Antwerp

by Roberto Bolaño

  12. THE INSTRUCTIONS

  With instructions in an envelope, I left the city. I didn't have far to go, maybe ten or twelve miles south, along the coast highway. I was supposed to start my investigation on the outskirts of a tourist town whose edges had gradually begun to house workers from elsewhere. Some actually had jobs back in the city; others didn't. The places I was supposed to visit were the usual spots: a couple of hotels, the campground, the police station, the restaurant, the gas station. Later I would probably visit other places. The sun beat on the car windows, unusual for October. But the air was cold and the highway was almost deserted. I drove past the first string of factories. Then an artillery barracks, through the open gates of which I could see a group of recruits smoking, their bearing far from military. Six miles further I entered a sort of forest broken up by houses and apartment buildings. I parked the car behind the campground and walked a while as I finished my cigarette, unsure of what to do. Two hundred yards away, just ahead of me, the train appeared. It was a blue train, four cars long at most. It was almost empty. I turned back. I sounded the horn several times but no one came to raise the barrier. The drive was gravel, shaded by tall pines; on either side there were tents and RVs camouflaged by the vegetation. I remember noting that it looked like the jungle, though I had never been in a jungle. At the end of the road, where it turned, something was moving, then a trash can came into view, wheeled along by an old man. I waved to him. At first he didn't seem to see me, then he came over, pulling the can after him with a look of resignation. I'm with the police, I said. He swore he had never seen the person I was looking for. Are you sure? I asked, handing him a cigarette. He said he was absolutely sure. It was more or less the same answer I got from everyone. Twilight found me in the car, parked on the Paseo Maritimo. I took out the instructions. The overhead light didn't work, so I had to use a cigarette lighter to read them. A couple of typewritten sheets with handwritten corrections. Nowhere did it say what I should be doing there. With those pages there were some blackandwhite photos. I studied them carefully: it was the stretch of the Paseo Maritimo where I was now, maybe earlier in the day. "Our stories are sad, sergeant, there's no point trying to understand them"... "We've never hurt anyone" ... No point trying to understand them"... "The sea"... I balled up the papers and threw them out the window. In the rearview mirror I thought I could see how the wind swept them away. I turned on the radio, music, a program from the city; I switched it off. I lit a cigarette. I closed the window, still staring ahead, watching the lonely street and the boardedup houses. I was struck by the idea of living in one of them during the winter season. They must be cheaper, I said to myself, unable to suppress a shiver.

  13. THE BAR

  The images set off down the road and yet they never get anywhere, they're simply lost, it's hopeless, says the voice and the hunchback asks himself, hopeless for who? The Roman bridges are our fate now, thinks the author as the images still shine, not too distant, like towns that the car gradually leaves behind. (But in this case the man isn't moving.) "I've made a count of airheads and severed heads" ... "There're definitely more severed heads" ... "Although in eternity it's hard to tell them apart"... I told a Jewish girl, a friend of mine, that it was sad to spend hours in a bar listening to dirty stories. Nobody tried to change the subject. Shit dripped from the sentences at breast height, so that I couldn't stay seated, and I went up to the bar. Stories about cops chasing immigrants. Nothing shocking, really, people upset because they were out of work, etc. These are the sad stories I have to tell you.

