Women and Power in Argentine Literature: Stories, Interviews, and Critical Essays (Texas Pan American Literature in Translation)

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WOMEN AND POWER IN ARGENTINE LITERATURE

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Texas Pan American Literature in Translation Series danny j. anderson, Editor

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Women and Power in Argentine Literature STORIES, INTERVIEWS, AND CRITICAL ESSAYS

Gwendolyn Díaz

University of Texas Press

Austin

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Copyright © 2007 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2007 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-7819 www.utexas.edu/utpress/about/bpermission.html ∞ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48–1992 (r1997) (Permanence of Paper).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Díaz, Gwendolyn Josie. Women and power in Argentine literature : stories, interviews, and critical essays / Gwendolyn Díaz. — 1st ed. p. cm.—(Texas Pan American literature in translation series) Includes bibliographical references. isbn-13: 978-0-292-71648-3 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn-10: 0-292-71648-6 (cloth : alk. paper isbn-13: 978-0-292-71649-0 (pbk. : alk. paper) isbn-10: 0-292-71649-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Argentine literature—Women authors—History and criticism. 2. Argentine literature—Women authors. 3. Women authors, Argentine—20th century—Interviews. 4. Authors, Argentine—20th century—Interviews. 5. Women and literature—Argentina. I. Title. pq7633.d53 2007 860.9'9287'0982—dc22 2006023555

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This book about women and power is dedicated to my daughter,

julia gwen ridgeway, who has been my inspiration.

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“So I wasn’t dreaming, after all,” she said to herself, “unless—unless we’re all a part of the same dream. Only I do hope it’s my dream, and not the Red King’s! I don’t like belonging to another person’s dream.” Lewis Carroll ¿La gente qué diría Si en un día fortuíto, por ultrafantasía, Me tiñera el cabello de plateado o violeta, . . . Cantara por las calles al compás de violines O dijera mis versos recorriendo las plazas Libertado mi gusto de comunes mordazas? Alfonsina Storni When . . . one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet . . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman. Virginia Woolf

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments introduction 1. elvira orphée

xiii 1 19

The Author and Her Work 21 Conversation with Elvira Orphée 25 “Justice Shall Be Done” 32 Publications and Translations 38

2. angélica gorodischer

41

The Author and Her Work 43 Conversation with Angélica Gorodischer “How to Succeed in Life” 52 Publications and Translations 65

3. marcela solá

67

The Author and Her Work 69 Conversation with Marcela Solá “Natural Paradises” 81 Kind’s Silence

71

(Excerpt from El silencio de Kind)

Publications and Translations

4. luisa valenzuela

84

87

89

The Author and Her Work 91 Conversation with Luisa Valenzuela “Tango” 111 “The Key” 114 Publications and Translations 119

5. tununa mercado

96

121

The Author and Her Work 123 Conversation with Tununa Mercado “Combatant Love” 132

126

46

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“Delirious Love” 133 Publications and Translations

6. alicia dujovne ortiz

137

141

The Author and Her Work 143 Conversation with Alicia Dujovne Ortiz “The Blond Madonna” (Excerpt from Eva Perón: A Biography)

145 156

“White, Black, Red” (Excerpt from Eva Perón: A Biography)

Publications and Translations

7. liliana heer

159

161

The Author and Her Work 163 Conversation with Liliana Heer 165 “Red Summer” 173 Publications and Translations 180

8. liliana heker

183

The Author and Her Work 185 Conversation with Liliana Heker 187 “Far Away” 195 Publications and Translations 209

9. alina diaconú

213

The Author and Her Work 215 Conversation with Alina Diaconú 218 “The Evil Eye” 227 Publications and Translations 230

10. maría kodama

233

The Author and Her Work 235 Conversation with María Kodama “Leonor” 246 Publications 255

11. cristina siscar

257

The Author and Her Work

x

259

237

157

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Conversation with Cristina Siscar 262 “Hoop, Thread, and Canvas” 271 “The Bra” 274 Publications and Translations 275

12. ana maría shua

277

The Author and Her Work 279 Conversation with Ana María Shua “The Spinal Column” 291 Death as a Side Effect

282

(Excerpt from La muerte como efecto secundario)

Publications and Translations

13. alicia kozameh

300

302

307

The Author and Her Work 309 Conversation with Alicia Kozameh 311 “Impression of Heights” 323 Publications and Translations 336

14. esther cross

339

The Author and Her Work 341 Conversation with Esther Cross 344 “The Recipe” 353 “Appearances” 355 Publications and Translation 362

15. ana quiroga

365

The Author and Her Work 367 Conversation with Ana Quiroga 368 “A Little Bit Farther” 375 Publications 376

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank my husband and colleague, Henry Flores, for his encouragement; my parents, Julio and Dorothy, for teaching me the love of learning; and St. Mary’s University, for the research support I have received. I also thank each of the authors of this collection for the generous time they offered me, for their goodnatured cooperation, and for sharing with me the stories of their lives and the passion of their work.

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WOMEN AND POWER IN ARGENTINE LITERATURE

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INTRODUCTION

When considering the topic of Argentine women, particularly as it relates to power, the image of Eva Perón is inescapable. The poor, illegitimate girl from the provincial countryside not only became, while still in her twenties, the First Lady of Argentina (then the breadbasket of the Americas and Europe), she ultimately became a myth so enduring that Andrew Lloyd Weber took her story to Broadway and Madonna to the Hollywood screen. She still remains a polarizing figure in Argentina, where she is simultaneously considered a saint by some and an avaricious prostitute by others. Her character and relevance are debated by historians, biographers, and authors who portray her in their works. One quality that all agree upon is that she was an immensely powerful woman who had an extraordinary hold on the Argentine people. I begin this book evoking her image not only because of her status as a powerful Argentine woman, but also because of the legacy of Peronism that continues to dominate the social, political, and national character of Argentina and, in turn, its culture and literature. In Argentina, like in much of Latin America, as noted by Jean Franco and others, the socio-political landscape becomes the backdrop and often the theme of much of the country’s literature. While Domingo Sarmiento’s Facundo (1845) debates the future of Argentina in terms of civilization versus barbarism, and Miguel Hernandez’s Martín Fierro (1872) depicts the plight of the gaucho, or cattle-hand, in the pampas (grasslands), others, like Roberto Arlt in Los sietes locos (1929) and El lanzallamas (1931), explore complex socio-political dilemmas of the Buenos Aires metropolis. Many of the Boom writers (a term coined to capture the breadth and quality of literature produced in Latin America in the 1950s through 1970s), like Julio Cortázar (Rayuela, 1963, and El libro de Manuel, 1973) for example, combine their political concerns with their thirst for aesthetic experimentation. Jorge Luis Borges is considered an exception to this emphasis on socio-political themes, though some of his stories have been read as critiques of power, and particularly of Peronism, with which he was personally very much at odds. Argentina has been among the leaders in Latin America in the number of women authors produced in the twentieth century, a fact that Donald Yates (Contemporary Latin American Literature) attributes to the Perón years, when wom1

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en launched themselves into writing either to expose or to explain the e¬ects of Peronism on Argentine society and politics. In the 1940s, for example, Victoria Ocampo, the grande dame of Argentine letters and founder of the celebrated journal Sur, was persecuted by the Peróns because of her status as a member of the elite. A vehement anti-Peronist, she was one of the first Argentine women writers who was outspoken about her political views and her admiration for feminist writers. She believed that the Latin American woman was doubly alienated as a woman and as a Latin American. In the 1950s, Beatriz Guido wrote about the fall of the landed gentry leading up to the time of Juan Perón, and in the 1960s, Marta Lynch was one of many who depicted the Peronist movement as content and context within which her novels evolved. The structuring principal of this collection is the theme of women and power, as manifested through a character that exercises some form of power within a given situation or, conversely, is subjected to it. Power and domination are issues that have preoccupied Latin American women writers since the time of the conquest and the generalas (women warriors who commanded soldiers in the wars for independence), and of the various revolutions of countries like Mexico, Cuba, Nicaragua, and others. The problems of power and domination surface not only within the political arena, however; they also filter into the fiber of Latin American society, into the family and the social relationships that tend to be structured according to a patriarchal scheme of authoritarianism. In Argentina, politics, power, and social relations (marriage, family, church, etc.) have always been closely linked. This was particularly true during Juan and Eva Perón’s regime of the 1940s and 1950s, when the relationship between Eva and Juan became a metaphor for the relationship of the Argentine people to the patriarchal populist leader who ruled the nation for two terms. Evita’s public role of devout admirer and fervent servant of her husband and president, General Juan Perón, was to be an example of the blind trust and reverent obedience that the Argentine people should have for their leader. As a couple, they epitomized not only the power of the president over his people, but also the power of the presumably protective husband over his devoted wife. This strategic political metaphor surfaced again in the more recent Argentine history of the 1970s and 1980s, when the military coup that installed General Jorge Videla as president initiated a regime of terror and repression known as the Guerra sucia, or Dirty War. The mechanisms of censorship and repression that Videla and his followers enforced had, in e¬ect, already been put in place when Perón, also a general and backed by the military, was in o~ce. 2

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Again the Argentine people fell prey to the metaphor of the powerful military general who, like a strict father, was to take the welfare of his people in his hands, even if by forceful means. This time the metaphor propogated a new image, that of disease, interestingly the same disease that took Evita’s life, cancer. The metaphor compared the leftist agenda to a threat that was spreading “like a cancer” and would ultimately be the death of the country; thus, it was deemed necessary for the powerful generals to eradicate the threat by any means possible. During the military dictatorship that ruled Argentina from 1976 to 1983, the country was immersed in what was essentially a civil war. The players were the leftist ideologues and revolutionaries, many of whom had organized in cells and resorted to bombings and kidnappings to further their cause. On the other side were the right-wing conservatives, represented by the military and backed by the United States through the Central Intelligence Agency, who placed the country under a state of siege and institutionalized mass repression in order to preserve the status quo and keep the political and economic power in the hands of the elite. Many of the military o~cers who engineered the Dirty War were trained in the infamous School of the Americas in Fort Benning, Georgia. Repression took a new form in Argentina, that of a question mark, the invisible phantom of the desaparecidos, or disappeared persons, which still haunts the country. Along with the revolutionaries organized into movements (the Montoneros, the Ejercito Revolucionario del Pueblo, the Partido Revolucionario de Trabajadores, and others), who resorted to violence for political change, many innocent victims, some high-school-age children, university students, journalists, authors, intellectuals, and others, were tortured and murdered without being accounted for. This gave rise to the specter of the desaparecidos (some 20,000 to 30,000 missing people, it is speculated), victims who were buried in mass graves or dropped from a helicopter with feet in a bucket of concrete into the Río de la Plata. As Fernando Reati notes, disappearance was a fate worse than death, because it deprived the survivors of the rituals of death: the funeral, the burial, the control over the destiny of the body, and the acceptance of finality (Nombrar lo innombrable: Violencia política y novela argentina, 1975–1985 [To Speak the Unspeakable: Political Violence and the Argentine Novel, 1975–1985, published 1992]). Events such as these and the consequences su¬ered by the Argentine people fueled the creative minds of the women authors who often chose to write about the power struggles in politics and their e¬ects on society, the individintroduction

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ual, and particularly the female. They lived daily in an atmosphere of fear and danger and were often witness to atrocities not only in the political scenario, but within the home as well, where many husbands, wives, and children became victims. All of the authors in this collection have been a¬ected by the scenario of repression, and in some fashion they integrate it into their works. Though only a few of them focus specifically on the repression, they all make direct or oblique reference to it. In the case of the two younger writers, Esther Cross and Ana Quiroga, their focus is on the consequences of the repression and its new version, that of economic oppression. The Dirty War ended in disappointment for both the left and the right. Years of political struggle led to economic instability. At the same time, globalization and export/import tari¬s took a toll on the production, employment, and overall economy of Argentina. Hence, the works of Cross, Quiroga, and others like Ana María Shua and Liliana Heker, delve into the current socio-economic crisis, where power takes the shape of the bottom line. The topic of power and its relationship to the subject—and more particularly, to the female subject—has been in the forefront of academic debate since Foucault’s work on knowledge, power, and the body in the early 1970s. Though he is by no means the originator of the debate, his books Discipline and Punish (1975), The History of Sexuality (1975), and Power/Knowledge (1980) have been a turning point in the critique of power. At the same time, Jacques Lacan, the French psychoanalyst who rethought Freud, was developing his theories on language and its symbolic organization of society, and postmodernist thought brought the political issue into the mainstream of art, literature, and language. Feminist criticism has placed this debate within the context of gender and produced a wealth of knowledge emanating from the female experience. Part of the feminist debate has been about the materiality of language, about whether language intertwines the mind and body in a concrete way. If language is embodied, then it binds the body together with our views of power, morality, politics, gender, and the entire social organization. Catherine Hobbs Peaden undertakes an insightful analysis of John Locke’s “Essay Concerning Human Understanding,” where she notes how Locke sets out to devalue what he calls suppressed “feminine” discourse and opposes it to what he considers the superior “masculine” discourse, characterized as plain, clear, and rational (“Understanding Di¬erently: Re-reading Locke’s ‘Essay Concerning Human Understanding,’” 1992). Peaden concludes that rhetoric such as Locke’s has materialized in women’s bodies and constructed them as lack4

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ing and irrational entities. She laments that we still live within the norms and practices created by views such as Locke’s, and suggests that new readings of the female body and the rhetoric and history that describe it must be undertaken. She reasons that this will happen when women’s own writing and rhetoric produce new readings of the female body and its social nexus. This is precisely what feminism has been doing in theoretical discourse and what women authors have been doing in literature. What feminists find interesting about Foucault’s study of power is that he separates power itself from the possessor of power and views it as a tool of control rather than the right of a sovereign. He says that power is exercised rather than possessed and is unstable, for it can be subject to an inversion of power relations (Discipline and Punish). He develops a historical account of how the body has been molded, manipulated, and conceptualized as the site in which power and knowledge are inscribed and exert their control. Like a text, the body reveals the dynamics of power within a given social structure. The female body, in particular, has been the target of social control and manipulation by patriarchal interests. Foucault notes that sexuality, based on the model act of penetration, has been socially constructed as an uneven relationship between a superior and a subordinate, a dominator and a dominated (History of Sexuality). In such a structure of rivalry, the active role has been privileged over the passive one, thus relegating the female to a subservient position. This social metaphor is questioned by Foucault as well as by feminists and many postmodern thinkers, who see the rivalry in terms of the power of language to symbolically construct a social order that privileges the male and undermines the female. The premises of Foucault’s work have been critiqued by both the psychoanalytic feminists and the materialist feminists, for di¬erent reasons. In their rereading of power constructs, the psychoanalytic feminists point out that the dominant social structure overvalues the role of the father in gender formation while it undervalues the role of the mother. Their goal is to invert this bias and privilege the maternal influence in gender formation. The materialist feminists discredit their psychoanalytic counterparts for essentializing the body and disregarding the importance of the political organization of society in gender identity. To the materialist feminists, Foucault’s analysis presents many useful insights but su¬ers from a lack of sensitivity to gender. Postmodernist thinker Jean Baudrillard goes so far as to say that power does not exist (“Forgetting Foucault,” Humanities in Society, 1980) because it is a simulation, a introduction

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simulacrum that undergoes a metamorphosis into signs and is invented on the basis of signs. He contends that power is imagined by the perceiver and that someone or something has led to this perception of power. This suggests that power can be deconstructed by a shift in perception. Such a shift has begun to take place in the body of work by women writers and thinkers not only in Europe and the United States, but also in Latin America. In Gender Trouble (1990), Judith Butler revisits Foucault’s claim that sexuality and power are co-extensive while she critiques Foucault’s views that sexuality is tied to domination. Butler reflects on how sexuality that emerges within the matrix of power relations is not a simple replication of the law; rather, power itself determines the function of sexual relations. She concludes that if sexuality is culturally constructed within existing power relations, it must be rethought within the context of power. She proposes the task of rethinking subversive possibilities for sexuality and identity within the terms of power itself without necessarily replicating structures of domination. Hence, an exploration of gender and sexuality within the framework of power is not an endorsement of patriarchal values, but rather an exploration of alternative dynamics of power. Baudrillard’s contention that power does not exist is obliquely echoed by Jean Franco, who contends that like in Borges’ imaginary world of “Tlon,” the patriarchy has perpetuated the hoax of the master, and women have had to enter the dialogue by resorting to plotting and subterfuge (Plotting Women: Gender and Representation in Mexico, 1989). Franco argues that although in Latin America the feminist academic debate is still incipient, there are women writers and intellectuals who have furthered the cause of women in organic or proactive ways. The examples she gives of such organic intellectuals are the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, the Women’s Movement of Chile, and Rigoberta Menchú in Guatemala. These are women and organizations that found ways to align gender and politics without subordinating either. The status of a Latin American brand of feminist theory is discussed by Anny Brooksbank Jones and Catherine Davies (Latin American Women’s Writing, 1996), who trace the origin of Latin American feminist theory to the 1980s, specifically the 1985 publication of La sartén por el mango (The Skillet by the Handle) by Patricia González and Eliana Ortega. They find that Sara CastroKlarén’s essay in that book is crucial in the evaluation of the relevance and lack of relevance of North American feminist criticism and French feminism to the specific case of Latin America. Castro-Klarén points out that in the 1980s, 6

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Latin American women were a~rming not just their gender di¬erences, but also their ethnic and socio-economic di¬erences from middle-class AngloEuropean feminists who proposed to speak on behalf of all women. In the 1990s, Debra Castillo found that Latin American feminism is best represented by its activism and saw a general bias in favor of a revolutionary course of action rather than a theoretical strategy of action (Talking Back: Toward a Latin American Feminist Literary Criticism, 1992). Therefore, rather than lay out a poetics of Latin American feminism, Castillo proposed a series of strategies (a term borrowed from military vocabulary) through which Latin American literature and activism have expressed themselves. Borrowing from Josefina Ludmer’s idea of the “feints” or “strategies” of the weak (“Las tretas del débil,” in González and Ortega [1985]), Castillo explored six strategies of Latin American women writers: silence, appropriation, cultivation of superficiality, negation, marginality, and the subjunctive mood. Closely tied to the revolutionary act, Latin American feminism has had to act first and theorize second. Castillo’s study presents an insightful analysis of the social expectations of women in Latin American culture and makes a case for the di~culty women face when they act outside of the accepted social roles of virgin, mother, housewife, and matriarch. To transgress social respectability is to be disregarded or considered una loca, a mad or loose woman. In her article “Lesbian Cartographies: Body, Text and Geography” (Cultural and Historical Grounding for Hispanic and Luso-Brazilian Feminist Literary Criticism, 1989), Amy Kaminsky ponders the question that many of us have asked before, that is, why do so many Latin American women writers disassociate themselves from feminism? Her answer echoes Castillo’s point about the threat of deviating from traditional gender roles. She finds that feminism is often seen as a code for lesbianism, and that the penalties for professional women that reject the standard heterosexual social organization are grave in a society where male domination is still overt. Like Franco, Castillo notes that for the poor woman in Latin America, who is concerned with feeding her children and averting dire conditions, feminism is a luxury. However, in most cases, Latin American women writers belong to the middle and upper classes, which are more likely to have the leisure time to write. That is the case for most of the writers in this anthology. More appropriate to this group of writers is Castillo’s contention that for the Latin American woman, writing itself is a revolutionary act. This statement resonates clearly with the Argentine women authors interviewed for this book. After the deaths introduction

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of authors Haroldo Conti and Rodolfo Walsh, murdered by the dictatorship because their fiction was critical of the government, those who chose to stay in the country and write did so knowing that their own lives were at risk. The impact of censorship and repression on the writers of this collection was varied. Elvira Orphée, for example, was detained in a police station during the Perón years because of her connection to the Ocampo family. She was married to Miguel Ocampo, second cousin of Victoria and Silvina Ocampo, an aristocratic family at odds with the Perón regime. Orphée wrote her novel about torture, La última conquista de El Ángel (El Angel´s Last Conquest), drawing from the context of the Perón years, when repression for political control became institutionalized in Argentina. While the early work of Angélica Gorodischer, Marcela Solá, and Luisa Valenzuela takes place within the context of the Perón years, most of their work reflects the time of the Proceso (Proceso de Reorganización Nacional, or Process of National Reorganization), a euphemism used by the military dictatorship for what later became known as the Dirty War. Valenzuela, in particular, was outspoken in her critique of the military dictatorship of the 1970s and 1980s, a fact that eventually led her to move to New York in order to write and publish freely. Tununa Mercado and her husband, critic Noé Jitrik, had to flee Argentina for political reasons, and consequently Mercado began writing about the themes of exile and memory. Alicia Dujovne Ortiz chose to move to Europe during that time because she did not want to live in an atmosphere of fear and censorship. She connected to her roots by writing about Argentine legends like Eva Perón, whose mystique she recreates in her imaginative biography of Evita, which is both critical and empathetic. Liliana Heer’s literary work was influenced by her practice as a psychologist treating patients who were tortured, threatened, or related to someone who had been persecuted or disappeared. Her work often delves, though obliquely, into the psychology of violence and sexual exploitation. Liliana Heker wrote for and edited leftist literary journals, managing a balancing act between veiled critique and oversight of the dictatorship for fear of retaliation. She was involved in a debate with Julio Cortázar, who lived in Paris and accused the Argentine writers of not denouncing the government strongly enough. Heker accused him of not truly understanding the Argentine situation because he was and had been living abroad. This debate caused a divide between the authors who remained in the country and the authors who left. Ultimately, both perspectives provided a more complete view of what took place during those years. Alina Diaconú’s 8

