The Skating Rink

by Roberto Bolaño

  Gaspar Heredia:

  I watched Carmen and the Rookie from a distance

  I watched Carmen and the Rookie from a distance: they were on the beach, gesturing wildly, lunging at each other and dodging; their feints were more like a hieroglyphic script than acts of aggression. Meanwhile, the swimmers, ignoring their quarrel, were heading back to their hotels, leaving them alone, enveloped in a veil of spray. Then, suddenly, Carmen left the beach and set off along the Paseo. The Rookie turned around, and after a moment of hesitation, sat down on the sand. From where I was, he looked like a dark mossy rock that had turned up on the beach the night before. I didn’t stop for long. Two hundred yards ahead of me, I could hear Carmen’s voice (it was impossible to see her in the thick mass of tourists) singing, “I am a shepherdess in Arcadia.” Mistakenly, I thought she had stopped and that if I kept walking, I was bound to catch up with her. For a long time, guided only by her song, I followed Carmen along the Paseo Marítimo, until I reached the Esplanade. Gradually I slowed my pace to match hers, the leisurely pace of a queen returning to her castle. Now she was singing, “I am a wounded thrush at the gates of Hell,” and in the faces of the people coming the other way, in some of those faces at least, I could see little sneers or empty smiles, flickers that bore unequivocal witness to Carmen’s passage and her terrifying energy. I won’t go into the details of how I shadowed her. It was more or less like the first time I followed Caridad. The streets were different and the pace was slower, but the destination was the same: the old mansion on the outskirts of Z. Carmen, as I noticed when we left town and set off on the highway that runs alongside the sea, was drunk. She would stop every ten paces and pull a bottle from her bag, then, a moment later, after taking a swig or two, resume her increasingly erratic and unsteady journey. I could hear her voice in snatches, carried by the evening breeze curling around the rocks, emphatically intoning, “I am a bell in the snow, tudum, tudum” almost as if it was a hymn. Just before reaching the mansion, I let her get ahead and stopped to think. What was I doing there? Did I really want to find Caridad, whatever the consequences might be? And if I did find her, what would I say? Would I have the courage to explain what I felt for her? I stayed there thinking for a good while, as cars sped recklessly around the bend in the highway, heading for Z or Y. Finally I got up and walked down the private road, still confused about what I wanted and what I felt. Curiosity was drawing me on, the desire to see the skating rink again, and the vague sense that I had to protect Caridad and the singer. As soon as I crossed the threshold of the mansion, the sound of the “Fire Dance” put an end to my ruminations. From then on it was like I was drugged. From then on the world was entirely transformed, and my fears and suspicions shrank away, obliterated by the brilliant alliance of desire and risk within those sturdy old walls. The fat guy was standing beside the rink, holding a notebook and a fountain pen. The arrangement of the packing cases had changed significantly since my last visit, so to get a good view of the whole rink without being seen I had to creep along the wall toward the generator. You’re losing energy, said the fat guy, barely moving his lips. The skater appeared like a breath of air from a corner of the rink beyond my field of vision and disappeared again immediately. There was something about their imperturbable presence in that abandoned mansion that reminded me of Carmen and the Rookie arguing on the beach. Did you hear me? said the fat guy. You’re losing energy. The skater stopped on the edge of the rink, next to him, and without moving, or rather moving only her hips and her pelvis, performed a little dance that clearly had nothing to do with Manuel de Falla’s music. The fat guy’s lips relaxed beatifically. After this brief interlude, the skater bent down and resumed her exercises without saying a word. The fat guy turned his attention back to his notebook: Well, well, he said after a while. Do you know how much the folk dancing is going to cost this year? No, and I don’t care, shouted the skater. The fat guy moved his head several times, nodding and shaking, and in between the nods and shakes he pursed his lips as if he was about to whistle or kiss someone on the cheek. I don’t know, there was something about the guy that made him likeable. The rectangular rink seemed to be more brightly illuminated than last time and the humming of the generator, or generators, was louder, as if the machine was signaling that it had reached its maximum capacity. What a stupid waste of money, murmured the fat guy. The girl threw him a sidelong glance as she went past, then looked up at the beams from which the spotlights were hanging, and closed her eyes. Skating blind, she slowed down gradually, but also began to move in a more complex and confident way. Each turn and shift of position had clearly been practiced many times over. Finally she headed for the center of the rink, where she leaped up and span around several times before landing precisely and skating away. Bravo, whispered the fat guy. All I know about skating is what I learned from watching some Holiday on Ice show in a bar, but what she was doing seemed perfect to me. The skater continued with her eyes closed and tried to repeat the last manoeuvre. But what should have been a stylized T figure, her body outstretched horizontally, balanced on one vertical leg, as she sliced the rink into two equal halves, became a tumble of legs and arms that finished with her lying face up on the ice. Just then, at the opposite end of the rink, I saw Caridad’s silhouette, hidden among the cases, like me. Have you hurt