Tag Archive | "ines fernandez moreno"

Five New Argentine Novels (in English!)

A year ago, Buenos Aires was named the UNESCO World Book Capital City, an honor we at The Argentina Independent decided to commemorate by launching a new literary section and, with it, the ‘Author Spotlight’ series. Our goal was to bring stories, poems, plays and other writing by Argentine scribblers into English, and to feature this work alongside original English-language interviews with those contemporary Argentine scribes. In just twelve months, as the famed Buenos Aires International Book Fair has come and gone and come again, we’ve managed to do just that — bringing into English novel excerpts by Guillermo Martínez and Carlos Chernov, poetry by Ezequiel Zaidenwerg, theatre by Marcelo Pitrola, short fiction by Inés Fernández Moreno and a series of microfictions by Ana María Shua.

In addition, we’ve featured two authors — and will feature a third next month — whose novels will soon be available in English translation (hint: Ángela Pradelli, Carlos Gamerro, Andrés Neuman). And, as we celebrate the first birthday of this series, we’d like to toast these authors, and their excellent additions to the Anglophone library, alongside a few other Argentine novels we think are worthy of a place on your 2012 Argentine book queue. These five aren’t just the most interesting novels by Argentine writers being published in the US and UK this year, they’re the most interesting novels being published in the US and UK, period. And they are all by Argentine authors that we’d feel remiss if you didn’t know about. So take out your pen and jot these names down, or load them onto your “To-Read” App, or scan them with your Google Glasses, whatever your style may be.

Friends of Mine by Ángela Pradelli

Friends of Mine by Ángela Pradelli
For loyal readers of this series, Ángela Pradelli needs no introduction. An excerpt from her novel ‘Amigas Mías’, translated expertly by Andrea G. Labinger, helped us launch as our first installment a year ago. Now, after much anticipation, the full-length novel from which that excerpt was taken will be released in English from the Latin American Literary Review Press. Called ‘Friends of Mine’, and also translated by Labinger, the novel tells the story of a group of women living in the Buenos Aires province, who meet once a year on 30th December to eat dinner, celebrate the New Year, and reflect on the strange, difficult and wonderful passage of time. Structured in short, lucid fragments, the novel reads like a coming-of-age tale for a group of friends, a neighborhood, and an era of life in middle-class Argentina that has as much resonance today (and outside of Spanish) as it did when it was first published in 2002 and was awarded the Premio Emecé. Re-read our interview with Pradelli for more context, or peruse the sample we published last year. Then head over to the LALRP website to buy a copy for all your friends — after all, that’s what the novel is about.

The Islands by Carlos Gamerro

The Islands by Carlos Gamerro
When we spoke to Carlos Gamerro last year, two of his acclaimed novels were in the process of being translated into English, both by his friend Ian Barnett (who also translated ‘The Peronist Princess’ by Marcelo Pitrola). Last year, the first of those books, ‘An Open Secret’ (Pushkin Press), was released to a critical consensus: The Economist — a publication not known for effluvient rhetoric — declared that Gamerro’s novel had “the makings of a classic,” and the Independent called it “haunting and disturbing.” This isn’t news to us; we’ve been enjoying Gamerro’s brand of darkly comic prose since we published his story ‘Bad Burgers’ in August. Now English-reading fans of his fiction will have another reason to cheer: this May, And Other Stories, a new British publishing concern, will release a translation of Gamerro’s first novel, ‘The Islands’. Like the spiralling narrator of ‘Bad Burgers,’ the protagonist of ‘The Islands’ chases his own trauma down a rabbit hole when he discovers that, despite the passage of ten years, the Falklands/Malvinas War is still raging — a reality he’s not quite ready to confront. Written with Gamerro’s trademark muscularity, we’re certain this new addition to the English-language cannon will only swell his growing fanbase. Head over to the And Other Stories site to pre-order a copy.

