Carmen Rodríguez’s and a body to remember with is a collection of short stories about tears and loss, but finally also laughter and love. Though clearly autobiographical in many ways, the story it tells of an activist who has to flee Chile for Canada in the wake of Pinochet’s coup is narrated through fragments, glimpses of a life marked by resistance and exile. Hence the protagonist’s name (when it is provided) is variously Estela de Ramírez (19), Silvia (112), Yolanda Cárcamo (129), and Laura Arzola (154): there are continuities between these figures, but also displacements and differences. The book’s Spanish translation, De cuerpo entero (“With the Whole Body”), suggests fullness and plenitude, but the stories themselves resist such a sense of completion.
To put this another way: there’s a tension here between a narrative of lack and a narrative of excess.
Clearly, the coup and the exile that follows are deeply traumatic. In the final story, “a balanced diet,” the narrator tells of how she heard that her partner had been killed by the Chilean military. Her reaction is immediately visceral: “The vomit came out of my body in the same instant that I realized that Mario was one of the executed ones. Everything became an immense black stain sprinkled with coloured lights” (156). Years later, she would like to think that she is no longer affected in the same way, but her body betrays her: “What’s it like to be dead Mario [. . .] I can talk to you without crying [. . .] oh well yes I still cry and probably I will cry for the rest of my life. . . .” (162).
Perhaps the most somber story is one that features another woman, Gloria. Its narrative progresses like a short film, tracking slowly around the room of a house in Vancouver: the camera eye passes over a desk, a dresser, a bed, posters on the wall, until it finally comes to rest on the body of a young woman and her suicide note.
Elsewhere, however, the book’s stress is on the ways in which exile and resistance also make for accretion, even multiplication, and a liveliness that laughs in the face of dictatorship. As Rodríguez puts it in her Foreword, “My heart trespasses over borders and stretches over a whole continent to find its home at the two extremes of the Americas: in Chile and in Canada” (14). Or, to return to the collection’s concluding story in which two friends meet up once more after “twenty years of absences, a whole life of absences,” the stress is not on what has been lost but on the joy that results from the re-encounter: “obviously the military did not count on this good memory, this love: they did not count on this immense desire to live, this propensity to laughter” (165).
Throughout, then, the movement that Rodríguez describes is from loss to excess. Canada itself is, at first, nothing but a black (or white!) hole, a country that Chilean characters cannot even envisage: they can imagine Argentina, they can imagine England, the USA, even Switzerland, but Canada induces no connotations at all. Gradually, however, this “hole called Canada began to take possession of Estela de Ramírez’s stomach, chest, throat, head, ears, and mouth” (21). It becomes embodied, and she becomes embodied in turn. When finally the opportunity arises to return to Chile, she hesitates. She is now attached to Canada, part of Canada, too: both legally (as a newly-minted citizen) and, more importantly, affectively. In the crisis that ensues, in which “she realized that her body was the hole and the whole was her” (35), I think the point is not so much that she has identified with nothingness, and so with absence; rather that what was previously absence has now been given substance.
So, finally, this is a book marked by the conjunction “and” that is precisely the sign of addition: Chile and Canada; loss and discovery; death and life; the past and the present; “a mind and a body to remember with” (159; my emphasis).