The Savage Detectives

by Roberto Bolaño

  I tried to pray. I tried to stop thinking about the photographs. That night we ate bread and my good friend Ulises asked me about my father, my friends, my travels. The next day we didn't go out. But the day after that we did go out because my good friend Ulises had to go to the post office, and once we were out we decided not to go home but to walk. Are you nervous, Heimito? said my good friend Ulises. No, I'm not nervous, I said. Why do you keep looking over your shoulder? Why are you looking from side to side? It never hurts to stay alert, I answered. We didn't have any money. We found an old man in Esterhazy Park. He was feeding the pigeons, but the pigeons were ignoring his crumbs. I came up behind him and punched him in the head. My good friend Ulises went through his pockets but he didn't find any money, only coins and breadcrumbs and a wallet that we took. There was a photograph in the wallet. The old man looks like my father, I said. We tossed the wallet into a mailbox. Then for two days we didn't leave the house, until all we had left were crumbs. So we went to visit Julius the policeman. We went out with him. We went to a bar on the Favoritenstrasse and listened to him talk. I looked at the table, the surface of the table and the drops of spilled Coca-Cola. Ulises spoke English with Julius the policeman and told him that there were more pyramids in Mexico than in Egypt, and bigger ones. When I lifted my eyes from the table I saw Gunther and Peter near the door. I blinked and they disappeared. But half an hour later they came by our table and sat down with us.

  That night I talked to my good friend Ulises and told him I knew of a house in the country, a wooden cabin at the foot of a gentle hill covered in pine trees. I told him that I never wanted to see my friends again. Then we talked about Israel, about the jail in Beersheba, about the desert, about the yellow rocks, and about the scorpions that only came out at night, when they couldn't be seen by the human eye. Maybe we should go back, said my good friend Ulises. The Jews would kill me for sure, I said. They wouldn't do anything to you, said my good friend Ulises. The Jews would kill me, I said. Then my good friend Ulises put a dirty towel over his head, but he still seemed to be looking out the window. I sat there watching him for a while and wondering how he knew they wouldn't do anything to me. I got down on my knees and crossed my arms. Ten, fifteen, twenty squats. Until I got bored and started to draw.

  The next day we went back to the bar on the Favoritenstrasse. Julius the policeman and six of his friends were there. We took the subway at Taubstummengasse and got out at Praterstern. I heard somebody howling. We ran. We were sweating. The next day one of my friends was watching the house. I told my good friend Ulises. But he couldn't see anything. That night we combed our hair, washed our faces, and went out. At the bar on the Favoritenstrasse, Julius the policeman talked to us about dignity, evolution, the great Darwin and the great Nietzsche. I translated so that my good friend Ulises could understand what he was saying, although I didn't understand any of it. The prayer of the bones, said Julius. The yearning for health. The virtue of danger. The tenacity of the forgotten. Bravo, said my good friend Ulises. Bravo, said everyone else. The limits of memory. The wisdom of plants. The eye of parasites. The agility of the earth. The merit of the soldier. The cunning of the giant. The hole of the will. Magnificent, said my good friend Ulises in German. Extraordinary. We drank. I didn't want beer, but they put a mug in front of me and said drink, Heimito, it won't hurt you. We drank and we sang. My good friend Ulises sang a few lines in Spanish and my friends watched him like wolves and laughed. But they didn't understand what my good friend Ulises was singing! Neither did I! We drank and sang. Every so often Julius the policeman would say dignity, honor, memory. They put a mug and then another mug in front of me. With one eye I watched the beer trembling in the mugs and with the other eye I watched my friends. They weren't drinking. For each mug they drank, I drank four. Drink, Heimito, it won't hurt you, they said. They were buying Ulises drinks too. Drink, little Mexican, they said, it won't hurt you. And we sang. Songs about the house in the country, at the foot of the little hill. And Julius the policeman said: home, native land, homeland. The owner of the bar came over to drink with us. I saw how he winked at Gunther. I saw how Gunther winked at him. I saw how he avoided looking into the corner where my good friend Ulises was sitting. Drink, Heimito, they said to me, it won't hurt you. And Julius the policeman smiled, flattered, and said thank you, thank you, of course, of course, it's nothing, please. Extraordinary. Ruthless. And then he said: decency, duty, betrayal, punishment. And they congratulated him again, but this time only a few people were smiling.

