two large beasts followed him up the street as if they were dogs following their owner. The cart was stacked as full as possible with an uncovered load of firewood. The man bent forward as the rain pelted down, seemingly oblivious to the problems that would be later caused by the wet firewood. The hooves of the oxen occasionally slipped on the cement street, but the black-and-white beasts seemed undeterred by the rain and made their way slowly but surely towards La Agüita.

As she left the window to finish unpacking her bag, she smiled at the thought of the picturesque view. With Merck’s veterinary handbook, Growing Temperate Crops, and a Spanish/English dictionary placed upright on the small desk, she was glad she had chosen to spend a year following graduation volunteering in a rural development programme. Her Agriculture degree could make a positive contribution here, while she pondered her next step. The language course, taken as a distraction, would finally serve some purpose. Vagueness about her future hung like a heavy cloud over her final year of study. What are you going to do? That was the one question that she was asked repeatedly. And it was a question that had no clear answer. In the end her marks were not good enough to consider postgraduate study, except for a Diploma in Education. But the thought of standing in front of a class of high school students filled her with dread. This opportunity to volunteer in Chile gave her a chance to step back and think without pressure. The oppressive weight she felt whenever she thought of her future seemed to lift in the peace and tranquillity of this place. In those first days, she was blissfully unaware of the fault line that lay at the end of the street between Barrio Universitario and La Agüita. While she’d read about the dictatorship and the coup on 11 September 1973 that had torn the country apart, that all seemed like a long time ago. She’d not come to Chile to become involved in the political opposition. Her aim was to help people, to do something good. Besides the political turmoil of Santiago was a long way from the quiet streets of Concepción, so far to the south. Here in her small room in the house on Los Pinos, she felt safe.

Señora Marta, who owned the house in Los Pinos, had to augment her widow’s pension, by renting rooms to university students following her husband’s sudden death some years earlier. Despite her financial circumstances, like everyone else in Barrio Universitario she had an empleada. She could afford one because the wages paid were low. Fortunately, as Señora Elena lived somewhere in La Agüita, the inconvenience of a live-in maid was avoided and this freed up extra space in the house. At the time Laura came to live in the house, she was the only lodger.

The relationship between the two women of the house initially intrigued Laura as she tried to understand what was said through a fog of partially understood Spanish. The accent of Chileans was different enough from her Uruguayan teacher in Australia to exacerbate her initial difficulties. Despite this, Laura gained the impression that Señora Marta did not trust her empleada.

Señora Marta gave instructions about every minor detail, speaking very rapidly in a high-pitched voice.

‘Tuesday it’s cazuela . . . But buy the chicken from Astorias, not from the supermarket . . . Don’t chop the onions that way . . . finer . . . otherwise, my teeth . . .’

On the second day, Señora Marta, neatly dressed in a pastel-green knitted twin set that complemented her blonde curly hair, spoke in some confidence to Laura in the hall.

‘Empleadas—they’re like children. If you don’t give them proper instruction, they’ll do whatever they like or even worse, they’ll do nothing. Treated like family here and look what I’m given in return.’

Despite Señora Marta’s critical words, the house ran like clockwork. Señora Marta spent her mornings instructing Señora Elena in the day’s cooking and other duties. On Mondays she wrote down the menu for the week and placed the list carefully on the door of the kitchen cupboard. Each day, as Señora Elena prepared the main meal, the lunch, Señora Marta went to the kitchen to correct the way she prepared the rice or the amount of salt she added to the soup. When Señora Marta was finished with the cooking, her attention turned to the cleanliness of the house, finding repairs that were needed, or paying the bills.

Señora Elena on the other hand did most of the work in a quiet, unassuming manner. Already displaying streaks of grey in her thick black hair and hunched shoulders, she worked hard. Señora Elena purchased all the food for the house in the centre of Conce (as she called it) and returned by bus, negotiating the bus steps carrying the heavy bags. She walked up and down the steps of the house carrying cleaning equipment or clothes for washing without a pause or sign of breathlessness. Her day was filled with constant activity and Laura rarely saw her sitting still. When she was sitting, her hands were still busy, peeling or chopping vegetables.

Although Señora Elena had a submissive manner when dealing with her boss, she dealt with all the merchants and tradesmen assertively. The man coming to deliver the wet firewood was sent back to his cart to get wood that was drier. When purchasing cochayullo, a thick-stalked, dried seaweed from the horse and cart on the street, she haggled the price down and made sure only the best bundle was selected. Señora Elena decided when the gardener was needed and the grass was cut before Señora Marta could order the work done. If they needed a plumber or an electrician or someone to fix a chair, it was Señora Elena who had all the contacts and could get the work done quickly.

