Roberto Bolaño - The Third Reich

I’ve closed the door to the balcony. Where is Ingeborg?

I have so much to write. I met the Burn Victim. I’ll try to sum up what’s happened in the last few hours.

Ingeborg was radiant and happy when she got home last night. The excursion was a success and nothing needed to be said in order for us to proceed to a reconciliation that was all the lovelier for being completely natural. We had dinner at the hotel and then we met Hanna and Charly at a bar on the Paseo Marítimo called the Andalusia Lodge. Deep down I would rather have spent the rest of the night alone with Ingeborg, but I couldn’t refuse to go out at the risk of disturbing our newfound peace.

Charly was excited and on edge, and it wasn’t long before I learned why: that night the soccer match between the German and Spanish selections was on TV and he wanted the four of us to watch it at the bar, along with the many Spaniards who were waiting for the match to begin. When I pointed out that we would be more comfortable at the hotel, he argued that it wasn’t the same. The audience at the hotel would almost certainly be German, whereas at the bar we would be surrounded by “enemies,” which made the match twice as much fun. Surprisingly Hanna and Ingeborg took his side.

Although I disagreed, I didn’t insist, and soon afterward we gave up our seats on the terrace and went inside to sit near the TV.

That was how we met the Wolf and the Lamb.

I won’t describe the inside of the Andalusia Lodge; let me just say that it was big, it stank, and a single glance was enough to confirm my fears: we were the only foreigners.

The audience, scattered in a rough half circle in front of the television, was more or less all young men with the look of laborers who had just finished work for the day and who hadn’t yet had time to shower. In winter it would probably be an ordinary scene; in summer it was unsettling.

To heighten the difference between them and us, the patrons all seemed to be old friends and they showed it by slapping each other on the back, yelling back and forth, making jokes that were increasingly off-color. The noise was deafening. The tables were overflowing with beer bottles. One group was playing a loud game of foosball, and the sound of clanging metal rose above the general din like the rifle shots of a sharpshooter in the middle of a battle waged with swords and knives. It was clear that our presence had raised expectations that had little or nothing to do with the match. The glances, some more discreet than others, converged on Ingeborg and Hanna, who, in contrast to those around them, looked like two storybook princesses, Ingeborg especially.

Charly was in heaven. This was clearly his kind of place. He liked the shouting, the vulgar jokes, the air filled with smoke and nauseating smells; and if he could watch our selection play, all the better. But nothing is perfect. Just as we were being served sangria for four, we discovered that the team was East German. Charly took it hard, and from that moment on his mood grew unpredictable. To begin with, he wanted to leave right away. Later I would find out how exaggerated and absurd his fears really were. Among them was the following: that the Spaniards would mistake us for East Germans.

In the end we decided to leave as soon as we were done with the sangria. Naturally, we paid no attention to the match, busy as we were drinking and laughing. It was at this point that the Wolf and the Lamb sat down at our table.

How it happened, I can’t say. With no explanation, they simply sat down with us and started to talk. They knew a few words of English, insufficient by any measure, though they made up for any language deficiencies with their great skills as mimes. At first the conversation covered all the usual topics (work, the weather, wages, etc.) and I acted as interpreter. They were, I gathered, amateur local tour guides, but that was surely a joke. Then, as the night wore on and everyone felt more at ease, my expertise was required only at difficult moments. Alcohol works miracles, it’s true.

We all left the Andalusia Lodge in Charly’s car, heading for a club on the edge of town, near the Barcelona highway. The prices were quite a bit lower than in the tourist zone, the clubgoers were almost all people like our new friends, and the atmosphere was festive, lending itself to camaraderie, though with a hint of something dark and murky, a quality particular to Spain that, paradoxically, inspires no misgivings. As always, Charly was quick to get drunk. How, I don’t know, but at some point during the night we learned that the East German selection had lost two to zero. I remember it as something strange, because I have no interest in soccer and yet I experienced the announcement of the results as a turning point, as if from that moment on all the clamor of the club might turn into something else entirely, a horror show.

We left at four in the morning. One of the Spaniards was driving because Charly, in the backseat, puked the whole way, his head out the window. Frankly, he was in terrible shape. When we got to the hotel he took me aside and started to cry. Ingeborg, Hanna, and the two Spaniards watched curiously, though I motioned for them to go away. Between hiccups, Charly confessed that he was afraid of dying; it was almost impossible to understand what he was saying, though it was clear that his fears were unjustified. Then, without transition, he was laughing and boxing with the Lamb. The Lamb, who was quite a bit shorter and thinner, just dodged him, but Charly was too drunk and he lost his balance or fell on purpose. As we were picking him up one of the Spaniards suggested that we get coffee at the Andalusia Lodge.

The terrace of the bar, seen from the Paseo Marítimo, had the aura of a den of thieves, the hazy air of a bar asleep in the morning damp and fog. The Wolf explained that although it looked closed, the owner was usually inside watching movies on his new video player until dawn. We decided to give it a try. After a moment a man with a flushed face and a week’s growth of beard opened the door.

It was the Wolf himself who made our coffee. At the tables, with their backs to us, were just two people watching TV, the owner and another man, sitting separately. It took me a moment to recognize the other man. I might have been a little drunk myself. Anyway, I took my coffee and sat down at his table. I had just enough time to exchange a few commonplaces (suddenly I felt awkward and nervous) before the others joined us. The Wolf and the Lamb knew him, of course. They introduced us formally.

“Ingeborg, Hanna, Charly, and Udo here, friends from Germany.”

“And this is our mate El Quemado.”

I translated for Hanna. The Burn Victim.

“How can they call him El Quemado?” she asked.

“Because that’s what he is. And anyway, that’s not the only thing they call him. You can call him Muscles; either name suits him.”

“I think it’s very bad manners,” said Ingeborg.

Charly, who was slurring his words, said:

“Or an excess of honesty. They simply face the truth head-on. That’s how it was in wartime, soldiers called things by their names, without frills, and it wasn’t disrespect, or bad manners, though, of course—”

“It’s horrible,” Ingeborg interrupted, giving me a disgusted look.

The Wolf and the Lamb hardly noticed our exchange, busy as they were explaining to Hanna that a glass of cognac could hardly make Charly any drunker. Hanna, sitting between them, seemed extremely animated one moment and despairing the next, ready to go running out, though I don’t think she really felt much like going back to the hotel. At least not with Charly, who had reached the point at which all he could do was mumble incoherently. Only El Quemado was sober, and he looked at us as if he understood German. Ingeborg noticed it too and got nervous, which is typical. She can’t stand it when people’s feelings are hurt. But really, how could he have been hurt by what we said?