“He didn’t turn up his nose at anyone or anything, but I’m certain he never slept with a woman.”
“That’s a very definite assertion, compadre, careful what you say. The dead are always watching us.”
“The dead aren’t watching anyone. They’re minding their own business. The dead are shit.”
“What do you mean they’re shit?”
“All they do is fuck stuff up for the living.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree there, compadre, I have the greatest respect for the departed.”
“Except you never go to the cemetery.”
“What do you mean I never go to the cemetery?”
“All right, then, when’s the Day of the Dead?”
“OK, you got me, I go when I feel like it.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’m not sure, but I know there are experiences that make your hair stand on end.”
“That’s what I was coming to.”
“You’re thinking of Raulito Sánchez?”
“That’s right. Before he died for real, he pretended to be dead at least twice. One time in a hooker’s bar. Remember Doris Villalón? She spent a whole night with him in the cemetery, under the same blanket and, according to Doris, nothing happened all night.”
“Except that Doris’s hair turned white.”
“It depends who you talk to.”
“The fact is her hair went white in a single night, like Marie Antoinette’s.”
“What I know from a reliable source is that she was cold and they climbed into an empty niche; after that it’s not so clear. According to one of Doris’s friends, she tried to give Raulito a hand job, but he wasn’t really up for it, and in the end he fell asleep.”
“There was a man who never lost his cool.”
“It happened later, when the dogs had stopped barking and Doris was climbing down from the niche; that’s when the ghost appeared.”
“So her hair went white because of a ghost?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Maybe it was just plaster dust from the cemetery.”
“It’s not easy to believe in ghosts.”
“And meanwhile Raulito went on sleeping?”
“Without even having touched the poor woman.”
“And what was his hair like the next morning?”
“Black as ever, but it couldn’t be used to prove the point, because he’d upped and left.”
“So the plaster dust might have had nothing to do with it.”
“It might have been the scare she got.”
“The scare she got at the police station.”
“Or maybe her hair dye faded.”
“Such are the mysteries of the human condition. In any case, Raulito never tried it with a girl.”
“But he seemed like a real man.”
“There are no men left in Chile, compadre.”
“You’re scaring me now. Careful how you drive. Don’t get jumpy on me.”
“I think it was a rabbit, I must have run over it.”
“What do you mean there are no men left?”
“We killed them all.”
“What do you mean we killed them? I haven’t killed anyone in my life. And you were just doing your duty.”
“My duty?”
“Duty, obligation, keeping the peace, it’s our job, it’s what we do. Or would you rather get paid for just sitting around?”
“I’ve never liked sitting around, I’ve always had ants in my pants, but that’s exactly why I should have left.”
“That just would have helped with the shortage of men in Chile.”
“Don’t start making fun of me, compadre, especially when I’m driving.”
“You keep calm and watch where you’re going. Anyway, what’s Chile got to do with it?”
“Everything, and when I say everything. .”
“OK, I see where you’re going.”
“Do you remember ’73?”
“That’s what I was thinking of.”
“That’s when we killed them all.”
“Maybe you should go easy on the gas, at least while you explain what you mean.”
“There’s not a lot to explain. Plenty to cry over, but not to explain.”
“But since it’s a long trip, we might as well talk. Who did we kill in ’73?”
“The real men we had in this country.”
“No need to exaggerate, compadre. Anyway, we went first; don’t forget we were prisoners too.”
“But only for three days.”
“But those were the first three days, and honestly I was scared shitless.”
“Some were never released, like Inspector Tovar, Hick Tovar, remember him? He had guts, that guy.”
“Didn’t they drown him on Quiriquina Island?”
“That’s what we told his widow, but the real story never came out.”
“That’s what I can’t stand sometimes.”
“No point getting cut up about it.”
“The dead turn up in my dreams, and I get them mixed up with the ones who are neither dead nor alive.”
“How do you mean neither dead nor alive?”
“I mean the people who’ve changed, who’ve grown up, like us, for instance.”
“Now I get you — we’re not children any more, if that’s what you mean.”
“And sometimes I feel like I’m never going to wake up, like I’ve gone and fucked it up for good.”
“You just worry too much, compadre.”
“And sometimes it makes me so angry I have to find someone to blame, you know what I’m like, those mornings when I turn up in a rotten mood, looking for someone to blame, but I can’t find anyone, or I find the wrong person, which is worse, and then I go to pieces.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“And I blame Chile, and call it a country of faggots and killers.”
“And why are the faggots to blame, can you tell me that?”
“Well, they’re not, but everyone’s fair game.”
“I can’t agree with you there; life’s hard enough as it is.”
“Then I think this country went to hell years ago, and the reason we’re here, those of us who stayed, is to have nightmares, just because someone had to stay and face up to them.”
“Watch it, there’s a hill coming up. Don’t look at me, I’m not arguing with you — watch where you’re going.”
“And that’s when I think there are no men left in this country. It’s like a revelation. There are no men left, just sleepwalkers.”
“And what about the women?”
“You can be thick sometimes, compadre; I’m talking about the human condition, in general, and that includes women.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, I was perfectly clear.”
“So you’re saying there are no men in Chile and no women who are men either.”
“Not exactly, but almost.”
“I think the women of Chile deserve a bit more respect.”
“Who’s disrespecting Chilean women?”
“You are, compadre, for a start.”
“But how could I disrespect Chilean women? They’re the only women I know.”
“That’s what you say, but it’s lip-service, isn’t it?”
“How come you’re so touchy all of a sudden?”
“I’m not touchy.”
“You know, I kind of feel like stopping and smashing your face in.”
“We’ll have to see about that.”
“Jesus, what a beautiful night.”
“Don’t beautiful night me. What’s the night got to do with anything?”
“It must be because of the full moon.”
“Don’t talk in riddles. I’m Chilean, remember, I don’t believe in beating around the bush.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. We’re all Chileans here and all we ever do is beat around one great big fucking nightmare of a bush.”
“You’re a pessimist, that’s what you are.”
“What do you expect?”
“Even in the darkest hours there is a light that shines. I think it was Pezoa who said that.”