The Savage Detectives

by Roberto Bolaño

  I ordered a coffee and told him he ought to order something too. He looked me in the eyes and smiled in embarrassment. He said he was broke. It doesn't matter, I said, get what you want, it's on me. Then he said he was hungry and he wanted some enchiladas. They don't make enchiladas here, I said, but they can bring you a sandwich. He seemed to think it over for a moment and then he said all right, a ham sandwich. He ate three sandwiches in total. I was supposed to call some people, and maybe see them, but I didn't call anyone. Or actually yes, I called my mother from the coffee shop to tell her that I'd be home late, and I blew off the rest of my plans.

  What did we talk about? Lots of things. His family, the town he came from, his early days in Mexico City, how hard it had been for him to get used to the city, his dreams. He wanted to be a poet, a dancer, a singer, he wanted to have five children (like the fingers of a hand, he said, and he raised the palm of his hand, almost brushing my face), he wanted to try his luck at the Churubusco studios, saying that Oceransky had auditioned him for a play, he wanted to paint (he told me in great detail the ideas he had for some paintings). Anyway, at some point in our conversation I was tempted to tell him that I had no idea what I really wanted, but I decided to keep it to myself.

  Then he asked me to come home with him. I live alone, he said. Quivering, I asked him where he lived. In Roma Sur, he said, in a room on the roof near the stars. I answered that it was after twelve now, really too late, and that I should go to bed because the next day the French novelist J.M.G. Arcimboldi was arriving in Mexico and some friends and I were going to arrange a tour of the sights of our chaotic capital. Who's Arcimboldi? said Luscious Skin. Those visceral realists really are ignoramuses. One of the greatest French novelists, I told him, though hardly any of his work has been translated, into Spanish, I mean, except one or two novels that came out in Argentina, but I've read him in French, of course. The name doesn't sound familiar, he said, and he insisted again that I come home with him. Why do you want me to come with you? I said, looking him in the eyes. I'm not usually so bold. I have something to tell you, he said, something that will interest you. How much will it interest me? I said. He looked at me as if he didn't understand and then he said, suddenly belligerent: how much what? how much money? No, I hurried to clarify, how much will what you have to say interest me. I had to stop myself from tousling his hair, from telling him not to be silly. It's about the visceral realists, he said. Oof, that doesn't interest me at all, I said. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, and don't take it the wrong way, but I couldn't care less about the visceral realists (God, what a name). What I have to tell you will interest you, I know it will, he said. They've got something big in the works. You have no idea.

  For a moment, I admit, the idea of a terrorist act passed through my mind. I saw the visceral realists getting ready to kidnap Octavio Paz, I saw them breaking into his house (poor Marie-José, all that broken china), I saw them emerging with Octavio Paz gagged and bound, carried shoulder-high or slung like a rug, I even saw them vanishing into the slums of Netzahualcóyotl in a dilapidated black Cadillac with Octavio Paz bouncing around in the trunk, but I recovered quickly. It must have been nerves, or the gusts of wind that sometimes sweep along Insurgentes (we were talking on the sidewalk) and sow the most outrageous ideas in pedestrians and drivers. So I rejected his invitation again and he insisted again. What I have to tell you, he said, will shake the foundations of Mexican poetry. He might even have said Latin American poetry. But not world poetry, no. One could say he restricted himself to the Spanish-speaking world in his ravings. The thing he wanted to tell me would turn Spanish-language poetry upside down. Goodness, I said, some undiscovered manuscript by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz? A prophetic text by Sor Juana on the fate of Mexico? But no, of course not, it was something the visceral realists had found and the visceral realists would never come anywhere near the lost libraries of the seventeenth century. What is it, then? I said. I'll tell you at my place, said Luscious Skin, and he put his hand on my shoulder, as if he were pulling me toward him, as if he were inviting me to dance with him again on the horrible dance floor at Priapo's.

