Read Online The Secret of Evil by Roberto Bolaño - Free Book Online
Authors: Roberto Bolaño
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the
intersection with Rue Balzac, and the headlights of cars are shining in her
face. Guyotat is in a bar on Rue Lacépède, near the Jardin des Plantes, drinking
with some friends. Carla Devade is in her apartment, sitting on a chair in the
kitchen, doing nothing. Marc Devade is at the
Tel Quel
office, speaking
politely on the phone to one of the poets he most admires and hates. Soon
Sollers and Kristeva will be together, reading after dinner. They will not make
love tonight. Soon Marie-Thérèse Réveillé and Guyotat will be together in bed,
and he will sodomize her. They will fall asleep at five in the morning, after
exchanging a few words in the bathroom. Soon Carla Devade and Marc Devade will
be together, and she will shout, and he will shout, and she will go to the
bedroom and pick up a novel, any one of the many that are lying on her bedside
table, and he will sit at his desk and try to write but he won’t be able to.
Carla will fall asleep at one in the morning, Marc at half-past two, and they
will try not to touch each other. Soon Jacques Henric will go down to the
underground parking lot and climb onto his Honda and venture out into the cold
streets of Paris, becoming cold himself, a man who shapes his own destiny, and
knows, or at least believes, that he is lucky. He will be the only member of the
group to see the day dawning, with the disastrous retreat of the last night
wanderers, each an enigmatic letter in an imaginary alphabet. Soon J.-J. Goux,
who was the first to fall asleep, will have a dream in which a photo will
appear, and he’ll hear a voice warning him of the devil’s presence and of
hapless death. He’ll wake with a start from this dream or auditory nightmare and
won’t be able to get back to sleep for the rest of the night.
Day breaks and the photo is illuminated once again. Marie-Thérèse
Réveillé and Carla Devade look off to the left, at an object beyond Henric’s
muscular shoulders. There is recognition or acceptance in Carla’s gaze: that
much is clear from her half-smile and gentle eyes. Marie-Thérèse, however, has a
penetrating gaze: her lips are slightly open, as if she were having difficulty
breathing, and her eyes are trying to fix on (trying, unsuccessfully, to
nail
) the object of her attention, which is presumably moving. Both
women are looking in the same direction, but it’s clear that they have quite
different emotional reactions to whatever it is they are seeing. Carla’s
gentleness may be conditioned by ignorance. Marie-Thérèse’s insecurity, her
defensive yet inquisitorial glare, may result from the sudden stripping away of
various layers of experience.
Any moment now, J.-J. Goux might start to cry. The voice that warned
him of the devil’s presence is still ringing, though faintly, in his ears. He is
not, however, looking to the left, at the object that has attracted the women’s
attention, but directly at the camera, and an infinitesimal smile is creeping
over his lips, a would-be ironic smile confined, for the moment, to the safer
domain of placidity.
When night falls over the photograph again, J.-J. Goux will head
straight for his apartment, make himself a sandwich, watch television for
exactly fifteen minutes, not one more, then sit in an armchair in the living
room and call Philippe Sollers. The phone will ring five times and J.-J. will
hang up slowly, holding the receiver in his right hand, raising his left hand to
his lips, and touching them with two fingers, as if to check that he’s still
there, that the person there is
him
, in a living room that’s not too
big, not too small, crowded with books, and dark.
As for Carla Devade, having lost her acquiescent smile, she’ll call
Marie-Thérèse Réveillé, who will pick up the phone after three rings. In a
roundabout way, they’ll talk about things they don’t really want to talk about
at all, and arrange to meet in three days’ time at a café on Rue Galande.
Tonight Marie-Thérèse will go out on
intersection with Rue Balzac, and the headlights of cars are shining in her
face. Guyotat is in a bar on Rue Lacépède, near the Jardin des Plantes, drinking
with some friends. Carla Devade is in her apartment, sitting on a chair in the
kitchen, doing nothing. Marc Devade is at the
Tel Quel
office, speaking
politely on the phone to one of the poets he most admires and hates. Soon
Sollers and Kristeva will be together, reading after dinner. They will not make
love tonight. Soon Marie-Thérèse Réveillé and Guyotat will be together in bed,
and he will sodomize her. They will fall asleep at five in the morning, after
exchanging a few words in the bathroom. Soon Carla Devade and Marc Devade will
be together, and she will shout, and he will shout, and she will go to the
bedroom and pick up a novel, any one of the many that are lying on her bedside
table, and he will sit at his desk and try to write but he won’t be able to.
Carla will fall asleep at one in the morning, Marc at half-past two, and they
will try not to touch each other. Soon Jacques Henric will go down to the
underground parking lot and climb onto his Honda and venture out into the cold
streets of Paris, becoming cold himself, a man who shapes his own destiny, and
knows, or at least believes, that he is lucky. He will be the only member of the
group to see the day dawning, with the disastrous retreat of the last night
wanderers, each an enigmatic letter in an imaginary alphabet. Soon J.-J. Goux,
who was the first to fall asleep, will have a dream in which a photo will
appear, and he’ll hear a voice warning him of the devil’s presence and of
hapless death. He’ll wake with a start from this dream or auditory nightmare and
won’t be able to get back to sleep for the rest of the night.
Day breaks and the photo is illuminated once again. Marie-Thérèse
Réveillé and Carla Devade look off to the left, at an object beyond Henric’s
muscular shoulders. There is recognition or acceptance in Carla’s gaze: that
much is clear from her half-smile and gentle eyes. Marie-Thérèse, however, has a
penetrating gaze: her lips are slightly open, as if she were having difficulty
breathing, and her eyes are trying to fix on (trying, unsuccessfully, to
nail
) the object of her attention, which is presumably moving. Both
women are looking in the same direction, but it’s clear that they have quite
different emotional reactions to whatever it is they are seeing. Carla’s
gentleness may be conditioned by ignorance. Marie-Thérèse’s insecurity, her
defensive yet inquisitorial glare, may result from the sudden stripping away of
various layers of experience.
Any moment now, J.-J. Goux might start to cry. The voice that warned
him of the devil’s presence is still ringing, though faintly, in his ears. He is
not, however, looking to the left, at the object that has attracted the women’s
attention, but directly at the camera, and an infinitesimal smile is creeping
over his lips, a would-be ironic smile confined, for the moment, to the safer
domain of placidity.
When night falls over the photograph again, J.-J. Goux will head
straight for his apartment, make himself a sandwich, watch television for
exactly fifteen minutes, not one more, then sit in an armchair in the living
room and call Philippe Sollers. The phone will ring five times and J.-J. will
hang up slowly, holding the receiver in his right hand, raising his left hand to
his lips, and touching them with two fingers, as if to check that he’s still
there, that the person there is
him
, in a living room that’s not too
big, not too small, crowded with books, and dark.
As for Carla Devade, having lost her acquiescent smile, she’ll call
Marie-Thérèse Réveillé, who will pick up the phone after three rings. In a
roundabout way, they’ll talk about things they don’t really want to talk about
at all, and arrange to meet in three days’ time at a café on Rue Galande.
Tonight Marie-Thérèse will go out on
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