Traveler of the Century by Andrés Neuman

Traveller of the Century by Andrés Neuman
Long considered an “up-and-coming” writer by the Spanish critical press, Andrés Neuman (born in Buenos Aires in 1977 and raised in Granada, Spain) published two novels set in Argentina (‘Bariloche’ and ‘Una vez Argentina’) before his fourth novel (‘Viajero del siglo’) won Spain’s Alfaguara prize and caught the attention of English-language publishers. That book, published as ‘Traveller of the Century’, made its way into the British bookstores last month, and will soon be released in the US. Neuman, who has written poetry (‘No sé por qué’), short story (‘Alumbramiento’) and travelogue (‘Cómo viajar sin ver’), created in ‘Traveller of the Century’ a novel that is at once contemporary and historical: set in Restoration-era Germany, it discusses sexual mores and intellectual disputes in a distinctly modern way. Praise from writers like Roberto Bolaño long ago boosted his reputation in the Spanish-speaking world, but more than acclaim or ambition, it’s the clarity and grace of Neuman’s prose that has earned him high standing among fans. Now, English-language readers will have a chance to assess, and enjoy: check back here next month for an excerpt from ‘Traveller of the Century’ and interview with Neuman.

The Planets by Sergio Chefjec

The Planets by Sergio Chejfec
When Open Letter Books (US) published Sergio Chejfec’s novel ‘My Two Worlds’ in English last year, the English-reading public was introduced, for the first time, to a unique writer: hyper-perceptive, unafraid of interiority, sworn to the incremental drama of hermeneutics. The novel was well received — one critic called the book a “vast and complicated work of literature;” meaningful praise for a novel only 102 pages long. So this summer, be alert for literary excitement when Open Letter releases the second volume of Chejfec in English: ‘The Planets’. First published in Spanish in 1999, ‘The Planets’ was written during the fifteen-year period when Chejfec lived in Venezuela, a temporal and cultural dislocation important to the text. As ‘My Two Worlds’ used ambulatory reflection, ‘The Planets’ uses the act of remembering to elevate a simple story into an elegant register. It’s a mode of literature difficult to master, but worthy of celebration when done right. Head over to the Open Letter website to begin the celebration.

Varamo by César Aira

Varamo by César Aira
As much as there exists a literary rock star for the 21st century, César Aira is it. He publishes a new book nearly every 6 months; each is more beguiling than the last. They’re short, they’re irreverent, their surreal, or anti-real, or unreal, or, beyond real. Sometimes they’re sloppy; occasionally, they feel unfinished — but somehow, either because of, or in spite of all that, they are always worth reading. Already author of nearly 80 books published in Spanish (no one seems to be sure of the exact number), Aira has, for the last decade or so, slowly been making his way into English. Now, New Directions, famed US publisher of Borges, is bringing out a book nearly every year, with five published since 2006. This year, they’ve released ‘Varamo,’ a novel kind of about a Peruvian man who takes up the homemade art of fish embalming, and also kind of about a very slow city-wide car race, and also kind of about the makings of a classic Central American poem, and yet somehow also not about these things at all. ‘Varamo’ is as strange, and as compelling, as Aira’s best work. In fact, it may be Aira’s best work. Or his worst. You’ll have to read all his books to know for certain. Visit New Directions to start with ‘Varamo’.

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Author Spotlight: Inés Fernández Moreno

Inés Fernández Moreno (Photo: Andy Donohoe)

