The Savage Detectives

by Roberto Bolaño

  Her greeting was just as cold.

  Pancho, for his part, repeated the previous day's routine and took a seat in a little wicker armchair while he waited for Angélica to arrive.

  This time I was careful not to make any value judgments about Sor Juana, and I occupied myself first by looking at the books and then the watercolor, standing near María but keeping a prudent distance. The watercolor had undergone significant changes. The two women beside the volcano, whom I remembered in a stern or at least serious pose, were now pinching each other's arms; one of them was laughing or pretending to laugh; the other one was crying or pretending to cry. Floating on the streams of lava (clearly lava, since it was still red or vermillion) were laundry detergent bottles, bald dolls, and wicker baskets full of rats; the women's dresses were torn or patched; in the sky (or at least in the upper part of the watercolor), a storm was brewing; in the lower part María had reproduced this morning's weather report for Mexico City.

  The painting was hideous.

  Then Angélica came in, glowing, and once again she and Pablo set up the screen. I spent a while thinking, as María painted: there was no longer the slightest doubt in my mind that Pancho had dragged me to the Fonts' house so that I could distract María while he and Angélica went about their business. It didn't seem very fair. Before, at the Chinese café, I'd asked him whether he considered himself a visceral realist. His reply was ambiguous and lengthy. He talked about the working class, drugs, Flores Magón, some key figures of the Mexican Revolution. Then he said that his poems would definitely appear in the magazine that Belano and Lima were putting out soon. And if they don't publish me, they can go fuck themselves, he said. I don't know why, but I get the feeling the only thing Pancho cares about is sleeping with Angélica.

  "Are you all right, Angélica?" said María, when the moans of pain, exactly the same as yesterday's, began.

  "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Can you go take a walk?"

  "Of course," said María.

  Once again we resignedly settled ourselves at the metal table under the climbing vine. For no apparent reason, my heart was broken. María started to tell me stories about their childhood, thoroughly boring stories that it was clear she was only telling to pass the time and that I pretended to find interesting. Elementary school, their first parties, high school, their shared love of poetry, dreams of traveling, of seeing other countries, Lee Harvey Oswald, in which they'd both been published, the Laura Damián prize that Angélica had won… Once she reached this point (I don't know why; possibly because she stopped talking for a minute), I asked who Laura Damián had been. It was pure intuition. María said:

  "A poet who died young."

  "I already know that. When she was twenty. But who was she? Why haven't I read anything by her?"

  "Have you ever read Lautréamont, García Madero?" said María.

  "No."

  "Well, then, it's no surprise that you've never heard of Laura Damián."

  "I'm sorry. I know I'm ignorant."

  "That's not what I said. All I meant was that you're very young. Anyway, Laura's only book, La fuente de las musas, was privately published. It was a posthumous book subsidized by her parents, who loved her very much and were her first readers."

  "They must have lots of money."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "If they're able to fund an annual poetry prize themselves, they have to have lots of money."

  "Well, not really. They didn't give Angélica much. The prize is more about prestige than money. It's not even all that prestigious. After all, they only give it to poets under the age of twenty."

  "The age Laura Damián was when she died. How morbid."

  "It isn't morbid, it's sad."

  "And were you there when the prize was awarded? Do the parents give it in person?"

  "Of course."

  "Where? At their house?"

  "No, at the university."

  "Which department?"

  "The literature department. That's where Laura was studying."

  "Jesus, that's so morbid."

  "None of it seems morbid to me. If you ask me, you're the morbid one, García Madero."

  "You know what? It pisses me off when you call me García Madero. It's like me calling you Font."

  "Everybody calls you that, so why should I call you anything different?"

  "Fine, never mind. Tell me more about Laura Damián. Didn't you ever enter the contest?"

  "Yes, but Angélica won."

  "And who won before Angélica?"

  "A girl from Aguascalientes who studies medicine at UNAM."

  "And before that?"