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novels cultivate metaphor and symbolism in order to critique the abuses of power she witnessed in both Romania and Argentina. Like the work of Diaconú, María Kodama’s narratives are poetic and metaphorical. Few people know that María Kodama, the widow and life-long companion of Jorge Luis Borges, has authored short stories. In the story in this collection, she portrays the e¬ects of societal neglect, another form of repression, on the young. In the interview for this anthology, Kodama refers to Borges’ problems during the Perón regime and to the role the military dictatorship played in their lives during the years in which they traveled abroad, frequently finding themselves engaged in discussions about the Proceso. Cristina Siscar lost her husband when he became a desaparecido. She herself was threatened, forced to leave the country and go into exile abroad, leaving her son behind. Ana María Shua wrote and published extensively at the time, yet was careful about what she said and the topics she chose. Nevertheless, her novel Soy paciente (Patient) was considered by the dictatorship to be an indirect critique of their policies. Alicia Kozameh, a political activist, was imprisoned for three years because of her involvement with the Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores, or PRT (Workers’ Revolutionary Party). During and after her imprisonment, writing became a way of coping with her situation. Eventually, thanks to the e¬orts of organizations like Amnesty International, she was released from prison. However, she continued to be threatened by the authorities and felt pressured to leave the country, ultimately taking asylum in California. Esther Cross and Ana Quiroga belong to a younger generation of Argentine writers who did not have many memories of the dictatorship. In their works, the repression years loom as a menacing past. At the same time, the younger writers, particularly Cross and Quiroga, but also Shua and others, reflect in their more recent works a new form of repression that has taken hold of Argentina, an economic decline that has resulted from both globalization and ine¬ective government policies. The economic policies in the 1990s of President Carlos Menem, who aligned himself with the interests of the United States as well as the International Monetary Fund, resulted in privatization, deregulation, and an artificially inflated currency. This led to the 2001 crash of the Argentine economy, which ushered in significant increases in homelessness, unemployment, poverty, and crime. The more recent works reflect the e¬ects of economic oppression on the Argentine social structure. For example, Ana María Shua’s novel La muerte como efecto secundario (Death as a Side E¬ect) takes place in a not-too-distant future in a Buenos Aires reminiscent of introduction

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Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Here the elderly are moved out of society and into nursing homes, crime is so rampant that all people have security guards, automobiles are bullet-proof and reinforced with steel, and food is scarce. According to Shua, such violence and deterioration are already present in our society today. Similarly, Esther Cross’s film Los humillados y ofendidos (The Insulted and Injured) depicts this new kind of victim, economic rather than political. She documents the e¬ects of the Argentine economic crisis of 2001, when the unemployment and poverty indices in Argentina rose to above 25 and 50 percent, respectively. This created a new class of poor that Cross calls the nuevos desaparecidos (new disappeared), in reference to the homeless families with no residence, hence no documents and no place in society. Finally, Ana Quiroga, the youngest author in the collection, who began to publish in the 2000s, depicts in her work how the political past has molded the current socio-economic exigencies of the Argentine middle class. In her fiction she reflects the new roles that younger women have chosen, both in the professional world and in personal and familial relationships. Ester Gimbernat González contends that the Argentine women writers of the repression were driven to write because they wanted to bring to light the truth that had been obfuscated by the discourse of the totalitarian regime. She explains that much of women’s writing of this time intended to subvert the o~cial story or propaganda and give voice to that which censorship attempted to silence (Aventuras del desacuerdo: Novelistas argentinas de los 80, 1992). On the other hand, Fernando Reati’s detailed analysis of violence in the Argentine novel of the Proceso posits whether it is feasible to truly represent the horror of violence in writing. He notes that the writers of the repression in Argentina find new strategies to name the unnameable, to put into words the inconceivable violence. One way in which they do this is by developing symbolic solutions to the conflicts of repression and authoritarianism. According to Reati, these works make conscious that which had previously been relegated to the unconscious (Nombrar lo innombrable: Violencia política y novela argentina, 1975– 1985, published 1992). The literature of this period brings to light the horrors that the Argentine society dared not acknowledge openly at the time. Diane Taylor explains that eventually the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo took it upon themselves to give corporeality to the missing bodies of the desaparecidos by marching in front of the presidential palace with poster-sized photographs of their missing children (Disappearing Acts: Spectacles of Gender and Nationalism in Argentina’s “Dirty War,” 1997). Like these photographs, the literature of the re10

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pression embodies within texts the e¬ects and consequences of the abuses of power, whether social, political, or economic. This collection of fiction and the detailed interviews with each author weave together a tapestry of topics that shed light on the last five decades of Argentine history and culture. It brings to light a social structure marked by domination as it surfaces in political, social, and gender relationships. The stories and excerpts of the collection expand the notion of power relationships and broaden it. They portray a preoccupation with power, its use and its abuse, not only in its political manifestations but also in relationships of a personal and intimate nature, thus revealing that the personal and the political are inextricably interwoven. They show how the dynamics of domination and subjugation, much as Hegel explained in his master-and-slave dichotomy, are transferred from one realm of the social structure to another, from the political to the personal and from the personal to the political. The power struggles represented in this volume surface in relationships between political leaders and the masses, torturers and their victims, repressive governments and the people, as well as in day-to-day relationships between parents and children, male and female lovers, teachers and students, and employers and employees. The interviews and stories in this book have been gathered with the specific purpose of voicing women’s struggles against the power structures that determine social interaction. The collection o¬ers the diverse perspectives of these Argentine women writers, keeping in mind that there is no feminine absolute, but rather a multiplicity of women’s voices and experiences. The scope of this critical anthology, though by no means exhaustive, is that of the last five decades of the twentieth century and the first years of the twenty-first century. Though there are many other talented women writers who could have been included in this volume (Norah Langue, Silvina Ocampo, Silvina Bullrich, Luisa Mercedes Levinson, Beatriz Guido, Marta Lynch, Estela Canto, Marta Mercader, Marta Traba, Syria Poletti, Alicia Steimberg, Reina Ro¬é, Hebe Uhart, Cecilia Absatz, Susana Szwarc, Vlady Kociancich, Sylvia Iparraguirre, Susana Silvestre, and others), the selection was made with attention to the theme of power, broadly defined, to the type of power relationship the story or excerpt depicts, and to the aesthetic and formal merit of each piece, in an e¬ort to include a broad array of topics and literary styles. The first author, Elvira Orphée, began publishing in the 1950s, when the Peróns were still in power. The majority of the writers that follow wrote during the time of the Dirty War. The more recent writers, such as Esther Cross, who began to introduction

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publish in the 1990s, and Ana Quiroga, who began to publish in the 2000s, bring into their work the latest manifestation of power plays, that of social alienation brought about by the economic decline. Each chapter begins with what I call a verbal portrait, a description that conveys my personal impressions of the author. After hours of conversation with each writer, conversations I sustained for a period of four years traveling frequently to Argentina, I came to know these women personally as they took me into their homes and shared with me their work, their passion, and their lives. Thus, I felt compelled to capture my impressions in these verbal portraits in order to go beyond the two-dimensional image of a photograph and peer into the inner, abstract qualities of each individual author. The verbal portrait is followed by a biographical essay that includes critical commentary on the author’s main works, and particularly the stories or excerpts included in the collection. Next follows the interview with the author, which is of pivotal importance to this collection. The interviews are extensive as well as comprehensive and were specifically designed not only to create a personal view of the author, but also to provide a critical review of each writer’s work, which takes place in the form of a conversation between the author and me, the interviewing critic. I conducted these interviews in Spanish and translated the tapes into English after I transcribed them. All of the interviews develop four parallel thematic threads that inform the focus of the collection: relationships of power, gender or feminist concerns, e¬ects of the political scenario on the work, and aesthetic evaluation of the work. The author and the critic discuss the thematic threads of the collection and how each writer evolved from personal and anecdotal experience to the universal inquiries about human nature that surface in their work. The next section presents the story, or in some cases an excerpt from a novel. Each story was selected because it represents a specific type of power relationship. In Chapter One, Elvira Orphée’s story “Justice Shall Be Done” portrays a group of women from a provincial town who, angered by how violent acts are perpetrated on the innocent with impunity, take justice into their own hands, much like the biblical notion of “an eye for an eye.” In Chapter Two, Angélica Gorodischer’s story “How to Succeed in Life” is an insightful depiction of the power plays between an upper-class family and its servants. In Chapter Three, Marcela Solá’s “Natural Paradises” explores an interesting power reversal in the case of a torture victim and the torturer, whereas the excerpt from her novel El silencio de Kind deals with the infiltration of Nazi ideol12

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ogy in the Argentine military through the relationship between a teenage girl and her friend, a former Nazi general. Chapter Four includes two stories by Luisa Valenzuela, “Tango,” a tale about seduction and male domination in a brief encounter in a tango salon, and “The Key,” in which Valenzuela deals with the issue of women’s writing and woman’s power in a salute to the courage of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. Chapter Five, on Tununa Mercado, contains two short stories: “Combatant Love,” about the dynamics of domination and subjugation in erotic relationships, and “Delirious Love,” which develops the idea of love as an overpowering obsession. Chapter Six includes two brief selections of Alicia Dujovne Ortiz’s Eva Perón: A Biography, an inclusion justified because of the fictional overtones the author admittedly gives to her book. In “The Blond Madonna,” Dujovne Ortiz reflects on how Evita’s physical transformation when she became a blonde ultimately led to her image as a Madonna. In “White, Black, Red,” she discusses the powerfully polarizing e¬ect that Evita had on the Argentine people. Chapter Seven, on Liliana Heer, features her story “Red Summer,” a psychological study of the coming of age of a young woman who breaks away from her domineering mother. In Chapter Eight, Liliana Heker’s story “Far Away” depicts the struggles of a schoolteacher in a poor rural district who fights valiantly to keep her school from being shut down by the local authorities. Chapter Nine presents Alina Diaconú’s story “The Evil Eye,” a narrative that reflects on the power of the curandera, or faith healer, and the psychological and emotional e¬ects of faith healing on someone who is ill. In Chapter Ten, María Kodama’s story “Leonor” portrays a young girl who su¬ers neglect from her parents and little by little drifts into madness, thus reflecting on the powerful e¬ect of parental neglect on a child. Chapter Eleven includes Cristina Siscar’s story “Hoop, Thread, and Canvas,” a piece about a young girl whose father is involved in the military repression and the e¬ect this has on her and her mother. Also by Siscar is the brief narrative “The Bra,” which describes the mixed feelings of power and vulnerability a young girl experiences when she acquires her first bra. Chapter Twelve features Ana María Shua’s story “The Spinal Column,” about a woman who re-encounters a former lover who had been her revolutionary comrade during the Dirty War many years earlier. Also by Shua is the excerpt from her novel La muerte como efecto secundario, where she depicts a futuristic society in which the abuses of power have engendered a chaotic society. Chapter Thirteen includes a story by Alicia Kozameh titled “Impressions of Heights,” where she draws from her own experience to develop a narrative introduction

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about the excruciating conditions of the cell in which thirty women were imprisoned during the Dirty War. In Chapter Fourteen, there are two stories by Esther Cross, “The Recipe” and “Appearances,” both about the power of love and its transformational e¬ects on both genders. In these two stories, Cross reflects a more contemporary view of the role of woman, one that suggests the possibility of male empowerment of the female and of less-rigid gender expectations. Finally, Chapter Fifteen includes a story by Ana Quiroga, “A Little Bit Farther,” about a policewoman who feels her capabilities have been undermined by her male colleagues and who purposefully ventures into a murder scene in order to prove her worth. Like Cross, Quiroga questions traditional female roles, reflecting the possibility of more progressive options for women in Argentina today. The topic of women and power is as complex and diverse as it is fascinating, particularly in a society like Argentina’s, where women are expected to be strong and intelligent, to pursue a career and at the same time be feminine, domestic, and maternal. My observation, after years of research and reflection, is that the women writers of Argentina have excelled in mirroring the many faces of women vis-à-vis power because they have been driven by the desire to understand themselves and their place within the family, the workplace, and society, much like women writers anywhere else. Yet, what makes the case of Argentine women writers unique is a certain ethos of being Argentine that generates a paradoxical self-questioning. Many authors have written about this ethos. Marcos Aguinis, for example, in an insightful study of the Argentine mystique titled El atroz encanto de ser argentinos (The Atrocious Charm of Being Argentine, 2001), comments that “Nos duele la Argentina y nuestro pueblo. Por eso es atroz nuestro querer” (“Argentina and our people pain us. That is why our love is atrocious”). He notes that the name Argentina itself has magic because it denotes argentum, the Latin word for silver that signals riches and fortune (as sought by the Spaniards). The name Río de la Plata (Silver River) multiplies the vision of a river of silver at the banks of the nation. Coined by poet Martín del Barco Centenera, the word “Argentina” holds beauty, melody, promise, a¬ection, and deceit. Why is the quality of deceit included, one might ask? Aguinis explains this by stating that Argentines are very proud of their country, their culture, and their intellectual and natural wealth, but at the same time they are disappointed by the nation’s failure to reach its potential. And here lies the paradoxical nature of the Argentine ethos. 14

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Argentina is, in a sense, the prodigal son of Latin America. It is a country almost as vast as the United States and almost as rich in natural resources (one of the richest countries in the world in the early decades of the twentieth century), where education, culture, and literacy are highly valued; yet it has failed dramatically to reach its potential, has failed to produce a qualified government, and is currently mired in yet another economic crisis. Like the prodigal son, Argentina had it all and then lost it. However, Argentines are still fiercely proud of their heritage, and it is this heritage, perhaps a reflection of the authoritarian power structures that pervade the culture, that captures the imagination of the writers collected in this volume. Like the chorus of a Greek play, Alejandro Dolina, a well-respected contemporary Argentine essayist who writes social commentary, has become the spokesman for the Argentine collective unconscious. Dolina’s essays provide a cultural context within which the Argentine mystique takes a concrete form. He evokes charming old colonial neighborhoods, balconies clad in black ironwork and geraniums overlooking tree-lined plazas, the quaint turn-of-thecentury cafés, the urban legends of Buenos Aires, the seductive sway of the tango, the cadences of the melancholic bandoneón (a musical instrument for tango), the Sunday flea markets and merry-go-rounds, the decaying neighborhoods where families sit at night on their sidewalks to visit with neighbors, the sound of the whistle of the knife sharpener who strolls the streets, and the hustle and bustle of the city center flanked by wide avenues, palaces turned o~ce buildings, and sidewalk cafés. In one of Dolina’s stories from his book Crónicas del ángel gris (Chronicles of the Grey Angel, 2003), he describes a young woman from the neighborhood of Flores who was so beautiful that those who looked upon her were said to have died. Because of her extreme beauty, she was also exceedingly lonely and sad. There were, however, some brave souls who attempted to knock on her door and look at her anyway. In a sense, this story can be seen as a metaphor for Argentina. The writers who choose to knock on her door and look at her become vulnerable; they expose themselves and their country, which is perceived as both beautiful and horrible at the same time. Author Luisa Valenzuela has referred to Argentina as a country of poets and cannibals because, she explains, every so often the cannibals get hold of power, and silence and kill the poets. The women writers collected here, like Valenzuela’s poets, have exposed their very souls in spite of the threat of the cannibals. In so doing, they have opened up the window through which the social fabric of a paradoxically fascinating culture can be seen with the naked eye. introduction

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In her pioneering work The Second Sex (1949), Simone de Beauvoir claims that one is not born a woman but rather becomes a woman; existence precedes essence. Thus, becoming a woman is a process that evolves through time and is subject to change and new interpretations. Patriarchal interpretations of the female can be subverted and displaced; however, redefining centuries of gender identity is not an easy task. The authors collected in this book make significant strides toward redefining what it means to be a woman within the context of Argentine society in the last fifty years. Throughout my years of research on Argentine women writers, I have been struck by the depth of thought, the intellectual seriousness, the artistic merit, and the courageous sincerity of the work of these writers. I have also been disappointed by the lack of recognition they have experienced within the literary and cultural life of Argentina and abroad. This book is an attempt not only to bring their work to a wider readership, but also to further the project of rethinking and rewriting the dynamics of power from the perspective of women who choose to speak their truth, regardless of the consequences.

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Elvira Orphée Elvira Orphée has dark, wide eyes that are intense and penetrating. Her gaze projects intelligence and passion. When she speaks, her soft voice seems to be sharing a mysterious secret intended only for the listener, who feels privileged to have her attention. When outraged or delighted, her voice transforms into a forceful torrent of emotionality. She is a woman of few, but exact, words. Every utterance is measured and precise.

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Elvira Orphée | The Author and Her Work Elvira Orphée was born in 1922 in the city of Tucumán, the capital of the northern province of Tucumán, known for the beauty of its green hills, lush countryside, and hot weather. Her father was a scientist of Greek origin whose family had immigrated from France to Argentina. Her mother was a devout Catholic whom she remembers as a disciplinarian with a sense of humor. She considers her roots to be both Greek and Incan, as Tucumán was the southernmost region of the Inca Empire. She credits her fascination for the mystical and metaphysical aspects of life to having grown up in the land of the Incas. Orphée’s mother died when she was fifteen years old, and since she was not particularly close to her father, she moved to Buenos Aires at age sixteen, after finishing high school, to pursue her university studies. Two experiences have marked both her work and her personality: growing up in the provincia, and having been a frail child plagued by illness. For Orpheé, Tucumán was a mysterious and desolate place filled with ghost-like creatures of her imagination that she fashioned as a young child to explain the mysteries of people, places, and events she could not comprehend. Orphée believed that her life in the provincia was filled with imaginative substance but not with events. Nothing happened unless one made it happen. This is why she decided to become a writer; she wanted to create a world for herself that had meaning and substance. Tucumán also marked her because it was there that she began to su¬er from a series of digestive infections and other illnesses that continued for many years. Instead of humbling her, though, Orphée’s frail health made her angry and rebellious and transformed her into a passionate fighter, whose vision is seen in work that has an incisive understanding of the underdog, the victim who seeks to vindicate herself relentlessly. Her characters are passionate in their search for both power and love, as they struggle to transcend the triviality of their lives and circumstances. When Orphée left the province to seek her degree of Professor of Philosophy and Letters at the Universidad de Buenos Aires, her world became much larger than it had been in Tucumán. In 1947 she received a scholarship to study Hispanic literature in Spain, and in 1948 she was granted a French government scholarship for foreign students to study French literature at the Sorbonne. While in Paris, she encountered Miguel Ocampo, whom she had met earlier in Buenos Aires. The two were married soon after. Miguel Ocampo was in Paris studying painting, his life-long passion. A descendent of the famous elvira orphée

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Argentine Ocampo family, his father was a cousin to Victoria and Silvina Ocampo, two of the most prestigious literary figures of Argentina. Orphée does not credit her literary accomplishments to them, however, as she claims they only expressed interest in the work of internationally acclaimed writers, and she was young and just beginning to write at the time she came into the family. Nevertheless, she has fascinating memories of her friendship with Victoria Ocampo, who encouraged her in her literary career. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, Orphée lived in Buenos Aires. This was the time of Juan Domingo Perón. Orphée belonged to a social sector that was persecuted by Perón; she was a writer and intellectual and a member of the land-owning Ocampo family, whose properties were threatened with expropriation by Perón’s government. In her novels La última conquista de El Ángel (El Angel’s Last Conquest) and Uno (One), Orphée describes the atmosphere of repression found in Argentina during Perón’s regime and also foreshadows the repressive conditions experienced during the military dictatorships of the 1970s and early 1980s. In the decades of the 1950s and 1960s, Orphée lived sporadically in Italy and France. Her husband, Miguel Ocampo, pursued his career as diplomat in both Rome and, later, Paris. During this stage of her life, she came into contact with a circle of notable authors and artists, such as Federico Fellini, Italo Calvino, Alberto Moravia, Elsa Morante, Julio Cortázar, and Octavio Paz. These and other such personalities nurtured her natural inclination toward the highest aspirations of art and culture. Orphée had three daughters with Miguel Ocampo, and worked as a consultant for the French publishing house Gallimard for several years. It was at this time that she began seriously to write and publish her own work. After separating from Ocampo in the 1970s, Orphée lived for several years in Venezuela and continued to pursue her writing career both there and in Buenos Aires, where she eventually settled. Orphée’s Dos veranos (Two Summers), published in 1956, is a sensitive first novel about a young protagonist from the Argentine northwest. He is seen in two decisive moments of his life that define his destiny. The childhood atmosphere in the novel denotes cruelty and anger; the boy wants to be rich and respected, but this is not his fate. Humiliated and resentful, he rebels against an order that has left him outside, marginalized, and unprotected. Uno (One), published in 1961, received an honorable mention in the literary contest sponsored by the publisher, Fabril Editora. This ambitious novel portrays what life

