Roberto Bolaño - By Night in Chile

Hysterically. Other hysterics joined in the chant. What’s this vulgar carrying-on? asked Farewell. Just some riffraff, I replied, don’t worry, it’s not far to the cemetery now. And what has become of Pablo? asked Farewell. He’s up front, in the coffin, I said. Don’t be an idiot, said Farewell, I haven’t gone completely gaga yet. I’m sorry, I said. It’s all right, he replied. What a pity they don’t do funerals like they used to, said Farewell. Indeed, I said. A proper send-off, with eulogies and so forth, said Farewell. In the French manner, I said. I would have written a lovely speech for Pablo, said Farewell, and he started to cry. We must be dreaming, I thought. As we were leaving the cemetery, arm in arm, I saw a man propped against a tomb, asleep. A shiver ran down my spine. The following days were fairly calm, and I was tired from reading all those Greeks. So I returned to the literature of Chile. I tried to write a few poems. For a start everything came out in iambic meter. Then I don’t know what came over me. My poetry veered from the angelic to the demonic. Often in the evening I was tempted to show my confessor the verses I had written, but I never did. I wrote about women, hatefully, cruelly, I wrote about homosexuals and children lost in derelict railway stations. If I had to describe my poetry, I would say that, until then, it had always been Apollonian, yet I had begun to write in what might tentatively be described as a Dionysiac mode. But in fact it wasn’t Dionysiac poetry. Or demonic poetry. It was just raving mad. Those poor women who appeared in my poems, what had they ever done to me? Deceived me perhaps? What had those poor homosexuals done to me? Nothing. Nothing. Not the women, not the queers. And the children, for God’s sake, what could they possibly have done? So what were those hapless creatures doing there, stranded in those landscapes of decay? Maybe I was one of those children? Maybe they were the children I would never have? Maybe they were the lost children of lost parents I would never know? So why was I raving on and on? My daily life, by contrast, was perfectly calm. I spoke in measured tones, never got angry, was organized and punctual. I prayed each night and fell asleep without difficulty.

Occasionally I had nightmares, but in those days just about everybody had nightmares from time to time, though some more often than others. In the mornings, nevertheless, I woke up refreshed, ready to face the day’s tasks. One particular morning, I was informed that some visitors were waiting for me in the living room. I finished washing and went down. I saw Mr. Raef sitting on a wooden bench against the wall. Mr. Etah was standing with his hands clasped behind his back examining a picture by a painter who claimed to be an expressionist (although he was in fact an impressionist). When they saw me, both of them smiled as one might smile at an old friend. I invited them to join me for breakfast. To my surprise, they said they had broken their fast some time before, although according to the clock on the wall it was just a few minutes past eight. They agreed to have a cup of tea, just to keep me company. There’s not much more to my breakfast, I said. Black tea, toast with butter and marmalade, orange juice. A balanced breakfast, said Mr. Raef. Mr. Etah didn’t say anything. I instructed the maid to serve breakfast on the verandah, which looks out over the garden to the walls of the adjoining college, partly hidden by greenery. We’ve been sent to make a proposal relating to a very delicate matter, said Mr. Raef. I nodded and remained silent. Mr. Etah had taken one of my slices of toast and was spreading butter on it. It’s something that needs to be treated in the strictest confidence, said Mr. Raef, especially now, with the current situation. I said yes, of course, I understood. Mr. Etah took a bite from the slice of toast and looked out at a group of three araucaria trees, the pride of the college, soaring cathedral-like over the gardens. You know what Chileans are like, Fr. Urrutia, always gossiping, not in a nasty way, I don’t mean that, but great ones for gossip all the same. I didn’t say anything. Mr. Etah finished off the slice of toast in three mouthfuls and started buttering another. Why am I telling you this? Mr. Raef asked himself rhetorically. Well, the matter we’ve come to see you about requires absolute discretion. I said yes, I understood. Mr. Etah poured himself another cup of tea and clicked his thumb and middle finger to get the maid to bring him some milk. What do you understand? asked Mr. Raef, with a frank and friendly smile. That you require me to be absolutely discreet, I said. More than that, said Mr. Raef, much more, we require ultra-absolute discretion, extraordinarily absolute discretion and secrecy. I was itching to correct him but restrained myself, because I wanted to know what they were proposing. Do you know anything about Marxism? asked Mr. Etah, after wiping his lips with a napkin. A bit, yes, but only out of intellectual curiosity, I said. I mean, I’m not in the least sympathetic to the doctrine, ask anyone. But do you know about it or not? A little bit, I said, feeling increasingly nervous. Do you have any books about Marxism in your library? asked Mr. Etah. Heavens, it’s not my library, it belongs to the community, there might be something, but only for reference, to be used as a source for philosophical essays aiming precisely to refute Marxism. But you’ve got your own library, haven’t you, Fr. Urrutia, your own personal, private library so to speak, some books are kept here in the college and others in your house, or your mother’s house, isn’t that right? Yes, that’s right, I murmured.