  Afterward we all left together. Like a cluster. Like the fingers of a steel hand. Like a gauntlet in the wind. But outside we began to separate. Into smaller and smaller groups. Farther and farther apart. Until we lost sight of the others. It was Udo and four other friends in our group. Walking toward the Belvedere. Along the Karolinengasse and then the Belvederegasse. Some talked and others didn't, preferring to watch the ground beneath their feet. Hands in their pockets. Collars turned up. And I said to my good friend Ulises: do you know what we're doing here? And my good friend Ulises said that he was getting an idea, more or less. And we crossed the Prinz Eugen Strasse and I asked my good friend Ulises what kind of idea that was. And he said: more or less the same idea you're getting, Heimito, more or less the same idea. The others didn't understand English or if any of them did, they were pretending not to. When we went into the park I started to pray. What are you whispering, Heimito? said Udo, who was next to me. No, no, no, I said as the tree branches that we were parting brushed my face and hair. Then I looked up and didn't see a single star. We came to a clearing: everything was deep green, even the shadows of Udo and my friends. We stood there quietly, our legs braced, and the lights danced behind the trees and plants, distant, remote. The brass knuckles came out of my friends' pockets. No one said a word! Or if they did say anything I didn't hear it. But I don't think they did. We had stopped in a secret place and there was no need to talk! I don't think we even looked at each other! It made me feel like shouting! But then I saw that my good friend Ulises had taken something out of his jacket pocket and was hurling himself at Udo. I moved too. I grabbed one of my friends by the neck and punched him in the forehead. I was hit from behind. One, two, one, two. Someone else hit me from the front. The metallic taste of his brass knuckles was on my lips. But I managed to hold on to one of my friends by the shoulder and with a sharp movement I shook off the one who was on my back. I think I broke someone's rib. I felt a wave of heat. I heard Udo shouting, calling for help. I broke a nose. Let's go, Heimito, said my good friend Ulises. I looked for him and couldn't find him. Where are you? I said. Here, Heimito, here, calm down. I stopped hitting. In the clearing there were two bodies on the grass. The others were gone. I was covered in sweat and couldn't think. Rest for a minute, said my good friend Ulises. I kneeled with my arms flung wide. I watched my good friend Ulises go over to the bodies on the ground. For a moment I thought he was going to slit their throats. He still had the knife in his hand, and I thought let God's will be done. But my good friend Ulises didn't raise his weapon against the fallen. He went through their pockets and felt their necks and put his ear to their mouths and said: we haven't killed anyone, Heimito, we can go. I cleaned my bloody face with one of my friends' shirts. I smoothed my hair. I got up. I was sweating like a pig. My legs were as heavy as an elephant's! But still, I ran and ran, and then I walked, and I even whistled until at last we came out of the park. We walked along Jacquingasse to Rennweg. And then along Marrokanergasse to the Konzerthaus. And then along Lisztstrasse to Lothringerstrasse. We spent the next few days on our own. But we went out. One afternoon we saw Gunther. He watched us from a distance and then he went away. We ignored him. One morning we saw two of my friends. They were on a corner and when they saw us they left. One afternoon, on Kärtner Strasse, my good friend Ulises saw a woman from behind and went up to her. I saw her too, but I didn't go up to her. I stayed thirty feet away, then thirty-five, then fifty, then seventy-five. And I saw how my good friend
Ulises called out and put his hand on the woman's shoulder, and how she turned around and my good friend Ulises excused himself and the woman kept walking.

