The Savage Detectives

by Roberto Bolaño

“How big is Alberto?” said María. “As big as his knife.” “And how big is his knife?” said María. “Like this.” “That’s ridiculous,” I said, although I should have changed the subject. Trying to fix the unfixable, I said: “There aren’t any knives that big.” I felt worse. “Ay, mana, how are you so sure about the knife thing?” said María. “He’s had the knife since he was fifteen, a hooker from La Bondojo gave it to him, some girl who died.” “But have you measured his thing with the knife or are you just guessing?” “A knife that big gets in the way,” I persisted. “He measures it. I don’t need to measure it, what do I care? He measures it himself and he measures it all the time, once a day at least, to make sure it hasn’t gotten any smaller, he says.” “Is he afraid his weenie will shrink?” said María. “Alberto isn’t afraid of anything. I’m telling you, he’s bad.” “Then why the knife? Honestly, I don’t understand it,” said María. “Plus, hasn’t he ever cut himself?” “A few times, always on purpose. He’s good with the knife.” “Are you telling me that your pimp cuts himself on the penis sometimes for fun?” said María. “That’s right.” “I can’t believe it.” “It’s the truth. Just every once in a while, it’s not like he does it every day. Only when he’s nervous. Or fucked up. But the measuring thing he does all the time. He’s says it’s good for his manhood. He says it’s a habit he learned inside.” “He sounds like a fucking psychopath,” said María. “You’re just too high class, mana. You ...