This story is very simple, although it could have been very complicated.  Also, it’s incomplete, because stories like this don’t have an ending.

Review copy courtesy of New Directions.

The Secret of Evil contains nineteen potentially incomplete pieces (some are obviously incomplete) that, so says the preface, Bolaño was working on in his last months.  It’s a little treasure, filled with openings and meanderings I wish others could write now that Bolaño is gone.  A sign of the appetite for more Bolaño, many of the pieces have been seen recently elsewhere.  Three — “Vagaries of the Literature of Doom,” “Beach,” and “Sevilla Kills Me” – were published in Between Parentheses (my review here), one — “Labyrinths” – in The New Yorker (my thoughts here), one — “Scholars of Sodom” — in The New York Review of Books (full text here), and one — “I Can’t Read” — in Harper’s (full text here).  And Granta (which also published “Beach”; the abstract here) went so far as to make a graphic HTML experience for the incredibly violent “The Colonel’s Son” (click here), which they published last year in their horror issue (my review here).

Let me briefly give a sense of a few of the pieces.  First, “The Colonel’s Son,” which I hadn’t read when I posted on Granta‘s horror issue, is a very disturbing and apparently complete piece of horror fiction.  While much of Bolaño’s fiction can be called horrific, I mean that this one has zombies — well, kind of.  The piece begins, “You’re not going to believe this, but last night, at about four a.m., I saw a movie on TV that could have been my biography or my autobiography or a summary of my days on this bitch of a planet.”  The movie our narrator watched that so resembled his life is a violent B-grade zombie movie.  The remainder of the piece describes the movie in detail, examining the motives while maintaining the narrator’s voice.  It does indeed sound like a fairly typical zombie movie, but given the story’s first sentence, and given that this is Bolaño, we know there’s a bit more here.  For example, the HTML movie has as its disclaimer: “The following HTML5 movie contains the sort of images that you see every day in the news, and thus might not be suitable for children.”

A particularly chilling but realistic piece is “The Room Next Door,” which begins, “I was once, if I remember rightly, present at a gathering of madmen.”  Another, “Scholars of Sodom,” contains two parts.  The first is an incomplete start to story about V.S. Naipaul.  Part II is a look back at that story:

Many years ago, before V.S. Naipaul – a writer whom I hold in high regard, by the way — won the Nobel Prize, I tried to write a story about him, with the title “Scholars of Sodom.”

This Part II proceeds to tell what the story might have been meant to tell, and, in a brilliant way, brings up for criticism Naipaul’s strange essay accusing Argentina as being a country full of sodomites.

As this short book proceeds, the pieces seem to get shorter and more evidently incomplete.  But these also contain some real gems, such as “Death of Ulises,” which, if you’ve been following Bolaño, you know is about Ulises Lima and Bolaño’s alter-ego Arturo Belano.  It begins, “Belano, our dear Arturo Belano, returns to Mexico City.”

And one of my favorite pieces may be the shortest and most incomplete of all.  It’s “The Days of Chaos,” the book’s last entry.  It begins, “Just when Arturo Belano thought that all his adventures were over and done with [. . .].”  We find out that Belano’s handsome young son Gerónimo ”had disappeared in Berlin during the Days of Chaos.”  The story contains seven short paragraphs; three of those are simply “This was in the year 2005.”  Obviously, Bolaño didn’t live to see 2005, but this is a sort of cast out into the future, and it ends up by taking us to the past, almost making a journey with Bolaño return full circle:

This was in the year 2005.

Gerónimo Belano was fifteen.  Arturo Belano was over fifty, and sometimes he could barely believe that he was still alive.  Arturo had set off on his first long trip at the age of fifteen too.  His parents had decided to leave Chile and start a new life in Mexico.

And that’s the end.  To me it’s as if I’ve just finished Finnegans Wake, and I’ve just been escorted back to the very beginning.  How’s that for the poetics of inconclusiveness?

Bolaño’s body of work is too complicated to be contained in one or two complete, published works.  Each piece, even these small ones, are part of a larger puzzle that is well worth the time considering, even if we’ll never get to the end.

Review copy courtesy of New Directions.

I think it’s worth relating an anecdote here.  I began reading this book one night just before going to sleep.  I was very tired and soon I was reading the same sentence over and over though my mind seemed to keep the story going forward.  Eventually I woke myself up enough to put the book down.  The next morning I couldn’t help but chuckle about where my mind had drifted the night before: some taxidermist executing his plan to pose a fish playing a piano, only quite a ways into the project realizing that fish anatomy doesn’t suit playing a piano.  What a bizarre dream, I thought.  Of course, the development felt just like a dream; here I had some strange idea that went on for a while before I realized that anatomical flaw and finally moved on.  But at breakfast the next morning, a thought: this is Aira.  I might not have been dreaming. 

You already know, of course, that I wasn’t dreaming.  Such is the joy (a part of the joy, that is) of the work of Aira.

So what is this book?

It begins at the end of a workday when Varamo stops to pick up his salary from the government.

In the interval between that moment and the dawn of the following day, ten or twelve hours later, he completed the composition of a long poem, from the initial decision to write it up to the final period, after which there were no further additions or corrections. 

The poem, The Song of the Virgin Child, is declared a masterpiece of modern Central American poetry.  It’s the only thing fifty-year-old Varamo had ever written, and he never wrote again.  There was just something about that night after picking up his paycheck: “The action contained the inspiration, and vice versa, each nourishing and consuming the other, so that nothing was left over.”

The book Varamo is, from one perspective, a venture through that night seeking what created the poem.  Though, playfully, the way we find out what happened is by deducing, “in the most rigorous sense of that word,” from the poem.  Aira is playing here, once again, with the creative act in the writing process. 

