Роберто Боланьо - The Spirit of Science Fiction

When he opened the door for us, it was starting to rain. I suppose you’ve noticed that this godforsaken city is hopping lately, hey, boys? Yes, said José Arco, we’ve noticed. Why is that? the old man whispered to himself.

In the next few days, I couldn’t tag along with José Arco on his adventures, so when he turned up on our roof, Jan and I begged him to tell us what he’d discovered so far. Our friend’s story was disappointing, but not without a hint of mystery. It went like this: A poet, promoter of the journal The Flying North (included, as it happens, in Dr. Ireneo Carvajal’s report), and employee of Conasupo, where he occupied some obscure post—doorman, office boy, or typist, I can’t remember—had so far been his only source of information. From this poet, he learned that the Weekly was hardly ever distributed among the administrative staff but that it could be found on any counter of the chain of cheap Conasupo supermarkets around Mexico City. Though “any counter” was an exaggeration, as my friend soon realized: there were supermarkets where the Weekly had never been seen and others where the employees, after digging through piles of papers, managed to retrieve five- or six-month-old issues. In total, José Arco collected four Cultural Weekly s , counting the one he already had when he began the search. The poet from The Flying North thought that the publisher and editor of the Weekly was someone from the cultural department, and, unfortunately for us, he didn’t know anyone there. Given the quality of the print job and the paper, it seemed evident that the Weekly was well funded. There was no point discussing why it was distributed in supermarkets; the way things were done at the hypothetical cultural department must be the same way things were done at offices everywhere. Here José Arco’s friend insisted on the possible nonexistence of the department in question. So it was fruitless to seek explanations. The conversation ended with an invitation for us to send unpublished work to The Flying North. Then José Arco, on his Honda, made the rounds of ten or fifteen cheap supermarkets, and, in the end, not sure exactly why he was wasting his time, he found himself in possession of four Weekly s. Leaving aside the one we’d read already, the remaining three were devoted to (1) urban corridos; (2) poetesses (Mexican or foreign) in Mexico City (including an incredible number of women whose names, not to mention whose work, we had never heard of); and (3) graffiti in Mexico City—invisible art or decadent art? And that was all, for now. José Arco believed that somehow—he would come up with a way soon—he would meet the author or authors of the Weekly, whose articles, it goes without saying, were always published anonymously. What kind of person could it be? A true avant-gardist, a CIA agent—whatever, stranger things had been seen at Conasupo. And naturally he was still trying to land an interview with Dr. Carvajal.

“Maybe they’re the same person,” I suggested.

“Possibly, but I doubt it.”

“What I’d like to know is how you got the first Weekly, the one about the poetry workshops, though actually the issues with the poetesses and the graffiti are the best,” said Jan.

“It’s a funny thing,” said José Arco. “I got it from Estrellita. You’ll have to meet her soon.”

“Estrellita?”

“The spirit of La Habana,” said José Arco.

Dear Robert Silverberg:

Are you on the North American Committee of Science Fiction Writers in Support of the Third World’s Neediest Cases? If not, here’s my suggestion: join up, affiliate yourself, form subcommittees in San Diego, Los Angeles, Seattle, Oakland, at universities where you’re booked as a speaker, at bars in three-star hotels. If your body still has the energy that you’ve poured into your work, become part of the committee and rev it up. Pretend that this is your blind twin sister speaking to you, and trust me. I see you as capable, you and a few others, of gazing into the liquid eyes of the essence of the committee and not running away howling like a madman. And as your blind twin, I say to you: onward, Robert, prove not only that after a long (very long) journey you’ve learned to write like the common man; prove that the North American Committee of Science Fiction Writers in Support of the Third World’s Neediest Cases can count on your help. Donald Wollheim would have joined. Who knows, maybe even Professor Sagan, in his worst nightmares. (On second thought, not Donald Wollheim.) But it’s your turn now, and you can bring along your writer friends, brighten the day of the secretary-general, who sits alone and bored in a dreary little room in San Francisco. Call him on the phone, let the black phone ring and the trembling hand lift the receiver. Is Harlan Ellison on the case? Is Philip José Farmer on the case, or is he masturbating up on the roof? Go to work for the committee before the spiral stairs vanish—first in sleep and then into nothingness—on their way up to the best roofs. Empty room, dirty windows, frayed rugs, a glass of whiskey on the table, a clock, a rumpled cushion—none of this does any good. The scene, my dear Robert, is this: dog-colored dawn, spaceships appear over the mountains on the horizon, Chile goes down along with the rest of Latin America, we become fugitives, you become killers. And the image isn’t a still, it isn’t “forever,” it isn’t some stiff heroic dream; it’s moving—in multiple directions!—and those who tangle tomorrow as fugitives and killers might the day after tomorrow shove their faces together into the void, yes? Parts of what you’ve written, I’ve enjoyed so much…. I’d really like it if we could manage to stay alive and meet…. Cross the line… No barriers… And pretend that we believe that the committee’s Eye of Stone is one of Pepito Farmer’s jokes… Wonderful! All my love!

Amid the gunfire and confusion, Lejeune makes his escape with a colonel and a Parisian recruit. What’s your opinion of all this, Colonel? Lejeune asks as he runs. The colonel won’t or can’t answer, so our lieutenant addresses the same question to the Paris recruit. A fucking mess. It’s all the officers’ fault—they screwed us, says the recruit. Shut up and run, orders the colonel. At last the three of them stop on a ridge, watching as the tanks go by and a column of prisoners forms in the German rear guard. The colonel, exhausted, gets out a cigarette, lights it, inhales a few times, and finally points the smoldering tip at the recruit: you should be ashamed of what you just said. I swear I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination and disrespect. The recruit shrugs. I swear it, says the colonel, I’ll have our own soldiers shoot you, or the Germans, I don’t care. What’s your opinion of all this, and what are you going to do? Lejeune asks the recruit. The latter considers for a few seconds, then turns, points his gun at the colonel’s chest, and fires. Lejeune poses the first part of the question again. The recruit says he has no idea, that this won’t be over anytime soon. The colonel’s body twitches on the dark grass. Lejeune leans over and asks what he believes is the best defense against the enemy. Order, says the colonel, ashen-faced. Then he says, my God, my God, and dies. The column of prisoners begins to move. The recruit empties the colonel’s pockets, taking his cigarettes, his money, and his watch, and heads down the ridge to join the prisoners. Lejeune sits on the ground. Next to the dead man’s body is a photograph of a woman, with ‘Monique and the breeze. St. Cyr’ written on the back. He stares at the woman for a long time. She’s young and pretty. When he has looked for long enough, he lies down on his back and stares up at the stars that swell in the vault of the heavens. At this point the academy caretaker remembers that Huachofeo describes a similar scene in his Paradoxical History of Latin America. ”