At dawn the beach is full of seagulls. Along with the seagulls, there are pigeons. The seagulls and pigeons stand at the water’s edge, staring out to sea, motionless except for the occasional short flight. There are two kinds of seagulls: big and small. From the distance the pigeons look like seagulls too. Seagulls of a third kind, only smaller. From the mouth of the port, boats set out, leaving behind them a dark wake on the smooth surface of the sea. Last night I didn’t sleep at all. The sky is a pale and liquid blue. The edge of the horizon is white; the sand of the beach is brown, dotted with little mounds of debris. From the terrace — the waiters haven’t arrived yet to set the tables — it promises to be a clear and calm day. One could say that the seagulls lined up along the beach watch imperturbably as the boats dwindled until they’re nearly lost from sight. At this time of day the hotel corridors are warm and deserted. At the restaurant, a half-asleep waiter brusquely pulls back the curtains, but the light that bathes everything is pleasant and cold, a faint, contained light. The coffee machine has yet to be turned on. From the waiter’s attitude I surmise that it will be a while. In the room Ingeborg is asleep with the Florian Linden novel tangled in the sheets. Softly I set it on the night table, though not before a sentence catches my eye. Florian Linden (I imagine) says: “You say you’ve committed the same crime several times. No, you’re not crazy. That happens to be the very nature of evil.”
Roberto Bolaño, The Third Reich
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