The Savage Detectives (43 page)

His first decision was to call the police, then he convened an emergency meeting of what he called the "thinking minds" of the delegation, in other words, the writers who every so often wrote opinion pieces, essays, or reviews of political books (the "creative minds" were the poets or the fiction writers like Don Pancracio, and there was also the category of "hotheads," the novices and beginners like Aurelio Pradera and maybe Ulises Lima himself, and the "thinking-creative minds," the crème de la crème, consisting of just two peasant poets, Labarca first among them), and after a brisk, forthright evaluation of the new situation fostered or created by the incident, and of the incident itself, they came to the conclusion that the best thing for the delegation would be to stick to the original schedule, or in other words to depart without delay that very day and leave the Lima affair in the hands of the proper authorities.

Truly extraordinary things were said about the political repercussions that the disappearance of a Mexican poet in Nicaragua might entail, but then, keeping in mind that very few people knew Ulises Lima and that of the few people who did, half weren't speaking to him, the level of alarm dropped several degrees. Somebody even raised the possibility that his disappearance might pass unnoticed.

After a while the police showed up and Álamo, Labarca, and I spent some time talking to one of them who called himself an inspector and whom Labarca immediately began to address as "comrade," "comrade" this and "comrade" that, but for a policeman he was actually nice and sympathetic, although he didn't tell us anything that we hadn't already thought of ourselves. He asked us about the habits of the "comrade writer." Of course, we told him that we weren't familiar with Ulises's habits. He wanted to know whether Ulises had any "peculiarity" or "weakness." Álamo said that one never knew, the profession was as diverse as humanity itself, and humanity, as we well knew, was a conglomeration of weaknesses. Seconding Álamo (in his own way), Labarca said that Ulises might be a degenerate and he might not. Degenerate in what sense? the Sandinista inspector wanted to know. That I can't say for sure, said Labarca. To be honest, I don't know him. I didn't even see him on the plane. He was on the same plane we were on, wasn't he? Of course, Julio, said Álamo. And then Álamo passed the ball to me: you know him, Montero (the quantity of suppressed rage in those words!), tell us what he's like. I immediately washed my hands of it all. I told the whole story again, from beginning to end, to the manifest boredom of Álamo and Labarca and the sincere interest of the inspector. When I was done he said ah, the lives you writers lead. Then he wanted to know why there'd been writers who hadn't wanted to travel to Managua. For personal reasons, said Labarca. Not because they were hostile to our revolution? How can you think such a thing, certainly not, said Labarca. Which writers didn't want to come? said the inspector. Álamo and Labarca looked at each other, then at me. I opened my big mouth and told him the names. Well, what do you know, said Labarca, so Marco Antonio was invited too? Yes, said Álamo, I thought it was a good idea. And why wasn't I consulted? said Labarca. I mentioned it to Emilio and he said it was all right, said Álamo, annoyed at Labarca for questioning his authority in front of me. So this Marco Antonio, who is he? said the inspector. A poet, said Álamo, flatly. But what kind of poet? the inspector wanted to know. A surrealist poet, said Álamo. A surrealist and a PRI-ist, specified Labarca. A lyric poet, I said. The inspector nodded his head several times, as if to say I see, although it was clear to us that he didn't understand shit. And this lyric poet didn't want to show his support for the Sandinista revolution? Well, said Labarca, that's a strong way to put it. He couldn't make it, I guess, said Álamo. Although you know Marco Antonio, said Labarca, and he laughed for the first time. Álamo took out his pack of Delicados and offered it around. Labarca and I each took one, but the inspector waved them away and lit a Cuban cigarette. These are stronger, he said with a clear hint of irony. It was as if he were saying: we revolutionaries smoke strong tobacco, real men smoke strong tobacco, those of us with a stake in objective reality smoke real tobacco. Stronger than a Delicados? said Labarca. Black tobacco, comrades, genuine tobacco. Álamo laughed under his breath and said: it's hard to believe we've lost a poet, but what he really meant was: what do you know about tobacco, you stupid son of a bitch? You can kiss my ass with your Cuban tobacco, said Labarca almost without batting an eye. What did you say, comrade? said the inspector. That I don't give a shit about Cuban tobacco. Where Delicados are lit, let the rest be put out. Álamo laughed again and the inspector seemed to hesitate between turning pale with rage and looking confused. I assume, comrade, that you mean what I think you mean, he said. That's right, I do, you heard me. No one turns his nose up at a Delicados, said Labarca. Oh, Julio's a bad boy, murmured Álamo, looking at me to hide his barely suppressed laughter from the inspector. And on what grounds do you say that? said the inspector, wreathed in a cloud of smoke. I could see that things were taking a new tone. Labarca raised a hand and waved it back and forth a few inches from the inspector's nose, as if he were slapping him. Don't blow smoke in my face, man, he said, do you mind? This time the inspector definitely turned pale, as if the strong scent of his own tobacco had made him sick. For fuck's sake, show a little respect, comrade, you almost hit me in the nose. If you call that a nose, said Labarca to Álamo, unruffled. If you can't tell the smell of a Delicados from a bundle of vulgar Cuban weed then your nose is failing you, comrade, which hardly matters in and of itself, but in the case of a smoker or a policeman is worrisome, to say the least. A Delicados, you see, Julio, is blond tobacco, said Álamo, overcome by laughter. And the paper is sweet too, said Labarca, which is something you only find in parts of China. And in Mexico, Julio, said Álamo. And in Mexico, of course, said Labarca. The inspector gave them a look of pure hatred, then abruptly put out his cigarette and said in an altered voice that he would have to file a missing person report and that such a procedure could only be carried out at the police station. He seemed ready to arrest us all. Well, what are we waiting for, said Labarca, let's go to the station, comrade. Montero, he said to me on his way out, give the minister of culture a call for me. Okay, Julio, I said. The inspector seemed to hesitate for a few seconds. Labarca and Álamo were in the lobby. The inspector looked at me as if asking for advice. I mimed handcuffed wrists, but he didn't get it. Before he left, he said: they'll be back in less than ten minutes. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. After a while Don Pancracio Montesol showed up, wearing a spotless white guayabera and carrying a plastic bag from the Gigante supermarket in Colonia Chapultepec, full of books. Are matters on the way to being resolved, Montero, my boy? My dear friend Don Pancracio, I said, matters are exactly where they were last night and the night before last. We've lost poor Ulises Lima, and like it or not, it's my fault for having dragged him here.