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in Argentina was like during the first years of Juan Domingo Perón’s presidency and how his government a¬ected the Argentine people. Aire tan dulce (Air So Sweet, 1967), which received a Municipality of the City of Buenos Aires Award, is Orphée’s personal favorite because of its lyricism and sarcasm. In this novel, she deviates from the social themes about which she had felt compelled to write before. Here she portrays life in the province through the monologues of three characters, an adolescent girl, a young boy, and an older woman. The themes of passionate love and hate, resentment for the limitation of inescapable circumstances, pain and su¬ering caused by illness, and a longing for a better life generate a work of depth, poetry, and existential significance. In 1969, Orphée published En el fondo (Down Deep), which also received the City of Buenos Aires Award. It was considered by the author to be akin to a long poem that portrays the paradoxical qualities of the world in which we live. Its structural and technical polish contributes to the originality of the work. Su demonio preferido (Her Favorite Demon, 1973) is a collection of short stories that in one way or another include some sort of demon, either a perceived demon, a demoniacal character, or the hell-like hatred for someone. These stories explore passion, hatred, cruelty, and the human condition in an innovative and insightful way. La última conquista de El Ángel (El Angel’s Last Conquest) was published in Caracas in 1977, a time when the military repression in Argentina was in full swing. Though she published it one year after the military coup of General Videla, which began the era of the Dirty War in Argentina, it refers to the mechanisms of torture set in place in the Perón years. These were reactivated and utilized in the 1970s to exert power and control over the subversive political groups in Argentina perceived by the military to be a communist threat. This narrative about torture and torturers reflects a new perspective on the topic as it focuses on the torturer rather than on the victim. Here Orphée portrays the surreal atmosphere of fear and pain generated in a very real and ancient act, that of torture. In 1981, Orphée published Las viejas fantasiosas (The Beguiling Ladies), a collection of stories that weave fantasy and magic together, going beyond everyday reality and the monotony of life. These tales develop in strange and remote places with characters that are both captivating and surprising. Her 1989 novel La muerte y los desencuentros (Death and Lost Encounters) is a new and transformed version of En el fondo. It is the story of two families who live at the

elvira orphée

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foot of the Andes Mountains. The characters play out their destinies with passion as well as with carelessness, as the novel reflects on the division and alienation inherent to all who live a marginalized existence. In 1991, Orphée published a collection of short stories titled Ciego del cielo (Blind One in Heaven). The title points to a God who could only be blind to allow such injustice on Earth. In this book, Orphée collects a series of stories that revolve around the topic of justice—or, more specifically, the lack of justice. The story included in this chapter, “Justice Shall Be Done,” is from this collection. Set in a provincial rural area of the country, this piece describes what happens in the town when a rapist goes unpunished. The victims become the victimizers when a group of women empower themselves by taking justice into their own hands. The story ends in an ironic tour de force, although it remains ambiguous whether vengeance does indeed bring about justice. Orphée’s extensive work of fiction is an important contribution to the history of Argentine literature, not only because of her original interpretation of life in the province, or because of her exploration of the psychology of cruelty and resentment, but particularly because she is a master crafter of the word. Her prose moves from the lyrical and metaphysical to an objective and cruel realism. In either mode, Orphée’s writing is introspective, reflective, poetic, rhythmic, and precise. She has also experimented with style and technique, developing creative forms of metaphorical writing, interior monologue, and structure. The theme of power pervades all of Orphée’s work, but it is particularly clear in La última conquista de El Ángel. These narratives reflect a concrete power, that of exerting great physical pain on the victim. At the same time, there is another equally devastating power in these scenes, a more abstract one of a psychological nature, the power of intimidation that is produced in the victim when he or she is made to hear the sounds or view the instruments of torture. The power of the imagination to instill fear is a clear and premeditated instrument of torture. What is surprising about Orphée’s exploration of the psyche of the torturers is that these characters, aside from their hideous jobs, have the same weaknesses and loves as the rest of humanity. The author seems to suggest that to be human is not necessarily to be humane, but rather that the human being is capable of great cruelty.

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Conversation with Elvira Orphée Gwendolyn Díaz: One of the most valuable aspects of your work is your depiction of life in the Argentine provinces. While most well-known Argentine literature tends to be urban and often cosmopolitan, centered in Buenos Aires, you have chosen to focus on situations and characters from smalltown provincial life, and in so doing have brought light to a reality that is often neglected. Why does life in the province fascinate you so? Elvira Orphée: Life in the province is immensely fascinating. Growing up in Tucumán seemed magical to me as a child. The province and its superstitions gave me a sense of mystery and poetic experience. For example, in one of my novels I have a character that has been invited to dine at the home of a friend. The dinner takes place in the central courtyard, like those in colonial Spanish-style homes, at night, under the stars. During the course of the evening, the house cat insists on getting her attention. The character, exasperated by the cat’s persistence, picks the cat up and drapes it over her head. The cat remains there perfectly pleased. It has achieved its end. At this point, the woman utters: “The federal stars [a local red flower] are spying on us.” This absurd yet existentially poetic episode is an example of what the province could give me that I could not find in Buenos Aires. The province is rich in imagination; the di¬erence between the rural areas and the big city is much like that of the poor child who plays with a doll made of wires and the rich child who plays with a store-bought doll; the poor child must develop more imagination. gd: When I think of Aire tan dulce (Air So Sweet) or Las viejas fantasiosas (The Beguiling Ladies), I think of the rich texture of our fantasies and of the bizarre nature of the unconscious. In those works, it seems as though time, space, and even the light are experienced in a di¬erent way. García Márquez portrays this border between fantasy and reality in his work, but few have done it in Argentina. Your work, though very di¬erent from García Márquez’s and not at all magical realism, is grounded in the real yet borders closely with the fantastic, something that is often evident in the works that portray the province. Would you comment on this? eo: It seemed to me as a child that my town was inhabited by ghosts. I could not walk at night next to the iron gate of the convent without sensing the ghosts. I could not walk down the long corridor of my grandmother’s house and reach the last patio bathed in moonlight and smelling of orange elvira orphée

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blossoms without sensing phantoms. Like ghosts, the province is profoundly mysterious. gd: Are these ghosts a revelation of our soul, symbolic images from our subconscious? How would you define “ghost”? eo: I would define this phenomenon as something that has been pursuing the human being since the beginning of time. It is that essence that has to do with religion and the need to understand life and death, where we come from and to where we are going. This phenomenon is quintessentially poetic. gd: You have a unique ability to render provincial life as a poetic and metaphysical experience. This experience seems to transgress routine life and reach a level of deep subconscious meaning. eo: Yes, and at the same time life in the provinces can be very cruel. I was a sickly child; I su¬ered from malaria and stomach illnesses and had to spend a lot of time in bed. In those days people believed that sickness was a sign of sin and guilt, that it was divine retribution. In the close-knit society of the province, people gossiped a lot and imagined even more. This made life di~cult. Though my experiences there seemed at times perverse, they also gave me much to think and write about. Ironically, the isolation and ostracism I su¬ered led to my life-long passion for reading and writing. I suppose one could say that I chose to utilize the province rather than su¬er it. gd: That was a wise and fortunate choice. You mentioned that provincial life can be cruel; indeed, cruelty and anger are two themes that are quite prominent in your work. I think of Atalita Pons and Felix Gauna of Aire tan dulce, who preferred to wallow in their anger rather than admit the love they felt within them. I think of the torturers in La última conquista de El Ángel, who felt no remorse for their evil acts. Anger, rage, humiliation, and rebellion are core feelings in your work. What has led you to want to delve into the dark side of the human soul? Why are you intrigued by cruelty and hatred? eo: Intrigued is not the word. I would say I am perplexed. I am perplexed by how a person can murder, torture, and continue to live. I am perplexed by injustice; perhaps that is why I wrote Ciego del cielo (Blind One in Heaven), where justice is taken into the hands of those who have su¬ered the o¬ense. I am perplexed by the murder of children and have often thought that the murderers should be delivered to the parents of the victimized 26

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child so that they could define the appropriate punishment. Perhaps cruelty is more complex than goodness, unless it is the goodness of a saint who kisses a leper. As for anger, many of my characters feel that life has cheated them, that no matter how much they try, they will never be able to overcome their circumstances. This is the case of the orphan Sixto Rivera, in Dos veranos (Two Summers), who feels humiliated; of Atala, in Aire tan dulce, who has been destined to pain and illness and rebels against her fate through her rage; and of Felix Gauna [in Aire tan dulce], who realizes he will never amount to anything. gd: As you have mentioned, the anger and rebellion of these characters points toward another constant in your work, the reality of injustice and how injustice a¬ects the human soul. Injustice also surfaces in relationships of domination. Do you believe, like Hegel, that all relationships are characterized by domination; that in all human exchanges, one person takes the position of master and the other of slave? eo: I tend to believe that there is a lot of truth in Hegel’s dialectic. Once, when I lived in Central America, I saw a young boy who grabbed a cat by its tail and whirled it around in the air mercilessly. I went up to the boy, took him by his arm, and turned him around a bit, so that he could feel what it was like to inflict pain. I think the desire to dominate is a reality. What else is sado-masochism? I detest domination, and yet I notice a certain tendency to dominate when others allow it. gd: And what about love? In the following quote from Aire tan dulce, Atalita begins by commenting on love and ends by clinging to hatred: “Love? What I discovered as I walked toward the balcony of my home inebriated me even more than love, than violence, than happiness. Diamond, purecut, lacerating hatred. Lacerated I approached, with my soul ecstatic with hatred. . . . Now I have a diamond to protect me from an illness that might cause me to rot. Hatred destroys rot” [1967 ed., pp. 146–47, trans. Díaz]. What place does love have in your work? eo: My work portrays the absence of love. My characters pursue absolute love, and inevitably they fail to attain it. Such is the case of Atalita, who never admits her love for her grandmother. Her pride and her anger at her fate prevent her from caving in to the vulnerability implicit in love. To her, pain and hatred are more exact emotions. gd: Your work depicts many women who have been victimized by men. This may take the form of simple lack of respect, of infidelity, or of physical elvira orphée

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abuse. In one case, you portray a misogynistic gynecologist who finds women repulsive and murders them. Why do women su¬er so much injustice? eo: My opinion is generalized. Men are physically stronger, women are physically weaker, children are weaker than women, and some animals are weaker than children. Therefore it is easy for the stronger to victimize the weaker; it is also cowardly. It is an elemental masculine belief that force is power; what men do not realize is that it is cowardice. gd: What do you understand feminism to be? eo: I believe feminism is an authentic assessment of women. Women have been falsely evaluated. In my work, I attempt to rescue women from false portrayals; it is part of my desire for justice. gd: Such a desire can be seen in the story included here, “Será justicia” (Justice Shall Be Done), from Ciego del cielo, where a group of women break away from traditional views of female passivity and powerlessness. These female characters take justice into their own hands and surprise the reader not only with their aggressive actions, but also with the swift and violent punishment they execute on the perpetrator of the crime. eo: I believe that men and women are equal: equal in their capacity for good, and equal in their capacity for evil. This story, however, is about justice. It is the women who take action toward justice, no matter how terrible it may be. gd: Are women’s narratives di¬erent from men’s? What di¬erences do you see in the writing by males and females? eo: There are definitely di¬erences. To begin with, male writing is imbued with references to a man-like God. Male writers make continual references to a powerful, patriarchal God, which is a reflection of their own ego. In women’s writing, the concept of God is less that of a powerful male humanoid and more a sense of the divine, of divinity within a moment, a landscape, an experience. Insane asylums are filled with men who believe themselves to be God. Second, they di¬er in their attitude toward the opposite sex. Men’s writing portrays an attitude of condemnation and disgust toward women. Norman Mailer’s work, for example, displays great disdain for women. He describes them as nasty beasts that need to be possessed or dominated. I have not found that same depiction of men by women writers. Their narratives may treat men in a condescending way, but not with such scorn. Other di¬erences have to do with plot and theme; 28

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male narratives tend to center on action, whereas female narratives tend to revolve around passion. Let me be more precise: with males the action is explicit, with women the action is underlying. I once wrote a metaphysical story about two boats loaded with passengers that were sailing apart from each other in a river. A symbolic tragedy was in the making. I asked a male writer friend to read it, and he said he would have had the boats race each other. gd: I suppose we could say he missed the boat. Was the fact that you never changed your name a conscious act, an act of defiance? Your husband’s family, the Ocampos, was a very prominent family in Argentina. To be Mrs. de Ocampo in Argentina could have meant a lot. eo: It was an act of self-definition. I did not change my name because I began to write as Elvira Orphée and I saw no need to change my name. However, when I lived in Paris during the first few years of my marriage to Miguel Ocampo, I was known as Madame Ocampo, and this curried me some favor because it was the time of the war and Victoria Ocampo had donated clothing and food to the French. gd: When did you decide you wanted to become a writer? eo: When I realized that I had a tendency to be more of a ghost than a person, an invisible presence (something that often happens to women). If I said something, no one heard it. If someone else said the same thing, it was recognized and celebrated. This happened early in life, and it made me determined to be heard. gd: Another aspect of your work that I consider to be of significant merit is the aesthetic quality of your writing. Your style is introspective, metaphorical, and delves into the subjective consciousness of the characters. You weave together oneiric imagery and realistic events and emotions to portray both the internal and external forces that move your characters. Your prose is lyrical, highly poetic, and concise; each sentence, each word is carefully crafted. How would you describe your aesthetic goals? eo: What I strive for in my writing is poetry and metaphysics. I am not interested in stringing together events into a plot. I want my writing to have music and to have depth. I write in the mornings, shortly after awaking, so often I evoke my dreams and their imagery to inspire me as I write. Regarding word use and choice, I prefer to say a lot with very few words. I detest neologisms, the use of nouns as verbs, and incorrect grammar. I dislike the obvious, such as in the description of physical traits; I prefer that elvira orphée

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details be surmised. I love conciseness, precision, good syntax, and a significant dose of lyricism. gd: How do power and the abuse of power surface within your work? eo: I do not tolerate the abuse of power. Underlying much of my work is a rebellion against di¬erent forms of power. In La última conquista de El Ángel, for instance, I deal with torture, which, like abuse against children or animals, is an abomination that transgresses divine order. As one of the characters in this book comments, torture belongs to a supernatural order. During the government of Perón, I witnessed the abuse of power and wrote about it in some of my works. This same phenomenon took place again in Argentina during the Dirty War of the seventies. I had no sympathy for either side. To me, the revolutionaries and the military were equally detestable. Both sides were guilty of bloody abuses of power. gd: What circumstances led you to write La última conquista de El Ángel? eo: This work was inspired by the events that took place in Argentina during the years of Perón’s presidency. Miguel Ocampo and I were part of a group of students that were opposed to Perón. One day we were informed that there were some strange things taking place at a certain home. We went to find out what was going on and to be of help if needed. We suspected the police were threatening some of our student friends. When we saw the police escorting students out of the house, we followed them in our car to see where they were being taken. Suddenly, we heard sirens behind us; the police had spotted us. We were detained and taken to the Federal Police Station, where we were photographed and questioned. Since my health was frail, I felt weak and fainted. They told Miguel they were torturing me and that he must tell them who sent us to spy on them. Miguel had the foresight to mention a name that inspired fear in them, and we were immediately released. gd: What is striking about this novel is that it was just as relevant during the time of the Dirty War as it was during the time of Perón. Did the repression of the seventies play any part in this book? eo: Not really. I had already written most of this piece at that time. It was published in Venezuela in 1977, during the most violent years of the Dirty War; however, like many Argentines, I was not aware at the time of just how dangerous the situation was. I suppose I was fortunate to have escaped consequences.

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gd: La última conquista de El Ángel does not depict torture from the point of view of either the victim or the government who orders it, but rather from the point of view of the men whose job it is to execute the act of torture. Why did you choose this perspective? eo: My book was neither about politics nor about exposing the government. What I wanted to write about was why a man would become a torturer, what such a man might be like, whether he slept well at night or loved his family. How did he justify his acts? Did these torturers have feelings for the bloody bodies they worked on, or were they simply objects in a fearsome ritual of power? These were the questions that led me to write this novel. At the same time, I had come across a little book of memoirs of torture written by Santiago Nudelman. He made a factual recounting of testimonies of the prisoners, articles of clothing torn to shreds, instruments stained with blood, and so on. This objective account devoid of emotion was far more powerful than any literature I had read on the topic. This book filled me with abhorrence for male domination and the abuse of power. I felt compelled to decipher what kinds of beings could commit such acts. gd: Elvira, your work as a writer exposes the human soul with an honest, dispassionate, and poetic eye, and for that reason you occupy a unique place in Argentine literature.

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Justice Shall Be Done

I cheerfully made my way through the neighborhood on my convalescent’s crutch. It was almost as if I wasn’t using it, considering the happy bounce in my step. Antonia must have been watching out for me because even before I’d arrived, she was already in the doorway. With crestfallen face and without so much as a greeting, she said, “I’ve so often wished that our daily injustices would be replaced by even a little justice. And I’ve never been granted my wish. But you know what did come true. And it made me sick. Maybe wishes never turn out the way you think they will, but more in a way that can drive you crazy. It makes you wonder who really listens to them.” “Don’t be silly, woman, your wish came true, and your son will thank you for it.” “Oh, dear, getting involved with supernatural beings is like getting directly involved with the devil! How can I know if my prayer was heard by God or by who knows who!” “I’ll read your cards if you want to find out who heard you,” and I laughed at my own joke because I was feeling so pleased with myself. I was wearing a delightful white dress, with ribbons. At home I would push up the shoulders, but out in the street I bared my shoulders like everyone else. That’s what summer is for. Antonia took me through to the courtyard. She lives in one room with her little boy. In the others, there are only four or five people. The paint on the walls is chipped and crumbling and when you pass by the bathroom you can smell its stench, but the patio with grapevines is pretty and the walls couldn’t be prettier even with new paint. They have those layers of paint that flake away and look really fine. But Antonia is not the kind of person to accept her lot in life, not like me. Between bitter complaints she conceded to let me read her cards. It’s not that I know so much about what they have to say, but I make things up. Since I became lame I make almost everything up, because I’m a good person and I want to see people happy. And, besides, without making things up how would I have any fun? Who wants a lame woman with a father who keeps accounts of

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other people’s sins, among which he includes dresses that leave the shoulders bare? In the cards laid out upon Antonia’s table I read: “A bed with a man.” “Oh, please!” she cried hu~ly, “I would prefer a parrot!” “But don’t get excited. It’s a good man, he loves you. Don’t you see? This is the card of hearts. And he loves your son. He’s with a young boy, see for yourself, and he protects him just like a father.” I don’t know if I succeeded in convincing her in the end, but that didn’t lessen my pleasure afterward, walking through the streets as if I didn’t need my crutch.