yourself? asked the fat guy, who started to walk onto the ice but then stopped. No, said the girl without trying to get up, her arms outstretched, her legs slightly apart and her hair spread like a cushion between her head and the ice. From the look on her face she didn’t seem to be in pain or even upset about messing up the routine. But my attention was divided between the skater and the silhouette at the other end of the rink, which, to my horror, for a moment resembled the shadow of a huge, emaciated rat. Why don’t you get up? Are you OK? Standing on tiptoe at the edge of the rink, the fat guy was clearly alarmed in the extreme. I’m fine, really, you shouldn’t talk so much, it breaks my concentration, said the skater flat out on the ice. Talk? I hardly said a thing, replied the fat guy. What about those papers you were reading aloud? That’s for my work, Nuria, don’t be so touchy, he whined, anyway, I wasn’t reading them out loud. Yes you were. A few comments, maybe, that was all, come on Nuria, get up, you could damage your back lying there, said the fat guy. Why? Because it’s very cold! Come here, help me up, said the skater. What? The fat guy put on an apologetic smile. The girl kept lying there quietly, waiting. Do you want me to help you? Don’t you feel well? Have you hurt yourself, Nuria? The fat guy’s body teetered precariously on the edge of the rink. There was something pendulum-like about him. Something uncannily reminiscent of a clockwork mechanism. Down at the other end, Caridad’s whole head was visible over the cases. Come and lie down beside me, it’s not that cold, said the skater. What do you mean not that cold? I swear, said the skater. The fat guy turned around. Caridad’s head disappeared immediately. Had they seen her? Come on, stop playing around and get on with your training, said the fat guy after scrutinizing the darkness. The skater didn’t answer. The spiky hair of the girl with the knife appeared again over the tops of the boxes. I figured the fat guy probably hadn’t seen her, although from the way he had turned around, he was definitely expecting to find something behind him. Come here, said the skater, don’t be afraid. You come here, replied the fat guy, in a barely audible voice. Still looking up at the roof, the skater smiled broadly and said, Chook chook chook. The fat guy heaved an exasperated sigh, walked around the chair and sat in it with his back to the skater, pointedly
facing the rows of cases. Ignoring his body language, the girl sat up on the ice. What time is it? The fat guy looked at his watch and said something I couldn’t hear. It’s not a big deal, just a fall or two, you always exaggerate, said the skater. Maybe, said the fat guy, with irritation and affection in his voice, but so do you. Ever since I was a little girl, she confirmed. The fat guy stood up, looking happy, and said, Listen, I’m not your trainer but I know that lying on ice after skating has got to be bad for you. You’ve perspired and now you’re getting cold. I know, I’m a silly girl, said the skater. I’m serious, Nuria, said the fat guy. Then they were quiet for a moment, observing each other, the girl in the middle of the rink, the fat guy perched on the cement edge, balancing on tiptoe with his hands in his pockets. Suddenly the skater was possessed by laughter. I’d like to see you skate, she sputtered between convulsions. Her laughter was sudden and cold like the ice. Yes, very funny, I’d fall over, said the fat guy. That’s what I was thinking, but you could take the knocks, and I’d make you skate eight hours a day, until you fell asleep on your skates. I don’t think you’d be that cruel, said the fat guy. What kind of dress could you wear? I know, a blue one, with flounces—and I would be that cruel, you don’t know me. The fat guy nodded and pretended to get angry, but now and then let out a laugh, as if it had risen irrepressibly from deep inside. One day I’ll skate, for you . . . he whispered. You couldn’t, said the skater. I promise you I will, Nuria. The fat guy moved his left hand strangely, like a sleepwalker or someone opening a door. Sitting on the ice, no longer laughing, the skater observed him attentively, waiting for a declaration, but the fat guy said nothing more. Suddenly the skater hiccuped. What was that? said the fat guy, looking everywhere except the rink. Shit, I’ve got hiccups, said the skater. You see, I warned you, why don’t you get up? It’s from laughing so much, it’s your fault, said the skater. Come on, I’ll give you a glass of water and it’ll go away, said the fat guy. That doesn’t work with me, you’re going to make me drink it backwards, aren’t you? The fat guy looked at her admiringly. That what my grandma used to do, I almost broke my teeth once. They waited for the next hiccup in silence; even the “Fire Dance” seemed to be playing more quietly. At the other end of the rink, Caridad’s silhouette rose above the cases until her head and shoulders were dimly visible. She was thinner than she had been at the campground, and the background of shadows and straight edges accentuated the impression of thinness. The skater’s hiccup resonated in every corner. Well, it’s always worked for me, said the fat guy. That’s because you’re so cautious, you’d never bite the glass and break a tooth, said the skater. You just put your lips on the edge, that’s all. Do you want to see my method? The fat guy remained perfectly still, as if he had seen a lion in the middle of the rink, and then he tried to shake his head to say no, but it was too late. She had already clicked the blades of her skates together and was gliding over the ice towards him. When she got there, he was waiting, tremulous and attentive, with an enormous towel. You’re cold, he said, let me rub you a bit. Turn off the tape, said the skater. The fat guy draped the towel over the girls’ shoulders and promptly obeyed her order . . .