Picking up his salary ushers in a frenzied night of creativity.  There is a reason, and it’s one of the fun parts of the book.  When Varamo picks up his money, he immediately realizes that it is counterfeit.  He cannot, therefore, go out and use the money.  On the other hand, he cannot charge the government with giving him counterfeit money.  It’s not long after this that we enter a new episode (the one I thought I was dreaming) when we see Varamo engaged in his taxidermy.  And the night goes on. 

As with his other works (particularly How I Became a Nun and The Seamstress and the Wind), the story plays out in a series of episodes, and the thread holding them together is sometimes rather flimsy, even if that doesn’t matter.  It also doesn’t matter that we get seemingly important (or completely insignificant) facts rather late in the book.  For example, we get this at about the half-way point, causing us to rethink our mental image of Varamo:

His mother was Chinese; he was Chinese; therefore he had to be her son; there could be no doubt about it.  The conclusion was irresistible in Panama, for overwhelming demographic reasons.

Varamo is a strange book, and I do think it better for readers new to Aira to start with An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter or Ghosts (two that I think have a lot more substance to them than the rest, which are brilliant mediations on form and style, with excellent episodes, but which, for me, are not as fulfilling).  One has to just let Aira go and trust that in the end it will be quite an experience, even if it’s hard to make sense of.

I also think it pays to know a bit about Aira’s creative process, which is a frequent theme in his books.  For example, I think some may be disappointed that Varamo’s poem itself is hardly discussed in the book, though it is the whole reason we care about Varamo’s life at all (Aira is always brings something up and then drops it).  We don’t read a line of The Song of the Virgin Child.  Because we never really discuss the poem itself, it feels like a mere plot device, which can be frustrating.  That said, the poem also the device that allows Aira to discuss some of his ideas about the creative act in the writing process, and, in particular, how to achieve “immediacy,” which, as Varamo is told, “is the key to good style.”  (Immediacy is one thing Aira always achieves in his books.)  Varamo is a great look at the mixture of form and substance and the life that creates each.

Click for a larger image.

This is fantastic!  I never believed that Aira, one of my favorite authors, would have a short story published in The New Yorker — and certainly The New Yorker is that much better for it.  Hopefully it will bring him many more readers from the United States.

I’m very interested in what people think of this story.  For me, it very much resembled some of his longer works: it begins in one place, setting up our expectations, and then proceeds to take strange detour after strange detour, finally concluding in a single bizarre episode that is completely unexpected, despite any clues we might have.  Indeed, I felt ”The Musical Brain” matches and sometimes exceeds the crazed meanderings in some of Aira’s books.  Because of this, it’s a fairly good introduction to Aira’s stranger works, like the hilarious The Literary Conference (my review here) and (the to me slightly less enjoyable) The Seamstress in the Wind (my review here).  For those who are perhaps attracted to Aira’s prose but don’t find the strangeness appealing, I still heartily recommend reading Ghosts (my review here) or An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter (my review here); while strange, these two are not quite as strange and are a bit more serious.  As a sneak peak, the next title New Directions is publishing is Varamo, which I’ll review closer to its publication date early next year; to me Varamo was a bit of a balance between the bizarre and the serious.

“The Musical Brain” — where to begin?  As in some of his other books, the narrator here is Aira himself as he looks back on a strange sequnce of events from his youth in Coronel Pringles, Argentina, in the 1950s (no, this similarity in no way makes this story predictable).  Early on, we understand that Aira has a faulty memory.  He looks back and remembers a time when his parents broke routine by taking him and his little sister to a dining event.  They never ate out, for reasons Aira explains, but on this one particular night – and he’ll come up with a few possible reasons for breaking routine – he finds his memory taking him to an evening out, everyone dressed up.  In a corner of the room he remembers seeing the librarian, and his high school headmistress, Sarita Subercaseaux rumaging through a bunch of boxes of books.  Ah, he thinks, probably his family went out to this particular special dinner to help establish the public library.  However, as reasonable as this sounds, apparently this cannot be exactly true:

During my last visit to Pringles, hoping to confirm my memories I asked my mother if Sarita Subercaseaux was still alive.  She burst out laughing.

“She died years and years ago!”  Mom said.  “She died before you were born.  She was already old when I was a girl.”

“That’s impossible!” I exclaimed.  “I remember her very clearly.  In the library, at school . . .”

“Yes, she worked at the library and the high school, but before I was married.  You must be getting mixed up, remembering things I told you.”

That’s strange, yes, but not the kind of strangeness I referred to above.  Because, at this point, we leave the issue that would seem to take center stage in a piece about the mystery of childhood and memories (I quite like these kinds of books; see William Maxwell’s So Long, See You Tomorrow, Michael Ondaatje’s The Cat’s Table, and Julian Barnes’s The Sense of an Ending (my reviews here, here, and here, respectively)).  Instead of following on this line directly, the family gets up from the dinner, and Aira takes us to a room by the theater where the mysterious Musical Brain is on display (I’ll let you find out what this is when you read it, though you’re probably imagining it correctly).  And, before we get settled, the family is driving somewhere else; Aira took his seat in the back of the vehicle, his favorite place to sit, and while explaining why he so much liked the back seat also briefly describes his literary technique:

There was also a more arcane reason that I liked to travel in the back: since I couldn’t hear what they were saying in front, it meant I didn’t know where we were going, and so the itinerary would take on an unpredictable air of adventure.

Of course, this is exactly what we readers are feeling by this point:  Where on earth is he taking us.  Hopefully, we are enjoying the ride and are not too concerned with the ultimate destination.  There is another reason for these detours, though, both for the family and for Aira the writer:

[I]nstead of going a few hundred yards in a straight line we’d often end up driving five miles, following a tortuous, labyrinthine route.  For my mother, who had never left Pringles, it was a way of expanding the town from within.

