Roberto Bolaño - The Savage Detectives

And when I was finally able to get away from all those annoying bastards it was already after midnight and the next day I had to herd everyone back to Mexico City and the truth is that I suddenly felt tired, kind of queasy, almost sick but not quite, so I decided to have a nightcap at the hotel bar, where they served more or less decent drinks, not like at other places in Managua where the stuff was pure poison, I don't know what the Sandinistas are waiting for to do something about it. And at the hotel bar I ran into Don Pancracio Montesol, who had come with the Mexican delegation even though he was Guatemalan, among other things because there was no Guatemalan delegation and because he'd been living in Mexico for at least thirty years. And Don Pancracio saw me hitting the bottle and at first he didn't say anything, but then he leaned over and said Montero, my boy, you look a little worried tonight, is it girl trouble? So he said, more or less. And I said if only, Don Pancracio, I'm just tired, a lame answer no matter how you look at it, since it's much better to be tired than to be pining away for some girl, but that was what I said, and Don Pancracio must have noticed that something was wrong because I'm usually a little less incoherent, so he leaped from his stool-I was shocked by how nimble he was-and crossed the space between us, settling himself on the stool beside me with a graceful hop. What's wrong, then? he said. I've lost a member of the delegation, I answered. Don Pancracio looked at me like I was dense and then ordered a double scotch. For a while the two of us sat there in silence, drinking and looking out the windows at the dark space that was the city of Managua, the perfect city to lose yourself in, literally, I mean, a city that only its mailmen could find their way around, and where in fact the Mexican delegation had gotten lost more than once, I can vouch for that. For the first time in a long time, I think, I started to feel comfortable. A few minutes later a kid showed up, a really skinny kid who headed straight for Don Pancracio to ask for his autograph. He had one of Don Pancracio's books with him, published by Mortiz, worn and dogeared. I heard him stammering and then he left. In a kind of sepulchral voice Don Pancracio mentioned his host of admirers. Then his small legion of plagiarizers. And finally his basketball-team's-worth of critics. And he also mentioned Giacomo Moreno-Rizzo, the Mexican-Venetian, who obviously wasn't part of our delegation, although when Don Pancracio said his name, I got the idea, idiot that I am, that Moreno-Rizzo was there, that he had just come into the bar, which was entirely unlikely since our delegation, despite all its faults, was solidly leftist, and Moreno-Rizzo, as everybody knows, is one of Paz's hangers-on. And Don Pancracio mentioned, or alluded to, Moreno-Rizzo's dogged efforts to surreptitiously imitate him, Don Pancracio. But Moreno-Rizzo couldn't help sounding prim and thuggish at the same time, typical of Europeans stranded in America, forced to make superficial gestures of bravado in order to survive in a hostile environment, whereas Don Pancracio's prose, my prose, said Don Pancracio, was the prose of a legitimate descendant of Reyes, if he did say so himself, natural foe of Moreno-Rizzo's brand of chilly fakery. Then Don Pancracio said: so which Mexican writer are you missing? His voice startled me. Someone called Ulises Lima, I said, feeling my skin erupt in goose bumps. Ah, said Don Pancracio. And how long has he been missing? I have no idea, I confessed, maybe since the first day. Don Pancracio was silent again. Signaling to the bartender, he ordered another scotch. After all, the Ministry of Education was paying. No, not since the first day, said Don Pancracio, who's the quiet type but very observant. I passed him in the hotel on the first day of our stay, and the second day too, so he hadn't left by then, although it's true I don't remember seeing him anywhere else. Is he a poet? Of course, he must be, he said without waiting for me to answer. And that was the last time you saw him, on the second day? I said. The second night, said Don Pancracio. Yes, that was the last time. And now what do I do? I said. Stop moping, said Don Pancracio, all poets get lost at some point or another. Just report his disappearance to the police. The Sandinista police, he specified. But I didn't have the balls to call the police. Sandinista or Somozan, the police is always the police, and whether it was the alcohol or the night outside the windows, I didn't have the guts to rat Ulises out like that.