Inés Fernández Moreno was 35 when she started writing. After a 17-year career in advertising, she discovered the ‘revelation’ of producing literary work: no clients to please, no intermediaries’ needs to discuss. Since that time, she’s written journalism for publications as various as Clarín, La Nación and Para Ti; published four collections of short stories (‘La vida en la cornisa’, ‘Un amor de agua’, ‘Hombres como médanos’, and ‘Mármara’); and released two novels (‘La última vez que maté a mi madre’ and ‘La profesora de español’), all to great acclaim. Among the many national and international prizes she has received for her work, she was the 2003 recipient of the International Story Prize from the Fundación Max Aub. She’s currently at work on a new collection of stories, ‘Malos sentimientos’.‘Argentine Beef’, available here in its first-ever English translation (by the talented Andrea Labinger) makes up part of her collection ‘Mármara,’ originally published in 2009. When it was released, Página/12 said of Fernández Moreno’s prose style: ‘She narrates with mastery, settled in a transparent classicism, aware of the resources it provides: fluidity, precision and levity.’ Here, in Labinger’s version of the tale, Fernández Moreno tackles themes central to the turn-of-the-century Argentine experience: immigration, alienation, assimilation and exportation (of meat). She spoke to us about these things from her home in the Buenos Aires neighborhood Parque Chas.Argentine Beef tells the story of an Argentine outside of Argentina. You also lived outside the country, which has been a common experience for many Argentines over the past decades, especially writers and artists. What interests you about the experience of living abroad, of being an expatriate or an immigrant?

I lived for three years in Spain, beginning in 2001, when one of our cyclical crises pushed thousands of Argentines abroad. At that time I was over 50 years old, so the experience was tough for me, although it had its dose of adventure and discovery. A large part of my novel, ‘La profesora de español’ (The Spanish Professor), in fact, is based on that experience. In Marbella, where my husband found work as an architect, I worked as a Spanish teacher, mostly for English speakers, so I understand very well your distress when it comes to differentiating between ‘ser’ and ‘estar’, or our numerous preterit tenses.

For someone who writes, living abroad forces you to confront a rupture with your own native language, the language of your childhood which Maria Elena Walch has called ‘un secreto entre los dos’ – a secret between you two, an intimate secret. For an Argentine in Spain, as well, since the interwoven subtleties of a language are so important. But it also gives you a privileged perspective with which to view and analyse your identity, as an Argentine, as a person, as a writer. The novel came to me out of those conflicts. As did the majority of the stories in the collection, ‘Mármara’, including the one you’re publishing today.

‘Argentine Beef’ (originally titled ‘Carne de exportación’) was inspired by a true story. Another ‘economic exile’, a close friend of mine, was in Miami selling Argentine meats. One day he got stuck in his refrigerated delivery truck and sent us a tragicomic email in which he recounted the adventure. A few days earlier, I had been trapped on a balcony, on the ninth floor, where I spent more than an hour whipped by the wind and cold, feeling unlucky and foolish. Enclosure is a good metaphor for the experience of being far from home, trapped by problems like immigration papers, distance and financial difficulties. And unfortunately, yes, the issue of membership, of belonging, of going away or staying put, is endemic for us Argentines. Maybe now the landscape is starting to change and we can begin to say ‘it was endemic.’

In the story, Argentina is presented as a country ‘made by immigrants’. Yet the character that makes these observations has himself left Argentina, has, essentially, emigrated. What’s interesting about this inversion?

Yes, we’re a country made by immigrants. Full of nostalgia for our homelands (usually in  Europe) that have been left behind. There was a great nobility in the humble immigrant, who put all his faith and work in this country. But on the other hand, for motives that are difficult to understand, it seems an unloving, unsharing, rough and greedy spirit has also taken root. Our political and economic history is full of examples. Of bad examples, I mean. When outside the country, one sees how other communities work. You can analyze and compare. There’s the possibility of an intense learning experience whenever you are able to get distance from your problems.

Daniel, the story’s protagonist, blames his situation on his grandparents and great-grandparents, who came to Argentina, of all places, and not the US, or Brazil or even Uruguay. Yet he’s also proud to be Argentine. Is this a contradiction? Or is this mixture – of love and disappointment – something integral to the Argentine experience?

