But I had stopped listening to Romero. I was thinking of Bibiano O’Ryan, Marta Posadas, and the sea staring me in the face. For a moment I imagined Fat Marta working in a hospital in Concepción, married and reasonably happy. Unwittingly, unwillingly she had been the devil’s intimate, but she was alive. I imagined her with children, still a keen reader, but prudent and balanced in her choices. Then I thought of Bibiano O’Ryan, who had stayed in Chile and followed Wieder’s tracks. I saw him working in the shoe shop, helping doubtful-looking middle-aged women try on high-heeled shoes, or serving innocuous children, with a shoe-horn in one hand and a sad-looking Bata shoe box in the other, smiling absently, day after day, until he reached the age of thirty-three, just like Jesus Christ, and then I saw him publishing successful books, signing copies at the Santiago Book Fair (if such a thing exists) and spending semesters as a visiting professor at North American universities, whimsically deciding to lecture on the new Chilean poetry or contemporary Chilean poetry (whimsically, because the serious choice would have been the novel) and mentioning me, albeit near the end of his list, out of sheer loyalty or pity: An odd sort of poet, working, last I heard, in a factory somewhere in Europe … I saw him climbing like a sherpa towards the peak of his career, winning respect, status and wealth, perfectly placed to settle his scores with the past. I don’t know what it was that possessed me: melancholy, nostalgia or justifiable envy (which in Chile, by the way, is often the cruellest kind), but for a moment I thought that Bibiano might have hired Romero. I said so. No, it’s not your friend, Romero said. He wouldn’t have enough money to get me started. My client, he said, lowering his voice and adopting a falsely confidential tone, is someone who has real money, if you see what I mean. Of course, I said, and he didn’t make it from writing. Romero smiled to himself. Look at the sea, he said. Look at the countryside. Beautiful, isn’t it? I looked out of the window: on one side the sea looked as calm as a millpond; on the other, in the orchards of the Maresme, black men were laboring.
The train stopped in Blanes. Romero said something I didn’t catch and we got off. I felt as if I had a cramp in my legs. Outside the station, in the little square that seemed round although it was in fact square, a red bus and a yellow bus were parked. Romero bought some chewing gum. Noticing how drawn I looked and hoping to cheer me up, I suppose, he asked which bus I thought we were going to take. The red one, I said. Right you are, said Romero.
The bus dropped us off in Lloret. It was the middle of a dry spring and there were not many tourists around. We took a street that led downhill, then one that climbed steeply and another that brought us to a district full of holiday flats, most of them unoccupied. The silence was strange, intensified by faint animal noises, as if there were a field or a farm nearby. In one of the soulless buildings surrounding us lived Carlos Wieder.
How did I end up here? I thought. How many streets did I have to walk to end up on this one?
During the train journey I had asked Romero if it had been hard to find Delorme. No, he said, it was simple. He was still working in Paris as a caretaker, and treated every visitor as a potential source of publicity. I pretended to be a journalist, said Romero. And did he believe you? Of course he did. I told him I was planning to publish the complete history of the barbaric writers in a Colombian newspaper. Delorme was in Lloret last summer. In fact, the apartment where Defoe is staying belongs to one of his disciples. Poor Defoe, I said. Romero looked at me as if I’d gone mad. I don’t feel sorry for people like that, he said. By then we had reached the building: tall, wide, devoid of style, a typical product of the tourist boom, with empty balconies and an anonymous, neglected façade. I couldn’t imagine anyone living in it, or perhaps just a few sad cases left over from last summer. I wanted to know what was going to happen to Wieder. Romero didn’t answer my question. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, I murmured, as if someone else could hear me, although we were the only two people in the street. I couldn’t look at Romero or at Wieder’s building; I felt I was trapped in a recurring nightmare. When I wake up, I thought, my mother will make me a mortadella sandwich and I’ll go off to school. But I wasn’t going to wake up. This is where he lives, said Romero. The building and the whole district were empty, waiting for the start of the next tourist season. For a moment I thought we were going in and I hung back. Keep walking, said Romero. His voice sounded calm, like the voice of a man who knows that in real life things always turn out badly and there’s no point getting worked up about it. I felt his hand brush against my elbow. Keep going straight ahead, he said, and don’t look back. We must have been an odd sight, the pair of us.
