Distant Star (15 page)

When I looked again at Carlos Wieder, he had turned side on. It struck me that he had a hard look peculiar to certain Latin Americans over the age of forty, quite different from the
hardness you see in Europeans or North Americans. A sad, irreparable sort of hardness. But Carlos Wieder (who had won the heart of at least one of the Garmendia sisters) did not appear to be sad and that is precisely where the infinite sadness lay. He seemed
adult
. But he wasn’t adult, I knew that straightaway. He seemed self-possessed. And in his own way, on his own terms, whatever they were, he was more self-possessed than the rest of us in that sleepy bar, or most of the people walking by on the beach or invisibly at work, getting ready for the imminent tourist season. He was hard, he had nothing or very little and it didn’t seem to bother him much. He seemed to be going through a rough patch. He had the face of a man who knows how to wait without losing his nerve or letting his imagination run wild. He didn’t look like a poet. He didn’t look as if he had been an officer in the Chilean Air Force. He didn’t look like an infamous killer. He didn’t look like a man who had flown to Antarctica to write a poem in the sky. Not at all.

As it was starting to get dark, he rummaged in his pocket for a coin, left it on the table by way of a meager tip, got up and went out. The door was behind me; when I heard it swing shut, I didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or crying. I sighed with relief. The feeling of freedom, of having finally solved a problem, was so intense I was worried the others would read it on my face. The two men were still at the bar, talking quietly (not arguing at all), as if they had all the time in the world. A cigarette hung from the bartender’s lips as he watched the woman, who now and then looked up from her magazine and smiled at him. She must have been around thirty and her
profile was striking. Deep in thought, she looked somehow Greek, or as if she’d been Greek in another life. Suddenly I felt light-hearted and hungry. I caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a ham roll and a beer. When he brought them out we exchanged a few words. I tried to go on reading, but I couldn’t, so I just sat there, eating, drinking and looking out of the window at the sea, while I waited for Romero.

He arrived shortly and we left together. At first we seemed to be going away from Wieder’s building, but in fact we were just circling around it. Is it him? asked Romero. Yes, I said. Are you certain? I’m certain. I was going to say something more, launch into ethical and aesthetic reflections on the passing of time (stupidly, since as far as Wieder was concerned, time meant nothing more than erosion), but Romero quickened his pace. He has a job to do, I thought.
We
have a job to do, I realized, horrified. We made our way through streets and alleys until Wieder’s building loomed on the horizon, lit by the moon. It was somehow different from the buildings around it, which seemed to be shrinking away or losing definition, as if it had cast a spell or were repelling them with its concentrated solitude.

Romero steered me into a small park, full of plants like a botanical garden. He pointed to a bench almost hidden by the branches. Wait for me here, he said. I sat down obediently. I was trying to make out his face in the darkness. Are you going to kill him? I murmured. Romero gestured in reply, but it was too dark to see what he meant. Wait for me here or go to the station in Blanes and catch the first train. We’ll see each other back in Barcelona. It’s not a good idea, I said. It could ruin our
lives, yours and mine, and anyway what’s the point? He’s not going to do any more harm now. It’s not going to ruin
my
life, said Romero. Quite the opposite; it’s going to set me up. And as to whether he’ll do any more harm, all I can say is: we don’t know, we can’t know; you’re not God and nor am I; we’re only doing what we can, that’s all. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell by the voice emanating from his rock-still silhouette that he was making an effort to be convincing. It’s not worth it, I persisted. It’s over now. No one needs to get hurt now. Romero slapped me on the shoulder. Better you stay out of this, he said. I’ll be back soon.

As his footfalls grew fainter, I sat there watching the dark shrubs, their tangled branches weaving random designs as they shifted in the wind. Then I lit a cigarette and began to think about trivial matters. Like time. The greenhouse effect. The increasingly distant stars.

I tried to think of Wieder. I tried to imagine him alone in his flat, an anonymous dwelling, as I pictured it, on the fourth floor of an empty eight-floor building, watching television or sitting in an armchair, drinking, as Romero’s shadow glided steadily towards him. I tried to imagine Carlos Wieder, but I couldn’t. Or maybe I didn’t really want to.