How strange is your justice, God, don’t you think? They say the crippled turn bad. But I turned religious. I don’t know if you’re in houses with crosses, stars, or exquisitely drawn letters: I pray to you the best I can. But my father believes you’re only where people say AllahAllahAllah, and the only thing he gets out of it is more and more prohibitions. If he knew how I prayed, he would have an attack of AIDS, he’d scream: filthy, foul, disgusting. And he’d fall to his knees, like a swollen ox in the field. Because I pray by reading the cards . . . well, by playing solitaire. If they turn out well, it’s because God heard me and answered yes. I’ve read them often, and in answer to the same prayer they’ll tell me yes and no thousands of times over. So you can never know. But I knew for sure—and without the cards when those two women came to my house— that I would have to do something myself to help my prayer. They came almost three months ago. At first I thought they were just like all the other women, with their pots, husbands, and darning needles, but soon I realized that they were carrying weapons. And they really had them! It scared me a bit, until I was filled with pride. They had chosen me after they’d seen my picture in the newspaper and discovered my address! They returned a few days ago. Then there were three of them. That’s how I met Antonia, who, although we live in the same neighborhood, had never paid any attention to me before. She’s a poor woman but she has class, she doesn’t say bad words to me; and as for me, since I’ve got class too, despite a father with outlandish whiskers like all tyrants, I liked her. On this second visit the women told me I had to “do this, that and the other

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thing.” So I went around the neighborhood telling everybody I saw that I’d received a gift from a relative for my hip operation, and that I wasn’t going to be so stupid as to put it in the bank and let the government take it away from me on some pretext or another. I was going to take a few days to think about a smart way to invest the money until I was ready for the operation. In our neighborhood we hardly went out at night anymore. A specter had been lurking about. Antonia’s son was the second person to see it. The first was a boy of about ten years old who’d fallen into his hands and then somehow managed to slip through his electrified, clawlike fingers, or whatever. Little Antonio, on the other hand, that same night, was hurt in his private parts and cried out horrendously, which brought out all the neighbors who, when they arrived, saw a mass of hair, or something like that, rising up like a halo around a head. But they didn’t manage to catch him. The police didn’t believe it was a ghost. They thought it was some lunatic, an imitator of a long-haired weirdo who used to be the trainer at the local soccer club who had taken a small boy home with him not so long ago. I was the specter’s fourth victim. It was already dark when I got o¬ the train because I’d been given the late shift that day to fill in for one of my workmates. When I was crossing the field the specter cut me o¬, threw me to the ground, and hit me in the face with his fist so hard that, just like the saying goes, I saw stars. I fainted. But almost immediately my hand reached out and grabbed a piece of rubble that had been dumped there. I hit him hard on what was like an imitation of a person’s head. The freak let go of me and stood up, grabbed another piece of rubble, a bigger piece than I had used, and brought it down on me with all the force a specter can muster. Just at that moment I rolled onto my side and the block smashed into my hip, luckily, because otherwise it would have gone whoosh! right through the soft part of my belly, leaving me like one of those sculptures with a hole through its middle. Like little Antonio, I screamed, and some people who were getting o¬ the train came running. The specter ran o¬ and melded with the nocturnal fog. That time he didn’t have a black halo around his head, but rather short trimmed hair like little wings at each side of his face, just like some odd kind of creature, an owl with whiskers. That time he was disguised as an animal, not an electronic robot like before. Some of the people who’d gotten o¬ the train tried to find him but, wouldn’t you know it, he’d dissolved into the nocturnal mist. They tried to lift me from the ground but I howled so loud that, out of fright, they dropped me back onto the ground. 34

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Later my father was furious about the bad name I’d given him, in his opinion, by letting them carry me to the hospital, open me up, and take my blood. He was already angry all the time about the fact that I don’t cover my face with a veil and that I look people eye to eye. That’s how men are. But I’m thankful to the people that took me to the hospital. Because now I can be sure that the specter didn’t put any sick garbage into my blood or something strange that would have given birth to monsters from other planets. My hip is out of whack, but the doctors said that they were going to perform an operation on me and my two legs would be even again. They’re good people and it makes me sad to think that they believe I’m not right in the head anymore. They’ve never seen any specters and they can’t even imagine what they’re like. Nor can the women who visit me. I told them they were just a bunch of skeptics. One of them laughed and said, “What a delight, it’s a good thing you could take it as a joke!” Antonia said that the police had already caught the guy who injured little Antonio, “a lowlife with long stringy hair that had never been combed— a halo, what halo!?” And the third woman spoke up, very seriously, saying that if I believed in the specter then I was probably right because “it was better for people to be healthy in the head, believing what they want, than sick, believing what isn’t true.” I couldn’t get them to understand that even if the guy who attacked little Antonio was just some filthy guy (which I doubted), the guy who broke my hip was definitely a ghost. It’s true that he wasn’t one of those kinds from before, the kind that popped out of graves or some human skeleton abandoned on the ground, but rather from one of those planets that’s been watching us. Although maybe they’ve always come from those planets and we just didn’t know it, but now people are better informed by television. After the women came to my house the second time with Antonia, I went out to tell my story just as they had suggested I should do, to tell people about the money a relative had sent me, mentioning that in addition to paying for my operation I would have money left over to live on for six months. Who was going to contradict me? No one ever dared to speak to my father and no one ever visited my mother either, for fear of her tuberculosis. She doesn’t have tuberculosis, but it’s all the same thing to the neighbors. It’s enough for them that she’s bedridden and wasting away. After the women’s visit, my father slept much more soundly that night. And my mother, too, but not quite so deeply. I wasn’t sure if the pills my friends had given me would be bad for her asthma, so I was prudent with the dosage. One learns from one’s friends. elvira orphée

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That same night they came back. We took turns sleeping in my room, while two of us kept watch in the courtyard. Antonia had sent her little boy to her sister’s house. Before dawn two of my friends left, but one of them stayed behind, well hidden, although I told her that a specter from the stars would not come around during the daytime. “Yes,” she said, “it’s more di~cult to steal by daylight.” The specter arrived on the second night. This time the women thought it would be best to be lying in wait beneath the wall, which he would surely have to climb over in order to get in. And that’s exactly what happened. He jumped and before he could touch the ground the knife was already sunk into him. He lay writhing on the ground. One of the women pounced on him. Then Antonia and I appeared. I had a knife in my hand too, the sharpest and finest in the house. In the darkness, horribly wounded, the worm of the planets lay squirming. We stu¬ed a rag into his mouth to prevent him from crying out. Undoubtedly at any moment he was about to shed his skin and appear for what he really was. “Please,” said Antonia, “let him die. Let’s not prolong it.” “It’s not the one that attacked your son,” one of the women said, silencing her. “Now let’s take care of this. You sit on his face,” she spoke to me. “Cut him.” I’m always easily satisfied, and I was just happy that my friend understood me. So between the objections of Antonia on the one hand, and the unrelenting orders of the one who gave the orders on the other, I cut into him with the sharpest knife in the house. And finally it was done. Antonia and another woman slipped away quietly, washed, and changed, carrying their dirty clothes in a bundle that they would bury somewhere after making an anonymous telephone call in a disguised voice to report the murder. But according to the instructions given by our leader, they were to give us time to leave the scene well prepared. When the o~cers arrived, our leader was gone. I was lying in the dirt courtyard with my clothes torn to shreds and my father was crawling by my side unaware of what he was doing or even who he was. The police saw me crying, curled up in the dirt like a poor little animal unable to control its movements. “Papa, Papa!” I cried. “You sacrificed yourself for me. You were afraid he’d kill me. It’s not your fault!” And I was so choked up when I said that about my poor father! There he 36

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was, with a knife in both hands, staring like an idiot at the specter, who was also holding a knife in one hand. They took me back to the hospital and they treated me like a television star. The nurse wished me sweet dreams and they left me. I dreamt of a man lying on the ground, wounded, unable to move because of a horde of women pulling his head backward, ripping handfuls of hair from his scalp. But instead of a scalp he had scales. By the light of a flashlight, a knife passed before his eyes. “You make me sick,” my voice rang out. “Just touching you in that most disgusting of your parts makes me so sick that I’ve put on rubber gloves, don’t you see?” Using a knife like a scalpel I slit open the zipper of his pants. “Better to just kill him and have done with it. I’m going to vomit,” I heard Antonia’s silent voice in my dream. The woman holding the flashlight spoke, furiously, “Did he vomit when he left his filth inside some child or woman?” “This isn’t the one that attacked little Antonio. And they’ve already taken his brother.” “Yes, and he’ll be put on trial and after two years, when they find some poor little creatures raped and stu¬ed into a freezer, they’ll discover that this is the same one his honor the judge only put in prison for a few months!” In my dream I heard a voice saying that he had a face like an owl with whiskers. Then I saw myself sitting on a platform, dressed in a black robe, like a real judge, not one of those with a common suit like we have around here these days. In the midst of a tremendous silence my voice could be heard saying: I entrust these criminals to their victims so that they may punish them as they see fit. As soon as I got out of the hospital, everything made me happy, even my crutch. Soon I’ll be rid of it and I’ll prance about like a flamenco dancer. I’m lecturing Antonia on what should be done with the two surviving brothers in that family of interplanetary monsters. The one that attacked her son is already in prison, the one that beat me: dead. There are still two others that are free, pretending to be innocent brothers, but they, too, have surely started to attack the human race. How intelligent my friends were to have realized, when the owl-face brutalized me and robbed my purse, that they were just interested in the money! And they set up a trap. When we rip the reptile from within those who are left in that family, my friends and I, we’re going to get rid of those specters from around here, and elvira orphée

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we’ll be sure that they won’t contaminate the rest of humanity. We still have to punish the one that hurt a friend of mine’s little daughter. Justice shall be done. Translated by Peter Kahn

publications Dos veranos. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1956. Uno. Buenos Aires: Compañía Fabril Editora, 1961. Aire tan dulce. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1967; Buenos Aires: Compañía Fabril Editora, 1977. En el fondo. Buenos Aires: Editorial Galerna, 1969; Buenos Aires: Compañía Fabril Editora, 1972. Su demonio preferido. Buenos Aires, Emecé, 1973. La última conquista de El Ángel. Caracas: Monte Avila, 1977; Buenos Aires: Javier Vergara, 1984. Las viejas fantasiosas. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1981. La muerte y los desencuentros. Buenos Aires: Fraterna, 1989. Ciego del cielo. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1991.

translations El Angel’s Last Conquest. Trans. Magda Bogin. New York: Ballantine, 1985. “Palisava.” Trans. Norman Thomas di Giovanni and Susan Ashe. The American Voice 9 (1987). El Angel’s Last Conquest (excerpt), and “The Silken Whale.” In Women’s Fiction from Latin America, trans. and ed. Evelyn Picón Garfield. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1988. “The Beguiling Ladies.” In Landscapes of a New Land: Fiction by Latin American Women, trans. Christopher Leland, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1989. “An Eternal Fear.” Trans. Janice Molloy. In Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992. “Selection from La muerte y los desencuentros.” In Contemporary Argentinean Women Writers: A Critical Anthology, trans. and ed. Gustavo Fares and Eliana Hermann. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1998. “Out of Respect.” Trans. Joseph Slaughter. Southwest Review 85, no. 3 (2000).

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Angélica Gorodischer Angélica Gorodischer is a tall, lanky woman who walks with her head high and with a frank, warm smile on her face. Above all, she is down to earth. There is no pretentiousness in her demeanor. She communicates freely and generously with others and looks at you eye-to-eye, hoping to bridge any distance between one human being and another. When she laughs, her eyes twinkle; her laughter is a cascade of energy and joy.

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Angélica Gorodischer | The Author and Her Work Angélica Gorodischer was born in Buenos Aires in 1928. In 1936 she moved to Rosario, an industrial city with an active cultural and academic life and a fascinating history. Rosario was developed on the shores of one of the country’s most important rivers, the Paraná (native word for “Father of the Sea”), which flows into the Rio de la Plata estuary of the capital city of Buenos Aires. In the first three decades of the twentieth century, Rosario also became famous for its prostitution houses, which rivaled those of Versailles and Balmoral for their luxury. Gorodischer explains that most business and political deals were cut in these houses, which were frequented by the gentry of the community. Eventually this reputation faded, and the city has now become known for its support of the arts, particularly music, theater, and literature, and also for its cultural activities and universities. Gorodischer is an avid supporter of the city and feels it o¬ers many of the advantages of the big Capital without its disadvantages. Perhaps Gorodischer’s most striking qualities are her playful wit and dry humor, an example of which is the autobiographical caption she wrote as an introduction to her personal bibliography: She has published a bunch of books, all of them narratives. She a~rms with a certain petulance that she never wrote plays nor poetry, not even when she was sixteen, the age when everyone writes poems, particularly about unrequited love. She studied in Rosario in the Escuela Normal Número Dos (Teacher’s School Number Two) and in the School of Philosophy and Letters of the Universidad Nacional del Litoral (The Littoral National University). She received no title at all. She is not a professor, not a Licentiate, not an academic, not a Ph.D., not anything. During her fourth year of studies she remembered she wanted to write, not teach, and she abandoned the classroom. She is a narrator. (Trans. G. Díaz)

Gorodischer’s mother’s family was French. In the early 1900s they immigrated to Argentina, where they preserved their French pride and aristocratic demeanor. Her maternal ancestors intermarried with the Garay family, descendants of the founder of Buenos Aires, and could trace their genealogy back to the Spanish royalty, hence the aristocratic pedigree. Her father’s family came from the Aragón region of Spain. Though they were poor when they arrived in Argentina, they soon became landowners and made a fortune. While this heritage was a source of pride for Gorodischer’s family, she personally did not consider her distinguished lineage to have any relevance to her own life. She

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was at odds with the posturing and pretense of that social class and preferred to find value in her own qualities. She recalls that her mother liked to think of herself as progressive (though her progressiveness was curbed by her elitism), and because of this she sent young Angélica to a public school, the Escuela Normal Número Dos, which was an excellent school at the time. Gorodischer claims this school taught her to think critically, write well, and read intelligently. She got a degree in teaching because that was what young women of her generation did; they earned teaching degrees, they studied music, they studied French, and when possible they traveled to Europe before getting married and having children. She studied literature and philosophy at the Universidad Nacional del Litoral (The Littoral National University) in Rosario for four years and decided to leave school to experience life, love, marriage, children, and adventures. Sujer Gorodischer, the man she married, was Jewish. She says her marriage to a Jewish man was a great disappointment to her family, and she had to leave home in order to marry him. Nevertheless, the marriage was successful and produced two sons, a daughter, and grandchildren. Gorodischer knew she wanted to be a writer from the time she was seven years old. But it wasn’t until the 1960s that she began her professional writing career. This late start did not thwart her literary production, however; on the contrary, she has authored six novels and ten books of short stories (many of them translated into various languages) as well as numerous newspaper and magazine articles. Gorodischer was awarded two Fulbright Awards, one in 1988, when she attended the International Writers Program of the University of Iowa, and another in 1991, to teach writing and literature at the University of Northern Colorado. She has participated in over 300 conferences, has taught workshops on writing and the use of imagination, and has served as judge in literary contests. She is a founding member of the Encuentro Internacional de Escritoras (International Conference of Women Writers), which takes place in Rosario every two years, and is active in promoting women writers through the e¬orts of RELATAR (Red de Autoras Argentinas, Argentine Women Writers Network), a website dedicated to promoting the work of women authors. Gorodischer has received two prestigious Argentine awards. In 1996 she received the Premio Dignidad (Dignity Award), granted by the Permanent Assembly on Human Rights of the Department of Women’s A¬airs, for her contribution to women’s rights. In the year 2000 she received the Premio Esteban Echeverría (Esteban Echeverría Award), a life achievement award, for her fiction. 44

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Gorodischer’s first book was a 1965 collection of short stories titled Cuentos con soldados (Stories with Soldiers), which received the Premio Club Orden (Club Order Award). Her first novel, Opus dos (Opus Two), was published in 1967 and reprinted in 1990. In 1968 she authored a collection of stories, Las pelucas (The Wigs), followed by three more short-story collections: Bajo las jubeas en flor (Under Yubayas in Bloom) in 1973, Casta luna electrónica (Chaste Electric Moon) in 1977, and Trafalgar in 1979. Her 1983 novel Kalpa imperial (Imperial Kalpa) received the Más Allá Science Fiction Award and the award for best novel of the year. It was reprinted in 1990 and 2000. The stories of Mala noche y parir hembra (Bad Night and Birthing a Female), which also appeared in 1983, received the Radaelli Fiction Award; a year later, Gorodischer published the stories of Técnicas de supervivencia (Techniques of Survival). In 1985 she authored one of her best-known novels, Floreros de alabastro, alfombras de Bokhara (Alabaster Vases, Bokhara Rugs), which received the Emecé Prize for its imagination and humor. Her novel Jugo de mango (Mango Juice) came out in 1988 and was followed in 1991 by the stories of Las repúblicas (The Republics). Her novel of 1993, La fábula de la virgen y el bombero (The Fable of the Virgin and the Fireman), fictionalizes a myth about the city of Rosario. In 1994 she authored Prodigios (Prodigies), which she considers to be her best novel. It takes place in Germany in the home of the poet Novalis after his death, and is a humorous and ironic portrayal of the women who passed through that home. In 1996 she published La noche del inocente (The Night of the Innocent One), which is the story of an innocent friar and decadent monks in a medieval monastery. Her 1998 short-story collection Cómo triunfar en la vida (How to Succeed in Life) is an assortment of bizarre stories, many of them detective stories, that have a touch of the unexpected. Published in 2000, her collection of stories Menta (Mint) explores her fascination with life, dreams, and death. The story selected for this chapter is “Cómo triunfar en la vida” (How to Succeed in Life), from Gorodischer’s book by the same title. This story, though not autobiographical, portrays the elitism of the social class in which the author was reared by focusing on the relationship between the lady of the house and her servant, Natividad. The young maid is exploited and verbally abused, yet she endures it. The ending holds surprise and redemption. Justice prevails. What is noteworthy about the fiction of Angélica Gorodischer is precisely her indefatigable search for justice; perhaps this is why she is so fond of the detective story, where the search for truth unmasks wrongdoing. Always on the side of those who are slighted, the author weaves her web of fiction angélica gorodischer

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around her desire to expose fraud and injustice. In so doing, she develops a world of characters and situations that o¬er insightful and imaginative commentary about humanity.

Conversation with Angélica Gorodischer Gwendolyn Díaz: What aspects of your upbringing and your childhood family do you find to be the most significant in your life and in your work? Angélica Gorodischer: I am the daughter of Spanish and French immigrants. My father’s family, originally from the mountainous region of Spain called Aragón, came to Argentina with very little capital. Eventually, though, they made a small fortune. My father met my mother in Rosario, where they were married. She came from a very proud French family. Her maiden name, Junqué Garay, signaled both the French ancestry as well as their connection to the descendants of the Garay, who founded the city of Buenos Aires. My family members kept their genealogical trees and were proud of the fact that we descended from King Peter the Cruel One, of Spain. I was reared with a sense of belonging to the upper class; however, I, personally, was not in the least bit interested in my social standing. I felt it was presumptuous. This disdain for elitism is present in my work. gd: How did this privileged childhood a¬ect you, and how did it surface in your writing? ag: When I was young we traveled to Europe, vacationed in Mar del Plata, and led a life of relative leisure. Though my family’s wealth had dwindled by the time I was born, we did have fine objects, clothes, and books. My family taught me an appreciation for the finer things in life, something that is also present in my work. However, I was not in the least bit interested in our social status. I felt it was frivolous to define oneself by such measures. My elitist aunts and uncles never had children. I am the sole child-bearer in the family, and I married a Jew, something they were not happy about. Therefore I started a new, mixed breed. I discuss this in a paper I wrote called “Yo soy una judía trucha” (I Am a False Jew), which is a humorous account of my family and of the role of race, class, and social mores in our lives. gd: What topics are you concerned with in your fiction? What themes capture your attention and are developed in your work most frequently? ag: I write about many di¬erent topics. But, when I think of my writing, 46

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there are two subject matters that come to mind and seem to pervade much of my work: an insistence on justice and a passion for acquiring knowledge. My interest in justice stems from the fact that my family was very strict with me, and I felt oppressed. In addition to the social restrictions placed upon me because of our social status, my family was also devoutly Catholic, and in that respect, quite repressive, particularly toward a daughter. I was not allowed to do much because I was reared as a proper Catholic young lady for whom there were many things forbidden. But my nature was that of an active, energetic, and curious child, and I felt smothered and constrained by my overprotective family. This led me to side with the people who are oppressed, as I felt I was oppressed. My work, then, focuses on those who are marginalized and displays a passion for justice and a desire to learn and understand the world and others. As for my fascination with the acquisition of knowledge, that is one of my greatest pleasures, whether it be academic subjects, or the knowledge one learns from everyday attention to people, circumstances, and surroundings. I have a great capacity to absorb things, and this is helpful to my writing. I learned at an early age that everything to which we are exposed can be used in writing. I learn also from my readings, which are very broad: from Borges, Proust, Balzac, and the classics, to comic books and junk magazines. All is information that serves the writer, and this brings me to a third theme that is important in my work, imagination and the role imagination plays in our lives. gd: I would suggest that there is a fourth significant theme in your work, that in a sense is related to your concern for the oppressed, the theme of women’s lives as portrayed in the female characters so prevalent in your fiction. ag: Let me tell you about my experience with the subject of women. When I was a child, I thought that women were the privileged sex. They seemed to me to have a wonderful life. In my social class, women led a life of leisure. We bought lovely clothes; we went to the theater and the cinema; we vacationed for three months out of the year. Men, on the other hand, worked hard and worked a lot and did not seem to enjoy as comfortable a lifestyle as we did. However, as I grew older, I realized something was not right in the balance between men and women. By the time I went to the university, I began to ask myself why women were excluded from positions and places of importance and power. Initially, I wrote about men because I thought their lives were more interesting. But when I developed ideologically, I angélica gorodischer

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realized that the lives of women were just as interesting, if not more so. I began to think about all the fascinating women I had known in my family. My uncle used to say that he had never seen a Junqué female cry (in reference to my aunts). I realized then that I had a wealth of experience to write about if only I turned my imagination toward these strong, imaginative, and humorous women. Since then I have focused my imagination on the world of women, a world that we share, of course, with men. gd: What are the aesthetic goals of your work? What do you search for stylistically? I find that your writing is playful, full of puns, and reflective of colloquial language. What guides your pen as an artist? ag: When I began to write, I decided I was going to develop a polished literary style. But I was not pleased with the results. Later I wrote some detective stories that were very successful and in which I developed a more conversational style that emulated the way people talk in everyday situations. I soon grew to feel that I had the luxury of writing with many di¬erent voices, not just the literary voice but also the voices of people from all walks of life using all kinds of jargon. At this point I found that I was no longer dominated by language, but rather that I could make language submit to my specific purpose and intent. My writing portrays formal language as well as street language and sometimes vulgar language, if it is appropriate to my purpose. My a~nity for colloquial expression is present as well when I give lectures and speeches. Rather than express myself with academic terminology, I purposely use language that is conversational and colloquial, and this has the e¬ect of surprising and amusing the audience and has served me well in my public speaking as well as in my writing. There are, however, works in which I have developed a voice that is not mine. This is the case of my novel Prodigios (Prodigies), which I wrote against the grain of my natural style. There is no dialogue in the novel, and it appears as if nothing much is happening; however, I consider it to be my best work. There I employ an embellished language to portray the subject matter of the German poet Novalis. gd: Your writing, while apparently direct, often possesses a subtlety and complexity that challenge the reader. This is evident in a story like “Cómo triunfar en la vida” (How to Succeed in Life), the title of the collection in which it appears and included here in this chapter. The plot of the story evolves in a seemingly simple fashion, but by the time we reach the end, we feel we must go back and read the story again to fully comprehend it. 48

