"The Savage Detectives" by Roberto Bolaño

[yakov_a_jerkov]

Продолжаю писать о своих впечатлениях о прочитанных книжках, которые я стал читать, благодаря покупке Киндла. Предыдущие записи из этой увлекательной серии тут -- "My Name is Red" by Orhan Pamuk, "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" by Haruki Murakami, "Disgrace" by J.M.Coetzee.

На русский название книги перевели "Дикие детективы", вроде. Про Боланьо я узнал опять же балгодаря 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Мне вообще нравятся латиноамериканские авторы (те несколько, которых я читал), Боланьо из Чили, плюс первые пару предложений из описания книги меня заинтересовали, поэтому решил почитать.

ygam читал Боланьо. Если кто-то еще читал, поделитесь впечатлениями.

Сначала кратко скажу о своем общем впечатлении от романа. По-моему, это очень хорошая книга -- безусловно, лучшая из тех, что я читал в последнее время (а я хороших авторов в последнее время читал, нобелевских лауреатов прямо), да и вообще, среди мною прочитанных, одна из лучших.

При этом я уверен, что многое в этой книги не понял, что-то перепутал, в ней легко запутаться, но просто сам текст... не знаю, как хорошо объяснить, с большим удовольствием читал сам текст, даже не всегда понимая, что именно происходит с сюжетом. Очень сильное впечатление на меня произвела эта книга.

Когда я писал про "My Name is Red", то говорил, что никогда до того не читал книгу в которой рассказ ведется от лица такого количества разных персонажей. У Боланьо тот же прием возведет в степень что ли.

Роман построен таким образом. Примерно треть романа (возможно, меньше) -- это записи из дневника 17-летнего поэта. События происходят в Мехико в 1975-ом году. Затем большая часть романа -- это рассказы очень разных людей, чьи жизни как-то пересекались с двумя главными героями, Белано и Лима. Эти рассказы похожи на интервью, хотя вопросов там нет, просто рассказ ведется от первого лица. Одно такое интервью, я уже приводил полностью тут.

Эти интервью охватывают период с 76-го по 95-ый, по-моему, годы. Я сам не считал, но в рецензиях пишут, что больше 50-ти человек "дают интервью". Некоторые люди появляются и что-то рассказывают многократно, некоторые только один раз. И по началу сложно уследить за тем, кто есть кто. К примеру, читая одно из интервью, я думал, что это мужчина-гей рассказывает о своей жизни и о своих любовниках-мужчинах. Но потом оказалось, что это женщина рассказывает.

Многие из интервью -- это практически отдельные истории, которые бывает обрываются. Например, Барбара Паттерсон (предыдущая ссылка) после этого монолога в романе больше не пявляется.

Последняя часть романа -- снова записи из дневника того же 17-летнего паренька за период начала 76-го года.

Мне, кажется, что, в общем, "The Savage Detectives" -- очень грустная книга, но она из тех грустных книг, которые мне очень поднимают настроение почему-то.

Статья о Боланьо на Википедии.
Интервью с переводчиком и отклики читателей на Амазоне.
Рецензия "Нью-Йорк Таймс"

Before we got there, Pancho gave me a heads-up:
"Angélica's father is kind of nuts. If you see something strange, don't be scared, just do whatever I do and act like nothing's happening. If he starts to make trouble, don't worry. We'll take him down."
"Take him down?" I wasn't quite sure what he meant. "The two of us? In his own house?"
"His wife would be eternally grateful. The guy's a total headcase. A year or so ago he spent time in the bin. But don't repeat that to the Font sisters. Or if you do, don't say you heard it from me."
"So he's crazy," I said.
"Crazy and broke. Until recently they had two cars and three servants, and they were always throwing these big parties. But somehow he blew a fuse, poor fucker, and just lost it. Now he's ruined."
"But it must cost money to keep up this house."
"They own it. It's all they've got left."
"What did Mr. Font do before he went crazy?" I said.
"He was an architect, but not a very good one. He designed the two issues of Lee Harvey Oswald."
"No shit."
When we rang the bell, a bald man with a mustache and a deranged look came to let us in.
"That's Angélica's father," Pancho whispered to me.
"I figured," I said.
The man came striding up to the gate, fixing us with a look of intense hatred. I was happy to be on the other side of the bars. After hesitating for a few seconds, as if he wasn't sure what to do, he opened the gate and charged. I jumped back, but Pablo spread his arms wide and greeted him effusively. The man stopped then and extended an unsteady hand before he let us through. Pancho walked briskly around the house to the back, and I followed him. Mr. Font went back inside, talking to himself. As we headed down a flower-filled outside passageway between the front and back gardens, Pancho explained that another reason for poor Mr. Font's agitation was his daughter Angélica:
"María has already lost her virginity," said Pancho, "but Angélica hasn't yet, although she's about to, and the old man knows it and it drives him crazy."
"How does he know?"
"One of the mysteries of fatherhood, I guess. Anyway, he spends all day wondering which son of a bitch will deflower his daughter, and it's just too much for one man to bear. Deep down, I understand him; if I were in his shoes I'd feel the same."
"But does he have someone in mind or does he suspect everyone?"
"He suspects everyone, of course, although two or three are out of the running: the queers and her sister. The old man isn't stupid."
None of it made any sense.
"Last year Angélica won the Laura Damián poetry prize, you know, when she was only sixteen."
I'd never heard of the prize in my life. According to what Pancho told me later, Laura Damián was a poetess who died before she turned twenty, in 1972, and her parents had established a prize in her memory. According to Pancho, the prize was very highly regarded "among the true elite." I gave him a look, as if to ask what kind of an idiot he was, but Pancho didn't notice.

