Tortured tales from a life lived in the death of exile

Onetti, a Uruguayan, sought respite in Spain. A shared language, he must have thought, would make it easier for a journalist and writer.

But not so. Exile in adulthood is akin to coming to terms with death. Your own.

An attempt at resurrection is therefore not only an economic must, but also, more crucially, a near Sisyphean effort at spiritual adaptation and survival.

Let the Wind Speak, a tableau of narrative linked vignettes, is a parable of exile, any exile, anywhere.

Onetti's alter ego Medina, a desolate soul, meanders through the town of Lavanda, which is directly across the river from Santa Maria, the town that he has been banned from.

Medina's rightful place on Earth has been, as was he, ruthlessly violated. It no longer "exists."

Onetti explores with extraordinary sensitivity and wisdom the debilitating sense of irretrievable loss and futile efforts at meaningful reconstruction.

Imperceptibly, sarcasm, intended as catharsis, replaces love.

His past comrades "went onward, unaware, going through the wine of the first Mass, the struggle for daily bread, ignorance and stupidity."

But the healing doesn't come. With each new page, exile fatigue sets in deeper.

This is unforgiving and painfully insightful existential prose. As Onetti/Medina relentlessly probes changing jobs and lovers, the sense of belonging remains elusive.
Without solace, his sense of purpose ebbs away.

Towards the end, an apocalyptic storm lashes out "the flashes of lightning and the ear-splitting sarcastic claps of thunder, the brief and abundant rain, an unfettered wind … danced hurriedly and disrespectfully around the statue in the square, pedestal, horse and rider."

The lifeless bronze, though, remains impervious to the righteous rage engulfing it. So were the dictators in Argentina, Uruguay and Chile at the time.

In the end, Medina, "fearful of entertaining false hopes, fearful of almost certain disappointment," accepts defeat with tender resignation.

His tortured soul finally at peace with the inevitable - the realisation that he has been, in effect, dead for some time.

MICHAL BONCZA