“Literature is my salvation”
By ROBERTO BOLAÑO
Translated by Giselle Rodríguez, Alicia Cruz y José Carlos Martinez
Letter to his parents from Chile and Spain
My dear and beloved mother. Motita (little speck) Pink Panther. I am in Chile. The trip by boat was good. I was surrounded by Chileans returning mostly from Europe, reactionaries who blasphemed and cursed against Allende: “That man”. They kind of looked down on me, which is a compliment, because I look like a Bolshevik, otherwise there is no explanation. When they asked me if I studied or worked, I replied: “I am a WriteRRR”. Nobody knew nothing: but even when they asked where my family was and I replied “in Mexico”, they said: “Why are you going to Chile then?”. “Well, look, you know, I am Chilean”. After spending three days aboard, they looked at me with fear or told me with a smile at lunch time: “I guess you are a member of the Popular Unity (UP)”. “Not at all”, I told them, though in the end I said I belonged to the Revolutionary Left Movement (MIR) and I promised to kick them out of the country.
The Sea is beautiful, it is immense: one feels like an ant: afraid: I remembered the end of a pop novel in which a good guy but scared to death and wounded in a beach prophesies that he will swallow a full day: I don’t see it: I was going I am going! with great faith, I remember that when I arrived in Managua, 30 kilometers from Managua, I woke up and saw the sky full of stars, not through the window, but through a tiny little window: the typical repeated scene but I enjoyed it (Note: the author wrote the Spanish word “goze” with two spelling mistakes in the original letter, the correct spelling is gocé). I started laughing on my own, raising my body while watching the stars, one of them looked like a flying saucer. By the way. While I was on the boat I had fun finding figures in the clouds and I borrowed a pair of glasses from French friends and realized it is urgent to buy a pair soon. I saw Lake Nicaragua almost upon entering Costa Rica: it is beautiful, very beautiful. I thought and think about you, my dearest, “the oldest person I know,” about my dad, Mé, my Tale, Jaime, Mexico, Mexicans both, female and male. The sea is very beautiful, you know where the West is and where the East is, in fact the west is the East and one has to go in that direction. ________ Transcition (sic) I have eaten little and good Chilean food, seasoned with (illegible) and I read a popular anthology by Pablo Neruda that high schools distribute for free and I squandered two crocodile tears, Neruda is good, he has kozmic (sic) and combat verses_____ In Panama “I walked aimlessly” I visited the whole city, all of it. I was in Balboa, which is the area of the Canal, I traveled by bus, I only took a taxi twice, people marveled me. But I don’t know, I can’t figure Panama out, I have ideas, they have a hard time and even harder times could be on the way. Have I told you how beautiful Costa Rican girls are? In Costa Rica and Panama Lottery is magical.
I traveled by train to Colón, Christopher was right there, stuck: in a toy train on a route-forest-way, in second class, with people FROM COLÓN and black children from Gamboa and children of thoughtful Jamaicans and blond German and Americans and anthropologists and sociologists, who step down at Frijoles or another station -all of them in the channel route- called more or less Mr. Hope. Mount Hope. I passed by Lake Gatún, which is amazing, the train passed by lakes right and left, dirty lakes, swamped lakes and crystal-clear lakes that reflected the train’s image. Vast lakes. And light showered everything in the train, it was 11 in the morning, lots of sun and heat, and a humidity that I now miss. Are you ready?
Yes, sir!
(Note: The author wrote the last five words in English in the original letter).
I took the boat in Colón and crossed the channel the next day. A cabin with 4 beds, but we only used two: Darío Godknowswhat, Chilean, 19, junior Maudit 18 years lived in Venezuela, sent to Chile to smuggle dollars for his mother, who hopes to go to America, and to become a man and stop bothering people in Caracas. The silly boy didn’t bother me at all, even though once I almost kicked his ass: “Suddenly I get tough and become a wicked charro” I did not spend a dollar: the girls gave me cigar boxes as a present: terrible, honestly: A Spanish with (illegible) also wants to give me a box: terrible: I did not read ANYTHING: I did not write ANYTHING: the food esquisite (sic): if I could just send you a menu! one of the daughters of the guy from the capital city: a beautiful Italian, 16 years old, things kind of went well, I have feeling (sic): a cute blonde took the train in Arica, Chilean, 32, or so she said, 2 children, married of course, her name is Adely, Swiss-German father, she voted for Alessandri but now she supports Allende, she works in a factory, secretary, tall, white, thin, almost as tall as me, blue eyes, overflowing charm, everyone looked at her, she complimented me, I complimented her, “poet!” “Dreamer” vacationing in Arica. Alone. All on her own. The sea air: we had lunch and dinner together three, almost four very good days: At the Equator (illegible) and party at night which I did not attend because I had no suit and tie and the miserable party was in first class, only ten people in first class, and the daughters of the captain (sad). In Lima I lost my ticket at the house of a Venezuelan girl friend of a roommate, apparently the whole gang was exiled, I almost lost the boat because they didn’t let me pass to the docks.
