The Savage Detectives

by Roberto Bolaño

  It was a decision I'd later regret, since the next morning, before we left for the airport, Álamo came up with the idea of gathering the whole delegation in the hotel lobby, supposedly for a final rundown of our stay in Managua but really to raise a last glass in the sun. And when all of us had left no doubt about our undying solidarity with the Nicaraguan people and were on our way to our rooms to pick up our suitcases, Álamo, together with one of the peasant poets, came over and asked if Ulises Lima had ever shown up. I had no choice but to tell him that he hadn't, unless Ulises was in his room at that very moment, asleep. Let's settle this right now, said Álamo, and he got in the elevator, followed by the peasant poet and me. In Ulises Lima's room we found the poet Aurelio Pradera, an elegant stylist, who confessed what I already knew, which was that Ulises had been there for the first two days but then vanished. And why didn't you tell Hugo? bellowed Álamo. The explanations that followed weren't very clear. Álamo tore at his hair. Aurelio Pradera said that he didn't understand why he was being blamed when he'd had to endure a whole night of Ulises talking in his sleep, which in his opinion was just as bad. The peasant poet sat on the bed where the cause of the commotion should supposedly have slept and started to flip through a literary magazine. A little later I realized that another of the peasant poets had graced us with his presence and that behind him, on the threshold, was Don Pancracio Montesol, mute spectator of the drama unfolding within the four walls of Room 405. Of course, as I at once realized, I'd been relieved of the duties of managing director of the Mexican delegation. In the emergency this role fell to Julio Labarca, the Marxist theoretician of the peasant poets, who took charge of the situation with a vigor that I was far from feeling myself.

  His first decision was to call the police, then he convened an emergency meeting of what he called the "thinking minds" of the delegation, in other words, the writers who every so often wrote opinion pieces, essays, or reviews of political books (the "creative minds" were the poets or the fiction writers like Don Pancracio, and there was also the category of "hotheads," the novices and beginners like Aurelio Pradera and maybe Ulises Lima himself, and the "thinking-creative minds," the crème de la crème, consisting of just two peasant poets, Labarca first among them), and after a brisk, forthright evaluation of the new situation fostered or created by the incident, and of the incident itself, they came to the conclusion that the best thing for the delegation would be to stick to the original schedule, or in other words to depart without delay that very day and leave the Lima affair in the hands of the proper authorities.

  Truly extraordinary things were said about the political repercussions that the disappearance of a Mexican poet in Nicaragua might entail, but then, keeping in mind that very few people knew Ulises Lima and that of the few people who did, half weren't speaking to him, the level of alarm dropped several degrees. Somebody even raised the possibility that his disappearance might pass unnoticed.