I don’t think the character is 100% ‘proud’ to be Argentine. Who could be? He speaks with irony, a very Argentine way of speaking, although through this distancing you are able to pick up on certain feelings he has for his country. It’s more of a thwarted love, a rabid love. For an unreliable homeland that has dropped him and forced him to figure things out on his own. It’s an experience that has been repeated many times throughout our history.

You’ll notice that many Argentines (maybe we should say ‘porteños’ – and this is another thing to think about), when they talk about the defects of their country they say: “este país esto”, this country this, “este país aquello”, this country that, as if it didn’t belong to them. In Spain, every person native to a place speaks intimately of that place, of their ‘tierra’. They know it, they enjoy it, they know what grows there, what the population is, they celebrate its traditions, its music, its humour. There is an intensely powerful sense of belonging. We don’t have that. And our literature writes its own book of complaints.

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Argentine Beef, by Inés Fernández Moreno

To Rolando Daniel Epstein and Alberto Teskiewicz

Campo (Photo: Juan José Richards Echeverría)

Sirloin, rib eyes, T-bones – around one hundred pounds of prime meat distributed in Coral Gables. Cuts selected to be eaten practically raw and slathered with barbecue sauce, the way they like them there. Daniel turns onto Collins Street and feels a stab of annoyance. They think they know how to prepare meat better than the Argentines, with their gadget-laden toy barbecues, in their ant-free, odorless back yards. “They’re your bread and butter,” Vera always tells him. So better just to keep his mouth shut. But that doesn’t prevent him from evoking, from so many childhood summers and so many childhood places, the aroma and the sound of crackling branches, the joy of gathering them together on the damp grass. If he half-closes his eyes, he can even see the fine column of smoke rising from the mound he and his cousins have assembled. To do it right requires an ample yard, a yard that’s part forest, not those self-important sandpits, those buzz-cut lawns, like a marine’s head. They deserve their goddamn charcoal, he thinks, and once more he recalls Vera’s common sense: “You’ve got to adapt, let go of your pointless nostalgia.”

As proof of her adaptive ability, she’s given him these pants, the one’s he’s wearing now: a pair of American carpenter’s pants with at least ten different-sized pockets that he’ll never figure out what to keep in. How strange that Vera hasn’t shown signs of life yet, hasn’t sent him a single message, considering the way she usually drowns him in loving concern. Daniel shifts in his seat. He knows he’ll have to make a decision soon. He ought to move in with her. Or leave her:  risk it all on that unspoken dream, the one that’s still waiting for an extraordinary woman to appear. Where did he get that crazy notion? Forty years old, practically bald, no money – and he’s still waiting for the Princess of Kappurthala? When the Princess of Kappurthala finally shows up on his doorstep, she’ll be drooping and in rags.

Mirror Eyes (Photo: Steve Johnson)

Daniel takes his order book out of the glove compartment and rests it on the dashboard. As he waits for the light to change, he confirms that he’s already made stops at La Estancia and Chikito Way; he’s picked up orders from Johnny Meat and Che Chorizo. The only one left is El Danzón, Mariel and Omar’s mini-market. He likes Cubans – some Cubans, anyway – but to call a mini-market El Danzón, what an idea! Like the guy who named his ice cream parlor Socorro Ramírez, in honor of his wife, a formidable mulatto who aroused only obscene thoughts: a chocolate body bathed in peanut crème, warm syrup, and here and there a glistening bit of fruit  . . . He’s drifting into his reverie of subtle sweetness when the traffic light shocks him back to reality. Daniel pokes his head out the window and catches a sideways glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror. He’s startled. Every time his reflection unexpectedly appears, the same thing happens. Who’s that bald guy with bags under his eyes? A closer glance reveals a man who looks more and more like his father. His father, too, if the situation had arisen, would have been capable of naming an ice cream parlor Esther Sidelnik. And yet, the Cubans in Miami were doing well, no matter how flagrantly they ignored the laws of marketing. And the Argentines? The Argentines were always on a roller coaster, like him. A crisis hits, leaving him sprawled on the canvas; another one suddenly comes along and lifts him up, dumping a few bucks in his pocket. Enough to take on the adventure once again.