From afar you can see Viña, where Quintero lives, seat of a copper refinery, the city gradually enlarges (we saw the coast two hours ago) we have been seeing the coast, the bridge is full of Chileans, all of them half happy, half surprised, half scared. We arrived at noon = NO = at 4 pm (because we ate at 1) Viña and Valparaiso and its surroundings, the hills: a woman tells a man “look, that is the hill of Pleasures” I asked more and she tells me I get happy (sic). The ship can not dock (on September 4) so we stayed at the bay: Valparaiso is splendid at night: the hills get illuminated: the next day I descended to the port without problems: no one helped me with the packages: I am dressed all in blue: no socks and sneakers; I left the docks walking: at the customs office everything went fine: they barely looked through my luggage and that was it: I walked to the train: I recognize all the streets: The Monument to Prat: the slogans of the MIR: I took the train three hours later and left: I stopped by the high school, before by Recredo and Caleta Abarca and “I would say I look like a child, naughty and profoundly beautiful” but the brothers are the Chileans: I passed by Quilpué: by Villa Alemana: no one went to greet me at the boat but I was the happiest, longshoremen saw me as a brother without exaggeration: and in the train I traveled next to a leftist bureaucrat (he worked for the customs office) and a lot of people standing: a guy standing with a dirty white shirt and a sleeveless jersey and with a thick book, with his girl, a beautiful Chilean, both very young, poor, educated and I became friends with them: the left table (illegible) the seat for (illegible) and the girl sat next to me (illegible lines)… you should have seen them: the two of them were cute, fresh! at Quillota I offered them some and they seem/were (sic) hungry, so they accepted with A BROAD SMILE: before, at Villa Alemana I think, I bought a zanguiche (sic) (not torta) and they bought one and split it in half, half for each: the boy was smoking and he extinguished the cigarette to eat the zanguiche and then he happily relit it because it is scarce and then I ran out of the Dunhills that someone who never smoked gave them to me at the boat DURING THE WHOLE TRIP THE GUY OFFERED ME HIS HILTON WITH GREAT KINDNESS AND WITHOUT THE SLIGHTEST TRACE OF SUFFERING! I felt like a Cardinal naming a priest, love. Pure love, laughing, literally, truly, laughing out loud for love, celebrating it: before reaching LLAY-LLAY, after a hill, at a small cliff, THE TRAIN STOPPED and we all leaned out to see what happened tan taran as: the locomotive uncoupled from the train and carried on on its own: if this had happened on the way up I would not be writing this letter now. In short, it was an odyssey, an Ulisea (sic) and we arrived in Santiago.
Jaime blinked and looked at me as if I was a ghost, a phantom, his eyes were wide open. We went to the downtown immediately: everything looked crowded: there were two rallies going on: one of women in favor of Allende and another one of women against: tremendous: street clashes: tear gas very strong. At a rally, regular people. On the other one, middle class and the bourgeoisie IN FULL, it was larger than that of Allende because the day before there had been a huge demonstration. We cut across them. Everyone walks by. It is almost normal. Suddenly people run through the streets, so one goes down the other side and once you are there you have to get away because more people are running on the other street one looks for a way out and people are running and you feel (illegible), at least on the first day! TRAPPED. The city haunts me. Helmets at a corner: tac tas coming to attack Allende’s women of the Popular Unity (UP) and red helmets on the other corner Socialists Youth or Communists or members of the MIR or the Popular Unity Action Movement (MAPU) who are there to defend them and heavily armed police who are there to prevent clashes: then we went to the Art Center A: artists make me feel depressed: we saw a painting exhibition (illegible lines) Lamberg, a poet who won the last prize of the House of the Americas, was there, Jaime introduced me to him, a surly veteran, very Pepe of Rokha, the style, terrible, but something nice happened: I went down to the street, tired of so much ART and there was a guy who later on I learned that was a filmmaker and a girl coming from downtown (actually we were in the downtown area) she was protesting against bombs and riots: she was IS very beautiful: leftist: she said “shitty (unreadable)” “Shitty provocateurs” I don’t know: I thought she was a lola: squads of National Party (PN) children passed by. with happy faces, with their sticks, children aged 13, 14, 15, 17: we talked: he asked me if I was a foreigner (actually they all asked me if I was a foreigner, I do not speak as Chilean) we talked: I told him “what’s your name? she “Verónica” silence, she, “what’s your name?” “Ro-ber-to” she thoughtful “Roberto” We talked, my teeth were chattering because I was cold, tooth against tooth, that is what I was doing, at