The Spirit of Science Fiction

by Roberto Bolaño

  “And that’s it?”

  “What else did you expect?”

  “The voice just says, I’m Lieutenant Boris Lejeune?”

  “Cavalry Lieutenant.”

  “That’s all?”

  “There’s a laugh. It’s a boy’s mocking, insolent laugh. ‘Let me laugh for a second,’ he says. ‘As of now, I am Cavalry Lieutenant Boris Lejeune. The course will begin in a few minutes. This is new to me. Forgive me in advance for any errors. The uniform is nice-looking, true, but it’s fucking cold out here. The course begins now. My regiment has set up camp next to a potato field.’”

  “This voice from the dead comes as a complete surprise to the caretaker, I guess.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “And the girl is still standing there in the yard?”

  “The girl, overcome by curiosity, opens the door a crack and looks in. There’s no one on the first floor, of course, so she starts up the stairs, not bothering to be too careful.”

  “Meanwhile Boris Lejeune gazes out over a potato field.”

  “That’s right. And as Lejeune is contemplating the field, the caretaker bustles around plugging and unplugging cables, starting tape recorders, jotting things down in a little notebook, testing the volume, et cetera. Vain and pointless tasks, nothing but testament to the fear that fills the old man now that the course, as the lieutenant said, has begun. Meanwhile the girl has reached the third floor, and, hidden in the stairwell, she watches the whole scene with astonished eyes. The sky begins to brighten. Soon it exhibits a curious mix of whites and grays, an abundance of whimsical geometric figures. The only one who gazes pensively up at it is the cavalry lieutenant, as he’s about to cross the potato field. The girl is too absorbed in the machines she’s never seen before. The caretaker has eyes only for his connections. Lejeune sighs, then plants his officer’s boots in the black soil and heads toward the tents erected on the far side of the potato field. In the camp, everything is a mess. When he passes the infirmary, Lejeune spies the first dead and stops whistling. A corporal points toward the staff officers’ tents. As he moves that way, Lejeune realizes that they’re breaking camp. But everything is being done so slowly that it’s hard to tell whether the troops are setting up or tearing down. When at last he finds his superiors, Lejeune asks what he should do. Who are you? thunders the general. The girl, all at once, curls into a ball in the stairwell. The caretaker swallows. Lejeune answers: Lieutenant Boris Lejeune, I’m on the other side of the potato field, sir, I’ve just arrived. About time, says the general, and immediately forgets him. The conversation soon turns into an incomprehensible shouting match. Lejeune catches the words ‘honor,’ ‘nation,’ ‘shame,’ ‘glory,’ ‘command,’ et cetera, before sidling out of the tent. Now the girl smiles. The caretaker shakes his head as if to say, of course, I knew it. As the hours go by, a sense of defeat and panic grows in the encampment. Lejeune crosses back to the other side of the field and waits. Before night falls, a nervous hum rises from the camp. Some soldiers walking past yell: we’re in a giant pocket! The Germans are going to fuck us good! Lejeune smiles and says: we’ve begun the course behind schedule, but here we go. Glory be, hip-hip hoorayayay! exclaims the caretaker. The girl backs away, suddenly realizing that it’s night. An hour later, the gunfire begins.”