  "Before that, no one won, because the prize didn't exist. Next year maybe I'll enter again, or maybe I won't."

  "And what will you do with the money if you win?"

  "Go to Europe, probably."

  For a few seconds we were both silent, María Font thinking about unexplored foreign countries, while I thought about all the foreign men who would make love to her night and day. The thought startled me. Was I falling in love with María?

  "How did Laura Damián die?"

  "She was hit by a car in Tlalpan. She was an only child, and her parents were devastated. I think her mother even tried to commit suicide. It must be sad to die so young."

  "It must be extremely sad," I said, imagining María Font in the arms of a seven-foot-tall Englishman, so white he was practically an albino, his long pink tongue between her thin lips.

  "Do you know who you should ask about Laura Damián?"

  "No, who?"

  "Ulises Lima. He was friends with her."

  "Ulises Lima?"

  "Yes, they were inseparable, they were in school together, they went to the movies together, they lent each other books. They were very good friends."

  "I had no idea," I said.

  We heard a noise from the little house, and for a while we both sat expectantly.

  "How old was Ulises Lima when Laura Damián died?"

  María didn't answer for a while.

  "Ulises Lima's name isn't Ulises Lima," she said in a husky voice.

  "Do you mean it's his pen name?"

  María nodded her head yes, her gaze lost in the intricate tracings of the vine.

  "What's his real name, then?"

  "Alfredo Martínez, something like that. I don't remember anymore. But when I met him he wasn't called Ulises Lima. It was Laura Damián who gave him that name."

  "Wow, that's crazy."

  "Everyone said that he was in love with Laura. But I don't think they ever slept together. I think Laura died a virgin."

  "At twenty?"

  "Sure, why not."

  "No, of course, you're right."

  "Sad, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is sad. And how old was Ulises, or Alfredo Martínez, then?"

  "A year younger, nineteen, maybe eighteen."

  "He must have taken it hard, I guess."

  "He got sick. They say he was on the verge of death. The doctors didn't know what was wrong with him, just that he was fading fast. I went to see him at the hospital and I was there during the worst of it. But one day he got better and it all ended as mysteriously as it had begun. Then Ulises left the university and started his magazine. You've seen it, right?"

  "Lee Harvey Oswald? Yes, I've seen it," I lied. Immediately I wondered why they hadn't let me have an issue, even just to leaf through, when I was in Ulises Lima's rooftop room.

  "What a horrible name for a poetry magazine."

  "I like it. It doesn't seem so bad to me."

  "It's in terrible taste."

  "What would you have called it?"

  "I don't know. The Mexican Section of Surrealists, maybe."

  "Interesting."

  "Did you know that it was my father who laid out the whole magazine?"

  "Pancho said something like that."

  "It's the best part of the magazine, the design. Now everybody hates my father."

  "Everybody? All
the visceral realists? Why would they hate him? That doesn't make sense."

  "No, not the visceral realists, the other architects in his studio. I guess they're jealous of how well he gets along with young people. Anyway, they can't stand him, and now they're making him pay. Because of the magazine."

  "Because of Lee Harvey Oswald?"

  "Of course. Since my father designed it at the studio, now they're making him responsible for anything that happens."

  "But what could happen?"

  "All kinds of things. Clearly you don't know Ulises Lima."

  "No, I don't," I said, "but I'm getting some idea."

  "He's a time bomb," said María.

  Just then, I realized that it had gotten dark and that we could only hear, not see, each other.

  "Listen, I have to tell you something. I just lied to you. I've never gotten my hands on the magazine, and I'm dying to take a look at it. Could you lend me a copy?"

  "Of course. I'll give you one; I have extras."

  "And could you lend me a book by Lautréamont too, please?"

  "Yes, but that you absolutely have to return. He's one of my favorite poets."

  "I promise," I said.

