Remo Morán:
It kills me to see people leaving like this
It kills me to see people leaving like this, said the Rookie, while I hang on here hoping for a miracle. The elemental miracle or the miracle of understanding. In the afternoon, I’d go down to the beach to see him, and he was almost always in the same place: a stand where a huge guy with a scarred face rented out pedal-boats. The Rookie looked like a dwarf beside him, and felt safe: they didn’t talk, they just stayed together until it got dark; then they went off in opposite directions. That was the only pedal-boat stand left on the beach, and there were hardly any takers. To help out, the Rookie sometimes went along the beach offering people pedal-boats, but no one paid any attention. Around that time, Nuria left Z without saying a word to me. According to Laia, she went to live with a friend in Barcelona, where she had found work. Lola and our son moved to Gerona. Alex had started getting ready to close down the jewelry stores, the campground and the hotel (the Cartago would stay open through the winter, as usual) and only emerged from his office for meals. There were very few people left in the campground, except for a group of retired vacationers run wild, who threw a party every night as if they could sense death approaching. The scandal over the Palacio Benvingut had abated, although Rosquelles’ embezzlement was still a topic of conversation in Z; the Socialist and Covergencia parties were using it as a political weapon in their battle for the council. Other scandals had come to light throughout Spain, and the world went imperturbably spinning on its way through the void. As for me, I was starting to get tired of Z, and sometimes thought about leaving, but where would I go? I thought about selling up and living on a farm near Gerona, but that was not a good idea. Nor was moving to Barcelona, or returning to Chile. Maybe Mexico, but no, deep down I knew I didn’t have the courage to go back there. All we need now is for it to start snowing, said the Rookie one afternoon, as we were walking along the Paseo Marítimo, by the beach, where a few solitary bathers had dug themselves into the sand, or were jogging along in a desperate attempt to lose weight or get into shape. Snowing? Yes, boss, said the Rookie, with a feverish glint in his eye (he was drunk or high), yes, so the snow can cover me up and kill me . . .
Gaspar Heredia:
We had a week left to go
We had a week left to go. Bobadilla had started gradually laying off the staff, and one day I woke up and found out that Rosa and Azucena had gone back to El Prat. Before they left, they’d bought a cake and had a little send-off. I was sad to hear they’d gone and sorry to have slept through the party. Caridad saved me a piece of cake, which I ate at the back of the campground, staring at the fences and the shadows moving on the walls of the neighboring buildings, which were almost all empty. The thought of leaving Z filled me with apprehension, but we had to go. In the meantime Caridad suggested we visit the Palacio Benvingut one last time. I flatly refused. Why go back there? It wasn’t like we’d left anything behind. It was better to stay within the confines of the campground until the day of our definitive departure. Caridad seemed to be convinced, but she wasn’t. For a moment, her eyes were covered by the blurry film that was the sign and agent of a force sucking her away toward another reality. It’s because she’s exhausted, I told myself, that’s all, and her bad diet. Or: when eyes are very dark, black in fact, they’re bound look blurry in certain kinds of light. But to be honest I couldn’t reassure myself. With each passing day my fear intensified. Fear of what? I can’t say for sure, although I guess it was fear of coming to the end of happiness. It’s symptomatic of my state of mind that when I was alone, I passed the time making calculations on paper or with a stick on the ground: how much Remo Morán owed me, plus the bonus, and the number of months it would last, roughly until Christmas, a great time to run out of money. I hoped to have another job by then, even if it was playing Santa Claus or one of the Magi. Sometimes I found myself thinking about the police. I dreamed of dim, windswept police stations, and gutted filing cabinets, their contents strewn on the floor, yellow record cards for foreigners whose residency permits had expired years ago, documents that would never be read again, gradually obliterated by time: cases filed and lost. The faces of killers filed and lost. Now the war is over and all legal immigrants are allowed to work. I tried to be positive when I woke up—telling myself the worst was behind us, everything had worked out fine—but I couldn’t escape that precarious feeling. Once I was woken by Caridad’s voice softly saying that she wanted to go to the Palacio Benvingut to avenge Carmen. I opened my eyes, thinking that she was talking to someone outside the tent, but no, she was lying right beside me, whispering the words into my ear. Why spoil everything with that damn palace? I mumbled, still half asleep. Caridad laughed as if she had been caught playing a mischievous game. Not a glimmer of daylight was showing through the canvas, so I assumed that night had fallen; the silence of the evening in the empty campground was physically chilling, and I had the impression, I don’t know why, that there was a dense fog outside. Avenge Carmen? I asked: How? Caridad didn’t answer. Do you think the killer will return to the scene of the crime? I felt Caridad’s lips moving down from my ear to my neck, where they stopped: I felt her lips, then her teeth, then her tongue. I rolled over, feeling sick, and tried to make out her face. Caridad’s eyes were invisible in the darkness. Poor Carmen, she said, I know who killed her. I’ve talked about it with your friend Remo. When? I asked. He came to see me a couple days ago and we had a good talk about it. So Remo knows who killed Carmen? Me too, said Caridad. Why do you want to go to the Palacio Benvingut, then? You should go to the police, I said. After that, there was no way I could get back to sleep . . .