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ag: That is precisely something that I am interested in doing, writing so as not to give the reader all the details. There are even times when I intend to dupe the reader. My objective is to allow readers to put something of themselves in the act of reading. I do not think I should explain things to them, but rather I should show them what happens. I often feel that my characters dictate to me what they are like and I follow that lead. In the case of Prodigios, for example, I followed the impulse of a character that unexpectedly took over the novel, the cook of the Novalis estate. She turned out to be a wonderful character that added interest and complexity to the novel. Sometimes I feel as if the text comes from the outside into and through me, but that’s not the case, of course, as I control the text. However, I hear things and see things in my imagination. It is as if I were schizophrenic, but a happy schizophrenic. When I write a novel, I live in that novel. I may go about my daily life as usual, but wherever I go and whatever I do, that novel is with me, and I experience it moment to moment. Each text has its own way of presenting itself to me. I usually go with that impulse. My novel La noche del inocente (The Night of the Innocent One) presented itself to me almost in its entirety. I knew what would happen to the monk, I knew he would fall in love with the Virgin Mary, I knew the Virgin Mary would come down from her altar for him, and I even knew that eventually Mary would take him to Paradise. Like “Cómo triunfar en la vida,” this novel also deals with the topic of power. Again, the most humble of all the characters turns out to be the most powerful. But, regardless of how the story develops, I exercise my craft seriously. I write, rewrite, structure, restructure, and edit my writing mercilessly. gd: One of the joys of reading your fiction is the humor it displays. Indeed, I would venture to say that you tend to view life with a significant dose of wit and sarcasm. Does humor come easily to you? ag: Yes, humor comes naturally to me, but my humor is not that of the gag or joke, but rather the humor of the word, the play with words, the pun, the joy of language games. I know a story is well written when I read it and I have fun reading it. To me writing is the greatest joy. gd: Are you concerned with power and its manifestations in our social relationships? What aspects of power are you interested in exploring in your work? ag: I believe that power is at the core of gender inequalities and is central to the ideological position that one takes regarding the status of women. I angélica gorodischer

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have gone through many di¬erent phases regarding my understanding of power. I have believed that one must keep a distance from power, that one should devise a parallel power base to o¬set the standard one, that one should forcefully overtake power and force the rival into submission, but ultimately I have concluded that power should be shared between men and women. Since our place in the social structure as women is one of lack, we must be determined and proactive in order to achieve a more equitable status. What I am interested in exploring in my narrative is the trajectory of a character from weakness to power or from power to weakness. I am interested in understanding the obscure impulse that propels someone to take a position of power. This is seen in “Cómo triunfar en la vida,” where the meek and subservient protagonist succeeds beyond anyone’s expectations. gd: One humble Argentine woman who became very powerful was Eva Perón. How do you view her ascent from poor country girl to first lady of Argentina? ag: I do not admire Eva Perón. In my opinion she is the antithesis of feminism. She did everything her husband Juan Perón told her to do. She wasn’t really the one who was responsible for women’s su¬rage in Argentina. The movement for women’s su¬rage was organized before Eva came to power, by women like Alicia Moreau de Justo. Eva simply realized that by giving the vote to women, she could consolidate her husband’s power, and he allowed it because it was to his advantage as well as her own. gd: So why has she become such an icon of success? Why do you think she has taken on mythical proportions and captivated the imagination of men and women around the world? ag: It is because her rise to power in Argentina in the forties was something truly amazing. She was an incarnation of the Cinderella story. But she did not really hold much power at all. She was a visible and convenient façade for the regime, a pretty face with a good act and appeal to the masses. Therefore the regime found it helpful to use her persona to assure their power base. I will agree that she had charisma and some extraordinary qualities, but I do not believe she was truly a powerful woman in her own right. gd: The story discussed in this chapter, “Cómo triunfar en la vida,” shows how a young maid who is in the service of a tyrannical mistress is able to change her standing in the social structure. Your depiction of the strictly 50

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stratified classist Latin American society and the relationships of power and subservience that characterize this traditional household are noteworthy. ag: These are relationships with which I am quite familiar. In my home the service sta¬ was important. There was a distance between us and them, but there was an atmosphere of respect for those in our service. They were responsible for the household, and we owed a lot to them. Also, since we were strict Catholics, we were taught to have Christian acceptance for others. My story is a critique of people who are rude and abusive of service sta¬. I knew people like that when I was growing up, and I found them despicable. The reversal that takes place here is in a sense a desire for poetic justice, a desire that characterizes much of my work.

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How to Succeed in Life In memory of Pedro Giacaglia

“She’s a good girl,” I’d say. I’d say it every day, probably three times a day whenever the others complained that she was dull, absentminded, rather stupid, that she would appear where she was least expected since she walked like a cat, and was always in someone’s way. “She’s a good girl,” I’d say, adding to myself: “Hopelessly dumb, the poor little thing.” The point is that my eldest sister, God rest her soul, was unbearable: monstrous, indescribably unbearable. My eldest sister, Mrs. Raquel del Santísimo Rosario Fidanza Rojas de Garay Elgorralde, Raquelita for her friends, and Quelita for her closest circle, was bossy, loud-mouthed, rude, distrustful, malicious, mean, boastful, and some additional virtue that must have completely slipped my mind. But she put up with her master because she was a good girl; she didn’t put up with her because of her wages, which were, as my niece Marta used to say, decent—yet for anyone who has known my niece Marta, that meant nothing but miserable. She put up with her because she was a good girl, and good girls bear anything and even accept it with pleasure. My sister Quelita shouted at her because the breakfast chocolate was either cold or too hot; because the pillows weren’t neat enough, because there was too much light, because there was too little light, because she didn’t have her pills, no, not those pills, the other ones, and drops at hand, and the glass of water, and the hot-water bottle, and the book she’d been reading the day before, the mittens and the rosary, and God knows what else. Her face showed an almost ethereal—or shall I say eternal?—half-smile as she slipped a: “Yes, Madam, don’t worry, I’ll fix it right away.” She fixed it and sat down to read to her for hours, without tiring, without a trace of protest, without asking for permission to go to the toilet. She was more than a good girl, she was a saint. Hopelessly dumb, true, but a saint. At half past twelve Quelita got up—and her grooming to go downstairs to the dining room would have made the Sun King himself green with envy. At a quarter past one she went into the dining room, at half past one she began her 52

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lunch with the family, and I guess that welcome interval suited Chuchi to eat, have some rest, sleep, collect tarantulas, play the clarinet, or whatever it was she did with her life. I enjoyed thinking that she locked herself downstairs in the boiler room, howled insults, and cursed Quelita while hitting the walls with her little fists clenched. And that at three, with that usual little face of hers—her soul already reassured—she went back upstairs and helped Quelita tuck into bed for a nap. Probably she did not. Probably she peacefully ate in the pantry, tapioca soup, mashed potatoes, or something of the sort, and that potato starch dessert called chuño, and afterward she sat in the hallway to wait for the bell in Quelita’s bedroom to ring for her. Poor girl. She’d been enduring this for two years and a few months. Marta had hired her while I was in Europe. When I first saw her I had thought: “This one won’t even last two months.” That was how long the one before her lasted, a hardened Amazon with a bulldog face on whom we’d laid our highest hopes, but who had eventually given in after an unpleasant incident with a chamber pot, which is best not mentioned. The Amazon’s predecessor had been a placid fat blonde who had endured, I believe, some ten days. Before that there had been another one whose face I can’t remember, but who had lasted about five months, quite a record. And before, well, an army of slim, fat, short, tall, old, young, ignorant, educated women, creoles as well as gringas, whatever, all of them now get mixed up in my mind, running away in horror, o¬ended, carrying the small suitcase in their left hand and clutching in the right one a handkerchief squeezed into a ball held against their nose and mouth. When I returned and paid my sister a visit, Marta didn’t even say good morning. As soon as she saw me she asked: “Do you know how long she’s been here?” My thoughts aren’t as quick as lightning: I’ve always thought, why bother if the others finally say what they want to, which isn’t normally what you expect to hear, but I instantly understood: “How long?” “Seven months.” I sighed: “We hit it right this time, didn’t we?” I thought for a few seconds. “What is she like?” This time she sighed: angélica gorodischer

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“—Calm. Pretty quiet. Clean. E~cient.” —Pause—. “She drives me crazy! I find her everywhere, she walks like a cat, she smiles out of the corner of her lips and says ‘Excuse me, Madam’; ‘I’m sorry, Madam’; ‘May I, Madam?’ I don’t know, she’s like a ubiquitous ghost, she manages to keep Mother company as well, I don’t know, I don’t get it, I’m a bit confused about her.” “Is she old?” “For goodness’ sake, no. She’s a little too young, I’d say.” “How old?” “Stop nagging me. How could I possibly know?” “Haven’t you seen her identity card?” “I have, but I don’t remember. Twenty, nineteen, twenty-five or so.” Two days after that I started saying: “She’s a good girl.” Her name was Natividad, Natividad Lavallén. The whole family started calling her Natividad. Shortly afterward, the children named her Nati, and Marta was about to drift into that choice until the day Matildina, who was eight at the time, said: “She’s a ‘chuchi’.” And from then on everyone started calling her Chuchi, because of her submissive nature. Everyone, even Eliseo—not prone to use nicknames—Chuchi here, Chuchi there. She seemed to like it. At least she didn’t complain. That morning, I mean the day I learned about her existence, I went upstairs to Quelita’s bedroom, I kissed my sister and told her she looked great; she snorted and assured that she’d soon die and that that doctor Iraola was a good-for-nothing. I replied that she was absolutely right, but asked her please not to die yet, at least not until I’d commented on my trip. In the meantime I looked at the girl out of the corner of my eye to find out what she was like. Quelita urged me: “Sit down over there and tell me, no, not there, in the armchair. That’s it. Do leave, Chuchi, can’t you see you’re bothering us? And close the door well, you always leave it half open, or is it that you’re listening in to what’s being said in here? Don’t say you don’t, you’re all alike, you certainly are, do leave, come on, what are you doing standing there like a fool, wait, bring the doctor a glass of port wine and don’t take a swig, remember I know how much is left in the bottles; on a tray with a starched table cover, ask Ignacia, come on, and a napkin, don’t forget, hurry, hurry.”

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“Yes, Madam, right away,” said Chuchi with a smile, as if she’d been paid a compliment, and o¬ she went, closing the door well behind her. “Well, tell me now.” “Quelita, please, couldn’t you stop referring to me as ‘doctor’?” “What’s wrong with it? Aren’t you a doctor?” “Yes, I am. I got my degree because Dad insisted on it but I don’t practice medicine, I’m not a doctor, I don’t like being a doctor.” “What you like is living it up.” I had to agree. After that I started to tell her about Lisbon. I had arrived in Santiago de Compostela when Chuchi came in with the glass of wine on a tray with a napkin, a table cover, everything was impeccable. “That glass is dirty,” Quelita remarked. “Quelita, please,” I begged. But it was no use. Chuchi came back with another impeccable glass when I was bordering the Alps in the Rendons’ car. Before Quelita opened her mouth to say the cover was creased or the tray was too big, too small, too round, or God knows what else, I entered the fray: “Isabelle is still the same old fool.” Quelita relished her thoughts as they went back to Isabelle’s maternal grandmother: “Ridiculous, darling, she’s ridiculous. You couldn’t expect anything di¬erent from someone with that background, because she said she was the daughter of Ruy Aldanza and his first wife, remember the Aldanzas? But I learned from Bernardita Holm that . . .” And she continued like that while Chuchi slipped away. I drank the port wine, listened to the family chronicles springing from half the European continent, and Chuchi got back to dress Quelita before I had a chance to get to Paris. I stood up, headed for the door, grabbed the door handle and said: “I can smell some . . .,” I regretted my words but it was too late. “Yes,” said Quelita as she took o¬ her nightcap, “Chuchi paints. She entertains herself that way and doesn’t leave me alone while I’m resting.” “That’s nice,” I said and dashed away for fear that Quelita might start complaining about the smell of turpentine. But she wouldn’t. Neither then nor the following days; quite the opposite, she expressed nonchalantly that it was a clean smell.

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This is how the story goes: Quelita wasn’t satisfied with squeezing work out of Chuchi. Every now and then she’d send the girl to help someone else do something she herself supervised afterward: tidy the children’s wardrobes, put away the winter clothes, straighten up the o~ce shelves, polish the cutlery or the teapots, or the sugar bowls. These were the household chores done on the rare occasions when Quelita went out: visits to o¬er her condolences, special masses, cemetery, and any other circumstances for which Chuchi was not presentable. Quelita endorsed the idea that you shouldn’t let your servants get bored, thus she found pastimes for everyone, particularly for Chuchi. On Quelita’s return, Chuchi took o¬ her hat and gloves, took her purse, and showed her the wardrobes, the folded clothes, or the polished co¬ee spoons. A certain day, like in a storybook, Chuchi said: “Look, Madam, what Yolanda and I found in the attic above the garage.” “Esteban,” said Quelita. Chuchi remained silent. “Esteban,” Quelita insisted. “Go and fetch Mrs. Marta at once, move along, hurry up, Chuchi, do I always need to repeat everything to you?” Chuchi was already in the upstairs corridor looking for Marta. Esteban had been dead for some twenty years now and he was nearly a legend. He’d gone to Paris in his early youth and had studied with someone I can’t recall, had lived wildly like a bohemian and smoked opium, and drunk absinthe in the cafés, and fallen in love with singers and dancers and with first-rate whores (and with the others), and had caught syphilis as expected, and a severe tuberculosis, as expected also. He’d come back defeated, bearded, smelly, thin, penniless, but teeming with experience as he expressed when he landed, loaded with canvases both blank and painted by himself and his friends, a bunch of screwed-up, lazy social outcasts, as Quelita asserted—despite being young then, she had already emerged as the tribe chief. Esteban had died of tuberculosis shortly after his arrival, and Quelita had his clothes, sheets, papers, and even his suitcase burned. Someone had saved the blank and painted canvases in the attic. “We must get rid of that junk,” said Marta. Over her dead body! If anyone said something had to be done, Quelita claimed the opposite. Chuchi and Yolanda stored the canvases in the attic, and the whole matter was soon forgotten. No, I’m wrong. The point is I ignore how it happened and nobody could 56

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ever explain it to me. It seems (it just seems) that one afternoon Quelita got angrier than usual, for on waking up from her nap she had to call Chuchi twice—twice!—to help her get up and dress for tea. Chuchi bore it as she bore everything, because she was a good girl, and when the storm was over she said she could stay in Quelita’s bedroom while her master was sleeping. “No way!” Quelita said, “That’s all I need! You’re so lazy you don’t take the trouble to hurry up when I call you. Shame on you, doing nothing while I’m sleeping!” Then, I don’t know if it was the same day or the day after, because if there was something distinctive about her it was her sense of opportunity, Chuchi suggested the lobby. Apparently she told Quelita that she, Chuchi, had studied drawing and painting and that she could therefore make good use of the canvases kept in the attic to try her hand at some sketches while she, Quelita, was sleeping. I don’t know how she managed to convince her, but Quelita gave her the go-ahead. It seems to me that my sister must have thought she couldn’t have her sewing because that was the seamstress’s job (she came twice a week), or polishing the silverware since that was assigned to Yolanda and Jesusa, or cleaning the jewellery for fear that she might steal some piece, and that way she’d have her more at hand to boss her around. The fact is that Chuchi laid some old newspapers on the oval table and started to draw on the blank canvases. Awful, honestly, awful. Marta said: “How nice,” as she stood before a landscape showing a yard with a well. Quelita didn’t even deign to look at it. Marta bought Chuchi some paint, turpentine, and paintbrushes in the hope that her skills would improve. For a couple of days everyone expected Quelita to burst out complaining about the smell of paint or of turpentine, yet she said it was okay, it was a clean smell. “But, of course, don’t even dream that foolish painting stu¬ will entitle you to neglect your duties, duties you still have, lots of them, which you never accomplish to my liking.” “No, Madam, don’t worry,” said Chuchi with a smile. “All artists are a collection of wretched lazybones who only wish to swindle decent people with cheap pictures even a child could paint. That painting stu¬ is a pretext to overlook work. And you, you better mind what you do,” she told Chuchi, brandishing her right index finger close to the girl’s nose. angélica gorodischer

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“Yes, Madam,” Chuchi replied. “It is all right for a young lady to take watercolor lessons,” Quelita proceeded, “or to paint over silk, after all she’ll get married and forget about that nonsense, but you aren’t a lady, bear that in mind, don’t get out of line.” “Yes, Madam,” Chuchi replied. Chuchi started painting. She did not improve either with the watercolors or with the oil. She didn’t improve, but she stepped up her production: a host of landscapes, vases with flowers, seascapes and nocturnes and still lives began piling up in her room, since Quelita wouldn’t allow Chuchi’s “paintings” to take space in the armoires or even back in the attic above the garage. It was then that Carlos Maximiliano arrived. Carlos Maximiliano Bellefeuille—I’m distorting the surnames a little for obvious reasons—is my sister Josefina del Carmen’s youngest child. Josefina met Edouard on a trip—damned trip, my father would say—and Edouard chased her throughout Europe and kidnapped her in the carnival of Venice, I swear this is true, and, of course, they got married and, against the family’s expectations, they were happy, lived in the outskirts of Paris, and had a lot of children. I never know how many or who the Bellefeuilles are. A new one always appears and I pretend I do remember him or her perfectly, dear nephew, dear niece. There’s always one of them getting married, having a baby, somebody’s child taking his or her first communion, in other words, we’re lucky they live so far away, and whenever I go to Europe I certainly never approach Josefina and Edouard’s place. But Carlos Maximiliano is di¬erent. If I were born to live the good life, and thank God I’m able to a¬ord it, Carlos Maximiliano was born to seduce the world in general and women in particular, each and every one, and thank God he’s able to pull it o¬. He doesn’t even plan it. He catches sight of a woman, from three to ninety, flashes her a smile, tells her something, anything, makes a gesture, suggests the right moment has come to her life, and that’s it, he can calmly walk o¬, taking his act somewhere else. They don’t even get angry with him. They cry a little, keep a flower between two pages of a book, they marry a Certified Public Accountant and have children, and I bet the name of one of them is Carlos. Or Maximiliano. Quelita was no exception to the rule. Carlos Maximiliano arrived and my sister’s mood instantly changed: she became a sweet creature who let her nephew hold her hand between his for quite a while as he narrated his trips 58

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and told her that next time, the following year, in July, which is the ideal month, she’d have to make up her mind and join him as he ventured to Tibet or to Madagascar or to the Congo and that she’d be amazed what fun it would be for both of them, and that they’d go to the beach to watch the golden sun rise while the fools were snoring in their beds and missing all the magic of life that only they, the two of them, would be able to appreciate. I never knew how he did it. This time was just like the others, he and Quelita talked and laughed like two happy kids while the rest of the family, including myself, enjoyed the break and wondered how he did it, how. Yet, this time wasn’t quite like the others, for this time Chuchi was here. Chuchi, who upon seeing Carlos Maximiliano appear with his smile and his fair hair and his light brown eyes and that drum-major-like walk, elegant but with a touch of mischief; on hearing that voice and sensing that laughter of his and that smell of eau de Cologne and Turkish tobacco, realized for the first time how vast the world was, how short life, how mysterious destiny, and how marvelous the colors of dreams. I know nothing of this for sure: Chuchi never revealed it to me, but I noticed her when she saw him and I guessed everything because I’m given to tenderness and also (maybe therefore) given to observing people. I saw her follow him with her eyes, I saw how her lips parted a little, how the wings of her nose trembled, how her eyes shone, how her hands drew unfinished gestures, how she had to sit down to avoid fainting. I saw her and for a while I was afraid. But later on I reflected on it and concluded there was nothing to worry about. And I was right. She was a good girl: she must have known from the start that it was a losing battle, and resigned herself to it as she resigned herself to Quelita’s ill treatment. She put up with it. He seduced her the way he seduced them all, Princess Von Traini and Yolanda, Quelita and Isabelle, his mother and his aunts and the chemist’s shop assistant and every woman who happened to cross his path. He made a corny comment like: “Darling, you’re my aunt’s guardian angel. We’re all happy that you’re here.” And Chuchi, well, she was happy. He still added: “But, darling, your paintings are lovely. You’ve got a subtle talent only delicate souls like yours, God, very few souls, are endowed with.” And Chuchi had a fit of oil painting and produced about seventeen landangélica gorodischer

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scapes and a hideous portrait of Carlos Maximiliano with angel wings and a halo, and soon she was done with all the blank canvases. As she was head over heels in love, she ventured to ask Quelita for permission to continue with the canvases that were already painted. And, since Quelita was head over heels in love too, she was generous enough to agree, to let her paint wherever she felt like and to leave at once now that Carlos Maximiliano was on his way. Chuchi painted and painted, and in the intervals she stared at Carlos Maximiliano; he realized it and told her, Darling, take some rest, I’ll look after my aunt while you think about your next work, and she smiled and rested thinking about him. And I wished she would devote herself to collecting tarantulas or playing the clarinet, because Carlos Maximiliano was going to return to Europe and she’d be left utterly empty-handed. Quelita wouldn’t: Quelita was going to start tormenting her again, giving orders and shouting, and she’d soon get over his absence until his next trip. But, she, Chuchi, had nothing but the tacky pictures she painted on second-hand canvas. I was determined that as she ran out of them I’d buy a few more so that she could go on painting portraits of my nephew or landscapes or whatever she pleased. And, in fact, Carlos Maximiliano came one day to say goodbye, he said goodbye and left. Quelita began yelling because the blankets weren’t perfectly smoothed-out and Chuchi ran to straighten them out. What about Chuchi? I kept an eye on her for a few days and noticed nothing. She would neither sigh nor whimper nor show a distant look in her eyes nor faint with love, nothing. “She’s a good girl,” I said. I still found it astonishing. How was it possible for her not to su¬er? I convinced myself that she did, that she su¬ered and she didn’t allow herself to show it. She’s a saint, I thought, dumb, yes, but a saint. Carlos Maximiliano didn’t drop a line, of course: he never did. But Chuchi didn’t go to the entrance door to wait hopelessly for the postman either. She didn’t even know when the postman came. Quelita would have never allowed her to wait for him anyway. She had her running back and forth and, as usual, the girl said: “Yes, Madam, don’t worry, I’ll fix it right away.” Yet, she stopped painting, and I didn’t have to buy new canvas. She’d never paint again. She sat in the lobby waiting for Quelita to wake up and call her.

