Free The Third Reich by Roberto Bolaño

But what does he do exactly besides sleep? He sits until lateat the Andalusia Lodge, he goes for walks on the beach, maybe he has friends he talks to, he drinks tea, he buries himself under his great hulks . . . Yes, sometimes I see the fortress of pedal boats as a kind of mausoleum. As long as it’s light out, the impression of a hut lingers; at night, by the light of the moon, a romantic soul might mistake it for a barbarian burial mound.
    Nothing else worthy of mention happened the night of the 24th. We left the Andalusia Lodge relatively sober. El Quemado and the owner were still there, the former sitting across from his empty cup of tea and the latter watching another cowboy movie.
    Today, as was to be expected, I saw him on the beach. Ingeborg and Hanna were lying out next to the pedal boats, and El Quemado, on the other side, was leaning against a plastic floater, gazing at the horizon where some of his boats were barely visible. At no point did he turn around to look at Ingeborg, who, I think it’s fair to say, was a feast for the eyes. Both girls were wearing new orange thongs, a bright, happy color. But El Quemado avoided looking at them.
    I wasn’t at the beach. I stayed in the room going over my abandoned game, though every so often I went out on the balcony or looked out the window. Love, as everyone knows, is an exclusive passion, although in my case I hope to be able to reconcile my passion for Ingeborg with my dedication to gaming. According to the plans I had made in Stuttgart, by now I should have half of the strategic variant plotted out and written down, and at least a first draft of the lecture to be given in Paris. But I have yet to write a single word. If Conrad could see me I’m sure he’d have some scathing comment to make. But Conrad has to understand that on my very first vacation with Ingeborg, I can’t ignore her and devote myself body and soul to the variant. Despite everything, I haven’t given up hope of having it finished by the time we return to Germany.
    In the afternoon something odd happened. I was sitting in the room when suddenly I heard the sound of a horn. I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but then again, I know the difference betweenthe sound of a horn and other sounds. The odd thing is that I was thinking (though in a vague way, I must admit) about Sepp Dietrich, who from time to time made mention of the horn call of peril. Anyway, I’m sure I didn’t imagine it. Sepp claimed to have heard it twice, and both times the mysterious notes helped him to overcome tremendous physical exhaustion, first in Russia and then in Normandy. The horn, according to Sepp, who rose to the command of an army after starting out as a messenger boy and driver, is the warning cry of the ancestors, the call of the blood that alerts one to danger. As I say, I was sitting lost in thought when suddenly I seemed to hear it. I got up and went out on the balcony. Outside all that could be heard was the usual afternoon din; even the sound of the sea was drowned out. In the hallway, on the other hand, there reigned a pregnant silence. Did the horn sound in my head then? Did it sound because I was thinking about Sepp Dietrich or in order to warn me of a threat? If I look back on it, I was also thinking about Hausser and Bittrich and Meindl . . . Then did it sound for me? And if so, what threat did it mean to warn me of?
    When I told Ingeborg about it, she suggested that I spend less time in the room. According to her we should sign up for some jogging sessions or exercise classes run by the hotel. Poor Ingeborg, she just doesn’t get it. I promised I would talk to Frau Else. Ten years ago the hotel offered no classes of any kind. Ingeborg said that she would sign us up, that I didn’t need to speak to Frau Else about something that could be taken care of with the receptionist. I said all right, she should do what she thought best.
    Before I got in bed I did two things, namely:
    1.  Set up the