Roberto Bolano - The Skating Rink

I was released a week after my essay won first prize in the European Prison Project competition, sponsored by the EU. The time spent in prison had, I felt, calmed my nerves and allowed me to adopt a more detached and balanced outlook. Definitely more detached and balanced. Some prisoners say it’s pretty much the same inside and outside. And they’re not entirely wrong. But personally I prefer life on the outside. I had lost weight and grown a moustache; I was also, surprising as it may seem, much more suntanned than before, and in perfect health. At the gate I was met by my mother and aunts, and before I knew what was going on, I was at the home of one of my cousins (the architect), where I remained hidden for three days, under the control of my mother’s family; that much at least was due to them, they felt, given their contribution to the bail. In private, my cousin’s wife confessed to me that they’d feared another act of madness on my part. Suicide! The poor dears! If I hadn’t killed myself inside, why would I try now that I was free, with my family to support me? But I didn’t contradict them; I let them organize my life however they liked. In any case, I have always respected the family’s solid good sense. During this new confinement, my contact with the outside world was limited to a few phone calls. I spoke with the governor of the Gerona prison, who was not only delighted about the prize but had already started planning further articles for us to write together, on a range of what he called “sociological” topics. Juanito, that was his name, was thinking of asking for a year’s leave of absence from the civil service, because, as a result of the prize, he had been offered a job by an important publishing house in Madrid, and as he said, Why not give it a try? I can’t remember if the publishing house specialized in “sociological” books or literature, but whichever it was, I’m sure Juanito will go far. I made another call, trying to find Nuria. First I spoke with her mother, then with Laia. Her mother informed me, in a polite but cool tone, that Nuria no longer lived in Z, and as far as she knew, her daughter would prefer not to see me again. Later I spoke with Laia, who told me that Nuria was working as a secretary for a Dutch firm with an office in Barcelona, and that a month or so earlier photos of her had appeared in a well-known magazine with a nationwide circulation. What photos? Artistic nude shots, said Laia, controlling the urge to laugh. I spent more than a week trying to get hold of the magazine, but all my efforts were in vain. One night, when I was back home, I dreamed I was searching for the nude shots of Nuria, wandering in pajamas through a vast dusty newspaper archive, which resembled (and just remembering this gives me goose bumps) the Palacio Benvingut. Coated in grey gelatin, suffocating in silence, I rummaged on shelves and in boxes, with the dim certitude that if I could find the photos, I would understand the significance, the cause, the true and hidden meaning of what had happened to me. But the photos never turned up. .

I killed her, boss, said the Rookie, as the waves washed up the sand toward his knees, at regular intervals, each coming a little closer than the last. The beach was empty; on the horizon, over the sea, fat black clouds were stirring. In an hour, I thought, the first storm of autumn would pass over Z like an aircraft carrier, and no one would hear us. (No one would hear us?) Don’t ask me why, boss, said the Rookie, I swear I don’t even know myself, though it’s probably because I’m sick. But what’s wrong with me? I don’t feel any pain. What demon or devil possessed me? Is it because of this miserable town? The Rookie was kneeling on the sand, looking out to sea with his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face, but I thought he was crying. His hair was sticking to his skull; it looked like it was slicked down with gel. I told him to calm down; we could go somewhere else. (Where was I going to take him?) I didn’t leave when I should have left, he replied, which proves that I still have balls, and I’ve waited as long as humanly possible for the truth to dawn on the police, but nobody wants to work in this country, so here I am, boss, he sighed. At last the waves reached the Rookie’s knees. A shiver ran through his ragged clothes. I took the knife she kept to defend herself (who from? not me!) and from that moment on I was a wild animal, sobbed the Rookie. What are they waiting for? Why don’t they arrest me? Why would they arrest you when you’re not even a suspect? I said. The Rookie kept quiet for a moment; the storm was already overhead. I killed her, boss, that’s a fact, and now this crazy, miserable town seems have gone on honeymoon. It began to pour. Before getting up and heading back to the hotel, I asked him how he had known that the singer lived in the Palacio Benvingut. The Rookie turned and looked at me with the innocence of a child (between two flashes of lightning I saw the freshly washed face of my son, dripping with water): By following her, boss, following her up and down these hilly streets, just trying to keep watch over her. Just looking for a little human warmth. Was she alone? The Rookie drew signs in the air. There’s nothing more to say, he said. .

We took the Barcelona train one overcast afternoon, after a rainy morning that flooded the few tents still pitched at Stella Maris. Our belongings turned out to be more numerous than a quick inspection had led us to believe, so we needed some plastic bags, which we found at the only supermarket still open. Even so we had no choice but to abandon quite a few things that Caridad was attached to: magazines, press cuttings, seashells, stones, an ample range of souvenirs of Z. I hope that when Bobadilla finds those remains he slings them in the trash without a second thought. The night before we left, Remo came to the office and handed me an envelope with my pay and a substantial bonus: enough to buy one-way tickets to Mexico for Caridad and me. Remo and I talked for a while on the far side of the pool, where no one could hear us. I suspect we were both hiding something. It was a brief farewell: I accompanied him to the gate, and thanked him. Morán told me to take care; we hugged and off he went. I have never seen him since. That night Caridad and I said goodbye to El Carajillo. The next morning was hectic: the rain leaked into the tent and wet our clothes and sleeping bags. We were soaking when we left for the station. By the time we got there it had stopped raining. On the other side of the tracks, in an orchard, I saw a donkey. He was under a tree, and every now and then he brayed, making all the travelers on the platforms turn to look at him. He seemed to be happy, after the rain. Then, as if spewed from a black cloud, two cops from the national police and a guardia civil appeared at the end of the station. I thought they had come to arrest us. From the corner of my eye, I watched them walk along toward us, in no hurry at all, gun hands at the ready. We’re two of a kind, that donkey and me, said Caridad in a dreamy voice. Foreigners in our own land. I would have liked to tell her she was wrong, to point out that in the eyes of the law, I was the only foreigner, but I kept my mouth shut. I put my arm gently around her waist and waited. Caridad might have been foreign to God, to the police and even to herself, but she wasn’t foreign to me. I could have said the same for the donkey. The cops stopped halfway down the platform. They went into the station bar, first the police, then the guardia civil , and by an auditory miracle I clearly heard them order two coffees with milk and one carajillo . The donkey brayed again. We kept watching him for a good while. Caridad put her arm around my shoulders and we stayed like that until the train came. .