By Night in Chile by Roberto Bolaño Page B

refreshed, ready to face the day’s tasks. One particular morning, I was informed that some visitors were waiting for me in the living room. I finished washing and went down. I saw Mr. Raef sitting on a wooden bench against the wall. Mr. Etah was standing with his hands clasped behind his back examining a picture by a painter who claimed to be an
    expressionist (although he was in fact an impressionist). When they saw me, both of them smiled as one might smile at an old friend. I invited them to join me for breakfast. To my surprise, they said they had broken their fast some time before, although according to the clock on the wall it was just a few minutes past eight. They agreed to have a cup of tea, just to keep me company. There’s not much more to my breakfast, I said. Black tea, toast with butter and
    marmalade, orange juice. A balanced breakfast, said Mr. Raef. Mr. Etah didn’t say anything. I instructed the maid to serve breakfast on the verandah, which looks out over the garden to the walls of the adjoining college, partly hidden by greenery. We’ve been sent to make a proposal relating to a very delicate matter, said Mr. Raef. I nodded and remained silent. Mr. Etah had taken one of my slices of toast and was spreading butter on it. It’s something that needs to be treated in the strictest confidence, said Mr. Raef, especially now, with the current situation. I said yes, of course, I understood. Mr. Etah took a bite from the slice of toast and looked out at a group of three araucaria trees, the pride of the college, soaring cathedral-like over the gardens. You know what Chileans are like, Fr. Urrutia, always gossiping, not in a nasty way, I don’t mean that, but great ones for gossip all the same. I didn’t say anything. Mr.
    Etah finished off the slice of toast in three mouthfuls and started buttering another. Why am I telling you this? Mr. Raef asked himself rhetorically. Well, the matter we’ve come to see you about requires absolute discretion. I said yes, I understood. Mr. Etah poured himself another cup of tea and clicked his thumb and middle finger to get the maid to bring him some milk. What do you
    understand? asked Mr. Raef, with a frank and friendly smile. That you require me to be absolutely discreet, I said. More than that, said Mr. Raef, much more, we require ultra-absolute discretion, extraordinarily absolute discretion and secrecy. I was itching to correct him but restrained myself, because I wanted to know what they were proposing. Do you know anything about Marxism? asked Mr.
    Etah, after wiping his lips with a napkin. A bit, yes, but only out of
    intellectual curiosity, I said. I mean, I’m not in the least sympathetic to the doctrine, ask anyone. But do you know about it or not? A little bit, I said, feeling increasingly nervous. Do you have any books about Marxism in your library? asked Mr. Etah. Heavens, it’s not my library, it belongs to the
    community, there might be something, but only for reference, to be used as a source for philosophical essays aiming precisely to refute Marxism. But you’ve got your own library, haven’t you, Fr. Urrutia, your own personal, private library so to speak, some books are kept here in the college and others in your house, or your mother’s house, isn’t that right? Yes, that’s right, I murmured.
    And in your private library are there or are there not books about Marxism?
    asked Mr. Etah. Please answer yes or no, Mr. Raef implored me. Yes, I said. So could we say that you know something or perhaps more than something about Marxism? asked Mr. Etah fixing me with his penetrating gaze. I looked to Mr.
    Raef for help. He made a face I couldn’t interpret: it might have been
    expressing solidarity with his colleague or complicity with me. I don’t know what to say, I said. Say something, said Mr. Raef. You know me, I’m not a Marxist, I said. But are you familiar or not with, shall we say, the fundamentals of Marxism? asked Mr. Etah. Well, who