Roberto Bolaño - The Third Reich

“Tell that to her, not me… So I have to stay here until the police turn up?”

“No, do whatever you want. If I were you I’d go to the beach. When they get here I’ll send a staffperson to find you.”

“Does Ingeborg have to be here too?”

“No, one of you is enough.”

I did as Frau Else suggested, and we were at the beach until six when a messenger came to get us. The messenger, a boy of about twelve, was dressed like a beggar and it was hard to see how he had been hired to work at a hotel. Ingeborg insisted on coming with me. The beach was a deep golden color and it seemed frozen in time; really, I would’ve been happy to stay there. The policemen were in uniform and they were at the bar, talking to a waiter. Frau Else pointed them out to us from the reception desk, though there was no need. I remember that, as we approached them, I thought they would never turn around to face us and I would have to tap one on the back the way a person knocks at the door. But they must have sensed that we’d come in by the glance of the waiter or some other sign I didn’t notice, and before we got to them they stood up and saluted us, which had an unsettling effect on me. We sat at a secluded table and they got straight to the point: did Hanna know what she was doing when she left Spain? (we didn’t know whether Hanna knew), what ties bound her to Charly? (friendship), why had she left? (we didn’t know), what was her address in Germany? (we didn’t know—a lie, Ingeborg has it written down—but they could get it from the German consulate in Barcelona, where Hanna had, we presumed, left all her personal information), did Hanna think or did we think that Charly had committed suicide? (we certainly didn’t think so; who knew what Hanna thought), and so on, more pointless questions until the interview was over. The policemen were nothing but polite, and when they left they gave us another military salute. Ingeborg smiled at them although when we were alone she said that she couldn’t wait to be in Stuttgart, far away from this sad, corrupt town. When I asked her what she meant by “corrupt,” she got up and left me alone in the dining room. Just as she was leaving, Frau Else came out from behind the reception desk and headed toward us. Neither of the two of them stopped, but Frau Else smiled as she passed Ingeborg; Ingeborg, I’m sure, didn’t smile back. In any case, Frau Else gave no sign that she’d noticed. When she reached me she wanted to know how the interrogation had gone. I admitted that Hanna had made things worse by leaving. According to Frau Else, the Spanish police were charming. I didn’t argue. For a moment neither of us spoke, though the silence was charged. Then Frau Else took me by the arm as she’d done before and led me down a series of corridors; the entire way she opened her mouth only to say, “You shouldn’t let this get you down”; I think I nodded. We stopped at a room near the kitchen. It seemed to serve as the hotel’s laundry. Through a window was a cement-paved inner courtyard full of wooden baskets and covered by a huge green tarp through which the evening light barely filtered. In the un-airconditioned kitchen a girl and an old man were still washing the lunch dishes. Then, without warning, Frau Else kissed me. The truth is, it didn’t take me by surprise. I wanted it and I was hoping for it. But to be honest, I didn’t think it was likely. Naturally, her kiss got the passionate response called for under the circumstances. Though we didn’t do anything untoward. From the kitchen the dishwashers could have seen us. After five minutes we pulled apart; we were both shaken and we returned to the dining room without saying a word. There Frau Else shook my hand and left me. I can still hardly believe it happened.

The rest of the afternoon I spent with El Quemado. First I went up to the room, but Ingeborg wasn’t there. I supposed she had gone out shopping. The beach was half deserted and El Quemado didn’t have much work. I found him sitting next to the pedal boats, for once lined up and facing the sea, with his gaze fixed on the only pedal boat that had been rented, which seemed to be very far from shore. I sat down next to him as if he were an old friend and soon I was drawing a map in the sand of the Battle of the Ardennes (one of my specialties), or the Battle of the Bulge, as the Americans call it, and I gave a detailed explanation of battle plans, the order in which units would appear, highways to use, river crossings, the demolition and construction of bridges, the offensive activation of the Fifteenth Army, real and simulated advances of Battle Group Peiper, etc. Then I erased the map with my foot, smoothed the sand, and drew a map of the area around Smolensk. There, I pointed out, Guderian’s panzer group had fought an important battle in ’41, a crucial battle. I had always won it. For the Germans, of course. I erased the map again, smoothed the sand, drew a face. Only then did El Quemado smile, without diverting his attention for long from the pedal boat still lost in the distance. A slight shiver ran through me. The flesh of his cheek, two or three poorly healed scars, bristled, and for a second I was afraid that with this optical effect—there was nothing else it could be—he could hypnotize me and ruin my life forever. I was rescued by El Quemado’s own voice. As if speaking from an insurmountable distance, he said: do you think we get along well? I nodded several times, happy to be able to escape the spell cast by his deformed cheek. The face that I had drawn was still there, barely a sketch (though I should say that I’m not bad at drawing), until suddenly I realized with horror that it was a portrait of Charly. The realization left me speechless. It was as if someone had guided my hand. I hurried to erase it and immediately I drew a map of Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East, and with the aid of many arrows and circles I illustrated my decisive strategy to win at Third Reich . I’m afraid El Quemado didn’t understand a thing.

The big news of the night is that Hanna called. She had telephoned twice before, but neither Ingeborg nor I was at the hotel. When I arrived, the receptionist gave me the message and I wasn’t happy to get it. I didn’t want to talk to Hanna and I prayed that Ingeborg would show up before the third call came. My mood thus altered, I went up to wait in the room. When Ingeborg got back we decided to change our plan, which had been to eat at a restaurant near the port, and to stay and wait at the Del Mar. It was the right choice. Hanna called just as we were about to dig into our frugal dinner: toasted ham and cheese sandwiches and french fries. I remember that a waiter came to find us and as we got up from the table Ingeborg said it wasn’t necessary for both of us to go. I said it didn’t matter, the food wouldn’t get cold anyway. Frau Else was at the reception desk. She was wearing a different dress from the one she’d been wearing that afternoon and she seemed to have just stepped out of the shower. We smiled and tried to carry on a conversation as Ingeborg, with her back to us, as far away as she could get, whispered things like “Why?” “I can’t believe it,” “Disgusting,” “For God’s sake,” “The pigs,” and “Why didn’t you tell me before?” which I couldn’t help hearing and that wore on my nerves. I also noticed that with each exclamation Ingeborg hunched over a little more until she looked like a snail. I felt sorry for her; she was scared. Meanwhile, Frau Else, with her elbows firmly planted on the counter and her face aglow, began to resemble a Greek statue: only her lips moved when she spoke plainly about what had happened hours before in the laundry room. (I think she asked me not to harbor false hopes; I can’t say for sure.) As Frau Else talked, I smiled, but all of my senses were focused on what Ingeborg was saying. The phone cord seemed about to wind itself around her neck.