The building resembled a fossilized bird. For a moment I had the impression that Carlos Wieder’s eyes were watching me from every window. I’m getting really nervous, I said to Romero. Does it show? No, my friend, he replied, you’re doing well. Romero was quite unruffled and that helped me to calm down. A few streets further on we stopped at the door of a bar, which seemed to be the only place open in the area. It had an Andalusian name and the décor was a rather sad attempt to reproduce the atmosphere of a typical Seville taberna. Romero came to the door with me. He looked at his watch. He’ll come here for a coffee in a while, I can’t say when exactly. And what if he doesn’t turn up? I know for sure he comes every day, said Romero, and he’ll come today. But what if, for some reason, he doesn’t? Well, then we’ll come back tomorrow, said Romero, but he’ll come, don’t you worry. I nodded. Have a good look at him and then you can tell me. Take a seat and don’t move. It might be hard not to move, I said. Do your best. I smiled at him. I was only joking, I said. Must be your nerves, said Romero. I’ll come back when it gets dark. Rather too firmly and solemnly, we shook hands. Have you brought something to read? Yes, I said. What is it? I showed him. Hmm, I don’t know if it’s a good choice, said Romero, with a dubious expression. A magazine or a newspaper might have been better. Don’t worry, I said, this is a writer I like a lot. Romero looked at me one last time and said, See you soon, and remember, it’s more than twenty years ago now.
From the front windows of the bar there was a view of the sea, with a few fishing boats at work near the coast, under an intensely blue sky. I ordered a coffee with milk and tried to calm down; I felt as if my heart was going to burst out of my chest. The bar was almost empty. There was a woman sitting at a table reading a magazine and two men talking or arguing with the bartender. I opened the book, the Complete Works of Bruno Schulz, translated by Juan Carlos Vidal, and tried to read. After a few pages I realized I wasn’t understanding anything. I was reading, but the words went scuttling past like beetles, busy at incomprehensible tasks. I thought of Bibiano again, and Fat Marta. I didn’t want to think about the Garmendia sisters, so distant now, or the other women, but I couldn’t help myself.
Nobody came into the bar; nobody moved. Time seemed to be standing still. I started to feel sick; the fishing boats on the sea had turned into yachts (so there must be wind, I thought). The coast was uniformly grey and every once in a while someone walked or cycled past on the broad, empty pavement. I estimated that it would take about five minutes to get to the beach. It was downhill all the way.
There was hardly a cloud in the sky. An ideal sky, I thought.
Then Carlos Wieder came in and sat down by the front window, three tables away. For a nauseating moment I could see myself almost joined to him, like a vile Siamese twin, looking over his shoulder at the book he had opened (a scientific book, about the greenhouse effect or the origin of the universe), so close he couldn’t fail to notice, but, as Romero had predicted, Wieder didn’t recognize me.
He had aged. Like me, I suppose. But no, much more than me. He was fatter, more wrinkled; he looked at least ten years older than I did, although in fact there was a difference of only two or three years. He was staring at the sea and smoking and glancing at his book every now and then. Just like me, I realized with a fright, stubbing out my cigarette and trying to merge into the pages of my book. But Bruno Schulz’s w
ords had momentarily taken on a monstrous character that was almost intolerable. I felt that Wieder’s lifeless eyes were scrutinizing me, while the letters on the pages I was turning (perhaps too quickly) were no longer beetles but eyes, the eyes of Bruno Schulz, opening and closing, over and over, eyes pale as the sky, shining like the surface of the sea, opening, blinking, again and again, in the midst of total darkness. No, not total, in the midst of a milky darkness, like the inside of a storm cloud.
When I looked again at Carlos Wieder, he had turned side on. It struck me that he had a hard look peculiar to certain Latin Americans over the age of forty, quite different from the hardness you see in Europeans or North Americans. A sad, irreparable sort of hardness. But Carlos Wieder (who had won the heart of at least one of the Garmendia sisters) did not appear to be sad and that is precisely where the infinite sadness lay. He seemed adult. But he wasn’t adult, I knew that straightaway. He seemed self-possessed. And in his own way, on his own terms, whatever they were, he was more self-possessed than the rest of us in that sleepy bar, or most of the people walking by on the beach or invisibly at work, getting ready for the imminent tourist season. He was hard, he had nothing or very little and it didn’t seem to bother him much. He seemed to be going through a rough patch. He had the face of a man who knows how to wait without losing his nerve or letting his imagination run wild. He didn’t look like a poet. He didn’t look as if he had been an officer in the Chilean Air Force. He didn’t look like an infamous killer. He didn’t look like a man who had flown to Antarctica to write a poem in the sky. Not at all.
As it was starting to get dark, he rummaged in his pocket for a coin, left it on the table by way of a meager tip, got up and went out. The door was behind me; when I heard it swing shut, I didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or crying. I sighed with relief. The feeling of freedom, of having finally solved a problem, was so intense I was worried the others would read it on my face. The two men were still at the bar, talking quietly (not arguing at all), as if they had all the time in the world. A cigarette hung from the bartender’s lips as he watched the woman, who now and then looked up from her magazine and smiled at him. She must have been around thirty and her profile was striking. Deep in thought, she looked somehow Greek, or as if she’d been Greek in another life. Suddenly I felt light-hearted and hungry. I caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a ham roll and a beer. When he brought them out we exchanged a few words. I tried to go on reading, but I couldn’t, so I just sat there, eating, drinking and looking out of the window at the sea, while I waited for Romero.