Enric Rosquelles:
I was released a week after
I was released a week after my essay won first prize in the European Prison Project competition, sponsored by the EU. The time spent in prison had, I felt, calmed my nerves and allowed me to adopt a more detached and balanced outlook. Definitely more detached and balanced. Some prisoners say it’s pretty much the same inside and outside. And they’re not entirely wrong. But personally I prefer life on the outside. I had lost weight and grown a moustache; I was also, surprising as it may seem, much more suntanned than before, and in perfect health. At the gate I was met by my mother and aunts, and before I knew what was going on, I was at the home of one of my cousins (the architect), where I remained hidden for three days, under the control of my mother’s family; that much at least was due to them, they felt, given their contribution to the bail. In private, my cousin’s wife confessed to me that they’d feared another act of madness on my part. Suicide! The poor dears! If I hadn’t killed myself inside, why would I try now that I was free, with my family to support me? But I didn’t contradict them; I let them organize my life however they liked. In any case, I have always respected the family’s solid good sense. During this new confinement, my contact with the outside world was limited to a few phone calls. I spoke with the governor of the Gerona prison, who was not only delighted about the prize but had already started planning further articles for us to write together, on a range of what he called “sociological” topics. Juanito, that was his name, was thinking of asking for a year’s leave of absence from the civil service, because, as a result of the prize, he had been offered a job by an important publishing house in Madrid, and as he said, Why not give it a try? I can’t remember if the publishing house specialized in “sociological” books or literature, but whichever it was, I’m sure Juanito will go far. I made
another call, trying to find Nuria. First I spoke with her mother, then with Laia. Her mother informed me, in a polite but cool tone, that Nuria no longer lived in Z, and as far as she knew, her daughter would prefer not to see me again. Later I spoke with Laia, who told me that Nuria was working as a secretary for a Dutch firm with an office in Barcelona, and that a month or so earlier photos of her had appeared in a well-known magazine with a nationwide circulation. What photos? Artistic nude shots, said Laia, controlling the urge to laugh. I spent more than a week trying to get hold of the magazine, but all my efforts were in vain. One night, when I was back home, I dreamed I was searching for the nude shots of Nuria, wandering in pajamas through a vast dusty newspaper archive, which resembled (and just remembering this gives me goose bumps) the Palacio Benvingut. Coated in grey gelatin, suffocating in silence, I rummaged on shelves and in boxes, with the dim certitude that if I could find the photos, I would understand the significance, the cause, the true and hidden meaning of what had happened to me. But the photos never turned up . . .
Remo Morán:
I killed her, boss, said the Rookie
I killed her, boss, said the Rookie, as the waves washed up the sand toward his knees, at regular intervals, each coming a little closer than the last. The beach was empty; on the horizon, over the sea, fat black clouds were stirring. In an hour, I thought, the first storm of autumn would pass over Z like an aircraft carrier, and no one would hear us. (No one would hear us?) Don’t ask me why, boss, said the Rookie, I swear I don’t even know myself, though it’s probably because I’m sick. But what’s wrong with me? I don’t feel any pain. What demon or devil possessed me? Is it because of this miserable town? The Rookie was kneeling on the sand, looking out to sea with his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face, but I thought he was crying. His hair was sticking to his skull; it looked like it was slicked down with gel. I told him to calm down; we could go somewhere else. (Where was I going to take him?) I didn’t leave when I should have left, he replied, which proves that I still have balls, and I’ve waited as long as humanly possible for the truth to dawn on the police, but nobody wants to work in this country, so here I am, boss, he sighed. At last the waves reached the Rookie’s knees. A shiver ran through his ragged clothes. I took the knife she kept to defend herself (who from? not me!) and from that moment on I was a wild animal, sobbed the Rookie. What are they waiting for? Why don’t they arrest me? Why would they arrest you when you’re not even a suspect? I said. The Rookie kept quiet for a moment; the storm was already overhead. I killed her, boss, that’s a fact, and now this crazy, miserable town seems have gone on honeymoon. It began to pour. Before getting up and heading back to the hotel, I asked him how he had known that the singer lived in the Palacio Benvingut. The Rookie turned and looked at me with the innocence of a child (between two flashes of lightning I saw the freshly washed face of my son, dripping with water): By following her, boss, following her up and down these hilly streets, just trying to keep watch over her. Just looking for a little human warmth. Was she alone? The Rookie drew signs in the air. There’s nothing more to say, he said . . .