Don Pancracio, as usual, didn't make the slightest effort to console me and for a few minutes the two of us sat in silence, him drinking his penultimate whiskey and me with my head in my hands, sucking down a daiquiri with a straw and unsuccessfully trying to imagine Ulises Lima with no money and no friends, alone in that ravaged country, as we heard the calls and shouts of the members of our delegation who were roaming the adjoining rooms like stray dogs or wounded parrots. Do you know what the worst thing about literature is? said Don Pancracio. I knew, but I pretended I didn't. What? I said. That you end up being friends with writers. And friendship, treasure though it may be, destroys your critical sense. Once, said Don Pancracio, Monteforte Toledo dropped this riddle in my lap: a poet is lost in a city on the verge of collapse, with no money, or friends, or anyone to turn to. And of course, he neither wants nor plans to turn to anyone. For several days he roams the city and the country, eating nothing, or eating scraps. He's even stopped writing. Or he writes in his head: in other words, he hallucinates. All signs point to an imminent death. His drastic disappearance foreshadows it. And yet the poet doesn't die. How is he saved? Etc., etc. It sounded like Borges, but I didn't tell him so. His fellow writers already pester him enough about whether he's stealing from Borges here or stealing from Borges there, whether he's stealing from him in a good way or stealing from him in a clumsy way, as López Velarde would have said. What I did was listen to Don Pancracio and then follow his example. In other words, I kept my mouth shut. And then a guy came to tell me that the van that was taking us to the airport was in front of the hotel, and I said all right, let's go, but first I looked over at Don Pancracio, who had already gotten down from his stool and was watching me with a smile on his face, as if I'd discovered the answer to the riddle, but obviously I hadn't discovered or figured out or guessed anything, and anyway I didn't give a damn, so I said: this riddle your friend asked you, what was the answer, Don Pancracio? And then Don Pancracio looked at me and said: what friend? Your friend, whoever it was, Miguel Ángel Asturias, the riddle about the poet who's lost and survives. Oh, that, said Don Pancracio as if he were waking up, the truth is I don't remember anymore, but don't worry, the poet doesn't die, he loses everything, but he doesn't die.