  14. SHE HAD RED HAIR

  I remember she moved from place to place without staying anywhere too long. Sometimes she had red hair, her eyes were green. The sergeant came up to her and asked for her papers. She turned to look at the mountains, it was raining there. She didn't talk much, most of the time she just listened to the conversations of the riders from the stable next door, or of the construction workers or the waiters from the restaurant on the highway. The sergeant avoided her eyes, I think he said it was too bad it was raining on the plain, then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. He was really looking for someone else, and he thought she might be able to give him some information. The girl watched the sunset, leaning on the riding school fence. The sergeant walked along a path in the grass, he had broad shoulders and was wearing a navy blue jacket. Slowly it began to rain. She closed her eyes when someone told her that he had dreamed of a corridor full of women without mouths; then she walked away toward the woods. An employee, a tired old man, turned out the lights at the riding school. With his sleeve he wiped the windowpanes. The policeman walked away without saying goodbye. In the dark, she took off her pants in the bedroom. She tried to decide on a corner, the hairs rising on the backs of her arms, and for a few moments she didn't move. The girl had witnessed a rape and the sergeant thought she could serve as witness. But he was really after something else. He put his cards on the table. Fade to black. In a leap he was standing on the bed. Through the dirty windows you could see the stars. I remember it was cold, a clear night. From where he stood the cop could see almost the whole riding school, the stables, the bar that was almost always closed, the rooms. She looked out the window and smiled. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The sergeant said she didn't have to talk if she didn't want to. "My links to the Body are almost nonexistent, especially from their own point of view"... "I'm looking for someone who lived here a few seasons ago, I have reason to think you knew him"... "Impossible to forget someone who looked like that ..."I don't want to hurt you"... "Along the coast they found golden woods and cabins vacant until next summer" ... "Paradise" ... "The redheaded girl watched the sun go down from the stable in flames"...

  15. THE SHEET

  The Englishman said it wasn't worth it. For a long time he wondered what the Englishman meant. Ahead of him the shadow of a man slipped though the forest. He rubbed his knees but made no move to get up. The man popped up from behind a bush. Over his forearm, like a waiter approaching his first customer of the evening, he carried a white sheet. His movements were slightly clumsy and yet he radiated a serene authority when he walked. The hunchback assumed that the man had seen him. With a yellow cord the man tied a corner of the sheet to a pine, then tied the other corner to the branch of another tree. He repeated the operation with the bottom corners, after which the hunchback could only see his legs, because the rest of his body was hidden by the screen. The hunchback heard him cough. Then he came around the other side and contemplated the knots with which the sheet was tied to the pines. Not bad, said the hunchback, but the man ignored him. He reached his left hand up to the top left corner and slid it, the palm against the cloth, to the center. Once he had done that, he removed his hand and tapped the sheet a few times with his index finger to test the tension. He turned to face the hunchback and sighed in contentment. Then he clicked his tongue. His hair fell over his forehead, which was damp with sweat. He had a long red nose. Not bad, in fact, he said. I'm going to show a film. He smiled as if in apology. Before he left he looked up at the darkening treetops.

  16. MY ONE TRUE LOVE

  On the wall someone has written my one true love. She put the cigarette between her lips and waited for the man to light it for her. She was paleskinned and freckled and had mahoganycolored hair. Someone opened the back door of the car and she got in silently. They glided along the deserted streets of a residential neighborhood. It was the time of year when most of the houses were empty. The man parked on a narrow street of singlestory houses with identical yards. She went into the bathroom and he made coffee. The kitchen had brown tiles patterned with arabesques, and looked like a gym. She opened the curtains, there were no lights in any of the houses across the street. She took off her satin dress and the man lit another cigarette for her. Before she pulled down her underpants, the man arranged her on all fours on the soft white rug. She heard him look for something in the wardrobe. A wardrobe built into the wall, a red wardrobe. She watched
him upside down, through her legs. The man smiled at her. Now someone is walking down a street where cars are parked only next to their respective lairs. Above the street, like a hanged man, swings the spotlit sign of the neighborhood's best restaurant, closed a long time ago. Footsteps vanish down the street, headlights are visible in the distance. She said no. She listens. There's someone outside. The man went over to the window, then came back naked toward the bed. She was freckled and sometimes she pretended to be asleep. He looked at her from the door with a kind of detached sweetness. There are silences made just for us. He pressed his face against hers until it hurt and pushed himself into her with a single thrust. Maybe she screamed a little. From the street, however, nothing could be heard. They fell asleep without moving apart. Someone walks away. We see his back, his dirty pants and his downattheheel boots. He goes into a bar and settles himself at the counter as if he feels a prickling all over his body. His movements produce a vague, disturbing sensation in the other drinkers. Is this Barcelona? he asks. At night all the yards look alike, by day the impression is different, as if desires were channeled through the plants and flower beds and climbing vines. "They take good care of their cars and yards" ... "Someone has made a silence especially for us"... "First he moved in and out and then in a circular motion" ... "Her buttocks were covered in scratches" ... "The moon is hiding behind the only tall building in the neighborhood"... "Is this Barcelona?"...

