The Third Reich

by Roberto Bolaño

  With true horror I realize that something is beginning to come between us.

  A boring afternoon otherwise. At the hotel there are hardly any more pale-skinned guests to be seen. All of them, even the ones who have been here just a few days, boast perfect tans, the fruit of many hours spent on the beach and of the lotions and creams that our technology produces in abundance. In fact, the only guest who’s kept his natural color is me. Not coincidentally, I’m also the one who spends the most time at the hotel. Me and an old lady who hardly ever ventures offthe terrace. This fact seems to arouse the curiousity of the staff, who have begun to watch me with mount-ing interest, though from a prudent distance, and with something that at the risk of exaggeration I’ll call fear. Word of the table incident must have spread at lightning speed. The difference between the old lady and me is that she sits placidly on the terrace, watching the sky and the beach, and I’m constantly emerging like a sleepwalker from my room to head to the beach to see Ingeborg or have a beer at the hotel bar.

  It’s odd: sometimes I’m convinced that the old lady was here back in the days when I used to come to the Del Mar with my parents. But ten years is a long time, at least in this instance, and her face doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe if I went up to her and asked whether she remembered me . . .

  But what are the odds? In any case I don’t know whether I could bring myself to talk to her. There’s something about her that repels me. And yet, at first glance she’s an ordinary old lady: more thin than fat, very wrinkled, dressed all in white, wearing sunglasses and a little straw hat. This afternoon, after Ingeborg left, I watched her from the balcony. She always claims the same spot on the terrace, in a corner near the sidewalk. There, half hidden under an enormous white umbrella, she whiles away the time watching the few cars that pass by along the Paseo Marítimo, like a jointed doll, content. And, strangely, essential to my own happiness: when I can no longer stand the stuffy air of the room I come out and there she is, a kind of font of energy that boosts my spirits so I’m able to sit back down at the table and go on working.

  And what if she, in turn, sees me every time I come out onto the balcony? What must she think of me? Who must she think I am? She never tilts her head up, but with those sunglasses it’s hard to say what she’s watching. She might have glimpsed my shadow on the tile floor of the terrace. There aren’t many people at the hotel and surely she would consider it unseemly for a young man to keep appearing and disappearing. The last time I came out she was writing a postcard. Might she have mentioned me in it? I don’t know. But if she did, how did she describe me? And from what perspective? As a pale young man with a smooth brow? Or a nervous young man, clearly in love? Or maybe an ordinary young man with a skin condition?

  I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m getting offthe subject, losing myself in pointless speculation that only upsets me. I don’t understand how my dear friend Conrad could ever say that I write like Karl Bröger. If only.

  Thanks to Conrad I was introduced to the literary group Workers of Nyland House. It was he who put Karl Bröger’s Soldaten der Erde in my hands, and who pushed me, after I had read it, to embark on an ever more dizzying and arduous search through the libraries of Stuttgart for Bröger’s Bunker 17, Heinrich Lersch’s Hammerschläge, Max Barthel’s Das vergitterte Land, Gerrit Engelke’s Rhythmus des neuen Europa, Lersch’s Mensch im Eisen, etc.

  Conrad knows our national literature. One night in his room he reeled offthe names of two hundred German writers. I asked if he’d read them all. He said yes. He especially loved Goethe, and of the moderns, Ernst Jünger. There were two books by Jünger that he was always rereading: Der Kampf als inneres Erlebnis and Feuer und Blut. And yet he didn’t turn his nose up at more obscure writ-ers; hence his fervent regard—which we would soon share—for the Nyland Circle.

  How many nights after that did I go to bed late, busy not just deciphering the tricky rules of new games but immersed in the joys and miseries, the heights and depths, of German literature!