Now Miami, with his little Argentine beef business – Uruguayan beef, really, temporarily Uruguayan, until the outbreak of hoof-and-mouth disease eases up, which should be very soon, a matter of days according to his contacts in Argentina, an outbreak that was announced just as he and his partner were getting the business off the ground. He can’t quite figure himself out, if he’s a poor fool plagued by bad luck, a putz, or a guy that will surprise everyone in the long run, beginning with himself. Every time he thinks about that, he remembers his Bubbeh’s face. How she would look at him when he was a kid, with one of those expressions described by detective novels as “inscrutable”.

Daniel turns onto Camino Way and slows down at the entrance to El Danzón. The parking lot is nearly empty. He continues toward the shed out back, where a few cars are sheltered from the fierce morning sun, and he parks in a single, deft maneuver. One of the pleasures of living in Miami is the Savannah Diesel he and his partner have bought, a sharp model whose quiet humming and purring constantly reassure them that around here things still work.

Meat (Photo: Matthew Jacobs)

Daniel gets out, stretches, and walks toward the back. He opens the refrigerated compartment, hops in, and goes over to the corner where the boxes for Omar are stacked. Another thing he’s happy about are their newly-designed packages, with oval labels and an elegant sketch of an Argentine cattle ranch. No one would ever doubt you’re a gourmet when you’re carrying a package of South American Beef, a piece of the mythical Argentine Pampa. He recalled those small-town butcher shops, with their bloodstained marble counters and flies buzzing around. How things have changed – how sophisticated –and perverted, he thinks – meat markets have become, when suddenly he hears a click and finds himself plunged into darkness. His heart goes click, too, even though he realizes that all he has to do is get to the door, which has treacherously closed behind him, and feel around for the inside handle, because everything has been planned out, contemplated, foreseen, especially the possibility that a poor South American might leave the door ajar without factoring in its likely trajectory, its weight, the tendency of things to return to their normal condition, because nobody wants to change: everything, people and objects, want to keep on being what and where they used to be. In the case of the door, that means: closed. But it’s not the door’s decision, Daniel thinks, it’s man’s, the engineer who designed that van, and he sidles along the cold walls of the compartment  toward the door, where he sees, right by his head, the little red thermostat light, a glow that gradually becomes brighter as his eyes grow accustomed to the new situation: two degrees centigrade, so that the meat – his, too, now added to that of the River Plate bovines – will stay cold in the center, he thinks, as a shiver runs down his spine. His hand locates the handle, turns it downward, and as soon as he does, he knows all is lost: the handle wiggles loosely, like a toy. No mechanism responds to his command. He repeats the effort, shaking the handle, yanking it backward and forward.  He refuses to accept what is evident: the handle is broken. He gropes his body. What did he expect to find? A hammer? A pair of pliers? He’s nearly naked in his undershirt and his pants with their useless pockets, as smooth as a fish. Besides, he reasons, as he tries wiggling the handle again, it’s not as if a piece has come loose or fallen off, something he might be able to adjust; it’s something internal, inaccessible. Daniel slides down to the floor and grabs his head. “It runs like a Mercedes,” the previous owner had said, a guy who delivered fish, but not one goddamn thing about the inside handle being broken. Daniel curses him out, shifty Yankee, fucking son-of-a-bitch. He remembers his healthy, rosy cheeks, his bullish neck, and swears that if he ever runs into the guy again, he’ll strangle him. In an instant he goes from fury to impotence. But he finally gets up: no reason to despair, you have to stay calm, think about afterwards, when all of this will be a funny story, a few days from now. Because he’s going to get out of here very soon, even though right now only the direst possibilities are running though his mind. He knows that his cell phone is up front on the dashboard, where he usually leaves it. What a blunder:  the only thing left to do is kick the door, yell, count on his good luck, wait for somebody from the two or three cars he saw in the parking lot to hear him. He hurls himself against the door, pounding it frantically with fists and feet. The important thing is to stay cool, two degrees centigrade. How long will it take for his flesh to grow cold from hypothermia? How long can one last under these conditions? What is it like to freeze to death?