  17. INTERVAL OF SILENCE

  Look at these pictures, said the sergeant. The man who was sitting at the desk flipped through them indifferently. Do you think there's something here? The sergeant blinked with Shakespearean vigor. They were taken a long time ago, he started to say, probably with an old Soviet Zenith. Don't you see anything strange about them? The lieutenant closed his eyes, then lit a cigarette. I don't know what you're talking about. Look, said the voice... "A vacant lot at dusk"... "Long blurry beach" ..."Sometimes you'd think he'd never used a camera before" ... "Crumbling walls, dirty terrace, gravel path, a sign that says Office"... "A cement box by the side of the road"... "Restaurant windows, out of focus" ... I don't know what the hell he's trying to get at. Through the window, the sergeant watched the train go by; it was so crowded there were even passengers on the roof. There're no people in them, he said. The door closes. A cop walks down a long, dimly lit hallway. He passes another cop with a file in his hand. They barely nod at each other. The cop opens the door of a dark room. He stands motionless inside the room, his back against the metal door. Look at these pictures, Lieutenant. It doesn't matter anymore. Look! Nothing matters anymore, go back to your office. "We've been consigned to an interval of silence." All I want is authorization to go back to the place where somebody took these pictures. Verbal authorization. Those cement boxes are for power lines, that's where the fuses go, maybe. I can find the shop where they were developed. This isn't Barcelona, says the voice. Through the foggy window he watched the train go by full of people. The woods are silhouetted against the light just so that halfclosed eyes can enjoy the show. "I had a nightmare, and woke up when I fell out of bed, then I laughed at myself for almost ten minutes straight." There are at least two other cops who would recognize the hunchback, but they're away right now, on special assignments, worse luck. It doesn't matter anymore. In a small photo, black and white like all the rest, you can see the beach and a scrap of sea. Pretty fuzzy. There's something

  written in the sand. Maybe it's a name,

  maybe not, it might just be the

  photographer's footsteps.

  18. THEY TALK BUT THEIR WORDS DON'T REGISTER

  It's absurd to see an enchanted princess in every girl who walks by. What do you think you are, a troubadour? The skinny adolescent whistled in admiration. We were on the edge of the reservoir and the sky was very blue. A few fishermen were visible in the distance and smoke from a chimney rose over the trees. Green wood, for burning witches, said the old man, his lips hardly moving. The point is, there are all kinds of pretty girls in bed at this very moment with technocrats and executives. Five yards from me, a trout leaped. I put out my cigarette and closed my eyes. Closeup of a Mexican girl reading. She's blond, with a long nose and narrow lips. She looks up, turns toward the camera, smiles: streets damp after the rains of August, September, in a Mexico City that doesn't exist anymore. She walks down a residential street in a white coat and boots. With her index finger she presses the button for the elevator. The elevator arrives, she opens the door, selects the floor, and glances at herself in the mirror. Just for an instant. A man, thirty, sitting in a red armchair, watches her come in. He's darkhaired and he smiles at her. They talk but their words don't register on the soundtrack. Anyway, they must be saying things like how was your day, I'm tired, there's an avocado sandwich in the kitchen, thanks, thanks, a beer in the refrigerator. Outside it's raining. The room is cozy, with Mexican furniture and Mexican rugs. The two of them are lying in bed. Small white flashes of lightning. Entwined and still, they look like exhausted children. Though they have no reason to be tired. The camera zooms out. Give me all the information in the world. A blue stripe splits the window in two halves. Like a blue hunchback? He's a bastard but he knows how to feign tenderness. He's a bastard but the hand on her side is gentle. Her face is buried between the pillow and her lover's neck. The camera zooms in: impassive faces that somehow, without intending to, shut you out. The author stares for a long time at the plaster masks, then covers his face. Fade to black. It's absurd to think that this is where all the pretty girls come from. Empty images follow one after the other: the reservoir and the woods, the cabin with a fire in the hearth, the lover in a red robe, the girl who turns and smiles at you. There's nothing diabolic about any of it. The wind tosses the neighborhood trees. A blue hunchback on the other side of the mirror? I don't know. A girl heads away, walking her motorcycle toward the end of the boulevard. If she keeps on in the same direction, she'll reach the sea. Soon she'll reach the sea.

