Read Online The Skating Rink by Roberto Bolaño - Free Book Online Page A

and listening to the insects. I never put on my
tracksuit when she was around. Tracksuits make me look twice as fat as I am,
they expand my waist mercilessly, and I fear they even make me look shorter.
Once Nuria tried to get me to skate with her for a while. Excuse me for
laughing. I guess she wanted to see me in the middle of the rink, which is
why she brought another pair of skates that evening and absolutely insisted
that I put them on. She even lied, Nuria, who never told a lie, she said
that for the routine she wanted to practice, she needed somebody beside her.
I had never seen her behave like that, like a spoilt, sulky child, like a
tyrannical princess, but I put it down to tiredness, boredom and maybe
nervous tension. Her big day was approaching, and although I told her that
she was skating wonderfully, who was I, really, to judge? In any case, I
never put on the skates. Out of cowardice, fear of ridicule or falling over,
or because the rink was there for her benefit, not mine. But I did
occasionally dream I was skating. If you’ve got time I can tell you about
it. Not that there’s much to tell: I was simply there, in the middle of the
rink, with skates on my feet, and all the building work I had been planning
on before they found me out was complete: comfortable new seats on both
sides of the rink, showers, massage tables, an immaculate dressing room, and
I could skate, I could spin and leap, I was moving smoothly over the ice,
riding on absolute silence . . .

Remo Morán:
    I have very few clear memories of Nuria’s second visit to the hotel
    I have very few clear memories of Nuria’s second visit to the hotel.
She came to the Del Mar at lunchtime, like before, but didn’t have coffee or
want to go up to my room. She felt claustrophobic in the hotel, so we went for a
drive. When we got into the car, I was the one feeling claustrophobic; I’m a
terrible driver, I don’t like cars, and although I own one, it’s mainly used for
transporting supplies to the hotel, and I don’t even do that myself. For a while
we drove around aimlessly on inland roads; the heat was stifling and we sweated
profusely, not saying a word. With a sudden sinking feeling I thought she might
have come to split up with me. Pines, orchards, empty riding schools and old
wholesale pottery stores slid by so slowly it was excruciating. Finally, between
yawns, Nuria suggested we go back to the hotel. When we got there, we went
straight up to my room. I remember her skin under the hot shower. I was outside,
but because of the steam I was dripping with sweat. She had her eyes shut
tightly, as if there was something only she could sense in between the drops of
water. As if the numberless scalding droplets were launching an attack on her
skin. The water dripping from her perfect legs left a wet trail across the
tiles. I put on the air conditioning and watched her go out onto the balcony and
look at the sea. Before getting into bed, she cast an eye over my bookshelves
and the wardrobes. There wasn’t much to see. I’m looking for microphones, she
explained. Nuria’s movements had the peculiar property of continuing to vibrate
faintly in a room, or so it seemed, long after she had gone. She cried
underneath me, unexpectedly, and that made me stop straight away. Am I hurting
you? Go on, she said. Once I would have collected her tears with the tip of my
tongue, but the years leave their mark, they paralyze you. It was as if a kick
in the ass had sent me flying into another room where there was no need for air
conditioning. I opened the curtains, just a little, called the restaurant and
asked them to bring up two cups of tea with lemon; then I sat down on the edge
of the bed and stroked her shoulder, not knowing what to do. Nuria drank the
contents of the teapot, steadily, dry-eyed. At night, when I went to bed, I got
into the habit of speaking as if she was there in the room with me. I called her
Olympic Gold and dumb things like that, but they