While the two women worked together in apparent harmony, Señora Elena accepting the strict oversight and criticism without comment, there were times when Laura could see small signs of rebellion. Every afternoon when la patrona, Señora Marta, left the house, the buzzer on the gate started to ring. There was a group of three small boys that called regularly to pick up any food left over from lunch. An old drunk collected the stale bread, and an elderly woman dressed in dirty rags came once and took all the clothes that Señora Marta was throwing out. When Señora Elena realised that Laura had seen her generosity at work, she was quick to comment, ‘La patrona knows. She gave me permiso.’

Did permiso translate as permission? Laura wasn’t sure but said nothing. This secret about a hidden act formed a bond between employee and lodger that Laura longed to create. Philosophically she had always supported those she considered the underdog, and this was no exception. Back home, Laura’s family didn’t have a housekeeper, and it made her uncomfortable.

At first it was difficult for Laura to strike up a conversation with Señora Elena, who was very reserved. To counter this, Laura adopted a tactic she’d used as a child. She started dropping by the kitchen when she knew that Señora Elena was preparing a meal. Laura sat down at the table where the food was being prepared.

‘You always live in La Agüita? . . . Is it El Agüita or La Agüita?’ Laura picked up a slice of carrot and started eating; the munching and strong accent must have made her difficult to understand. At first, Señora Elena seemed to ignore the question, so Laura repeated the same question this time with an empty mouth.

Señora Elena continued slicing the onions and answered without looking up. ‘La Agüita . . . La.’

‘Have you always lived there?’ Laura asked, speaking as clearly as she could.

‘Allí? . . . No.’ Señora Elena rose, took the frying pan out of the cupboard, put a splash of olive oil in the pan, and started frying. The scent of fried onions quickly filled the kitchen.

‘Where were you born?’ Laura was persistent, like those sticky flies that she hated in the Australian countryside.

‘Where? . . . In Vegas de Itata, north of Conce.’

When Laura ran out of ideas for questions, she started talking about food, because it was right in front of her and easy to point out.

‘What’s this called?’ she asked, pointing towards the pumpkin.

‘Zapallo.’

‘Za . . . pai . . . lla.’ Laura repeated slowly and carefully. ‘Pumpkin. Pumpkin in English. Do you want to try in English?’

Señora Elena stopped working for a moment and covered her mouth to stifle a childish giggle.

‘Speak English? I couldn’t, not me . . . no. ’

Laura struggled with the way Señora Elena was treated. While she and Señora Marta ate their lunch at the large oval table in the dining room, using the fine china that was stored in the ornate cabinet next to the table, Señora Elena, la empleada, sat on a stool in the kitchen and ate on the ordinary plates, those used in food preparation. She was only allowed to sit and eat after the others had finished their lunch. Initially, Laura fidgeted as she waited to be served at the table. Her mother had always insisted that she help serve and clean up after the meals. Her very first meal in the house in Los Pinos ended awkwardly when Laura stood up at the end of the meal and started to clear the table without thinking. Once she saw the distressed look on the faces of both women, she quickly sat down.

Señora Elena worked six long days every week and never complained. She arrived at 7 a.m. and often didn’t leave until 8 p.m. When Laura asked about holidays Señora Elena’s tilted her head to one side.

‘La patrona lets me leave early on Christmas Eve and on the 18th.’

‘What’s on the 18th?’

‘Dia de la patria, the Chilean National Day.’

‘Do you have any other holidays?’

After a long hesitation Señora Elena responded with a look of confusion, ‘What other holidays are there?’

When Laura in her rustic Spanish tried to ask if she didn’t want more from life, if she didn’t want a better job, the answer caught her by surprise.

‘Señorita Laura, this is a good job. I’m lucky to have a patrona such as Señora Marta.’

Señora Marta’s life, while very different, was also ruled by routine. In afternoons after her duties overseeing the house were over, she slept a short siesta before leaving the house, dressed in her best clothes, to visit one of her friends to have once. This was the unusual name given to the light evening meal eaten about six or seven at night. The main meal was eaten in the middle of the day. La once usually consisted of bread with avocado, cheese or cold meats, a meal augmented on special occasions with cakes or kuchen.

The first time Laura was home when Señora Marta hosted las onces, the light, early evening meal, she was invited to come and meet the guests. There were four strange women in the room, all of a similar age to Señora Marta, all with neatly permed hair and dressed in smart woollen skirts and jumpers. The scent of perfume was so strong that Laura had to resist the urge to sneeze. The women at first seemed to assume that she understood no Spanish and spoke openly about her.

‘What lovely blonde hair she has! She looks just like you, Señora Marta. She must be German.’

