Luis
Casado, 10/9/2023
Translated by Fausto
Giudice, Tlaxcala
I never knew how my father managed to give us so much with his modest salary as a bakery worker.
In this so much the readings and the trips occupied a place of privilege. My old man collected for decades the sports magazines Estadio (Santiago), El Gráfico (Buenos Aires) and others, and every week he bought us kilos of comics, short stories and various books. My mother read novels and El Fausto, a weekly magazine for ladies that brought serial romantic stories. That’s where my love for books comes from, from the encouragement of a father who didn’t finish the third year of elementary school but loved reading.
The trips always had the same destination: the archipelago of Chiloé, more precisely Achao, on the island of Quinchao. Getting there in those days -the fifties- was an unforgettable adventure.
From San Fernando to Puerto Montt you traveled in an old train pulled by a sloppy locomotive, operated by the tiznados [sooties], workers of the State Railroad Company, so called because their faces bore the indelible mark of coal.
The train moved with a delightful and gentle slowness. It took no less than 14 hours to cover the 700 km, not counting the numerous stops in the provincial capitals. If you opened a window you were liable to get a particle of coal in the eye. From time to time a man in a white jacket, very formal, would pass by and offer you something to drink and eat: the service was impeccable but too expensive for our meager purse.
In Puerto Montt you spent the half night in a lodge, until early the next morning when the steamer sailed to the island of Quinchao.
In Achao there was (and still isn’t) neither harbour nor wharf: you would have to disembark in the middle of the ocean going down a narrow stairway, located on the sides of the steamer, to the rowing boats that came to pick you up and to which you jumped risking diving into the icy waters of the South Pacific along with your suitcases, bags and various bundles.
When you reached the beach of Achao you took off your shoes, rolled up your pants, and jumped into the water. That’s how you arrived, walking, to your destination. There was Luis Soto Romero, my grandfather, mayor of the town, who practiced his trade. My father, teasingly, had nicknamed him the Cacique.
My grandfather had been a practitioner in the army. In Achao, as a civilian, he was a nurse, midwife, minor surgeon, public authority, spokesman, justice of the peace... in short, a cacique.
My grandfather was a socialist, one of those of that time, not to be confused with those of today: my grandfather never had any sinecure, nor did he ever create any foundation. He rather gave than received. Would it surprise you to know that he was a friend and comrade of a certain Salvador Allende?
That’s right. Salvador Allende.