“The Musical Brain” expands the town from within beautifullly.  It’s not that this is a small town portrait (because surely this stuff did not happen in Coronel Pringles or anywhere else), it’s that in a such a short space Aira reproduces the expansiveness of life as it is lived, complete with false starts, lingering questions, inconsistencies, and expanded by the intrusion of something completely unexpected (like a love triangle among dwarves threatening the town — maybe fear of a dwarf with a gun is why they were at that unexplained public dinner), something that makes no sense (well, you’ll get this in the story).

There’s a great Book Bench interview with translator Chris Andrews, who translated this story and several other books by Aira (click here).  Here is a good take-away line:

But as anyone who has read [Aira] knows, the “correctness” is only syntactic: his sentences are well formed, as the linguists say, but his stories and his books are, well . . . deformed, swerving wildly, jumping from one kind of fiction to another, as in “The Musical Brain”.

I do recommend reading and rereading this story.  Also, if you’re interested, a few years ago I interviewed Chris Andrews for this blog (click here), and it’s still one of my favorite posts.

Review copy courtesy of New Directions.

Of the works I’ve read, this is Bolaño’s most traditional prose piece.  He sets up what appears to be a fairly conventional story set in Paris in 1938.  In fact, the setup (and Chris Andrews’ excellent translation) seems to come from this period in literature.  It adheres to formal constructs while showing an awareness of what’s going on underneath the text.  Here are the first lines in the novel; they reminded me, to my pleasure, of modern European literature: 

On Wednesday the sixth of April, at dusk, as I was preparing to leave my lodgings, I received a telegram from my young friend Madame Reynaud, requesting, with a certain urgency, my presence that evening at the Café Bordeaux, on Rue de Rivoli, relatively close to where I live, which meant that if I hurried, I could still arrive punctually at the specified time.

The narrator is Monsieur Pierre Pain, a veteran of the first world war, in which, he says he might have been a deserter had he not nearly died when his lungs were burned out by gas.  He doesn’t have much direction in his life, but since his convalescence he has stumbled into a profession of sorts. 

From then on, supported by a  modest invalid’s pension, and perhaps as a reaction agains the society that had imperturbably sent me forth to die, I gave up everything that could be considered beneficial to a young man’s career, and took up the occult sciences, which is to say that I let myself sink into poverty, in a manner that was deliberate, rigorous and not altogether devoid of elegance.  At some point during that phase in my life I read An Abridged History of Animal Magnestism, by Franz Mesmer, and, within a matter of weeks, became a mesmerist.

At the beginning of the book, as is seen in the first quote above, Pain receives a telegram from the young widow of one of his ex-patients.  Pain rushes out of his apartment to meet her, but on his way out he is surprised to run into two men who are speaking Spanish.  When they see him, they go quiet and stop going up the stairs.  They also don’t move aside to let him by easily.  They seem confused by his presence or by his leaving, and do not hide the fact, even as he is walking out the door, that they are watching him.  The narrative then interrupts a bit, and we go back to the short week when Pain was treating the widows husband, truly trying to save this admirable man’s life even though he knew it was too late.  This interruption is one of the novel’s highlights, in my opinion — he, of course, falls in love with the widow, but he can never tell her.  He and the widow have met several times in the intervening months, but this telegram is unprecedented.  When he meets her, she requests his assistance:

“Pierre,” she repeated, stressing each word, “you must see my friend’s husband, professionally, it’s urgent.”

I think I ordered a glass of mint cordial before asking what illness Monsieur . . .

“Vallejo,” said Madame Reynaud, adding, with equal concision, “Hiccups.”

Throughout the remainder of the novel, Pain tries to meet with this man dying of hiccups.  The first time, he is thwarted by doctors who scoff at him and his strange trade, though they can find nothing wrong with Vallejo.  But even after Pain has left, thinking his assistance will not be needed, the two men speaking Spanish show up and ask him not to treat the dying man.  They offer him quite a large bribe to just go away. 

I can already tell that if I try to recount even just a little bit more of the novel I’m going to describe something the novel is not.  Yes, Pain continues to attempt to meet and treat Vallejo, but that is not really what the story is about.  Pain is an interesting character in Bolaño’s universe because, though like others he is seeking an elusive target through strange mazes, he does not have the ability to ascribe meaning to his search — he’s no poet, in other words.  He tends to reflect the following description of mesmerism well:

For me, mesmerism is like a medieval painting.  Beautiful and useless.  Timeless.  Trapped.

Still, he is an interesting character to watch as he becomes increasingly paranoid, and perhaps delusional (we’re not really sure if the horrors he believes are coming are really on their way).  The book becomes surreal and dreamlike at times, and we’re sailing smoothly on Bolaño’s flowing prose.  Interestingly, I wouldn’t classify the other Bolaño books I’ve read as surreal.  Here, the disorientation he conveys is more akin to Kafka’s type of absurdity; his later works tend to show a disorientation brought on by an empty shock caused by violence or loss.  Perhaps, because of its surrealism, it also feels more conventional.  But even while this seems more like a conventional novel, within it are the fascinating rifts, subtly placed, the anti-climactic dead ends that leave his character (and his reader) wondering what the buildup was for, that show what Bolaño will be capable of when he throws convention out.  If you cannot tell, I am becoming more and more a Roberto Bolaño fan.

You probably don’t remember, but when I reviewed Nazi Literature in the Americas I said in my last paragraph that “his conclusion is its own reward,” meaning that the conclusion was so outstanding that reading the book was worth the conclusion alone.  Well, here’s the introductory paragraph in Distant Star:

In the final chapter of my novel Nazi Literature in the AmericasI recounted, in less that twenty pages and perhaps too schematically, the story of Lieutenant Ramírez Hoffman of the Chilean Air Force, which I heard from a fellow Chilean, Arturo B., a veteran of Latin America’s doomed revolutions, who tried to get himself killed in Africa.  He was not satisfied with my version.  It was meant to counterbalance the preceding excursions into the literary grotesque, or perhaps to come as an anticlimax, and Arturo would have preferred a longer story that, rather than mirror or explode others, would be, in itself, a mirror and an explosion.  So we took that final chapter and shut ourselves up for a month and a half in my house in Blanes, where, guided by his dreams and nightmares, we composed the present novel.  My role was limited to preparing refreshments, consulting a few books, and discussing the reuse of numerous paragraph with Arturo and the increasingly animated ghost of Pierre Ménard.

