BACKGROUND
Like many other Latin American writers, Luisa Valenzuela often addresses
political issues in her fiction. Her native country, Argentina, now a
democracy, has had a troubled history of censorship and extreme
human-rights violations. In the 1970s, a military regime took power, brutally
hunted down suspected political foes, and censored news and mail. In
“The Censors,” Valenzuela explores the absurd aspects of life under such
oppression.
Poor Juan! One day they caught him with his guard down before
he could even realize that what he had taken as a stroke of luck
was really one of fate’s dirty tricks. These things happen the minute
you’re careless, as one often is. Juancito let happiness—a feeling you
can’t trust—get the better of him when he received from a confidential
source Mariana’s new address in Paris and knew that she hadn’t
forgotten him. Without thinking twice, he sat down at his table and
wrote her a letter. The letter that now keeps his mind off his job during
the day and won’t let him sleep at night (what had he scrawled, what
had he put on that sheet of paper he sent to Mariana?).
Juan knows there won’t be a problem with the letter’s contents,
that it’s irreproachable, harmless. But what about the rest? He knows
that they examine, sniff, feel, and read between the lines of each and
every letter, and check its tiniest comma and most accidental stain.
He knows that all letters pass from hand to hand and go through all
sorts of tests in the huge censorship offices and that, in the end, very
few continue on their way. Usually it takes months, even years, if
there aren’t any snags; all this time the freedom, maybe even the life,
of both sender and receiver is in jeopardy. And that’s why Juan’s so
troubled: thinking that something might happen to Mariana because
of that hidden Paris neighborhood, kidnapping Mariana, and returning
to their cozy homes, certain of having fulfilled their noble mission.
Well, you’ve got to beat them to the punch, do what everyone tries
to do: sabotage the machinery, throw sand in its gears, get to the
bottom of the problem so as to stop it.
This was Juan’s sound plan when he, like many others, applied for
a censor’s job—not because he had a calling or needed a job: no, he
applied simply to intercept his own letter, a consoling albeit unoriginal
idea. He was hired immediately, for each day more and more censors
are needed and no one would bother to check on his references.
Ulterior motives couldn’t be overlooked by the Censorship Division,
but they needn’t be too strict with those who applied. They knew
how hard it would be for the poor guys to find the letter they wanted
and even if they did, what’s a letter or two when the new censor
would snap up so many others? That’s how Juan managed to join the
Post Office’s Censorship Division, with a certain goal in mind.
The building had a festive air on the outside that contrasted with its
inner staidness. Little by little, Juan was absorbed by his job, and he
felt at peace since he was doing everything he could to get his letter for
Mariana. He didn’t even worry when, in his first month, he was sent to
Section K where envelopes are very carefully screened for explosives.
It’s true that on the third day, a fellow worker had his right hand
blown off by a letter, but the division chief claimed it was sheer
negligence on the victim’s part. Juan and the other employees were
allowed to go back to their work, though feeling less secure. After
work, one of them tried to organize a strike to demand higher wages
for unhealthy work, but Juan didn’t join in; after thinking it over, he
reported the man to his superiors and thus got promoted.
You don’t form a habit by doing something once, he told himself
as he left his boss’s office. And when he was transferred to Section F,
where letters are carefully checked for poison dust, he felt he had
climbed a rung in the ladder.
By working hard, he quickly reached Section E where the job
became more interesting, for he could now read and analyze the
letters’ contents. Here he could even hope to get hold of his letter,
which, judging by the time that had elapsed, had gone through the
other sections and was probably floating around in this one.
Soon his work became so absorbing that his noble mission blurred
in his mind. Day after day he crossed out whole paragraphs in red
ink, pitilessly chucking many letters into the censored basket. These
were horrible days when he was shocked by the subtle and conniving
ways employed by people to pass on subversive messages; his
instincts were so sharp that he found behind a simple “the weather’s
unsettled” or “prices continue to soar” the wavering hand of
someone secretly scheming to overthrow the Government.
His zeal brought him swift promotion. We don’t know if this made
him happy. Very few letters reached him in Section B—only a handful
passed the other hurdles—so he read them over and over again,
passed them under a magnifying glass, searched for microprint with
an electronic microscope, and tuned his sense of smell so that he was
beat by the time he made it home. He’d barely manage to warm up
his soup, eat some fruit, and fall into bed, satisfied with having done
his duty. Only his darling mother worried, but she couldn’t get him
back on the right track. She’d say, though it wasn’t always true: Lola
called, she’s at the bar with the girls, they miss you, they’re waiting
for you. Or else she’d leave a bottle of red wine on the table. But Juan
wouldn’t overdo it: any distraction could make him lose his edge and
the perfect censor had to be alert, keen, attentive, and sharp to nab
cheats. He had a truly patriotic task, both self-denying and uplifting.
