the shot, I already said it, from the bullet that had struck Violeta too. The two kidsâI really want you to understand thisâwere staring out at the sea; like they died trying to catch a glimpse of the horizon of Neutria, still on their feet, bleeding out, rigid, entwined, eyes open to the sea. It was a statue, I donât know if Iâm making myself clear: they were the very same statue thatâs been down on the waterfront for years, do you get it?
Then the class and the professor disappear. I find myself walking along that same tourist stretch, along the waterfront from his story, along the boardwalk of a port city that I wouldnât have known what to call besides: Neutria. I walked for hours. Neutria, now that I write it I understand my vacillation, but I was there; now, when I reread my dream I recognize that salty aroma, that air thatâs impossible to find in Concón, or Iquique, or San Antonio, just as I imagined those streets when I read Violetaâs pages! And in this city there were, in effect, not one, but hundreds of identical statues; in every Neutrian plaza, the same plaster and marble couple, clinging to each other, in all those classical profiles, the demented eyes of Violeta, her hair white against a masculine face.
That Sunday afternoon, in my dream, I sat down on a bench in the plaza, surrounded by adolescents touching each other for the first time, two old people watching everything, a middle aged couple arm-in-arm, a balloon vendor, an organ grinder, children, dogs. From the water rushing out of the fountain that plazaâs statue had become, through the bustle of the crowd, a faint voicecalled my name. I approached the fountain and heard the sound of a small waterfall: it wasnât the bullet, it was the professor; itâs not a gunshot, itâs a sentence; not a detective novel, but an academic essay, a letter, a prayer. Then another image was superimposed: me and ten people whom I love, around a table. Sitting in the dining room of my old childhood home, in Rancagua. I held a thick pen in my hand, a felt-tipped pen with which I wrote a hundred insults on a plastic whiteboard: âGo away, fucking fuckhead professor, decrepit piece of shit, motherfucking fairy, get out of my body.â Someone shakes me awake; Alicia (or J) asks me about Violeta, where is Violeta. I write another sentence on the whiteboard: âCarlos closed the small notebook.â Then everyone remains still and reads what I write in silence, and I wake up, furious that I canât remember what it was I wrote that was so important, realizing at last that I am not Carlos, that no one calls me Carlos.
THE NOVEL
That night Carlos slept at his parentsâ house because he had to watch his little sister. Elisa had asked to use his home studio, she needed to put together some pieces of iron and concrete. Bernarda, a friend from university, who was also taking the opportunity to assemble her project for sculpture class, went with her. By seven theyâd finished moving their materials into Carlosâs studio. In the living room, Alicia spent the afternoon cutting pieces of glossy paper, which later sheâd glue on top of old family photos. Elisa, sitting beside her, stared at the entrance to a house, where two extremely elegant menâimpeccable dark suits, handkerchiefs in their breast pockets, starched collars, and gelled hairâsmiled at the camera. One of them held a newborn baby in his arms. In the background, the sun setting into the sea, a boat, a streetcar turning the corner, one of the early automobiles. The distant setting sun had already been altered by Aliciaâs scissors: on top of it she put a flat, orange semicircle. Elisa asked, jokingly, which of the men was Gardel. I bet thatâs him, indicating the newborn. Alicia let out a little laugh and reassumed her posture of concentration. Gardel was her grandfather, she said; Carlosâs grandfather too. Originally