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If there had ever been something learned in Augusto Pinochet’s lifetime, obedience that was.
For a man who was groomed as a soldier, a screw in the state apparatus, rather than a flesh-and-blood creature, he sort of learned his lesson well. The young general’s brown hair had been neatly combed and greased; he had a nice moustache, and a pair of blue eyes resembling glass marbles . Those two crystals lacked emotion, cold and hollow as if they were in the eye sockets of a dead waxed figure. For reading instructions, however, you need no more than this.
Con eso me basta, Salvador Allende mused, the post-coup junta was in need of loyal animals, who do what their bosses told them to do, having no ideas of their own. In other words, these chaps (and hardly people in the social sense) didn’t give a damn about who was the one who gave orders, let alone any particular ideology, and therefore had no comradeship or psychological burden to speak of. Allende had been more than tolerant towards Pinochet, and yet he understood how to moderate his mercy. All men are created equal, yet there are indeed those who need to be tightened up, to be ridden like a blazing horse, to have their rider choke them if necessary, otherwise it would lead to devastating consequences. Then again, what the recalcitrant mount had done now did reach the point where punishment was warranted.
“Come." The President tapped his white-gloved fingers on the desk, his legs crossed and his voice as gentle as ever. This would see Allende turn his chair around to face the office door, his gaze shooting through the lenses to the soldier in front of him, whose pale cheeks burned red to the naked eye. "You know you made a terrible mistake, no?"
Despite the fact that every cell in Pinochet's body was burning with tension at the moment, he ordered himself to stand erect and pose motionlessly before the table. A soldier's virtue was obedience, and he knew he had no other leverage to bargain. Every time, when Pinochet was younger, he knew that making a mistake was bound to bring a severe punishment, and all he could do was to grit his teeth when he was being punished, trying to please his superiors who were annoyed by his mistakes.
“Sí, mi presidente.” A sickly glimmer of pride flashes through Pinochet's mind at that moment, no doubt disgusted by the President's ideology including the attendant change of address, but he never allowed himself to forget his duty. He was loyal, he would be way more loyal than anyone else, he would be the one and the one of value.
"You know what to do." There was no change in the tone of the other man's voice, as if he was discussing some insignificant trifle, joking about it. Allende pointed his chin at the man in front of him, not averting his gaze.
The President next had the satisfaction of seeing the young officer hang his head, bend his knees obediently and drop to the floor. He crawled towards the desk on his knees like a dog in error, his breeches making a smooth hissing sound against the waxed floor. This time, it seemed that Pinochet had done not bad, knowing his place well, as ever. The frictional noise stopped at the edge of the table.
Now Pinochet could feel his forehead against the floor and he silently counted the numbers inwardly, praying that the intensifying pain would not be too unbearable to preserve his decency. Next came his arms, which were roughly picked up and snapped into some kind of cold metal with a click, handcuffs. The President liked to make a statement with something specific, with the intention of showing his mistrust of him to cement his position. The officer blinked as the cold ground was gradually warmed by his body heat, and he tried to turn his neck slightly to free his windpipe from the confines of his shirt collar for a moment. In a moment he learned that it was a bad attempt. The hard soles of the military boots ground hard against Pinochet's cheek, the Allende didn’t do it tenderly, just enough to stomp the less-than-obedient mare until he dared not move again. Fresh blood dripped from the officer's lips, moistening his neatly trimmed moustache and seeping back onto the floor. Pain exploded in Pinochet's brain, and he clenched his teeth to prevent himself from screaming like a coward, while he could feel the warm liquid with metallic taste spilling out of his nose which fortunately had not broken.
It could have been a century until the pressure finally disappeared from the back of Pinochet's head. He subconsciously pumped hard in an attempt to replenish his lungs with some precious oxygen, only to be chocked by his own blood. Almost suffocated, he coughed uncontrollably, and his coughs were intermittently mixed with dry gagging sounds. Shame boiled inside him, well aware he shouldn't be so out of it, so weak to hold himself, like a wounded animal. He blinked numbly, trying to prevent the running physical tears from being too noticeable. The only remaining self-control was used to keep still, to let another trod over, resembling a dog turning up its belly to show fidelity.
Allende lifted his hand and gently ran his fingers through the sweaty and straggly brown hair on the officer's forehead as if he were smoothing an animal's coat. The next second, he yanked violently on a strand of hair, tugging it upwards and forcing Pinochet to look directly at himself. It was theoretically quite amusing to see the machine shivering and weeping, the officer's eyes transfixed, and it was easy to pinch his pale jaw with his fingers and pry open his loose teeth. A little saliva, sweat and blood moistened the junta president's white gloves, staining the fabric a pale red. The other man was pitiful as a stray dog being abused, but essentially, even Pinochet himself was well aware that a ruthless dictator could ride him like a motorbike and bring the inherent violent desire that was impossible to let go to the right track. The officer subconsciously touched Allende's fabric-wrapped hand with the tip of his tongue, the touch rough and tinged with his own blood.
The next second Allende let go of his left hand, he bent down to keep his eyes at the same level with that of the bleeding and shivering man on the floor. He gently wiped the other man's messed-up cheek with his handkerchief. The officer's azure eyes hesitated, a bright teardrop hanging from his eyelashes; he finally had not the guts to look away. Still, he lost it so easily to the tyrant of both harshness and gentleness who had always been taming him, just as he had cried bitterly as a young boy because of the disappointed look in his parents' eyes after a good beat. The President gently stroked the blood from his face, the linen material rubbing against his wet lips like a rough kiss.
After the handcuffs were removed, Pinochet ignored the excruciating pain that ripped through his muscles and stood up in a beautiful military stance like a pewter soldier. The president's eyes had moved away from him and sat back behind the table that symbolised his status, flipping open a dozen files. His eyes behind the lenses started reviewing information about which Pinochet didn’t have a clue.
He knew it was time for him to leave. The military cloak flapped behind him, the heels of his boots tapping the floor, the clacking withering through the walkway. Every cell operated like a cog inside him, ready to go to hell and back for the next order. This time Pinochet would never let his president down again.