By Night in Chile

by Roberto Bolaño

  Let God’s will be done, I said. I’m going to reread the Greeks. Respecting the tradition, I started with Homer, then moved on to Thales of Miletus, Xenophanes of Colophon, Alcmaeon of Croton, Zeno of Elea (wonderful), and then a

  pro-Allende general was killed, and Chile restored diplomatic relations with Cuba and the national census recorded a total of 8,884,746 Chileans and the first episodes of the soap opera The Right to be Born were broadcast on television, and I read Tyrtaios of Sparta and Archilochos of Paros and Solon of Athens and Hipponax of Ephesos and Stesichoros of Himnera and Sappho of Mytilene and Anakreon of Teos and Pindar of Thebes (one of my favorites), and the

  government nationalized the copper mines and then the nitrate and steel

  industries and Pablo Neruda won the Nobel Prize and Díaz Casanueva won the National Literature Prize and Fidel Castro came on a visit and many people thought he would stay and live in Chile for ever and Pérez Zujovic the Christian Democrat ex-minister was killed and Lafourcade published White Dove and I gave it a good review, you might say I hailed it in glowing terms, although deep down I knew it wasn’t much of a book, and the first anti-Allende march was organized, with people banging pots and pans, and I read Aeschylus and Sophocles and Euripides, all the tragedies, and Alkaios of Mytilene and Aesop and Hesiod and Herodotus (a titan among authors), and in Chile there were shortages and inflation and black marketeering and long lines for food and Farewell’s estate was expropriated in the Land Reform along with many others and the Bureau of Women’s Affairs was set up and Allende went to Mexico and visited the seat of the United Nations in New York and there were terrorist attacks and I read Thucydides, the long wars of Thucydides, the rivers and plains, the winds and the plateaus that traverse the time-darkened pages of Thucydides, and the men he describes, the warriors with their arms, and the civilians, harvesting grapes, or looking from a mountainside at the distant horizon, the horizon where I was just one among millions of beings still to be born, the far-off horizon

  Thucydides glimpsed and me there trembling indistinguishably, and I also reread Demosthenes and Menander and Aristotle and Plato (whom one cannot read too often), and there were strikes and the colonel of a tank regiment tried to mount a coup, and a cameraman recorded his own death on film, and then Allende’s naval aide-de-camp was assassinated and there were riots, swearing, Chileans

  blaspheming, painting on walls, and then nearly half a million people marched in support of Allende, and then came the coup d’état, the putsch, the military uprising, the bombing of La Moneda and when the bombing was finished, the president committed suicide and that put an end to it all. I sat there in silence, a finger between the pages to mark my place, and I thought: Peace at last. I got up and looked out the window: Peace and quiet. The sky was blue, a deep, clean blue, with a few scattered clouds. I saw a helicopter in the

  distance. Leaving the window open, I knelt and prayed, for Chile, for all Chileans, the living and the dead. Then I rang Farewell. How are you feeling? I asked him. I’m dancing a jig, he said. The following days were strange. It was as if until then we had all been dreaming and had suddenly woken to real life, although occasionally it seemed to be the other way round, as if we had all been plunged into a dream. And we went on living day by day in accordance with the abnormal conventions of the dream world: anything can happen and whatever happens the dreamer accepts it. Movement works differently. We move like gazelles or the way gazelles move in a tiger’s dream. We move like a painting by Vasarely. We move as if we had no shadows and were unperturbed by that appalling fact. We speak. We eat. But underneath we are trying not to realize that we are speaking and eating. One night I found out that Neruda had died. I rang Farewell. Pablo’s dead, I said. He died of cancer, said Farewell, cancer. Yes, cancer, I said. Should we go to the funeral? I’m going, said Farewell. I’ll go with you, I said. After I hung up, I felt as if I had dreamed the whole conversation. The next day we went to the cemetery. Farewell was very elegantly dressed. He looked like a phantom ship, but very elegant. They’re going to give me back my estate, he whispered into my ear. It was a large funeral cortege and people kept joining it as we proceeded. Look at those gorgeous boys! said Farewell. Control yourself, I said. I looked him in the face: Farewell was winking at some strangers. They were young and seemed to be in a bad mood, but at the time I felt they had sprung from a dream in which good and bad moods were no more than metaphysical accidents. I could hear someone behind us who had recognized Farewell saying, That’s Farewell, the critic. Words emerging from one dream and entering another. Then someone started shouting.

