The Savage Detectives

by Roberto Bolaño

  "That I really can't believe," I said.

  "I swear on my mother," said Luscious Skin.

  "After you were interrupted, María wanted to keep making love?"

  "That's how she is," said Moctezuma.

  "And how would you know?" I said, getting more worked up by the second.

  "I've fucked her too," said Moctezuma. "She's the wildest girl in Mexico City, although I've never hit her, that's for sure; I don't like that weird stuff. But I know for a fact that she does."

  "I didn't hit her, man, what happened was that María was obsessed with the Marquis de Sade and she wanted to try the spanking thing," said Luscious Skin.

  "That's very María," said Pancho. "She takes her reading seriously."

  "And did you keep fucking?" I asked. Or whispered, or howled, I can't remember, although I do remember that I took several long drags on the joint and that they had to ask me several times to pass it on, that it wasn't just for me.

  "Yeah, we kept fucking, or anyway she kept sucking my dick and I kept slapping her but less and less hard, and somehow I wasn't so into it anymore. I think her mother showing up had gotten to me, even if it hadn't gotten to her, and it was like I didn't feel like fucking anymore, like I'd cooled off and now I just wanted to get out and maybe see what was going on at the party, I think some of the famous poets were there, the Spanish writer, Ana María Díaz and Mr. Díaz, Laura Damián's parents, the poets Álamo, Labarca, Berrocal, Artemio Sánchez, the actress América Lagos from TV, and also I was a little afraid that María's mother would show up again, but this time with the fucking architect and then I was really going to get it."

  "Laura Damián's parents were there?" I asked.

  "The casta diva's parents themselves," said Luscious Skin, "and other celebrities. Believe me, I notice these things. I'd seen them before through the window and said hello to Berrocal, the poet. I'd been to his workshop a few times, but I don't know whether he remembered me or what. I think I was hungry too, and just imagining the things they were eating in the other house was making me drool. I wouldn't have minded showing up there, with María of course, and digging in. I felt really beat, it must have been the blow job. But I honestly wasn't thinking about the blow job, you know? I wasn't thinking about María's lips, or her tongue wrapping around my dick, or her saliva, which by that point was trickling down the hair on my balls…"

  "Spare us," said Pancho.

  "Cut the crap," said his brother.

  "Make it snappy," I said so as not to be left out, although the truth was I felt completely drained.

  "Well, so I told her. I said: María, let's do this next time or some other night. We usually fucked here, at my place, where we could take our time, although she never stayed all night, she always left at four or five in the morning, and it was a pain in the ass because I always offered to take her home. I couldn't let her go by herself at that hour. And she said keep going, don't stop, it's all right. And I thought she meant that I should keep slapping her ass. What would you have thought she meant? (The same thing, said Pancho.) So I started hitting her again, well, hitting her with one hand and stroking her clitoris and her tits with the other. Really, the sooner we finished, the better. I was ready. But of course, I wasn't going to come before she came. And the slut was taking forever and that started to make me mad, so I was hitting her harder and harder. Her butt, her legs, but also her cunt. Have you ever done it that way, boys? Well, I recommend it. At first the sound, the sound of the slaps, kind of doesn't seem right, it throws you off. It's like something raw in a dish where everything else is cooked. But then it kind of meshes with what you're doing, and the girl's moans, María's moans, mesh with it too, each time you hit her she moans, and the moans keep getting louder, and a moment comes when you feel her ass burning, and the palms of your hands are burning too, and your cock starts to beat like a heart, plunk plunk plunk…"

  "You're laying it on thick, mano," said Moctezuma.