His basket for censored letters became the best fed as well as the
most cunning basket in the whole Censorship Division. He was about
to congratulate himself for having finally discovered his true mission,
when his letter to Mariana reached his hands. Naturally, he censored
it without regret. And just as naturally, he couldn’t stop them from
executing him the following morning, another victim of his devotion
to his work. ❧
Like many other Latin American writers, Luisa Valenzuela often addresses
political issues in her fiction. Her native country, Argentina, now a
democracy, has had a troubled history of censorship and extreme
human-rights violations. In the 1970s, a military regime took power, brutally
hunted down suspected political foes, and censored news and mail. In
“The Censors,” Valenzuela explores the absurd aspects of life under such
oppression.
Poor Juan! One day they caught him with his guard down before
he could even realize that what he had taken as a stroke of luck
was really one of fate’s dirty tricks. These things happen the minute
you’re careless, as one often is. Juancito let happiness—a feeling you
can’t trust—get the better of him when he received from a confidential
source Mariana’s new address in Paris and knew that she hadn’t
forgotten him. Without thinking twice, he sat down at his table and
wrote her a letter. The letter that now keeps his mind off his job during
the day and won’t let him sleep at night (what had he scrawled, what
had he put on that sheet of paper he sent to Mariana?).
Juan knows there won’t be a problem with the letter’s contents,
that it’s irreproachable, harmless. But what about the rest? He knows
that they examine, sniff, feel, and read between the lines of each and
every letter, and check its tiniest comma and most accidental stain.
He knows that all letters pass from hand to hand and go through all
sorts of tests in the huge censorship offices and that, in the end, very
few continue on their way. Usually it takes months, even years, if
there aren’t any snags; all this time the freedom, maybe even the life,
of both sender and receiver is in jeopardy. And that’s why Juan’s so
troubled: thinking that something might happen to Mariana because
of that hidden Paris neighborhood, kidnapping Mariana, and returning
to their cozy homes, certain of having fulfilled their noble mission.
Well, you’ve got to beat them to the punch, do what everyone tries
to do: sabotage the machinery, throw sand in its gears, get to the
bottom of the problem so as to stop it.
This was Juan’s sound plan when he, like many others, applied for
a censor’s job—not because he had a calling or needed a job: no, he
applied simply to intercept his own letter, a consoling albeit unoriginal
idea. He was hired immediately, for each day more and more censors
are needed and no one would bother to check on his references.
Ulterior motives couldn’t be overlooked by the Censorship Division,
but they needn’t be too strict with those who applied. They knew
how hard it would be for the poor guys to find the letter they wanted
and even if they did, what’s a letter or two when the new censor
would snap up so many others? That’s how Juan managed to join the
Post Office’s Censorship Division, with a certain goal in mind.
The building had a festive air on the outside that contrasted with its
inner staidness. Little by little, Juan was absorbed by his job, and he
felt at peace since he was doing everything he could to get his letter for
Mariana. He didn’t even worry when, in his first month, he was sent to
Section K where envelopes are very carefully screened for explosives.
It’s true that on the third day, a fellow worker had his right hand
blown off by a letter, but the division chief claimed it was sheer
negligence on the victim’s part. Juan and the other employees were
allowed to go back to their work, though feeling less secure. After
work, one of them tried to organize a strike to demand higher wages
for unhealthy work, but Juan didn’t join in; after thinking it over, he
reported the man to his superiors and thus got promoted.
You don’t form a habit by doing something once, he told himself
as he left his boss’s office. And when he was transferred to Section F,
where letters are carefully checked for poison dust, he felt he had
climbed a rung in the ladder.
By working hard, he quickly reached Section E where the job
became more interesting, for he could now read and analyze the
letters’ contents. Here he could even hope to get hold of his letter,
which, judging by the time that had elapsed, had gone through the
other sections and was probably floating around in this one.
Soon his work became so absorbing that his noble mission blurred
in his mind. Day after day he crossed out whole paragraphs in red
ink, pitilessly chucking many letters into the censored basket. These
were horrible days when he was shocked by the subtle and conniving
ways employed by people to pass on subversive messages; his
instincts were so sharp that he found behind a simple “the weather’s
unsettled” or “prices continue to soar” the wavering hand of
someone secretly scheming to overthrow the Government.
His zeal brought him swift promotion. We don’t know if this made
him happy. Very few letters reached him in Section B—only a handful
passed the other hurdles—so he read them over and over again,
passed them under a magnifying glass, searched for microprint with
an electronic microscope, and tuned his sense of smell so that he was
beat by the time he made it home. He’d barely manage to warm up
his soup, eat some fruit, and fall into bed, satisfied with having done
his duty. Only his darling mother worried, but she couldn’t get him
back on the right track. She’d say, though it wasn’t always true: Lola
called, she’s at the bar with the girls, they miss you, they’re waiting
for you. Or else she’d leave a bottle of red wine on the table. But Juan
wouldn’t overdo it: any distraction could make him lose his edge and
the perfect censor had to be alert, keen, attentive, and sharp to nab
cheats. He had a truly patriotic task, both self-denying and uplifting.
His basket for censored letters became the best fed as well as the
most cunning basket in the whole Censorship Division. He was about
to congratulate himself for having finally discovered his true mission,
when his letter to Mariana reached his hands. Naturally, he censored
it without regret. And just as naturally, he couldn’t stop them from
executing him the following morning, another victim of his devotion
to his work. ❧
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