  Every day we went to the post office. We took walks that ended at Esterhazy Platz or the Stiftskaserne. Sometimes my friends followed us. Always at a distance! One night we found a man in the Schadekgasse and followed him. He went into the park. He was an old man, well dressed. My good friend Ulises came up beside him and I punched him in the back of the neck. We went through his pockets. That night we ate at a bar close to home. Then I got up from the table and made a phone call. My inheritance, my money, I said, and from the other end of the line someone said: no, no, no. Then the police came and took us to the Bandgasse station. They took off our handcuffs and interrogated us. Questions, questions. I said: I have nothing to say. When they took me to the cell Ulises wasn't there. The next morning my lawyer came. I said: Mr. Lawyer, you look like a statue abandoned in the forest, and he laughed. When he stopped laughing, he said: no more joking from now on, Heimito. Where is my good friend Ulises? I said. Your accomplice is under arrest, Heimito, said my lawyer. Is he alone? I said. Of course, said my lawyer, and then I stopped shaking. If my good friend Ulises was alone, nothing could happen to him.

  That night I dreamed about a yellow rock and a black rock. The next day I saw my good friend Ulises in the courtyard. We talked. He asked me how I was. Fine, I said, I exercise, I do push-ups, sit-ups, I shadow-box. Don't shadowbox, he said. How are you, I said. Fine, he said, they treat me well, the food is good. The food is good! I said. Then they interrogated me again. Questions, questions. I don't know anything, I said. Heimito, tell us what you know, they said. Then I told them about the Jews who were working to build an atomic bomb in Beersheba and about the scorpions that only came out at night. And they said that they would show me pictures and when I saw the pictures I said: they're dead, these are pictures of dead people! and I wouldn't talk to them anymore. That night I saw my good friend Ulises in the corridor. My lawyer said: nothing bad will happen to you, Heimito, nothing bad can happen to you, that's the law, you'll go live in the country. And my good friend Ulises? I said. He'll stay here for a while longer. Until his situation is resolved. That night I dreamed about a white rock and the sky of Beersheba, dazzling as a crystal goblet. The next day I saw my good friend Ulises in the courtyard. The courtyard was covered in a green film but neither one of us seemed to care. We were both wearing new clothes. We could have been brothers. He said: everything is working out, Heimito. Your father is going to take charge of you. And what about you? I said. I'm going back to France, said my good friend Ulises. The Austrian police are paying for my ticket to the border. And when will you come back? I said. I can't come back until 1984, he said. The year of Big Brother. But we don't have brothers, I said. So it would seem, he said. Is the devil's spit green? I asked all of a sudden. It might be, Heimito, he answered, but I'd guess it's colorless. Then he sat on the ground and I started to do my exercises. I ran, I did push-ups, I did squats. When I was done my good friend Ulises had gotten up and was talking to another prisoner. For a minute I thought we were in Beersheba and that the cloudy sky was just a trick of the Jewish engineers. But then I slapped my face and said to myself no, we're in Vienna and my good friend Ulises is leaving tomorrow and he won't be able to come back for a long time and maybe soon I'll see my father. When I went back over to him the other prisoner left. We talked for a while. Take care of yourself, he said when they came to get him, stay in shape, Heimito. See you soon, I said, and then I never saw him again.

  María Font, Calle Montes, near the Monumento a la Revolución, Mexico City DF, February 1981. When Ulises came back to Mexico, I had just moved in here. I was in love with a guy who taught high school math. Things between us had been rocky at first because he was married and I thought he would never leave his wife, but one day he called me at my parents' house and told me to find a place where we could live together. He couldn't stand his wife anymore and they were about to separate. He was married and had two children, and he said his wife used the children to blackmail him. The conversation we had wasn't especially reassuring-in fact quite the contrary-but the next morning I really did start looking for a place where the two of us could live, even if it was only temporary.

  Of course, money was a problem. He had his salary but he had to keep paying rent on the house where his children lived and contribute money each month to pay for their keep, tuition, etc. And I didn't have a job and all I could count on was an allowance that one of my mother's sisters was giving me to finish my studies in dance and painting. So I had to dip into my savings, borrow from my mother, and not look for anything too expensive. After three days, Xóchitl told me that there was a vacant room in the hotel where she and Requena lived. I moved in right away.

