And the end of the story, as Pancho Monge tells it, is that six months later William Burns was killed by unidentified assailants.
Detectives
What kind of weapons do you like?”
“Any kind, except for blades.”
“You mean knives, razors, daggers, corvos, switchblades, penknives, that sort of thing?”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“What do you mean, more or less?”
“It’s just a figure of speech, asshole. I don’t like any of that stuff.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“But how can you not like corvos?”
“I just don’t, that’s all.”
“But you’re talking about our national weapon.”
“So the corvo is Chile’s national weapon?”
“Knives in general, I mean.”
“Come off it, compadre.”
“I swear to God, I read it in an article the other day. Chileans don’t like firearms, it must be because of the noise; we’re silent by nature.”
“That must be because of the sea.”
“How do you mean? What sea?”
“The Pacific, of course.”
“Oh, you mean the ocean. And what’s the Pacific Ocean got to do with silence?”
“They say it absorbs noises, useless noises, I mean. I don’t know whether there’s anything to it.”
“So what about the Argentineans?”
“What have they got to do with the Pacific?”
“Well, they’ve got the Atlantic and they’re pretty noisy.”
“But there’s no comparison.”
“You’re right about that, there’s no comparison—but Argentineans like knives as well.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t. Even if they’re the national weapon. I could make an exception, maybe, for penknives, especially Swiss Army knives, but the rest are just a curse.”
“And why’s that, compadre? Come on, explain.”
“I don’t have an explanation, compadre, sorry. That’s just how it is, period; it’s a gut feeling.”
“OK, I see where you’re going with this.”
“Do you? Better tell me then, because I don’t know myself.”
“Well, I know, but I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Mind you, the knife thing does have its advantages.”
“Like what, for example?”
“Well, imagine a gang of thieves armed with automatic rifles. Just an example. Or pimps with Uzis.”
“OK, I’m following you.”
“So you see the advantage?”
“Absolutely, for us. But that’s an insult to Chile, you know, that argument.”
“An insult to Chile! What?”
“It’s an insult to the Chilean character, the way we are, our collective dreams. It’s like being told that all we’re good for is suffering. I don’t know if you follow me, but I feel like I just saw the light.”
“I follow you, but that’s not it.”
“What do you mean, that’s not it?”
“That’s not what I was talking about. I just don’t like knives, period. It’s not some big philosophical question.”
“But you’d like guns to be more popular in Chile. Which doesn’t mean you’d like there to be more of them.”
“I don’t care one way or the other.”
“Anyway, who doesn’t like guns?”
“That’s true, everyone likes guns.”
“Do you want me to explain what I meant about the silence?”
“Sure, as long as you don’t put me to sleep.”
“I won’t, and if you start feeling sleepy, we can stop and I’ll drive.”
“So tell me about the silence then.”
“I read it in an article in El Mercurio.”
“When did you start reading El Mercurio?”
“Sometimes there’s a copy lying round at headquarters, and the shifts are long. Anyway, the article said we’re a Latin people, and Latin people are fixated on knives. Anglo-Saxons, on the other hand, live and die by the gun.”
“It all depends.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
“Until the moment of truth, you never know.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
“We’re slower, you have to admit.”
“How do you mean, slower?”
“Slower in every respect. Old-fashioned in a way.”
“You call that being slow?”
“We’re still using knives, it’s like we’re stuck in the Bronze Age, while the gringos have moved on to the Iron Age.”
“I never liked history.”
“Remember when we arrested Chubby Loayza?”
“How could I forget?”
“There, you see—the guy just gave himself up.”
“Yeah, and he had an arsenal in that house.”
“There, you see.”
“So he should have put up a fight.”
“There were only four of us, and five of them. We just had standard issue weapons and Chubby had an arsenal, including a bazooka.”
“It wasn’t a bazooka, compadre.”
“It was a Franchi SPAS-15! And he had a pair of sawn-off shotguns. But Loayza gave himself up without firing a shot.”
“So you were disappointed, were you?”
“Or course not. But if he’d been called McCurly instead of Loayza, Chubby would have greeted us with a hail of bullets, and maybe he wouldn’t be in jail now.”
“Maybe he’d be dead.”
“Or free, if you get my drift.”
“McCurly? . . . the name rings a bell; wasn’t he in a cowboy movie?”
“I think he was, I think we even saw it together.”
“We haven’t been to the movies together for ages.”
“Well, this would have been ages ago.”
“The arsenal he had, Chubby Loayza; remember how he greeted us?”
“Laughing his head off.”
“I think it was nerves. One of his gang started crying. I don’t think that kid was even seventeen.”
“But Chubby Loayza was over forty and he made himself out to be a tough guy. Though if we’re going to be brutally honest, there aren’t any tough guys in this country.”
“What do you mean there aren’t any tough guys, I’ve seen really tough guys.”
“Crazies, for sure, you’ve seen plenty of them, but tough guys? Very few, or none.”
“And what about Raulito Sánchez? Remember Raulito Sánchez, with his Manurhin?”
“How could I forget him?”
“What about him then?”
“Well, he should have got rid of the revolver straightaway. That was his downfall. Nothing’s easier to trace than a Magnum.”
“The Manurhin is a Magnum?”
“Of course it’s a Magnum.”
“I thought it was a French gun.”
“It’s a .357 French Magnum. That’s why he didn’t get rid of it. It’s an expensive piece and he’d gotten fond of it; there aren’t many in Chile.”
“You learn something new every day.”
“Poor Raulito Sánchez.”
“They say he died in jail.”
“No, he died just after getting out, in a boarding house in Arica.”
“They say his lungs were ruined.”
“He’d been spitting blood since he was a kid, but he was brave, he never complained.”