  Hysterically. Other hysterics joined in the chant. What’s this vulgar

  carrying-on? asked Farewell. Just some riffraff, I replied, don’t worry, it’s not far to the cemetery now. And what has become of Pablo? asked Farewell. He’s up front, in the coffin, I said. Don’t be an idiot, said Farewell, I haven’t gone completely gaga yet. I’m sorry, I said. It’s all right, he replied. What a pity they don’t do funerals like they used to, said Farewell. Indeed, I said. A proper send-off, with eulogies and so forth, said Farewell. In the French manner, I said. I would have written a lovely speech for Pablo, said Farewell, and he started to cry. We must be dreaming, I thought. As we were leaving the cemetery, arm in arm, I saw a man propped against a tomb, asleep. A shiver ran down my spine. The following days were fairly calm, and I was tired from reading all those Greeks. So I returned to the literature of Chile. I tried to write a few poems. For a start everything came out in iambic meter. Then I don’t know what came over me. My poetry veered from the angelic to the demonic. Often in the evening I was tempted to show my confessor the verses I had written, but I never did. I wrote about women, hatefully, cruelly, I wrote about homosexuals and children lost in derelict railway stations. If I had to describe my poetry, I would say that, until then, it had always been Apollonian, yet I had begun to write in what might tentatively be described as a Dionysiac mode. But in fact it wasn’t Dionysiac poetry. Or demonic poetry. It was just raving mad. Those poor women who appeared in my poems, what had they ever done to me? Deceived me perhaps? What had those poor homosexuals done to me? Nothing. Nothing. Not the women, not the queers. And the children, for God’s sake, what could they

  possibly have done? So what were those hapless creatures doing there, stranded in those landscapes of decay? Maybe I was one of those children? Maybe they were the children I would never have? Maybe they were the lost children of lost parents I would never know? So why was I raving on and on? My daily life, by contrast, was perfectly calm. I spoke in measured tones, never got angry, was organized and punctual. I prayed each night and fell asleep without difficulty.

  Occasionally I had nightmares, but in those days just about everybody had nightmares from time to time, though some more often than others. In the

  mornings, nevertheless, I woke up refreshed, ready to face the day’s tasks. One particular morning, I was informed that some visitors were waiting for me in the living room. I finished washing and went down. I saw Mr. Raef sitting on a wooden bench against the wall. Mr. Etah was standing with his hands clasped behind his back examining a picture by a painter who claimed to be an

  expressionist (although he was in fact an impressionist). When they saw me, both of them smiled as one might smile at an old friend. I invited them to join me for breakfast. To my surprise, they said they had broken their fast some time before, although according to the clock on the wall it was just a few minutes past eight. They agreed to have a cup of tea, just to keep me company. There’s not much more to my breakfast, I said. Black tea, toast with butter and

  marmalade, orange juice. A balanced breakfast, said Mr. Raef. Mr. Etah didn’t say anything. I instructed the maid to serve breakfast on the verandah, which looks out over the garden to the walls of the adjoining college, partly hidden by greenery. We’ve been sent to make a proposal relating to a very delicate matter, said Mr. Raef.
I nodded and remained silent. Mr. Etah had taken one of my slices of toast and was spreading butter on it. It’s something that needs to be treated in the strictest confidence, said Mr. Raef, especially now, with the current situation. I said yes, of course, I understood. Mr. Etah took a bite from the slice of toast and looked out at a group of three araucaria trees, the pride of the college, soaring cathedral-like over the gardens. You know what Chileans are like, Fr. Urrutia, always gossiping, not in a nasty way, I don’t mean that, but great ones for gossip all the same. I didn’t say anything. Mr.

  Etah finished off the slice of toast in three mouthfuls and started buttering another. Why am I telling you this? Mr. Raef asked himself rhetorically. Well, the matter we’ve come to see you about requires absolute discretion. I said yes, I understood. Mr. Etah poured himself another cup of tea and clicked his thumb and middle finger to get the maid to bring him some milk. What do you

  understand? asked Mr. Raef, with a frank and friendly smile. That you require me to be absolutely discreet, I said. More than that, said Mr. Raef, much more, we require ultra-absolute discretion, extraordinarily absolute discretion and secrecy. I was itching to correct him but restrained myself, because I wanted to know what they were proposing. Do you know anything about Marxism? asked Mr.

