My Name is Emilia del Valle

She never clarified what being a good woman consisted of exactly, but it seemed to the be the traditional idiot who submits to rules imposed by others. One day, in the midst of a tantrum, I shouted that I wanted to be a bad woman. I was six years old at the time. It’s the only real mutiny that I remember from childhood; my true acts of rebellion came later, when the two protuberances appeared above my ribs […] My mother invoked God as her witness and raised a sandal in the air, but my Papo managed to hold her back. My dear stepfather used that scene to mock the notion of a “good woman” and he did so with such eloquence that my mother had to admit that on certain occasions it was better to be a bad woman, while never making a fuss, of course, no need to cause a commotion.

It is true that I was not responsible for Owen’s actions […] but the experience taught me to be more cautious.

My Papo, who does not believe in sin or divine punishment, follows one very simple rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I would suffer very greatly if another woman took the man I loved, even if it was a meaningless tryst. Perhaps Owen’s wife never suspected what went on between the two of us, or perhaps she is aware that her husband is a womanizer and she looks the other way because the pleasure he is able to offer her makes up for his faults. Whatever the case, I will never again take part in any betrayal. I decided from that moment onward that I would only accept the company of a man who had no other commitment.

I should clarify that, in spite of my many outward displays of self-sufficiency, I still lived at home with my parents, just like any respectable unmarried woman from a middle-class family. Although we weren’t exactly middle-class, my mother was implacable when it came to matters of reputation. For the past ten years, I had slept in the same little bedroom that my Papo built for me when I turned fifteen. […] I did not wish to live anywhere else. That little house in the backyard of Aztec Pride was my safe harbor: I could sail the world with the confidence that the compass would guide me back to those shores. Eric Whelan believed me to be a liberated woman. He would’ve laughed if he had discovered that the ambitious journalist and suffragette I presented myself as was still dependent on her parents.

As a reporter, it was not my job to form an opinion about who occupied the higher moral ground in this conflict—I knew that when I traveled to Chile—but now that I was in the thick of it, I could not ignore the feelings in my gut. I believed that Balmaceda was fighting for the rights of the common man, trying to break the iron grip of the aristocracy. And yet I had heard that he did so with shocking brutality, and that his motives were not pure. I didn’t know what to think. What was the truth? I imagined that Eric would be conducting his interviews with professional neutrality, but maybe it was inevitable that his sympathy would be with the rebels among whom he was embedded. Could he remain impartial? Or was he full of doubts, as I was?

Finally, in the early hours, we managed to doze off with Covadonga between us for warmth. That night I learned that I am stronger and more resilient than I ever imagined. Whenever I felt that I could not bear another minute of the cold, hunger, and fear, I closed my eyes and thought of my Papo showing me a map of the world, of my mother kneading bread for the poor, of Eric Whelan, my best friend, with a pencil behind his ear, commenting on some news story. I did not know who I truly was until circumstances put me to the test.

“Who are these monsters? None of the people I’ve met would be capable of committing such atrocities,” I said.

“You are mistaken, Emilia. The very men who make the sign of the cross at mass become bloodthirsty at the slightest excuse, especially when gathered in a group. One of the Ten Commandments is thou shalt not kill…except in war. Cruelty feeds more cruelty.”

“Not even wild beasts behave in such a way. Animals only kill out of hunger and to defend their young,” I said.

[…] Eric added that the Lo Cañas massacre horrified the entire nation. Even the most fanatical government supporters denounced the crimes as acts of inconceivable barbarism, while the opposition joined in a single voice to demand justice. The former are weakened by shame, the latter, strengthened by rage.

August 18 marks […] the day that President Balmaceda loses the war. No military victory could ever erase this devastating moral defeat.

And we went on arguing about all kinds of things. Where would we live? What would become of my column for the Examiner? They would surely fire me, because they did not allow married couples, and it was always the woman who lost out. And if we had children, would […] my world [be] reduced to four walls?

Around and around we went like this until I finally understood that the emptiness in the pit of my stomach was not a consequence of the beating I took in the Valparaíso prison or the bloody scenes of battles and hospitals that tormented me each night. It was the crushing weight of so much uncertainty. I was tempted by the notion of that kindhearted redhead as a husband, but I was not ready yet. I was in love, but that was not enough to silence the internal voice whispering a litany of doubts.

The horrors I had witnessed and the proximity to death had made me sensitive to noise and tumult. What had before inspired me now left me overwhelmed. […] I needed solitude and silence. I needed time to absorb the new outline of the world as I now understood it, after looking death straight in the eye. It was an unknown world and I had to find my place in this strange new landscape. Somehow, I believed that the answers I was looking for were in that mysterious region in the south of the continent. I knew nothing of that territory—I could not even imagine it—but I hoped that there I would overcome my nightmares and recover my strength. I would never again be my old self, but maybe in the south I would become a new and stronger version of the woman I had been.

The captain let me know that this was as far as he could take me, to this threshold, beyond this point I will continue on my own until I find what I am looking for. He must return to the Niña Juanita, to his crew and his life. But he assured me that I will not be alone because the boatman will take me to the southern edge of the lake, where someone will be waiting for me.

Thanks to this notebook, which keeps me occupied, the hours slip by easily and the morning has soon spent. I write and write although I can barely make out the letters through the cottony gloom. My notebook is full, and when I reach the foot of this final page, I will not be able to add a single word more. But I will continue writing my life in another until I run out of memories.

She explained that once she had reached her father’s land, she had known that the other thing she needed to do was complete the story she’d begun. In her retreat she had been safe and at peace. Covadonga was her loyal companion and the Mapuche protected and fed her, they brought her corn, yam, potatoes, smoked meat, and dry fruit. No one had bothered her. She had dedicated the summer months to writing.

But now the weather was turning, and she would have to abandon her dwelling before the frost of autumn truly set in. She showed me three notebooks filled to the margins in diminutive handwriting and explained that it was a memoir of her experiences, but also the novel she always wanted to write. I expect it was only the first of many; she was always meant to be a writer.

Emilia is a wild and bright spirit. I will never be able to hold her, I can only hope to accompany her and that love will keep us always together.

“I finished my story. I am ready to go home,” Emilia said.