Besides being an exhilerating paragraph in its own right, the paragraph explains that Distant Star is basically a stand-alone expansion to that final brilliant (anti-climactic??) chapter in Nazi Literature in the Americas.  That’s both true and misleading, which I think was Bolaño’s intent.  Distant Star is not a rewrite of that last chapter; rather, it is an expansion on the ideas, on the horror, we witnessed in that last chapter.  It is also another perspective to the horror of the Pinochet regime and the failed revolution shown to us in what is still my favorite Bolaño: By Night in Chile.  So, where The Skating Rink was a diversion from all of this, Distant Star took me back to familiar ground.  That’s not to suggest that there are no similarities to The Skating Rink; in some ways, this is a literary detective novel too.  I really can’t wait to read all of Bolaño so I can get a better picture of how his work ties itself together.

Here is how the book begins; we meet the demon himself, Carlos Wieder:

I saw Carlos Wieder for the first time in 1971, or perhaps in 1972, when Salvador Allende was President of Chile.

At that stage Wieder was calling himself Alberto Ruiz-Tagle and occasionally attended Juan Stein’s poetry workshop in Concepción, the so-called capital of the South.  I can’t say I knew him well.  I saw him once or twice a week at the workshop.  He wasn’t particularly talkative.  I was.  Most of us there talked a lot, not just about poetry, but politics, travel (little did we know what our travels would be like), painting, architecture, photography, revolution and the armed struggle that would usher in a new life and a new era, so we thought, but which, for most of us, was like a dream, or rather the key that would open the door into a world of dreams, the only dreams worth living for.  And even though we were vaguely aware that dreams often turn into nightmares, we didn’t let that bother us.

At this time the narrator is a young eighteen-year-old, and Wieder is probably twenty-three, or close to that.  Augusto Pinochet is looming on the horizon, but this group of young poets continues in its youthful pursuit of the ideal, never knowing that in their midst is a monster.  When Pinochet takes power, and Chile is a very dangerous place for these young idealists.  ”In the current socio-political climate, he said to himself, committing suicide is absurd and redundant.  Better to become an undercover poet.”

Wieder disappears, but in the clues the narrator realizes that Wieder has become something truly terrible and has even murdered some of their friends.  Another of their friends, Fat Marta, is so afraid of disappearing herself that she becomes manic, almost insane:

The main thing was to keep active (any kind of activity would do, like moving a flower pot five times in half an hour, to stop herself going mad) and to look on the bright side, tackling problems one by one, instead of all at the same time, the way she used to do before.

They don’t know where Wieder is (at this point, they really don’t know who he is), but bits keep linking together until we find that he is probably the man responsible for writing poetry in the air.  Indeed, this pilot becomes famous for his new art.  “[H]e was called upon to undertake something grand in the capital, something spectacular to show the world that the new regime and avant-garde art were not at odds, quite the contrary.”  The art show is Bolaño at his horrific best.

In Distant Starwe also see Bolaño at his darkly comic best.  Here is a story from within this story:

Once upon a time in Chile there was a poor little boy . . . I think the boy was called Lorenzo, I’m not sure, and I’ve forgotten his surname, but some readers may remember it, and he liked to play, and climb trees and high-tension pylons.  One day he climbed up a pylon and got such a shock that he lost both his arms.  They had to amputate them just below the shoulders.  So Lorenzo grew up in Chile without arms, an unfortunate situation for any child, but he also grew up in Pinochet’s Chile, which turned unfortunate situations into desperate ones, on top of which he soon discovered that he was homosexual, which made his already desperate situation inconceivable and indescribable.

Given these circumstances, it is not surprising that Lorenzo became an artist.  (What else could he do?)  But it’s hard to be an artist in the third world if you are poor, have no arms and are gay to boot.

Distant Star is, to me, not as good as By Night in Chile, but it is a brilliant work, another look at Pinochet’s Chile.  Bolaño’s writing, translated fluently by Chris Andrews, is wonderfully paced, always running right off the page.  I feel I am now ready to read The Savage Detectives; after all, here we have a strange detective story of poets seeking poets, and I can hardly wait.  Before we move on, though, it is no spoiler to allow everyone to savor the last lines in this novel:

We stood there for a while on the edge of the pavement waiting for a taxi, not knowing what to say.  Nothing like this has ever happened to me, I confessed.  That’s not true, said Romero very gently.  Worse things have happened to us, thing about it.  You could be right, I admitted, but this really has been a dreadful business.  Dreadful, repeated Romero, as if he were savouring the word.  Then he laughed quietly, grinning like a rabbit, and said, Well, what else could it have been?  I wasn’t in a laughing mood, but I laughed all the same.

Review copy courtesy of New Directions.

Scott Esposito, in a fantastic review of this book, said it reads like “a stripped-down version of The Savage Detectives.”  I have not read The Savage Detectives yet, and I’m thinking that The Skating Rink might be a good gateway to that much larger, much more complex work.  For those who’ve read and loved The Savage Detectives, this book might be a disappointing step backwards — of course that makes sense because it was written before The Savage Detectives.  However, for those who’ve determined to be a Bolaño nut, this early work shows the seeds of what was to come.  All of this comparison to The Savage Detectives might muddle the independent merits of The Skating Rink.  It’s a great, complex story in its own right.

