Free The Return by Roberto Bolaño

tears were only lukewarm and, as they ran down her neck, as I
spread them on her nipples, they turned ice-cold. A month later we were back in
Barcelona. Sofia hardly ate a thing all day. She went back to her diet of
instant mashed potatoes and decided not to leave the apartment. One night I came
home and found her with a girl I didn’t know; another time it was Emilio and
Nuria, who looked at me as if I were to blame for the state she was in. I felt
bad but said nothing and shut myself in my room. I tried to read, but I could
hear them. Shocked exclamations, reprimands, advice. Sofia didn’t say a thing. A
week later she was given four months’ sick leave. The government doctor was an
old friend from Zaragoza. I thought we’d be able to spend more time together,
but little by little we drifted apart. Some nights she didn’t come home. I
remember staying up very late, watching TV and waiting for her. Sometimes the
Communist kept me company. I had nothing to do, so I set about tidying up the
apartment: sweeping, mopping, dusting. The Communist was very impressed, but one
day he had to go too and I was left all on my own.
    By then Sofia had become a ghost; she appeared without a sound, shut
herself in her room or the bathroom and disappeared again after a few hours. One
night we ran into each other on the stairs, I was going up and she was coming
down, and the only thing I could think of asking was if she had a new lover. I
regretted it straightaway, but it was too late. I can’t remember what she said. In the good old days, five of us had lived in that huge apartment; now it was
just me and the mice. Sometimes I imagined Sofia in a prison cell in Zaragoza,
back in November 1973, and me, in the southern hemisphere, locked up too, for a
few decisive days, and though I realized that this fact or coincidence had to be
significant, I couldn’t work out what it meant. I’ve never been any good at
analogies. One night, when I came home, I found a note saying goodbye and some
money on the kitchen table. At first I went on living as if Sofia was still
there. I can’t remember exactly how long I waited for her. I think the
electricity got cut off. After that I moved to another apartment.
    It was a long time before I saw her again. She was walking down Las
Ramblas, looking lost. We stood there, the cold seeping into our bones, talking
about things that meant nothing to her or to me. Walk me home, she said. She was
living near El Borne, in a building that was falling down it was so old. The
staircase was narrow and creaked with every step we took. We climbed up to the
door of her apartment, on the top floor. To my surprise, she didn’t let me in. I
should have asked her what was going on, but I left without saying anything; if
that’s what she wanted, it was up to her.
    A week later I went back to her apartment. The bell wasn’t working and
I had to knock several times. I thought there was no one there. Then I thought
there was no one
living
there. Just as I was about to go, the door
opened. It was Sofia. The apartment was dark and the light on the landing went
off automatically after twenty seconds. At first, because of the darkness, I
didn’t realize she was naked. You’re going to freeze, I said when the landing
light came on again and showed her standing there, very straight, thinner than
before. Her stomach and legs, which I had kissed so many times, looked terribly
helpless, and instead of feeling drawn toward her, I was chilled at the sight,
as if I were the one without clothes. Can I come in? Sofia shook her head. I
assumed her nakedness meant that she was not alone. I said as much, and smiling
stupidly, assured her that I didn’t mean to be indiscreet. I was about to go
back down the stairs when she said she was alone. I stopped and looked at her,
more carefully this time, trying to read her expression, but her face was
indecipherable. I also looked over her shoulder. Nothing had stirred in the
utter silence and