The Third Reich

by Roberto Bolaño

  When he saw us he was furious, and surprisingly, his recriminations—“You left me,” “You forgot me,” “A person can’t trust his own friends,” etc.— were directed at Charly. The Lamb, who, frankly speaking, was his only real friend present, responded to his words by cowering in shame and mute submission. And Charly, even more surprisingly, nodded and said he was sorry, treating the whole thing as a joke but making it understood that he felt honored by the hurt that the Wolf was expressing so vehemently and in such poor taste. Charly was loving it, he really was! Maybe he saw it as an expression of true friendship! Absurd! I should clarify that the Wolf didn’t say a thing to me, and that his treatment of the girls was the same as always, somewhere between gallant and crude.

  I think I was ready to leave when El Quemado came in. He nodded at us and took a seat at the bar, with his back to us. I left the Wolf to finish explaining what had happened at the Crap Club, probably with further accounts of bloodletting and arrests, and I went to sit next to El Quemado. Half of his upper lip was one big scar, but after a while a person got used to it. I asked if he suffered from insomnia and he smiled. No, he wasn’t an insomniac; he could do his work, which was enjoyable and not too taxing, on just a few hours of sleep. He wasn’t much of a talker, though he was much less silent than I had imagined. His teeth were small, as if they’d been filed down, and they were in terrible shape, which in my ignorance I didn’t know whether to attribute to the fire or simply to deficiencies in oral hygiene. I suppose that someone whose face is covered in burns doesn’t worry too much about the state of his teeth.

  He asked where I was from. He spoke in a deep, clear voice, certain of being understood. I answered that I was from Stuttgart and he nodded as if he knew the city, although I can’t imagine that he’d ever been there. He was dressed the same as during the day, in shorts, T-shirt, and rope-soled shoes. He has a notable physique—broad chest and bulging biceps—though sitting at the bar (drinking tea!) he seemed thinner than me. Or shyer. Certainly, despite his limited wardrobe, it was evident that he took at least basic care of himself: his hair was clean and he didn’t stink. This last point could be considered a minor feat, because living on the beach, the only bathroom to which he had access was the sea. (If one sharpened one’s sense of smell, he smelled like salt water.) For a moment I imagined him, day after day or night after night, washing his clothes (those shorts, a few T-shirts) in the sea, scrubbing himself in the sea, doing his business in the sea or on the beach, the same beach where hundreds of tourists lay, among them Ingeborg . . . Overcome by a wave of disgust, I imagined reporting his shameful behavior to the police, but that would be out of character, of course. And yet, how to explain that a person with a paying job isn’t capable of finding a decent place to sleep? Can all the rentals in town be out of his reach? Aren’t there any cheap boardinghouses or campgrounds, if not on the seafront? Or by not paying rent does our friend El Quemado intend to save a few pesetas for summer’s end?

  There’s something of the Noble Savage about him; but I can also see the Noble Savage in the Wolf and the Lamb, and they manage things differently. Maybe living rent-free means living alone, far from people and curious stares. If so, in a way I understand it. And then there are the benefits of life in the open air, although his life, as I imagine it, doesn’t exactly qualify if “open air” is understood as “healthy living,” since the latter is diametrically opposed to damp beach air and the sandwiches that I’m sure are his daily fare. How does El Quemado live? All I know is that during the day he’s like a zombie dragging pedal boats from the shore to his small roped-offarea and back again to the shore. That’s all. Though he must take time to eat and he must meet with his boss at some point to hand over his earnings. Does this boss I’ve never seen know that El Quemado sleeps on the beach? Does the owner of the Andalusia Lodge know it? Are the Lamb and the Wolf in on the secret, or am I the only one who has discovered his refuge? I don’t dare ask.