  "I swear it's the truth. She had my cock in her mouth, but not gripping it tight, not sucking it, just teasing it with the tip of her tongue. She had it like a gun in a holster. See the difference? Not like a gun in the hand, but a gun in a sheath, under the arm or slung around the waist, if that makes sense. And she was throbbing too, her butt was throbbing and so were her legs and the lips of her vagina and her clitoris. I know because each time after I hit her I would stroke her, I felt her there and I noticed, and that really turned me on and I had to make an effort not to come. And she was moaning, but when I hit her she moaned more. When I wasn't hitting her she moaned a lot (I couldn't see her face), but when I was hitting her it was much more extreme, the moaning, I mean, like her heart was breaking, and what I wanted was to turn her over and screw her, but there was no way, she would've gotten mad. That's the problem with María. Things are intense with her but you always have to do it her way."

  "And what happened next?" I said.

  "Well, she came and I came, and that was it."

  "That was it?" said Moctezuma.

  "That was it, I swear. We cleaned ourselves up-well, I cleaned myself up, combed my hair a little, and she put on her pants, and we went out to see what was going on at the party. Then we got separated. That was my mistake. Letting myself get separated from her. I started to talk to Berrocal, who was alone in a corner. Then the poet Artemio Sánchez came over with some girl about thirty who was supposedly the deputy editor at El Guajolote and right there I started asking her whether she needed poems or stories or philosophical pieces for the magazine, I told her that I had lots of unpublished material, I talked to her about my buddy Moctezuma's translations, and as I talked I was looking for the hors d'oeuvre table out of the corner of my eye because all of a sudden I was fucking hungry, and then I saw María's mother show up again, followed by her father, with the famous Spanish poet a few steps behind, and that was the end of that: they threw me out and warned me never to set foot in their house again."

  "And María didn't do anything?"

  "No, she didn't. Nothing. At first I acted like I didn't understand what they were talking about, you know, like none of this had anything to do with me, but then, mano, there was no point pretending anymore. It became clear that they were going to boot me out like a fucking dog. I was sorry that they did it in front of Berrocal. Why not be honest, the bastard was probably laughing to himself as I backed away toward the door. I can't believe there was a time I actually sort of admired him."

  "You admired Berrocal? You really are a dumbshit," said Pancho.

  "The truth is that in the beginning he was nice to me. You don't know what it's like, you're from Mexico City, you grew up here, but I came here not knowing anyone and without a fucking peso. That was three years ago, when I was twenty-one. It was one hurdle after another. And Berrocal helped me out, let me into his workshop, introduced me to people who could hook me up with a job; I met María in his workshop. My life has been like a bolero," said Luscious Skin suddenly, in a dreamy voice.

  "Well, go on: Berrocal was looking at you and laughing," I said.

  "No, he wasn't laughing, but I thought he was laughing to himself. And Artemio Sánchez was looking at me too, but he was so bombed he didn't even know what was going on. And the deputy editor of El Guajolote, I think she was the most horrified, as well she should have been because the look on María's mother's face was enough to give you the chills. I swear I thought she might have a weapon on her. And despite it all I was backing out in slow motion, and that was because I still hoped that María would show up, that María would push through the guests and between her parents and grab me by the arm or sling her arm over my shoulders-María is the only woman I know who puts her arm around men's shoulders instead of their waists-and get me out of there with some decorum, I mean go with me."

  "So did she come over?"

  "Come over? No, at least not in the sense you mean. I did see her. Her head popped up for a second over the heads and shoulders of a bunch of assholes."

 
"And what did she do?"

  "She didn't do a goddamn thing."

  "Maybe she didn't see you," said Moctezuma.

  "Of course she saw me. She looked me in the eye, but the way she does. You know how it is, sometimes she looks at you and it's like she doesn't see you or she's looking right through you. And then she disappeared. So I said to myself you lost this one, amigo. Go quietly and don't make a scene. And I started to move for real, and as I was backing away María's bitch of a mother lunges at me, and I thought the woman was going to kick me in the balls or slap me at least. All right, then, I thought, so much for the orderly retreat, I'd better run, but by then the bitch was on top of me like she was going to kiss me or bite me, and guess what she says to me…"

  The Rodríguez brothers were silent. No doubt they already knew.

  "Did she insult you?" I asked hesitantly.

