The Return

by Roberto Bolaño

  “We’re almost there.”

  “And then I had this idea. I said to him: Listen, I’m going to look in the mirror, and when I look at myself, you’re going to look at me then you’re going to look at my reflection, and you’re going to realize it’s the same, the problem is this filthy mirror and this filthy station and the bad lighting in this corridor. And he didn’t say anything, but I took that as a yes—he could have objected—and I came up to the mirror and leaned forward with my eyes shut.”

  “You can see the lights already, compadre, we’re just about there, take it easy.”

  “Are you playing deaf, or what? Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Of course I heard you. You had your eyes shut.”

  “I stood in front of the mirror with my eyes shut. And then I opened them. Maybe that’s normal for you: standing in front of a mirror with your eyes shut.”

  “Nothing seems normal to me any more, compadre.”

  “Then I opened them, suddenly, I opened my eyes right up and looked at myself and saw someone staring back at me wide-eyed, like he was scared shitless, and behind him I saw a guy about twenty years old, but he looked at least ten years older, a skinny guy with a beard and bags under his eyes, looking at us over my shoulder, and to tell the truth, I couldn’t be sure, I saw a swarm of faces, as if the mirror was broken, though I knew perfectly well it wasn’t, and then Belano said, very softly, it was barely more than a whisper, he said: Hey, Contreras, is there some kind of room behind that wall?”

  “The fuckhead! He’d seen too many movies!”

  “And when I heard his voice it was like I woke up, but in reverse, and instead of coming back to this side, I’d come out on the other side, where even my own voice sounded strange. No, I said, as far as I know, behind it there’s just the yard. The yard where the cells are? he asked me. Yes, I said, where the regular prisoners are. And then the son of a bitch said: Now I understand. And that completely flummoxed me, because, I mean, what was there to understand? And I said the first thing that came into my head: What the flying fuck do you understand now? But I said it softly, without raising my voice, so softly he didn’t hear me, and I didn’t have the strength to repeat the question. So I looked in the mirror again and saw two old classmates, a twenty-year-old cop with a loose tie, and a dirty-looking guy with long hair and a beard, all skin and bone, and I thought: Jesus, we really have fucked up, haven’t we, Contreras. Then I put my hands on Belano’s shoulders and led him back to the gym. When we came to the door a thought crossed my mind: I could take out my gun and shoot him right here; it would have been so easy, all I had to do was aim and put a bullet through his head, I’ve always been a good shot, even in the dark. Then I could have come up with any old explanation. But of course I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course you didn’t. We don’t do that sort of thing, compadre.”

  “No, we don’t do that sort of thing.”

  Cell Mates

  We happened to be in prison in the same month of the same year, although the prisons were thousands of miles apart. Sofia was born in 1950 in Bilbao. She was dark, small and very pretty. In November 1973, while I was a prisoner in Chile, she was sent to jail in Aragon.

  At the time she was getting her degree in science at the University of Zaragoza, biology or chemistry, one or the other, and she went to jail with almost all of her classmates. On the fourth or fifth night we slept together, as I was adopting a new position, she told me there was no point tiring myself out. I like variety, I said. If I fuck in the same position two nights in a row, I become impotent. Well, don’t do it for my sake, she said. The room had a very high ceiling, and the walls were painted red, the color of a desert at sunset. She had painted them herself a few days after moving in. It looked awful. I’ve made love every way there is, she said. I don’t believe you, I replied. Every way there is? That’s right, she said, and I was at a loss for words (maybe I was embarrassed) but I believed her.

  Later she told me, but this was quite a few days later, that she was losing her mind. She ate hardly anything, only instant mashed potatoes. Once I went into the kitchen and saw a plastic bag beside the refrigerator. It was a twenty-kilo bag of mashed potato flakes. Is that all you eat? I asked. She smiled and said yes—sometimes she ate other things, but mostly when she went out to a bar or a restaurant. At home it’s simpler just to have mashed potatoes, she said. That way there’s always something to eat. She didn’t put milk in it, only water, and she didn’t even wait for the water to boil. She mixed the flakes with warm water, she told me, because she hated milk. I never saw her consume any milk products; she said it was probably some kind of psychological problem that went back to her childhood, something to do with her mother. So when we were both in the apartment at night, she would have her mashed potatoes, and sometimes she would sit up late with me watching movies on TV. We hardly talked. She never argued. At the time there was a Communist living in the apartment; he was in his twenties, like us, and he and I used to get into long, pointless arguments, but she never joined in, although I knew she was more on my side than on his. One day the Communist told me Sofia was hot and he was planning to fuck her at the first opportunity. Go ahead, I said. Two or three nights later, while I was watching a Bardem movie, I heard him go out into the passage and knock discreetly on Sofia’s door. They talked for a while and then the door closed and the Communist was in there for a good two hours.