In this book, three narrators (not dozens as in The Savage Detectives) recount the events of a summer season in Z, a resort town close to Barcelona.  Remo Morán is a Chilean businessman, successful and rich.  He has an affair with the beautiful ice skating star Nuria Martí.  Gaspar Heredia is a roaming poet whom Morán knew when they were both young (The novel’s fist lines: “The first time I saw him, it was in the Calle Bucareli, in Mexico City, that is, back in the vague shifty territory of our adolescence, the province of hardened poets, on a night of heavy fog, which slowed traffic and prompted conversations about that odd phenomenon, so rare in Mexico City at night, at least as far as I can remember.”).  Heredia’s wanderings and needs have brought him to Morán who, despite Heredia’s illegal status, offers him a job as a watchman at a campground.  The third narrator is Enric Rosquelles, a corrupt municipal bureaucrat in charge of the Social Services Department.  He’s fat and whiny and in love with Nuria.  In the abandoned Palacio Benvingut, he constructs for Nuria the skating rink of the title, from public funds (“Or, no, they did care about the money, of course they did, but not enough to work overtime trying to find out where it had gone.”).

From page one we know something bad has happened, a murder most likely, though none of the narrators addresses it straight-on until two-thirds of the way through the book.  Or rather they are addressing it straight-on; we just don’t have enough of the important details to put it all together and know what they’re talking about (it almost certainly requires a second reading, which in my case was even more pleasureful than the first).  Nevertheless, the murder is, in the words of Morán, the reason they are telling this story.  As a reader with certain expectations, I thought the book would introduce a cast of characters, any of whom could be the murderer or the victim (we don’t know who’s killed until that two-thirds point) and then the clues would start to come together until — ta-da — the murderer is found, his or her motives are cleared up, and the narrators drift away, glad that their confession has lightened the burden of that summer.  Or, and perhaps even better, the narrators never get that sense of closure they hoped for, and that, in itself, is a form of closure for the book.  But who’s concerned about closure here?  Not only that — who’s concerned about the truth?  Especially when it’s primarily made up of dry facts, like who killed whom (both of those questions are cleared up with little fanfare).

The men are telling this story independent of one another, so often the accounts differ in tone and even in facts.  They add up only to a certain degree, and the rest remains inexplicable.  But that’s part of the puzzle — and the puzzle is the point.  The men are telling this story to figure out how that summer affected them, and they can grasp it no better than the reader can.  One might suspect a book like this would be highly frustrating.  Indeed, I was frustrated at the end of 2666 for some of these reasons (though there it felt as if even the puzzle were missing).  However, The Skating Rink is a complete book.  The puzzle and its pieces are there.

A central part of the puzzle is a character named Caridad, a vagabond who wanders around Z with an old opera singer and carries a kitchen knife around under her shirt.  Heredia is infatuated with Caridad and “got into the habit of walking around town in the vague hope of running into Caridad.”  One night he follows her to the place where she has been camping out – the Palacio Benvingut.  While wandering around the maze of passages, Heredia finds the cold wind that directs him to the skating rink.  Nuria is there skating and Rosquellessits on the side watching.  It’s a haunting passage, and important, though on a first reading one might not understand the depth of emotion — it’s almost terror — Heredia felt at the time.

Each of the three narrators eventually finds his way to the skating rink.  One comments on the walk through the palace where “the passage formed concentric circles around the skating rink.”  This leads to one of the principal passages in the book — a passage that describes the setting, the themes, and the book’s structure all in one go:

From that vantage point I had a panoramic view of what looked like a labyrinth with a frozen center . . .

For those interested in venturing into the world of Bolaño for the first time, this might be the best place to start.  It’s short and fairly direct in its abstractions, and it just might open the door to Bolaño.  For those who’ve been reading Bolaño, this book is another piece in the larger puzzle and design and, therefore, indispensable.

In a way, By Night in Chile is the first conventional novel I’ve read by Bolaño.  It has a beginning and an end and narrative cohesion.  Still it is not that conventional.  On a first look, stylistically it reminded me of Imre Kertész’s Kaddish for an Unborn Child – both are powerfully stated first person narratives laid out in a virtually unbroken style.  By Night in Chile is a 130 page single paragraph (Kaddish is around the same length but was mostly one long sentence — but it did have a few paragraph breaks!).  This might be offputting, or at least intimidating, to some people.  It is both to me because somehow you have to navigate through all that text.  What I’ve found time and again, however, is that the authors who attempt this style are usually very good at utilizing it for purpose, and somehow they pull it off without making it a cumbersome mass.

Here, the style is definitely not cumbersome.  It produces a narrative pace that gives the reader little time to breath, let alone think, an effective device in this context where the speaker doesn’t want you to have time to consider his words to see what he is and is not saying.  Our narrator is Father Sebastian Urrutia Lacroix, a priest who has served the church, even entering the ranks of Opus Dei, and who has served the Chilean government.  Sometimes he has served one through the other.  He’s pulled himself up on his death bed, “propped up on one elbow” and lifting his “noble, trembling head,” to offer a final confession.

I am dying now, but I still have many things to say.  I used to be at peace with myself.  Quiet and at peace.  But it all blew up unexpectedly.  That wizened youth is to blame.  I was at peace.  I am no longer at peace. 

The confessional tone, however, is misleading because ultimately he admits to no wrong, and we know he’ll be ellusive from the start.  In the middle of the first page we see that we are dealing with someone who is weighed down by something he is unwilling to name and therefore unwilling to accept.

One has to be responsible, as I have always said.  One has a moral obligation to take responsibility for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences, yes, one’s silences, because silences rise to heaven too, and God hears them, and only God understands and judges them, so one must be very careful with one’s silences.  I am responsible in every way.  My silences are immaculate.

Father Urrutia Lacroix then narrates his youth, and we know that he recognizes he was a more innocent person then, indeed he constantly feels chastized by his memories of his youth.  But even at this point of his narrative he avoids responsibility for what was to follow:

And a year later, at the age of fourteen,  I entered the seminary, and when I came out again, much later on, my mother kissed my hand and called me Father or I thought I heard her say Father, and when, in my astonishment, I protested, saying Don’t call me Father, mother, I am your son, or maybe I didn’t say Your son but The son, she began to cry or weep and then I thought, or maybe the thought has only occurred to me now, that life is a succession of misunderstandings, leading us on to the final truth, the only truth.