  At night El Quemado does whatever he wants, or at least he tries to. But what does he do exactly besides sleep? He sits until late at the Andalusia Lodge, he goes for walks on the beach, maybe he has friends he talks to, he drinks tea, he buries himself under his great hulks . . . Yes, sometimes I see the fortress of pedal boats as a kind of mausoleum. As long as it’s light out, the impression of a hut lingers; at night, by the light of the moon, a romantic soul might mistake it for a barbarian burial mound.

  Nothing else worthy of mention happened the night of the 24th. We left the Andalusia Lodge relatively sober. El Quemado and the owner were still there, the former sitting across from his empty cup of tea and the latter watching another cowboy movie.

  Today, as was to be expected, I saw him on the beach. Ingeborg and Hanna were lying out next to the pedal boats, and El Quemado, on the other side, was leaning against a plastic floater, gazing at the horizon where some of his boats were barely visible. At no point did he turn around to look at Ingeborg, who, I think it’s fair to say, was a feast for the eyes. Both girls were wearing new orange thongs, a bright, happy color. But El Quemado avoided looking at them.

  I wasn’t at the beach. I stayed in the room going over my abandoned game, though every so often I went out on the balcony or looked out the window. Love, as everyone knows, is an exclusive passion, although in my case I hope to be able to reconcile my passion for Ingeborg with my dedication to gaming. According to the plans I had made in Stuttgart, by now I should have half of the strategic variant plotted out and written down, and at least a first draft of the lecture to be given in Paris. But I have yet to write a single word. If Conrad could see me I’m sure he’d have some scathing comment to make. But Conrad has to understand that on my very first vacation with Ingeborg, I can’t ignore her and devote myself body and soul to the variant. Despite everything, I haven’t given up hope of having it finished by the time we return to Germany.

  In the afternoon something odd happened. I was sitting in the room when suddenly I heard the sound of a horn. I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but then again, I know the difference between the sound of a horn and other sounds. The odd thing is that I was thinking (though in a vague way, I must admit) about Sepp Dietrich, who from time to time made mention of the horn call of peril. Anyway, I’m sure I didn’t imagine it. Sepp claimed to have heard it twice, and both times the mysterious notes helped him to overcome tremendous physical exhaustion, first in Russia and then in Normandy. The horn, according to Sepp, who rose to the command of an army after starting out as a messenger boy and driver, is the warning cry of the ancestors, the call of the blood that alerts one to danger. As I say, I was sitting lost in thought when suddenly I seemed to hear it. I got up and went out on the balcony. Outside all that could be heard was the usual afternoon din; even the sound of the sea was drowned out. In the hallway, on the other hand, there reigned a pregnant silence. Did the horn sound in my head then? Did it sound because I was thinking about Sepp Dietrich or in order to warn me of a threat? If I look back on it, I was also thinking about Hausser and Bittrich and Meindl . . . Then did it sound for me? And if so, what threat did it mean to warn me of?

  When I told Ingeborg about it, she suggested that I spend less time in the room. According to her we should sign up for some jogging sessions or exercise classes run by the hotel. Poor Ingeborg, she just doesn’t get it. I promised I would talk to Frau Else. Ten years ago the hotel offered no classes of any kind. Ingeborg said that she would sign us up, that I didn’t need to speak to Frau Else about something that could be taken care of with the receptionist. I said all right, she should do what she thought best.

  Before I got in bed I did two things, namely:

  1. Set up the armored corps for the lightning attack on France.

  2. Went out on the balcony and searched for some light on the beach that might indicate the presence of El Quemado, but all was dark.

