Roberto Bolaño - The Savage Detectives

The next day the teacher came back alone and saw her again. Cesárea was standing up and she looked much bigger than the teacher remembered. She must have weighed three hundred pounds and she was wearing an ankle-length gray skirt that accentuated her fatness. Her naked arms were like logs. Her neck had disappeared behind a giant's double chin, but her head was still Cesárea Tinajero's noble head: big, with prominent bones, her skull arched and her forehead wide and smooth. This time the teacher went up to her and said good morning. Cesárea looked at her and didn't recognize her, or pretended not to. It's me, said the teacher, your friend Flora Castañeda. When she heard the name, Cesárea frowned and got up. She moved around the plank of herbs and came up close to the teacher as if she couldn't see her well from a distance. She put her hands (two claws, according to the teacher) on her shoulders and for a few seconds she scrutinized her face. Oh, Cesárea, what a terrible memory you have, said the teacher, to say something. Only then did Cesárea smile (foolishly, according to the teacher) and say of course, how could she forget her. Then they talked for a while, the two of them sitting behind the table, the teacher on a wooden folding chair and Cesárea on a box, as if the two of them were tending the little herb stall together. And although the teacher realized immediately that they had very little to say to each other, she told Cesárea that she had three children now and that she was still working at the school, and remarked on thoroughly unimportant things that had happened in Santa Teresa. And then she thought about asking Cesárea whether she had married and had children, but she couldn't formulate the question because she could see for herself that Cesárea hadn't married and didn't have children, so she just asked her where she lived, and Cesárea said sometimes in Villaviciosa and other times in El Palito. The teacher knew where Villaviciosa was, although she'd never been there, but it was the first time she'd heard of El Palito. She asked her where the town was and Cesárea said that it was in Arizona. Then the teacher laughed. She said she had always suspected that Cesárea would end up living in the United States. And that was all. They parted. The next day the teacher didn't go to the market and she spent her idle hours wondering whether it would be a good idea to invite Cesárea over for lunch. She discussed it with her husband, they fought, she won. The next day, first thing, she went back to the market, but when she got there Cesárea's stall was occupied by a woman selling kerchiefs. She never saw her again.

Belano asked her whether she thought Cesárea was dead. Possibly, said the teacher.

And that was all. Belano and Lima were pensive for hours after the interview. We got rooms at the Hotel Juárez. At dusk the four of us met in Lima and Belano's room and talked about what to do. According to Belano, first we should go to Villaviciosa, then we could decide whether we wanted to go back to Mexico City or on to El Palito. The problem with El Palito was that he couldn't enter the United States. Why not? asked Lupe. Because I'm Chilean, he said. They won't let me in either, said Lupe, and I'm not Chilean. And García Madero won't get in either. Why not me? I said. Does anyone have a passport? said Lupe. No one did, except for Belano. That night Lupe went to the movies. When she got back to the hotel she said that she wasn't going back to Mexico City. So what will you do? said Belano. Live in Sonora or cross over into the United States.

Last night they found us. Lupe and I were in our room, fucking, when the door opened and Ulises Lima came in. Get dressed fast, he said, Alberto is in the lobby talking to Arturo. We did as he ordered without saying a word. We put our things in plastic bags and went down to the first floor, trying not to make a sound. We went out the back door. The alley was dark. Let's get the car, said Lima. There wasn't a soul on Avenida Juárez. We walked three blocks from the hotel, to the place where the Impala was parked. Lima was afraid that there would be someone there, but the spot was deserted and we started the car. We passed the Hotel Juárez. Part of the lobby and the lit-up window of the hotel bar were visible from the street. There was Belano, and across from him was Alberto. We didn't see Alberto's policeman friend anywhere. Belano didn't see us either and Lima thought it wasn't a good idea to honk the horn. We drove around the block. The sidekick, Lupe said, had probably gone up to our rooms. Lima shook his head. A yellow light was falling on Belano and Alberto's heads. Belano was talking, but it might just as well have been Alberto. They didn't seem angry. When we drove by again, they'd each lit a cigarette. They were drinking beer and smoking. They looked like friends. Belano was talking: he moved his left hand as if he was tracing a castle or the silhouette of a woman. Alberto never took his eyes off him and sometimes he smiled. Honk the horn, I said. We drove around the block once more. When the Hotel Juárez appeared again, Belano looked out the window and Alberto lifted a can of Tecate to his lips. A man and a woman were arguing at the main entrance to the hotel. Alberto's policeman friend was watching them, leaning on the hood of a car some thirty feet away. Lima honked the horn three times and slowed down. Belano had already seen us. He turned around, got up close to Alberto, and said something. Alberto grabbed him by the shirt. Belano pushed him and went running. By the time he reached the hotel door the cop was heading toward him and reaching into his jacket. Lima honked the horn three more times and stopped the Impala sixty feet from the Hotel Juárez. The policeman pulled out a gun and Belano kept running. Lupe opened the car door. Alberto appeared on the sidewalk outside the hotel with a gun in his hand. I had been hoping he was carrying the knife. As Belano got into the car, Lima took off and we sped away along the dimly lit streets of Santa Teresa. Somehow we ended up heading in the direction of Villaviciosa, which we thought was a good sign. By around three in the morning we were completely lost. We got out of the car to stretch our legs. There wasn't a single light anywhere. I'd never seen so many stars in the sky.

We slept in the Impala. We woke up at eight the next morning, freezing cold. We've been driving and driving around the desert without coming to a town or even a miserable ranch. Sometimes we get lost in the bare hills. Sometimes the road runs between crags and ravines and then we drop down to the desert again. The imperial troops were here in 1865 and 1866. Just the mention of Maximilian's army can crack us up. Belano and Lima, who already knew something about the history of Sonora before they came here, say there was a Belgian colonel who tried to capture Santa Teresa. A Belgian at the head of a Belgian regiment. It cracks us up. A Belgian-Mexican regiment. Of course, they got lost, although the Santa Teresa historians prefer to think they were defeated by the town's militia. Hilarious. There's also a record of a skirmish in Villaviciosa, possibly between the Belgian rearguard and the villagers. It's a story that Lima and Belano know well. They talk about Rimbaud. If only we'd followed our instincts, they say. Hilarious.

At six in the evening we come upon a house by the side of the road. They give us tortillas and beans, for which we pay a hefty sum, and fresh water that we drink straight from a gourd. Without moving, the peasants watch us while we eat. Where is Villaviciosa? On the other side of those hills, they tell us.

We've found Cesárea Tinajero. In turn, Alberto and the policeman found us. Everything was much simpler than I ever imagined it would be, but I never imagined anything like this. The town of Villaviciosa is a ghost town. The northern Mexican town of lost assassins, the closest thing to Aztlán, said Lima. I don't know. It's more like a town of the tired or the bored.