Roberto Bolaño - The Third Reich

It was two in the afternoon when I got up. My body ached and an inner voice told me that I should try to spend as little time as possible at the hotel. I went out without even showering. After coffee at a nearby bar and a glance at some of the German papers, I returned to the Del Mar and inquired after Frau Else. Not back yet from Barcelona. Nor is her husband, obviously. The atmosphere at the reception desk is hostile. Same at the bar. Dirty looks from the waiters, that kind of thing. Nothing serious. The sun was shining, though there were still some black clouds on the horizon, heavy with rain, so I put on my bathing trunks and went to keep El Quemado company. The pedal boats were unstacked, but El Quemado was nowhere to be seen. I decided to wait for him and I lay down in the sand. I hadn’t brought a book, so the only thing I could do was stare at the sky, which was a deep blue, and remember happy things to pass the time. At some point, of course, I fell asleep; the beach—warm and nearly empty, the clamor of August now remote—was conducive to sleep. I dreamed then about Florian Linden. Ingeborg and I were at the hotel in a room like ours, and someone was knocking at the door. Ingeborg didn’t want me to see who it was. Don’t, she said, if you love me, don’t do it. As she spoke, her lips trembled. It might be something urgent, I said resolutely, but when I tried to move toward the door Ingeborg clung to me with both hands so that I couldn’t move at all. Let me go, I shouted, let me go, as the pounding grew louder and louder, until I thought that maybe Ingeborg was right and it was best to stay where we were. In the struggle, Ingeborg fell to the floor. I gazed down at her from far above. She was in some kind of swoon, with her legs flung wide. Anyone could rape you now, I said, and then she opened one eye, just one, the left one, I think, huge and ultrablue, and didn’t take it offme; wherever I moved it followed me. Its expression, I’d say, though I can’t be sure, wasn’t vigilant or accusatory but curious, attentive to something new, and terrified. Then I couldn’t stand it any longer and I pressed my ear to the door. The person outside wasn’t knocking, he was scratching at the door from the other side! Who is it? I asked. Florian Linden, private detective, answered a tiny voice. Do you want to come in? No, for the love of God, don’t open the door! Florian Linden’s voice insisted, more vigorously, though not much. It was clear that he was hurt. For a while we were both silent, trying to listen, but the truth is that there was nothing to be heard. It was as if the hotel were underwater. Even the temperature was different. It was colder now, and since we were wearing summer clothes, that made it worse. Soon it became unbearable and I had to get up and get blankets out of the closet to wrap around Ingeborg and me. But it was no good. Ingeborg began to sob: she said she couldn’t feel her legs anymore and we were going to freeze to death. You’ll die only if you fall asleep, I promised, trying not to look at her. On the other side of the door sound could be heard at last. Steps: someone was approaching, as if on tiptoe, and then retreating. The same progression three times. Is that you, Florian? Yes, it’s me, but now I have to leave, answered Florian Linden. What’s going on? Shady business, I don’t have time to explain. You’re safe for now, though you’d better go home tomorrow morning. Home? The detective’s voice creaked and crackled as he spoke. They’re vaporizing him! I thought. Then I tried to go open the door and I couldn’t get up. I had no feeling in my feet or hands. I was frozen. In terror, I realized that there was no way out and we were going to die at the hotel. Ingeborg had stopped moving; she was sprawled at my feet, and all that could be seen of her under the blanket was her long blond hair on the black tile floor. I would have liked to hug her and weep, I felt so forlorn; but just then, without any help from me, the door opened. Where Florian Linden should have been there was no one, but there was a huge shadow at the end of the corridor. Then I opened my eyes, trembling, and I saw the cloud, giant and dark, looming over the town and lumbering like an aircraft carrier toward the hills. I was cold. Everyone had left the beach and El Quemado wasn’t going to come. I don’t know how long I lay there on the sand, looking up at the sky. I was in no hurry. I might have been there for hours and hours. When at last I decided to get up, instead of returning to the hotel I headed for the sea. The water was warm and dirty. I swam for a bit. The dark cloud kept moving overhead. Then I stopped stroking and sank down until I touched the bottom. I’m not sure whether I made it; while I was underwater I think I kept my eyes wide open, but I didn’t see anything. I was being swept out to sea. When I emerged I saw that I hadn’t drifted as far from the shore as I thought. I returned to the pedal boats, picked up my towel, and dried myself carefully. It was the first time that El Quemado hadn’t shown up for work. Suddenly shivers ran through me. I did some exercises: push-ups, sit-ups, a brief jog. When I was dry I tied the towel around my waist and walked off to the Andalusia Lodge. There I asked for a cognac and told the owner that I would come by later to pay. Then I asked after El Quemado. No one had seen him.

The afternoon dragged on. Frau Else never turned up at the hotel, nor did El Quemado appear on the beach, though at six the sun came out, and near the point by the campgrounds I spotted a pedal boat, beach umbrellas, and people playing in the waves. My stretch of beach wasn’t as lively. The hotel guests had signed up en masse for an excursion—to a vineyard or a famous monastery, I seem to remember—and the only people left on the terrace were a few old men and the waiters. By the time it started to get dark I knew what I wanted to do, and soon afterward I asked the reception desk to put through a call to Germany. Before the call went through I had reviewed the state of my finances and discovered that I had only enough to pay the bill, spend one more night at the Del Mar, and put a little gasoline in the car. On the fifth or sixth attempt I managed to reach Conrad. His voice sounded sleepy. And there were other voices in the background. I got straight to the point. I said I needed money. I said I planned to stay a few more days.

“How many days?”

“I don’t know, it depends.”

“Why are you staying?”

“That’s my business. I’ll return the money as soon as I get back.”

“The way you’re acting, a person might think you plan never to come back.”

“What an absurd idea. What could I do here for the rest of my life?”

“Nothing, I know. But do you know it?”

“Actually, there are things I could do here: I could work as a tour guide, start my own business. This place is full of tourists, and a person who can speak three languages will always be able to find work.”

“Your place is here. Your career is here.”

“What career are you talking about? The office?”

“I’m talking about writing, Udo, the articles for Rex Douglas, the novels, yes, listen to me, the novels you could write if you weren’t such a mess. I’m talking about the plans we’ve made together… The cathedrals… do you remember?”

“Thank you, Conrad, yes, you’re probably right…”

“Come back as soon as you can. I’ll send the money tomorrow. Your friend’s body must already be in Germany. End of story. What more is there for you to do there?”

“Who told you that they’d found Charly?… Ingeborg?”

“Of course. She’s worried about you. We see each other almost every day. And we talk. I tell her things about you. From before you met. The day before yesterday I took her to your apartment. She wanted to see it.”