The Savage Detectives

by Roberto Bolaño

(I swear I’ll kill Julita Moore if she drags me to another dive like Priapo’s), disjointed scenes in which brooding young delinquents danced with desperate young cleaning girls or desperate young whores in a whirl of contrasts that, I confess, heightened my drunkenness, if such a thing is possible. Then there was a fight somewhere. I didn’t see anything, I just heard shouts. A pair of thugs emerged from the shadows dragging a guy with blood all over his face. I remember I told Alberto that we should go, that things could take a turn for the worse, but Alberto was listening to Ulises Lima’s story and he ignored me. I remember that I watched Julita dancing with one of Ulises’s friends, then I remember dancing a bolero myself with Luscious Skin, as if it were a dream, but still, it might have been the first time I’d felt good all night, in fact, it was definitely the first time I’d felt good all night. Next, like someone waking up, I remember whispering into my (dance) partner’s ear that what we were doing would probably offend the other dancers and spectators.