  María went into the big house. I was left alone in the courtyard, and for a minute I couldn't believe that Mexico City was really out there. Then I heard voices in the Fonts' little house, and a light went on. I thought that it was Angélica and Pancho, and that in a little while Pancho would come out into the courtyard to find me, but nothing happened. When María returned with two copies of the magazine and the Chants de Maldoror, she too noticed that the lights were on in the little house, and for a few seconds she waited attentively. Suddenly, when I was least expecting it, she asked me whether I was still a virgin.

  "No, of course not," I lied, for the second time that evening.

  "And was it hard to lose your virginity?"

  "A little," I said, after considering my response for a second.

  I noticed that her voice had gotten husky again.

  "Do you have a girlfriend?"

  "No, of course not," I said.

  "Who did you do it with, then? A prostitute?"

  "No, with a girl from Sonora who I met last year," I said. "We were only together for three days."

  "And you haven't done it with anyone else?"

  I was tempted to tell her about my adventure with Brígida, but in the end I decided that it was better not to.

  "No, nobody else," I said, and I felt so miserable I could have died.

  NOVEMBER 16

  I called María Font. I told her I wanted to see her. I begged her to come out. She said that she'd meet me at Café Quito. When she came in, around seven, several pairs of eyes followed her from the doorway all the way to the table where I was waiting.

  She looked beautiful. She was wearing a Oaxacan blouse, very tight jeans, and leather sandals. Over her shoulder she was carrying a dark brown knapsack stamped with little cream-colored horses around the edges, full of books and papers.

  I asked her to read me a poem.

  "Don't be a drag, García Madero," she said.

  I don't know why, but her saying that made me sad. I think I had a physical need to hear one of her poems from her own lips. But maybe it wasn't the place; Café Quito was loud with talk, shouts, shrieks of laughter. I gave her back the Lautréamont.

  "You read it already?" said María.

  "Of course," I said. "I stayed up all night reading. I read Lee Harvey Oswald too. What a great magazine, it's such a shame they had to fold. I loved your things."

  "So you haven't been to bed yet?"

  "Not yet, but I feel good. I'm wide awake."

  María Font looked me in the eyes and smiled. A waitress came over and asked what she wanted to drink. Nothing, said María, we were just leaving. Outside, I asked whether she had somewhere to go, and she said no, she just wasn't in the mood for Café Quito. We went walking along Bucareli toward Reforma, then crossed Reforma and headed up Avenida Guerrero.

  "This is where the whores are," said María.

  "I didn't realize," I said.

  "Give me your arm so nobody gets the wrong idea."

  The truth is, at first I didn't see anything to suggest that the street was any different from those we had just been on. The traffic was heavy here too, and the people crowding the sidewalks were no different from the people streaming along Bucareli. But then (maybe because of what María had said) I started to notice some differences. To start with, the lighting. The streetlights on Bucareli are white, but on Avenida Guerrero they had more of an amber tone. The cars: on Bucareli it's unusual to find a car parked on the street; on Guerrero there were plenty. On Bucareli, the bars and coffee shops are open and bright; on Guerrero, although there were lots of bars, they seemed turned in on themselves, secret or discreet, with no big windows looking out. And finally, the music. On Bucareli there wasn't any. All the noise came from people or cars. On Guerrero, the farther in you got, especially on the corners of Violeta and Magnolia, the music took over the street, coming from bars, parked cars, and portable radios, and drifting from the lighted windows of dark buildings.

  "I like this street," said María. "Someday I'm going to live here."

  A group of teenage hookers was standing around an old Cadillac parked at the curb. María stopped and greeted one of them:

  "Hey there, Lupe. Nice to see you."

  Lupe was very thin and had short hair. I thought she was as beautiful as María.

  "María! Wow, mana, long time no see," she said, and then she hugged her.

  The girls with Lupe were still leaning on the hood of the Cadillac and their eyes rested on María, scrutinizing her calmly. They hardly looked at me.

