Роберто Боланьо - The Spirit of Science Fiction

What did I think about then? I thought about food, about Jan on the roof, about the Mexican buses that ply their routes through the night, about Boris, about me sitting sadly in this creepy little room. But I didn’t budge, and it was a good thing I didn’t. Because suddenly the door opened and a stranger in grease-stained jeans and black leather boots joined the group, saying hello and standing there, his back to me, as the poets shifted uneasily in their chairs and Jeremías said good evening, José, outwardly deferential, though wishing terrible misfortune on him with eyes and eyebrows. His very black hair fell past his shoulders, and he had a book crammed in the back pocket of his pants like the reactor on a ship. I knew he was a kamikaze. But I also knew that he could be many other things, among them a voyager through the writing workshops springing up around the city, though in them he would clearly be out of place. He was oblivious of the mocking looks that the poets exchanged, possibly amused when everyone hurried to make room for him (between a pensive literature student and me), unruffled when asked whether something had happened to him, whether he’d brought poems, whether he’d been out of town, whether he’d read the latest book by.

He smiled and said no, he hadn’t been away, hadn’t been in an accident, hadn’t brought in anything written—much less in triplicate—but not to worry, he had a good memory.

“I’m going to recite something for you. It’s a poem I’m calling ‘Eros and Thanatos.’”

Then he lay back in his chair, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and began to speak.

The caretaker of the academy is an energetic man. He sleeps on the second floor of the academy, and he takes his lunch at a house in town. Whenever he leaves the grain shed, it’s on the BMX. At night, he makes something to eat on the camp stove while broadcasting folk music over the radio. When he’s done eating, he makes a cup of tea and smokes a cigarette. Only then does he sit down in front of the microphone. His live broadcast isn’t very interesting. Lectures on how to double or triple potato crops, how to cook potatoes one hundred ways, how to make potato soup or potato jam, how to store potatoes for five years or even ten, et cetera. His voice is calm, relaxed: he speaks coolly but in the confidence-inspiring tone of a man of reason. I don’t know how many people listen to him. It can’t be more than a few. There are no listener surveys in the region. But anyone who listens carefully will realize, sooner or later, that his voice isn’t just detached or lazy but unmistakably icy. When the program is over, he smokes another cigarette and records his observations of the day in a kind of log. Then he starts the tape recorder. The tape spins silently, and the man falls asleep in his chair or pretends to be asleep.”

“Are the tapes playing or recording?”

“I don’t know. The man, I should say, pretends to sleep, but he’s actually listening to sounds. The grain shed creaks endlessly all night long, each gust of wind is answered by a particular faint moan of timbers, and the man’s ear is tuned to the wind and the sounds of the grain shed. Until he gets bored. Sometimes he dreams about Boris.”

“So he doesn’t listen all night long?”

“No. He gets bored and goes to sleep. The tape rolls on, of course. When the caretaker wakes up around eight, he turns it off and rewinds. Really, there’s nothing fun about life at the Academy. The scenery is nice and the air is healthy, but it’s not a fun life, no matter how the caretaker tries to fill his hours with petty pursuits. Among these occupations, let’s single out three: the nightly didactic potato lectures, the silent tape recorder, and the ham radio set. This last activity is even more fruitless than the rest, if possible. Basically, the caretaker searches the airwaves for a message that never comes. But, oh, his patience is infinite, and every day, once every eight hours, he issues his call: ‘HWK, do you receive me? HWK, do you receive me? Academy here, HWK, academy here, academy here…’”

“And no one answers.”

“No. The man searches, but no one answers. Very occasionally, he picks up distant voices, maybe other ham radio operators, stray words, but mostly all he hears is the buzz of static. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

“Well…”

“It’s a riot. The poor caretaker has a heavy Chilean accent. Imagine him talking to himself in his high voice: ‘HWK, do you receive me? HWK, do you receive me?’ Ha-ha-ha… Straight-faced…”

Dear Forrest J Ackerman:

I’d been asleep for only half an hour when Thea von Harbou appeared. I opened my eyes and said I’m freezing, I never thought I’d be cold in this part of the world. (Somewhere there was a blanket, but it wasn’t within arm’s reach.) She was standing by the door, next to a poster that Remo brought home a little while ago. I closed my eyes and said to her: tell me where I am, really. Through the window came narrow beams of light, the reflection of distant buildings or maybe the Tecate sign turning on and off all night. Am I alone? I asked, and she smiled without moving from the door, her huge, deep eyes fixed on the corner where I was trying to stop shivering. This went on for a while, I don’t know how long. At some point, I remembered something, and I started to cry. Then I looked her in the face, and I said you see, I’m crying it’s so cold. Where the hell is my blanket? I was so very sad, and I was whimpering. I don’t know what I wanted her to do: open the door and go back to her cloud or come and wipe away my tears. I smiled at her. Her cheekbones gleamed, and she looked like a pillar of salt. Thea von Harbou, I said, tell me where I am, really. Has the war begun yet? Are we all cracked? She didn’t answer, but it didn’t last long. I looked at Remo’s alarm clock: it was three in the morning. (My eye was reflected in the face of the clock.) At three-ten, I woke up and made myself a cup of tea. Now it’s four, and I’m waiting for the sun to rise, writing you this letter. I’ve never read anything by you, Mr. Ackerman, except that horrible preface in which some evil editor calls you Mr. Science Fiction. Maybe you’re dead, too, and at Ace Books, where I’m writing to you, no one even remembers you. But since I’m guessing you still love Thea von Harbou, I’m writing you these lines. What was she like in my dream? She was blond. She had big eyes, and she was wearing a WWI lamé dress. Her skin was luminous, I don’t know, it hurt me. In the dream, I imagined it was skin beyond repair. Honestly, it was hard to stop looking at her.

Before we move on to more important matters, I should talk to you about Dr. Huachofeo. He isn’t an important figure, but he is indispensable. And ornamental. He’s like the coat of paint on a crossbeam. I don’t know if you follow me. A ray of light, a pocket-size Joselito for our pains…”

“Is that a tear in your eye? Young as you are, you remember Joselito, too?”

“Yes, but never mind that. Instead you should ask me what was in the academy file cabinets.”

“Go on, then, tell me.”

“The cabinets were full of the potato lectures that the caretaker broadcast over the radio or delivered personally when there were still students who came to the grain shed. None of the papers had dates. There were no names. Just the courses taught, filed by trimester, several three-year cycles’ worth of them. To judge by the papers, the old caretaker was responsible for the education of several classes of experts on the potato as staple.”

“I hate potatoes. They’re fattening.”