Roberto Bolaño - The Third Reich

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That afternoon we had drinks in the tourist district and then we went to play miniature golf. Charly was calmer than he had been for the last few days, his face relaxed and peaceful, as if a tranquillity thus far unsuspected had settled over him. Appearances are misleading. Soon he began to ramble on in the usual way, and he told us a story that was a good illustration of how stupid he is or how stupid he thinks we are, or both. Briefly: All day he had been windsurfing and at a certain point he got so far out that he lost sight of the coastline. The joke was that upon returning to the beach he confused our town with the next one; the buildings, the hotels, even the curve of the beach, made him suspect something, but he ignored his doubts. Disoriented, he asked a German bather to direct him to the Costa Brava hotel. Unhesitatingly, the German sent him to a hotel that was in fact called the Costa Brava but that looked nothing like the Costa Brava where Charly was staying. Still, Charly went in and asked for his room key. Since he wasn’t registered, the receptionist of course wouldn’t give it to him, despite Charly’s threats. Strong words finally gave way to conversation, and since things were slow at the reception desk, they had some beers at the hotel bar, where, to the surprise of all those listening, everything was explained and Charly made a friend and won general admiration.

“What did you do then?” asked Hanna, though clearly she already knew the answer.

“Picked up my board and headed back. By sea, naturally!”

Charly is a serious braggart, or a serious idiot.

Why am I so afraid sometimes? And why, when I’m most afraid, does my spirit seem to surge, rise up, and observe the whole planet from above? (I see Frau Else from above and I’m afraid. I see Ingeborg from above and I know that she sees me too and I’m afraid and I want to cry.) Tears of love? Do I really want to escape with her not just from this town and the heat but from what the future holds for us, from mediocrity and absurdity? Others find peace in sex or the passage of time. Charly is satisfied with Hanna’s legs and tits. He’s happy. But I, when faced with Ingeborg’s beauty, am forced to see clearly at last and am thrown into turmoil. I’m a nervous wreck. I feel like weeping and throwing punches when I think about Conrad, who has no holidays or spends his holidays in Stuttgart without even a trip to the pool. But my face remains unchanged. And my pulse is steady. I scarcely move a muscle, though inside I’m falling apart.

As we got ready for bed, Ingeborg remarked how well Charly looked. We’d been at a club called Adam’s until three in the morning. Now Ingeborg is asleep and I’m writing and chain-smoking with the balcony door open. Hanna looked good too. She even danced a couple of slow songs with me. Our conversation: trivial as always. What can Hanna and Ingeborg have to talk about? Is it possible that they’re truly becoming friends? Charly treated us to dinner at the restaurant at the Costa Brava. Paella, salad, wine, ice cream, and coffee. Then we left in my car for the club. Charly didn’t feel like driving, nor did he feel like walking; maybe I’m exaggerating but I got the impression that he didn’t even feel like being seen in public. Hanna kept leaning over and kissing him. I imagine she kisses her son in Oberhausen the same way. As we were on our way back I spotted El Quemado on the terrace of the Andalusia Lodge. The terrace was empty and the waiters were clearing the tables. A group of local kids were leaning on the railing, talking. El Quemado, a few yards away, seemed to be listening to them. When I remarked to Charly, half jokingly, that his friend was there, his reply was irritable: what do I care, keep going. I think he thought I was talking about the Wolf or the Lamb. In the darkness it’s hard to tell people apart. Keep going, keep going, said Ingeborg and Hanna.

Today, for the first time, we woke up to gray skies. From our window, the beach looked majestic and empty. A few children were playing in the sand but soon it began to rain and one by one they disappeared. At the restaurant, during breakfast, the atmosphere was different; banished from the terrace because of the rain, people gathered at the indoor tables and the breakfast hour stretched on, encouraging the quick formation of new friendships. Everyone talked. The men started to drink early. The women were constantly going back up to their rooms in search of warmer clothes that most of the time they were unable to find. Jokes were made. A general air of frustration soon manifested itself. But since there was no point spending the whole day at the hotel, expeditions were orga-nized; groups of five or six, huddled under a couple of umbrellas, went out to visit the shops and then a café or some video arcade. The rainswept streets seemed removed from the daily bustle, immersed in a different kind of ordinariness.

Charly and Hanna arrived partway through breakfast. They had decided to go to Barcelona and Ingeborg was going with them. I said I wouldn’t go. Today will be all mine. After they left I sat watching people come and go. Despite what I expected, there was no sign of Frau Else. But at least it was a quiet and comfortable spot. I put my brain to work reviewing the beginnings of matches, opening moves and exploratory moves… A general lethargy had fallen over everything. Suddenly the only truly happy people were the waiters. They had twice as much work as on an ordinary day but they were kidding around and laughing. An old man sitting near me said that they were laughing at us.

“You’re wrong,” I said. “They’re laughing because they can feel summer coming to an end, and work too.”

“So they should be sad. They’ll be out of a job, the lazy bastards!”

I left the hotel at noon.

I got in the car and drove slowly to the Andalusia Lodge. I would’ve gotten there faster by walking but I didn’t feel like walking.

From the outside it looked like all the other bars with terraces: chairs upended and water dripping from the fringes of the umbrellas. The fun was inside. As if the rain had broken the ice, tourists and locals— mingling in a way somehow tinged with catastrophe— were enmeshed in an endless and unintelligible exchange of gestures. In the back, near the TV, I spotted the Lamb. He waved me over. I waited until I’d been served a coffee, and then I went to sit at his table. At first we just made small talk. The Lamb was sorry it was raining, though not on his account but on mine , because I had come in search of sunny days and beach, etc. I didn’t bother to tell him that actually I was delighted it was raining. After a while he asked about Charly. I told him he was in Barcelona. With who? he wanted to know. The question took me by surprise; I would have liked to say that it was none of his business. After hesitating, I decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble.

“With Ingeborg and Hanna, of course. Who did you think he was with?”

The poor guy seemed taken aback. Nobody, he said, smiling. On the fogged-up window someone had drawn a heart bisected by a hypodermic needle. Out the window, the Paseo Marítimo and some gray planks could be glimpsed. The few tables at the back of the bar were occupied by young people and they were the only ones who kept a certain distance from the tourists. The bar was tacitly divided between the people up front (families and older men) and those in the back. Suddenly the Lamb began to tell me a strange and meaningless story. He spoke rapidly, confidentially, leaning over the table. I hardly understood him. The story was about Charly and the Wolf, but the way he told it was like something out of a dream: an argument, a blonde (Hanna?), knives, the all-conquering power of friendship… “The Wolf is a good person, I know him, he’s got a heart of gold. Charly too. But when they get drunk they’d drive anybody crazy.” I nodded. I couldn’t care less. Near us a girl stared into the empty fireplace, now a giant ashtray. Outside the rain came down harder. The Lamb bought me a cognac. Just then the owner came in and put on a video. To do so he had to get up on a chair. From his perch he announced: “I’m putting on a video for you kids.” No one paid any attention. “You’re a bunch of bums,” he said on his way out. The movie was about postnuclear bikers. “I’ve seen it,” said the Lamb when he returned with two drinks. It was good cognac. The girl near the fireplace started to cry. I don’t know how to explain it but she was the only one in the whole bar who didn’t seem to be there. I asked the Lamb why she was crying. I can hardly see her face, he replied, how do you know she’s crying? I shrugged. On the TV a couple of bikers were riding through the desert; one of them was missing an eye; on the horizon sprawled the remains of a city: a gas station in ruins, a supermarket, a bank, a movie theater, a hotel… “Mutants,” said the Lamb, turning sideways so he could see better.