I left the door ajar and waited. The sound of the elevator preceded the arrival of El Quemado. The room clearly looked different than it had on previous nights—the suitcases were next to the bed, in a very visible spot—but El Quemado didn’t even give them a glance. We sat down, I on the bed and he near the table, and for an instant nothing happened, as if we had been granted the ability to exit and enter the inside of an iceberg at will. (Now, as I think about it, I see El Quemado with a face floured lunar white, though beneath the thin layer of paint his scars are visible.) The initiative was his, and with no need to draw up sums—he hadn’t brought his notebook, but all the BRP in the world were his—he unleashed the Russian Army on Berlin and conquered it. With the British and American armies he made sure to destroy the units that I might have been able to send to retake the city. Victory was that simple. When my turn came, I tried to move my armored reserves out of the Bremen area and came up against a wall of Allies. Actually, it was a symbolic move. Immediately thereafter I acknowledged defeat and surrendered. And now what? I asked. El Quemado exhaled a giant’s sigh and went out on the balcony, gesturing for me to follow. The rain and the wind grew stronger, bowing the palm trees of the Paseo. El Quemado’s finger pointed ahead of us, over the seawall. On the beach, where the fortress of pedal boats rose, I saw a light, flickering and unearthly as St. Elmo’s fire. A light inside the pedal boats? El Quemado roared like the rain. I’m not ashamed to confess that I thought of Charly, a ghostly Charly returned from beyond the grave to mourn my ruin. Clearly I wasn’t in my right mind. El Quemado said: “Come on, there’s no turning back now,” and I followed him. We went down the steps of the hotel, passing through the bright and empty reception hall, until we were in the middle of the Paseo. The rain that struck my face worked on me like a stimulant. I stopped and shouted: Who’s there? El Quemado didn’t answer and kept heading down to the beach. Without thinking I went running after him. Suddenly the mass of stacked pedal boats rose up before me. I don’t know whether it was because of the rain or the bigger and bigger waves, but it looked to me as if the pedal boats were sinking in the sand. Were we all sinking? I remembered the night when I slipped stealthily out this way to hear the war counsels of the stranger whom I later took to be Frau Else’s husband. I remembered how hot it was back then and I compared it to the heat that I now felt coursing through my body. The light we’d seen from the balcony sputtered furiously inside the hut. I leaned heavily on a floater in a stance that communicated both determination and exhaustion, and through the cracks I tried to make out who could be in there by the light; it was useless. Pushing with all my might, I tried to topple the structure and managed only to scratch my hands on wood and rusting metal. The fortress was like granite. I had taken my eyes offof El Quemado for a few seconds, and now he was standing with his back to the pedal boats, absorbed in contemplation of the storm. Who’s there? Please answer, I shouted. Without waiting for a response that might never come, I tried to scale the hut but took a wrong step and fell flat on the sand. As I was getting up, El Quemado appeared beside me. I understood that there was nothing left to do. El Quemado’s hand grabbed me by the scruffof the neck and yanked me up. I flailed a little, without hope, and tried to kick him, but my limbs were limp. Though I don’t think El Quemado heard me, I whispered that I was no Nazi, that none of it was my fault. Beyond that, there was nothing I could do; the strength and determination of El Quemado, spurred on by the storm and surf, were boundless. After this my memories are vague and fragmented. I was lifted up like a rag doll and instead of what I expected (death by water), I was dragged toward the opening of the pedal boat hut. I put up no resistance, I made no further pleas, I didn’t close my eyes except when—grabbed by the neck and the crotch— I commenced my trip inside. Then I did close my eyes and I saw myself inhabiting another day, less black but still not bright, the “sullen guest on the gloomy earth,” and I saw El Quemado leaving town and country down a winding path of cartoons and nightmares (but what country? Spain? the European Union?) like the eternal mourner. I opened my eyes when I felt myself beached in the sand, a few inches from a kerosene lamp. It wasn’t long before I realized, as I twisted like a worm, that I was alone and that there never had been anyone beside the lamp; it had been lighted in the storm precisely so that I would see it from the hotel balcony. Outside, walking in circles around the fortress, El Quemado laughed. I could hear his footsteps in the sand and his clear, happy laugh, like that of a child. How long was I there, on my knees among El Quemado’s sparse belongings? I don’t know. When I came out it wasn’t raining anymore and dawn was beginning to appear on the horizon. I put out the lamp and hoisted myself out of the hole. El Quemado was sitting cross-legged, gazing toward the east, away from his pedal boats. He might easily have been dead and still propped up there on the sand. I came closer, but not much, and said good-bye.