He arrived shortly and we left together. At first we seemed to be going away from Wieder’s building, but in fact we were just circling around it. Is it him? asked Romero. Yes, I said. Are you certain? I’m certain. I was going to say something more, launch into ethical and aesthetic reflections on the passing of time (stupidly, since as far as Wieder was concerned, time meant nothing more than erosion), but Romero quickened his pace. He has a job to do, I thought. We have a job to do, I realized, horrified. We made our way through streets and alleys until Wieder’s building loomed on the horizon, lit by the moon. It was somehow different from the buildings around it, which seemed to be shrinking away or losing definition, as if it had cast a spell or were repelling them with its concentrated solitude.
Romero steered me into a small park, full of plants like a botanical garden. He pointed to a bench almost hidden by the branches. Wait for me here, he said. I sat down obediently. I was trying to make out his face in the darkness. Are you going to kill him? I murmured. Romero gestured in reply, but it was too dark to see what he meant. Wait for me here or go to the station in Blanes and catch the first train. We’ll see each other back in Barcelona. It’s not a good idea, I said. It could ruin our lives, yours and mine, and anyway what’s the point? He’s not going to do any more harm now. It’s not going to ruin my life, said Romero. Quite the opposite; it’s going to set me up. And as to whether he’ll do any more harm, all I can say is: we don’t know, we can’t know; you’re not God and nor am I; we’re only doing what we can, that’s all. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell by the voice emanating from his rock-still silhouette that he was making an effort to be convincing. It’s not worth it, I persisted. It’s over now. No one needs to get hurt now. Romero slapped me on the shoulder. Better you stay out of this, he said. I’ll be back soon.
As his footfalls grew fainter, I sat there watching the dark shrubs, their tangled branches weaving random designs as they shifted in the wind. Then I lit a cigarette and began to think about trivial matters. Like time. The greenhouse effect. The increasingly distant stars.
I tried to think of Wieder. I tried to imagine him alone in his flat, an anonymous dwelling, as I pictured it, on the fourth floor of an empty eight-floor building, watching television or sitting in an armchair, drinking, as Romero’s shadow glided steadily towards him. I tried to imagine Carlos Wieder, but I couldn’t. Or maybe I didn’t really want to.
Half an hour later Romero returned, with a folder under his arm, one of those folders that kids take to school, with elastic bands to hold it closed. It was bulging with papers, but could have held more. It was green, like the shrubs in the park, and worn. That was all. Romero didn’t seem any different. He didn’t seem better or worse than before. He was breathing easily. As I looked at him it struck me that he was the spitting image of Edward G. Robinson. If you can imagine Edward G. Robinson put through a meat grinder and slightly rearranged: thinner, with darker skin and more hair, but the same lips, the same nose and above all the same knowing eyes. Eyes ready to believe that anything is possible but knowing, too, that nothing can be undone. Let’s go, he said.
We took the bus from Lloret back to Blanes and then the train to Barcelona. Along the way Romero made a couple of attempts to start a conversation. He praised the “boldly modern” design of Spanish trains. He said what a pity it was he wouldn’t be able to see Barcelona play at the Nou Camp. I said nothing or replied with monosyllables. I didn’t feel like talking. I remember it was a beautiful, calm night outside. Groups of boys and girls kept getting on at one station and off at the next, as if it were a game. They were probably going to local discos: less expensive and closer to home. All of them were under eighteen and some had the look of young heroes. They seemed to be happy. Later we stopped in a bigger station and a group of workers who could have been their parents got on. And later still, but I’m not sure when, we went through various tunnels and one of the girls shrieked when the lights in the compartment went out. When they came on again, I looked at Romero’s face; it was the same as ever. Finally, when we arrived at the Plaza Cataluña station, we began to talk. I asked him what it had been like. Like these things always are, he said. Difficult.
We walked back to my flat. When we got there, he opened his suitcase, took out an envelope and handed it to me. In the envelope were three hundred thousand pesetas. I don’t need this much money, I said after counting it. It’s yours, said Romero, as he packed the folder in his case with his clothes and shut it. You’ve earned it. I haven’t earned anything, I said. Instead of replying, Romero went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Where will you be going? I asked him. Paris, he said. I’ve got a flight at midnight; I want to sleep in my own bed tonight. We had a last cup of tea together and I went down to the street with him. We stood there for a while on the edge of the pavement waiting for a taxi, not knowing what to say. Nothing like this has ever happened to me, I confessed. That’s not true, said Romero very gently. Worse things have happened to us, think about it. You could be right, I admitted, but this really has been a dreadful business. Dreadful, repeated Romero, as if he were savouring the word. Then he laughed quietly, grinning like a rabbit, and said, Well, what else could it have been? I wasn’t in a laughing mood, but I laughed all the same. Romero looked at the sky, the lighted windows, the car headlights, the neon signs, and he seemed small and tired. Soon, I guessed, he would be sixty. And I had already passed for
ty. A taxi pulled up beside us. Look after yourself, my friend, he said, and off he went.