by Mario Benedetti, translated from the Spanish by Harry Morales

I met Dr. Siles Zuazo in Montevideo twenty years ago, when he arrived in Uruguay as an exile (the word was pronounced differently then) following the triumph of one of the many military coups that have always corrupted the history of Bolivia. I had a few books published at the time and worked in the bookkeeping section of a large furniture company.

One afternoon, the phone on my desk rang and a serious voice said: “This is Siles Zuazo.” At first I thought it was a joke and nevertheless didn’t respond accordingly, weighing the slight possibility that it could be true. I couldn’t overcome my amazement, but he quickly relieved me of all my doubts. In reality, he was inviting me to come see him at the Nogaró Hotel. I thought he was going to talk to me about Bolivia and the military who had seized power, but at any rate, I couldn’t understand why he had chosen me in particular. But I was mistaken.

A few years earlier, I had published an essay on Marcel Proust and the meaning of guilt. Well, Siles Zuazo wanted to talk to me about Proust and other literary topics. I was faced with the fact that that politician without an outlet to the sea, that personage whose anecdotes about civic-mindedness had been recounted for me by various friends, was an exceptionally erudite man, an inveterate reader of contemporary literature.

We talked about Proust, of course, while we had tea with toast. The only thing missing were the madeleine cakes. The few times we discussed politics were because of questions of mine. He, on the other hand, wanted to talk about literature and certainly made intelligent and sagacious remarks.

After that first meeting, we had tea several times in the Nogaró, and I preserve a very placid and agreeable memory of those conversations. A short time later, he left Montevideo and returned to the political struggles and unsteadiness of his unexchangeable Bolivia.

I didn’t see him for many years, although I always followed his tireless political duties: legal, when it was possible, clandestine, when it wasn’t. One night in Buenos Aires, around 1974, I was walking along Paraguay Street, I think, trying to find shelter from a heavy downpour. All of a sudden, as I was practically running by the front of a lobby, I thought I recognized a man standing there who appeared to also be taking shelter from the rain.

I turned back. It was Dr. Siles. He had recognized me, too. “So it was your turn to become exiled.” “Yes, doctor. When we talked in Montevideo it seemed impossible, didn’t it?” “Yes, it seemed that way.” I couldn’t make out his smile in that semi-darkness, but I imagined it. “What stage are you currently in during this unexpected exile of yours?” A little embarrassed, I replied: “Number three.” “Then don’t be distressed. I’m up to number fourteen.”

That night we didn’t talk about Proust.