  The room was big, with a bathroom and a kitchen, and it was right above Xóchitl and Requena's room.

  That very night the math teacher came to see me and we made love until dawn. The next day, however, he didn't show up, and even when I tried calling him a few times at school, I couldn't reach him. Two days later I saw him again and I accepted all the explanations he was willing to give me. That was more or less how things went during the first and then the second week of my new life on Calle Montes. The math teacher would show up every four days, more or less, and we would be together until dawn and the start of a new workday. Then he would disappear.

  Naturally, we didn't only make love. We talked too. He would tell me things about his children. Once, talking to me about the littlest girl, he started to cry, and finally he said that he didn't understand any of it. What's to understand? I said. He looked at me as if I'd said something idiotic, as if I were too young to know what he meant, and didn't answer. Otherwise, my life was more or less the same as it had always been. I went to class, found a (miserably paid) job as a proofreader at a publishing house, saw my friends, and took long walks around the city. Xóchitl and I grew closer, in large part because we were now neighbors. In the evenings, when the math teacher wasn't around, I would go down to her room and we would talk or play with the little boy. Requena was almost never there (although he, at least, came home every night) and Xóchitl and I would talk about the things that mattered to us, women's things, unconstrained by the presence of men. As was only natural, the subject of our first conversations was the math teacher and his strange ideas about how a new relationship should work. According to Xóchitl, the guy was ultimately a gutless jerk who was afraid to leave his wife. In my opinion, it had much more to do with his sensitivity, his desire not to hurt anyone unnecessarily, than with real fear. Privately, I was surprised how firmly Xóchitl took my side, and not the side of the math teacher's wife.

  Sometimes we would go to the park with little Franz. One night when the math teacher was there, I invited them to dinner. The math teacher wanted us to be alone, but Xóchitl had asked to be introduced to him, and I thought this was the perfect occasion. It was the first dinner I had given in what I now thought of as my new home, and although the meal itself was simple, a big salad, cheeses, and wine, Requena and Xóchitl showed up punctually and Xóchitl was wearing her best dress. The math teacher was trying to be nice, which I appreciated, but I don't know whether it was the meagerness of the food (in those days I was into low-calorie eating) or the abundance of wine, but the dinner was a disaster. When my friends left, the math teacher called them parasites, saying that they were the kind of element that paralyzes society and keeps a country from ever making any progress. I said that I was just like them and he replied that it wasn't true, that I studied and worked whereas they didn't do anything. They're poets, I argued. The math teacher looked me in the eyes and repeated the word poet several times. Lazy slobs is what they are, he said, and bad parents. Who goes out to eat and leaves their child alone at home? That night, as we were making love, I thought about little Franz sleeping in the room downstairs as his parents drank wine and ate cheese in my room, and I felt empty and irresponsible
. Not much later, maybe a day or two afterward, Requena told me that Ulises Lima had come back to Mexico.

  One afternoon, as I was reading, I heard Xóchitl calling me, banging on her ceiling with a broomstick. I leaned out the window. Ulises is here, said Xóchitl, do you want to come down? I went downstairs. There was Ulises. I wasn't especially thrilled to see him. Everything he and Belano had meant to me was too remote now. He talked about his travels. I thought there was too much literature in his telling of them. As he was talking I started to play with little Franz. Then Ulises said he had to go see the Rodríguez brothers and asked whether we wanted to go with him. Xóchitl and I looked at each other. If you want to go, I'll watch the kid, I said. Before I left, Ulises asked me about Angélica. She's home, I said, call her. I can't say why, but my attitude was generally hostile. When they left, Xóchitl winked at me. That night the math teacher didn't come. I fed little Franz in my room and then I took him downstairs, got him into his pajamas, and put him to bed, where he soon fell asleep. I chose a book from the shelf and sat reading beside the window, watching the headlights of the cars going by on Calle Montes. I read and thought.