Half an hour later Romero returned, with a folder under his arm, one of those folders that kids take to school, with elastic bands to hold it closed. It was bulging with papers, but could have held more. It was green, like the shrubs in the park, and worn. That was all. Romero didn’t seem any different. He didn’t seem better or worse than before. He was breathing easily. As
I looked at him it struck me that he was the spitting image of Edward G. Robinson. If you can imagine Edward G. Robinson put through a meat grinder and slightly rearranged: thinner, with darker skin and more hair, but the same lips, the same nose and above all the same knowing eyes. Eyes ready to believe that anything is possible but
knowing
, too, that nothing can be undone. Let’s go, he said.

We took the bus from Lloret back to Blanes and then the train to Barcelona. Along the way Romero made a couple of attempts to start a conversation. He praised the “boldly modern” design of Spanish trains. He said what a pity it was he wouldn’t be able to see Barcelona play at the Nou Camp. I said nothing or replied with monosyllables. I didn’t feel like talking. I remember it was a beautiful, calm night outside. Groups of boys and girls kept getting on at one station and off at the next, as if it were a game. They were probably going to local discos: less expensive and closer to home. All of them were under eighteen and some had the look of young heroes. They seemed to be happy. Later we stopped in a bigger station and a group of workers who could have been their parents got on. And later still, but I’m not sure when, we went through various tunnels and one of the girls shrieked when the lights in the compartment went out. When they came on again, I looked at Romero’s face; it was the same as ever. Finally, when we arrived at the Plaza Cataluña station, we began to talk. I asked him what it had been like. Like these things always are, he said. Difficult.

We walked back to my flat. When we got there, he opened his suitcase, took out an envelope and handed it to me. In the
envelope were three hundred thousand pesetas. I don’t need this much money, I said after counting it. It’s yours, said Romero, as he packed the folder in his case with his clothes and shut it. You’ve earned it. I haven’t earned anything, I said. Instead of replying, Romero went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Where will you be going? I asked him. Paris, he said. I’ve got a flight at midnight; I want to sleep in my own bed tonight. We had a last cup of tea together and I went down to the street with him. We stood there for a while on the edge of the pavement waiting for a taxi, not knowing what to say. Nothing like this has ever happened to me, I confessed. That’s not true, said Romero very gently. Worse things have happened to us, think about it. You could be right, I admitted, but this really has been a dreadful business. Dreadful, repeated Romero, as if he were savouring the word. Then he laughed quietly, grinning like a rabbit, and said, Well, what else could it have been? I wasn’t in a laughing mood, but I laughed all the same. Romero looked at the sky, the lighted windows, the car headlights, the neon signs, and he seemed small and tired. Soon, I guessed, he would be sixty. And I had already passed forty. A taxi pulled up beside us. Look after yourself, my friend, he said, and off he went.

*
Pen-name of the critic Hernán Díaz Arrieta
(1891–1984)

Copyright © 1996 by Roberto Bolaño
and Editorial Anagrama
Translation copyright © 2004 by Chris
Andrews

All rights reserved. Except for a brief passage quoted in a
newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may
be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the Publisher.

Published by arrangement with the Harvill Press, Random House
UK, London.

This edition has been translated with the financial assistance
of the Spanish Dirección
General del Libro y Bibliotecas, Ministerio de
Cultura.

Originally published by Editorial Anagrama as
Estrella
distante
in 1996.

Manufactured in the United States of America.
First
published as a New Directions Paperbook (NDP993) in 2004.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bolaño, Roberto, 1953-2003

[Estrella distante. English]

Distant star / Roberto Bolaño ; translated by Chris
Andrews.

p. cm.

“A New Directions book.”

eISBN 978-0-8112-2052-1

I. Andrews, Chris. II. Title.

PQ8098.12.O38E813 2004

863’.64--dc22

2004019033

New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin
by
New Directions Publishing Corporation,
80 Eighth Avenue, New York
10011

10 9 8 7 6 5

by Roberto Bolano

Available from New Directions

A
MULET
A
NTWERP
B
ETWEEN
P
ARENTHESES
B
Y
N
IGHT IN
C
HILE
D
ISTANT
S
TAR
T
HE
I
NSUFFERABLE
G
AUCHO
L
AST
E
VENINGS ON
E
ARTH
M
ONSIEUR
P
AIN
N
AZI
L
ITERATURE IN THE
A
MERICAS
T
HE
R
ETURN
T
HE
R
OMANTIC
D
OGS
T
HE
S
ECRET
OF
E
VIL
T
HE
S
KATING
R
INK
T
RES