  "I thought you died," said María all of a sudden. The callousness of the remark stunned me. María's tact has these gaping holes.

  "I'm plenty alive. But I almost died. Didn't I, Carmencita?"

  "That's right," said the girl called Carmencita, and she continued to study María.

  "It was Gloria who bit it. You met her, didn't you? Mana, what a fucking mess, but no one could stand that cunt."

  "I never met her," said María with a smile on her lips.

  "The cops are the ones who nailed her," said Carmencita.

  "And has anyone done anything about it?" said María.

  "Nelson," said Carmencita. "Do what? The bitch knew too much, she was in way over her head, there was nothing anyone could do."

  "Well, how sad," said María.

  "Say, how's school?" said Lupe.

  "So-so," said María.

  "You still got that hot stud running after you?"

  María laughed and shot me a glance.

  "My friend here is a ballerina," Lupe said to the other girls. "We met at Modern Dance, the school on Donceles."

  "Yeah, sure," said Carmencita.

  "It's true, Lupe hung out at the dance school," said María.

  "So how did she end up here?" asked a girl who hadn't spoken before, the shortest one of all, almost a dwarf.

  María looked at her and shrugged.

  "Will you come have coffee with us?" she said.

  Lupe checked the watch on her right wrist and then looked at her friends.

  "The thing is, I'm working."

  "Just for a little while, you'll be back soon," said María.

  "All right, then. Work can wait," said Lupe. "I'll see you girls later." She started to walk with María. I walked behind them.

  We turned left on Magnolia, onto Avenida Jesús García. Then we walked south again, to Héroes Revolucionarios Ferrocarrileros, where we went into a coffee shop.

  "Is this the kid you've been fooling around with?" I heard Lupe say to María.

  María laughed again.

  "He's just a friend," she said, and to me: "If Lupe's pimp shows up here, you'll have to defend us both, García Madero."

  I thought she was kidding. Then it occurred to me she might be serious and, frankly, the si
tuation started to seem appealing. Just then I couldn't imagine a better way to look good in front of María. I felt happy. We had the whole night ahead of us.

  "My man is heavy," said Lupe. "He doesn't like me to be running around with strangers." It was the first time she had looked directly at me when she spoke.

  "But I'm not a stranger," said María.

  "No, mana. Not you."

  "Do you know how I met Lupe?" said María.

  "I have no idea," I said.

  "At the dance school. Lupe was Paco Duarte's girlfriend. Paco is the Spanish dancer who's the head of the school."

  "I went to see him once a week," said Lupe.

  "I didn't know you took dance lessons," I said.

  "I don't. I just went there to fuck," said Lupe.

  "I meant María, not you."

  "Since I was fourteen," said María. "Too late to be a good ballerina. That's the way it goes."

  "What do you mean? You're a great dancer! Weird, but the truth is everyone in that place is half insane. Have you seen her dance?" I said I hadn't. "You'd fall head over heels."

  María shook her head to deny it. When the waitress came we ordered three coffees and Lupe also ordered a cheese sandwich, no beans.

  "I can't digest them," she explained.

  "How's your stomach?" said María.

  "Not bad. Sometimes it hurts a lot, other times I forget it exists. It's nerves. When it gets to be too much, I just have a toke and it's fixed. So what about you? Aren't you going to the dance school anymore?"

  "Not so often," said María.

  "This idiot walked in on me once in Paco Duarte's office," said Lupe.

  "I almost died laughing," said María. "Actually, I don't know why I started to laugh. Maybe I was in love with Paco and it was hysterics."

  "Come on, mana, you know he wasn't your type."

  "So what were you doing with this Paco Duarte?" I said.

  "Nothing, really. I met him once on the street and since he couldn't come to me and I couldn't go to his house because he's married to a gringa, I'd go see him at the dance school. Anyway, I think that was what he liked, the scumbag. Fucking me in his office."

  "And your pimp let you go that far out of your zone?" I said.