Misfiled Dreams
I was seventeen, a proper institutano, shaped by the discipline and academic rigor of the Instituto Nacional. But there was one thing you couldn’t learn in class or practice in the schoolyard: the freedom to read whatever you wanted. And one afternoon, my curiosity led me to look for a book my uncle had mentioned—Thus Spoke Zarathustra, by Nietzsche. According to him, it held the key to understanding the deeper questions of life, even the ones our religion classes preferred not to address.
The problem was that the book wasn’t in the school library. My only option was the National Library, near Cerro Santa Lucía. Getting there was easy; getting the book was another story.
First you had to look for the card in the massive metal catalog drawers on the ground floor. Each card had a reference number. Once you found it, you copied the numbers by hand onto a little slip of paper and climbed the imposing marble staircase to the second floor, where the reading room was. There, a long line of students and readers of all ages waited anxiously, each holding their slip, ready to hand it to the librarian.
When your turn finally came, you handed over the slip, the librarian asked for your ID, and then assigned you a call number—the one you had to listen for. The wait could stretch past an hour, and frustration was almost guaranteed.
Sometimes you heard your number followed by “misplaced,” meaning the book was lost, damaged, or simply unavailable. Other times they said “in circulation,” which meant the library’s only copy was with another reader, and you had to wait. But occasionally, they called your number without any extra comment. That meant you could walk straight to the counter and pick up the book. Each tiny victory felt huge; each setback felt like a blow to the spirit.
When they finally called my number, the librarian made a discreet gesture for me to come closer and lowered his voice—something very unusual. He told me that Thus Spoke Zarathustra was, in fact, available… but he couldn’t give it to me. Father Sebastián Lira, a senior priest with close ties to the regime, had issued strict orders: no student in school uniform—whether from a private school or a public one, religious or secular—was allowed to read that book.
I told him I could step outside, take off my jacket and shirt, and return right away. Underneath I was wearing a plain gray polo shirt. He shook his head.“Too late. You’re already registered for today. Come back tomorrow in street clothes, and don’t shave—let’s see if you look a little older.”I was seventeen and still didn’t need to shave, but nothing I said changed his mind.
As I walked down the library steps, I ran into Eduardo Andrés Irrazábal, also from the Instituto. We shared a few science classes, and when we were kids, we had played defense together on the same soccer team. I figured he was my last chance: since he wasn’t wearing his uniform, I asked him to request the book for me.
“What book is it?” he asked, suspicious. “If it’s that forbidden, I don’t want trouble.”
“It’s nothing dangerous,” I said. “Just philosophy… by a German philosopher.”
“German philosopher?” he said, stepping back. “Forget it. In my house they’ve blacklisted every German writer—especially the philosophers. Starting with Karl Marx himself. I’m not taking the risk. See you Monday.”
The next day, Saturday, I decided to go early. I wore a suit to look older, and just as I was leaving, my mother looked at me, puzzled.
“Roberto, aren’t you mixing up the days? Tomorrow is Sunday—you don’t need a suit today. Your father’s out of town, so you’re the man of the house now—you decide whether we go to the eight o’clock Mass or the eleven.”
I kissed her goodbye and went straight to the library. The same librarian from the day before seemed to recognize me, despite the gray suit. When I handed him the reference slip, he said the book had been requested earlier and was “in circulation.” I could wait if I wanted. Then, with a mocking smile, he added:
“Unless you’ve got a more exciting way to spend your Saturday morning.”
I waited almost two hours—an eternity—until, finally, they called my number: 288. I walked to the counter full of hope, but the librarian looked at me with the cold, stern expression of someone about to deliver bad news.
“Unfortunately, there was an error in the book’s status,” he said. “Thus Spoke Zarathustra is not in circulation… it’s been misplaced. And let me be clear,” he added, straightening his posture, “if it ever turns up again, you will only be allowed to request it with written authorization from your school’s inspector general. You’re the institutano from yesterday, aren’t you? Then the authorization will have to come from Inspector General Hugo Fuentes.”
I stood silently for a moment. I asked if a letter from my Literature teacher, Professor Ernesto Sánchez—someone I knew well—might work. He shook his head.
“No. My instructions are very clear: the authorization must come only from the inspector general, Hugo Fuentes.”
With my stomach tight and my frustration mounting, I left the building.
That day I learned that a book could be declared dangerous before I had read a single page.
I went home without Nietzsche. It was a small defeat, but also a glimpse of the world we lived in—a world where even curiosity could become something to fear.
All we could do was whisper our dreams in secret, hoping that the long night of silence and fear would finally end.