While attending seminary and after, our narrator wanted to be a literary critic.  He had enough talen to become attractive (mentally and physically) to the prominent critic Farewell.  Through Farewell he meets the other prominent figures of the arts and politics of his youth, including Pablo Nerruda.  There is something compelling in these people, and it affects how he feels about his responsibilities flowing from his station in the church.

And I heard one of the women saying Father, won’t you try some of this or that.  And someone was talking to me about a sick child, but with such poor diction I couldn’t tell if the child was sick or dead already.  What did they need me for?  If the child was dying, they should have called a doctor.  If the child had already been dead for some time, they should have been saying novenas.

This back story eventually leads our narrator to a special assignment to help preserve the European cathedrals, which are being soiled by pigeon droppings.  When he arrives in Europe, Father Urrutia Lacroix is surprised but unaffected by the manner the custodians of the cathedrals have chosen to fix the problem: they have become falconers, and they send their hawks up to violently purge the area of the pigeons (the irony of the church’s killing doves is not lost in the text).   

This episode leads directly to the next episode both literally and figuratively.  In a way, Father Urrutia Lacroix’s assignment can be seen as a primer for more important political work that is no less violent and disturbing.  It ultimately leads him to Maria Canales, whom he now says was merely an acquaintance, no one he knew well, no one who knew him well.  (Maria Canales is a stand-in for Mariana Callejas.)  This is the horrific climax.  This is the complicity our narrator seeks to strip from himself.  However, though we never know just how complicit our narrator was, whether he had an active role in the horrors is a side note for Bolaño.  Much more important to him here (and in Nazi Literature in the Americas) is his and others’ passive role in the horrors, particularly those who can hide under aesthetics.  Our narrator sums it up nicely in one line:

That’s how literature is made in Chile.

The work continues!  From Bolaño, in August, we will see Andrew’s translation of The Skating Rink; in 2010, of Monsieur Pain (January), Assassin Whores (June), and The Insufferable Gaucho (August); and in 2011, of The Secret of Evil (November).  All will be published by New Directions (New Directions will also be publishing, in the same general time period, two other Bolaño books — Antwerp (April 2010) and Between Parentheses (June 2011) — translated by Natasha Wimmer, who did exceptional work on Bolaño’s The Savage Detectives and 2666).  Besides a translation of Aira’s Varamo (forthcoming), I’m hoping that in the mix there are some more transations of Aira’s books.

I’m pleased that Mr. Andrews has taken the time to respond to some questions about his work as a translator, and in particular as a translator of Bolaño and Aira.  (All typos in the interview are mine — not because I wrote it myself but because I typed it up myself.)

Q:  Mr. Andrews, I’d like to begin by asking about your pathway to your current work translating Roberto Bolaño and César Aira.  How long have you been translating, and why from Spanish?

I studied literature, French and Spanish, at university and started translating in the mid-1990s with travel narratives (including Ana Briongos’ memoir Black on Black about living and travelling in Iran) and some short stories (including Cortázar’s uncollected, early story “The Season of the Hand”).  I wanted to translate longer works of fiction, but it’s hard to get a contract; there’s simply not much work for translators of fiction into English.  With Bolaño, I had a lucky break: I was approaching publishers in England, expressing interest in translating work, and it happened that I visited Christopher Maclehose at The Harvill Press in London shortly after he had acquired the rights to By Night in Chile.  That was in 2001.  He asked me what I had been reading and I spoke enthusiastically about Bolaño (I had just read The Wild Detectives).  Harvill already had a translator lined up for By Night in Chile, but when that fell through, they needed a replacement, so they asked me for a sample, then commissioned me to translate the book.  Barbara Epler at New Directions published By Night in Chile in the United States, and I’ve been working directly with her since Last Evenings on Earth (which was originally commissioned by Harvill but published first by New Directions in the United States).

What happened with Aira was also serendipitous.  New Directions were considering some of his books, and Barbara was asking for opinions.  I had been “converted” by An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter (I remember clearly reading it on a tram on a sunny winter’s day in Melbourne and suddenly feeling that I “got it”, after an initial phase of bewilderment, or more precisely realizing that if I stopped trying to “get it” as historically responsible fiction, it would open up as a strange and beautiful blend of phantasmagoria, essay, and narrative poem.  After that, I was hooked and embarked on the treasure hunt that Aira has set up for his readers by publishing his books all over the place, with all sorts of outfits).  So when the chance to translate An Episode and How I Became a Nun came up, I was very keen.

Q:  What attracted you to the work of translating in the first place?

Translating is a very practical, hands-on way of working with literature: taking the sentences apart, puzzling over the bits, and reassembling them; poring over dictionaries and other reference works.  I like trying to think about literature in critical and theoretical ways too, but there’s pleasure in losing the distance that theory requires and losing yourself in the details.

Q:  I have found Bolaño and Aira to be two incredibly different authors, yet authors whose style is part of the product.  In other words, their subject tends to determine the very form they write in.  How do you approach such diverse and complex translating projects?

I think you’re quite right: they are very different, but in both cases style, in the broadest sense, encompassing the organization of a life-work and a working life, is central.  Part of Aira’s style in that broad sense is to keep changing his style at the level of the chapter or paragraph, or rather to keep jumping from genre to genre to genre (Patri’s dream in Ghosts is a clear example of that: it is made up of free-wheeling anthropological reflections, which contrast strongly with the fairly straightforward narration in which the dream is set).  So there are sharp differences within the books as well as between them, which are disorienting for the translator, as for the reader.  When the translator reaches those discontinuities, he or she just has to hang on tight.

Q:  Do you find yourself suffering from translator’s block?

