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Authors: Alyson Richman
Tags: General Fiction
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in medical school in America, Samuel learned that his mother had passed away. She had lasted longer than anyonehad expected, as she had spent the past twenty years of her life living wedded more to her regrets than to her equally tormented husband.
Inspired particularly by his mother’s anguish, Samuel had begun publishing papers on “survivor’s guilt” in the months before and had decided that was what he wanted to focus on during his psychiatry residency.
Years later, when he received an offer to run a mental health clinic in Göteborg, Sweden, for survivors of torture and war, he wondered if he could meet the challenges of the job. He spoke five languages and had written extensively on the subject. But what did he really know? He hadn’t even been able to help his own mother, and she had never been physically tortured, nor had she directly witnessed the atrocities of war.
But he would always remember her face; that sight of her after his parents had returned from reciting the kaddish for the family they had loved and lost, his mother’s face resembling that of one of those classical sculptures in a museum—a face that is still beautiful despite the crack running down its side. Even at the age of seven, he had wished he could rub out those lines of sorrow. How he had wished, so many times, that he could place his hands on her tired eyes and rub back in the radiance he remembered from when he was a young child before the war. There was so much sorrow in his own family life that all he wanted to do was help those who had suffered.
Perhaps, he thought, if he had the ability to help just one person, then all of his studies and papers would not have been in vain, and his childhood failure to save his mother could finally be redeemed.
Ten
S ANTIAGO , C HILE
F EBRUARY 1966
Octavio Ribeiro had never expected to be famous. It came, as most things do, by surprise. But he welcomed the opportunity, not because he had any desire to be an actor, but because he thought it would afford him the means to support his beloved Salomé and their unborn child as well as gain the respect of his disapproving in-laws.
He was sitting in a café when it all began. Nearly two months had passed since Octavio had spoken with Dr. Herrera, and he had yet to find a job. He was trying to finish his final papers for his pending graduation while drinking a coffee and picking at a slice of lemon loaf, when he noticed a man staring up at him.
The man was dressed in a pale yellow suit and his head was cloaked by a stiff, white fedora. He was sipping a glass of sherry with one finger gently tapping against the rim.
Octavio tried to resume his writing, but still, the man continued to stare.
After several minutes, Octavio stood up and approached the man.
“Is there a problem?” Octavio asked, clearly bewildered. His thick black curls were hanging over his forehead and his large brown eyes were framed by two furrowed brows.
The man extended his hand and smiled. His white teethgleamed like a row of glazed white tile and his impeccably manicured hand now dangled in the air.
“I am Juan Francisco de Bourbon.” His evenly brown hand remained unshaken and he used the opportunity to make a self-referring gesture.
“May I ask you a question, señor?” he asked Octavio politely.
Octavio nodded his head.
“Do you go to the movies often?”
Octavio stared back at him, his wide eyes betraying his bewilderment. “When I have the money,” he answered.
Juan Francisco looked at Octavio with great intensity. “Young man, may I tell you frankly, I have been staring at you for nearly an hour, and now as I look at your features even more closely, I am confident without a doubt that you have one of those rare faces that are destined for the screen.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Octavio replied curtly. He was naturally suspicious of such kinds of flattery from another man. Now, as he stood there dumbfounded by the conversation he was
Inspired particularly by his mother’s anguish, Samuel had begun publishing papers on “survivor’s guilt” in the months before and had decided that was what he wanted to focus on during his psychiatry residency.
Years later, when he received an offer to run a mental health clinic in Göteborg, Sweden, for survivors of torture and war, he wondered if he could meet the challenges of the job. He spoke five languages and had written extensively on the subject. But what did he really know? He hadn’t even been able to help his own mother, and she had never been physically tortured, nor had she directly witnessed the atrocities of war.
But he would always remember her face; that sight of her after his parents had returned from reciting the kaddish for the family they had loved and lost, his mother’s face resembling that of one of those classical sculptures in a museum—a face that is still beautiful despite the crack running down its side. Even at the age of seven, he had wished he could rub out those lines of sorrow. How he had wished, so many times, that he could place his hands on her tired eyes and rub back in the radiance he remembered from when he was a young child before the war. There was so much sorrow in his own family life that all he wanted to do was help those who had suffered.
Perhaps, he thought, if he had the ability to help just one person, then all of his studies and papers would not have been in vain, and his childhood failure to save his mother could finally be redeemed.
Ten
S ANTIAGO , C HILE
F EBRUARY 1966
Octavio Ribeiro had never expected to be famous. It came, as most things do, by surprise. But he welcomed the opportunity, not because he had any desire to be an actor, but because he thought it would afford him the means to support his beloved Salomé and their unborn child as well as gain the respect of his disapproving in-laws.
He was sitting in a café when it all began. Nearly two months had passed since Octavio had spoken with Dr. Herrera, and he had yet to find a job. He was trying to finish his final papers for his pending graduation while drinking a coffee and picking at a slice of lemon loaf, when he noticed a man staring up at him.
The man was dressed in a pale yellow suit and his head was cloaked by a stiff, white fedora. He was sipping a glass of sherry with one finger gently tapping against the rim.
Octavio tried to resume his writing, but still, the man continued to stare.
After several minutes, Octavio stood up and approached the man.
“Is there a problem?” Octavio asked, clearly bewildered. His thick black curls were hanging over his forehead and his large brown eyes were framed by two furrowed brows.
The man extended his hand and smiled. His white teethgleamed like a row of glazed white tile and his impeccably manicured hand now dangled in the air.
“I am Juan Francisco de Bourbon.” His evenly brown hand remained unshaken and he used the opportunity to make a self-referring gesture.
“May I ask you a question, señor?” he asked Octavio politely.
Octavio nodded his head.
“Do you go to the movies often?”
Octavio stared back at him, his wide eyes betraying his bewilderment. “When I have the money,” he answered.
Juan Francisco looked at Octavio with great intensity. “Young man, may I tell you frankly, I have been staring at you for nearly an hour, and now as I look at your features even more closely, I am confident without a doubt that you have one of those rare faces that are destined for the screen.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Octavio replied curtly. He was naturally suspicious of such kinds of flattery from another man. Now, as he stood there dumbfounded by the conversation he was
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