  I began to tremble and he noticed. Why do I have to like the worst ones? I thought, why do I have to be attracted to the most brooding, least cultured, most desperate ones? It's a question I ask myself twice a year. I still haven't found an answer. I told him that I had the keys to a painter friend's studio. We should go there, I said, it was close enough to walk, and along the way he could tell me whatever he wanted. I thought he wouldn't accept, but he did. Suddenly the night was beautiful, the wind stopped blowing, and only a gentle breeze accompanied us as we walked. He started to talk, but frankly I've forgotten almost everything he said. There was just one thought in my head, one wish: that Emilio wouldn't be in his studio that night (Emilito Laguna, he's in Boston now studying architecture, his parents had enough of his bohemian life in Mexico and sent him away: it's either Boston and an architecture degree or you get a job), that none of his friends would be there, that no one would come near the studio for-my God-the rest of the night. And my prayers were answered. Not only was no one at the studio but it was clean too, as if the Lagunas' maid had just left. And he said what a super studio, this place really does make you want to paint, and I didn't know what to do (I'm sorry, but I'm extremely shy-and worse than shy-in these situations) and I started to show him Emilio's canvases, I couldn't think of anything better, I set them up against the wall and listened to his murmurs of approval or his critical remarks behind me (he didn't know anything about painting), and the paintings just kept coming and I thought, wow, Emilio really has been working a lot lately, who would've thought, unless they were paintings by some friend of his, which was highly possible, since at a glance I could see more than one style, and a few red, very Paalenesque canvases, especially, had a well-defined style. But who cares? The truth is that I didn't give a shit about the paintings, but I was incapable of taking the initiative, and when I finally had all the walls of the studio lined with Lagunas, I turned around, sweating, and asked him what he thought, and with a wolfish smile he said that I shouldn't have gone to so much trouble. It's true, I thought, I've made a fool of myself and now on top of it all I'm covered in dust and I stink of sweat. And then, as if he'd read my mind, he said you're sweating and then he asked me whether there was a bathroom in the studio where I could take a shower. You need one, he said. And I said, probably in a tiny voice, yes, there is a shower, but I don't think there's any hot water. And he said good, cold water is better, I always take cold showers, there's no hot water on the roof. And I let myself be dragged into the bathroom and I took off my clothes and turned on the shower and the gush of cold water almost knocked me out, my flesh shrinking until I could feel each and every bone in my body. I closed my eyes, I might have shouted, and then he got in the shower and put his arms around me.

  The rest of the details I'd rather not disclose; I'm still a romantic. A few hours later, as we were lying in the dark, I asked him who had given him the name Luscious Skin, so suggestive, so fitting. It's my name, he said. Well yes, I said, all right, it's your name, but who gave it to you? I want to know everything about you. It was the tyrannical, slightly stupid kind of thing you say after you've made love. And he said: María Font, and then he was quiet, as if he'd suddenly been overwhelmed by memories. His profile, in the dark, seemed very sad to me, thoughtful and sad. I asked, maybe with a hint of irony in my voice (perhaps I'd been overcome by jealousy, and sadness too), whether María Font was the one who'd won the Laura Damián prize. No, he said, that's Angélica, María is her older sister. He said a few more things about Angélica that I can't remember now. The question burst from me as if of its own accord: have you slept with María? His reply (my God, what a sad, beautiful profile Luscious Skin had) was devastating. He said: I've slept with every poet in Mexico. What I should have done then was either be quiet or hold him, and yet I did neither, but kept asking him questions, and each question was worse than the
one before and I lost a little ground with each one. At five in the morning we went our separate ways. I caught a cab on Insurgentes, and he walked off north.

  Angélica Font, Calle Colima, Colonia Condesa, Mexico City DF, July 1976. That was a strange time. I was Pancho Rodríguez's girlfriend. Felipe Müller, Arturo Belano's Chilean friend, was in love with me. But I liked Pancho best. Why? I don't know. All I know is that I liked Pancho best. A little while before, I'd won the Laura Damián prize for young poets. I never knew Laura Damián. But I did know her parents and lots of people who'd known her, even people who'd been friends with her. I slept with Pancho after a party that lasted for two days. On the last night, I slept with him. My sister told me to be careful. But who was she to give me advice? She was sleeping with Luscious Skin, and with Moctezuma Rodríguez, Pancho's younger brother, too. She was also sleeping with someone called the Gimp, a poet and alcoholic in his thirties, but at least she had the courtesy not to bring him home with her. Really, I was sick of having to put up with her lovers. Why don't you go fuck in their pigsties? I asked her once. She didn't answer and then she started to cry. She's my sister and I love her, but she has no self-control. One afternoon Pancho started to talk about her. He talked a lot, so much that I thought she must have slept with him too, but no, I knew all her lovers. I heard them moan at night less than fifteen feet from my bed, and I could tell them apart by the sounds they made, by the way they came, quietly or noisily, by the things they said to my sister.

  Pancho never slept with her. Pancho slept with me. I don't know why, but he was the one I chose and for a few days I even lost myself in fantasies of love, although of course I never really loved him. The first time was pretty painful. I didn't feel anything, only pain, but even the pain wasn't unbearable. We did it in a hotel in Colonia Guerrero, a hotel probably frequented by whores. After he came, Pancho told me that he wanted to marry me. He told me he loved me. He said he would make me the happiest woman in the world. I looked him in the face and for a second I thought he'd gone crazy. Then I realized that he was actually afraid, afraid of me, and that made me sad. I'd never seen him look so small, and that made me sad too.