  Etah, after wiping his lips with a napkin. A bit, yes, but only out of

  intellectual curiosity, I said. I mean, I’m not in the least sympathetic to the doctrine, ask anyone. But do you know about it or not? A little bit, I said, feeling increasingly nervous. Do you have any books about Marxism in your library? asked Mr. Etah. Heavens, it’s not my library, it belongs to the

  community, there might be something, but only for reference, to be used as a source for philosophical essays aiming precisely to refute Marxism. But you’ve got your own library, haven’t you, Fr. Urrutia, your own personal, private library so to speak, some books are kept here in the college and others in your house, or your mother’s house, isn’t that right? Yes, that’s right, I murmured.

  And in your private library are there or are there not books about Marxism?

  asked Mr. Etah. Please answer yes or no, Mr. Raef implored me. Yes, I said. So could we say that you know something or perhaps more than something about Marxism? asked Mr. Etah fixing me with his penetrating gaze. I looked to Mr.

  Raef for help. He made a face I couldn’t interpret: it might have been

  expressing solidarity with his colleague or complicity with me. I don’t know what to say, I said. Say something, said Mr. Raef. You know me, I’m not a Marxist, I said. But are you familiar or not with, shall we say, the fundamentals of Marxism? asked Mr. Etah. Well, who isn’t? I said. So what you’re saying is that it’s not very hard to learn, said Mr. Etah. No, it’s not very hard, I said, trembling from head to toe and feeling more than ever as if it were all a dream. Mr. Raef slapped me on the leg. It was meant to be friendly but I almost jumped out of my skin. If it’s not hard to learn, it wouldn’t be hard to teach either, said Mr. Etah. I remained silent until it was clear they were waiting for me to say something. No, I said, I guess it wouldn’t be very hard to teach. Although I’ve never taught it, I added. Now’s your chance, said Mr. Etah. You’ll be serving your country, said Mr. Raef. Serving in silence and obscurity, far from the glitter of medals, he added. To put it bluntly, you’re going to have to keep your mouth shut, said Mr. Etah. Hush-hush, said Mr. Raef.

  Lips sealed, said Mr. Etah. Silent as the grave, said Mr. Raef. No going around shooting your mouth off about it, you understand, absolute discretion, said Mr.

  Etah. And just what does this delicate task involve? I asked. Giving some classes on Marxism, not many, just the basics really, to some gentlemen we’re all deeply indebted to in this country, said Mr. Raef, leaning forward and exhaling a sewerlike stench in my face. I couldn’t help frowning. My expression of displeasure made Mr. Raef smile. Don’t rack your brains, you’ll never guess who they are. And if I accept, when would these classes start, because right now I have quite a bit of work piled up, I said. Don’t get coy with us, said Mr.

  Etah, this is an offer no one can refuse. An offer no one would want to refuse, said Mr. Raef in a conciliatory tone. I felt the danger was past and the time had come to be firm. Who are my pupils? I asked. General Pinochet, said Mr.

  Etah. My breath caught in my throat. And the others? General Leigh, Admiral Merino and General Mendoza, of course, who else? said Mr. Raef, lowering his voice. I’ll have to prepare myself, I said, this is not something to be taken lightly. The classes have to start within a week, is that enough time for you? I said yes, two weeks would have been better, but I could manage with one. Then Mr. Raef talked about the fee. You’ll only be doing your patriotic duty, he said, but everyone’s got to eat. I probably agreed with him. I can’t remember what else we said. The week went by with the same calm, dreamy feeling as the weeks before. One afternoon, when I was leaving the newspaper office, there was a car waiting for me. I was taken to the college to pick up my notes and then the car plunged into the Santiago night. In the back seat, sitting next to me, was a colonel, Colonel Pérez Latouche, who handed me an envelope which I decided not to open, and stressed once again what Mr. Raef and Mr. Etah had been at such pains to make clear: the importance of absolute discretion with regard to every aspect of my new assignment. I assured him he could count on me. Let’s say no more about it then and just enjoy the drive, said Colonel Pérez Latouche, offering me a glass of whiskey, which I declined. Is it because of the cassock?