a bare hill, the (illegible), really teeth chattering, cold is unbearable TREMENDOUS. And suddenly The Magnificent Lola Queen of ALL STREETS AND THE REVOLUTION said goodbye -chao (sic) and kiss on the cheek of the filmmaker: second of sadness (illegible) in my heart: And then it was my turn and I felt her cold skin against my face and her hands in my jacket and I/could say/be/who knows/ FELL IN LOVE!! Verónica Told me the heart in the hands the toes (sic) and she was leaving I would NEVER see her again I would look for her all over Santiago I was dying of cold: she walked half a block and entered a building: what a crazy crazy crazy luck!! Super crazy luck. One of these days I will go and talk to her and we will become friends: the filmmaker told me that she lives on the first floor: I will go tomorrow or the day after. I don’t know. I will join the Communist Youth. Sometimes I feel a crazy hatred for all things, everything seems selfish to me, starting with me. I feel distressed, “desperate” (sounds like a soap opera) I have few defenses: my salvation is literature: not the mediocre job of parties, signatures, university, recitals of accomplished writers “not even the total marijuana of “writers ” “underdeveloped” feudal=vassals. I feel disoriented, but I am determined: I hope to have will of Steel: I have to militate: down the street I see a group of the Communist Youth of Chile (JJCC), burying a dead comrade (15 years) all in red shirts, very cute girls, lolos with stupid faces or stupid face: those imbeciles were cheering: but some girls really excited were crying: it was fine: from there I went to Monica Montoya’s place: she lives in an upscale neighborhood: I walked about 50 blocks at least: one ( illegible) league to see Mónica, who is fatter (before she was very skinny) she was happy too: very supportive of the government, very enthusiastic, she invited me to have lunch on Sunday, I went to eat: Silvia is married: very well, like five years ago, I met the husband and he is very nice: whatever. Mónica lives alone at Bilbao and works as a teacher: we only ate a bowl of beans: bourgeois terrorism the culinary futility (gastronomic) because there is a serious shortage, but not so bad, Jaime’s sister in law is poorer and has children she cooks well. Mónica is sweet, she offered me her parents’ house in Los Angeles. not a bad idea to live in Los Angeles. The party may get me a job in Los Angeles at Chile’s most reactionary city, I would even get some action (bRRRRRR) I guess I am still brave.
You, I love. For my dad, greetings and here goes a letter, to Mé greetings and here goes a letter, to Tate greetings as soon as you see her and here goes a letter. In LESS than a year we will meet again. One is never alone. Chile is beautiful. Greetings to Marta and everyone in Mexico take care, go to the Doctor, save. I quit smoking. My health is optimal. Great strength. I quit smoking, I beat asthma.
THE RAIN SINGING AT THE COAST EVEN WITHOUT SEA!!
Note of the translator: The punctuation marks used by the author were kept in the translation.
Letter to his father
Dear Dad:
It has been hard, It has been beautiful, I have walked, I have endured cold, I have slept outdoors, I have eaten with ravenous hunger food from different countries, I have lived in Paris with Mario (How beautiful are the French girls!), I have taken trains in all directions, I have had fever on the road, I have worked washing glasses at night, I have worked unloading ships at a French port, I have worked cleaning immense houses at the same port, I have written poems, I have traveled again, I have fallen in love, I have fallen out of love, I have returned tired, exhausted and then I stand up again, I have spoken in French with French people and Italian with Italian people, then I have remembered that I did not know those languages, I have learned, finally, I have returned to Catalonia, where I see old ladies that remind me my Catalan grandmother, and I am writing because I imagine that by now I have another brother. How is Irene? The child was female or male? How you are going to name it?
I’ve thinking a lot about you. Really a lot. Here is spring and I will leave soon again, first to work in the harvest in the south of France, and then to Paris, then to Sweden for a while. So write me back quickly, and tell me what’s up with the child, etc.
My mom and sister are fine. My mom’s asthma is almost gone and is not coming back. Mé has a Catalan boyfriend, they love each other very much.
In Spain we live well. The good thing is going to work for a while to other countries and spend the money back here. I drink excellent wine every day (wine is cheaper than Coke), and the Spanish food is good and cheap too. Anyway, I miss Mexico so much, it’s like my second home, if I ever had one. Here there is not chilitos or molito or taquitos. Nor large cars (just small ones) or mad roads or crazy things like in Mexico City. My Spanish friends are amazed when I tell them that Mexico City has 14 million inhabitants. I also miss the sun. We are in spring but it seems it was winter in Mexico.
