By Night in Chile

Mexico City an hour before dawn
emerging from that contemplation, from a Guatemalan’s sleepless contemplation of Paris, and in its own way the painting was an altar for human sacrifice, and in its own way the painting was an
    expression of supreme boredom, and in its own way the painting was an
    acknowledgement of defeat, not the defeat of Paris or the defeat of European culture bravely determined to burn itself down, not the political defeat of certain ideals that the painter tepidly espoused, but his personal defeat, the defeat of an obscure, poor Guatemalan, who had come to the City of Light
    determined to make his name in its artistic circles, and the way in which the Guatemalan accepted his defeat, with a clear-sightedness reaching far beyond the realm of the particular and the anecdotal, made the hair on our diplomat’s arms stand up, or, in vulgar parlance, gave him goose bumps. And then, in a single draught, Don Salvador drained what was left of his cognac and started listening to Jünger again, who all this time had been holding forth imperturbably, while he, that is to say our writer, had become entangled in a spiderweb of futile thoughts, and the Guatemalan, predictably, remained slumped beside the window, his life seeping away in the obsessive and sterile contemplation of Paris. And having grasped the drift of the monologue without too much difficulty (or so he thought), Don Salvador was able to insert a word edgeways into that parade of ideas, which would have intimidated the great Pablo himself, if not for the modest tone, the unpretentious manner in which the German set out his creed in matters relating to the fine arts. And then the officer of the Wehrmacht and the Chilean diplomat left the attic room together, and as they went down the
    interminable, precipitous stairs to the street, Jünger said he did not think the Guatemalan would live until the following winter, an odd remark for him to make, since by then it was obvious to everyone that many thousands of people were not going to live until the following winter, most of them much healthier than the Guatemalan, most of them happier, most of them unmistakably endowed with a stronger will to live, but Jünger made the remark all the same, perhaps without thinking, or not wishing to confuse separate issues, and Don Salvador agreed once again, although, having known and visited the painter over a longer period, he was not so sure the Guatemalan would die, nevertheless he agreed: Of course, Quite so, or perhaps he just made that diplomatic hmm hmm noise that can mean absolutely anything. And a little while later Ernst Jünger went to dine at the house of Salvador Reyes, and this time the cognac was served in proper cognac glasses and they discussed literature sitting in comfortable armchairs and the meal was, well, it was balanced, as meals in Paris ought to be, in gastronomic as well as intellectual terms, and when the German was leaving, Don Salvador gave him one of his books translated into French, perhaps the only one, I don’t know, according to the wizened youth no one in Paris has even the vaguest memory of Don Salvador Reyes, he’s probably saying that to annoy me, it might be true that no one remembers Salvador Reyes in Paris, indeed even in Chile few people remember him and fewer still read his books, but that is not the point, the point is that when the German went home that night, in one of his suit pockets there was a book by Salvador Reyes, and there can be no doubt that he
    subsequently read the book, because he mentions it, in quite positive terms, in his memoirs. And that is all Salvador Reyes told us about his years in Paris during the Second World War. But one thing is certain and it is something to be proud of: in his entire memoirs, Jünger mentions only one Chilean, and that is Salvador Reyes. Not a single Chilean to be found, even darting timidly across the background of the German’s writings, except for Don Salvador Reyes. Not a single Chilean exists, as a human being or as the author of a book, in the dark, rich years of Jünger’s chronicle, except for Don Salvador Reyes. And that night as I returned from the house of our storyteller and diplomat, walking with Farewell’s dissolute shadow down a street lined with lime trees, I had a vision of torrential grace, burnished like the dreams of heroes, and, being young and impulsive, I told Farewell about it straightaway, but he was only interested in finding the quickest