2666

by Roberto Bolaño

yes, it was, or it wasn’t, what did it matter, a sum, he thought when he was alone again, is always approximate, there is no such thing as a correct sum, only the Nazis and teachers of elementary mathematics believed in correct sums, only sectarians, madmen, tax collectors (God rot them), numerologists who read one’s fortune for next to nothing believed in correct sums. Scientists, meanwhile, knew that all numbers were only approximate. Great physicists, great mathematicians, great chemists, and publishers knew that one was always feeling one’s way in the dark.

but in any case, after this choral greeting she, the girl Ingeborg, stood as still as if she’d been struck by lightning or as if she were finally in a real church where the liturgy and sacraments and pomp were real, where they ached and throbbed like the ripped-out heart of an Aztec victim, so fiercely that she, the girl Ingeborg, not only stood still but also brought one hand to her heart, as if it had been ripped out, and then, just then, Mrs. Dorothea pulled off her cloth gloves, flexed her translucent hands without looking at them, and with her gaze fixed on a document or manuscript to one side, began to type.

Mrs. Dorothea’s typing was so quick, so particular, there was so much of Mrs. Dorothea in her typing, that despite the noise or the clamor or the rhythmic beat of more than sixty typists working at once, the music that flowed from the oldest secretary’s typewriter rose far above the collective composition of her office mates, without imposing itself on them, but rather adjusting to them, shepherding them, frolicking with them. Sometimes it seemed to reach the skylights, other times it wound along at floor level, brushing the ankles of the visitors and the boys in shorts. Sometimes it even allowed itself the luxury of slowing down and then Mrs. Dorothea’s typewriter was like a heart, a giant heart beating in the middle of the fog and chaos. But these moments were scarce. Mrs. Dorothea liked speed and her typing was usually ahead of the other typing, as if she were blazing a path in the middle of a dark jungle, said Ingeborg, dark, dark … •

“No, not just any of them, it has to be one in particular, because if I killed my wife by pushing her into any old ravine it’s as if I didn’t kill her. It has to be a specific one, not any of them,”

“All this light is dead,” said Ingeborg. “All this light was emitted thousands and millions of years ago. It’s the past, do you see? When these stars cast their light, we didn’t exist, life on Earth didn’t exist, even Earth didn’t exist. This light was cast a long time ago. It’s the past, we’re surrounded by the past, everything that no longer exists or exists only in memory or guesswork is there now, above us, shining on the mountains and the snow and we can’t do anything to stop it.”

But everything collapses in the end,” said the essayist. “Everything collapses in pain. All eloquence springs from pain.”

Archimboldi’s sex life was limited to his dealings with whores in the different cities where he lived. Some whores didn’t charge him. They charged him at first, but later, when Archimboldi began to form part of the landscape, they stopped, or they didn’t always charge him, which often led to misunderstandings that were violently resolved.