  Back then, for reasons unknown (though I could come up with a few), writing workshops were blossoming in Mexico City as never before. José Arco had some thoughts on the subject. It might be a scheme hatched from the beyond by the founding fathers, or an excess of zeal in some branch of the Education Department, or the visible manifestation of something else entirely, the sign of the Hurricane, as my friend explained, half serious and half joking. Whatever the case, the numbers told the story: according to the magazine My Enchanted Garden, whose publisher, editor in chief, and backer was the old poet and Michoacán politico Ubaldo Sánchez, in Mexico City alone the number of poetry journals of any size published in the year . . . was 125, by no means an inconsiderable sum, setting a record believed at the time to be unbreakable. Since then this torrent of magazines had been on the wane, until suddenly it began to wax again, from 32 in the previous year to 661 in the current year, and this proliferation, added Don Ubaldo, was by no means finished, since we were only in the month of . . . By the end of the year, he predicted a hair-raising total of one thousand poetry magazines, 90 percent of which would almost certainly cease to exist or undergo name changes and shifts in aesthetic tendencies in the year to come. How can it be, Don Ubaldo wondered, that in a city where illiteracy is growing by 0.5 percent annually, the production of poetry journals is on the rise? Likewise writing workshops, of which there were fifty-four in the previous year, according to the Conasupo Cultural Weekly, while in the current year the tally stands at two thousand. These figures, of course, have never been published in the bigger newspapers. And the fact that the Conasupo Weekly (which, as its name indicates, is a tabloid-size paper distributed to Conasupo employees along with three liters of milk) should attempt to document the number of workshops in Mexico City was suspicious in itself. José Arco and I tried to investigate further; or rather, he tried and I accompanied him, perched on the precarious rear seat of his Honda and getting to know the city along the way. The poet-editor of My Enchanted Garden lived in Colonia Mixcoac, in a big, ramshackle house on Calle Leonardo da Vinci. He welcomed us warmly, asked me what the hell I thought about what had just happened back where I was from, declared that the military was never to be trusted, then gave us some back issues of My Enchanted Garden. (It had been around for twenty-five years, if I remember correctly, and there were eighteen issues, some more polished than others and none more than fifteen pages long, from which Don Ubaldo launched attacks on nearly every writer in Mexico.) As he went to get gin and a family-size bottle of Coca-Cola from the kitchen, he roared at us to be ready with our poems. With a little smile, José Arco chose one and put it on the table. What about you? asked Don Ubaldo. I’ll send you something later, I lied. (When we left, I scolded my friend for his willingness to publish anywhere.) On our third drink, we asked him where he had come up with the figure of 661. We’d really like it if you could give us the names and addresses of all the magazines, said José Arco. Don Ubaldo looked at him with narrowed eyes. It was getting dark, and no light had been turned on. The question is offensive, boy, said the old man. After all these years of struggle, the name, at least, is familiar to them. Familiar to them? I asked. The publishers of these new journals, their distributors, they recognize the name of my journal, which was a pioneer in so many ways, as you have no way of knowing, of course, being new to the Republic. Sure, man, of course, said José Arco, but in your article you talk about a huge jump, and it’s hard to believe that all those people have heard of My Enchanted Garden, isn’t it? Don Ubaldo nodded slowly. Then he opened one of the drawers of his desk and took out a magazine printed on flimsy green paper, with type that seemed to leap from the page. There’s something to what you say, son. Then he went on to explain that he had been sent 180 poetry journals this year, of which 25 dated to the previous year. Among the 155 new journals was the one we held in our hands. From it he had taken the information about the other 480 journals, which, together with My Enchanted Garden, accounted for the sum of 661. I can vouch for the truth of it; I’ve known Dr. Carvajal for a long time. Dr. Carvajal? The publisher of the journal you’re holding in your hands, boys. The journal we were holding in our hands was called Mexico and Its Arts, and it was scarcely five pages long. The cover, a green sheet identical to the inner pages, featured the title, typewritten in capital letters (on an Olivetti Lettera 25, as Jan would later point out) and underlined twice; farther down, in parentheses and underlined just once, was Poetry Bulletin of Mexico City; at the bottom, not underlined, was the name of the publisher: Dr. Ireneo Carvajal. When we looked up, Don Ubaldo was smiling in satisfaction. The light that came in through the room’s only window made him look like a stone g
argoyle. The doctor is a poet? For the first time, José Arco began to show signs of hesitation, his voice barely audible in the darkness that was rapidly gaining ground. The creator of My Enchanted Garden chortled: no one had ever dared to call Dr. Carvajal a poet. Son of a bitch? Sure. Also: a nasty piece of work, a snake, a backstabbing recluse. Though he’s read more than the three of us put together. Not without alarm, I noticed that as the evening went on, Ubaldo Sánchez had begun to look more and more like the Big Bad Wolf. The two of us must be turning into twin Little Red Riding Hoods, I thought. I turned the page: inside, there was a brief introductory note, followed by the names of the magazines and, sometimes, their addresses. On the back cover, the innocent phrase “Registration Pending” had a vague lapidary air. All at once, I felt that the little journal was burning my fingertips. Can I turn on the light, maestro? José Arco’s voice was brusque. Don Ubaldo seemed to jump. Then he said something unintelligible and lumbered to his feet. The light, though weak, revealed a room where scattered papers and books seemed locked in combat. On a small table, I made out the cheap bust of an Indian warrior; on the walls, magazine pictures in black and white and color blended in with the wallpaper. Could you give us Dr. Carvajal’s address? The old man nodded. All right, said José Arco, and I suppose we can keep this copy of the magazine? You suppose right, grumbled Don Ubaldo. As we were leaving, my eyes fell on a wrinkled sepia photograph on the desk: a group of soldiers on horseback, all but one gazing into the camera, and in the background a couple of 1920s Fords emerging from a great static dust cloud.