  Of course, I’m talking about the literature written in blood, not Florian Linden novels, which, according to Ingeborg, just keep getting more far-fetched. On the same subject, I feel it’s appropriate to air a grievance here: the few times that I’ve talked in public to Ingeborg about my work, going into some detail about the progress of a game, she’s gotten angry or embarrassed, and yet she’s always telling me (during breakfast, at the club, in the car, in bed, during dinner, and even over the phone) about the riddles that Florian Linden has to solve. And I haven’t gotten angry at her or been embarrassed by what she has to say. On the contrary, I’ve tried to take a broad and objective view (in vain), and then I’ve suggested possible logical solutions to the fairy-tale detective puzzles.

  A month ago, not to put too fine a point on it, I dreamed about Florian Linden. That was the limit. I remember it vividly: I was in bed, because I was very cold, and Ingeborg was saying to me: “The room is hermetically sealed.” Then, from the hallway, we heard the voice of Florian Linden, who warned us of the presence in the room of a poisonous spider, a spider that could bite us and then vanish, even though the room was “hermetically sealed.” Ingeborg started to cry and I held her tight. After a while she said: “It’s impossible, how did Florian do it this time?” I got up and looked around, going through drawers in search of the spider, but I couldn’t find any-thing; of course there were many places where it could hide. Ingeborg shouted, Florian, Florian, Florian, what should we do? but no one answered. I think we both knew we were on our own.

  That was all. In fact, it was a nightmare, not a dream. If it meant anything, I can’t say what. I don’t usually have nightmares. During my adolescence, I did, plenty of them, and all different, but nothing that would have given my parents or the school psychologist cause to worry. Really, I’ve always been a well-balanced person.

  It would be interesting to remember the dreams I had here, at the Del Mar, more than ten years ago. I probably dreamed about girls and punishment, the way all boys that age do. A few times my brother described a dream to me. I don’t know whether we were alone or whether our parents were there too. I never did anything like that. When Ingeborg was little she often woke up crying and needed to be consoled. In other words, she woke up afraid, and with a terrible sense of loneliness. That’s never happened to me, or it’s happened so few times that I’ve forgotten.

  For a few years now I’ve dreamed about games. I go to bed, close my eyes, and a board lights up full of incomprehensible counters, and thus, little by little, I lull myself to sleep. But my real dreams must be different because I don’t remember them.

  I’ve dreamed only a few times about Ingeborg, though she’s the central figure in one of my most vivid dreams. It’s a dream that doesn’t take long to tell, and this may be its greatest virtue. She’s sitting on a stone bench brushing her hair with a glass hairbrush; her hair, of the purest gold, falls to her waist. It’s getting dark. In the background, still very far away, is a dust cloud. Suddenly I realize that next to her is a huge wooden dog—and I wake up. I think I dreamed this just after we met. When I described it to her she said that the dust cloud meant the dawning of love. I told her I’d had the same thought. We both were happy. All of this happened at a club in Stuttgart, the Detroit, and it’s possible that I still remember that dream because I told it to her and she understood it.

  Sometimes Ingeborg calls me late at night. She confesses that this is one of the reasons she loves me. Some of her ex-boyfriends couldn’t handle the phone calls. A guy called Erich broke up with her after she woke him up at three in the morning. A week later he wanted to get back together, but Ingeborg said no. None of them understood that she needed someone to talk to after she woke up from a nightmare, especially if she was alone and the nightmare was particularly horrible. In these cases I’m the ideal person: I’m a light sleeper; in a second I can talk as if the call were at five in the afternoon (an unlikely circumstance, since I’m still at work then); I don’t mind get
ting calls at night; finally, when the phone rings sometimes I’m not even asleep.

  It goes without saying that her calls fill me with happiness. A serene happiness that doesn’t keep me from falling back to sleep as quickly as I woke up. And with Ingeborg’s words of farewell echoing in my ears: “Sweet dreams, dear Udo.”

  Dear Ingeborg. I’ve never loved anyone so much. Why, then, these glances of mutual distrust? Why can’t we just love each other as children do, accepting each other fully?

  When she gets back I’ll tell her that I love her, that I’ve missed her, ask her to forgive me.