It was a decision I'd later regret, since the next morning, before we left for the airport, Álamo came up with the idea of gathering the whole delegation in the hotel lobby, supposedly for a final rundown of our stay in Managua but really to raise a last glass in the sun. And when all of us had left no doubt about our undying solidarity with the Nicaraguan people and were on our way to our rooms to pick up our suitcases, Álamo, together with one of the peasant poets, came over and asked if Ulises Lima had ever shown up. I had no choice but to tell him that he hadn't, unless Ulises was in his room at that very moment, asleep. Let's settle this right now, said Álamo, and he got in the elevator, followed by the peasant poet and me. In Ulises Lima's room we found the poet Aurelio Pradera, an elegant stylist, who confessed what I already knew, which was that Ulises had been there for the first two days but then vanished. And why didn't you tell Hugo? bellowed Álamo. The explanations that followed weren't very clear. Álamo tore at his hair. Aurelio Pradera said that he didn't understand why he was being blamed when he'd had to endure a whole night of Ulises talking in his sleep, which in his opinion was just as bad. The peasant poet sat on the bed where the cause of the commotion should supposedly have slept and started to flip through a literary magazine. A little later I realized that another of the peasant poets had graced us with his presence and that behind him, on the threshold, was Don Pancracio Montesol, mute spectator of the drama unfolding within the four walls of Room 405. Of course, as I at once realized, I'd been relieved of the duties of managing director of the Mexican delegation. In the emergency this role fell to Julio Labarca, the Marxist theoretician of the peasant poets, who took charge of the situation with a vigor that I was far from feeling myself.

His first decision was to call the police, then he convened an emergency meeting of what he called the "thinking minds" of the delegation, in other words, the writers who every so often wrote opinion pieces, essays, or reviews of political books (the "creative minds" were the poets or the fiction writers like Don Pancracio, and there was also the category of "hotheads," the novices and beginners like Aurelio Pradera and maybe Ulises Lima himself, and the "thinking-creative minds," the crème de la crème, consisting of just two peasant poets, Labarca first among them), and after a brisk, forthright evaluation of the new situation fostered or created by the incident, and of the incident itself, they came to the conclusion that the best thing for the delegation would be to stick to the original schedule, or in other words to depart without delay that very day and leave the Lima affair in the hands of the proper authorities.

Truly extraordinary things were said about the political repercussions that the disappearance of a Mexican poet in Nicaragua might entail, but then, keeping in mind that very few people knew Ulises Lima and that of the few people who did, half weren't speaking to him, the level of alarm dropped several degrees. Somebody even raised the possibility that his disappearance might pass unnoticed.