  "She said: shame on you, shame on you. That's all, but she said it ten times at least, and an inch away from my face."

  "It's hard to believe that witch gave birth to María and Angélica," said Moctezuma.

  "Stranger things have happened," said Pancho.

  "Are you still her lover?" I said.

  Luscious Skin heard me but didn't answer.

  "How often have you had sex with her?" I said.

  "I don't even remember," said Luscious Skin.

  "What's with the questions?" said Pancho.

  "I don't know, just curious," I said.

  It was late that night when I left the Rodríguez brothers' house (I had lunch and dinner with them and I could probably even have spent the night, they were so generous). When I got to the bus stop on Insurgentes, I suddenly realized that I didn't feel strong enough or in the mood for the long, involved discussion waiting for me at home.

  One by one, the buses that I should have taken kept going by, until at last I got up from the curb where I'd been sitting and thinking and watching the traffic (or rather, watching the headlights of the cars shining in my face) and set out for the Fonts'.

  Before I got there I called. Jorgito answered. I told him to get his sister. In a few seconds, María came to the phone. I wanted to see her. She asked me where I was. I told her I was near her house, at Plaza Popocatépetl.

  "Wait for a few hours," she said, "and then come. Don't ring the bell. Come over the wall and sneak in as quietly as you can. I'll be waiting for you." I sighed deeply and almost told her that I loved her (but didn't say it), and then hung up. Since I didn't have the money to go to a coffee shop, I stayed in the plaza, sitting on a bench, writing in my diary and reading a book of Tablada's poems that Pancho had loaned me. When two hours exactly had passed, I got up and set out for Calle Colima.

  I looked both ways before I jumped, hauling myself up onto the wall. I dropped down, trying not to crush the flowers that Mrs. Font (or the maid) had planted on that side of the garden. Then I walked in the dark toward the little house.

  María was waiting for me under a tree. Before I could say anything, she kissed me on the mouth, sticking her tongue down my throat. She tasted of cigarettes and expensive food. I tasted of cigarettes and cheap food. But both kinds of food were good. All the fear and sadness that I felt instantly melted away. Instead of going to her little house we started to make love right there, standing up under the tree. So that no one would hear the sounds she made, María bit my neck. I pulled out before I came (María said ahhhh: maybe I pulled out too quickly) and I guess I came on the grass and the flowers. In the little house Angélica was sound asleep, or pretending to be sound asleep, and we made love again. And then I got up, my whole body aching, and I knew that if I told her I loved her the pain would go away instantly, but I didn't say anything and I checked in every corner, to see whether I would find Barrios and the Patterson girl sleeping in one of them, but there was no one there except for the Font sisters and me.

  Then we started to talk, and Angélica woke up and we turned on the light and the three of us talked until late. We talked about poetry, about the dead poet Laura Damián and the prize named after her, about the magazine that Ulises Lima and Belano planned to publish, about Ernesto San Epifanio's life, about what Huracán Ramírez must look like with his mask off, outside the ring, about a painter friend of Angélica's who lived in Tepito, and about María's friends from the dance school. And after lots of talk and many cigarettes, Angélica and María fell asleep and I turned out the light and got into bed and made love to María again in my mind.

  NOVEMBER 20

  Political affiliations: Moctezuma Rodríguez is a Trotskyite. Jacinto Requena and Arturo Belano used to be Trotskyites.

  María Font, Angélica Font, and Laura Jáuregui (Belano's ex-girlfriend) used to belong to a radical feminist movement called Mexican Women on the Warpath. That's where they supposedly met Simone Darrieux, friend of Belano and promoter of some kind of sadomasochism.

  Ernesto San Epifanio started the first Homosexual Communist Party of Mexico and the first Mexican Homosexual Proletarian Commune.

  Ulises Lima and Laura Damián once planned to start an anarchist group: the draft of a founding manifesto still exists. Before that, at the age of fifteen, Ulises Lima tried to join what remained of Lucio Cabañas's guerrilla group.