  Sofia had been married, though I didn’t find out until much later. Her husband had been a student at the University of Zaragoza too, and gone to prison with the rest of them in November 1973. When they finished their degrees they moved to Barcelona and after a while they split up. He was called Emilio and they were still good friends. Did you make love every way there is with Emilio? No, but nearly, said Sofia. She also said she was losing her mind and it was a worry, especially if she was driving. The other night it happened in Diagonal, luckily there wasn’t much traffic. Are you taking something? Valium. Lots and lots of Valium. Before we slept together, we went to the movies a couple of times. French movies, I think. One was about a woman pirate; she goes to this island where another woman pirate lives and they have a duel to the death with swords. The other one was set during World War Two; there was a guy who worked for the Germans and for the Resistance at the same time. After we started sleeping together we kept going to the movies and, strangely, I can remember the titles of the films we saw and the names of the directors, but nothing else about them. From the very first night Sofia made it perfectly clear that our relationship wasn’t going to be serious. I’m in love with someone else, she said. Our Communist comrade? No, you don’t know him; he’s a teacher, like me. She didn’t want to tell me his name just then. Sometimes she spent the night with him, but not very often, about once a fortnight. We made love every night. At first I tried to tire her out. We would start at eleven and keep going until four in the morning, but soon I realized there was no way of tiring out Sofia.

  At the time I used to hang out with anarchists and radical feminists and the books I read were more or less influenced by the company I was keeping. There was one by an Italian feminist, Carla something, called Let’s Spit on Hegel. One afternoon I lent it to Sofia. Read it, I said, I thought it was really good. (Maybe I said she would get a lot out of it.) The next day Sofia was in a very good mood; she gave me back the book and said that as science fiction it wasn’t bad, but otherwise it sucked. Only an Italian woman could have written it, she declared. What have you got agains
t Italian women? I asked. Did one abuse you when you were little or something? She said no, but if she was going to read that sort of thing, she preferred Valerie Solanas. I was surprised to learn that her favorite author was not a woman but an Englishman, David Cooper, one of R. D. Laing’s associates. I ended up reading Valerie Solanas and David Cooper and even Laing (his sonnets). One of the things that impressed me most about Cooper was that during his time in Argentina (although I’m not sure now whether Cooper was ever really in Argentina, maybe I’m getting mixed up) he used hallucinogenic drugs to treat left-wing activists. These were people who were cracking up because they knew they could die at any moment, people who might not have the experience of growing old in real life, but they could have it with the drugs, and they got better. Sofia used drugs too, sometimes. She took LSD and amphetamines and Rohypnol, pills to speed up and pills to slow down and pills to steady her hands on the steering wheel. I rarely accepted the offer of a lift in her car. We didn’t go out much, in fact. I went on with my life, she went on with hers, and at night, in her room or in mine, our bodies locked in a relentless struggle that lasted till daybreak and left us wrung out.

  One afternoon Emilio came to see her and she introduced me to him. He was tall, he had a wonderful smile, and you could tell he was fond of Sofia. His girlfriend was called Nuria; she was Catalan and worked as a high school teacher, like Emilio and Sofia. You couldn’t have imagined two women more different. Nuria was blonde, blue-eyed, tall and rather plump. Sofia had dark hair and brown eyes so dark they seemed black; she was short and slim as a marathon runner. In spite of everything they seemed to be good friends. As I found out later on, it was Emilio who had ended the marriage, although the separation had been amicable. Sometimes, when we’d been sitting there for a long time without talking, Nuria looked North American to me and Sofia looked Vietnamese. But Emilio just looked like Emilio, a chemistry or biology teacher from Aragon, who’d been an anti-Franco activist and a political prisoner, a decent sort of guy though not very interesting. One night Sofia told me about the man she was in love with. He was called Juan and he was a member of the Communist Party like our comrade. He worked in the same school as her, so they saw each other every day. He was married and had a son. So where do you do it? In my car, said Sofia, or his. We go out in our cars and follow each other through the streets of Barcelona, sometimes all the way to Tibidabo or Sant Cugat. Sometimes we just park in a dark street and he gets into my car or I get into his. Not long after she told me this, Sofia got sick and had to stay in bed. At that stage there were only three of us in the apartment: Sofia, the Communist and me. The Communist was only around at night so I had to look after Sofia and go to the pharmacy. One night she said we should go traveling. Where? I asked. Portugal, she said. I liked the idea, so one morning we set off for Portugal, hitchhiking. (I thought we would go in her car but Sofia was scared of driving.) It was a long and complicated trip. We stopped in Zaragoza, where Sofia still had her best friends, then at her sister’s place in Madrid, then in Extremadura . . .

