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Mark Jacobs' Fictional Latin America Is Colored By Years In The U.S. Foreign Service, But It's Nonetheless Revealing.
By Randall Holdridge
The Liberation of Little Heaven and Other Stories,
by Mark Jacobs (Soho). Cloth, $23.
THE STORIES IN The Liberation of Little Heaven are
set in Paraguay, Bolivia and Honduras, and their subject is the
living consequence of politics on the people of Latin America.
Author Mark Jacobs is a career U.S. foreign service officer who's
been stationed in those countries, a fact which inevitably colors
the way a reader weighs Jacobs' conclusion that, south of the
border, politics only wounds the lives of individuals, regardless
of personal ideology or social status. A reader might respond
to these stories of futility in an entirely different way if unaware
of Jacobs' special relationship to his material; but consciousness
of it creates levels of cynical engagement and reaction which
add immensely to the book's interest.
For instance, the narrator of "Mud Man" is an unemployed
peon living on the impoverished outskirts of Asunción.
He tells his neighbors the mystical visions which trouble his
thoughts, unintentionally inspiring a riot that destroys the mansion
of the local general. He reflects on his arrest as a political
agitator: "Because my answers were fuzzy, they took me to
the police station, where they beat me up. Then they locked me
up. These days when that happens the newspapers call it torture
and denounce one more violation of a citizen's human rights. That
makes it seem important, and it is, especially if your body is
the one violated. But what really happens has more to do with
a lack of imagination on the part of policemen who don't know
how to ask the right questions. Beating you up is what they know
how to do."
Still troubled by his dreams, he is nonetheless reconciled, "...knowing
that you had to live with what you had, and neither choice nor
change was possible, and accepting it." How exactly should
a reader interpret this from the pen of a U.S. diplomat, who makes
it otherwise quite clear he is fully aware of and abhors the monstrous
behavior of dictators?
The title story, "The Liberation of Little Heaven,"
is about a 13-year-old girl taken from her parents to live in
a "girls' school" whose director, Don Andrés,
farms the students out for the sexual pleasure of the military
and governmental elite. The heroine, Amari, is a particularly
beautiful and intelligent child Andrés keeps for his own
uses. When she's noticed by the high-ranking officer assigned
to choose the most desirable girls for the gratification of the
president, Andrés disfigures the girl's face with a steam
iron. Amari runs away to a life of squalid unhappiness and abuse,
but years later finds joyous freedom in a glimpse of a retired
Don Andrés, old and depressed, after the fall of the old
regime.
Another victim, Lenín in "How Birds Communicate,"
has seen his father tortured and murdered, and his mother driven
to madness by one Pastor Coronel, the security chief of Paraguayan
strongman Alfredo Stroessner. Later, after Stroessner has been
toppled, Lenín reacts with sympathy when he sees a photograph
of his father's killer in the newspaper, "ill in body and
soul." His sympathetic reaction fills him with remorse, and
he sneaks into the hospital to kill Coronel. His plan is foiled
and he himself is imprisoned, the tables having been neatly turned.
Let off lightly, he returns home to his mother's garden, where
he deliberately joins her in a state of gentle delusion, talking
to the birds.
Such reactions might be understood as post-traumatic stress disorders.
There is certainly a kind of clinical analysis in the stories'
telling, even when the narrators are involved first persons. Yet,
one suspects Jacobs of thinking "a plague on both your houses,"
and the authority of some of his peasant narrators, such as the
housekeeper in "Marina in the Key of Blue Flat" is suspect--perhaps
even condescending.
For that reason, the point of view represented by Don Martín
del Valle in "The Rape of Reason" inspires greater confidence.
Educated at the University of Chicago, Don Martín is the
last of his upper-class family to stay on in Bolivia. Years ago,
his parents and sisters packed their assets and fled the instability
of the leftist revolution for posh lives in New York and Connecticut
and Northern California. "Irresponsibly earnest," and
seriously moderate, he has remained to teach logic: "He would
play his part, however modest, in the education of a generation
who would shine the light of reason and logic and clarified thought
onto the murky plain of politics, and the quality of Bolivian
life would rise in proportion to the intensity of their light."
Appreciated and understood by no one, emasculated and clumsily
ineffective in his good intentions, ultimately he is everyone's
scapegoat--this I think comes close to revealing the actual perspective
on Latin American politics of Jacobs the career U.S. foreign service
officer. Certainly, Don Martín is treated with more convincing
affection than other characters in these stories, and his shabby
dignity is romantically regarded.
American academics and do-gooders get rough treatment. In "Solidarity
in Green," a former Peace Corps worker returns to show off
the Honduras of his romantic memories to his new wife, only to
end up as a hostage of radicals. Helped in his escape by Flechita,
a sympathetic guard, months later he collapses in tears while
standing in the aisle of a North American supermarket: "The
thing was, he remembered with fresh intensity, he had wanted to
kill Flechita."
In "The Telemachus Box," a Berkeley grad student travels
south to translate the revolutionary poems of Damaso del Campo,
former drinking companion of Che Guevara. She reminds the poet
of the Contra wars: "...there were lots of Nancy Schmidtkes.
They had shown up in droves during the early '80s, looking for
something specific and true to which to attach their allegiance.
That was the best they could do in the face of their government's
perfidy...Without wanting to, they unmanned the Latin lovers they
took."
It is impossible to trust the words an American diplomat puts
into the mouths of Latin American peasants and revolutionaries,
but it is instructive to read them as just that. Properly filtered,
The Liberation of Little Heaven tells in its own way almost
as much about the cruel goodwill of American imperial attitudes
toward Latin America as anything that Joan Didion, Graham Greene
or even Carlos Fuentes has written.
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