He has to garner his forces: no hysterical pounding; just breathe deeply and kick every five, three, two minutes. Meanwhile, march constantly around the compartment in order to stay warm. Who would imagine that something’s happened to him? Nobody. When would someone start worrying about his absence? He reviews the unlikely identities of those “someones” in Miami. Only two or three people. While he keeps up his gymnastic pace and his pounding on the door, he engages in the most bizarre speculations. His mind fogs a little and the hands on the clock confuse him. The big one is for hours, the little one for minutes. There’s no second hand. He must have flung himself against the door around twenty times. He taps his forehead gently against the wall as if that might straighten out his thoughts. Could a half-hour have gone by? An hour? Suddenly he sees his Great-Uncle Gregorio, the one in the daguerreotype, shrugging his shoulders as if asking his forgiveness. Because he’s the guilty party and he knows it. The family idiot, the one who began the saga in which Daniel might well turn out to be the last, sad link. An insult by fate, to die of suffocation after having escaped the pogroms and concentration camps. He recalls the refrigerated delivery trucks in Buenos Aires, so spacious and ventilated, those half-sides of beef hanging from their hooks, and here he is, not even about to die shoulder to shoulder with his beloved Argentine cows, “like embracing a steer,” he thinks, laughing through chattering teeth.  No, he’s going to end his days frozen alongside a pile of presumptuous little packages, stacked up like candy boxes. He feels a tickle in his stomach, as if a spider were walking inside him. Trapped, just like him inside the truck. Like Russian dolls, he thinks, one nestled in the other, and he thinks of Gregorio again, brave, foolish Gregorio, crossing the Moldau with all the family’s coins sewn in the lining of his overcoat.

1925 Boat Passage (Photo: William)

Gregorio showed his true colors right away, yes sir: as soon as the boatman saw him he realized what a coward Gregorio was, and then and there, without even waiting to reach the middle of the river, he took nearly his entire fortune, leaving him with only one bill to pay half his passage to America, hidden under the insole of his shoe. It was supposed to have gotten him as far as New York. The whole family had been depending on him, Daniel thinks. If only Gregorio had disembarked in New York, he’d be singing a different tune today:  he’d be a prosperous merchant; he wouldn’t have document problems; he’d be sunbathing on a yacht in Miami, not locked in a refrigerated compartment. But no, he got Argentina instead. The military dictatorship, inflation, devaluations, restrictions on bank withdrawals. Not to mention everyday adversities, little swindles, shortages, impossibilities, things that didn’t work. Who could resist a cocktail like that? Gregorio hadn’t understood the weight of his responsibility. The extent of his stupidity, which becomes apparent when you look closely at the daguerreotype:  those shrugging shoulders, that scraggly beard. Because he had more than one chance, Gregorio did. He could have gotten off at some Brazilian port. He could have stayed in Montevideo. They’d be poor, but humble. He wouldn’t have become poisoned with Argentine arrogance. And he’d even been in Montevideo for two days, while the ship loaded and unloaded merchandise. He had been walking along a little downtown street when he looked into a window where a tailor was working. Der arbl is shlekht geneyt, Gregorio had said to the man when he saw him laboring to sew on a sleeve. The Uruguayan tailor, who was also a Landsman, understood and challenged him: So you think I didn’t sew it right?  Well, if you’re so great, why don’t you sit down and do it yourself? Gregorio did, and as he had learned the trade from his father from a very early age, first he basted the sleeve and then sewed it on with fine stitches, leaving the shoulder perfectly attached, without a single wrinkle. The Uruguayan offered him a job on the spot. That was when Gregorio made another mistake, refusing out of pure fatalism, because his ticket, which at first he thought was for New York, was for Buenos Aires, and he wanted to follow the path marked for him by destiny.