  AUGUST 26

  I’m following Ingeborg’s instructions. Today I spent more time than usual at the beach. The resul
t is that my shoulders are red from the sun and this afternoon I had to go buy a cream to take away the sting. Of course we were next to the pedal boats and since there was nothing else to do I spent the time talking to El Quemado. The day brought a few bits of news. The first is that yesterday Charly got outrageously drunk with the Wolf and the Lamb. Hanna, weepy, told Ingeborg that she didn’t know what to do: leave him or not? She can’t stop thinking about going back to Germany alone. She misses her son; she’s fed up and tired. Her only consolation is her perfect tan. Ingeborg says that it all depends on whether she really loves Charly or not. Hanna doesn’t know what to answer. The other news is that the manager of the Costa Brava has asked them to leave the hotel. It seems that last night Charly and the Spaniards tried to beat up the night watchman. Ingeborg, despite the signs I was making to her, suggested that they move to the Del Mar. Luckily Hanna is determined that the manager change his mind or at least return their deposit. I expect that everything will be resolved with a few explanations and apologies. In response to Ingeborg’s question about where she was when all this took place, Hanna answers that she was in their room, sleeping. Charly didn’t show up on the beach until noon, looking the worse for wear and dragging his board. Hanna, when she saw him, whispered in Ingeborg’s ear:

  “He’s killing himself.”

  Charly’s version is completely different. He couldn’t care less about the manager and his threats. He says, with his eyes half closed and looking as sleepy as if he’d just stepped out of bed:

  “We can move to the Wolf’s house. Cheaper and more authentic. That way you’ll get to know the real Spain.” And he winks at me.

  He’s only half joking. The Wolf’s mother rents rooms in the summer, with board or without, at modest prices. For a moment it seems that Hanna is about to cry. Ingeborg steps in and calms her down. In the same joking tone she asks Charly whether the Wolf and the Lamb aren’t falling in love with him. But the question is serious. Charly laughs and says no. Then, recovered, Hanna says that she’s the one the Wolf and the Lamb want to get into bed.

  “The other night they kept touching me,” she says, at once mortified and coquettish.

  “Because you’re pretty,” explains Charly, unperturbed. “I’d try it too if I didn’t already know you, wouldn’t I?”

  The conversation swings all of a sudden to places as far-flung as Oberhausen’s Discotheque 33 and the Telephone Company. Hanna and Charly begin to wax sentimental and remember all of the places with romantic significance for them. But after a while, Hanna insists:

  “You’re killing yourself.”

  Charly puts an end to the reproaches by grabbing his board and heading into the water.

  At first my conversation with El Quemado centered on topics like whether anyone had ever stolen a pedal boat from him, whether the work was hard, whether he didn’t get bored spending so many hours on the beach under that merciless sun, whether he had time to eat, whether he could say who among the foreigners were his best customers, etc. His answers, invariably succinct, were as follows: twice someone had stolen a pedal boat, or rather, left it abandoned at the other end of the beach; the work wasn’t hard; sometimes he got bored but not often; he ate sandwiches, as I suspected; he had no idea which country’s natives rented the most pedal boats. I contented myself with his answers, and I endured the intervals of silence that followed. Clearly he wasn’t used to conversation, and, as I noted by his evasive gaze, he was rather mistrustful. A few steps away, the bodies of Ingeborg and Hanna shone, soaking in the sun’s rays. Then, suddenly, I said that I’d rather be back at the hotel. He glanced at me without curiosity and continued to watch the horizon, where his pedal boats were nearly indistinguishable from the pedal boats belonging to other stands. Far away I spotted a windsurfer who kept falling again and again. From the color of the sail I realized it wasn’t Charly. I said that mountains were my thing, not the sea. I liked the sea, but I liked mountains better. El Quemado made no comment.

  We were silent for a while again. The sun was scorching my shoulders but I didn’t move or do anything to protect myself. In profile, El Quemado looked like a different person. I don’t mean that he was less disfigured (actually, the side facing me was the more disfigured) but simply that he looked like someone else. More remote. Like a bust of pumice stone fringed with coarse, dark hairs.

  I can’t remember what made me confess that I wanted to be a writer. El Quemado turned around and, after hesitating, said that it was an interesting profession. I made him repeat what he’d said because at first I thought I’d misheard him.

  “But not of novels or plays,” I explained.

  El Quemado’s lips parted and he said something I couldn’t hear.

  “What?”

  “Poet?”

  Under his scars I seemed to glimpse a kind of monstrous smile. I thought the sun must be addling me.