What thou lovest well remains, said someone who was standing nearby and had overheard us, a light-skinned guy in a double-breasted suit and red tie who was the official poet of San Luis Potosí, and right there, as if his words had been the starting pistol shot, or in this case the departing shot, major chaos broke out, with Mexican and Nicaraguan writers autographing books for each other, and there was more chaos in the van, which was too small for all of us who were leaving and those who were seeing us off, so that we had to call three taxis to provide additional logistical support for our deployment. It goes without saying that I was the last person to leave the hotel. Before I did, I made a few phone calls and left a letter for Ulises Lima on the highly unlikely chance that he might show up there. In the letter I advised him to head straight to the Mexican embassy where they would take care of getting him back to Mexico. I also called the police station and spoke to Álamo and Labarca, who assured me that we would meet at the airport. Then I got my suitcases, called a taxi, and left.

Jacinto Requena, Café Quito, Calle Bucareli, Mexico City, July 1982
. I went to see Ulises Lima off at the airport when he left for Managua, partly because I still couldn't believe he'd been invited and partly because I didn't have anything else to do that morning, and I went to meet him when he came back too, more than anything just to see his face and so we could have a laugh together, but when I caught sight of the writers who'd been on the trip, neatly lined up in two rows, I couldn't pick out his figure (which was unmistakeable) even though I looked and looked.

There were Álamo and Labarca, Padilla and Byron Hernández, Villaplata and our old acquaintance Logiacomo, Sala and the poetess Carmen Prieto, sinister Pérez Hernández and sublime Montesol, but not Ulises.

My first thought was that he'd fallen asleep on the plane and that he'd show up soon escorted by two stewardesses and with a hangover of Homerian proportions. At least that's what I wanted to think, since I'm pretty slow to panic, although to be honest, I had a bad feeling the moment I saw that group of intellectuals returning tired and content.

Bringing up the end of the line, loaded down with several carry-ons, was Hugo Montero. I remember that I waved to him but he didn't see me, or didn't recognize me, or pretended not to recognize me. When all the writers had left I saw Logiacomo, who seemed reluctant to leave the airport, and I went up to say hello, trying not to show how worried I was. He was with another Argentinian, a tall, fat guy with a little goatee, no one I knew. They were talking about money. Or at least I heard the word
dollars
a few times, followed by multiple, tremulous exclamation points. After I said hello, Logiacomo's initial tactic was to act as if he didn't remember me, but then he had to accept the inevitable. I asked him about Ulises. He looked at me in horror. There was disapproval in his gaze too, as if I were parading around the airport with my fly open or an oozing sore on my cheek.

It was the other Argentinian who spoke. He said: that asshole made us look like a bunch of idiots. Is he your friend? I looked at him and then I looked at Logiacomo, who was watching for someone in the waiting area, and I didn't know whether to laugh or be serious. The other Argentinian said: a person has to show a little more responsibility (he was talking to Logiacomo, not even looking at me). If I run into him I swear I'll nail his balls to the wall. But what happened? I murmured with my best smile (that is, my worst). Where's Ulises? The other Argentinian said something about the literary lumpen proletariat. What are you talking about? I said. Then Logiacomo spoke, to calm us down, I guess. Ulises disappeared, he said. What do you mean he disappeared? Ask Montero, we just found out about it. It took me longer than it should have to realize that Ulises hadn't disappeared during the flight home (in my imagination I saw him get up from his seat, go down the aisle, pass a stewardess who smiles at him, go into the toilet, lock the door, and
disappear
) but in Managua, during the Mexican delegation's visit. And that was all. The next day I went to see Montero at Bellas Artes and he told me that because of Ulises he was going to lose his job.

