Roberto Bolaño - The Third Reich

Nothing has changed. That’s what surprises me. This morning it was impossible to navigate the hotel corridors because of all the people leaving, but this afternoon, on the terrace, I’ve already spotted the pale and enthusiastic faces of a new influx. The temperature has gone up, as if we were back in July, and the evening breeze that cooled the sweltering town streets has vanished. A sticky sweat makes clothes cling to the body, and going out for a walk is torture. I saw the Wolf and the Lamb about three hours after Hanna left, at the Andalusia Lodge. At first they pretended not to see me; then they came over, looking stricken, and proceeded to ask me the obligatory questions. I answered that there was nothing new to tell and that Hanna was on her way back to Germany. With this last bit of news, their expressions and demeanor changed notably. They grew more relaxed and friendlier; after a few minutes I realized that I wasn’t about to get rid of them anytime soon: the conversation continued along the usual lines, in the same code that they had used with Charly, except that instead of Charly, there I was, and instead of Hanna, there was Ingeborg!

Later I asked Ingeborg what she’d meant when she said that everybody handled Hanna. Her answer put an end to my speculations, at least in part. It was a generalization, Hanna as the victim of men, an unlucky woman, in perpetual search of balance and happiness, etc… . The possibility of a Hanna raped by the Spaniards was absurd; in fact, Ingeborg hardly gave them a second thought: she spoke of them as if they were invisible. Two average kids, not very hardworking, to judge by their schedules, who liked to have a good time; she liked to go clubbing too and even do crazy things once in a while. Crazy like what? I wondered. Staying out late, drinking too much, singing in the street. Craziness— Ingeborg’s—of the mildest variety. Healthy crazy, she explained. So there was no reason to avoid the Spaniards or be angry at them, beyond the obvious reasons. This was how things stood when, at ten o’clock, the Wolf and the Lamb appeared once more on the scene. The conversation, really a spurned invitation to go out, proceeded in highly tasteless fashion, with us sitting on the hotel terrace (all the tables were full and crowded with ice cream dishes and empty glasses) and the two of them standing on the sidewalk, separated from us by the iron railing, the boundary between the terrace and the mass of passersby who at that time of night, suffocated by the heat, were strolling along the Paseo Marítimo. At first neither of them made anything but the tamest of remarks. The one who talked (and gestured) more was the Lamb, and what he said managed to draw a smile or two from Ingeborg, even before I translated. The Wolf’s contributions, meanwhile, were careful and deliberate, as if he were feeling out the territory, expressing himself in an English superior to his education, the manifestation of a steely will, a desire to poke his nose into a world whose outline he could only imagine. Never had the Wolf’s nickname so truly suited him; Ingeborg’s face—bright, fresh, tanned—attracted his gaze as the moon attracts werewolves in old horror movies. Seeing that we were reluctant to go, he insisted, and his voice grew hoarse. He promised clubs worthy of the trip, he assured us that our weariness would vanish the minute we stepped into one of his famous dives… All for nothing. Our refusal was irrevocable and issued two feet over their heads, because the sidewalk is lower than the terrace. The Spaniards didn’t insist. Imperceptibly, as a prelude to their farewell, they began to reminisce about Charly. The capital-F Friend. Anyone would think they really did miss him. Then they shook hands with us and walked offtoward the old town. Their figures, soon lost in the crowd, struck me as unbearably sad, and I said so to Ingeborg. She stared at me for a few seconds and said she didn’t understand me:

“A minute ago you thought they’d raped Hanna. Now you feel sorry for them. The truth is, those morons are nothing but a couple of pathetic Latin lovers.”

Neither of us could stop laughing until Ingeborg suggested that for once we go to bed early. I agreed.

After making love, I sat down to write in the room while Ingeborg immersed herself in the Florian Linden novel. She still hasn’t figured out who the killer is, and from the way she reads one would think she doesn’t care. She seems tired; these last few days haven’t been pleasant. I don’t know why, but I found myself thinking about Hanna in the car, before she left, giving me advice in her broken voice…

“Do you think Hanna’s gotten to Oberhausen yet?”

“I don’t know. She’ll call tomorrow,” says Ingeborg.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“You mean what if she forgets about us?”

No, of course, she wouldn’t forget Ingeborg. Or me. Suddenly I was afraid. Afraid and a little excited. But what was I afraid of? I remembered Conrad’s words: “Play on your own turf and you’ll always win.” But what is my turf? I asked. Conrad laughed in a peculiar way, without taking his eyes off me. The side that calls to your blood. I answered that playing like that was no guarantee of winning; for example, if in Destruction of the Central Army Group I chose the Germans, the most I could hope for was to win one time out of every three. Unless I was playing a complete idiot. You don’t understand, said Conrad. You have to use the Grand Strategy. You have to be more cunning than a fox. Was this a dream? The truth is I’ve never heard of a game called Destruction of the Central Army Group !

Otherwise, it’s been a boring and unproductive day. I spent a while lying patiently on the beach in the sun, trying unsuccessfully to think clearly and rationally. Images from a decade ago drifted through my mind: my parents playing cards on the hotel balcony, my brother floating twenty yards offshore with his arms outstretched, Spanish boys (Gypsies?) roaming the beach armed with sticks, the staffdorm room, smelly and full of bunk beds, a strip of nightclubs, one after the other, running down to the sea, a black sand beach fronting a sea of black water where the only note of color, suddenly, was El Quemado’s fortress of pedal boats… My article awaits. The books I pledged to read await. And yet the hours and days speed by, as if time were running downhill. But that’s impossible.

The police… I told Frau Else that we were leaving tomorrow. Unexpectedly, the news surprised her; her face betrayed a faint hint of regret that she hurried to hide under a professional cheeriness. The day had begun badly: my head hurt and I was sweating copiously despite the three aspirins and the cold shower I’d taken. Frau Else asked me whether a satisfactory conclusion had been reached. To what? Our vacation. I shrugged, and she took my arm and led me to a little office tucked behind the reception desk. She wanted to know everything about Charly’s disappearance. In a monotone, I gave her a summary of what had happened. It came out pretty well. In proper chronological order.

“I spoke today to Mr. Pere, the manager of the Costa Brava. He thinks you’re an idiot.”

“Me? What do I have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I suppose. But it would be a good idea to prepare yourself… The police want to question you.”

I turned white. Me! Frau Else’s hand patted me on the knee.

“There’s nothing to worry about. They just want to know why the girl went back to Germany. It was a rather odd thing to do, don’t you think?”

“What girl?”

“The girlfriend of the dead man.”

“I just told you. She was tired of all the chaos; she has personal problems; there were plenty of reasons.”

“All right, but it was her boyfriend. The least she could do was wait until they had finished the search.”