Gaspar Heredia:
We took the Barcelona train one overcast afternoon
We took the Barcelona train one overcast afternoon, after a rainy morning that flooded the few tents still pitched at Stella Maris. Our belongings turned out to be more numerous than a quick inspection had led us to believe, so we needed some plastic bags, which we found at the only supermarket still open. Even so we had no choice but to abandon quite a few things that Caridad was attached to: magazines, press cuttings, seashells, stones, an ample range of souvenirs of Z. I hope that when Bobadilla finds those remains he slings them in the trash without a second thought. The night before we left, Remo came to the office and handed me an envelope with my pay and a substantial bonus: enough to buy one-way tickets to Mexico for Caridad and me. Remo and I talked for a while on the far side of the pool, where no one could hear us. I suspect we were both hiding something. It was a brief farewell: I accompanied him to the gate, and thanked him. Morán told me to take care; we hugged and off he went. I have never seen him since. That night Caridad and I said goodbye to El Carajillo. The next morning was hectic: the rain leaked into the tent and wet our clothes and sleeping bags. We were soaking when we left for the station. By the time we got there it had stopped raining. On the other side of the tracks, in an orchard, I saw a donkey. He was under a tree, and every now and then he brayed, making all the travelers on the platforms turn to look at him. He seemed to be happy, after the rain. Then, as if spewed from a black cloud, two cops from the national police and a guardia civil appeared at the end of the station. I thought they had come to arrest us. From the corner of my eye, I watched them walk along toward us, in no hurry at all, gun hands at the ready. We’re two of a kind, that donkey and me, said Caridad in a dreamy voice. Foreigners in our own land. I would have liked to tell her she was wrong, to point out that in the eyes of the law, I was the only foreigner, but I kept my mouth shut. I put my arm gently around her waist and waited. Caridad might have been foreign to God, to the police and even to herself, but she wasn’t foreign to me. I could have said the same for the donkey. The cops stopped halfway down the platform. They went into the station bar, first the police, then the guardia civil, and by an auditory miracle I clearly heard them order two coffees with milk and one carajillo. The donkey brayed again. We kept watching him for a good while. Caridad put her arm around my shoulders and we stayed like that until the train came . . .
Enric Rosquelles:
When I finally returned to Z, it was all so different
When I finally returned to Z, it was all so different that my first thought was: I must have taken a wrong turn. For a start, no one recognized me, which was amazing, given that for several weeks I had been the talk of the town, and it was hard to believe that the whole business had been forgotten so quickly. Secondly, many of the buildings and streets in Z looked unfamiliar, as if the townscape had been modified in subtle but distressingly noticeable ways: the storefronts seemed to be elements in a vast camouflage operation; the bare trees were not where they should have been, and in some streets the flow of the traffic had altered substantially. But as I got out of the car, I noticed that City Hall presented the same imperturbable façade, although Pilar was no longer mayor (she had been easily beaten in the last election) and I was no longer her trusty factotum. I came to the bittersweet understanding that the institution would remain the same in spite of changing circumstances, or to put it another way: even though human beings like Pilar and myself were prepared to give our all and sacrifice our careers in the attempt to bring about change, nothing could shift the venerable and senseless stones of City Hall. Having realized that, it was easier to accept the transformation of the town. In any case, applying the principle of caution, which I had recently come to appreciate in prison, all I did was have a drink in a bar and use the washroom, then walk along the Paseo Marítimo to stretch my legs a bit, before going back to the car. Was I tempted to visit the Palacio Benvingut? Well, the simplest answer would be no, or yes. To tell the truth, I did drive out that way, but that’s all. There’s a curve in the highway on the way to Y, from which you can see the cove and the palace. When I got there I braked, turned around and drove back to Z. What good would it have done me, going there? I would only have been adding to the sum of pain. Besides, in winter, it’s a sad place. The stones I remembered as blue were grey. The paths I remembered as bathed
in light were strewn with shadows. So I braked, made a U-turn and drove back to Z. I avoided looking in the rearview mirror until I was a safe distance away. What’s gone is gone, that’s what I say, you have to keep looking ahead . . .
Copyright © 1993 by The Heirs of Roberto Bolaño
Translation copyright © 2009 by Chris Andrews
Originally published in Spain as La Pista de Hielo in 1993; published by arrangement with the Heirs of Roberto Bolaño and Carmen Balcells Agencia Literaria, Barcelona.
All rights reserved. Except for a brief passage quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bolaño, Roberto, 1953–2003.
[Pista de hielo. English]