After a while the police showed up and Álamo, Labarca, and I spent some time talking to one of them who called himself an inspector and whom Labarca immediately began to address as "comrade," "comrade" this and "comrade" that, but for a policeman he was actually nice and sympathetic, although he didn't tell us anything that we hadn't already thought of ourselves. He asked us about the habits of the "comrade writer." Of course, we told him that we weren't familiar with Ulises's habits. He wanted to know whether Ulises had any "peculiarity" or "weakness." Álamo said that one never knew, the profession was as diverse as humanity itself, and humanity, as we well knew, was a conglomeration of weaknesses. Seconding Álamo (in his own way), Labarca said that Ulises might be a degenerate and he might not. Degenerate in what sense? the Sandinista inspector wanted to know. That I can't say for sure, said Labarca. To be honest, I don't know him. I didn't even see him on the plane. He was on the same plane we were on, wasn't he? Of course, Julio, said Álamo. And then Álamo passed the ball to me: you know him, Montero (the quantity of suppressed rage in those words!), tell us what he's like. I immediately washed my hands of it all. I told the whole story again, from beginning to end, to the manifest boredom of Álamo and Labarca and the sincere interest of the inspector. When I was done he said ah, the lives you writers lead. Then he wanted to know why there'd been writers who hadn't wanted to travel to Managua. For personal reasons, said Labarca. Not because they were hostile to our revolution? How can you think such a thing, certainly not, said Labarca. Which writers didn't want to come? said the inspector. Álamo and Labarca looked at each other, then at me. I opened my big mouth and told him the names. Well, what do you know, said Labarca, so Marco Antonio was invited too? Yes, said Álamo, I thought it was a good idea. And why wasn't I consulted? said Labarca. I mentioned it to Emilio and he said it was all right, said Álamo, annoyed at Labarca for questioning his authority in front of me. So this Marco Antonio, who is he? said the inspector. A poet, said Álamo, flatly. But what kind of poet? the inspector wanted to know. A surrealist poet, said Álamo. A surrealist and a PRI-ist, specified Labarca. A lyric poet, I said. The inspector nodded his head several times, as if to say I see, although it was clear to us that he didn't understand shit. And this lyric poet didn't want to show his support for the Sandinista revolution? Well, said Labarca, that's a strong way to put it. He couldn't make it, I guess, said Álamo. Although you know Marco Antonio, said Labarca, and he laughed for the first time. Álamo took out his pack of Delicados and offered it around. Labarca and I each took one, but the inspector waved them away and lit a Cuban cigarette. These are stronger, he said with a clear hint of irony. It was as if he were saying: we revolutionaries smoke strong tobacco, real men smoke strong tobacco, those of us with a stake in objective reality smoke real tobacco. Stronger than a Delicados? said Labarca. Black tobacco, comrades, genuine tobacco. Álamo laughed under his breath and said: it's hard to believe we've lost a poet, but what he really meant was: what do you know about tobacco, you stupid son of a bitch? You can kiss my ass with your Cuban tobacco, said Labarca almost without batting an eye. What did you say, comrade? said the inspector. That I don't give a shit about Cuban tobacco. Where Delicados are lit, let the rest be put out. Álamo laughed again and the inspector seemed to hesitate between turning pale with rage and looking confused. I assume, comrade, that you mean what I think you mean, he said. That's right, I do, you heard me. No one turns his nose up at a Delicados, said Labarca. Oh, Julio's a bad boy, murmured Álamo, looking at me to hide his barely suppressed laughter from the inspector. And on what grounds do you say that? said the inspector, wreathed in a cloud of smoke. I could see that things were taking a new tone. Labarca raised a hand and waved it back and forth a few inches from the inspector's nose, as if he were slapping him. Don't blow smoke in my face, man, he said, do you mind? This time the inspector definitely turned pale, as if the strong scent of his own tobacco had made him sick. For fuck's sake, show a little respect, comrade, you almost hit me in the nose. If you call that a nose, said Labarca to Álamo, unruffled. If you can't tell the smell of a Delicados from a bundle of vulgar Cuban weed then your nose is failing you, comrade, which hardly matters in and of itself, but in the case of a smoker or a policeman is worrisome, to say the least. A Delicados, you see, Julio, is blond tobacco, said Álamo, overcome by laughter. And the paper is sweet too, said Labarca, which is something you only find in parts of China. And in Mexico, Julio, said Álamo. And in Mexico, of course, said Labarca. The inspector gave them a look of pure hatred, then abruptly put out his cigarette and said in an altered voice that he would have to file a missing person report and that such a procedure could only be carried out at the police station. He seemed ready to arrest us all. Well, what are we waiting for, said Labarca, let's go to the station, comrade. Montero, he said to me on his way out, give the minister of culture a call for me. Okay, Julio, I said. The inspector seemed to hesitate for a few seconds. Labarca and Álamo were in the lobby. The inspector looked at me as if asking for advice. I mimed handcuffed wrists, but he didn't get it. Before he left, he said: they'll be back in less than ten minutes. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. After a while Don Pancracio Montesol showed up, wearing a spotless white guayabera and carrying a plastic bag from the Gigante supermarket in Colonia Chapultepec, full of books. Are matters on the way to being resolved, Montero, my boy? My dear friend Don Pancracio, I said, matters are exactly where they were last night and the night before last. We've lost poor Ulises Lima, and like it or not, it's my fault for having dragged him here.