Señora Marta seemed to be enjoying herself and spoke at some length about her mother’s appearance and the strong genes that ensured that all women in her family were blonde. The other women accepted this politely with the nodding of heads and shared their own stories of relatives with blonde hair. In a country where the vast majority had dark brown or black hair, to be blonde seemed to carry a strange mystical importance.

As Laura stood in front of these women, who seemed to have forgotten her presence, she felt an unexpected rigidity enter her body. The more she tried to understand the chatter of these women, who often spoke at the same time without always listening to each other, the more tense she became. In this group setting, the language was almost unintelligible.

‘Where are you from, Laura?’ A voice rose above the crowd, hushing the rest present. The initial shock of being spoken to directly by the plump dark-haired woman confused her. When she realised she didn’t know what she’d been asked, she stuttered as she asked for her to repeat the question.

‘Where . . . are . . . you . . . from?’ The woman spoke loudly, almost yelling out each word.

The room was now silent. All the women looked towards Laura, waiting for her response. Laura went red in the face before managing to state in a heavy accent that she came from Australia. The women mumbled something to each other, discussing Laura and her origins. Someone commented on her accent.

‘So your family is German, then,’ the plump woman commented before turning to her friends. ‘I got a postcard once from Vienna, and she’s just like one of the women standing outside the main cathedral—’

Laura realised there had been a misunderstanding. ‘Not Austria,’ she interrupted, attempting to pronounce the words more clearly. ‘Aus . . . tra . . . lia.’

No one, not even Señora Marta, seemed to understand the difference between the two countries. The women continued to talk about Austria and Germany, without further reference to Laura. After a few minutes, Señora Marta waved her left hand towards Laura, without looking at her, and Laura took this as the cue to withdraw.

Late that evening, Señora Marta invited Laura to sit with her on the big leather sofa in the lounge room.

‘We Germans are the backbone of agriculture here. Well organised and hard-working. My family had a farm in Osorno.’ Señora Marta rose and went to a beautifully carved side table that sat on the far wall of the lounge room and lifted a book from the top drawer.

‘I imagine your family is also of German descent?’

‘No. I’m from Irish and English descent.’

‘But the English and Germans, we’re family, Laura. We share the same blood.’

This statement came as a shock to Laura, who had grown up on war movies, where the Germans were always bad. She knew there was a region called Saxony in Germany, and as the English were called Anglo-Saxon, she guessed there was some truth to what Señora Marta was saying. The thought milled around in her mind and she shifted on the sofa with discomfort. It was a hard feeling to shake.

Señora Marta sat down next to Laura and started turning through the pages of the photo album until she reached a section with old black-and-white photos. One was of a small toddler wrapped in a coat, beanie, and scarf being held by a man in a Nazi uniform.

‘This is my father. A photo taken about the time the war started. He was killed in an accident not long after we came to Chile, after the war had ended. Unfortunately my memories of him are faded. I remember I liked sitting on his knee by the fire. But he would only let me do that on special occasions, like Christmas. I don’t remember him in uniform. Doesn’t he look handsome here? This is my favourite photo of him.’

The sight of the Nazi uniform made Laura shiver. Realising this reaction was completely inappropriate, rather than speak, she smiled and nodded. There were further photos taken on the farm in the south of Chile. The photos were of a thin man with haunted eyes, head always covered by a beanie. It was hard to reconcile these photos with the proud man in the Nazi uniform. Señora Marta’s mother, however, always seemed to be smiling, as if compensating for her husband’s sadness. The woman’s blonde hair was identical to her daughter’s. The photo of a tiny Marta holding a small lamb in her arms, taken outside of a wooden shed, was at the end of the album.

‘I had lambs too . . . when I was little,’ Laura offered.

Señora Marta reached over and squeezed her hand.

‘I knew we had a lot in common. Come, I want to show you something special to me.’

Señora Marta led Laura into the small room at the bottom of the wooden staircase where the door was always closed. This was her private chapel, occupying the room designed as a maid’s bedroom. The room was small and the ceiling at one end was low and angled due to the staircase rising above. A bloodied Christ nailed to the cross was hung at one end of the room, together with a small figure of Mary Magdalene. There were two straight-backed chairs facing the cross and on the bare wooden table just below the cross sat a small Bible and string of rosary beads. On the wall closest to the door was a photo of a man shaking hands with a figure in a military uniform.

‘My husband.’ Señora Marta reached out and touched the glass covering the photo and brought her fingers back to her lips. ‘I feel close to him here.’

Señora Marta’s husband had worked in the Banco del Estado, the National State Bank, in the centre of Concepción. He rose to the position of manager over the course of his career and had been an important figure in the local community. Of Spanish descent, his black hair had scarcely begun to grey when he was struck down by a heart attack one Monday while working at the bank. Married for twenty-three years and widowed for five. The wound was still fresh and palpable.

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