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Sometimes she leafed through books looking for one to read to Quelita. Sometimes she embroidered, but Quelita forbade her to do it, arguing a needle might fall and that was dangerous because she, Quelita, could sit on it and stick it in her body and needles move inside one’s body and if they get to one’s heart, they stick in it and one dies. Chuchi also tried knitting, but Quelita again told her to stop it, on the pretext that she looked like a neighborhood gossip, sitting outside her house criticizing everyone around. I don’t know where she got the analogy, but Chuchi had to stop knitting and stay there sitting, waiting for Quelita to wake up from her nap. One day, with no need of a needle to stick in her heart, the morning found Quelita dead. Chuchi discovered her. She went into the bedroom intrigued because the bell hadn’t rung and the hot chocolate had started getting cold in the pot. She closed Quelita’s eyes and ran to look for Marta. As soon as she saw my niece, she burst out crying. Marta almost fell over backward: Chuchi crying! She got the young maid to tell her what was going on, next she went to the bedroom upstairs and called me, in short, death settled in the house and all of us made room for it. When Marta phoned Josefina she found out that Carlos Maximiliano was in Italy. We then comforted Chuchi, which was di~cult to do. Once we succeeded in making her stop crying we made her some lime tea and sent her to bed. But anyway, silent and as if asking for permission, she installed herself by the co~n and kept a vigil over Quelita as though my sister had been her own mother. She cried every now and then and every now and then she fell half asleep, and afterward she raised her head and looked at the wreaths and the thick candles, and in one of those moments I saw her in a di¬erent light, strange! With her eyes full of tears, a red nose, and her eyelids swollen, in the gleam of the candles she looked beautiful. Her eyes were radiant and her dishevelled hair fell like a golden wheat crown around her. And I saw that she was beautiful indeed. Her features were tiny and fine, a soft mouth, a straight nose with a good deal of character and a wide clean forehead. I thought she would have made an enviable model for an artist, it was a pity that nobody had painted her, not the way she painted her doodles but seriously, with the colors of a Fra Angélico, with the drama of a Géricault, with the serenity of an Ingres. It occurred to me that I, that nobody, no one knew if she had a mother, a father, relatives, anyone. That we didn’t know where she went on Thursday af-

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ternoons and every other Sunday. But this wasn’t the right time to ask her, and we let her stay there the whole night and come with us to the cemetery. Marta included her in the death notice: “Her loyal servant, Natividad Lavallén.” The next day Chuchi said she was leaving. Marta, still moved for the a¬ection the girl had obviously had for Quelita despite all her ill treatment, told her she could stay for a few days if she wanted to, until she found another job, she suggested she should stay, we’d give her the best references in this world. She thanked us, accepted the references, but insisted that she was o¬ and wanted to give us a present since we’d been so good to her. “But, Natividad,” Marta said, “you don’t need to give us any present. You’ve served mother wonderfully and that’s enough.” Apparently Chuchi was once again Natividad by the grace conferred by death. “Yes, Mrs. Marta, don’t deprive me of leaving you something of mine.” “Well, if that’s the case,” Marta said, “whatever it is, we’re very grateful.” And Chuchi gave us her paintings. Well, not all of them. She gave us about a dozen. The best ones, she said. The others she took with her as a reminder of the happy days she’d spent in the house. Happy days? I thought. Why, she’d fallen in love and I guess that’s happiness, even if that love is worse than an unrequited, ignored love. I sighed and I kissed her as she left. Life went on, without any noticeable changes. I say noticeable, only noticeable, because something upset me and as time went by I realized that something was Chuchi. I almost gave up the good life I led to think about her. Now that she wasn’t here I understood there was something about Chuchi that didn’t make any sense. She was a good girl, a saint, a bit dumb. I repeated that to myself again and again, and eventually I told myself no, it isn’t possible. But that was all, I couldn’t come to any conclusions, I could only say to myself that nobody can be stupid enough to take such mistreatment for just a few pesos as a live-in maid, working night and day without the slightest encouragement, without a polite word, thank you, Chuchi, well done, nobody makes beds the way you do, this hot chocolate tastes delicious, if I didn’t have you to remind me I’d forget to take my pills. Why had Chuchi tolerated so much? Why had she accepted to be called Chuchi in the first place, a ridiculous name almost suitable for a dog, when she had that precious name of hers, Natividad or even Nati? Why? Who knows? She’d gotten nothing out of such a state of servitude and submissiveness. Nothing but a few awful pictures painted on the second-hand canvases Esteban had brought from Paris. 62

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Little by little I started forgetting the whole matter. I had no further news about Chuchi. I remembered her a lot later when I read in the newspapers about seven paintings sold for astronomical prices, from eight hundred thousand to nine hundred thousand pounds each, at an auction in Sotheby’s. They’d belonged to a South American collector whose name remained undisclosed and were utterly unknown and utterly genuine, with no papers, but fit to pass any test. Quite an odd situation for Sotheby’s, yet it had made a lot of money for both the auctioneers and the individual who had provided the pieces. “Gosh!” I thought, “no doubt Chuchi’s paintings wouldn’t get five pounds each.” There were two Picassos from the first period, an Aduanero Rousseau, three Juan Gris, and an incredible Matisse, all in orange and royal blue with golden stars in a collage and the black silhouette of a dancer who raises her arms and throws her head back laughing with a deep red mouth full of white teeth. The color photo appeared in the newspaper supplement. Anyone would give anything to have that painting at home, anything. That was it. The memories of her reappeared when we heard that Carlos Maximiliano had married a girl in London, a girl whom Josefina hadn’t met yet. “Poor Chuchi,” Marta and I said, “thank goodness she didn’t learn about the wedding of her beloved.” “Do you remember the portrait of Carlos Maximiliano with angel wings?” I asked Marta. We laughed for a while. Something went click in my mind. No, not in my mind, in my stomach, and it wasn’t gastritis. But Marta said: “Wasn’t that one of the paintings she gave us?” “No,” I replied, “that one she took with her.” “Sure, why wouldn’t she? As a keepsake, poor little darling.” “She was a good girl,” I said. The moment was gone and the click remained there.

Until one night at three a.m., I awoke startled, sprang up and sat on my bed. It wasn’t a nightmare. I was sleeping alone, this was the case more often than before, and something struck me like a lightning bolt. It was the click. Chuchi. I know, I said, and I guess I said it aloud, I know: I was thinking I’m getting old and I wish I could hire Chuchi to look after me the way she did

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with Quelita. But I’d treat her very kindly because she was a good girl, a bit dumb but a saint. Yes, I’d been thinking about it as I was falling asleep. And I’d persisted: why, but I can’t hire her, now that she’s married Carlos Maximiliano. And I fell asleep again. Chuchi married to Carlos Maximiliano? Where had that idea come from? Where had the paintings sold in Sotheby’s come from? The click became a symphony. A symphony is that musical text in which every thread unfurled by the musician at the beginning of the composition opens and resounds toward the middle, joins at the end into a tight knot in which the whole orchestra utters the closing phrase with string, wind, brass, and percussion instruments. In that great finale, Carlos Maximiliano had seen in the attic the paintings of Esteban’s screwed-up lazy friends, namely Picasso, Gris, Rousseau, Matisse, all of them opium smokers, all of them absinthe drinkers, exchanging paintings, selling them for a few pennies or for food and wine, or giving them as a present to their friends or to Gertrude Stein and her Alice B. Toklas in the streets of Montmartre. Carlos Maximiliano was neither a fool nor a saint, not even a good boy. And he chose Chuchi, till this day I still ignore who she was, where he found her, but it’s better this way, anyway, everybody knows, all seducers have a love they always go back to, and I had caught sight of it that night, the one of Quelita’s wake, and I had missed it altogether, stupid fool. I’d seen the true Chuchi, not the saint, not the good girl, but the divine creature the seducer always came back to. An outstanding actress. But the reward was important and it was doubtless going to end up in their hands: Quelita was much older than me, she su¬ered from high blood pressure and had a big heart, not to mention her almost useless lungs. She was going to die any minute. She repeated it constantly and she was completely disregarded. But she did die, and Chuchi gave us the new canvases and took the painted ones as a token. They had them cleaned, they took them to London, sold them, got married, and probably Josefina will meet her daughter-in-law under a di¬erent name, not Natividad, or Nati, or much less Chuchi. At four o’clock that night, facing a cup of tea, lonelier than ever, I said to myself that it was a pity and that maybe I’d soon end up being taken care of by the hardened Amazon with a bulldog face or by the placid fat blonde, but never by Chuchi. Translated by Ana Gabriela Hutt 64

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publications Cuentos con soldados. Santa Fe: Club del Orden, 1965. Opus dos. Buenos Aires: Minotauro, 1967; Barcelona: Ultramar, 1990. Las pelucas. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1968. Bajo las jubeas en flor. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la Flor, 1973; Barcelona: Ultramar, 1987. Casta luna electrónica. Buenos Aires: Andrómeda, 1977. Trafalgar. Buenos Aires: El Cid, 1979. Kalpa Imperial. Buenos Aires: Minotauro, 1983. Mala noche y parir hembra. Buenos Aires: La Campana, 1983; Buenos Aires: Hector Dinsmann Editor, 1998. Técnicas de supervivencia. Rosario: Editorial Municipal, 1984. Floreros de Alabastro, alfombras de Bokhara. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1985. Jugo de Mango. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1988. Kalpa Imperial. Barcelona: Martínez Roca, 1990. Las repúblicas. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la flor, 1991. La fábula de la virgen y el bombero. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la flor, 1993. Prodigios. Barcelona: Tusquets, 1994. La noche del inocente. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1996. Como triunfar en la vida. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1998. Kalpa Imperial. Barcelona: Gigamesh, 2000. Menta. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 2000.

translations “A Man’s Dwelling Place.” Trans. Alberto Manguel. In Other Fires: Short Fiction by Latin American Women, ed. Alberto Manguel. New York: Clarkson N. Potter, 1986. “Letters from an English Lady.” Trans. Monica Bruno. In Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992. “The Resurrection of the Flesh” and “The Perfect Married Woman.” Trans. Lorraine Elena Roses. In Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992. “Under the Flowering Juleps.” Trans. Mary G. Berg. In Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992. Eine Vase aus Alabaster. Berlin: Orlanda Frauenvlg., 1992. Kalpa Imperial: The Greatest Empire That Never Was. Trans. Ursula K. Le Guin. Northampton, Mass.: Small Beer Press, 2003.

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Marcela Solá Marcela Solá is tall, confident, and has the bearing of a woman of polished upbringing, yet she disregards formality. She is proper and at the same time accessible. She smiles readily and philosophizes about the Marquis de Sade as easily as about current politics. Schooled in logic and philosophy, her questioning mind often finds answers in the depths of the unconscious and the imagination.

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Marcela Solá | The Author and Her Work Marcela Solá was born in Buenos Aires in 1936 into an upper-middle-class family that was well situated in Argentine society. Her mother, originally from the province of Córdoba, was a devout practicing Catholic and expected her family to follow the precepts and dogmas of the Catholic Church. She was president of several important Catholic organizations, including Córdoba’s Damas de la Beneficencia (a branch of the charity organization that refused entry to Eva Perón). Her father occupied several important political positions in the Argentine government, such as Undersecretary of Finance, legislator, and other high-level governmental posts. Solá remembers her childhood as a time of rules and restrictions; she felt the social and religious constraints placed upon her by her mother were excessive. Her Irish nanny was instrumental to her upbringing because she brought life, excitement, and joy into an otherwise stifling household. Most of her education took place at the Catholic school Sagrado Corazón (Sacred Heart), but soon after she started high school, her mother, who feared di~cult times in the future, moved her to Mallinckrodt School to place her in the commercial track of high school, rather than the humanities track, which she preferred. As a young child, Solá loved to read and write. She began writing detective stories and produced them in installments, which she would read to her family in the evenings and to her friends at school. She studied piano and music for many years and learned both English and French at an early age, becoming fluent in both by the time she entered high school. Two significant events took place during her high-school years: she met her future husband, and she got into an altercation with her French teacher (who felt animosity toward her because of her knowledge of French) that led to her expulsion from the school. It wasn’t until years later, after university studies and success in her writing career, that Solá took it upon herself to complete her high-school degree through examination. After a year at a finishing school, she married her high-school sweetheart and began studying philosophy and theology at the Universidad Católica Argentina. She did not finish her career, which she loved, because she became pregnant. After producing four children in an unhappy marriage, she separated from her husband. The love of Solá’s life was a man by the name of Carlos Lohlé, a Dutch immigrant who left Europe after the German invasion of Holland. Having worked in the publishing industry in Europe, he continued this line of work in marcela solá

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Argentina and became founder and director of a very successful publishing company in Buenos Aires. It was a case of love at first sight; she claims that the day she met him she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. It was Carlos who recognized her talent and encouraged her to continue writing. During the 1970s and 1980s, Solá worked as a language professor and a translator, and occupied several sta¬ positions in the embassies of Canada, Iran, and Turkey. She also taught literature and gave conferences in Canada and the United States. At the same time, she was writing and finding herself more and more involved with Lohlé, whom she eventually married. Her first book, Los condenados visten de blanco (The Condemned Wear White), was published in 1971. It is a collection of fantastic stories told with direct style and language, as if the most astonishing events are part of reality. Her intent here was to narrate bizarre circumstances in a matter-of-fact way, as if the real and the fantastic were one and the same thing. The style in this work is terse and poetic. The content reflects the political atmosphere of repression already in the air at that time, as well as the ties between our state of mind and the natural world that surrounds us. Her interest in the political becomes even more pronounced in her second book, Mis propios ojos no dan abasto (My Own Eyes Are Not Enough), a 1976 collection of narratives that revolve around the topic of freedom. The structure is original; it begins with a story called “Theme,” which expands on the issue of freedom, and each subsequent story is a variation of the first. But ultimately, each ends short of finding the freedom for which the characters search. These stories are centered in the struggle for power and reenact the social dynamics of oppression and domination. Both books brought Solá uncomfortable political consequences in Buenos Aires. After the publication of the first, she was questioned by an associate of López Rega, the feared Rasputin who later founded the repressive AAA (Argentine Anticommunist Alliance) credited with torture and murder. Also, a story from her second collection was rejected for publication by La Nación because it was considered a metaphor for the political repression taking place at that time in the country. In her third book, Manual de situaciones imposibles (Manual of Impossible Situations), published in 1990, her obsession with themes of power, domination, and freedom becomes even more clear and serious. Here she portrays the structures that dominate our families, our cities, and our human relationships with irony, humor, and seriousness. Her style in this book is measured, concise, and original. In 1994 Solá published a book of poems titled Acta de defunción (Death 70

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Certificate) that took their inspiration from the death of her husband Carlos Lohlé and the feelings of nothingness that she endured upon his death. These poems are highly lyrical and present a profound insight into the experience of death and its aftermath. The book received first prize in the Arcano Poetry Contest in 1994. In 1999, she published a novel called El silencio de Kind (Kind’s Silence), where she continued to explore her fascination with power and the implications of power within the realm of politics. The novel portrays a young girl who meets and establishes a friendship with a former Nazi o~cer. They come together at a resort and begin a dialogue about music that eventually evolves into insights on the Nazi’s views on world domination. This novel received an honorable mention in the prestigious Premio Planeta in 1997. In 2006 she edited a book that gathers ten Argentine women theologians who write about spiritual resilience. Titled Mujeres ante la crisis (Women Facing the Crisis), this is the first book of essays ever published that gathers the work of Argentine women theologians. Solá was granted a Fulbright Award in 1984 to participate in the International Writers Program of the University of Iowa. She writes for various newspapers and magazines in Argentina and has written academic essays on literature and philosophy. She travels frequently to teach literature and give writing workshops, and she continues to write novels as well.

Conversation with Marcela Solá Gwendolyn Díaz: Marcela, let’s begin our conversation by looking back on your childhood and upbringing. What was your family like? What do you remember most from your childhood? Marcela Solá: I recall my childhood as having been very restrained and highly regulated by a series of social norms and religious rules at the center of our family’s life. Our home was an emblematic metaphor of the cultural customs and social expectations of the times. My mother was very dedicated to the Catholic Church; she was president of the Catholic Action of San Nicolás, president of the Beneficence Association of Córdoba, delegate for Moral Issues to the Archdiocese of the Nation, and occupied several other positions in the Church. She was very strict with my sister and me. gd: In El silencio de Kind (Kind’s Silence), you describe a nanny who was very close to the young protagonist. Was she reminiscent of your own nanny? ms: Yes, I patterned the nanny in my novel after my own. Her name was Bridmarcela solá

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get and she was an extraordinary Irish woman who came to our home when I was three and stayed with us until I was sixteen. She was a very significant and beneficial influence on my life. Not only did she teach me English, she also brought into our austere household a joy for life and a happiness that would not have been there without her. I have kept up with her through the years and still visit her. gd: And what can you say about your father? ms: My father was a ladies’ man and a charmer. He was also a man of high professional integrity. He occupied many important government positions, such as Undersecretary of Finance and legislator, and he held many important posts in the municipal government. He kept a law o~ce and was very successful in his legal practice as well as in his o~cial positions. In his capacity as Undersecretary of Finance, people tried to get information from him in order to make a profit in the stock market, yet he resisted in spite of the rewards he was promised. He always maintained the highest level of honesty. gd: What kinds of schools did you attend? ms: I went to a nun’s school called Sagrado Corazón during primary and middle school. I had planned to get my Bachillerato (college preparatory highschool degree) and study humanities at the university. But my mother pulled me out of the humanities track and insisted I study the commercial track of high school. Her reasoning was that communism was going to take over the country and that there would be very hard times to come. She thought that I would have a better chance of getting work if I prepared for a job in the world of commerce. Though hard times did come eventually, I was still greatly disappointed. I loved the humanities and knew I would return to them. gd: When did you start writing? ms: I started writing at a very young age. I often felt more comfortable expressing myself in writing than speaking. I remember kneeling before my bed, where I would place my notebook, and writing for hours. At the same time, books were an important part of my childhood. I loved to read, so much so that when my mother punished me she would do so by taking away my books. Her punishment was a clever and instructive one. She would tell me that I could not read my Spanish-language books, but that she would allow the English- or French-language ones. This was a more

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di~cult reading task for me, but ultimately I learned English and French, partly because of mother’s method of punishment and my love for reading. gd: What kind of writing did you do when you were young? ms: I wrote diaries in which I would develop characters and dialogue. At twelve I began to write detective stories. I remember I had collected twentythree of them, with titles such as “Death Is Reflected in the Mirror” and “A Cat Jumped out of the Co~n.” I also wrote a novel, which consisted of a series of sequels that I would read at night to my family and at school to my classmates. gd: What was your most memorable high-school experience? ms: That would have to be when I was expelled from high school. My French teacher and I did not get along well at all. My French was as good as hers was since I had studied at the Alliance Française and had had private tutors. For this reason my teacher resented me and would call me “Miss Know-ItAll.” I found this very irritating and o¬ensive. Eventually she called me by this name one too many times and I exploded. I stood up, took my French textbook up to her desk, and began to rip the pages out of the book and throw them on her desk telling her, “This is what I think of you and your French teaching.” For this reason I was expelled from high school and did not graduate until many years later, when I decided to get the diploma by examination. gd: Had you met your future husband by then? ms: Yes, we were dating and continued to do so after I left the school. Mother put me in a girls’ finishing school and insisted that I prepare to take exams in order to finish my high-school degree. She threatened me by saying I could not get married until I got the diploma. My relationship with my mother had always been a conflictive one, and I proved her wrong by getting married in spite of not having finished. gd: So how did you undertake your university studies? ms: I entered an extension program of the Catholic University of Argentina and studied philosophy and theology for two years. I enjoyed it very much, but my husband was opposed to my studies. He wanted me to stay home and take care of the children. So I turned my creative energy toward the piano and the rearing of my children. This was a very unhappy time in my life. My husband and I were not getting along, and my professional aspirations had been undermined.

