Free The Return by Roberto Bolaño Page B

was
the “you” and the “husband” was the other man, and that something bad was about
to happen, something very bad. As he tried to get to his feet, Sofia threw
herself at him. What followed was rather comical. Sofia held or tried to hold
Emilio’s legs while her new boyfriend made a sincere but clumsy attempt to
strangle him. Sofia, however, was small and so was the nameless man (somehow, in
the midst of the struggle, Emilio had time and presence of mind enough to notice
the resemblance between them—they were like twins) and the fight, or the
caricature thereof, was soon over. Maybe it was fear that gave Emilio a taste
for revenge: as soon as he got Sofia’s boyfriend down on the ground he started
kicking him and kept going until he was tired. He must have broken a few ribs,
said Nuria, you know what Emilio’s like (I didn’t, but nodded all the same). Then he turned his attention to Sofia who was ineffectually trying to hold him
back from behind and hitting him, although he could hardly feel it. He gave her
three slaps (it was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her, according to
Nuria) and left. Since then they had heard nothing about her, though Nuria still
got scared at night, especially when she was coming home from work.
    I’m telling you all this in case you ever feel like visiting Sofia,
said Nuria. No, I said, I haven’t seen her for ages and I don’t have any plans
to drop in on her. Then we talked about other things for a little while and said
good-bye. Two days later, without really knowing what prompted me to do it, I
went round to Sofia’s apartment.
    She opened the door. She was thinner than ever. At first she didn’t
recognize me. Do I look that different, Sofia? I muttered. Oh, it’s you, she
said. Then she sneezed and took a step back. Perhaps mistakenly, I interpreted
this as an invitation to go in. She didn’t stop me.
    The room in which they had set up the ambush was poorly lit (the only
window gave onto a gloomy, narrow air shaft) but it didn’t seem dirty. In fact
the first thing that struck me was how clean it was. Sofia didn’t seem dirty
either. I sat down in an armchair, maybe the one Emilio had sat in on the day of
the ambush, and lit a cigarette. Sofia was still standing, looking at me as if
she wasn’t quite sure who I was. She was wearing a long, narrow skirt, more
suitable for summer, a light top and sandals. She had thick socks on and for a
moment I thought they were mine, but no, they couldn’t have been. I asked her
how she was. She didn’t answer. I asked her if she was alone, if she had
something to drink and how life was treating her. She just stood there so I got
up and went into the kitchen. It was clean and dark; the refrigerator was empty. I looked in the cupboards. Not even a miserable tin of peas. I turned on the
tap; at least she had running water, but I didn’t dare drink it. I went back to
the living room. Sofia was still standing quietly in the same place, expectantly
or absently, I couldn’t tell, in any case just like a statue. I felt a gust of
cold air and thought the front door must have been open. I went to check, but
no. Sofia had shut it after I came in. That was something, at least, I
thought.
    What happened next is confused, or perhaps that’s how I prefer to
remember it. I was looking at Sofia’s face—was she sad or pensive or simply
ill?—I was looking at her profile and I knew that if I didn’t do something I was
going to start crying, so I went and hugged her from behind. I remember the
passage that led to the bedroom and another room, the way it narrowed. We made
love slowly, desperately, like in the old days. It was cold. I didn’t get
undressed. But Sofia took off all her clothes. Now you’re cold as ice, I
thought, cold as ice and on your own.
    The next day I came back to see her again. This time I stayed much
longer. We talked about when we used to live together and the TV shows we used
to watch till the early hours of