  When he opened the door for us, it was starting to rain. I suppose you’ve noticed that this godforsaken city is hopping lately, hey, boys? Yes, said José Arco, we’ve noticed. Why is that? the old man whispered to himself.

  In the next few days, I couldn’t tag along with José Arco on his adventures, so when he turned up on our roof, Jan and I begged him to tell us what he’d discovered so far. Our friend’s story was disappointing, but not without a hint of mystery. It went like this: A poet, promoter of the journal The Flying North (included, as it happens, in Dr. Ireneo Carvajal’s report), and employee of Conasupo, where he occupied some obscure post—doorman, office boy, or typist, I can’t remember—had so far been his only source of information. From this poet, he learned that the Weekly was hardly ever distributed among the administrative staff but that it could be found on any counter of the chain of cheap Conasupo supermarkets around Mexico City. Though “any counter” was an exaggeration, as my friend soon realized: there were supermarkets where the Weekly had never been seen and others where the employees, after digging through piles of papers, managed to retrieve five- or six-month-old issues. In total, José Arco collected four Cultural Weeklys, counting the one he already had when he began the search. The poet from The Flying North thought that the publisher and editor of the Weekly was someone from the cultural department, and, unfortunately for us, he didn’t know anyone there. Given the quality of the print job and the paper, it seemed evident that the Weekly was well funded. There was no point discussing why it was distributed in supermarkets; the way things were done at the hypothetical cultural department must be the same way things were done at offices everywhere. Here José Arco’s friend insisted on the possible nonexistence of the department in question. So it was fruitless to seek explanations. The conversation ended with an invitation for us to send unpublished work to The Flying North. Then José Arco, on his Honda, made the rounds of ten or fifteen cheap supermarkets, and, in the end, not sure exactly why he was wasting his time, he found himself in possession of four Weeklys. Leaving aside the one we’d read already, the remaining three were devoted to (1) urban corridos; (2) poetesses (Mexican or foreign) in Mexico City (including an incredible number of women whose names, not to mention whose work, we had never heard of); and (3) graffiti in Mexico City—invisible art or decadent art? And that was all, for now. José Arco believed that somehow—he would come up with a way soon—he would meet the author or authors of the Weekly, whose articles, it goes without saying, were always published anonymously. What kind of person could it be? A true avant-gardist, a CIA agent—whatever, stranger things had been seen at Conasupo. And naturally he was still trying to land an interview with Dr. Carvajal.

  “Maybe they’re the same person,” I suggested.

  “Possibly, but I doubt it.”

  “What I’d like to know is how you got the first Weekly, the one about the poetry workshops, though actually the issues with the poetesses and the graffiti are the best,” said Jan.

  “It’s a funny thing,” said José Arco. “I got it from Estrellita. You’ll have to meet her soon.”

  “Estrellita?”

  “The spirit of La Habana,” said José Arco.