“I remember he was very quiet.”
“Quiet and hard-working, but a bit too attached to material possessions. That Manurhin was his downfall.”
“Whores were his downfall.”
“Come on, Raulito Sánchez was a faggot.”
“You’re kidding! I had no idea. Nothing’s sacred. Time levels even the tallest towers.”
“Give me a break, what’s it got to do with towers?”
“It’s just that I remember him as really manly, if you know what I mean.”
“What’s it got to do with manliness?”
“But he was a man, in his way, though, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t really know what to say to that.”
“I saw him with whores at least once. He didn’t turn up his nose at whores.”
“He didn’t turn up his nose at anyone or anything, but I’m certain he never slept with a woman.”
“That’s a very definite assertion, compadre, careful what you say. The dead are always watching us.”
“The dead aren’t watching anyone. They’re minding their own business. The dead are shit.”
“What do you mean they’re shit?”
“All they do is fuck stuff up for the living.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree there, compadre, I have the greatest respect for the departed.”
“Except you never go to the cemetery.”
“What do you mean I never go to the cemetery?”
“All right, then, when’s the Day of the Dead?”
“OK, you got me, I go when I feel like it.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’m not sure, but I know there are experiences that make your hair stand on end.”
“That’s what I was coming to.”
“You’re thinking of Raulito Sánchez?”
“That’s right. Before he died for real, he pretended to be dead at least twice. One time in a hooker’s bar. Remember Doris Villalón? She spent a whole night with him in the cemetery, under the same blanket and, according to Doris, nothing happened all night.”
“Except that Doris’s hair turned white.”
“It depends who you talk to.”
“The fact is her hair went white in a single night, like Marie Antoinette’s.”
“What I know from a reliable source is that she was cold and they climbed into an empty niche; after that it’s not so clear. According to one of Doris’s friends, she tried to give Raulito a hand job, but he wasn’t really up for it, and in the end he fell asleep.”
“There was a man who never lost his cool.”
“It happened later, when the dogs had stopped barking and Doris was climbing down from the niche; that’s when the ghost appeared.”
“So her hair went white because of a ghost?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Maybe it was just plaster dust from the cemetery.”
“It’s not easy to believe in ghosts.”
“And meanwhile Raulito went on sleeping?”
“Without even having touched the poor woman.”
“And what was his hair like the next morning?”
“Black as ever, but it couldn’t be used to prove the point, because he’d upped and left.”
“So the plaster dust might have had nothing to do with it.”
“It might have been the scare she got.”
“The scare she got at the police station.”
“Or maybe her hair dye faded.”
“Such are the mysteries of the human condition. In any case, Raulito never tried it with a girl.”
“But he seemed like a real man.”
“There are no men left in Chile, compadre.”
“You’re scaring me now. Careful how you drive. Don’t get jumpy on me.”
“I think it was a rabbit, I must have run over it.”
“What do you mean there are no men left?”
“We killed them all.”
“What do you mean we killed them? I haven’t killed anyone in my life. And you were just doing your duty.”
“My duty?”
“Duty, obligation, keeping the peace, it’s our job, it’s what we do. Or would you rather get paid for just sitting around?”
“I’ve never liked sitting around, I’ve always had ants in my pants, but that’s exactly why I should have left.”
“That just would have helped with the shortage of men in Chile.”
“Don’t start making fun of me, compadre, especially when I’m driving.”
“You keep calm and watch where you’re going. Anyway, what’s Chile got to do with it?”
“Everything, and when I say everything . . .”
“OK, I see where you’re going.”
“Do you remember ’73?”
“That’s what I was thinking of.”
“That’s when we killed them all.”
“Maybe you should go easy on the gas, at least while you explain what you mean.”
“There’s not a lot to explain. Plenty to cry over, but not to explain.”
“But since it’s a long trip, we might as well talk. Who did we kill in ’73?”
“The real men we had in this country.”
“No need to exaggerate, compadre. Anyway, we went first; don’t forget we were prisoners too.”
“But only for three days.”
“But those were the first three days, and honestly I was scared shitless.”
“Some were never released, like Inspector Tovar, Hick Tovar, remember him? He had guts, that guy.”
“Didn’t they drown him on Quiriquina Island?”
“That’s what we told his widow, but the real story never came out.”
“That’s what I can’t stand sometimes.”
“No point getting cut up about it.”
“The dead turn up in my dreams, and I get them mixed up with the ones who are neither dead nor alive.”
“How do you mean neither dead nor alive?”
“I mean the people who’ve changed, who’ve grown up, like us, for instance.”
“Now I get you—we’re not children any more, if that’s what you mean.”
“And sometimes I feel like I’m never going to wake up, like I’ve gone and fucked it up for good.”
“You just worry too much, compadre.”
“And sometimes it makes me so angry I have to find someone to blame, you know what I’m like, those mornings when I turn up in a rotten mood, looking for someone to blame, but I can’t find anyone, or I find the wrong person, which is worse, and then I go to pieces.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“And I blame Chile, and call it a country of faggots and killers.”
“And why are the faggots to blame, can you tell me that?”
“Well, they’re not, but everyone’s fair game.”
“I can’t agree with you there; life’s hard enough as it is.”
“Then I think this country went to hell years ago, and the reason we’re here, those of us who stayed, is to have nightmares, just because someone had to stay and face up to them.”
“Watch it, there’s a hill coming up. Don’t look at me, I’m not arguing with you—watch where you’re going.”
“And that’s when I think there are no men left in this country. It’s like a revelation. There are no men left, just sleepwalkers.”
“And what about the women?”
“You can be thick sometimes, compadre; I’m talkin
g about the human condition, in general, and that includes women.”
The Return Page 4
