Roberto Bolano: Antwerp

The Englishman said it wasn't worth it. For a long time he wondered what the Englishman meant. Ahead of him the shadow of a man slipped though the forest. He rubbed his knees but made no move to get up. The man popped up from behind a bush. Over his forearm, like a waiter approaching his first customer of the evening, he carried a white sheet. His movements were slightly clumsy and yet he radiated a serene authority when he walked. The hunchback assumed that the man had seen him. With a yellow cord the man tied a corner of the sheet to a pine, then tied the other corner to the branch of another tree. He repeated the operation with the bottom corners, after which the hunchback could only see his legs, because the rest of his body was hidden by the screen. The hunchback heard him cough. Then he came around the other side and contemplated the knots with which the sheet was tied to the pines. Not bad, said the hunchback, but the man ignored him. He reached his left hand up to the top left corner and slid it, the palm against the cloth, to the center. Once he had done that, he removed his hand and tapped the sheet a few times with his index finger to test the tension. He turned to face the hunchback and sighed in contentment. Then he clicked his tongue. His hair fell over his forehead, which was damp with sweat. He had a long red nose. Not bad, in fact, he said. I'm going to show a film. He smiled as if in apology. Before he left he looked up at the darkening treetops.

On the wall someone has written my one true love. She put the cigarette between her lips and waited for the man to light it for her. She was paleskinned and freckled and had mahoganycolored hair. Someone opened the back door of the car and she got in silently. They glided along the deserted streets of a residential neighborhood. It was the time of year when most of the houses were empty. The man parked on a narrow street of singlestory houses with identical yards. She went into the bathroom and he made coffee. The kitchen had brown tiles patterned with arabesques, and looked like a gym. She opened the curtains, there were no lights in any of the houses across the street. She took off her satin dress and the man lit another cigarette for her. Before she pulled down her underpants, the man arranged her on all fours on the soft white rug. She heard him look for something in the wardrobe. A wardrobe built into the wall, a red wardrobe. She watched him upside down, through her legs. The man smiled at her. Now someone is walking down a street where cars are parked only next to their respective lairs. Above the street, like a hanged man, swings the spotlit sign of the neighborhood's best restaurant, closed a long time ago. Footsteps vanish down the street, headlights are visible in the distance. She said no. She listens. There's someone outside. The man went over to the window, then came back naked toward the bed. She was freckled and sometimes she pretended to be asleep. He looked at her from the door with a kind of detached sweetness. There are silences made just for us. He pressed his face against hers until it hurt and pushed himself into her with a single thrust. Maybe she screamed a little. From the street, however, nothing could be heard. They fell asleep without moving apart. Someone walks away. We see his back, his dirty pants and his downattheheel boots. He goes into a bar and settles himself at the counter as if he feels a prickling all over his body. His movements produce a vague, disturbing sensation in the other drinkers. Is this Barcelona? he asks. At night all the yards look alike, by day the impression is different, as if desires were channeled through the plants and flower beds and climbing vines. "They take good care of their cars and yards"… "Someone has made a silence especially for us"… "First he moved in and out and then in a circular motion"… "Her buttocks were covered in scratches"… "The moon is hiding behind the only tall building in the neighborhood"… "Is this Barcelona?"…

Look at these pictures, said the sergeant. The man who was sitting at the desk flipped through them indifferently. Do you think there's something here? The sergeant blinked with Shakespearean vigor. They were taken a long time ago, he started to say, probably with an old Soviet Zenith. Don't you see anything strange about them? The lieutenant closed his eyes, then lit a cigarette. I don't know what you're talking about. Look, said the voice… "A vacant lot at dusk"… "Long blurry beach"…"Sometimes you'd think he'd never used a camera before"… "Crumbling walls, dirty terrace, gravel path, a sign that says Office"… "A cement box by the side of the road"… "Restaurant windows, out of focus"… I don't know what the hell he's trying to get at. Through the window, the sergeant watched the train go by; it was so crowded there were even passengers on the roof. There're no people in them, he said. The door closes. A cop walks down a long, dimly lit hallway. He passes another cop with a file in his hand. They barely nod at each other. The cop opens the door of a dark room. He stands motionless inside the room, his back against the metal door. Look at these pictures, Lieutenant. It doesn't matter anymore. Look! Nothing matters anymore, go back to your office. "We've been consigned to an interval of silence." All I want is authorization to go back to the place where somebody took these pictures. Verbal authorization. Those cement boxes are for power lines, that's where the fuses go, maybe. I can find the shop where they were developed. This isn't Barcelona, says the voice. Through the foggy window he watched the train go by full of people. The woods are silhouetted against the light just so that halfclosed eyes can enjoy the show. "I had a nightmare, and woke up when I fell out of bed, then I laughed at myself for almost ten minutes straight." There are at least two other cops who would recognize the hunchback, but they're away right now, on special assignments, worse luck. It doesn't matter anymore. In a small photo, black and white like all the rest, you can see the beach and a scrap of sea. Pretty fuzzy. There's something written in the sand. Maybe it's a name, maybe not, it might just be the photographer's footsteps.

It's absurd to see an enchanted princess in every girl who walks by. What do you think you are, a troubadour? The skinny adolescent whistled in admiration. We were on the edge of the reservoir and the sky was very blue. A few fishermen were visible in the distance and smoke from a chimney rose over the trees. Green wood, for burning witches, said the old man, his lips hardly moving. The point is, there are all kinds of pretty girls in bed at this very moment with technocrats and executives. Five yards from me, a trout leaped. I put out my cigarette and closed my eyes. Closeup of a Mexican girl reading. She's blond, with a long nose and narrow lips. She looks up, turns toward the camera, smiles: streets damp after the rains of August, September, in a Mexico City that doesn't exist anymore. She walks down a residential street in a white coat and boots. With her index finger she presses the button for the elevator. The elevator arrives, she opens the door, selects the floor, and glances at herself in the mirror. Just for an instant. A man, thirty, sitting in a red armchair, watches her come in. He's darkhaired and he smiles at her. They talk but their words don't register on the soundtrack. Anyway, they must be saying things like how was your day, I'm tired, there's an avocado sandwich in the kitchen, thanks, thanks, a beer in the refrigerator. Outside it's raining. The room is cozy, with Mexican furniture and Mexican rugs. The two of them are lying in bed. Small white flashes of lightning. Entwined and still, they look like exhausted children. Though they have no reason to be tired. The camera zooms out. Give me all the information in the world. A blue stripe splits the window in two halves. Like a blue hunchback? He's a bastard but he knows how to feign tenderness. He's a bastard but the hand on her side is gentle. Her face is buried between the pillow and her lover's neck. The camera zooms in: impassive faces that somehow, without intending to, shut you out. The author stares for a long time at the plaster masks, then covers his face. Fade to black. It's absurd to think that this is where all the pretty girls come from. Empty images follow one after the other: the reservoir and the woods, the cabin with a fire in the hearth, the lover in a red robe, the girl who turns and smiles at you. There's nothing diabolic about any of it. The wind tosses the neighborhood trees. A blue hunchback on the other side of the mirror? I don't know. A girl heads away, walking her motorcycle toward the end of the boulevard. If she keeps on in the same direction, she'll reach the sea. Soon she'll reach the sea.