  After a while the police showed up and Álamo, Labarca, and I spent some time talking to one of them who called himself an inspector and whom Labarca immediately began to address as "comrade," "comrade" this and "comrade" that, but for a policeman he was actually nice and sympathetic, although he didn't tell us anything that we hadn't already thought of ourselves. He asked us about the habits of the "comrade writer." Of course, we told him that we weren't familiar with Ulises's habits. He wanted to know whether Ulises had any "peculiarity" or "weakness." Álamo said that one never knew, the profession was as diverse as humanity itself, and humanity, as we well knew, was a conglomeration of weaknesses. Seconding Álamo (in his own way), Labarca said that Ulises might be a degenerate and he might not. Degenerate in what sense? the Sandinista inspector wanted to know. That I can't say for sure, said Labarca. To be honest, I don't know him. I didn't even see him on the plane. He was on the same plane we were on, wasn't he? Of course, Julio, said Álamo. And then Álamo passed the ball to me: you know him, Montero (the quantity of suppressed rage in those words!), tell us what he's like. I immediately washed my hands of it all. I told the whole story again, from beginning to end, to the manifest boredom of Álamo and Labarca and the sincere interest of the inspector. When I was done he said ah, the lives you writers lead. Then he wanted to know why there'd been writers who hadn't wanted to travel to Managua. For personal reasons, said Labarca. Not because they were hostile to our revolution? How can you think such a thing, certainly not, said Labarca. Which writers didn't want to come? said the inspector. Álamo and Labarca looked at each other, then at me. I opened my big mouth and told him the names. Well, what do you know, said Labarca, so Marco Antonio was invited too? Yes, said Álamo, I thought it was a good idea. And why wasn't I consulted? said Labarca. I mentioned it to Emilio and he said it was all right, said Álamo, annoyed at Labarca for questioning his authority in front of me. So this Marco Antonio, who is he? said the inspector. A poet, said Álamo, flatly. But what kind of poet? the inspector wanted to know. A surrealist poet, said Álamo. A surrealist and a PRI-ist, specified Labarca. A lyric poet, I said. The inspector nodded his head several times, as if to say I see, although it was clear to us that he didn't understand shit. And this lyric poet didn't want to show his support for the Sandinista revolution? Well, said Labarca, that's a strong way to put it. He couldn't make it, I guess, said Álamo. Although you know Marco Antonio, said Labarca, and he laughed for the first time. Álamo took out his pack of Delicados and offered it around. Labarca and I each took one, but the inspector waved them away and lit a Cuban cigarette. These are stronger, he said with a clear hint of irony. It was as if he were saying: we revolutionaries smoke strong tobacco, real men smoke strong tobacco, those of us with a stake in objective reality smoke real tobacco. Stronger than a Delicados? said Labarca. Black tobacco, comrades, genuine tobacco. Álamo laughed under his breath and said: it's hard to believe we've lost a poet, but what he really meant was: what do you know about tobacco, you stupid son of a bitch? You can kiss my ass with your Cuban tobacco, said Labarca almost without batting an eye. What did you say, comrade? said the inspector. That I don't give a shit about Cuban tobacco. Where Delicados are lit, let the rest be put out. Álamo laughed again and the inspector seemed to hesitate between turning pale with rage and looking confused. I assume, comrade, that you mean what I think you mean, he said. That's right, I do, you heard me. No one turns his nose up at a Delicados, said Labarca. Oh, Julio's a bad boy, murmured Álamo, looking at me to hide his barely suppressed laughter from the inspector. And on what grounds do you say that? said the inspector, wreathed in a cloud of smoke. I could see that things were taking a new tone. Labarca raised a hand and waved it back and forth a few inches from the inspector's nose, as if he were slapping him. Don't blow smoke in my face, man, he said, do you mind? This time the inspector definitely turned pale, as if the strong scent of his own tobacco had made him sick. For fuck's sake, show a little respect, comrade, you almost hit me in the nose. If you call that a nose, said Labarca to Álamo, unruffled. If you can't tell the smell of a Delicados from a bundle of vulgar Cuban weed then your nose is failing you, comrade, which hardly matters in and of itself, but in the case of a smoker or a policeman is worrisome, to say the least. A Delicados, you see, Julio, is blond tobacco, said Álamo, overcome by laughter. And the paper is sweet too, said Labarca, which is something you only find in parts of China. And in Mexico, Julio, said Álamo. And in Mexico, of course, said Labarca. The inspector gave them a look of pure hatred, then abruptly put out his cigarette and said in an altered voice that he would have to file a missing person report and that such a procedure could only be carried out at the police station. He seemed ready to arrest us all. Well, what are we waiting for, said Labarca, let's go to the station, comrade. Montero, he said to me on his way out, give the minister of culture a call for me. Okay, Julio, I said. The inspector seemed to hesitate for a few seconds. Labarca and Álamo were in the lobby. The inspector looked at me as if asking for advice. I mimed handcuffed wrists, but he didn't get it. Before he left, he
said: they'll be back in less than ten minutes. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. After a while Don Pancracio Montesol showed up, wearing a spotless white guayabera and carrying a plastic bag from the Gigante supermarket in Colonia Chapultepec, full of books. Are matters on the way to being resolved, Montero, my boy? My dear friend Don Pancracio, I said, matters are exactly where they were last night and the night before last. We've lost poor Ulises Lima, and like it or not, it's my fault for having dragged him here.

  Don Pancracio, as usual, didn't make the slightest effort to console me and for a few minutes the two of us sat in silence, him drinking his penultimate whiskey and me with my head in my hands, sucking down a daiquiri with a straw and unsuccessfully trying to imagine Ulises Lima with no money and no friends, alone in that ravaged country, as we heard the calls and shouts of the members of our delegation who were roaming the adjoining rooms like stray dogs or wounded parrots. Do you know what the worst thing about literature is? said Don Pancracio. I knew, but I pretended I didn't. What? I said. That you end up being friends with writers. And friendship, treasure though it may be, destroys your critical sense. Once, said Don Pancracio, Monteforte Toledo dropped this riddle in my lap: a poet is lost in a city on the verge of collapse, with no money, or friends, or anyone to turn to. And of course, he neither wants nor plans to turn to anyone. For several days he roams the city and the country, eating nothing, or eating scraps. He's even stopped writing. Or he writes in his head: in other words, he hallucinates. All signs point to an imminent death. His drastic disappearance foreshadows it. And yet the poet doesn't die. How is he saved? Etc., etc. It sounded like Borges, but I didn't tell him so. His fellow writers already pester him enough about whether he's stealing from Borges here or stealing from Borges there, whether he's stealing from him in a good way or stealing from him in a clumsy way, as López Velarde would have said. What I did was listen to Don Pancracio and then follow his example. In other words, I kept my mouth shut. And then a guy came to tell me that the van that was taking us to the airport was in front of the hotel, and I said all right, let's go, but first I looked over at Don Pancracio, who had already gotten down from his stool and was watching me with a smile on his face, as if I'd discovered the answer to the riddle, but obviously I hadn't discovered or figured out or guessed anything, and anyway I didn't give a damn, so I said: this riddle your friend asked you, what was the answer, Don Pancracio? And then Don Pancracio looked at me and said: what friend? Your friend, whoever it was, Miguel Ángel Asturias, the riddle about the poet who's lost and survives. Oh, that, said Don Pancracio as if he were waking up, the truth is I don't remember anymore, but don't worry, the poet doesn't die, he loses everything, but he doesn't die.