And in your private library are there or are there not books about Marxism? asked Mr. Etah. Please answer yes or no, Mr. Raef implored me. Yes, I said. So could we say that you know something or perhaps more than something about Marxism? asked Mr. Etah fixing me with his penetrating gaze. I looked to Mr. Raef for help. He made a face I couldn’t interpret: it might have been expressing solidarity with his colleague or complicity with me. I don’t know what to say, I said. Say something, said Mr. Raef. You know me, I’m not a Marxist, I said. But are you familiar or not with, shall we say, the fundamentals of Marxism? asked Mr. Etah. Well, who isn’t? I said. So what you’re saying is that it’s not very hard to learn, said Mr. Etah. No, it’s not very hard, I said, trembling from head to toe and feeling more than ever as if it were all a dream. Mr. Raef slapped me on the leg. It was meant to be friendly but I almost jumped out of my skin. If it’s not hard to learn, it wouldn’t be hard to teach either, said Mr. Etah. I remained silent until it was clear they were waiting for me to say something. No, I said, I guess it wouldn’t be very hard to teach. Although I’ve never taught it, I added. Now’s your chance, said Mr. Etah. You’ll be serving your country, said Mr. Raef. Serving in silence and obscurity, far from the glitter of medals, he added. To put it bluntly, you’re going to have to keep your mouth shut, said Mr. Etah. Hush-hush, said Mr. Raef.

Lips sealed, said Mr. Etah. Silent as the grave, said Mr. Raef. No going around shooting your mouth off about it, you understand, absolute discretion, said Mr. Etah. And just what does this delicate task involve? I asked. Giving some classes on Marxism, not many, just the basics really, to some gentlemen we’re all deeply indebted to in this country, said Mr. Raef, leaning forward and exhaling a sewerlike stench in my face. I couldn’t help frowning. My expression of displeasure made Mr. Raef smile. Don’t rack your brains, you’ll never guess who they are. And if I accept, when would these classes start, because right now I have quite a bit of work piled up, I said. Don’t get coy with us, said Mr. Etah, this is an offer no one can refuse. An offer no one would want to refuse, said Mr. Raef in a conciliatory tone. I felt the danger was past and the time had come to be firm. Who are my pupils? I asked. General Pinochet, said Mr. Etah. My breath caught in my throat. And the others? General Leigh, Admiral Merino and General Mendoza, of course, who else? said Mr. Raef, lowering his voice. I’ll have to prepare myself, I said, this is not something to be taken lightly. The classes have to start within a week, is that enough time for you? I said yes, two weeks would have been better, but I could manage with one. Then Mr. Raef talked about the fee. You’ll only be doing your patriotic duty, he said, but everyone’s got to eat. I probably agreed with him. I can’t remember what else we said. The week went by with the same calm, dreamy feeling as the weeks before. One afternoon, when I was leaving the newspaper office, there was a car waiting for me. I was taken to the college to pick up my notes and then the car plunged into the Santiago night. In the back seat, sitting next to me, was a colonel, Colonel Pérez Latouche, who handed me an envelope which I decided not to open, and stressed once again what Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah had been at such pains to make clear: the importance of absolute discretion with regard to every aspect of my new assignment. I assured him he could count on me. Let’s say no more about it then and just enjoy the drive, said Colonel Pérez Latouche, offering me a glass of whiskey, which I declined. Is it because of the cassock?