Xóchitl García, Calle Montes, near the Monumento a la Revolución, Mexico City DF, July 1982
. Someone had to call Ulises's mother, I mean, it was the least we could do, but Jacinto didn't have the heart to tell her that her son had disappeared in Nicaragua, even though I said it's probably not such a big deal, Jacinto, you know Ulises, you're his friend, you know what he's like, but Jacinto said that he'd disappeared, end of story, just like Ambrose Bierce and the English poets who died in the Spanish Civil War and Pushkin, except that in Pushkin's case his wife, Pushkin's wife, I mean, was Reality, the Frenchman who killed Pushkin was the Contras, the snows of St. Petersburg were the empty spaces Ulises Lima left in his wake, his lethargy, I mean, and his laziness and lack of common sense, and the seconds in the duel were Mexican Poetry or Latin American Poetry, which, in the form of the Solidarity Delegation, were silent witnesses to the death of one of the best poets of our day.

That was what Jacinto said, but he still wouldn't call Ulises's mother, and I said: let's see, let's examine the situation, the last thing that woman cares about is whether her son is a Pushkin or an Ambrose Bierce. I put myself in her shoes, I'm a mother, and if someday some bastard kills Franz (God forbid), then I'm not going to be thinking that the great Mexican (or Latin American) poet is dead, I'm going to be writhing in pain and anguish and I won't be having the first thought about literature, I can promise you that, because I'm a mother and I know about sleepless nights and the fears and worries that come with having a brat of your own. The best thing we could do, I swear, is to call her or go see her in Ciudad Satélite and tell her what we know about her son. And Jacinto said: she probably already knows, Montero probably already told her. And I said: how can you be so sure? And then Jacinto was quiet and I said: it hasn't even come out in the papers, no one has said anything, it's as if Ulises never went to Central America. And Jacinto said: that's true. And I said: there's nothing you or I can do, because no one will pay attention to us, but I'm sure they'll listen to his mother. They'll tell her to get lost, said Jacinto, and all we'll do is give her more to worry about, more to think about, when she's better off the way she is. What you don't know can't hurt you, he said, preparing food for Franz and pacing around the house, what you don't know can't hurt you, living in ignorance is almost like living in bliss.

And then I said: how can you call yourself a Marxist, Jacinto, how can you call yourself a poet, when you say things like that? Do you plan to make revolution with clichés? And Jacinto answered that frankly there was no way he was planning to make revolution anymore, but that if some night he happened to be in the mood, then making it with clichés and the lyrics of sappy love songs wouldn't be such a bad idea, and he also said that it was as if I was the one who'd gotten lost in Nicaragua, I was so upset, and who's to say, he said, that Ulises
did
get lost in Nicaragua, he might not have gotten lost at all, he might have decided to stay of his own free will, since after all, Nicaragua must be like what we dreamed about in 1975, the country where we all wanted to live. And then I thought about the year 1975, before Franz was born, and I tried to remember what Ulises was like back then and what Arturo Belano was like, but all I could remember clearly was Jacinto's face, his gap-toothed angel smile, and it made me feel so fondly toward him, made me feel like hugging him right then and there, him and Franz, and telling the two of them that I loved them very much, but right away I remembered Ulises's mother and I thought that no one had the right not to tell her where her son was, she'd already suffered enough, the poor woman, and I insisted again that he call her, call her, Jacinto, and tell her everything you know, but Jacinto said that it wasn't his responsibility, that he wasn't one to speculate on the basis of vague news, and then I said: stay with Franz for a little while, I'll be right back, and he was quiet, watching me without saying anything, and when I picked up my bag and opened the door he said: at least try not to be alarmist. And I said: all I'm going to tell her is that her son isn't in Mexico anymore.

