FICTION: EILEEN BATTERSBYreviews The Skating RinkBy Roberto Bolaño, translated by Chris Andrews Picador, 180pp. £14.99
AND STILL the writings of the remarkable Chilean Roberto Bolaño, who viewed himself as a poet yet penned an incredible ocean of fiction in his short 50 years, continue to burst forth posthumously. Internationally famous since the English translation appeared, in 2007, of The Savage Detectives(1998), he took the world by storm, and further elevated himself to iconic status with the leviathan saga that is 2666 (2004, translated 2008). Bolaño, who died in 2003, was a literary wonder on many counts, not least because his great small novels, such as Distant Star(1996, 2004), Amulet(1999, 2006), By Night in Chile(2000, 2003) and this wonderful little yarn, The Skating Rink, his debut, which was originally published in Spain in 1993, are every bit as good as his giant novels.
He was clever, dazzling and playful. The Savage Detectives and 2666 may leave one wondering what all the fuss is about. After all, the US master William Gaddis had got there before him, exploiting many of the devices Bolaño loved to use, yet the hyperproductive Chilean had an anarchic vision all his own.
What makes him so readable? The casual ease with which he spins a story, and the way his narratives develop like a conversation, fuelled by anecdote, memory, wit, detailed observation and graceful urgency. He was a writer in a hurry, as the eerie title of his wonderful first collection of short stories, Last Evenings on Earth(1997, 2007) suggests.
The Skating Rinkis an inspired, sly comic three-hander worthy of the Coen brothers. It continually takes one by surprise. Each of the narrators has his own set of memories and obsessions; two of them happen to be poets – it wouldn't quite be Bolaño-land if it were otherwise. The poets know each other from their youth, back in Mexico City, where they had arrived packed with creative energy from Chile. A good deal has happened since then. Now they are in Spain, in a small resort town. One of them, Remo, has settled down, in a half-hearted sort of way. He set up various small businesses, got married, got divorced, has a son and is not complaining about his life.
It is Remo who begins a conversational narrative that develops into a relay race; pieces of information are passed on to the reader like batons. Are the narrators reliable? Who knows? Does it matter? Not really. Why? Because even if one or all are lying, a sufficiently vivid picture of what transpires one summer emerges to create a story about a murder, the most important element of which is the personalities of who may or may not have committed it. It takes a while to figure out who is the victim, but by then it is irrelevant, so engaging is the telling. And, by the way, there is a second crime far less dramatic but eccentric, even touching in its madness.
Remo’s life dawdles along until the day that Gaspar re-enters it. He had been living in Barcelona. He arrives in Z, the resort, through a job offer. “Remo Morán, who I hadn’t seen for many years, although I was always hearing about him . . . had offered me a season’s work, from May to September; the offer came through a mutual friend. I should point out that I didn’t ask for the job.”
The third narrator is the brilliantly well-drawn Enric Rosquelles, a local civil servant. His corruption came about by chance. “Until a few years ago I was a typical mild-mannered guy: ask my family, my friends, my junior colleagues, anyone who came into contact with me. They’ll tell you I’m the last person you’d expect to be involved in a crime.”
Enric is the central character, fat, middle-aged, obsessive. It is he who falls most spectacularly, and unrequitedly, in love. The object of his devotion is a gifted but disgraced ice skater, Nuria, who has lost her place on the Olympic team. Enric wants to help her; he wantsher and builds her an ice rink over an empty swimming pool in a deserted mansion. It sounds wonderful; the catch is that he financed it by embezzling public funds, and the rink is a secret, intended for private use by Nuria as she trains for her comeback.
One day Gaspar discovers what is going on because he is looking for his disturbed girlfriend and hears the music the skater uses for her routine. He recalls the sensation of watching from the outer area of the rink: “I felt as if I was inside a cave. The skater started practising little jumps . . . then the fat guy’s shadow emerged from the darkness . . . There he stood still . . . his remarkably round head turning slowly, as he followed the girl with his shining, intent, unblinking eyes. There was something disturbing about that odd couple – the girl all grace and speed, the bottom-heavy man like a lead-weighted doll – but watching them I also felt a kind of silent, fierce joy.”
Although Enric has created her ice rink, the skater becomes involved with Remo, leaving Enric to moon about and attempt to keep the local mayor, Pilar, from asking too many questions. Things happen; Bolaño sustains the humour and the mystery with the effortless languor that shapes even his craziest narratives. Enric's final sequence is a masterpiece of comic writing as he recalls, after his release, "no one recognised me." Who else but Bolaño could have invented such pathos in such a character, in such a story? Part thriller, part romance, a mood piece of consummate skill. If you haven't yet read Bolaño, begin with The Skating Rinkand prepare to enjoy a journey spanning thousands of pages, millions of words, magic images, crazed exchanges and haunting asides.
Eileen Battersby is Literary Correspondent of The Irish Times