SEPTEMBER 25. BAR CASANOVA. LA JONQUERA
With the first light of day I left the Del Mar; in my car, I rolled slowly along the Paseo Marítimo, careful not to make too much noise and disturb anyone. When I reached the Costa Brava I turned and parked in the lot where at the start of our vacation Charly had shown us his windsurfing board. On my way to the pedal boats I saw no one on the beach except for a couple of runners in track suits who vanished in the direction of the campgrounds. The rain had stopped some time ago; by the purity of the air one could sense that it would be a sunny day. The sand, however, was still wet. When I reached the pedal boats, I listened for any sound that might betray the presence of El Quemado and I thought I caught a very soft snore coming from inside, but I can’t be sure. In a plastic bag I was carrying Third Reich. Carefully I set it on the tarp that covered the pedal boats and returned to the car. It was nine in the morning when I left town. The streets were half-deserted, which made me think it must be some local holiday. Everyone seemed to be in bed. On the highway the traffic picked up, cars with French and German license plates headed in the same direction as me.
Now I’m in La Jonquera . . .
SEPTEMBER 30
For three days I saw no one. Yesterday, at last, I dropped by the club, secretly convinced that seeing my old friends wasn’t a good idea, at least not yet. Conrad was sitting at a table in the corner. His hair was longer and he had dark circles under his eyes that I didn’t remember. For a while I watched him without saying anything as the others came up to greet me. Hello, champ. With what warmth and sincerity I was welcomed, and yet all I felt was bitterness! When he saw me in the midst of the commotion, Conrad sauntered over and shook my hand. It was a less effusive welcome than that of the others but more genuine, which was balm to my soul; I felt at home. Soon everyone went back to their tables and new battles were begun. Conrad got someone to take his place and asked whether I wanted to talk at the club or outside. I said I’d like to walk. We ended up at my house, drinking coffee and talking about everything except what really mattered, until after midnight, when I offered to drive him home. We spent the whole ride in silence. I chose not to come in. I’m tired, I explained. When we parted, Conrad said that if I needed money I shouldn’t hesitate to ask him for it. I probably will need a little money. Again we shook hands, longer and more earnestly than before.
INGEBORG
Neither of us had any intention of making love and yet we ended up in bed. This was due in part to the seductive arrangement of the furniture, rugs, and various objects with which Ingeborg has redecorated her large room, and to the music of an American singer whose name I can’t recall, and also to the rare peace of the indigo Sunday afternoon. This doesn’t mean that we’ve resumed our rela-tionship; the decision to remain friends is firm on both sides and surely will lead to better things than our old bond. To be honest, nothing much has changed. Of course I had to tell her some of the things that happened in Spain after she left. Basically I talked about Clarita and the discovery of Charly’s body. Both stories made a strong impression on her. In return, she revealed something that I’m not sure whether to co
nsider pathetic or funny. While I was away, Conrad tried to woo her. Always, it goes without saying, in the most respectful fashion. And what happened? I asked, surprised. Nothing. Did he kiss you? He tried, but I slapped him. Ingeborg and I laughed, but later I felt bad about it.
HANNA
I spoke to Hanna on the phone. She told me that Charly had arrived in Oberhausen in a twenty-inch plastic bag—like an extralarge trash bag, more or less—according to Charly’s older brother, who was the one who dealt with receiving the remains and handling the red tape. Hanna’s son is fine. Hanna is happy, or so she says, and she plans to vacation in Spain again someday. “Charly would have liked that, don’t you think?” I said yes, maybe. So what really happened to you? asks Hanna. Poor Ingeborg believed the whole story, but I’ve been around longer, haven’t I? Nothing happened to me, I said. What happened to you? After a moment (voices in the background, Hanna isn’t alone) she says: To me? . . . The same as always.
OCTOBER 20
Starting tomorrow I’ll be working as a clerk for a company that makes spoons, forks, knives, and such things. My hours aren’t much different than they were before and the salary is a little better. Since I got back, I’ve been on hiatus from games. (A lie: last week I played cards with Ingeborg and her flat mate.) No one from my circle—because I’ve been going to the club twice a week—has noticed. There they ascribe my lack of enthusiasm to burnout or long hours spent writing about games. How wrong they are! The paper that I was going to present in Paris is being written by Conrad. My only contribution will be to translate it into English. And now that I’ve embarked on a new stage in my work life, even that is uncertain.
