...of a flat

…The flat was dimly lit. The air was thick with a peculiar odour, as if Ruiz-Tagle had cooked something very pungent the night before, something oily and spicy. For a moment, Bibiano thought he heard a noise in one of the rooms and assumed there was a woman in the flat. He was about to excuse himself and leave when Ruiz-Tagle asked which film he was going to see. Bibiano said a Bergman film, at the Teatro Lautro. Ruiz-Tagle kept wearing that smile of his, which, according to Bibiano was enigmatic, but which always struck me as self-satisfied if not downright arrogant. He excused himself, saying he already had a date with Veronica Garmendia; and anyway, he explained, he didn’t like Bergman’s films. By that stage, Bibiano was sure that that there was someone else in the flat, hiding behind a door and listening to the conversation. He thought it must have been Veronica; otherwise why would Ruiz-Tagle, who was normally so discreet, have mentioned her name? But try as he might, he couldn’t imagine our star poet in that situation. Neither Veronica nor Angelica Garmendia would stoop to eavesdropping. So who was it? Bibiano never found out. Right then, probably the only thing he knew was that he wanted to get out of there, away from Ruiz-Tagle, and never return to that naked, bleeding flat. Those are his words. Although to judge from his description, the flat could not have looked more antiseptic. Clean walls, books lined up on the metal shelves, armchairs covered with Mapuche ponchos, Ruix-Tagle’s Leica sitting on a wooden bench (he brought it to the poetry workshop one afternoon to take photos of us all). The kitchen door was ajar and Bibiano could see in: it looked normal, except that there were no piles of dirty plates, none of the mess you’d expect in the flat of a student who lives on his own (but then Ruiz-Tagle wasn’t a student). In short, nothing out of the ordinary, except for the noise, which could easily have come from the flat next door. While Ruiz-Tagle was talking, Bibiano had the distinct impression that his host didn’t want him to leave and was prolonging the conversation precisely to keep him there. Although there was no objective basis for this impression, it contributed to my friend’s nervous agitation, which soon reached a degree he described as intolerable. The strange thing is that Ruiz-Tagle seemed to be enjoying himself: he could see Bibiano growing paler and sweating more profusely, yet he went on talking (about Bergman, presumably), smiling all the while. Rather than breaking the close silence of the flat, his words accentuated it.

[Distant Star, Bolano, R.]