Free The Skating Rink by Roberto Bolaño

although from time to
time he looked up at the skater. The spotlights revealed something that
intensified my bewilderment: in one corner of the rink was a ladder going
down through the ice, and tangled around the ladder was a bunch of colored
cables, which also went down through the bluish-white layer on which the
curious skater was executing her figures. In spite of the cold I felt drops
of sweat running down my face. Suddenly, the fat guy said something. The
girl went on skating, oblivious. The fat guy spoke again, at greater length
this time, and the girl, who was skating backwards now, replied with a curt
sentence, as if what he had said didn’t concern her. Partly because they
were speaking Catalan and partly because I was very nervous, I couldn’t
understand what they were saying, but I felt as if I was inside a cave. The
skater started practicing little jumps and kneeling moves; then the fat
guy’s shadow emerged from the darkness and approached the edge of the rink.
There he stood still with his hands in his pockets, his remarkably round
head turning slowly, as he followed the girl with his shining, intent,
unblinking eyes. There was something disturbing about that odd couple—the
girl all grace and speed, the bottom-heavy man like a lead-weighted doll—but
watching them I also felt a kind of silent fierce joy, which helped me not
to lose my nerve and run away. I knew that they couldn’t see me, and that
Caridad was somewhere around, so I settled down to wait as long as it would
take. The skater began to turn on the spot, in the middle of rink, spinning
faster and faster. With her chin up, her legs together and her back curved,
she looked at first like an elegant spinning top. All at once, just as the
fat guy and I were both, I presume, expecting the routine to end, she shot
away toward the edge of the rink, in a move that although perfectly
controlled seemed to owe more to luck than to training. The fat guy clapped.
Marvelous, marvelous, he said in Catalan. I can understand words like that
(
meravellós
). The
skater went round the rink twice more before stopping in front of the fat
guy, who was waiting with a towel. Then I heard the cassette player clicking
off and the fat guy went back into the semidarkness and turned around while
the skater got changed. In fact all she did was put on a tracksuit over her
leotard, but nevertheless, he kept his gaze chastely averted. After putting
her skates in a sports bag, the skater said something I didn’t catch. Her
voice was like velvet. The fat guy turned around and, as if measuring his
steps, approached the brightly lit sector. How was it? she asked, looking
down, in a different tone of voice. Marvelous. You don’t think it was too
slow? No, not for me, but if you think so . . . They were
both smiling, but in very different ways. The girl sighed. I’m exhausted,
she said. Will you take me home? Of course, stuttered the fat guy, his lips
curved in a shy smile. Wait for me in the passage, I’ll go and turn off the
lights. The girl left without saying a word. The fat guy went behind a pile
of cases and moments later the whole rink was plunged in complete darkness.
He appeared again finding his way with a flashlight, and went out. I heard
them go up the stairs. What do I do now, I wondered. There were some dim
points of light above me. The moon shining through holes in the roof?
Disoriented fireflies more likely. It was only then that I noticed the sound
of a generator operating at full capacity somewhere in the mansion. To keep
the ice frozen? Still confused about what I was doing there, I sat down on
the freezing ground, leaned against a case and tried to think straight. But
I couldn’t. A different noise, not the generator, put me on my guard.
Someone lit a match at the edge of the rink and shadows immediately began to
dance on the walls of the storehouse. I got up and looked at the rink, which
was like a mirror now: Caridad was standing there with the lit match in