  What thou lovest well remains, said someone who was standing nearby and had overheard us, a light-skinned guy in a double-breasted suit and red tie who was the official poet of San Luis Potosí, and right there, as if his words had been the starting pistol shot, or in this case the departing shot, major chaos broke out, with Mexican and Nicaraguan writers autographing books for each other, and there was more chaos in the van, which was too small for all of us who were leaving and those who were seeing us off, so that we had to call three taxis to provide additional logistical support for our deployment. It goes without saying that I was the last person to leave the hotel. Before I did, I made a few phone calls and left a letter for Ulises Lima on the highly unlikely chance that he might show up there. In the letter I advised him to head straight to the Mexican embassy where they would take care of getting him back to Mexico. I also called the police station and spoke to Álamo and Labarca, who assured me that we would meet at the airport. Then I got my suitcases, called a taxi, and left.

  15

  Jacinto Requena, Café Quito, Calle Bucareli, Mexico City, July 1982. I went to see Ulises Lima off at the airport when he left for Managua, partly because I still couldn't believe he'd been invited and partly because I didn't have anything else to do that morning, and I went to meet him when he came back too, more than anything just to see his face and so we could have a laugh together, but when I caught sight of the writers who'd been on the trip, neatly lined up in two rows, I couldn't pick out his figure (which was unmistakeable) even though I looked and looked.

  There were Álamo and Labarca, Padilla and Byron Hernández, Villaplata and our old acquaintance Logiacomo, Sala and the poetess Carmen Prieto, sinister Pérez Hernández and sublime Montesol, but not Ulises.

  My first thought was that he'd fallen asleep on the plane and that he'd show up soon escorted by two stewardesses and with a hangover of Homerian proportions. At least that's what I wanted to think, since I'm pretty slow to panic, although to be honest, I had a bad feeling the moment I saw that group of intellectuals returning tired and content.

  Bringing up the end of the line, loaded down with several carry-ons, was Hugo Montero. I remember that I waved to him but he didn't see me, or didn't recognize me, or pretended not to recognize me. When all the writers had left I saw Logiacomo, who seemed reluctant to leave the airport, and I went up to say hello, trying not to show how worried I was. He was with another Argentinian, a tall, fat guy with a little goatee, no one I knew. They were talking about money. Or at least I heard the word dollars a few times, followed by multiple, tremulous exclamation points. After I said hello, Logiacomo's initial tactic was to act as if he didn't remember me, but then he had to accept the inevitable. I asked him about Ulises. He looked at me in horror. There was disapproval in his gaze too, as if I were parading around the airport with my fly open or an oozing sore on my cheek.

  It was the other Argentinian who spoke. He said: that asshole made us look like a bunch of idiots. Is he your friend? I looked at him and then I looked at Logiacomo, who was watching for someone in the waiting area, and I didn't know whether to laugh or be serious. The other Argentinian said: a person has to show a little more responsibility (he was talking to Logiacomo, not even looking at me). If I run into him I swear I'll nail his balls to the wall. But what happened? I murmured with my best smile (that is, my worst). Where's Ulises? The other Argentinian said something about the literary lumpen proletariat. What are you talking about? I said. Then Logiacomo spoke, to calm us down, I guess. Ulises disappeared, he said. What do you mean he disappeared? Ask Montero, we just found out about it. It took me longer than it should have to realize that Ulises hadn't disappeared during the flight home (in my imagination I saw him get up from his seat, go down the aisle, pass a stewardess who smiles at him, go into the toilet, lock the door, and disappear) but in Managua, during the Mexican delegation's visit. And that was all. The next day I went to see Montero at Bellas Artes and he told me that because of Ulises he was going to lose his job.

  Xóchitl García, Calle Montes, near the Monumento a la Revolución, Mexico City DF, July 1982. Someone had to call Ulises's mother, I mean, it was the least we could do, but Jacinto didn't have the heart to tell her that her son had disappeared in Nicaragua, even though I said it's probably not such a big deal, Jacinto, you know Ulises, you're his friend, you know what he's like, but Jacinto said that he'd disappeared, end of story, just like Ambrose Bierce and the English poets who died in the Spanish Civil War and Pushkin, except that in Pushkin's case his wife, Pushkin's wife, I mean, was Reality, the Frenchman who killed Pushkin was the Contras, the snows of St. Petersburg were the empty spaces Ulises Lima left in his wake, his lethargy, I mean, and his laziness and lack of common sense, and the seconds in the duel were Mexican Poetry or Latin American Poetry, which, in the form of the Solidarity Delegation, were silent witnesses to the death of one of the best poets of our day.