  This is the first time that we’ve traveled together, gone away together, and naturally it’s hard for us to mold ourselves to each other. I should avoid talking about games, especially war games, and try to be more attentive. If I have time, as soon as I’m done writing this, I’ll go down to the hotel souvenir shop and buy her something, a little thing that will make her smile and forgive me. I can’t stand to think I might lose her. I can’t stand to think I might hurt her.

  I bought a silver necklace inlaid with ebony. Four thousand pesetas. I hope she likes it. I also picked up a tiny clay figurine of a peasant in a red hat, kneeling, in the act of defecating; according to the salesgirl it’s typical of the region, or something. I’m sure Ingeborg will think it’s funny.

  At the reception desk I spotted Frau Else. I approached cautiously, and before I said hello I caught a glimpse over her shoulder of an accounting book full of zeros. Something must be bothering her because when she realized I was there she seemed annoyed. I tried to show her the necklace but she wouldn’t let me. Leaning on the reception desk, her hair illuminated by the late afternoon sun coming in through the big window in the hall, she asked about Ingeborg and “your friends.” I lied, saying I had no idea what friends she was talking about. That young German couple, said Frau Else. I answered that they were summer acquaintances, not friends, and they’re guests of the competition, I added. Frau Else didn’t seem to appreciate my irony. Since it was clear that she didn’t plan to continue the conversation and I didn’t want to go up to my room yet, I quickly pulled out the clay figurine and showed it to her. Frau Else smiled and said:

  “You’re a child, Udo.”

  I don’t know why, but that simple sentence, spoken in Frau Else’s melodious voice, was enough to make me blush. Then she made it clear that she was busy and I should leave her alone. Before I left I asked her what time it usually got dark. At ten, said Frau Else.

  From the balcony I can see the little boats that ply the tourist route; they leave every hour from the old fishing port, head east, then turn north and vanish behind a big outcropping that they call the Punta de la Virgen. It’s nine o’clock and only now is the night beginning to creep in, slow and bright.

  The beach is almost empty. Only children and dogs cross the golden sand. Singly first, and then in a pack, the dogs race toward the pine forest and the campgrounds, then they return and little by little the pack breaks apart. The children play in one spot. In the distance, near the old town and the cliffs, a little white boat appears. Ingeborg is on board, I’m sure. But the boat hardly seems to move. On the beach, between the Del Mar and the Costa Brava, the pedal boat guy begins to pull the boats up away from the shore. Although it must be heavy work, no one helps him. But seeing the ease with which he drags the huge things, leaving deep tracks in the sand, it’s clear that he can handle it himself. From here no one would guess that most of his body is horribly burned. He’s wearing only a pair of shorts and the wind tosses his too-long hair. He’s a character, all right. And I don’t say that because of the burns but because of his singular way of arranging the pedal boats. What I had already discovered the night that Charly ran offdown the beach I see again, but this time I watch the operation from the beginning, and, as I imagined, it’s slow, complicated, serving no practical purpose, absurd. The pedal boats face in different directions, assembled not in a traditional row or double row but in a circle, or rather a blunt-pointed star. An arduous task, as evidenced by the fact that by the time he’s half finished, all the other pedal boat guys are done. And yet he doesn’t seem to care. He must like working at this time of day, in the cool evening breeze, the beach empty except for a few children playing in the sand far from the pedal boats. Well, if I were a kid I don’t think I’d get close either.

  It’s strange: for a second it looked to me as if he was building a fortress with the pedal boats. A fortress like the ones that children build, in fact. The difference is that the poor brute isn’t a child. So why build a fortress? It’s obvious, I think: to have a place to spend the night.

  Ingeborg’s little boat has docked. She must be heading for the hotel now. I imagine her smooth skin, her cool, sweet-smelling hair, her confident steps crossing the old town. Soon it will be completely dark.

  The rental guy still hasn’t finished building his star. I wonder why no one has complained; like a tumbledown shack, the pedal boats spoil the charm of the beach. Though I suppose it isn’t the poor guy’s fault, and maybe the unpleasant effect, the strong resemblance to a hut or den, is clear only from up here. From the Paseo Marítimo does no one notice what a mess is being made of the beach?