SEECKT
Today, after a long walk, I told Conrad that when you really thought about it we were all essentially ghosts on a ghostly General Staff, forever performing military exercises on game boards. Scale maneuvers. Remember Seeckt? We’re like his officers, breaking the law, shadows playing with shadows. You’re very poetic tonight, said Conrad. He didn’t understand, of course. I added that I probably wouldn’t go to Paris. At first Conrad thought I couldn’t go because of work and he accepted that, but when I said that at work everyone was going on vacation in December and I had other reasons, he took it personally and for a long time he refused to talk to me. You’re throwing me to the lions, he said. I laughed at that: We’re Seeckt’s trash but we love each other, right? Finally, Conrad laughed too, but sadly.
FRAUELSE
I talked on the phone to Frau Else. A cold and energetic conversation. As if the two of us had nothing better to do than to shout. My husband is dead! I’m fine, what can I say! Clarita is out of a job! The weather is good! There are still tourists in town but the Del Mar is closed! Soon I’m offon a trip to Tunisia! I assumed that the pedal boats were gone by now. Instead of inquiring directly about El Quemado, I asked a stupid question. I said: Is the beach empty? What else! Of course it’s empty! As if autumn had turned us deaf. Not that it mattered. Before we said good-bye, Frau Else reminded me that I had left some books behind at the hotel, and she said she planned to send them. I didn’t forget them, I said, I left them there for you. I think she got a little choked up. Then we said good night and hung up.
THE CONVENTION
I decided to go with Conrad to the convention just to watch. The first few days were boring, and although I occasionally did some interpreting for my German, French, and English colleagues, I es-caped as soon as I was free and spent the rest of the time taking long walks around Paris. For better or for worse, all the papers and speeches were delivered, all the games were played, and all the plans for a European Federation of players were sketched out and deliberated on. For my part, I came to the conclusion that eighty percent of the speakers needed psychiatric help. As consolation, I kept reminding myself that they were harmless until finally I was convinced, for lack of a better option. The main attraction was the arrival of Rex Douglas and the Americans. Rex is a guy in his for-ties, tall, strong, with thick, glossy brown hair (does he use pomade? hard to say), who radiates energy wherever he goes. It might be said that he was the undisputed star of the convention and the driving force behind every idea hatched, no matter how random or stupid. As for me, I chose not to greet him, though it would be closer to the truth to say that I chose not to make the effort to approach him, permanently surrounded as he was by a cloud of organizers and admirers. The day of his arrival, Conrad exchanged a few words with him, and every night at Jean-Marc’s house, where we were staying, all he talked about was how interesting and intelligent Rex was. Apparently Rex even played a round of Apocalypse, the new game just launched by his publishing house, but that evening I wasn’t there and I didn’t see him. My chance came on the second-to-last day of the convention. Rex was standing with a group of Germans and Italians and I was just fifteen feet away, at the Stuttgart group’s booth, when I heard my name being called. This is Udo Berger, our German champion. When I came over, the others stepped aside, and there I was, face-to-face with Rex Douglas. I tried to say something, but the only words I could get out were gar-bled and incoherent. Rex shook my hand. He didn’t remember our brief correspondence, or maybe he preferred not to make it public. He turned straight back to his conversation with someone from the Cologne group and I stood there for an instant, listening, with my eyes half-closed. They were talking about Third Reich and the strategies to be used with Beyma’s new variants. At the convention they were playing Third Reich and I hadn’t even gone for a stroll around the games area! By what they said, I inferred that the guy from Cologne was playing the German side and that the war had reached a stalemate.
“That’s good for you,” said Rex Douglas brusquely.
“Yes, if we hold on to what we’ve won, which won’t be easy,” said the guy from Cologne.
The others nodded. Praises were sung of a French player who was leading the team playing the USSR, and immediately they began to make plans for the dinner that night, another “brother-hood banquet,” like all the rest. Unnoticed, I slipped away from the group. I went back to the Stuttgart booth, which was empty except for the projects sponsored by Conrad, and I straightened it up a little, adjusting a magazine here, a game there, and left the convention hall without a sound.
Roberto Bolaño, The Third Reich
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