  Dear Robert Silverberg:

  Are you on the North American Committee of Science Fiction Writers in Support of the Third World’s Neediest Cases? If not, here’s my suggestion: join up, affiliate yourself, form subcommittees in San Diego, Los Angeles, Seattle, Oakland, at universities where you’re booked as a speaker, at bars in three-star hotels. If your body still has the energy that you’ve poured into your work, become part of the committee and rev it up. Pretend that this is your blind twin sister speaking to you, and trust me. I see you as capable, you and a few others, of gazing into the liquid eyes of the essence of the committee and not running away howling like a madman. And as your blind twin, I say to you: onward, Robert, prove not only that after a long (very long) journey you’ve learned to write like the common man; prove that the North American Committee of Science Fiction Writers in Support of the Third World’s Neediest Cases can count on your help. Donald Wollheim would have joined. Who knows, maybe even Professor Sagan, in his worst nightmares. (On second thought, not Donald Wollheim.) But it’s your turn now, and you can bring along your writer friends, brighten the day of the secretary-general, who sits alone and bored in a dreary little room in San Francisco. Call him on the phone, let the black phone ring and the trembling hand lift the receiver. Is Harlan Ellison on the case? Is Philip José Farmer on the case, or is he masturbating up on the roof? Go to work for the committee before the spiral stairs vanish—first in sleep and then into nothingness—on their way up to the best roofs. Empty room, dirty windows, frayed rugs, a glass of whiskey on the table, a clock, a rumpled cushion—none of this does any good. The scene, my dear Robert, is this: dog-colored dawn, spaceships appear over the mountains on the horizon, Chile goes down along with the rest of Latin America, we become fugitives, you become killers. And the image isn’t a still, it isn’t “forever,” it isn’t some stiff heroic dream; it’s moving—in multiple directions!—and those who tangle tomorrow as fugitives and killers might the day after tomorrow shove their faces together into the void, yes? Parts of what you’ve written, I’ve enjoyed so much. . . . I’d really like it if we could manage to stay alive and meet. . . . Cross the line . . . No barriers . . . And pretend that we believe that the committee’s Eye of Stone is one of Pepito Farmer’s jokes . . . Wonderful! All my love!

  Yours,

  Jan Schrella

  Amid the gunfire and confusion, Lejeune makes his escape with a colonel and a Parisian recruit. What’s your opinion of all this, Colonel? Lejeune asks as he runs. The colonel won’t or can’t answer, so our lieutenant addresses the same question to the Paris recruit. A fucking mess. It’s all the officers’ fault—they screwed us, says the recruit. Shut up and run, orders the colonel. At last the three of them stop on a ridge, watching as the tanks go by and a column of prisoners forms in the German rear guard. The colonel, exhausted, gets out a cigarette, lights it, inhales a few times, and finally points the smoldering tip at the recruit: you should be ashamed of what you just said. I swear I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination and disrespect. The recruit shrugs. I swear it, says the colonel, I’ll have our own soldiers shoot you, or the Germans, I don’t care. What’s your opinion of all this, and what are you going to do? Lejeune as
ks the recruit. The latter considers for a few seconds, then turns, points his gun at the colonel’s chest, and fires. Lejeune poses the first part of the question again. The recruit says he has no idea, that this won’t be over anytime soon. The colonel’s body twitches on the dark grass. Lejeune leans over and asks what he believes is the best defense against the enemy. Order, says the colonel, ashen-faced. Then he says, my God, my God, and dies. The column of prisoners begins to move. The recruit empties the colonel’s pockets, taking his cigarettes, his money, and his watch, and heads down the ridge to join the prisoners. Lejeune sits on the ground. Next to the dead man’s body is a photograph of a woman, with ‘Monique and the breeze. St. Cyr’ written on the back. He stares at the woman for a long time. She’s young and pretty. When he has looked for long enough, he lies down on his back and stares up at the stars that swell in the vault of the heavens. At this point the academy caretaker remembers that Huachofeo describes a similar scene in his Paradoxical History of Latin America.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “The girl has gone down the stairs without a sound, exited the grain shed, gone home, eaten a plate of beans left for her on the table, taken off her shoes, and gotten into bed with her mother. The caretaker has eaten a hard-boiled egg, drank a cup of tea, and lain down on a mat, covering himself with a couple of vicuña blankets. Lieutenant Boris Lejeune has fallen asleep gazing up at the stars.”