By: Yildiz Subuk, Staff Writer
Content warning: descriptions of femicide.
Roberto Bolaño was a novelist, essayist, and poet who later proclaimed he should have been a detective instead. He was diagnosed with liver disease in 1992 and, knowing that his time was running out, began his final work. Despite his efforts, Bolaño passed away a year before the publication of this near-900-page novel, 2666.
The writing in 2666 manages to keep the gripping qualities of a detective novel, from its ambiguous narrative to a sense of increasing dread. The truth is, however, that the novel is far from a detective story. 2666 transcends the crime thriller genre by taking certain qualities of it to instead tell a story resembling the overlooked and unresolved murders that took place in Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua City, from 1993 to 2005. At this time, nearly 400 unresolved cases of femicide (misogynistically-driven murders of women) took place.
The novel starts with three literary critics who are trying to track down a reclusive author, eventually ending up in the town of Santa Teresa. As their world views change after being exposed to the crimes taking place around them, the story transitions into the next part, which provides accounts of a different set of characters. Each part is loosely connected, but the narrative focuses on letting various characters paint the picture of a town overruled by corruption, institutional failures, and senseless killings. As the novel progresses, the detective story most audiences are used to begins to fade, almost as if Bolaño piqued our interest with a premise as a way to later show us a horrifying reality.
The narrative is split into five parts, the lengthiest and most brutal being “The part about the crimes.” This is what sets 2666 apart from most detective stories, as it doesn’t focus on specifically tracking down a serial killer or force behind the killings. Instead, it provides accounts of confused law enforcement, parents or friends of victims, journalists, and other characters who have been deeply affected by the murders taking place.
2666 is not a who-dunnit, the answer is clear. Santa Teresa is a place rampant with inadequate law enforcement that fails to properly look into the murders. The town’s corrupt government does not address what’s happening, the media ignores the cases, and there are the inescapable threats of the cartel — the power of this group goes completely unchecked. The antagonist is more abstract than just a character, but a corrupt city driven by misogynistic violence with no regard for the safety of its people. Most importantly, the femicides that have occurred have been a problem for years. As one reviewer puts it, “The story doesn’t begin with the murders — it arrives at them.” The beginning of the novel has nothing to do with the murders, but are slowly exposed to their horrifying nature.
The violence in 2666 is intentionally not universal, but specific. It’s not supposed to feel familiar or conventional, but much more gruesome than what most are accustomed to reading about and even difficult to understand. This makes 2666 a devastating read. Through this narrative choice, Bolaño exposes readers to something that has been overlooked without focusing on a few central victims, but a collective voice of people who have suffered from the unresolved cases of femicide. An extensive amount of detail is provided on the direct victims of the violence, and perspective is given to those who are indirectly affected. 2666 is a haunting exposure of the violence that Latina, Indigenous, and Black women face all over the world, which is rooted in a misogynistic society filled with unchecked power.