  “No, no, definitely not a poet.”

  I explained, now that I had paved the way for it, that I in no way scorned poetry; I could have recited from memory lines by Klopstock or Schiller. But to write poetry in this day and age, unless it was for the love object, was a bit pointless, didn’t he agree?

  “Or grotesque,” said the poor wretch, nodding.

  How can someone so deformed say that something is grotesque without taking it personally? Strange. In any case, my sense that El Quemado was secretly smiling grew stronger. Maybe it was his eyes that conveyed the hint of a smile. He hardly ever looked at me, but when he did I caught in his gaze a spark of jubilation and strength.

  “Specialized writer,” I said. “Creative essayist.”

  On the spot, I sketched in broad strokes a picture of the world of war games, with all its magazines, competitions, local clubs, etc. In Barcelona, I explained, there were a few associations in operation, for example, and although as far as I knew no federation existed, Spanish players were beginning to be quite active in the field of European competitions. In Paris I had met a few.

  “It’s a sport on the rise,” I said.

  El Quemado mulled over my words, then he got up to retrieve a pedal boat that was coming in to shore; with no sign of effort he pulled it back into the roped-offarea.

  “I did read something about people who play with little lead soldiers,” he said. “It wasn’t too long ago, I think, at the beginning of the summer . . .”

  “Yes, it’s essentially the same thing. Like rugby and American football. But I’m not very interested in lead soldiers, although they’re all right . . . they look a little bit fussy.” I laughed. “I prefer board games.”

  “What do you write about?”

  “Anything. Give me any war or campaign and I’ll tell you how it can be won or lost, the flaws of the game, where the designer got it right or wrong, the correct scale, the original order of battle . . .”

  El Quemado watches the horizon. With his big toe he digs a little hole in the sand. Behind us Hanna has fallen asleep and Ingeborg is reading the last few pages of the Florian Linden novel; when our eyes meet she smiles and blows me a kiss.

  For a moment I wonder whether El Quemado has a girlfriend. Or whether he’s ever had one.

  What girl could kiss that terrible mask? But there’s someone for everyone, I know.

  After a while:

  “You must have lots of fun,” he said.

  I heard his voice as if it were coming from far away. The light bounced offthe surface of the sea, making a kind of wall that grew until it touched the clouds, which—fat, heavy, the color of dirty milk—were drifting almost imperceptibly toward the cliffs to the north. Under the clouds a parachute came in toward the beach, pulled by a speedboat. I said I felt a little sick. It must be the work waiting for me, I said, I’m a wreck until I finish what I’ve started. I did my best to explain that being a specialized writer required a complicated and cumbersome setup. (This was the main argument that the players of computerized war games could make in their favor: the savings of space and time.) I confessed that for d
ays a huge game had been spread out in my hotel room and that I should really be working on it.

  “I promised to turn in an essay at the beginning of September, and here I am, lazing around.”

  El Quemado didn’t say anything. I added that the essay was for an American magazine.

  “It’s an unheard-of variant. No one’s ever come up with anything like it.”

  Maybe it was the sun that was making me ramble on. In my defense I should say that since I’d left Stuttgart I hadn’t had the chance to talk to anyone about war games. My fellow gamers will know what I mean. For us it’s fun to talk about games. But clearly I’d chosen the strangest conversation partner I could possibly have found.

  El Quemado seemed to understand that I had to play in order to write.

  “But that way you must always win,” he said, showing his ruined teeth.

  “Not at all. If you play yourself there’s no way to cheat with strategies or maneuvers. All the cards are on the table. If my variant works, it’s because it’s mathematically guaranteed to work. As it happens, I’ve already tested it a few times, and both times I won, but it needs to be polished and that’s why I play alone.”

  “You must write very slowly,” he said.

  “No,” I said, laughing, “I write like lightning. I play slowly but I write fast. People say I’m high-strung but it isn’t true; they say it because of the way I write. Without stopping!”

  “I write fast too,” murmured El Quemado.