Yes, but it lasts for hours, not days, weeks, or months, and I think it’s quite different from writer’s block.  The problems to be solved are complex, but largely pre-set by the original, whereas a writer has to keep coming up with problems as well as solving them.

Q:  Having translated a handful of works by each author, have certain things become automatic or at least easy?

No.  That hasn’t happened yet!

Q:  Now that we’ve talked about some of the challenges of translating, what are the pleasures?

César Aira has said that for him becoming a writer gave him an excuse to go on reading in the luxurious, irresponsible way that children do.  Translating is a good excuse for reading too, and rereading.  So I’d say that one of the main pleasures of translating is prolonged immersion in interesting fictions.  Handling literary language is a great source of pleasure too.

Q:  What are you working on now?  And, if it doesn’t breach any pact of secrecy, what is coming up?

Right at the moment I’m finishing off Bolaño’s Monsieur Pain, before getting on to some more Bolaño stories.  César Aira’s Varamo is coming up after that.

Q:  Who are some of your favorite authors writing in Spanish who have not been translated into English?

I’ll mention two, who are very different from each other.

Dalia Rosetti, from Argentina.  Recently I read her book Me encantaría que me guestes de mí (clumsy translation: I’d love it if you fancied me).  It’s a lesbian surfing romance that jumps into the future.  The labels make it sound like a genre mish-mash, and I guess that’s what it is, but what fascinated me was the falsely naive vitality of the narrative voice, which is cunningly sustained.

Juan Villoro, from Mexico.  His El Testigo (The Witness), about a self-exiled Mexican intellectual returning home after the elections that ended the PRI’s long reign in 2001, is dense, epigrammatic, and built like a palace.  It’s the most ambitious of Villoro’s books to date, but there are many more, in an impressive range of kinds: stories, essays, travel writing, children’s books.

Q:  Do you have a say in what works you will translate?  If so, how do you select your next process?

Generally publishers do the commissioning and translators take the job or don’t.  Publishers often listen to the opinions of translators, or ask them for reader’s reports, but they usually gather a fair few opinions and then they just have to “go on their nerve” as Frank O’Hara said of poets.  When a book is proposed, two main factors influence my decision: (a) Am I in tune with the book? and (b) Can I do it in the publisher’s time frame, given my other commitments?

Q:  Finally, what are three books you recommend we all read?

These aren’t recommendations for everyone, just some things I like and that might appeal to some readers of The Mookse and the Gripes: Anything the Landlord Touches, poems by Emma Lew, from Melbourne (Giramondo Press); A God’s Breakfast, poems by Frank Kuppner, from Glasgow (Carcanet); The Power of Flies, a novel by Lydie Salvayre, from France, translated by Jane Kuntz (Dalkey Archive Press).

Review copy courtesy of New Directions.

How I Became a Nun is different from the other two in that it starts with the sense of immediacy the others built up to.  The opening thirty pages are intense and worth reading in and of themselves.  In them we meet our narrator, a young boy (or girl, if you rely on her account) named César Aira, who has just moved from a small interior town to a larger town.  To his father’s delight, ice cream is available in the larger time, and, remembering his own excellent experiences with ice cream, the father is taking the young son for his first taste.  Shockingly, touching his first spoonful to his mouth,  César hates it, can’t even manage to swallow it so awful is the taste.  The unbelieving father becomes indignant and finally outraged.  How can anyone not like strawberry ice cream?  This incident becomes somehow very important to the narrator’s development:

My story, the story of “how I became a nun,” began very early in my life: I had just turned six.  The beginning is marked by a vivid memory, which I can reconstruct down to the last detail.  Before, there is nothing, and after, everything is an extension of the same vivid memory, continuous and unbroken, including the intervals of sleep, up to the point where I took the veil.

Once this excellently rendered episode is over, the narrator takes us into a chilling fever dream, complete with doppelgänger parents, wherein the narrator is able to step out of the story for a moment in order to see from the outside her story moving onward (all of the ellipses in the following quote are Aira’s own):

Over all these stories hovered another, more conventional in a way, but more fantastic too.  Separate from the series, it functioned like a “background,” always there.  It was a kind of static story . . . a chilling episode, with a wealth of horrific details . . . It filled me with dread, making the four-part delirium seem like light entertainment by comparison . . . Except that it wasn’t just one more element, a bolt of lightning in a stormy sky . . . it was everything that was happening to me . . . everything that would happen to me in an eternity that had not yet begun and would never end . . . I was the girl in an illustrated book of fairy tales; I had become a myth . . . I was seeing it from inside . . .

This section is so different in form from the first section that I began to wonder just what kind of story I was entering.  Then the next section came along, and it was very different from the first two.  Again, that is part of the creative process that is on display in the form of the novella.  And again, Aira ties this process into the substance of the themes underlying the strange narrative: creation of a personal narrative, identity, mimicry, parental figures’ role in all of the above.

The drama was triggered for me by the realization that the mute scene I was witnessing, the teacher’s and pupil’s abstract mimicry, affected me vitally.  It was my story, not someone else’s.  The drama had begun as soon as I had set foot in the school, and it was unfolding before me, entire and timeless.  I was and was not involved in it; I was present, but not a participant, or participating only by my refusal, like a gap in the performance, but that gap was me.

Like the other two novellas, this one is packed with pleasure and intellect.  My only problem was that each section is so separate and distinct from the one preceding it that it felt episodic and, therefore, lacked of the powerful forward thrust in the other two.  But . . . as annoyed as I was that every ten pages or so I was thrown out of the narrative and dropped into a strange new place, once I settled down and thought about the form (form is so important to Aira, which I find ironic since his works seem so formless and ad hoc), things started to make sense.  These gaps in the narrative are fundamental to the strangeness of Aira’s themes.  That they are not discussed (or even, apparently, recognized) by the narrator is just as strange as the fact that he never seems cognizant of the little gender discrepancy so often apparent to the reader but never remarked upon in any way by any of the characters. 