  I got the feeling Sofia was visiting all her ex-lovers. I got the feeling she was saying goodbye to them one by one, but not in a calm or resigned sort of way. When we made love she seemed absent at first, as if it had nothing to do with her, but after a while she let herself go and ended up coming over and over. Then she started crying and I asked her why. Because I’m such an animal; even though I’m miles away, I can’t help coming. Don’t be so hard on yourself, I said, and we went on making love. Her face wet with tears was delicious to kiss. Her whole body burned and flexed like a red-hot piece of metal, but her tears were only lukewarm and, as they ran down her neck, as I spread them on her nipples, they turned ice-cold. A month later we were back in Barcelona. Sofia hardly ate a thing all day. She went back to her diet of instant mashed potatoes and decided not to leave the apartment. One night I came home and found her with a girl I didn’t know; another time it was Emilio and Nuria, who looked at me as if I were to blame for the state she was in. I felt bad but said nothing and shut myself in my room. I tried to read, but I could hear them. Shocked exclamations, reprimands, advice. Sofia didn’t say a thing. A week later she was given four months’ sick leave. The government doctor was an old friend from Zaragoza. I thought we’d be able to spend more time together, but little by little we drifted apart. Some nights she didn’t come home. I remember staying up very late, watching TV and waiting for her. Sometimes the Communist kept me company. I had nothing to do, so I set about tidying up the apartment: sweeping, mopping, dusting. The Communist was very impressed, but one day he had to go too and I was left all on my own.

  By then Sofia had become a ghost; she appeared without a sound, shut herself in her room or the bathroom and disappeared again after a few hours. One night we ran into each other on the stairs, I was going up and she was coming down, and the only thing I could think of asking was if she had a new lover. I regretted it straightaway, but it was too late. I can’t remember what she said. In the good old days, five of us had lived in that huge apartment; now it was just me and the mice. Sometimes I imagined Sofia in a prison cell in Zaragoza, back in November 1973, and me, in the southern hemisphere, locked up too, for a few decisive days, and though I realized that this fact or coincidence had to be significant, I couldn’t work out what it meant. I’ve never been any good at analogies. One night, when I came home, I found a note saying goodbye and some money on the kitchen table. At first I went on living as if Sofia was still there. I can’t remember exactly how long I waited for her. I think the electricity got cut off. After that I moved to another apartment.

  It was a long time before I saw her again. She was walking down Las Ramblas, looking lost. We stood there, the cold seeping into our bones, talking about things that meant nothing to her or to me. Walk me home, she said. She was living near El Borne, in a building that was falling down it was so old. The staircase was narrow and creaked with every step we took. We climbed up to the door of her apartment, on the top floor. To my surprise, she didn’t let me in. I should have asked her what was going on, but I left without saying anything; if that’s what she wanted, it was up to her.

  A week later I went back to her apartment. The bell wasn’t working and I had to knock several times. I thought there was no one there. Then I thought there was no one living there. Just as I was about to go, the door opened. It was Sofia. The apartment was dark and the light on the landing went off automatically after twenty seconds. At first, because of the darkness, I didn’t realize she was naked. You’re going to freeze, I said when the landing light came on again and showed her standing there, very straight, thinner than before. Her stomach and legs, which I had kissed so many times, looked terribly helpless, and instead of feeling drawn toward her, I was chilled at the sight, as if I were the one without clothes. Can I come in? Sofia shook her head. I assumed her nakedness meant that she was not alone. I said as much, and smiling stupidly, assured her that I didn’t mean to be indiscreet. I was about to go back down the stairs when she said she was alone. I stopped and looked at her, more carefully this time, trying to read her expression, but her face was indecipherable. I also looked over her shoulder. Nothing had stirred in the utter silence and darkness of the apartment, but my instinct told me that someone was hiding there, listening to us, waiting. Are you feeling all right? Fine, she said very quietly. Have you taken something? No, nothing, I haven’t taken any drugs, she whispered. Are you going to let me in? Can I make you some tea? No, said Sofia. Since I was asking qu
estions, I thought I might as well try one more: Why won’t you let me see your apartment, Sofia? Her answer surprised me. My boyfriend will be back soon and he doesn’t like it if there’s anyone here with me, especially a man. I didn’t know whether to be angry or treat it as a joke. Sounds like this boyfriend of yours is a vampire, I said. Sofia smiled for the first time, although it was a weak, distant smile. I’ve told him about you, she said. He’d recognize you. And what would he do? Hit me? No, he’d just get angry, she said. And kick me out? (Now I was starting to get indignant. For a moment I hoped he did turn up, this boyfriend Sofia was waiting for, naked in the dark, just to see what would happen, what he would do.) He wouldn’t kick you out, she said. He’d just get angry; he wouldn’t talk to you and after you went he’d hardly say a word to me. You’ve lost it, haven’t you, I spluttered, I don’t know if you realize what you’re saying, they’ve done something to you, it’s like you’re a different person. I’m the same as ever; you’re the idiot who can’t see what’s going on. Sofia, Sofia, what’s happened to you? You never used to be like this. Get out, just go, she said—What would you know about me?

  More than a year went by before I heard any news of Sofia. One afternoon, coming out of the cinema, I ran into Nuria. We recognized each other, started talking about the movie and decided to go and have coffee. It wasn’t long before we got on to Sofia. How long since you saw her? she asked me. A long time, I told her, but I also said that some mornings, when I woke up, I felt as if I had just seen her. Like you’ve been dreaming about her? No, I said, like I’d spent the night with her. That’s weird. Something like that used to happen to Emilio too. Until she tried to kill him. Then he stopped having the nightmares.