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gd: When did you decide to go back to your writing? ms: It was precisely at this time of upheaval in my life that I turned to writing again. I met Carlos Lohlé, a Dutch publisher and editor who had immigrated to Argentina and established a prestigious publishing company. He was very encouraging to me with regard to my writing. The day I met him I knew he would be the most significant man in my life. He was a person of great integrity and high moral standards. Eventually my marriage to my first husband was unsustainable and we separated. My writing became more and more important to me, as did Carlos. gd: Your first book, Los condenados visten de blanco (The Condemned Wear White), was published in 1971. How would you describe that book? ms: I had a very clear idea of how I wanted to approach the writing of this book. I wanted to show the fantastic side of reality by using the most direct and simple language possible. I wanted to narrate extraordinary events in an ordinary language. I have always felt that life has fantastic occurrences that we often fail to notice, and my intention was to show this with a style that emphasized the everydayness of the fantastic. gd: Like many of your books, this collection of stories deals with the abuse of power and the social and political problems it causes. Would you comment more on that aspect of the work? ms: Well, it seems that every time I begin writing a book there is a dictatorship in power, so some of these stories deal with a fantastic version of the political conflicts taking place. In one, for instance, I recall I was concerned with the widespread repression of the dictatorship. I wrote about a city that was being destroyed by a flood that slowly spread its devastation. All the birds had emigrated; the only ones left were imprisoned. The protagonist buys one of the caged birds, and from there a bizarre plot develops, but a plot well grounded in political implications. gd: Was your work ever censored? ms: Yes. One of the stories in my second book, Mis ojos no dan abasto (My Eyes Are Not Enough), a story about the yacaré, or crocodile, was rejected by La Nación’s literary supplement. The director of the supplement told me that it was an excellent story and he liked it very much, but that he could not publish it because it clearly referred to the repression, and to do so would jeopardize him and the newspaper. He added that in every editorial board meeting there was a government representative overseeing the process. I also submitted it to Juan Gelman for the newspaper Página 12; he, too, 74

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praised the story, but added that his boss, Jacobo Timmerman, would probably not allow him to publish it. gd: That’s interesting, since some time later Timmerman was imprisoned and tortured by the dictatorship for the daring positions he took in Página 12. To be a progressive newspaper editor at this time was indeed a di~cult juggling act of choices and rejections. Were any of the stories from your first book censored? ms: Los condenados visten de blanco has a very interesting history. I took the title from a poem by an excellent Argentine poet by the name of Fijman, who was locked up in the Borda insane asylum, where he did his writing. I recall the line of the poem read as follows: “In the palace of my father, the king, the condemned wore white.” Fijman was greatly admired by his peers, among whom were Miguel Ángel Bustos and María Rosa Oliver. These two well-respected and admittedly left-leaning writers wrote blurbs for the back cover of Los condenados visten de blanco. Because of their comments in praise of my book, I later received a “visit” from a fellow by the name of Pajarito Gómez, who introduced himself as López Rega’s bodyguard. López Rega, of course, became the leader of the feared Argentine Anticommunist Alliance responsible for the torture and murder of the desaparecidos. gd: A “visit” from the bodyguard of the infamous Brujo (Warlock) López Rega was no small cause for alarm. What exactly happened during this visit? ms: First he called and asked whether I was the famous Marcela Solá. I thought he mistook me for a di¬erent Marcela Solá, who was a wellknown leftist actress, so I told him I was not she. He then said he knew I was not the actress and that he wanted to talk to me about my book. He came to my apartment and sat down for a chat. I was sitting on the couch, flanked by my two young sons. He began by telling me that he had seen the reviews of my book in a magazine and that they were so good he thought he might want to ask his connections in the motion-picture industry to make a movie of one of the stories. Of course, that was just an excuse to get information about me. During the course of the conversation he showed me some photos of himself with Juan Perón and José López Rega. It was then that I realized the gravity of the situation. He then asked if he could use the phone to call López Rega. Whether this was an act of intimidation or a necessary call, I will never know. I did know they considered me a potential threat because of the blurbs by my leftists friends on the back of my book; it was not long after this that Miguel Ángel Bustos was apprehended marcela solá

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and disappeared. Later, I found out that a bomb had exploded in the home of the actress named Marcela Solá. Apparently, they chose her as a victim, though fortunately she survived. gd: Were you the only one in your family being investigated? ms: No, I was not. Carlos’s son, my stepson, was a member of the subversive group called Montoneros. Carlos himself was under suspicion because of this. His publishing company was constantly being investigated by the dictatorship and was suspected of funneling monies to subversive causes, though this was not true. One day I found out that my housekeeper’s nephew, who worked as a clerk with the dictatorship’s intelligence o~ce, saw our family’s names on a list of suspects that were to be “disappeared,” the term used for “murdered for political reasons.” The horrified housekeeper pleaded with her nephew to clear our records, and he tore the page from out of the book, thus sparing our lives. It wasn’t until some time later that I found out about this incident through my mother, who kept in contact with the housekeeper. gd: Marcela, you must have a guardian angel watching over you. Let’s talk about your third book of stories, Manual de situaciones imposibles (Manual of Impossible Situations), published several years later in 1990. ms: During those long years when I did not publish I still continued to write, but my career took a detour. Now married to Carlos, I was living all the happiness I had been denied before. My marriage to him was the most wonderful time in my life, and I lived it to the fullest. The stories of Manual were written at this time, but it wasn’t until much later that the book finally came together. What holds this collection together is its reflective tone and its metaphysical questioning. The book does include stories that make reference to the dictatorship, but here it is from the perspective of a personal reflection on the situation. gd: This is the collection that includes “Paraisos naturales” (Natural Paradises), included in this section. A story about a power struggle between two people on opposite sides of a hypothetical situation, it is worthy of Guy de Maupassant or O. Henry because of its ironic twist. ms: True. It’s quite ironic, but such twists are not simply an artifact of fiction. Often they can be found in the reality we live day to day. When I wrote “Paraisos naturales,” I asked myself some very hard questions: To what extremes of violence or of love can man go? What does our humanity consist of ? Is human life sacred, and if so, why is it? I asked myself where the lim76

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its of a human being were and at what point a man would break into violence or transcend into a higher level of respect for the other. Interestingly enough, I came to the conclusion that even in the most entrenched power struggles, love was at the core of human experience. gd: But I do not see much love in that story; rather, I see violence and revenge. ms: Violence and revenge are also a part of the human experience, but at the very end of this story, the possibility of love appears as the protagonist rethinks his relationship to his captive. It is quite complex and also ba¬ling. gd: Your next book, Acta de defunción (Death Certificate), is a collection of poetry. How did you make the switch from fiction to poetry? ms: I feel as though this book wrote itself. It is as if one day a canal was opened and the text began to flow through it. Initially, I conceived it as fiction, but thanks to the comments of a poet friend, I came to realize it was a poetic voice that was taking shape in this book. I wrote it after the death of Carlos. I felt as if my identity had vanished, as if his death were also my death, or the death of a part of me so essential that I questioned my selfhood without him. gd: With El silencio de Kind (Kind’s Silence) you undertake the genre of the novel. This work returns to your constant preoccupation with power, how it motivates the actions of human beings and how human beings are a¬ected by it. The young protagonist, rebellious, musical, and close to her nanny, seems to draw from your own childhood experiences. ms: While it is true that the character of young Mercedes reflects many of my experiences, the novel is fictional. A few details are biographical. My family vacationed in our home at the beach resort I describe in the book, and I did meet a Nazi colonel there, who once said that the next war would be a war against communism. However, the relationship described in the book between the colonel and Mercedes and the disappearance of her sister are not factual. gd: You make an association in the novel between the Nazis that established themselves in the Americas, specifically Argentina after World War II, and the dynamics of Argentina’s Dirty War, in e¬ect a civil war against leftist ideologues and activists. Would you elaborate on this premise? ms: This novel depicts a concern I had in mind for a long time. I wanted to write about the causes and e¬ects of the repression and abuse of power in Argentina in the seventies. As I reread my diaries to search for an entry on marcela solá

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this colonel, I came across a surprising notation. My entry revealed that the Nazi colonel had said that he worked for the Pentagon and that he was involved with an army that was scattered all over Latin America preparing for the next war, a war against communism. It so happened that soon after the war, many Nazis found refuge not only among the totalitarian regimes of Latin America, but also in the United States. Nazi scientists were given asylum in the United States, and also many Nazi o~cers were hired by the O~ce of Strategic Services (OSS), an intelligence o~ce of the United States that later became the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). In his memoirs, former East German chief of espionage Markus Wolf stated that after the war, the OSS incorporated into their organization the entire Wehrmacht division, led by General Gehlen. They influenced policies all over the Americas. An example of their methods was the establishment of the School of the Americas, which educated many Latin American armed forces in repression and torture techniques. gd: It is well known and documented today that during the Dirty War, the Argentine military was trained by the CIA. Was this known in Argentina at the time of the Dirty War? ms: Yes, it was known by many of us, but perhaps not to the general public. Those of us who were involved in politics and considered ourselves progressive felt great animosity toward the United States. At that time, there were several political factions engaged in the country’s political struggle. There were the Marxists, the Peronists (populists), and the military. Our mutual repudiation of the “Yankees” [a pejorative term for Americans] brought the Marxists together with the Peronists in a struggle against the American-supported military dictatorship, responsible for the torture and murder of thousands of Argentines. gd: So you trace a direct line of connection between fascism in Germany, in the United States, and in Argentina? ms: Yes, and this is what I wanted to explore in El silencio de Kind. The apparently harmless friendship in the novel between the young girl and the Nazi colonel, who was an advisor to the dictatorship, is tested years later. After her sister is kidnapped by the dictatorship under suspicion of subversion, she immediately thinks of the colonel and appeals to him to intervene to save her sister. gd: When the dictatorship fell in 1983, Raúl Alfonsín established a democratic government. He was succeeded by Carlos Menem, also democrati78

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cally elected. However, democracy does not seem to have solved the problems of Argentina today. ms: The problems here today are the enormous external debt, unemployment, and our economic dependency on the First World. We have gone from the political tyranny of the seventies to the economic tyranny of the nineties. Unfortunately, Menem’s privatizations of all Argentine resources left the country bankrupt. The so-called global economy has resulted in the exploitation of the Third World for the benefit of the First. What pains me the most, however, is that we now seem to be su¬ering not just economically, but spiritually as well. There seems to be little hope for a recovery, and that has aggravated an already low morale. gd: Regarding your style, do you cultivate a particular voice? What are the aesthetic concerns that guide your writing? ms: My form is dictated by the piece that I happen to be writing. The work dictates its own style and structure. In my first book, my muse was quite clear: I wanted to write about fantasy as if it were reality. Now I feel moved to express myself in a fragmentary style, as if the story line consisted of moments of illumination and moments of darkness. At times I have felt the need to develop works that are smooth and flowing, and then later I have felt the desire to work against smoothness. In Kind, I was inclined to work with time in a nonsequential way; three di¬erent chronological times coexist simultaneously within the novel. gd: How do you situate yourself with regard to feminism? ms: I came to feminism quite late. I think, perhaps, this was because of my poor relationship with my mother. My mother favored my sister, and I resented her for it. She would always praise her and make light of my accomplishments; therefore, I felt the need to prove to my mother that I was worthy. Our relationship was very di~cult, and we fought constantly. I remember that when my first book was published and I received a wonderful review of it, I called excitedly to tell mother, and she responded by saying simply, “Don’t tell your sister about this, I don’t want her to feel badly.” After the publication of my second novel, I expected some sort of comment, but she never even acknowledged it. By the time I published my third book, I did not even tell her about it. It wasn’t until many years later that I was able to reconcile my feelings toward her and accept her as she was. gd: Your relationship with your mother must have a¬ected your relationship with other women. marcela solá

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ms: It did. I never used to look toward women for friendship. Most of my friends were men. If I needed a doctor or a therapist or a professional of any kind, I always chose men. I recall feeling a certain disdain for women, which later I came to realize was nothing more than a disdain for myself as projected by my mother. Fortunately, though, this changed several years ago. In 1988, I was asked to participate in an extraordinary event, a onemonth-long celebration of women and myths about women called Mitominas (Mythichics). It took place in the Plaza de la Recoleta, where all types of creative works by women were showcased and exhibited: theater, video, art, film, sculpture, music, writing, dance, and such. The atmosphere during that month-long happening was exhilarating for me. I realized how intimate and significant the camaraderie among women could be, and I experienced a new appreciation for womanhood. Nowadays, most of my friends are women. gd: What is your view of fiction? ms: I feel that fiction is the most fertile ground for change and development of the human soul. Fiction allows us the opportunity to touch people much more deeply and e¬ectively than the realistic essay or expository writing. I learn more about myself reading fiction than reading factual writing. I think that it is time now to see what fiction can teach me about my mother and my feminine side. Whereas my first novel was about a girl’s relationship with a father figure, the novel I am writing now revolves around a mother figure.

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Natural Paradises

The decision that I am about to make is one of those that do not leave a man unscathed. Innocent is that state which precedes life, and I belong to life. Where else could I belong? Therefore I seek to assure myself that it has all the necessary implications but nothing more. I want it to be in accord, if possible, with the natural order of things. And if there is no such order? To which rules must I conform? This is what I have to find out. The incident for which I now seek justice took place years ago, on a cold night. I was jolted out of my bed by a late-night knock. When I opened the door there stood before me the man that I have locked up in the cellar of my house. He came accompanied by three others, who without a word forced me to follow them. With my eyes blindfolded, I left, never to return, because as soon as I was able to do so, I preferred to avoid all contact with those who would be able to recognize me, and that way make easier the task that I had imposed on myself. From this episode I relate, you will conclude that some time ago I lost everything I had. As I have already said, I did not return to my former life. I patiently sought a job for myself, which did not come easily for me as I was devoid of history or prior record. But I found one. When you live for an obsession, sooner or later obstacles yield. I also arranged for a little house in a remote suburb, quite precarious indeed, and the only condition I imposed was that it had a cellar. In that cellar I eventually shaped with my own hands all that I would come to need later. It now seems curious, but I never doubted that the appropriate guest would arrive at the right time. In that late hour of the night, long ago, there began for me an exile that may have no end. I was forcefully removed from what I always considered to be the truth and natural order of things, so much so that I never asked myself if it truly existed outside my own conscience. Consequently, though I was not expelled from paradise, I lost it. And it seems to me now that everyone has lost paradise at least once. What followed my expulsion from life (I don’t know how else to name it) was a period of interminable darkness. The horror of not knowing what torture would come next overcame the su¬ering of the moment. They never addressed one word to me, but I heard the orders from the one who I now have in marcela solá

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front of me, the screams of all the others, their panting and even orgasms. Nevertheless, I don’t want the violent passions all that has provoked in me to interfere with the decision to be made. I must be strictly just. That is why I am living in the cellar now and I look at him, chained to the wall, I look at his face constantly. I must add that one day, without any explanation and in the same manner in which they took me out of that hopeless place, and after a long aimless automobile ride, they forced me to get out. “Walk fifty paces, count to a hundred, and take o¬ the blindfold. And don’t look back or you won’t live to tell the story.” The serene revelation of things, before my eyes, suggested in its way celebration and exultation. From that moment on, routine life turned out to be so only for everybody else. But this marvel did not make me forget the face of the man who appeared at the midpoint of my life, in the middle of the night. I look at him, I hear him, I see him su¬er. Through him I will come to know if there truly exists some order in this world that is more than subjective. I intend to perform an act of justice on him. Therefore I spend my time seated here below, contemplating him. This was the face that took over my life uncountable years ago. There, where his cheekbones end, where his chin seems to disappear in flight, where his black hair sets the border to the face, I have established the field in which I shall move. And it surprises me, looking at him, that this face doesn’t depart from what is considered normal. You would suppose that someone capable of commanding such an operation, with the e~ciency and dedication with which he carried it out, would lack the characteristics that pertain to the human species. But no. He turns out to be ordinary. For many years I pursued his trail until I found him. He didn’t recognize me; I suppose I was only one among many. But now that I have him here, a lack of enthusiasm comes over me, as always when you obtain what you most yearn for. I also thought that I would loathe him more and more on seeing him, but I only feel an immense weariness. The just act appears to me to be farther away than ever, I do not even feel like thinking about its realization. The memories of that night, even though they still sadden me, make themselves heard only as the faraway murmur of internal sobbing. “Why should I have to accompany you?” I had said to them. “I’m an honorable man.” “I determine what is or is not honorable,” answered the one at whom I am now looking. 82

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Now, much later, it’s me who decides. The electrical device is ready to be used and is laid out on top of the table. The table is within the man’s range of vision. The man looks at it. I look at him. This is the relationship in which things are ordered in the world that is played out here. And it is in this connection that justice will have to be considered. Will I or will I not make use of the things that I so painstakingly constructed? In the very existence of things, in how they present themselves as they are, a certain ethic seems to become visible. At least that is what I always thought, back then when the world appeared once again before my eyes after my having been blindfolded for so long. How to link that to the presence of my prisoner, the one I’m looking at? What ethic is there in the act of being merely a man and no more than a man? His eyes also watch me, we watch each other. Although he finds himself chained and may pose no danger for me, his presence ends up as threatening, and I feel fear. Of what? They think me dead; nothing of what goes on here will be of consequence, because no one will know. And besides, how can something have consequence if now there is no world for me in which things happen? I have lost a connection with people like me, with reason, with prudence, with all that existed before, and perhaps that is why it still remains in my memory as paradise. Even if I would like to recapture but a mere appearance of normality, I know irreversibly that life is not reasonable, that it doesn’t reconcile with what is normal, that it is its own worst enemy. I have lost the world and have no desire to regain it. Therefore I’m here, locked up with this man, and I look at him and he looks at me and from this exchange a new world is born. A world that I hate and where I hate. Yet in that world lies the only thing that remains familiar to me and that doesn’t demand the impossible: serenity of conscience. A fly lands on the nose of my captive, he frightens it away with a jerk of his head. The fly continues its flight and comes to rest on my forehead, I brush it away with my hand. An unpleasant sensation overcomes me, I have something in common with this man. On which vulnerable side has it installed itself within me? Between him and me lay the instruments delicately arranged by the patience of my very own hands. Around us the bare walls whitewashed with lime, the polished concrete floor, and the fly, standing out against the whiteness of the lime, above his face, above mine. The fly, as the only other inhabitant of this world that is evolving in the cellar of a house to replace the one that has been lost. marcela solá

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The man doesn’t speak. Does he imagine? Is he trying desperately to know what will happen to him? I don’t talk either, so that the uncertainty adds to his su¬ering. Even in that we have begun to resemble one another. My dream of liberation is condemned to failure. I now realize that that and not the act of justice was what I was seeking. How could I talk of a natural order of things! The very fact of the existence of this man is proof that a natural order of things doesn’t exist and therefore there is no possible justice. I only wanted desperately to return to what I was, before he corrupted me, grafting me onto his existence. Now it is not possible. I stand up and grab one of the instruments that lie on top of the table. The man turns his face away. But he doesn’t know that I have abandoned the idea of using all that I prepared during those patient years. Nothing can repair the damage done. The imbalance caused is so great that there is nothing with which to balance it. If anything proves to be as important as the damage inflicted, it is my own life. I sprinkle the cellar with gasoline, the man understands now, and for the first time he speaks, he pleads pardon, he doesn’t know for what, he doesn’t remember who I am but he senses that I respond to his actions and he begs for pardon over and over again. I tell him that he deserves to die for what he has done but that I will accompany him. Then I go to my chair, watch the flames rise, and begin to feel toward him something like solidarity, something that surely flies in the face of justice, yes, something almost approaching love. I am back in paradise. Translated by Gwendolyn Díaz

Kind’s Silence (Excerpt from El silencio de Kind)

The general leaned back, robust and massive, against the wide windows. I did not know what to say, did not know why he had made me come, why he had me sit softly in the armchair, why he called me, Kind, a¬ectionately, Kind, now the adventure is over and you know already that between power and one’s personal conscience, the fight is uneven. For that reason, continued the general, a bunch of poor deluded men have died with pain and no glory, but you have survived because I willed it. Why did I want it this way? For the music maybe, because of Mozart perhaps, who led us into an agreement so long ago 84

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in a landscape removed from passion, from misery, because of our mutual love of beauty, independent of what it means for each of us. Like Goethe, I have always preferred injustice over chaos. But more certainly I have permitted you to live because survivors serve as witnesses to what power can do, that is why they are left. It is a mistake to believe that they will serve to shame it. Secretly, all who have or have had power belong to the same brotherhood, even if they do not know it, and they respect its smallest manifestation. In this country, Kind, there is not even one person who does not want it, who does not fear it, who does not feel satisfaction in exercising it; there are some like me who actually know what human material is like. Only this exists, power, and always someone must take charge, that is why we fight, those of us who have control, in order to have it in our hands and not to yield it to those who would destroy us, without ever achieving change. If your side had won, there would have been only an exchange of power. Those who believe in the utopia of a better world are either crazy or stupid, you are nothing like that, Kind, and that is why you will respect power and will be able to go forward with your life that is now full of learning and living. All power, Kind, is located within a larger power, and if some other power equals it, automatically the fight begins, no matter what idea sustains the powers; the most fascinating thing about this battle is that the beginning is beyond any idea, power exists for itself, and in the end we, the powerful, serve power even as we serve ourselves from it. He inhaled a mouthful of smoke and made it come out of his mouth in rings. That is the way it is, he said, satisfied, power is the only law, the only reality, the only great thing. There is so little greatness, he sighed, beauty is dying out, Kind, you who love it know this as well as I. The sun was setting in the window, and the horrible calm of the room did not have even one of those ingredients that, together, bring the serenity that often comes before night. A pair of swifts crossed the air pursuing each other. I will have you taken to your house before night comes, he patted me tenderly. Where? I think, I don’t have one any more. You must have some friend who will take you in, Kind, go on, you are not in danger any more. Look, even I rest, and he showed me a revolver, resting on red velvet. It has been my most faithful friend. There are those that are much more modern, but this Luger came with me from Germany and will be with me until my death. But for now it rests, waits, is ready to enter into service as soon as I press the trigger.