[...]

Last night something really bad happened. I was at the Encrucijada Vera-cruzana, leaning on the bar, switching back and forth between writing poems and writing in my diary (I have no problem going from one format to the other), when Rosario and Brígida started to scream at each other at the back of the bar. Soon the grisly drunks were taking sides and cheering them on so energetically that I couldn't concentrate on my writing anymore and decided to slip away.
I don't know what time it was, but it was late, and outside the fresh air struck me in the face. As I walked I started to feel like writing again, recovering the inclination if not the inspiration (does inspiration really exist?). I turned the corner at the Reloj Chino and started to walk toward La Ciudadela looking for a café where I could keep working. I crossed the Jardín Morelos, empty and eerie, but with glimpses of secret life in its corners, bodies and laughter (giggles) that mocked the solitary passerby (or so it seemed to me then). I crossed Niños Héroes, crossed Plaza Pacheco (which commemorates José Emilio's grandfather and which was empty, no shadows or laughter this time), and as I was about to turn up Revillagigedo toward the Alameda, Quim Font emerged or materialized from around a corner. The shock almost killed me. He was wearing a suit and tie (but there was something about the suit and tie that made them look all wrong together), and he was dragging a girl after him, her elbow firmly in his grip. They were going the same way I was, although on the other side of the street, and it took me a few seconds to react. The girl Quim was dragging after him wasn't Angélica, as I had irrationally supposed when I saw her, although her height and build added to my confusion.
Clearly the girl had no great desire to follow Quim, but neither could it be said that she was putting up much resistance. As I drew level with them, heading up Revillagigedo toward the Alameda, I couldn't stop staring, as if to make sure that the nocturnal passerby was Quim and not an apparition, and then he saw me too. He recognized me right away.
"García Madero!" he shouted. "Over here, man!"
I crossed the street, taking great precautions or pretending to (since at that moment there were no cars on Revillagigedo), possibly in order to put off my meeting with María's father for a few seconds. When I reached the other side of the street, the girl raised her head and looked at me. It was Lupe, whom I'd met in Colonia Guerrero. She showed no sign of recognizing me. Of course, the first thing I thought was that Quim and Lupe were looking for a hotel.
"You're exactly the person we wanted to see!" said Quim Font.
I said hello to Lupe.
"How're things?" she said with a smile that froze my heart.
"I'm looking for a safe place for this young lady to stay," said Quim, "but I can't find a decent goddamn hotel anywhere in the neighborhood."
"Well, there are plenty of hotels around here," said Lupe. "What you really mean is that you don't want to spend much."
"Money isn't a problem. If you have it, you have it, and if you don't, you don't."
Only then did I notice that Quim was very nervous. The hand with which he was gripping Lupe trembled spasmodically, as if Lupe's arm were charged with electricity. He blinked fiercely and bit his lip.
"Is there some problem?" I asked.
Quim and Lupe looked at me for a few seconds (both of them seemed about to explode) and then they laughed.
"We're fucked," said Lupe.
"Do you know of a place we can hide this young lady?" said Quim.
Nervous as he may have been, he was also extremely happy.
"I don't know," I said, to say something.
"I don't suppose we could use your house?"
"Absolutely impossible."
"Why don't you let me handle my own problems?" said Lupe.
"Because no one escapes from under my protection!" said Quim, winking at me. "And also because I know you can't."
"Let's go get some coffee," I said, "and we'll come up with something."
"I expected no less of you, García Madero," said Quim. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"But it was pure coincidence that I ran into you!" I said.
"Oh, coincidence," said Quim, sucking air into his lungs like the titan of Calle Revillagigedo. "There's no such thing as coincidence. When it comes down to it, everything is ordained. The goddamn Greeks called it destiny."
Lupe looked at him and smiled the way you smile at crazy people. She was wearing a miniskirt and a black sweater. I thought the sweater was María's, or at least it smelled like María.
We started to walk, heading right on Victoria to Dolores, where we went into a Chinese café. We sat down near a cadaverous-looking man who was reading the paper. Quim inspected the place, then shut himself in the bathroom for a few minutes. Lupe followed him with her eyes and for an instant she gazed at him like a woman in love. Suddenly I just knew they'd slept together, or were planning to momentarily.