  We did it a few more times. It didn't hurt anymore, but it didn't feel good either. Pancho saw that our relationship was flickering out as fast as-as what?-something that blinks out very quickly, the lights of a factory at the end of the day. No, more like the lights of an office building eager to blend into the anonymity of night. It's a contrived image, but it's what Pancho would've chosen. A contrived image with two or three dirty words tacked on. One night after a poetry reading I realized that Pancho had realized what was happening, and that same night I told him we were finished. He didn't take it badly. For a week, I think, he tried unsuccessfully to get me back into bed. Then he tried to sleep with my sister. I don't know whether he succeeded. One night I woke up and María and some shadowy figure were screwing. That's enough, I said, I want to sleep in peace. Always reading Sor Juana, and then you act like a slut. When I turned on the light I saw that the person with her was Luscious Skin. I told him to leave that instant if he didn't want me to call the police. María, oddly enough, didn't complain. As he put on his pants, Luscious Skin asked me to forgive him for waking me up. My sister isn't a slut, I told him. I know my behavior was a little contradictory. Well, not my behavior, my words. Whatever. When Luscious Skin had gone I got in bed with my sister and hugged her and started to cry. A little while later I started to work for a university theater company. I had a manuscript that my father wanted to send to a few publishing houses, but I wouldn't let him. I wasn't involved in the activities of the visceral realists. I didn't want to have anything to do with them. Later María told me that Pancho wasn't part of the group anymore either. I don't know whether he was expelled (whether Arturo Belano expelled him) or whether he left on his own, whether he just didn't have the heart for anything anymore. Poor Pancho. His brother Moctezuma was still in the group. I think I saw one of his poems in an anthology. Anyway, they didn't hang around our house anymore. I heard that Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima had disappeared up north; my father and mother discussed it once. My mother laughed. I remember she said: they'll show up someday. My father seemed worried. María was worried too. Not me. By then the only friend I had left from the group was Ernesto San Epifanio.

  3

  Manuel Maples Arce, walking along the Calzada del Cerro, Chapultepec Park, Mexico City DF, August 1976. This young man, Arturo Belano, came to interview me. I only saw him once. He was with two boys and a girl, I don't know their names, they hardly said a word. The girl was American.

  I told them that I abhorred tape recorders for the same reason that my friend Borges abhorred mirrors. Were you friends with Borges? Arturo Belano asked in a tone of astonishment that I found slightly offensive. We were quite good friends, I answered, close friends, you might say, in the far-off days of our youth. The American wanted to know why Borges abhorred tape recorders. Because he's blind, I suppose, I told her in English. What does blindness have to do with tape recorders? she said. It reminds him of the perils of hearing, I replied. Listening to one's own voice, one's own footsteps, the footsteps of the enemy. The American looked me in the eyes and nodded. I don't think she knew much about Borges. I don't think she knew my work at all, although I was translated by John Dos Passos. I don't think she knew much about John Dos Passos either.

  But I've lost my train of thought. Where was I? I told Arturo Belano that I would prefer that he not use the tape recorder and that it would be better if he left me a list of questions. He agreed. He pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote the questions while I showed his companions some of the rooms in the house. Then, when he had finished the list, I had drinks brought in and we talked for a while. They had already interviewed Arqueles Vela and Germán List Arzubide. Do you think anyone is interested in stridentism these days? I asked Arturo Belano. Of course, maestro, he answered, or words to that effect. My opinion is that stridentism is history now and as such it can only be interesting to literary historians, I said. It interests me and I'm not a historian, he said. Well, then.

  Before bed that night I read the list. Just the kind of questions an ignorant, zealous young man might ask. That same night I drafted my answers. The next day I made a clean copy. Three days later, as we had arranged, he came to pick up the list. The maid let him in, but following my express instructions, she told him I wasn't there. Then she handed him the package I had prepared for him: the list of questions with my answers and two books of mine that I was afraid to inscribe to him (I think young people today scorn such sentimentalism). The books were Andamios interiores and Urbe. I was on the other side of the door, listening. The maid said: Mr. Maples left this for you. Silence. Arturo Belano must have taken the package and looked at it. He must have leafed through the books. Two books published so long ago, their pages (excellent paper) uncut. Silence. He must have looked over the questions. Then I heard him thank the maid and leave. If he comes back to see me, I thought, I'll be justified, if he shows up here one day, without calling first, to talk to me, to listen to me tell my old stories, to submit his poems for my consideration, I'll be justified. All poets, even the most avant-garde, need a father. But these poets were meant to be orphans. He never came back.