Aira gives me the impression that for him writing is a discovery process, and he doesn’t mind making the reader come along the way.  As polished as his novels are, they come off feeling like the spiritual cousin to an old fashioned essay—the intial “trying” brings about a complete result where both author and reader are fulfilled.

Review copy courtesy of New Directions.

Strangely enough, this one was even more in pieces even than 2666, but it tied together better and felt more cohesive.  What we have here is a series of short (usually only a few pages, sometimes as short as a paragraph) biographical sketches of a few dozen writers from Latin and North America.  Some tie together because they are from the same family or from the same movement, but all tie together because of their extremely far Right political views in which they see the hope for the human race (at least, the human race as they’d like to define it):

Shortly before his death, in a letter to a friend in Buenos Aires, he foresaw a radiant epoch for the human race, the triumphant dawn of a new golden age, and he wondered whether the Argentinian people would rise to the occasion.

Of course, it’s no secret, if you read the title, that their views are terrifying.  And Bolaño has a great ability to present their wishes in detailed lists where the writing, in its disinterested rhetoric, is very compelling (not the thoughts: I said ”the writing”). 

As a young man, Salvático advocated, among other things, the re-establishment of the Inquisition; corporal punishment in public; a permanent war against the Chileans, the Paraguayans, or the Bolivians as a kind of gymnastics for the nation; polygamy; the extermination of the Indians to prevent further contamination of the Argentinean race; curtailing the rights of any citizen with Jewish blood; a massive influx of migrants from the Scandinavian countries in order to effect a progressive lightening of the national skin color, darkened by years of promiscuity with the indigenous population; life-long writer’s grants; the abolition of tax on artists’ incomes; the creation of the largest air force in South America; the colonization of Antarctica; and the building of new cities in Patagonia.

He was a soccer player and a Futurist.

I love that little “He was a soccer player and a Futurist” thrown in the next paragraph, as if what we read above were just facts of biography and nothing more.  In fact, Bolaño is incredibly adept at making these writers seem real.  Though none in this book is real, all are realistically situated among real writers and real literary and political movements.  One moment that stood out to me was an ill-fated encounter one of the characters had with the poet Allen Ginsberg.  The episode was made more real in light of a recent article I read about a similar encounter between the poet and the younger poet Matthew Dickman (Dickman’s encounter was completely different than the one in this book; it ended in a kiss, not a beating).

The pseudo-reality becomes important when you realize just why (well, at least one reason why) Bolaño wrote this book.  When I started it, I couldn’t get my head around this man’s depth of imagination.  Here he has created a series of realistic figures, complete with the titles of the novels they wrote, dissertations about them, movements they joined, all told in greater detail and with more flare than many good biographies.  He does an excellent job seeming to sound like a disinterested, though fluent, purveyor of information while keeping in the editorial jabs, one of the best things about such magazines as The New Yorker and The Economist.  Here’s a good example of a place where I was laughing out loud while admiring Bolaño’s scope:

That was not to be Pérez Masón’s last visit to the jails of socialist Cuba.  In 1965 he published Poor Man’s Soup, which related—in an irreproachable style, worthy of Sholokov—the hardships of a large family living in Havana in 1950.  The novel comprised of fourteen chapters.  The first began: “Lucia was a black woman from . . .”; the second: “Only after serving her father . . .”; the third: “Nothing had come easily for Juan . . .”; the fourth: “Gradually, tenderly, she drew him towards her . . .”  The censor quickly smelled a rat.  The first letters of each chapter made up the acrostic LONG LIVE HITLER.  A major scandal broke out.  Pérez Masón defended himself haughtily: it was a simple coincidence.  The censors set to work in earnest, and made a fresh discovery: the first letters of each chapter’s second paragraph made up another acrostic—THIS PLACE SUCKS.  And those of the third paragraph spelled: USA WHERE ARE YOU.  And the fourth paragraph: KISS MY CUBAN ASS.  And so, since each chapter, without exception, contained twenty-five paragraphs, the censors and the general public soon discovered twenty-five acrostics.  I screwed up, Pérez Masón would say later: They were too obvious, but if I’d made it much harder, no one would have realized.

I was being short-sighted, though, in just admiring Bolaño’s scope.  What he has to say about literature and rhetoric is quite profound.  There are several places where he highlights the works of an author and I thought That sounds interesting.

A number of the poems are noteworthy: 

—”A Dialogue with Hermann Goering in Hell,” in which the poet, astride the black motorcycle of his early sonnets, arrives at an abandoned airfield, in a place known as Hell, near Maracaibo on the Venezuelan coast, and meets the shade of Reichsmarschall, with whom he discusses various subjects: aviation, vertigo, destiny, uninhabited houses, courage, justice and death. 

—”Concentration Camp,” by contrast, is the humorous and at times touching story of Zwickau’s life as a child, between the ages of five and ten, in a middle-class neighborhood of Caracas.

And after thinking hmmm, interesting, I had to stop and cringe.  Ahh, the seductive power of literature and rhetoric.  Sometimes something so reprehensible is made interesting and noteworthy, perhaps even praiseworthy, because of the skillful use of language holding it up, even if the ideas it espouses are ugly.  I found this book a nice review of several tragedies of the 20th century.  Rhetoric will undoubtedly continue to be the cause of tragedies to come (but hopefully also of good things).  Of course, it is ironic coming from a master rhetorician who seductively pulls us into these accounts with great sentence fluency, comedy, and poetry.  And they are interesting, and compelling, and horrific (indeed, the book is complete with an EPILOGUE FOR MONSTERS). 

On a final note: Somehow, after 175 pages of brief biographical sketches, all from a scholarly third person, Bolaño throws in a mighty conclusion.  It’s worth reading for many reasons, but to feel his conclusion is its own reward.  So, see if you can guess how I feel about Bolaño now.