  Enric Rosquelles:

  Unfortunately, after dinner, Pilar insisted that we go to a disco

  Unfortunately, after dinner, Pilar insisted that we go to a disco; she suddenly felt like dancing with her husband, something they hadn’t done for a long time, and everyone thought it was a wonderful idea. Except me. I should have grabbed Nuria and made my getaway right then, but I thought she deserved a bit of fun. My big mistake, of course, was not foreseeing that someone would bring up the subject of skating. Nuria’s presence, as I soon realized, made it inevitable, and the dreaded moment came while we were watching people make fools of themselves on the dance floor, before we had dared to do likewise. The councilor in charge of culture, or his wife, one of them, opened fire by asking if there was a competition coming up. Nuria’s reply was utterly naïve: yes. Initially there was some talk about her representing Z: she had to fly the flag and fly it high. Then, for want of a better topic, I guess, the difficulties and delicacy of skating were discussed (like an iron butterfly, shouted out the councilor responsible for tourism, visibly pleased with his simile) and Nuria had no choice but to agree and assure them, with all her candid enthusiasm (poor Nuria), that she was training for at least five hours a day. In Barcelona? asked Enric Gibert. No, in Z, said Nuria, as emphatically as a tombstone being dropped into place on a grave. My grave. Luckily I have quick reflexes: right away I asked her to dance. As we walked away toward the dance floor, I looked back and saw Pilar staring at me. The rest of them were laughing and talking, but Pilar, who might be careless and negligent at times, but is certainly nobody’s fool, kept her dark gimlet eyes fixed on me. I would gladly have kept on walking and never returned to that table. I was sweating, but not from the exertion. Dancing has never been my forte, but I threw myself into that alien world, perhaps to delay the impending catastrophe, albeit momentarily, perhaps to enjoy being close to Nuria for the last time. And to be honest, I wasn’t too bad. All my usual fears vanished in the commotion of the dance floor, and I believe I can explain why: to dance well you have to forget your own body. It must cease to exist. In spite of all its extra pounds and its divergence from current esthetic norms, my body swayed and bounced, lifted one leg, then the other, then a leg and an arm, then leaped in the air and spun around, all without any help from my mind, which had, meanwhile, withdrawn to somewhere behind my eyeballs, where it was assessing the situation, weighing up the pros and cons, attempting to read Pilar’s thoughts telepathically (with a certain trepidation, I admit), guessing at the scope of the questions she would ask and trying to fabricate convincing replies. When we came back to the table, we were literally dripping with perspiration. The wives of both councilors felt obliged to make humorous remarks about my little-known passion for dancing, which they summed up by saying, You’ve been keeping that quiet! I accepted their praise and their jokes good humouredly, since they were giving me a few seconds’ grace. Pilar, by contrast, was not at all talkative; her husband had just gone to the bathroom. Inspired by my example, the councilors and their wives got up to dance, leaving only myself, Pilar and Nuria at the table, which was plunged in an ominous darkness. I remember there was a slow tune playing—was it a bolero?—and all the dancers who a moment before had been jumping around among the lights let their shoulders droop, went suddenly languid and collapsed into each other’s arms. Wretched as I was, I thanked heaven that we were no longer dancing, since I was mortified by the thought of Nuria resting her head against my shoulder or my chest (as all the girls were doing, even the councilors’ wives) and smelling the reek of my sweat. That’s the way I am; I always try to make a good impression. No doubt people are saying now that on such-and-such an occasion my socks or my breath stank. Lies. In matters of personal hygiene I have always been scrupulous to a fault, since I was a teenager. But as I was saying: there we were, the three of us, watching the dancers, avoiding each other’s eyes, and the mayor’s husband still hadn’t come back. I could exaggerate and say that I was listening to Pilar’s breathing, quick and uneven like my own, but it wouldn’t be true, the music was too loud, as it always is in discos. When I brought myself to look at Pilar, her face frightened me: it was as if her flesh, her features, were being absorbed by her skull, sucked into a kind of facial black hole, leaving only a trace of determination in her gaze and furrowed brow. At any rate, I realized I was in for troub