  Barbara Patterson, in a room at the Hotel Los Claveles, Avenida Niño Perdido and Juan de Dios Peza, Mexico City DF, September 1976. Motherfucking hemorrhoid-licking old bastard, I saw the distrust in his pale, bored little monkey eyes right from the start, and I said to myself this asshole will take every chance he gets to spit on me, the motherfucking son of a bitch. But I'm dumb, I've always been dumb and naïve, and I let down my guard. And the same thing happened that always happens. Borges. John Dos Passos. Vomit carelessly soaking Barbara Patterson's hair. And on top of it all the dumbfuck looks at me like he's sorry for me, as if to say these kids have brought me this pale-eyed gringa just so I can shit on her, and Rafael looked at me too and the fucking dwarf didn't even blink, lik
e he was used to me being insulted by any old fart-breath, any constipated grand old man of Mexican literature who got the urge. And then the old bastard comes right out and says he doesn't like tape recorders, never mind how hard it was for me to get this one, and the ass kissers say okay, no problem, we'll write up a question sheet right here, Mr. Great Poet of the Pleistocene, yes sir, instead of pulling down his pants and shoving the tape recorder up his ass. And the old guy struts around listing his friends (all of them dead or practically dead), and he keeps calling me miss, as if that could make up for the puke, the vomit all over my shirt and jeans, and what can I say, I didn't even have the strength to answer him when he started talking to me in English, just yes, no, or I don't know, mostly I don't know, and when we left his house, which was a mansion, I said so where did the money come from, you dead-rat-fucking bastard, where did you get the money to buy this house? I told Rafael we had to talk, but Rafael said that he wanted to hang out with Arturo Belano, and I said you goddamn bastard I need to talk to you, and he said later, Barbarita, later, like I was some girl he fucked up the ass every night and not a woman who's three inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier than he is (I have to go on a diet but who can diet with all this fucking Mexican food), and then I said I need to talk to you now, and the lousy prick, acting like the cocksucker he is, turns around and stares at me and says hey baby, what's wrong? some unexpected problem? and luckily Belano and Requena had gone on ahead and didn't hear him. It's especially lucky they didn't see me, because I guess my martyred face must have just collapsed, I could actually feel it changing. At any rate, I felt my eyes flare up with a lethal dose of hatred, and then I said go screw your mother, asshole, so I wouldn't say anything worse, and turned and left. I spent the afternoon in tears. I was supposedly in Mexico to do a postgraduate course on Juan Rulfo, but I met Rafael at a poetry reading at the Casa del Lago and we fell in love at first sight. Or at least that's how it was for me. I'm not so sure about Rafael. That very night I dragged him to the Hotel Los Claveles, where I still live, and we fucked until we dropped. Actually, Rafael doesn't have much stamina, but I do, and I kept him going until daylight came down along Niño Perdido, like something swooning or struck by lightning, dawn is so weird in this fucking city. The next day I stopped going to class and I spent my time having these endless conversations with the visceral realists, who back then were still more or less normal, more or less sick kids, and weren't calling themselves visceral realists yet. I liked them. They reminded me of the beats. I liked Ulises Lima, Belano, María Font. I liked that conceited bastard Ernesto San Epifanio a little less. Anyway, I liked them. I wanted to have a good time, and around them things were always lively. I met lots of people, people who gradually began to drift away from the group. I met an American, from Kansas (I'm from California), the painter Catalina O'Hara, but we never hit it off. A stuck-up bitch who thought she invented the wheel and acted like she was a revolutionary just because she'd been in Chile during the coup. Anyway, I got to know her a little after she separated from her husband and all the poets were dying to fuck her. Even Belano and Ulises Lima, who were obviously asexual and secretly got it on together (you know, I'll suck you, you suck me, just for a minute and then we'll stop), seemed to be wild for the fucking cowgirl. Rafael too. But I grabbed Rafael and said: if I find out you're sleeping with that bitch I'll cut your balls off. And Rafael laughed and said but baby, why would you cut my balls off? You're the only one I love. But even his eyes (which were the best thing about Rafael, Arab eyes, tents and oases) were saying the exact opposite. I'm with you because you give me money to pay the bills. I'm with you because you put up the cash. I'm with you because right now I don't have anyone better to be with or fuck. And I said: Rafael, you bastard, you stupid prick, you son of a bitch, when your friends disappear I'll still be with you, I know it, when you're left all alone and helpless, I'm the one who'll be by your side and who'll help you. Not some old bastard festering in his memories and literary quotations. And definitely not your second-rate gurus (Arturo and Ulises? he said, they aren't my gurus, you dumb gringa, they're my friends), who the way I see it are going to vanish one of these days. Why would they vanish? he said. I don't know, I said, out of fucking embarrassment? shame? mortification? insecurity? indecision? evasiveness? spinelessness? and then I had to stop because my Spanish wasn't good enough. Then he laughed at me and said you're a witch, Barbara, go on, get back to work on Rulfo, I'm leaving now but I'll be back soon, and instead of listening to him I threw myself on the bed and started to cry. They're all going to leave you, Rafael, I shouted from the window of my room at the Hotel Los Claveles as Rafael disappeared in the crowd, except me, asshole, except me.