And so, through that compendium of errors, which later grew and multiplied into others, he, Daniel Sidelnick, was now here, like the last of the Buendías, born with a pig’s tail, exhausted from kicking against a closed door. He hated Gregorio and his Aunt Ethel, who had dragged the rest of the family, including his Grandfather Julio, and weighed anchor in Argentina; he hated his Uncles David and José and their mediocre textile factories, and their snotty children, his older cousins, who had passionately adopted the tango, yerba mate, pool, Peronism, and later on, Italian pasta and the tarantella because in turn several of their kids had mixed with Italian blood. He felt dampness on his face, tears no doubt, possibly the last ones of his life. “Don’t cry, vein nisht,” his Bubbeh used to tell him, and then he knew exactly how she had looked at him. Sacrificial flesh, he thought, and those two words fell upon him with Biblical gravity. Then he thought he heard the first bars of “Eight Days a Week”. It took him a minute to recognize the tune: it was his cell phone ringing. But, how could he hear it if his phone was up front, in the cab? The music stopped for a few seconds, and then, with the same incongruous gaiety, started up again. It was coming from somewhere close by, very close by. It seemed to be emanating from his own body. The first hallucination? He patted himself up and down, and then, trembling, he discovered in one of the ten pockets of his ridiculous pants, the lowest and narrowest of all, up against his calf, something incredible, miraculous: his cell phone! It took him a while to dig it out, and when he finally succeeded, he could read Vera’s tender message on the luminous screen: “Don’t forget I love you.” Despite the cold that had already anesthetized his feet, he felt a rapturous flash of warmth, and with a numb finger that now seemed vaguely divine, Adam-like, he punched in the number of El Danzón. Yeaahh? said Mayito, the clerk, in her screechy voice. Daniel tried to speak, but a combination of voice and sobs clogged his throat, and the clerk impatiently hung up. Daniel dialed again, and again Mayito’s voice responded, intermittently cut off by the bad connection: Hello? Omar, Omar! Daniel shouted. Where you at, chico? In back; go call Omar. Back? You want Omar to call you back? You gonna call back? No!  I’m in back, in the garage. Or should I say parking lot, “aparcadero,” “parqueo?”What you say, chico? Chico, my ass, you stupid bitch! Go call Omar, concha de tu madre! Concha ain’t here; she comes on Saturday  . . . waiiiiit a minute, I’ll get Omar, said Mayito, trying to calm him down.

Door Knob (Photo: Stephanie Carter)

The silence intensified his terror.  Would this false hope be the last of his torments?  But a moment later he heard Omar’s happy, sonorous voice:  Daniel, is that you? Yeah, Omar, I’m behind  . . . You’re running behind? No, in back, behind your store, your little market, your “marketa”, here in the van, the truck, the “troca”, I’m locked in! LOCKED IN, ENCERRADO! He blessed the word, the same in Cuba as in Argentina as in Spain as in the rest of the world wherever the Spaniards had disembarked, leaving their precious language.

Defeated, he could hardly breathe until the van door opened at last. The flash of light blinded him at first. Then, little by little, he saw the outline of Omar’s smiling face, and Mayito’s peering in from behind him. And behind them he imagined he could see Vera embracing him at night, and his Bubbeh scolding: When are you going to stop running around already, Daniel, when will you find a nice girl from the community and get married? Yes, his Bubbeh was right: he should marry Vera. But right now he needed to catch his breath, warm up, think things over a little more. Maybe, he mused, he should return to Argentina. And then, standing behind his Bubbeh, he thought he saw Uncle Gregorio, with his puny little shoulders and scraggly beard, give him a wink and disappear.

To read an exclusive interview with Inés Fernández Moreno, click here.

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