The Skating Rink (17 page)

Authors: Roberto Bolaño

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Thrillers, #Suspense

Gaspar Heredia:

We took the Barcelona train one overcast afternoon

We took the Barcelona train one overcast afternoon, after a rainy
morning that flooded the few tents still pitched at Stella Maris. Our belongings
turned out to be more numerous than a quick inspection had led us to believe, so
we needed some plastic bags, which we found at the only supermarket still open.
Even so we had no choice but to abandon quite a few things that Caridad was
attached to: magazines, press cuttings, seashells, stones, an ample range of
souvenirs of Z. I hope that when Bobadilla finds those remains he slings them in
the trash without a second thought. The night before we left, Remo came to the
office and handed me an envelope with my pay and a substantial bonus: enough to
buy one-way tickets to Mexico for Caridad and me. Remo and I talked for a while
on the far side of the pool, where no one could hear us. I suspect we were both
hiding something. It was a brief farewell: I accompanied him to the gate, and
thanked him. Morán told me to take care; we hugged and off he went. I have never
seen him since. That night Caridad and I said goodbye to El Carajillo. The next
morning was hectic: the rain leaked into the tent and wet our clothes and
sleeping bags. We were soaking when we left for the station. By the time we got
there it had stopped raining. On the other side of the tracks, in an orchard, I
saw a donkey. He was under a tree, and every now and then he brayed, making all
the travelers on the platforms turn to look at him. He seemed to be happy, after
the rain. Then, as if spewed from a black cloud, two cops from the national
police and a
guardia civil
appeared
at the end of the station. I thought they had come to arrest us. From the corner
of my eye, I watched them walk along toward us, in no hurry at all, gun hands at
the ready. We’re two of a kind, that donkey and me, said Caridad in a dreamy
voice. Foreigners in our own land. I would have liked to tell her she was wrong,
to point out that in the eyes of the law, I was the only foreigner, but I kept
my mouth shut. I put my arm gently around her waist and waited. Caridad might
have been foreign to God, to the police and even to herself, but she wasn’t
foreign to me. I could have said the same for the donkey. The cops stopped
halfway down the platform. They went into the station bar, first the police,
then the
guardia civil
, and by an
auditory miracle I clearly heard them order two coffees with milk and one
carajillo
. The donkey brayed again. We
kept watching him for a good while. Caridad put her arm around my shoulders and
we stayed like that until the train came . . .

Enric Rosquelles:

When I finally returned to Z, it was all so different

When I finally returned to Z, it was all so different that my first
thought was: I must have taken a wrong turn. For a start, no one recognized me,
which was amazing, given that for several weeks I had been the talk of the town,
and it was hard to believe that the whole business had been forgotten so
quickly. Secondly, many of the buildings and streets in Z looked unfamiliar, as
if the townscape had been modified in subtle but distressingly noticeable ways:
the storefronts seemed to be elements in a vast camouflage operation; the bare
trees were not where they should have been, and in some streets the flow of the
traffic had altered substantially. But as I got out of the car, I noticed that
City Hall presented the same imperturbable façade, although Pilar was no longer
mayor (she had been easily beaten in the last election) and I was no longer her
trusty factotum. I came to the bittersweet understanding that the institution
would remain the same in spite of changing circumstances, or to put it another
way: even though human beings like Pilar and myself were prepared to give our
all and sacrifice our careers in the attempt to bring about change, nothing
could shift the venerable and senseless stones of City Hall. Having realized
that, it was easier to accept the transformation of the town. In any case,
applying the principle of caution, which I had recently come to appreciate in
prison, all I did was have a drink in a bar and use the washroom, then walk
along the Paseo Marítimo to stretch my legs a bit, before going back to the car.
Was I tempted to visit the Palacio Benvingut? Well, the simplest answer would be
no, or yes. To tell the truth, I did drive out that way, but that’s all. There’s
a curve in the highway on the way to Y, from which you can see the cove and the
palace. When I got there I braked, turned around and drove back to Z. What good
would it have done me, going there? I would only have been adding to the sum of
pain. Besides, in winter, it’s a sad place. The stones I remembered as blue were
grey. The paths I remembered as bathed in light were strewn with shadows. So I
braked, made a U-turn and drove back to Z. I avoided looking in the rearview
mirror until I was a safe distance away. What’s gone is gone, that’s what I say,
you have to keep looking ahead . . .

Originally published in Spain as La Pista de Hielo in 1993;
published by arrangement with the Heirs of Roberto Bolaño and Carmen Balcells
Agencia Literaria, Barcelona.

All rights reserved. Except for a brief passage quoted in a
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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.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bolaño, Roberto, 1953–2003.

[Pista de hielo. English]

The skating rink / Roberto Bolaño ; translated by Chris
Andrews.

p. cm.

Originally published in Spain as La pista de hielo in
1993.

eISBN 978-0-8112-2059-0

1. Figure skaters—Crimes against—Fiction. 2. City and town

life—Spain—Fiction. I. Andrews, Chris. II. Title.

PQ8098.12.O38P5713 2009

863
'
.64—dc22

2009010724