Roberto Bolano - The Spirit of Science Fiction

Do you mind if I interview you?

Go ahead, but keep it brief.

Do you realize that youre the youngest writer ever to win this prize?

Is that so?

Ive just spoken to one of the organizers. I got the sense that they were moved.

I dont know what to tell you. Its an honor. Im very happy.

It seems everyone is happy. What are you drinking?

Tequila.

Vodka here. Vodka is a strange drink, isnt it? Its not what most women would choose. Vodka neat.

I dont know what women drink.

Oh, no? Anyway, it doesnt matter. A womans drink is always secret. Her true drink, I mean. Her infinite pour. But never mind. Its such a clear night, isnt it? From here we can see the farthest towns and the most distant stars.

Thats an optical illusion, miss. If you look carefully, youll observe that the windows are oddly fogged. Go out on the terrace. I believe were in the middle of the woods. Practically all we can see are tree branches.

Then those are paper stars, of course. But what about the town lights?

Phosphorescent sand.

Youre so clever. Please, tell me about your work. Yourself and your work.

I feel a little nervous, you know? All these people singing and dancing nonstop, Im not

Dont you like the party?

I think everyone is drunk.

Theyre the winners and runners-up of all the previous prizes.

Good God.

Theyre celebrating the end of another contest. Its natural.

Ghosts and ghostly days passed through Jans mind. I think it was quick, a sigh, and then there was Jan on the floor, sweating and howling in pain. Worth mentioning, too, are the signs he was making, the frozen flurry of gestures, as if to show me that there was something on the ceiling, what? I asked as his index finger rose and fell with exasperating slowness, oh, shit, said Jan, it hurts, rats, mountain-climbing rats, you dumbfuck, and then he said, ah, ah, ah, and I grabbed him by the arms, or I pulled him up, which is when I realized that he wasnt just sweating rivers but cold rivers. I know I should have run for a doctor, but I got the sense that he didnt want to be left alone. Or maybe I was afraid to go out. (This was the night I realized that the night is really big.) Actually, from a certain perspective I think Jan didnt care whether I stayed or left. But he didnt want a doctor. So I said, dont die, youre like the prince from The Idiot. Id bring you a mirror if we had a mirror, but since we dont, trust me and try to calm down, dont die on me. Then, after he had sweated a Norwegian river, he said that the roof of our room was plagued with mutant rats, cant you hear them? he whispered, my hand was on his forehead, and I said, yes, it was the first time Id heard rats shrieking on the roof of an eighth-floor room. Ah, said Jan. Poor Posadas, he said. His body was so long and thin that I promised myself that from now on I would do a better job of keeping him fed. Then he seemed to fall asleep, his eyes half closed, his face turned to the wall. I lit a cigarette. Through our only window, the first rays of dawn began to appear. The street below was still dark and deserted, but cars went by with some regularity. Suddenly, behind me, I heard Jans snores. I looked at him. He was asleep, naked on his bare mattress, a lock of blond hair drying slowly on his forehead. I slumped against the wall and let myself slide down until I was sitting in a corner. Through the window, I saw an airplane go by: red, green, blue, yellow lights, the kernel of a rainbow. I closed my eyes and thought about the past few days, the big sad scenes, what I could see and touch, and then I got undressed and lay down on my mattress and tried to imagine Jans nightmares, and suddenly, before I fell asleep, I was as certain as if it was being dictated to me that Jan had felt many things that night, but not fear.

Dear Alice Sheldon:

I just want to tell you that I admire you deeply. Im a devoted reader. When I had to get rid of my books (I never had a lot, but I had some), I couldnt bring myself to give away all of yours. So I still have Up the Walls of the World, and sometimes I recite a little from memory just for myself. Ive read your stories, too, but I gradually lost those, unfortunately. Here they were published in anthologies and magazines, and some made their way to the city where I live. There was a guy who loaned me rare stuff. And I met a science fiction writer. People say hes our only science fiction writer, but I dont believe it. Remo tells me that his mother met another one, ten or fifteen years ago at least. His name was Gonzlez, or thats how my friend remembers it, and he worked in the records department at Valparaso Hospital. He gave money to Remos mother and the other girls to buy his novel. He published it himself with his own money. Gonzlez waited outside the bookstore, and Remos mother went in and bought the book. And of course the only books the store sold were the ones bought by the kids from the records department. Remo remembers their names: Maite, Doa Luca, Rabanales, Pereira. But not the title of the book Martian InvasionFlight to the Andromeda NebulaThe Secret of the Andes. I cant think what it was. Maybe someday Ill find a copy. After I read it, Ill send it to you as a small token of gratitude for the hours of pleasure youve given me

Then lets talk about the winning book.

There isnt much to say. Do you want me to tell you what its about?

Id be delighted.

It begins in Santa Brbara, a town near the Andes, in the south of Chile. Its a horrible place, or at least thats how I see it, nothing like these charming Mexican villages. But theres one thing that gives it class: the houses are all built of wood. I have to confess that Ive never been there, but this is how I imagine it: wooden houses in every shade of brown, unpaved streets, nonexistent sidewalksor, actually, rickety wooden ramps like in westerns, so that when it rains, mud isnt tracked inside. Its in this nightmarish, hellish Santa Brbara that the story begins. To be precise, it begins at the Potato Academy, a kind of three-story grain shed with an iron weather vane on the roof, probably the bleakest building on Calle Galvarino and one of the many secret faculties of the Unknown University that are scattered around the world.

Truly fascinating. Tell me more.

On the first floor, there are just two rooms. One of them is so huge that tractors used to be kept there; the other is tiny, tucked away in a corner. In the big room, there are tables, chairs, filing cabinets, even sleeping bags and mattresses. Tacked to the walls are posters and drawings of different kinds of tubers. The small room is empty. Its a room with a floor, a ceiling, wooden wallsnot old wood from when the grain shed was built but new wood, neatly cut and polished, nearly jet-black. Im not boring you, am I?

No, go on, go on. This is a nice break for me. You wouldnt believe all the interviews I had in Mexico City this morning. They work us like slaves at the paper.

All right. On the second floor, reached by stairs without a handrail, there are two more rooms, each of the same size. In one of them, there are a few mismatched chairs, a desk, a blackboard, and other items that give the room the vague feel of a classroom. In the other room, theres nothing but rusty old farm equipment. Finally, on the third floor, which is reached from the tool room, we find a ham radio set and a profusion of maps scattered on the floor, a small FM transmitter, some semiprofessional recording equipment, a set of Japanese amplifiers, et cetera. I say et cetera because anything that I havent mentioned either isnt important or else will be described later in full detail.