Roberto Bolaño - The Return

One afternoon Emilio came to see her and she introduced me to him. He was tall, he had a wonderful smile, and you could tell he was fond of Sofia. His girlfriend was called Nuria; she was Catalan and worked as a high school teacher, like Emilio and Sofia. You couldn’t have imagined two women more different. Nuria was blonde, blue-eyed, tall and rather plump. Sofia had dark hair and brown eyes so dark they seemed black; she was short and slim as a marathon runner. In spite of everything they seemed to be good friends. As I found out later on, it was Emilio who had ended the marriage, although the separation had been amicable. Sometimes, when we’d been sitting there for a long time without talking, Nuria looked North American to me and Sofia looked Vietnamese. But Emilio just looked like Emilio, a chemistry or biology teacher from Aragon, who’d been an anti-Franco activist and a political prisoner, a decent sort of guy though not very interesting. One night Sofia told me about the man she was in love with. He was called Juan and he was a member of the Communist Party like our comrade. He worked in the same school as her, so they saw each other every day. He was married and had a son. So where do you do it? In my car, said Sofia, or his. We go out in our cars and follow each other through the streets of Barcelona, sometimes all the way to Tibidabo or Sant Cugat. Sometimes we just park in a dark street and he gets into my car or I get into his. Not long after she told me this, Sofia got sick and had to stay in bed. At that stage there were only three of us in the apartment: Sofia, the Communist and me. The Communist was only around at night so I had to look after Sofia and go to the pharmacy. One night she said we should go traveling. Where? I asked. Portugal, she said. I liked the idea, so one morning we set off for Portugal, hitchhiking. (I thought we would go in her car but Sofia was scared of driving.) It was a long and complicated trip. We stopped in Zaragoza, where Sofia still had her best friends, then at her sister’s place in Madrid, then in Extremadura. .

I got the feeling Sofia was visiting all her ex-lovers. I got the feeling she was saying goodbye to them one by one, but not in a calm or resigned sort of way. When we made love she seemed absent at first, as if it had nothing to do with her, but after a while she let herself go and ended up coming over and over. Then she started crying and I asked her why. Because I’m such an animal; even though I’m miles away, I can’t help coming. Don’t be so hard on yourself, I said, and we went on making love. Her face wet with tears was delicious to kiss. Her whole body burned and flexed like a red-hot piece of metal, but her tears were only lukewarm and, as they ran down her neck, as I spread them on her nipples, they turned ice-cold. A month later we were back in Barcelona. Sofia hardly ate a thing all day. She went back to her diet of instant mashed potatoes and decided not to leave the apartment. One night I came home and found her with a girl I didn’t know; another time it was Emilio and Nuria, who looked at me as if I were to blame for the state she was in. I felt bad but said nothing and shut myself in my room. I tried to read, but I could hear them. Shocked exclamations, reprimands, advice. Sofia didn’t say a thing. A week later she was given four months’ sick leave. The government doctor was an old friend from Zaragoza. I thought we’d be able to spend more time together, but little by little we drifted apart. Some nights she didn’t come home. I remember staying up very late, watching TV and waiting for her. Sometimes the Communist kept me company. I had nothing to do, so I set about tidying up the apartment: sweeping, mopping, dusting. The Communist was very impressed, but one day he had to go too and I was left all on my own.

By then Sofia had become a ghost; she appeared without a sound, shut herself in her room or the bathroom and disappeared again after a few hours. One night we ran into each other on the stairs, I was going up and she was coming down, and the only thing I could think of asking was if she had a new lover. I regretted it straightaway, but it was too late. I can’t remember what she said. In the good old days, five of us had lived in that huge apartment; now it was just me and the mice. Sometimes I imagined Sofia in a prison cell in Zaragoza, back in November 1973, and me, in the southern hemisphere, locked up too, for a few decisive days, and though I realized that this fact or coincidence had to be significant, I couldn’t work out what it meant. I’ve never been any good at analogies. One night, when I came home, I found a note saying goodbye and some money on the kitchen table. At first I went on living as if Sofia was still there. I can’t remember exactly how long I waited for her. I think the electricity got cut off. After that I moved to another apartment.

It was a long time before I saw her again. She was walking down Las Ramblas, looking lost. We stood there, the cold seeping into our bones, talking about things that meant nothing to her or to me. Walk me home, she said. She was living near El Borne, in a building that was falling down it was so old. The staircase was narrow and creaked with every step we took. We climbed up to the door of her apartment, on the top floor. To my surprise, she didn’t let me in. I should have asked her what was going on, but I left without saying anything; if that’s what she wanted, it was up to her.

A week later I went back to her apartment. The bell wasn’t working and I had to knock several times. I thought there was no one there. Then I thought there was no one living there. Just as I was about to go, the door opened. It was Sofia. The apartment was dark and the light on the landing went off automatically after twenty seconds. At first, because of the darkness, I didn’t realize she was naked. You’re going to freeze, I said when the landing light came on again and showed her standing there, very straight, thinner than before. Her stomach and legs, which I had kissed so many times, looked terribly helpless, and instead of feeling drawn toward her, I was chilled at the sight, as if I were the one without clothes. Can I come in? Sofia shook her head. I assumed her nakedness meant that she was not alone. I said as much, and smiling stupidly, assured her that I didn’t mean to be indiscreet. I was about to go back down the stairs when she said she was alone. I stopped and looked at her, more carefully this time, trying to read her expression, but her face was indecipherable. I also looked over her shoulder. Nothing had stirred in the utter silence and darkness of the apartment, but my instinct told me that someone was hiding there, listening to us, waiting. Are you feeling all right? Fine, she said very quietly. Have you taken something? No, nothing, I haven’t taken any drugs, she whispered. Are you going to let me in? Can I make you some tea? No, said Sofia. Since I was asking questions, I thought I might as well try one more: Why won’t you let me see your apartment, Sofia? Her answer surprised me. My boyfriend will be back soon and he doesn’t like it if there’s anyone here with me, especially a man. I didn’t know whether to be angry or treat it as a joke. Sounds like this boyfriend of yours is a vampire, I said. Sofia smiled for the first time, although it was a weak, distant smile. I’ve told him about you, she said. He’d recognize you. And what would he do? Hit me? No, he’d just get angry, she said. And kick me out? (Now I was starting to get indignant. For a moment I hoped he did turn up, this boyfriend Sofia was waiting for, naked in the dark, just to see what would happen, what he would do.) He wouldn’t kick you out, she said. He’d just get angry; he wouldn’t talk to you and after you went he’d hardly say a word to me. You’ve lost it, haven’t you, I spluttered, I don’t know if you realize what you’re saying, they’ve done something to you, it’s like you’re a different person. I’m the same as ever; you’re the idiot who can’t see what’s going on. Sofia, Sofia, what’s happened to you? You never used to be like this. Get out, just go, she said — What would you know about me?