Rafael Barrios, in the bathroom of his house, Jackson Street, San Diego, California, September 1982
. Jacinto and I wrote each other occasionally. He was the one who let me know about Ulises's disappearance. But he didn't give me the news in a letter. He called me from his friend Efrén Hernández's house, which meant that it was serious, or at least that he thought it was serious. Efrén is a young poet who wants to write poetry like the visceral realists used to write. I don't know him. He showed up after I'd moved to California, but according to Jacinto, the kid isn't a bad writer. Send me some of his poems, I said, but Jacinto only sends letters, so I don't know whether he writes well or not, whether he writes visceral realist poetry or not, though to be honest, of course, I don't know what that means, visceral realist poetry. Maybe what Ulises Lima writes. I don't know. All I know is that no one in Mexico has heard of us anymore and those who have heard of us make fun of us (we're the example of what not to do), and maybe they're not all wrong. So it's always nice (or at least appreciated) to come across a young poet who writes or wants to write in the visceral realist style. And this poet's name was Efrén Hernández and it was from his phone, or actually his parents' phone, that Jacinto Requena called to tell me that Ulises Lima had disappeared. I listened to the story and then I said: he hasn't disappeared, he decided to stay in Nicaragua, which is a whole different thing. And he said: if he had decided to stay in Nicaragua, he would have told us so, I went to see him off at the airport and he had no intention of not coming back. I said: cool it, man, it's like you don't know Ulises. And he said: he's disappeared, Rafael, believe me, he didn't even say a thing to his mother, you don't want to know the hard time she's giving the assholes at Bellas Artes. I said: holy smoke. And he said: she thinks the peasant poets killed her son. I said: holy shit. And he said: you can say that again. Anytime somebody touches a mother's child she turns into a lioness. At least that's what Xóchitl says.

Barbara Patterson, in the kitchen of her house, Jackson Street, San Diego, California, October 1982
. Our life was miserable but when Rafael heard that Ulises Lima hadn't come back from a trip to Nicaragua it became twice as miserable.

One day I said things can't go on like this. Rafael wasn't doing anything. He didn't work, he didn't write, he didn't help me clean the house, he didn't do the shopping, all he did was take showers (because if nothing else, Rafael is clean, like practically all fucking Mexicans) and watch TV until dawn or go out for beers or play soccer with the fucking Chicanos in the neighborhood. When I came home, there he'd be at the door, sitting on the steps or on the ground, in an Américas T-shirt that stank of sweat, drinking his Tecate and shooting the shit with his friends, this little group of brain-dead teenagers who called him Poet Man (which he didn't seem to mind) and who he'd be with until I'd made our fucking dinner. Then Rafael would say goodbye to them, and they would say sure thing, Poet Man, see you later, Poet Man, we'll catch you tomorrow, Poet Man, and only then would he come into the house.

I was seething with rage, I really was, absolute fury, and I would happily have poisoned his goddamn scrambled eggs, but I restrained myself. I counted to ten. I told myself he was going through a bad patch. The problem was, I knew the bad patch had already been going on too long, four years, to be precise, and although there were plenty of good moments, there were more bad ones and my patience was almost at its limit. But I kept trying, and I would ask how was your day (stupid question) and he would say (what could he say?) fine, okay, so-so. And I would ask: what do you talk about with those kids? And he would say: I tell them stories, I teach them life lessons. Then we would be quiet with the TV on, each of us absorbed in our own scrambled eggs, our pieces of lettuce, our tomato slices, and I would think what life lessons are you talking about, you poor bastard, you poor jerk, what lessons did you ever learn, you pathetic leech, you pathetic loser, you fucking
asshole
, if it weren't for me you'd be sleeping under a bridge. But I didn't say anything, I just looked at him, and that was all. Although even my glances seemed to bother him. He would say: what are you looking at, white girl, what are you scheming? And then I would force a dumb smile, not answering, and start to clear the plates.

