While my least favorite work by Erico Veríssimo thus far—have I reached the frontiers of his literary production?!—, Senhor Embaixador artfully consolidates the author’s career by amalgamating the introspective character-driven narrative from Erico’s earlier urban novels, the vignette-style essay-istic depiction of political and societal events akin to his travel books, and the larger-than-life mythical formation saga that was Time and the Wind. These three pieces, however, fight for narrative prominence in most of the book—so that reading Senhor Embaixador is at times unexpectedly tiresome or weirdly frustrating but nonetheless rich.
Set amidst the Cold War in the 60s against the backdrop of many CIA-sponsored Latin American military dictatorships, the novel puts forward a metafictional thesis of “proxy fiction”. Following Gabriel Heliodoro, the ambassador of Sacramento—a fictitious Caribbean island—in Washington DC, Erico paints the history of the little republic with geographic and temporal distance via the writings, memories, and accounts of a multinacional ensemble. Why do we believe what we read, not only in novels but (mostly) in the news or in our own records? And, consequently, why do we believe the history of our government, who can easily paint and repaint a manicheistic history of our country? With only subtle nods, mostly delivered in a final act monologue by the one Brazilian character, Érico remains somewhat only tangential to the atrocities of our own regime but powerfully claims Brazil’s place in the intricacies of Latin American politics—yet another proxy mode of political criticism that he would later exacerbate and satirize with his Magical Realism in Antares.
Employing the ominiscient, counterpoint yet introspective narrative technique he developed in Caminhos Cruzados of O Resto é Silêncio, Érico Veríssimo also ensembles proxy characters who revolve—orbit, almost—the figure of the ambassador and the Republic of Sacramento. Most of them work in the embassy; Claire Olgivity—the American secretary—is by far the most interesting in the sense that she functions as a living force of permanence in the turbulent diplomatic landscape of Sacramento. I also treasure the proxi-ness and social commentary embodied by Glenda Doremus: an American college student studying Latin American studies and writing a thesis on Sacramento without ever really considering her own interpretation of the facts from textbooks and when opinionating imparting a racist, xenophobic, American view of the country; her inconsistencies and idyossincracies have made me think about the role of foreign education in influencing an international imaginary of foreign politics. We learn of the feelings and stories of characters via each other, and the balance between abrupt breaks and smooth transitions is maybe perfect. The characters are all well-developed—even the most secondary ones, such as the Italian chauffer Aldo, are depicted in light of their internal conflicts and brokered deals.
The novel is structured in four parts: I think the first two were well-paced and intriguing. “Credentials,” allegedly describes how the ambassador plans to present himself to president Eisenhower; in reality we the readers receive the credentials of the whole cast as if the author is showing us why we should believe the authority of each of them in the accounts to follow. (I imagine the word credential is etymologically related to credence, belief—this section details why we will trust the novel.) The second section, “The party”, linearly describes the ambassador’s inauguration while also providing the stage for monologues of non-linear bits of Sacramento history—some of those were lengthy, but they do reward the reader who compares and fills gaps and questions authenticity on each account. The third section, “carousel,” spins around the cast a few times and in short vignettes follows their lives in DC; this to me felt oddly paced and I wished that the author used shorter chapters at least since most episodes didn’t advance plot. This section is the biggest reason I rated the novel 2 stars, especially given how much I expected from it as I am a stan of Veríssimos travel journals and more episodic narratives.
By the time we got to “the Mountain,” the most traditional section which follows a counterrevolution in Sacramento, I was a bit jaded to continue and lacked much of my optimism to appreciate the novel. But here we get an important piece of the proxy argument: what if we lived through history ourselves, would we then finally be able to understand firsthandedly what is truth? In Sacramento, Erico Veríssimo thinks the answer is no: every (counter)Revolution has its own degree of separation between power and force, between idea and execution. National and personal morals conflict, and this isn’t a dialectic but rather an anihilation for most revolutions will lead not to change but to post-destruction stagnation. Narratively, Erico hints at the theme of censorship in the figure of journalist Godkin who himself proxies parts of the plot, reproduced in chronological order rather than with foreseen publication delays. As the novel closes with court hearings, legal and moral subversions, and narrative insertions that flow rather than jump around, we are brought back to a traditional view of the cyclicality of politics: just as we began in media res with a new ambassador we end not abruptly but not in a final period, aware that any narrator can leave their proxy story hanging but also certain that what would follow wouldn’t be revolutionary but a continuation of the human nature we’re seeing today.