Roberto Bolaño - The Third Reich

Summer 1941. Situation of the German Army in England: satisfactory. Army corps: Fourth Infantry in Portsmouth, reinforced in the Strategic Redeployment phase by the Forty-eighth Armored. The Tenth is still at the beachhead, reinforced by the Twentieth and Twenty-ninth Infantry. The British are gathering their forces in London and reserving their airborne units in case of air-to-air attacks. (Should I have marched straight on London? I don’t think so.) Situation of the German Army in Russia: optimal. Siege of Lenin-grad; the Finnish and German units meet in Hex C46; from Yaroslavl I begin to press toward Vologda; from Moscow toward Gorki; in the hexes between I49 and L48 the front remains stable; in the south I advance toward Stalingrad. El Quemado digs in now on the other side of the Volga and between Astrakhan and Maikop. Units engaged in the north of Russia: five infantry corps, two armored corps, four Finnish infantry corps. Units engaged in the central region: seven infantry corps, four armored corps. Units engaged in the south: six infantry corps, three armored corps, one Italian infantry corps, four Romanian infantry corps, and three Hungarian infantry corps. Situation of the Axis armies in the Mediterranean: unchanged; Attrition Option.

Surprise: when I got up—it couldn’t have been twelve yet—the first thing I saw when I opened the balcony doors was El Quemado. He was walking along the beach with his hands behind his back, his eyes on the ground like someone searching for something in the sand, his tanned and scorched skin so shiny that he nearly left a wake on the golden beach.

Today is a holiday. The last reserves of retirees and Surinamese have gone out after lunch, leaving the hotel at just quarter capacity. At the same time, half the staffhave taken the day off. The hallways echoed softly and sadly when I headed to breakfast. (The sound of broken plumbing or something tinkled on the stairs but no one seemed to notice.)

In the sky a Cessna prop plane strove to trace letters that the strong wind erased before I could make out entire words. I was gripped then by a vast melancholy that seized my belly, my spine, my bottom ribs, until I doubled over under the sunshade!

I realized in a vague way, as if I were dreaming, that the morning of September 11 was unfolding above the hotel, at the height of the Cessna’s ailerons, and that those of us who were down below that morning, the retirees leaving the hotel, the waiters sitting on the terrace watching the little plane’s maneuvers, Frau Else hard at work, and El Quemado loafing on the beach, were in some way condemned to walk in darkness.

Was this true of Ingeborg too, protected by the orderliness of a sensible city and a sensible job? Was it true of my bosses and office mates, who understood, suspected, and waited? Was it true of Conrad, who was loyal and guileless and the best friend anybody could ask for? Was everyone down in the depths?

As I ate breakfast, the tentacles of a huge sun crept over the Paseo Marítimo and all the terraces without managing to actually warm anything. Not even the plastic chairs. I caught a glimpse of Frau Else at the reception desk and though we didn’t speak I thought I detected a trace of affection in her gaze. I asked my waiter what the hell the plane up there was trying to write. It’s commemorating September 11, he said. But what is there to commemorate? Today is Catalonia Day, he said. El Quemado, on the beach, kept pacing back and forth. I waved; he didn’t see me.

What went almost unnoticed in the hotel and campground zone was glaringly evident in the old town. The streets were decorated and flags hung from windows and balconies. Most of the businesses were closed, and the crowded bars made it clear that it was a holiday. In front of a movie theater some adolescents had set up a couple of tables where they were selling books, pamphlets, and little flags. When I asked what kind of literature it was, a skinny kid, no older than fifteen, said, “Patriotic books.” What did he mean by that? One of his friends, laughing, shouted something that I didn’t catch. They’re Catalan books! said the skinny kid. I bought one and walked away. In the church square—just a few old ladies whispering on a bench—I glanced through it and then tossed it in a trash can.

I returned to the hotel, taking the long way around.

That afternoon I called Ingeborg. First I tidied the room: papers on the night table, dirty clothes under the bed, all the windows open so that I could watch the sky and the sea, and the balcony doors open so that I could see the beach all the way to the port. The conversation was chillier than I had expected. On the beach people were swimming and there was no trace of the little plane. I said that Charly had turned up. After an embarrassing silence, Ingeborg replied that sooner or later it was bound to happen. Call Hanna, let her know, I said. Not necessary, according to Ingeborg. The German consulate would inform Charly’s parents, and Hanna would find out from them. After a while I realized that we didn’t have anything to say to each other. And yet I wasn’t the one who ended the conversation. I described the weather, what it was like at the hotel and the beach, how things were at the clubs, though since she left I haven’t set foot in a single one. I didn’t say that, of course. At last, as if we were afraid of waking someone asleep nearby, we hung up. Then I called Conrad and more or less repeated the same thing. Then I decided not to make any more calls.

Reassessment of August 31. Ingeborg says what she thinks, and what she thought that day was that I’d left. Of course I was dumb enough not to ask her where she thought I would go. To Stuttgart? Did she have any reason to think I might have gone to Stuttgart? Furthermore: when I woke up and our eyes met, we didn’t recognize each other. I realized it and she realized it too and turned away. She didn’t want me to look at her! That I, who had just woken, shouldn’t have recognized her is normal; what’s unacceptable is that the bafflement was mutual. Was that when our love ended? It could be. In any case, something ended then. I don’t know what, though I sense its importance. She said to me: I’m scared, the Del Mar scares me, the town scares me. Had she sensed the thing— the one thing—that I was overlooking?

Seven in the evening. On the terrace with Frau Else.

“Where’s your husband?”

“In his room.”

“And where is that room?”

“On the first floor, above the kitchen. In a little corner where guests never set foot. Completely off-limits.”

“Does he feel well today?”

“Not very. Do you want to visit him? No, of course you don’t.”

“I’d like to get to know him.”

“Well, you don’t have time now. I would’ve liked the two of you to meet too, but not in the state he’s in at the moment. You understand, don’t you? On equal terms, both of you in good form.”

“Why do you think I don’t have time? Because I’m leaving for Stuttgart?”

“That’s right, because you’re going back.”

“Well, you’re wrong, I still haven’t made up my mind to leave, so if your husband gets better and you’re able to bring him to the dining room—after dinner, say—I’d like to have the pleasure of meeting him and talking to him. Especially talking to him. On equal terms.”

“So you aren’t leaving…”

“Why should I? You can’t think I’ve been staying at your hotel just waiting for Charly’s body to turn up. In terrible shape too. The body, I mean. You wouldn’t have liked it if you’d had to go and identify it.”

“Are you staying for me? Because we haven’t slept together?”

“His face was ravaged. From the ears to the chin, all eaten away by fish. His eyes were gone, and his skin—the skin of his face and neck—had turned nearly gray. Sometimes I think the poor bastard wasn’t Charly. He might have been, and he might not have been. I’m told that the body of an En glishman who drowned around the same time still hasn’t been found. Who knows. I didn’t want to say anything to the man from the consulate so he wouldn’t think I was crazy. But that’s what passed through my mind. How can you sleep above the kitchen?”