The Skating Rink by Roberto Bolaño Page A

pedestals.
Photos and press cuttings in aluminum frames hung on both sides of the chimney,
proclaiming former triumphs. They showed Nuria skating on her own or with
others; some of the cuttings were in English, French and something that might
have been Danish or Swedish. My daughter has been skating since she was six
years old, announced the woman, standing in a doorway that led through to a
spacious kitchen with the blinds down, which gave it the look of a dim wood, a
clearing in a wood at midnight. In the living room, a pleasant yellow light was
filtering through the curtains. Have you seen my girl skate? she asked in
Catalan, but before I could answer she repeated the question in Spanish. I said
no, I had never seen her skate. She stared at me in disbelief. Her eyes were as
blue as Nuria’s, but without the glint of iron will. I accepted a cup of coffee.
A monotonous, repetitive sound was coming from the back of the house; my first
thought, absurdly, was that someone must have been splitting firewood. Are you
South American? asked Nuria’s mother, sitting down in an armchair patterned with
sepia flowers against a grey background. I replied in the affirmative. Would
Nuria be long? You never know with Nuria, she said, looking at a bag from which
knitting needles and balls of wool were protruding. I lied about another
engagement, although I knew it wouldn’t be so easy to get away. What country are
you from? Argentina? Although her smile was fairly neutral, it seemed to be
giving me little taps on the back, inviting me to bare my soul. I told her I was
Chilean. Ah, I see, from Chile, she said. And what do you do? I have a jewelry
store, I mumbled. Here, in Z? I nodded, going along with everything. How odd,
she said, Nuria has never mentioned you. The coffee was scalding but I drank it
quickly; someone squealed behind me, and from the corner of my eye I saw a
shadow slip into the kitchen. Nuria’s mother said, Come here, I want to
introduce you to one of Nuria’s friends. The little Martí girl appeared before
me, holding a can of Coca-Cola. We shook hands and smiled. Laia sat down beside
her mother, separated from her only by the bag of wool, and waited; I remember
she was wearing shorts and sporting large purple scabs on both knees. My husband
saw her skate only once, but he died happy, said Nuria’s mother. I looked at her
in utter bewilderment. For a moment I thought she was telling me that her
husband had died
while
watching Nuria skate, but to ask for an
explanation would have been even more absurd than my initial supposition, so all
I did was nod. He died in the hospital, said Laia, and went on staring at me as
she sipped her Coca-Cola with chilling parsimony. In room 304 of the Z hospital,
she specified. Mrs Martí looked at her with an admiring smile. Another coffee,
Mr Morán? I said no, it was delicious, but no thanks. Strangely, I had the
impression that the decision to go or stay was no longer mine to make. Do you
know what Nuria is doing here? I thought Laia was referring to the real
flesh-and-blood Nuria, and spun around, startled, only to find an empty corridor
behind me. Laia’s index finger was pointing at one of the framed photographs. I
confessed my ignorance and laughed. Nuria’s mother laughed with me,
understandingly. What an idiot I am, I said, I thought Nuria was behind me. This
is a “loop,” said Laia, a “loop.” And do you know what she’s doing here? The
photo had been taken from a distance, to show the size of the rink and the
stands; in the middle, leaning slightly to the right, a shorter-haired Nuria had
been frozen on the point of taking illusory flight. This is a “bracket,” said
Laia. And this is the end of a series of “threes.” And that’s the “Catalan”
figure, invented by a Catalan skater. Having expressed my admiration, I examined
the photographs one by one. In some of them, Nuria was no more than ten or
twelve years old; her legs were like matchsticks and she