  I’ve closed the door to the balcony. Where is Ingeborg?

  AUGUST 24

  I have so much to write. I met the Burn Victim. I’ll try to sum up what’s happened in the last few hours.

  Ingeborg was radiant and happy when she got home last night. The excursion was a success and nothing needed to be said in order for us to proceed to a reconciliation that was all the lovelier for being completely natural. We had dinner at the hotel and then we met Hanna and Charly at a bar on the Paseo Marítimo called the Andalusia Lodge. Deep down I would rather have spent the rest of the night alone with Ingeborg, but I couldn’t refuse to go out at the risk of disturbing our newfound peace.

  Charly was excited and on edge, and it wasn’t long before I learned why: that night the soccer match between the German and Spanish selections was on TV and he wanted the four of us to watch it at the bar, along with the many Spaniards who were waiting for the match to begin. When I pointed out that we would be more comfortable at the hotel, he argued that it wasn’t the same. The audience at the hotel would almost certainly be German, whereas at the bar we would be surrounded by “enemies,” which made the match twice as much fun. Surprisingly Hanna and Ingeborg took his side.

  Although I disagreed, I didn’t insist, and soon afterward we gave up our seats on the terrace and went inside to sit near the TV.

  That was how we met the Wolf and the Lamb.

  I won’t describe the inside of the Andalusia Lodge; let me just say that it was big, it stank, and a single glance was enough to confirm my fears: we were the only foreigners.

  The audience, scattered in a rough half circle in front of the television, was more or less all young men with the look of laborers who had just finished work for the day and who hadn’t yet had time to shower. In winter it would probably be an ordinary scene; in summer it was unsettling.

  To heighten the difference between them and us, the patrons all seemed to be old friends and they showed it by slapping each other on the back, yelling back and forth, making jokes that were increasingly off-color. The noise was deafening. The tables were overflowing with beer bottles. One group was playing a loud game of foosball, and the sound of clanging metal rose above the general din like the rifle shots of a sharpshooter in the middle of a battle waged with swords and knives. It was clear that our presence had raised expectations that had little or nothing to do with the match. The glances, some more discreet than others, converged on Ingeborg and Hanna, who, in contrast to those around them, looked like two storybook princesses, Ingeborg especially.

  Charly was in heaven. This was clearly his kind of place. He liked the shouting, the vulgar jokes, the air filled with smoke and nauseating smells; and if he could watch our selection play, all the better. But nothing is perfect. Just as we were
being served sangria for four, we discovered that the team was East German. Charly took it hard, and from that moment on his mood grew unpredictable. To begin with, he wanted to leave right away. Later I would find out how exaggerated and absurd his fears really were. Among them was the following: that the Spaniards would mistake us for East Germans.

  In the end we decided to leave as soon as we were done with the sangria. Naturally, we paid no attention to the match, busy as we were drinking and laughing. It was at this point that the Wolf and the Lamb sat down at our table.

  How it happened, I can’t say. With no explanation, they simply sat down with us and started to talk. They knew a few words of English, insufficient by any measure, though they made up for any language deficiencies with their great skills as mimes. At first the conversation covered all the usual topics (work, the weather, wages, etc.) and I acted as interpreter. They were, I gathered, amateur local tour guides, but that was surely a joke. Then, as the night wore on and everyone felt more at ease, my expertise was required only at difficult moments. Alcohol works miracles, it’s true.

  We all left the Andalusia Lodge in Charly’s car, heading for a club on the edge of town, near the Barcelona highway. The prices were quite a bit lower than in the tourist zone, the clubgoers were almost all people like our new friends, and the atmosphere was festive, lending itself to camaraderie, though with a hint of something dark and murky, a quality particular to Spain that, paradoxically, inspires no misgivings. As always, Charly was quick to get drunk. How, I don’t know, but at some point during the night we learned that the East German selection had lost two to zero. I remember it as something strange, because I have no interest in soccer and yet I experienced the announcement of the results as a turning point, as if from that moment on all the clamor of the club might turn into something else entirely, a horror show.