  Quim Font's father, also called Quim Font, was born in Barcelona and died in the Battle of the Ebro.

  Rafael Barrios's father was active in the illegal railroad workers' union. He died of cirrhosis.

  Luscious Skin's father and mother were born in Oaxaca and, according to Luscious Skin himself, they starved to death.

  NOVEMBER 21

  Party at Catalina O'Hara's house.

  This morning I talked to my uncle on the phone. He asked me when I planned to come back. Always, I said. After an awkward silence (he probably didn't understand my answer but didn't want to admit it), he asked me what I'd gotten myself mixed up in. Nothing, I said. Tonight I want to see you home where you belong, he said. Or else. Behind him I could hear my aunt Martita crying. Of course, I said. Ask him if he's on drugs, my aunt said, but my uncle said he can hear you and then he asked me whether I had money. I've got bus fare, I said, and then I couldn't talk anymore.

  Actually, I didn't even have bus fare. But then things took an unexpected turn.

  At Catalina O'Hara's house were Ulises Lima, Belano, Müller, San Epifanio, Barrios, Barbara Patterson, Requena and his girlfriend Xóchitl, the Rodríguez brothers, Luscious Skin, the woman painter who shared the studio with Catalina, plus lots of other people I didn't know and hadn't heard of, who came and went like a dark river.

  When María, Angélica, and I made our entrance, the door was open. As we came in the only people we saw were the Rodríguez brothers, sitting on the stairs to the second floor sharing a joint. We said hello and sat down next to them. I think they were waiting for us. Then Pancho and Angélica went upstairs and we were left alone. From above came spooky music that was supposed to be soothing, full of the sounds of birds, ducks, frogs, wind, the sea, and even people's footsteps on the earth or dry grass, but the general effect was terrifying, like the sound track for a horror movie. Then Luscious Skin came in, kissed María on the cheek (I looked the other way, at a wall covered in prints of women or women's dreams), and started to talk to us. Why I don't know, maybe because I was shy, but while they talked (Luscious Skin was a regular at the dance school; he spoke María's language), I gradually tuned out, turning inward, and started to think about all the strange things I had experienced that morning at the Fonts'.

  At first everything went smoothly. I sat down to breakfast with the family. Mrs. Font greeted me with a pleasant good morning. Jorgito didn't even glance at me (he was half asleep). The maid, when she arrived, waved in a friendly way. So far so good, and in fact for a moment I even thought I might be able to live in María's little house for the rest of my life. But then Quim appeared, and just the sight of him gave me the shivers. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night, as if he'd just emerged from a torture chamber or an executioners
' den, his hair was a mess, his eyes were red, he hadn't shaved (or showered), and the backs of his hands were spotted with something that looked like iodine, his fingers stained with ink. Of course, he didn't greet me, although I said good morning to him as warmly as I could. His wife and daughters ignored him. After a few minutes, I ignored him too. His breakfast was much more frugal than ours: he swallowed two cups of black coffee and then he smoked a wrinkled cigarette that he pulled from his pocket instead of a pack, watching us in the strangest way, as if he were defying us but at the same time didn't see us. Finished with breakfast, he got up and asked me to follow him, saying that he wanted to have a word with me.

  I looked at María, I looked at Angélica, and since nothing in their faces told me to say no, I followed.

  It was the first time I had been in Quim Font's study, and I was surprised by the size of the room, which was much smaller than any of the other rooms in the house. There were photographs and plans tacked to the walls or scattered around any which way on the floor. A drafting table and a stool were the only furniture and they took up more than half the space. The study smelled like tobacco and sweat.

  "I've been working all night," said Quim. "I couldn't sleep a wink."

  "Oh, really?" I said, thinking that now I was in for it, that Quim must have heard me come by the night before, that he had seen María and me through the study's one little window, and now I was going to get it.

  "Yes, look at my hands," he said.

  He held his two hands at chest height. They were trembling considerably.

  "On a project?" I said affably, looking at the papers spread out on the table.