Roberto Bolaño - The Third Reich

“You’re a man after my own heart! You never give up, do you?”

“Never.”

“I suspected as much. That is, because of the way you’ve kept after my wife. In my day, if a woman gave me the brush-off, I would have nothing else to do with her, even if she was Rita Hayworth. Do you know what these papers mean? Yes, they’re copied from war books, more or less, but I didn’t suggest any of this to El Quemado. (I would have recommended Liddell Hart’s History of the Second World War , a fair-minded and straightforward book, or Alexander Werth’s Russia at War .) But this was on his own initiative. And the meaning of it is clear, I think, as my wife and I realized at once. Didn’t you? I guessed as much. Well, I can tell you that young people have always sought my advice. And El Quemado has a special place among them, which is why my wife is holding me somewhat responsible—me, a sick man!—for what might happen to you.”

“I don’t understand anything you’re saying. If we’re talking about Third Reich , I must inform you that in Germany I’m the national champion of the sport.”

“Sport! These days anything can be called a sport. That’s no sport. And I can promise you that I’m not talking about Third Reich but about the plans that poor boy has in store for you. Not as part of the game (because that’s what it is, that’s all it is), but in real life!”

I shrugged. I wasn’t about to argue with a sick man. I expressed my skepticism with a friendly laugh; after that I felt better.

“Of course I told my wife that there wasn’t much I could do. At this point that boy only hears what he wants to hear, he’s in this up to his neck and I don’t think he’ll back down.”

“Frau Else worries too much about me. Though of course it’s very kind of her.”

Her husband’s face took on a dreamy and absent expression.

“She’s a good woman, yes sir, very good. Too good… My only regret is not having given her a couple of children.”

The remark struck me as being in poor taste. I thanked the heavens for the probable sterility of that poor man. A pregnancy might have disturbed the classical harmony of Frau Else’s body, the way she commanded a room even from a distance.

“And deep down, like any woman, she wants to be a mother. Well, I hope she’ll have more luck with the next man.” He winked at me and I could swear that beneath the sheets he made an obscene gesture. “Don’t fool yourself, it won’t be you. And the sooner you realize it the better, that way you won’t suffer or make her suffer. Though she holds you in great esteem, there’s no denying that. She told me that years ago you used to come to the Del Mar with your parents. What’s your father’s name?”

“Heinz Berger. I came with my parents and my older brother. Every summer.”

“I don’t remember.”

I said it didn’t matter. Frau Else’s husband seemed to focus all his energies on the past. He looked unwell. I was alarmed.

“And you, do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“What was I like? What image do you have of me?”

“You were tall and very thin. You wore white shirts and Frau Else looked happy to be with you. Nothing much.”

“Enough.”

He sighed and his face relaxed. My legs were beginning to ache from standing for so long. I thought I’d better leave, sleep a little, or get in the car and go in search of a deserted cove where I could take a dip and then get some rest on the clean sand.

“Wait, I still have a warning to give you. Stay away from El Quemado. Starting now!”

“I will,” I said wearily, “when I leave town.”

“So what are you waiting for to go home? Don’t you realize that… unhappiness and misfortune haunt this hotel?”

By this he meant Charly’s death, I guessed. And yet, if trouble loomed over a hotel, it should be the Costa Brava, where Charly had stayed, not the Del Mar. My smile of understanding bothered Frau Else’s husband.

“Do you have any idea what will happen the night that Berlin falls?”

Suddenly I realized that the misfortune to which he was alluding was the war.

“Don’t underestimate me,” I said, trying to get a glimpse of the inner courtyards that were surely visible through the curtains. Why hadn’t they chosen a room with sea views?

Frau Else’s husband telescoped his neck like a worm. He was pale and his skin was slick with fever.

“You fool, do you still think you can win?”

“I can try. I’m good at comebacks. I can mount offensives that keep the Russians at bay. I still have great strike potential…” I talked and talked, about Italy, Romania, my armored forces, the reorganization of my air force, my plans for wiping out the beachheads in France, even for the defense of Spain, and gradually I felt that the inside of my head was turning to ice and that the cold was trickling down into my mouth, my tongue, my throat, so that even the words that came out of my mouth grew foggy on their way toward the sick man’s bed. I heard him say: Give up, pack your things, pay your bill—and go. I understood with horror that all he wanted was to help me. That in his own way—and because he’d been asked to do so—he was watching out for me.

“What time is your wife coming back?” Despite myself, my voice sounded desperate. From outside came birdsong and the muted sound of motors and doors. Frau Else’s husband pretended not to hear me and said he was tired. As if to confirm this, his eyelids drooped.

I was afraid he really would fall asleep.

“What will happen after the fall of Berlin?”

“As I see it,” he said in a drawl without opening his eyes, “he won’t be satisfied with a handshake.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“The logical thing, Herr Udo Berger, the logical thing. Think, what does the winner do? What traits does he possess?” I confessed my ignorance. Frau Else’s husband turned on his side so that all I could see was his profile, haggard and angular. This was how I discovered that he looked like Don Quixote. A weakened Quixote, ordinary and terrible as Fate. The discovery disturbed me. Maybe that was what had attracted Frau Else.

“It’s in all the history books”—his voice sounded weak and tired—“even the German ones. Let the trial of the war criminals begin.”

I laughed in his face:

“The game ends with Decisive Victory, Tactical Victory, Marginal Victory, or Stalemate, not with trials or stupid things like that,” I intoned.

“Ah, my friend, in that poor boy’s nightmares the trial may be the most important part of the game, the only thing that makes it worthwhile to spend so many hours playing. A chance to hang the Nazis!”

I stretched the fingers of my right hand, waiting to hear each bone crack.

“It’s a game of strategy,” I whispered, “of high strategy. What kind of insanity is this?”

“I’m simply advising you to pack your suitcases and go. After all, Berlin—the one true Berlin—fell some time ago, didn’t it?”

We both nodded our heads sadly. The sense that we were talking about different and even categorically opposed things was increasingly obvious.

“Who does he plan to put on trial? The little counters for the SS corps?” Frau Else’s husband seemed amused by my outburst and he smiled in a nasty way, half sitting up in bed.

“I’m afraid you’re the one who inspires his hatred.” The sick man’s body suddenly became a single throb, irregular, big, clear.

“Am I the one he’s going to sit in the dock?” Though I was trying to keep my composure, my voice shook with indignation.

“Yes.”

“And how does he plan to do that?”

“On the beach, like a man—like a man with balls.” The nasty smile broadened and at the same time grew more pronounced.