Free The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño Page A

frozen in a position somewhere between energized and tentative), two alternatives presented themselves to me. Either I could go looking for the living room and the telephone and call my aunt and uncle right away, since by then they had probably already dragged more than one tired policeman out of bed, or I could go looking for the kitchen, which I remembered as being to the left, next to a kind of family dining room. I weighed the pros and cons of each plan and opted for the quieter one, which involved getting out of the Fonts' big house as quickly as possible. My decision was aided in no small part by a sudden image or vision of Quim Font sitting in a wing chair in the dark, enveloped in a cloud of sulfurous reddish smoke. With a great effort I managed to calm myself. Everyone in the house was asleep, although I couldn't hear anyone snoring like at home. Once a few seconds had passed, enough to convince me that no danger was hovering over me, or at least no imminent danger, I set off. In this wing of the house, the glow from the courtyard faintly lit my way and before long I was in the kitchen. There, abandoning my extreme caution, I closed the door, turned on the light, and dropped into a chair, as exhausted as if I'd run a mile uphill. Then I opened the refrigerator, poured myself a tall glass of milk, and made myself a ham and cheese sandwich with oyster sauce and Dijon mustard. When I finished I was still hungry, so I made myself a second sandwich, this time with cheese, lettuce, and pickles bottled with two or three kinds of chilies. This second sandwich didn't fill me up, so I decided to go in search of something more substantial. In a plastic container on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, I found the remains of a chicken mole; in another container I found rice-I guess they were leftovers from that day's dinner-and then I went looking for real bread, not sandwich bread, and I started to make myself dinner. To drink I chose a bottle of strawberry Lulú, which really tastes more like hibiscus. I ate sitting in the kitchen in silence, thinking about the future. I saw tornadoes, hurricanes, tidal waves, fire. Then I washed the frying pan, plate, and silverware, brushed away the crumbs, and unbolted the door to the courtyard. Before I left, I turned out the light.
    The girls' house was locked. I knocked once and whispered Angélica's name. No one answered. I looked back, and the shadows in the courtyard and the spout of the fountain rising up like an angry animal kept me from returning to Jorgito Font's room. I knocked again, this time a little harder. Waiting a few seconds, I decided to change tactics. I stepped a few feet to the left and tapped with my fingertips on the cold window-pane. María? I said, Angélica? María, let me in, it's me. Then I was silent, waiting for something to happen, but nobody moved inside the little house. In exasperation, although it would be more accurate to say in exasperated resignation, I dragged myself back to the door and slumped against it, sliding to the ground, staring into nothing. I sensed that I would end up there, asleep at the Font sisters' feet one way or another, like a dog (a wet dog in the inclement night!), just as I had foolishly and intrepidly wished a few hours ago. I could have burst into tears. To clear away the clouds on my immediate horizons, I started to go over all the books I should read, all the poems I should write. Then it occurred to me that if I fell asleep, the Fonts' servant would probably find me there and wake me, saving me from the embarrassment of being found by Mrs. Font or one of her daughters or Quim Font himself. Although if it was the latter who found me, I argued hopefully, he would probably think that I'd sacrificed a night of peaceful slumbers to keep faithful watch over his daughters. If they wake me up and ask me in for a cup of coffee, I concluded, nothing will be lost; if they kick me awake and throw me out without further ado, there'll be