  19. ROMANCE NOVEL

  I was silent for a moment and then I asked whether he really thought Roberto Bolaño had helped the hunchback just because years ago he was in love with a Mexican girl and the hunchback was Mexican too. Yes, said the guitarist, it sounds like a cheap romance novel, but I don't know how else to explain it, I mean in those days Bolaño wasn't overflowing with solidarity or desperation, two good reasons to help the Mexican. But nostalgia, on the other hand ...

  20. SYNOPSIS. THE WIND

  Synopsis. The hunchback in the woods near the campground and the tennis courts and the riding school. In Barcelona a South American is dying in a foulsmelling room. Police dragnets. Cops who fuck nameless girls. The English writer talks to the hunchback in the woods. Death throes and an asshole from South America, on the road. Five or six waiters return to the hotel along a deserted beach. Stirrings of fall. The wind whips up sand and buries them.

  21. WHEN I WAS A BOY

  Stray scenes kaput, longhaired kids on the beach again, but this time I might be dreamingtrees, dampness, paperbacks, slides at the end of which waits a little girl or a friend or a black car. I said wait for a movement of bodies, hairs, tattooed arms, choosing between prison and plastic (or aesthetic) surgery, I said don't wait for me. The hunchback cut out something that looked like a miniature poster and smiled at us from the branch of a pine tree. He was up in a tree, how long he'd been up there I don't know. "I can't get a fix on the frequencies of reality, they're so high"... "A girl, motionless, who nonetheless spins, pinned to a bed that's

  pinned to the parquet that's pinned, etc

  When I was a boy I used to dream

  something like this ' ... The

  straight line is the sea when it's calm, the wavy line is the sea with waves, and the jagged line is a storm" ... "I guess there isn't much aesthetics left in me" .. ."nnnnnnn" ... "A little boat" .. . "nnnnnnn" .. . "nnnnnnn"...

  22. THE SEA

  Photographs of the Castelldefels beach ... Photographs of the campground ... The polluted sea ...
Mediterranean, October in Catalonia ... Alone ... The Zenith's eye...

  They alternated. The straight line made me feel calm.

  The wavy line made me uneasy, I sensed danger but I liked the smoothness: up and down. The last line was agitation. My penis hurt, my belly hurt, etc.

  23. PERFECTION

  Hamlet and La Vita Nuova, in both works there's a youthful breathing. For innocence, says the Englishman, read immaturity. On the screen there's only laughter, silent laughter that startles the spectator as if he were hearing his own last gasps. "Anyone can die" means something different than "Anyone would die." A callow breathing in which it's still possible to discover wonder, play, perversion, purity. "Words are empty"... "If you put that gun away we might be able to negotiate"... On an average of three hours' sleep a night the author writes these threats by the side of a pool at the beginning of the month of October. Innocence, almost like the image of Lola Muriel that I'd like to destroy. (But you can't destroy what you don't possess.) An urge, at the cost of nervous collapse in cheap rooms, propels poetry toward something that detectives call perfection. Deadend street. A basement whose only virtue is its cleanliness. And yet who has been here if not La Vita Nuova and Hamlet. "I write by the pool at the campground, it's October, there are more and more flies now and fewer and fewer people; by the time we're halfway through the month there'll be no one left and the cleaning service will stop coming; the flies will take over until the end of the month, maybe."