Luis Sebastián Rosado, a dark office, Calle Cravioto, Colonia Coyoacán, Mexico City DF, March 1983
. One afternoon, he called me. How did you get my number? I asked. I had just moved out of my parents' house and it had been a long time since I'd seen him. A moment came when I thought that our relationship was killing me and I decided to make a clean break. I stopped seeing him, I stopped showing up when we were supposed to meet, and it didn't take him long to disappear. He lost interest, he went in search of new adventures, but still, deep down (as I always knew I would), I yearned for him to call, to come looking for me, to miss me. But Luscious Skin didn't come looking for me and for a while, a year or so, we were completely out of touch. So it was a pleasant surprise when he called. How did you get my number? I asked. I called your parents and they gave it to me, he said, I've been trying to call you all day, you're never home. I sighed. I would've preferred it if he'd had a harder time finding me. But Luscious Skin was talking as if we'd just seen each other last week, so that was that. We talked for a while. He asked how I'd been, he mentioned that he'd seen a poem of mine in
Espejo de México
and a story in an anthology of young Mexican writers that had just come out. I asked whether he'd liked the story. I had only recently taken up the difficult art of storytelling and my steps were still unsure. He told me he hadn't read it. I took a look at the book when I saw your name, but I didn't read it, I don't have any money, he said. Then he stopped talking, I stopped talking, and for a while we were both silent, listening to the muted humming and crackling of Mexico City's public telephones. I remember that I was quiet, smiling and thinking about Luscious Skin's face, also smiling, imagining him standing on some sidewalk in the Zona Rosa or Reforma, with his little black knapsack hanging over his shoulder, brushing his ass sheathed in worn, tight denim, a full-lipped smile sketched with surgical precision on an angular face without an ounce of fat, like a young Maya priest, and then I couldn't bear it anymore (I felt tears come to my eyes) and before he could ask for it I gave him my address (which he must have already had) and told him to come right away, and he laughed, a happy laugh, and he said it would take him more than two hours from where he was, and I said it didn't matter, I would make some dinner in the meantime, and I'd be waiting for him. Narratively speaking, that was the moment to hang up and dance for joy, but Luscious Skin always waited until the coins ran out, and he didn't hang up. Luis Sebastián, he said, I have something very important to tell you. You can tell me when you get here, I said. It's something I wanted to tell you a long time ago, he said. His voice sounded unusually forlorn. At that moment I began to suspect that something was going on, that Luscious Skin hadn't called me just because he wanted to see me, or because he needed money. What is it? I said, what's wrong? I heard the last coin fall into the bowels of the public phone, the sound of leaves, the wind whipping dead leaves, a sound like cables tangling and untangling and then slipping apart in the void. Poetic misery. Remember there was something I wanted to tell you and in the end I didn't? he said, his voice sounding perfectly normal. When? I heard myself ask stupidly. A while ago, said Luscious Skin. I told him I didn't remember and then I argued that it didn't matter, he could tell me when he got there. I'm going out to do some shopping, I'll see you soon, I said, but Luscious Skin didn't hang up. And if he wasn't going to hang up, how could I? So I waited and listened and even encouraged him to talk. And then he brought up Ulises Lima, saying that Lima had gotten lost somewhere in Managua (I wasn't surprised, half the world was going to Managua), but that actually he wasn't lost, he was hiding, or in other words, everyone thought (who was
everyone
? I wanted to ask, his
friends
, his
readers
, the
critics
who've been assiduously following his work?) that he was lost, but that he knew he wasn't lost, he was really hiding. Why would Ulises Lima want to hide? I asked. That's what it all comes down to, said Luscious Skin. I talked to you about this a while ago, remember? No, I said in a tiny voice. When? Years ago, the first time we slept together, he said. I felt shivers, a twisting in my gut; my testicles contracted. It was an effort to speak. How do you expect me to remember? I whispered. Now I was even more eager to see him. I suggested that he take a taxi. He said that he didn't have any money. I promised that I would pay, that I would be waiting for him outside. Luscious Skin was about to say something else when the line went dead.