By Night in Chile

alone in his house, looking around the library, which was, in some mysterious way, the incarnation both of his absence and his presence, I asked his spirit (it was, of course, a rhetorical question) why things had turned out as they had for us.
    There was no reply. I went over to one of the huge bookcases and touched the spines of the books with my fingertips. There was a movement in a corner of the room. I jumped. But when I looked more closely, I saw that it was one of
    Farewell’s faithful old crones who had fallen asleep. We left the house
    together, arm in arm. During the funeral procession, as we made our way through the refrigerated streets of Santiago, I asked what had become of Farewell. He’s in the coffin, said some youths who were walking ahead of me. Idiots, I said, but the youths were gone, they had disappeared. Now I am the invalid. My bed is spinning, afloat on a swift-flowing river. If the waters were turbulent I would know that death was near. But the waters are just flowing quickly, so all hope is not yet lost. The wizened youth has been quiet for a long time now. He has given up railing against me and writers generally. Is there a solution? That is how literature is made, that is how the great works of Western literature are made. You better get used to it, I tell him. The wizened youth, or what is left of him, moves his lips, mouthing an inaudible
no
. The power of my thought has stopped him. Or maybe it was history. An individual is no match for history. The wizened youth has always been alone, and I have always been on history’s side. I prop myself up on one elbow and look for him. All I can see are my books, the walls of my bedroom, a window in the midst of shadow and light. I could rise from this bed now and start living again, giving classes, writing reviews. I would like to review a book by one of the new French writers.
    But I haven’t the strength. Is there a solution? One day, after Farewell’s death, I went to his old estate, Là-bas, with a few friends, on a sort of sentimental journey, which I realized was a bad idea almost as soon as we got there. I went off for a walk through the fields where I had wandered as a young man. I looked for the farmers, but the sheds where they used to live were empty.
    An old woman was waiting to meet the friends who had come with me. I observed her from a distance, and when she headed for the kitchen, I followed and said hello to her from outside, through the window. She didn’t even look at me. Later I found out she was half deaf, but the fact is she didn’t even look at me. Is there a solution? One day, out of sheer boredom, I asked a young left-wing novelist if he knew how María Canales was getting on. The young man told me he had never met her. But you must have, you’ve been to her house, I said. He shook his head several times and changed the subject immediately. Is there a solution?
    Sometimes I come across farmers speaking another language. I stop them. I ask how things are on the land. But they tell me they don’t work on the land. They tell me they work in factories or building sites in the city, they have never worked on the land. Is there a solution? Sometimes the earth shakes. The
    epicenter of the quake is somewhere in the north or the south, but I can hear the earth shaking. Sometimes I feel dizzy. Sometimes the quake goes on for longer than usual, and people take shelter in doorways or under stairs or they rush out into the street. Is there a solution? I see people running in the streets. I see people going into the Metro or into movie theaters. I see people buying newspapers. And sometimes it all shakes and everything stops for a moment. And then I ask myself: Where is the wizened youth? Why has he gone away?
    And little by little the truth begins to rise like a dead body. A dead body rising from the bottom of the sea or from the bottom of a gully. I can see its shadow rising. Its flickering shadow. Its shadow rising as if it were climbing a hill on a fossil planet. And then, in the half-light of my sickness, I see his fierce, his gentle face, and I ask myself: Am I that wizened youth? Is that the true, the supreme terror, to discover that I am the wizened youth whose cries no one can hear? And that the poor wizened youth is me? And then faces flash before my eyes at a vertiginous speed, the faces I admired, those I loved, hated, envied and despised. The faces I protected, those I attacked, the faces I hardened myself