le. I would swear on anything you like that Nuria had no idea what was going on. Her countenance, her beautiful perfect face, was flushed, but only because she’d just finished a string of dances, that was all. Then the tall and noble figure of Enric Gibert reemerged from the shadows. Ask her to dance, said Pilar in a peremptory tone, clearly a ploy to get them out of the way. Nuria accepted without hesitation, and I watched them from my seat, as she led the way to the dance floor, and entwined arms with the overly adroit Enric. I could feel a burning lump in my stomach. It wasn’t the moment to be feeling jealous, but I was. My imagination spun out of control: I saw Nuria and the mayor’s husband naked, caressing each other; I saw everybody making love, as if there had been a nuclear attack, and no one could leave the disco, and there was nothing left to restrain their passions and basic instincts; they had all become rutting animals, except for Pilar and myself, the only ones remaining cool and calm in the midst of the orgy. When I realized that Pilar was talking to me, I gave a start. I snapped out of my reverie. Where is the skating rink? she asked. I made a futile attempt to change the subject; I even mentioned her future career as a member of parliament and the way it would change her life, but it was no use; Pilar continued to inquire into the location of the skating rink, as if it made any difference. What does it matter, I said, she has to train somewhere, doesn’t she? At that point Pilar spat out a pair of heavy-duty curses, and for a second I felt her lips, burning hot under the layer of lipstick, against my ear: Where is it, for fuck’s sake? In the Palacio Benvingut, I thought you knew, I said. Under the table, Pilar’s high heel stabbed into my groin. I must have winced because Pilar shouted a new volley of profanities into my ear. Take it easy, I whispered. Luckily the others came back at that point. They all realized; Pilar’s face made it patently clear that something had spoiled her evening, but no one wanted to deal with it; on the contrary, they seemed even more bubbly than before, especially the mayor’s husband, who kept joking with Nuria, while the councilors and their wives were well on their way to a grade-A bender. Just remembering those minutes makes me feel sweaty and crushed. Of course I tried to hold my head up and follow one of the conversations going on at the table (Enric, Nuria and the cultural councilor’s wife were on one side, with the other wife and the two councilors opposite) but I couldn’t understand a thing: it was a chaos of laughter, half-empty mixed-up glasses, and grunts and squawks unfit for human ears. Pilar, who had, apparently, been talking with the two councilors, suddenly stood up, as firm and strong as a tree, and ordered me onto the dance floor with a gesture, although I suppose she said something too. Luckily for me, they were still playing slow numbers. I say luckily because, in the first place, I was genuinely tired, and secondly because, whatever music played, Pilar was going to keep a firm hold on me so we could talk. To tell the truth, even at that moment, my admiration and affection for her remained intact. Her force of character, her obstinacy, her capacity to stand firm—those fundamental virtues of the Pilar that she was and is—could only inspire profound respect. Nevertheless, in spite of that esteem (which, I am sure, was mutual), it was the most hideous dance of my life. Wearing a skewed smile I had never seen on her face before, Pilar led me wherever she liked, and although I occasionally stumbled and seized up, in the end she had her way with me. I don’t know if Nuria saw us or not, I was never brave enough to ask her; I must have been such a pitiful sight! Specifically, Pilar’s interrogation focused on a single point: who else knew about the existence of the skating rink. Not when it had been built, or why, or where the money had come from, but who else was privy to the secret of its existence. I assured her that the people who had worked on the rink (who were, in fact, very few in number) had no real sense of my overall scheme. Then I told her that I was planning to present the project in detail at the council meeting in September or October, once the summer season was over. The rink could be opened to the public in December, in time for Christmas, half price for children and a big do for the inauguration. In short, I presented a wide range of uses and justifications for the facility, but nothing would calm her down. Much later, when we were all saying good night, Pilar came over to give me a kiss on the cheek, like Judas I thought, and whispered: You could ruin me, you son of a bitch. All the same, she seemed a little calmer . . .