  he asked. And only then did I realize that when we had gone to the college I had changed out of the suit I was wearing at the office and put on a cassock. I shook my head. Pérez Latouche said he knew a few priests who were pretty good drinkers. I said I doubted there were any good drinkers in Chile, priests or lay folk. We tend to be bad drinkers in this country. As I expected, Pérez Latouche disagreed. I let him go on and stopped listening, wondering what had prompted me to change my clothes. Was it that I wanted to be in uniform too, so to speak, when facing my illustrious pupils for the first time? Was I afraid of something?

  Did I feel the cassock would ward off some indefinable, undeniable danger? I tried to open the curtains covering the windows of the car, but could not. There was a metal bar holding them in place. It’s a security measure, said Pérez Latouche, who was still listing Chilean wines and incorrigible Chilean drunks, as if he were unwittingly, and ironically, reciting one of Pablo de Rokha’s crazy poems. Then the car drove into a garden and stopped in front of a house with only one light on, above the main door. I followed Pérez Latouche. He realized I was looking for the soldiers on guard duty and explained that the best guards were the ones you couldn’t see. So there are guards? I asked. Oh yes, and each one has his finger on the trigger. That’s good to know, I said. We entered a room where the furniture and the walls were blindingly white. Take a seat, said Pérez Latouche, What would you like to drink? A cup of tea? I

  suggested. Tea, excellent, said Pérez Latouche, and left the room. I was left standing there on my own. I was sure they were filming me. There were two mirrors with gilded wooden frames that they could easily have been using. I could hear distant voices, people discussing something or sharing a joke. Then silence again. I heard footsteps and a door opening: a waiter dressed in white brought me a cup of tea on a silver tray. I thanked him. He murmured something I didn’t catch and vanished. When I was putting sugar in my tea I saw my face reflected in the surface of the liquid. Who would have thought you’d come to this, Sebastián? I said to myself. I felt like flinging the cup at one of those immaculate walls, I felt like sitting down with the cup between my knees and crying, I felt like shrinking until I could dive into the warm infusion and swim to the bottom, where the sugar crystals lay like big chunks of diamond. But I remained hieratic and expressionless. I put on a bored look. I stirred my tea and tasted it. It was good. Good tea. Good for the nerves. T
hen I heard steps in the corridor, not the corridor by which I had arrived, but another one, leading to a door right in front of me. The door opened and in came the aides-de-camp or adjutants, all of them in uniform, then a group of batmen or young officers, and then the Junta in full made its entrance. I got to my feet. From the corner of my eye I could see myself reflected in a mirror. The uniforms shimmered a moment like shiny cardboard cutouts, then like a restless forest. My black,

  loose-fitting cassock seemed to absorb the whole spectrum of colors in an instant. That first night we talked about Marx and Engels. How they came to work together. Then we looked at the Manifesto of the Communist Party and the Address of the Central Committee to the Communist League. For background reading I gave them the Manifesto and Basic Elements of Historical Materialism, by our compatriot Marta Harnecker. In the

  second class, a week later, we discussed The Class Struggles in France: 1848–1850 and The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, and Admiral Merino asked if I was personally acquainted with Marta Harnecker, and if so, what I thought of her. I said I didn’t know her personally, I explained that she was a disciple of Althusser (he didn’t know who Althusser was, so I told him), and had studied in France, like many Chileans. Is she good-looking? I believe she is, I said. In the third class we returned to the

  Manifesto. According to General Leigh it was an unadulterated urtext.

  He didn’t elaborate. At first I thought he was making fun of me, but it soon became clear that he was serious. I’ll have to think about that later, I said to myself. General Pinochet seemed to be very tired. This was the first class to which he had come in uniform. He spent it slumped in an armchair, jotting down the odd note, not once removing his dark glasses. I think he fell asleep for a few minutes, still firmly gripping his propelling pencil. Of the Junta, only General Pinochet and General Mendoza were present at the fourth class. Seeing me hesitate, General Pinochet gave the order to proceed as if the others were there as well, and, in a symbolic way, they were, since among those present I