Say hello to Lupita (my mother also sends regards), to Kiko and his wife, to Joe and his wife, to all of Samuel’s friends. Give Irene a big hug, tell her to take care and look after my brother. To Chentita. (How is Chentita?). And to you, the great love of your son who loves you and respect you, etc, etc, etc.
Letter to his father
Dear Dad:
I received the letter you sent me to Barcelona along with 10 dollars, thank you; I was overjoyed to know that the child is well. You have to send me a picture of him, you, Irene and her new Mash. Well, I really liked the Mustang. Tell me if she resolved the thing with her FM2 in March.
What you mean that no friend has gone to the house if Carlos Malfavón left his Excelsior credential? He left it on the night table in my room. Find it and keep it until he comes for it.
The letter you sent me to France never arrived. Now I’m working in a banking company. The work is a yawn and I had to cut my hair and WEAR A TIE and all that shit, in addition to deceive people who have never done anything to me. But I earn super good. Enough for after five months or a year quit and live without working the same time. And that’s what I want. Earn money working very hard for a whole year and then go wherever I want without problems.
We’ll see if I can do it.
How is Irene? I imagine she is happy with the kid. Do not forget to send me a photo of him, in color.
Mé sends her regards and says she will send a poster by mail: is one of those big posters of bullfights, with the names of the bullfighters and yours: Paco Camino, El Cordobés and León Bolaño. It is very nice.
Money sometimes comes regularly and sometimes good, but as long as Mé and I have a job and my mom a scholarship to study mentally handicapped children (which also Mé will have in two months) everything is pretty well.
Mé has a Catalan boyfriend, the man is a good person, left-wing anarchist, I will send you a picture of him and Mé. Both are so in love.
As for my literary affairs, I will publish with Bruno (who is already living with a Spanish girl) a book of poems. Send me the Plurales.
Greetings to everyone, especially to Lupita.
Your eldest son, Roberto Bolaño.
Jun-3-77
Letter to his father
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll go to Mexico from 8 to 6 months invited to the release of a book of mine. It’s just a possibility to travel for free (all expenses paid).
Write to me (FM2 arranged?).
Take care of Irene. Take care of her child.
WRITE
QUICKLY
Have you seen the recent numbers of Plural, where I publish?
Well, I haven’t.
(The bastards of the magazine have not sent them to me, so if you can get them and send them to me, I’d appreciate it, if you can’t, it does not matter, there is no rush).
A big hug
(Now I’m 24 years old)
(horror)
Letter to his father
Dear Dad:
Now I am in France again. Summer is almost over and I might work here about 15 days in the grape harvest.
Mé got married. She had a catholic weeding and then a civil ceremony, in the Spanish way. Her husband, who is my friend, is called Narcis Batallé Puigbert and is Catalan, he is very tall, very European, he has blue eyes. What would my grandmother Eugenia say is she had known that her granddaughter returned to her homeland married another Catalan?
The Catalans have their own language. Their own customs. It’s like a country (and it is) in Spain.
Mé and Narcis are living in Seville now. I imagine that they will write to you. If not, I send you their address in the next letter, so you can write them.
Greetings to Lupita, Irene, Kiko and Joel and their wives.
And kisses for my little brother.
A hug from your son
Roberto
(I might also marry someone. An English woman. What do you think?)
(Write to me at the address in Barcelona. Will be in Spain in a month).
Letter to his father
Dear Dad:
After being lazy all around and all over the place, almost by the end of this year I MUST ask you for at least a hundred dollars. What’s happening is winter and the cold, as well as an English girl (and then María-Salomé’s marriage, who went to Seville and now is returning to Barcelona, and my mother without getting the money from her scholarship and me jobless for the first time in nine months, even while in January I have a sure job in France, in a fishing boat. The problem is that I am living with a girl and I am not going to take her to the boat with me and I write a lot and they pay me too little, as usual, etc, etc, etc).
So, I need you to take at least a MINIMUM one hundred dollars from my inheritance (I mean, if it’s still my inheritance). If it can be more, the better. So, at least I will have some money to dedicate a toast to you, to my little brother, Irene and the friends in Mexico by the end of the year.
How’s little Leoncito? What’s his exact birthdate in April. Tell me on the next letter. And send me pictures. AND WRITE TO MARIA-SALOMÉ TELLING HER SOMETHING ABOUT HER MARRIAGE. She sent you a letter before getting married and another one afterwards.
Send the money through a money order. I mean, have Irene go to the bank, buy the money order in dollars (it’s some sort of a check) and then have it sent to me through certified mail. I REALLY NEED THAT MONEY.
Well, say hi to everybody, write more, have another kid. I really like being the older brother of a bunch of kids. Roberto Bolaño.
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