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Mercedes, this is my revolver, I’m going to teach you to handle it, it’s a Luger, a gift from my father. If the Peronists attack the house and try to burn it and I’m not here, you’ll have to defend your mother. I hope you don’t have to use it, my father said. But if he shows it to me, it must be for me to use it sometime, I said to myself, and immediately I understood that my father had not even the least intention of me using that gun, nor did he believe in the possibility that I would have to do it, he only wanted to prove to me, teach me about his power, make a show of his control; that gun added itself in some way to his personality, completed it. Once I knew that, I only paid just enough attention to the subtle workings of the loading, the unloading, the safety, and how to take it o¬. The Peronists had painted red crosses on those buildings that they wanted to burn, where someone lived that they wanted to see eliminated. At our house, the mark spoke from the lower part of the wall, right beside the door, and said in its code language: “Here there is a traitor, know it, our people, and when the moment comes, act.” All of us knew it, the block leaders, that Peronist invention, occupied themselves with security and espionage, and they had their political hatreds but also domestic ones; those of us who had fallen into one of those categories were marked. In our case in particular, it was for both reasons, the political because of my father, a blatant anti-Peronist, the domestic because of my mother, who did not keep herself from speaking ill of General Perón in front of all his acolytes, the greengrocer, the doorman, those from the garage across the street, in short, my father could not muzzle her; it was exasperating walking with her in the street where we lived and enduring the snide comments, the insults and threats of the doormen, the grocer, the watchmen who were always in the doorway of the Eva Perón Foundation, right by our house, who when she passed threw her homicidal but ine¬ectual looks because my mother knew no fear. My father, on the other hand, was a prudent man. In light of all this, why not teach her to use the revolver, I asked myself, and I asked my father. You’re crazy, as soon as she knows how to work it, she will use it, and that is all we need. He emptied the clips, put in the bullets again, pulled back the trigger, released it, showed me how to turn the safety on and o¬, and once the class was over, he returned it to the leather holster, which it never left again. I did not know about it until a long time later. And now I had its twin before my eyes. I went toward the door and on my way I stopped in front of the pistol, picked it up carefully under the general’s pleased gaze, pulled back the trigger and, aiming at him, I fired. Not one sound came from the gun. The general laughed again. Give up, Kind, you have 86

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no other option before you. Accept it. I cannot speak, cannot emit even one sound. Do it, insists the general, you are intelligent. He opened the door to let me leave. You already know that even if you kill me, what I represent is eternal, that much you have learned, the effort is useless. Good bye, Kind, take action and give homage to the primal forces, is that not from where music comes? Translated by Karen Douglas Alexander

publications Los condenados visten de blanco. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Carlos Lohlé, 1971. Mis propios ojos no dan abasto. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Carlos Lohlé, 1976. Manual de situaciones imposibles. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Carlos Lohlé, 1990. Acta de defunción. Buenos Aires: Ediciones del Dock, 1994. El silencio de Kind. Buenos Aires: Planeta, 1999. Qué quieren las mujeres: Antología. Buenos Aires: Lumen, 2003. Mujeres ante la crisis. Ed. Marcela Solá. Buenos Aires: Grupo Editorial Lumen, 2006.

translations “Happiness,” “Invisible Embroidery,” and “The Condemned Dress in White.” Trans. Shaun R. Gri~n and Emma Sepuveda-Pulvirenti. In Secret Weavers, Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992.

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Luisa Valenzuela A full mane of dark hair surrounds her ample smile and keen eyes, which project a passion for life and people. Luisa Valenzuela carries herself with confidence and determination; when she enters a room, her presence is noticed and recognized. She is constantly observing her immediate and distant surroundings, noting every detail, as would a painter or a photographer. She preserves the soul of a child, curious and free-spirited, yet she is intensely serious, intelligent, and committed to her ideals.

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Luisa Valenzuela | The Author and Her Work Luisa Valenzuela is no doubt one of the most internationally acclaimed Argentine writers today. She has authored seven novels, eight books of short stories, a book of essays, two personal anthologies, and an erotic memoir. Her work has been translated into many languages and is included in most university curricula focusing on Latin American literature. Valenzuela was born in Buenos Aires, in 1938, into a well-to-do family. Her father, Pablo Francisco Valenzuela, was a physician who died before she came of age. Later her mother married Guillermo Klappenback Caprile, managing director of the newspaper La Nación, who was to become a devoted stepfather to her. Her mother, Luisa Mercedes Levinson, was a successful novelist and was well integrated into the Buenos Aires literary elite. Levinson used to host soirées frequented by the most important personalities in the country’s literary and cultural world, such as Jorge Luis Borges (with whom Levinson cowrote a short story), Ernesto Sábato, Eduardo Mallea, Juan Goyanarte, Beatriz Guido, Nalé Roxlo, and many others. Though fascinated by the world of literary giants she grew to know, Valenzuela did not want to become a writer when she was young, perhaps as an act of rebellion or defiance toward what seemed to be her destiny. She loved adventure and science and thought that her career would go in that direction. As a child she invented adventures that she acted out in her own neighborhood, wandering from place to place, searching for treasures and solving mysteries. Her avid imagination became clear to her then, as she concocted detailed adventure stories of which she and her sister were the protagonists. Valenzuela went to school at the prestigious Belgrano Girls School, a bilingual British school in the quaint Buenos Aires sector of Belgrano, where she became fluent in English and also learned French. At seventeen she began her career as a journalist and published in many of Argentina’s major newspapers and magazines, including La Nación and the now-defunct but once highly respected journal Crisis. As a young woman in the 1940s and 1950s, she was very involved in the cultural life of Buenos Aires through theater, performances, writing groups, and musical events. This was a time when the cultural life of Buenos Aires rivaled that of many a European capital. In 1958, Valenzuela married a French o~cer and moved with him to Brittany, where she had a daughter, Anna-Lisa Marjak, and began to write short stories inspired by the folklore of the area. In 1959 she moved to Paris and beluisa valenzuela

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gan writing her first novel, Hay que sonreír (Clara), published in 1966, about the travails of a naïve young woman from the provinces who attempts to make a life for herself in Buenos Aires. In 1964 she returned to Buenos Aires, and she and her husband parted ways shortly thereafter. In 1969 she received a Fulbright Award to the prestigious International Writers Program of the University of Iowa, where she began work on her second novel, El gato eficaz (Feline Vision), published in 1972, perhaps her most creative novel, told from the point of view of an omniscient narrator who identifies with cats. Her penchant for travel having been awakened, Valenzuela spent 1972 through 1974 traveling in Mexico, Paris, and Barcelona. She also spent some time in New York doing research on American literature with a scholarship from the Fondo Nacional de las Artes (National Foundation for the Arts). In 1979 she moved to New York, where she lived for ten years, teaching courses and workshops on writing and literature at New York University and Columbia University. She was a Fellow of the New York Institute for the Humanities, a member of the Fund for Free Expression, and a member of the Freedom to Write Committee of PEN. She also worked with Amnesty International and with Americas Watch. In 1983 she received a Guggenheim Award to write. Her career flourished while living in the United States, where she became well established within literary and academic circles. Her move to New York was partly motivated by the political repression of the Dirty War in Argentina. Valenzuela had been active in a group that helped people persecuted by the dictatorship to leave the country; subsequently, the police had been to her house to look for her. Fortunately, she was out of the country at the time. It was not until 1979, though, that she left for New York, thus having lived in Argentina the first three years of the repression, arguably the worst, and having dared to publish her controversial novel about repression, Como en la guerra (He Who Searches), in Buenos Aires in 1977. Though she was happy in New York, Valenzuela longed for her native land and decided to return to Buenos Aires in 1989. It took some time to readjust to life in Argentina. It was the time of hyperinflation and a di~cult transition into a democracy that was plagued with economic limitations, a subject she depicts in her novel Realidad nacional desde la cama (Bedside Manners), published in 1990. In Argentina she has combined her writing career with an active professional life. She has traveled worldwide to participate in conferences and to read from her work. In 1995 she was honored by the University of Oklahoma with the prestigious Puterbaugh Award, and her work was the topic of 92

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the Puterbaugh Conference on World Literature and of the World Literature Today journal. In 1997 she received an honorary degree from Knox College, Illinois, and that same year she received the Machado de Assis Medal from the Brazilian Academy of Letters. To add to these distinctions, her fiction has merited several literary journal issues dedicated exclusively to her work, such as The Review of Contemporary Fiction (1986) and Letras Femeninas (2001). If there is any one subject matter that comes to mind when evaluating the body of work of Luisa Valenzuela, it is the topic of power, its e¬ects, and its various manifestations in the human experience. Valenzuela’s first novel, Hay que sonreír (Clara), published in 1966, was inspired by the prostitutes she used to observe at the Bois de Boulogne, in Paris. It portrays the life of a simple young country girl, Clara, who goes to the big city of Buenos Aires to find work. There she encounters a series of men and situations that lead to her exploitation. Perhaps the only novel by Valenzuela that could be considered in the vein of realism, it shows the author’s clear intent to denounce the oppression and social injustices that women su¬er as objects of male abuse. In 1967 she published Los heréticos (The Heretics), a collection of short stories that revolve around the concept of heresy. These stories suggest a distrust of the establishment, of religious dogma, and of the patriarchy. There is a clear intent to challenge patriarchal structures and create a female-centered discourse. In 1972, after her experience at the University of Iowa International Writers Program, Valenzuela published El gato eficaz (Feline Vision). Perhaps her most enigmatic and erotic work, the novel follows the urban adventures of a female protagonist who transforms into a cat, a tarantula, a wolf, and a tree, among other species. Above all, this novel is about the deconstruction of language and of the dogmas and repressive social mechanisms imbedded in that language. What Valenzuela explores here is the power of language itself. Her work can be described in terms of transgression, of both language and values. The playful tone of the text points toward a serious critique of Western society. (See Juanamaría Cordones Cook, Poética de transgresión en la novelística de Luisa Valenzuela [New York: Peter Lang, 1991].) Valenzuela’s 1975 book of short stories, Aquí pasan cosas raras (Strange Things Happen Here), is a collection of narratives that are concerned mainly with the political unrest in Argentina in the early 1970s. It delves into the psychology of power struggles of sexual, political, and social natures. The allegorical style and language games she cultivates here are quite accomplished. Her politically daring novel Como en la guerra (He Who Searches) was published luisa valenzuela

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in 1977 by Editorial Sudamericana, during the height of repression by the military government. The novel is a psychological exploration of identity, a search for our mythical origins and an exploration of human impulses toward both integration and disintegration. Underlying the text is a critique of repression, particularly political repression. The Argentine version of this novel was censored; the author was required to omit página cero (page zero), which introduces the novel with a torture scene. The 1979 English translation by Helen Lane includes “page zero.” Libro que no muerde (Book That Doesn’t Bite), published in 1980, is a collection of humorous and thought-provoking “micro-stories,” or brief narratives of diverse topics. Valenzuela’s celebrated 1982 story collection, Cambio de armas (Other Weapons), is her most recognized and analyzed book. Here she intertwines sexual politics with state politics; the uneven relationships between men and women seem to lead to unjust social and political results. The story “Cuarta Versión” (Fourth Version) refers to some of her own experiences in Argentina of rescuing political activists who had been persecuted and helping them find asylum in embassies so that they could later leave the country. The title story “Cambio de armas” (Other Weapons) is about the torture of a woman suspected of being a subversive. Also highly political in nature is the 1983 novel Cola de lagartija (Lizard’s Tail), where Valenzuela brings into her fiction the historical character of the Argentine Rasputin José López Rega (advisor to Juan Perón). López Rega was a highly feared political figure known for both his explorations of the occult and the creation of the AAA (Argentine Anticommunist Alliance), a paramilitary police force dedicated to the capture and torture of political dissidents. Valenzuela’s experiments with style, technique, and language are particularly innovative in this work, where she herself becomes a character. Also in 1983, she published Donde viven las aguilas (Where the Eagles Live), a short-story collection that portrays her interest in primitive people and myths. Here she focuses on the magical and mystical explanations of life and the desire to explore the mythological and poetic elements of the human psyche. Much of the material for Valenzuela’s novel Novela negra con argentinos (Black Novel with Argentines), published in 1990, was gathered while living in New York, where the novel takes place. The protagonists of this work are two expatriate Argentine novelists whose lives come together as the result of a murder. Much like a detective novel, the reader is engaged in a search for clues, a search that leads to a violent past in Argentina during the time of the 94

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Dirty War. Valenzuela’s novel is a postmodern reflection on writing itself and on the act of writing as an expression of psychological pressures. That same year, she also published her short novel Realidad nacional desde la cama (Bedside Manners), initially conceived as a play. Highly surrealistic in style, this piece reflects the atmosphere of collective madness that seems to pervade a society plagued by constant political and economic troubles. The real and the absurd coexist in the bedroom of a woman who has recently returned to her country, only to find that reality there is even more bizarre than her dreams. In 1993, Valenzuela published a volume of short stories titled Simetrías (Symmetries), which mirrors many of the same themes of female repression and political oppression that she wrote about in Cambio de armas. Over a decade later, this collection shows that the same structures of political and social control continue to be in operation. In this chapter is presented the story “Tango,” about a woman who frequents tango salons in order to dance and meet men. The language Valenzuela employs in this narrative depicts the social strictures imposed upon women in the sexually charged world of the tango, where women follow the lead of the male partner. In “The Key,” also included here, Valenzuela subverts the traditional moral of female obedience as seen in the tale of Bluebeard. Valenzuela’s protagonist triumphs precisely because she disobeys her husband, rather than obeys him. The power of speaking up and taking a position is underscored by the reference to the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in the story. Valenzuela’s complete collection of short stories, Cuentos completos y uno más (The Complete Stories Plus One), was published in 1998, and that same year she finished a collection of her favorite stories and excerpts from novels titled Luisa Valenzuela: Antología personal (Luisa Valenzuela: A Personal Anthology). In 2001 she published Peligrosas palabras (Dangerous Words), a collection of her own essays and reflections on literature and writing. Her latest novel to date, La travesía (The Journey), came out that year as well. This novel takes place in New York, a metaphor of sorts for the chaos of contemporary human experience, where her protagonist launches a search for a past that is both incriminating and revealing. As in other works by Valenzuela, there are key symbols here, such as the set of pornographic letters that motivates the search. Situated in New York City’s art world, the novel reintroduces characters that Valenzuela has developed in previous novels, some of them borrowed from real life. Topics of writing, self-knowledge, and self-discovery are woven together with issues of political repression in Argentina during the Dirty War and references luisa valenzuela

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to the desaparecidos. Valenzuela’s search to understand the mechanism of the abuse of power and how it a¬ects the human psyche surfaces in this novel about a woman who comes face-to-face with her past. In 2003, Valenzuela published a somewhat autobiographical memoir of her ten years in New York City titled Los deseos oscuros y otros más (Obscure Desires and Others). This book, which she has called an “apocryphal autobiography,” is a daring account of the memories of lovers and romantic encounters with the opposite sex during the years she lived in the United States. El placer rebelde: Antología general (Rebellious Pleasure: General Anthology), published in 2004, is an anthology of some of her fiction that shares the common denominator of the relationship between desire and power. She also authored a collection of very brief stories that same year, Brevs. Microrelatos completos hasta hoy (Brevs: Complete Microstories to Date). The work of Luisa Valenzuela embodies a rare combination of wisdom, humor, sexuality, social and political critique, and formal experimentation. It transcends the purely narrative to become a serious and insightful exploration of the human psyche and the social institutions and ideologies that structure our thoughts and beliefs.

Conversation with Luisa Valenzuela Gwendolyn Díaz: Let’s begin discussing your writing career by looking into your past. How would you describe your childhood from the perspective of the accomplished writer that you are today? What were you like as a child, and what aspects of your childhood speak to your talent as a writer? Luisa Valenzuela: I was a child who loved to explore. I explored everything and put together my own museum-like collections of fossils, rocks, and insects. I was particularly curious about the natural sciences as a child, and I also loved to pretend that I was an explorer. Even when I was too young to cross the street on my own, I would go around the square block imagining I was discovering all sorts of worlds. I was particularly fond of searching for treasures. I think one always searches for treasures, though as we grow the treasures become less concrete. As a child the treasures I looked for were figuritas [glittered pictures collected by young girls], stamps, coins from other countries, and such. As a grown woman, the treasure I seek is knowledge. gd: Did you travel much as a child? 96

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lv: No, not much. We made small trips to Uruguay and the province of Corrientes. Once when in Corrientes, I sat on a huge ant bed, an incident that appears later in my novel Cola de lagartija (Lizard’s Tail). I was two years old and fascinated by the insects. Apparently I wandered o¬ during siesta time, and they found me sitting on a tacurú or ant mound of very ferocious red ants. I was looking at these red ants crawling all over my arms and body, glistening in the hot sun, and not a one had bitten me. When they found me, they submerged me in a cow trough full of water to get the ants o¬ me. I think the ants did not bite because I was not afraid of them. Had they done so, I would have surely died from an overdose of formic acid. gd: What was it like growing up as the daughter of Luisa Mercedes Levinson, a woman who was famous in the literary circles of Argentina? Were you close, or did you resent her for having a life of her own other than as a mother? lv: Mother did have a life of her own, but it was a life I found fascinating. I had no notion of what a normal mother was; to me what was normal was my experience. My story “Cuchillo y madre” (Knife and Mother) alludes indirectly to the power struggles between my mother and me and between mothers and daughters in general. I did, however, admire my mother, and I loved what she wrote. When I was old enough, I would help her correct her manuscripts, and I kept scrapbooks of the articles about her in newspapers and magazines. gd: Did you initially reject a writing career as an act of rebellion against your mother? lv: I don’t know whether or not I would consider it an act of rebellion, but the truth is that when I was young I never considered a writing career. I liked the sciences, and I thought literature was too static. Mother spent a lot of time in bed surrounded by her papers; that seemed too passive an occupation for me. At night, though, mother would go out to parties, and at times she would host soirées at home. To me, the literary life seemed too sedate. I wanted to travel and have adventures and see the world. It wasn’t until I discovered journalism that I realized that writing could open doors for me. Later I began to write fiction, in spite of myself, and began with some of the stories from Los heréticos (The Heretics) and later with Hay que sonreír (Clara). gd: Who were some of the writers who visited your home and whom you grew to know as a child? luisa valenzuela

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lv: Jorge Luis Borges came to our home frequently. The story “La hermana de Eloísa” (Eloisa’s Sister) was co-written by my mother and him. I remember that I used to hear them laugh a lot as they worked together on that story. We also were visited by Ernesto Sábato, Nalé Roxlo, Juan Goyanarte (the man who founded the magazine Ficción and who helped me a lot), Gloria Alcorta, Beatriz Guido, and Syria Poletti. Authors like Manuel Peyroú and Augusto Mario Delfino are less remembered today, but they also were extraordinary men whom I got to know. Many of the Spanish expatriates came to our home as well, people like Arturo Cuadrado, Clemente Cimorra, Jose Luis Lanuza, and others. gd: When did you meet Julio Cortázar and Carlos Fuentes? lv: That was later, when I went to Mexico. My mother knew Cortázar, but I did not meet him until after I published El gato eficaz (Feline Vision). He liked that book very much and wrote me a wonderful letter about it. gd: One might say that your work seems to be somewhat influenced by Cortázar’s, particularly your word games and your penchant for games and playfulness. lv: Though I think there are some a~nities in our work, and I admire Cortázar very much, I did not read Rayuela (Hopscotch) until later, after I had begun writing. What is interesting is that we both were a¬ected by Alfred Jarry’s Patafísica concept that proposes a supplementary world to the one we know, a world of subversive logic that is engaged in a humorous questioning of the establishment and where the exception to the rule applies, rather than the rule. This is the movement that gave origin to Dadaism and later surrealism in France, and Cortázar and I were both influenced by it. I was very involved in the development of the Patafísica movement in Argentina, together with Alvano Rodriguez and Juan Esteban Facio, inventors of the novel idea of a machine with which to read Rayuela. gd: Why did you go to France, and what did you do while you lived there? lv: I fell in love and married a French naval o~cer. We went to live in Brittany, France. I was fascinated by the folklore of the area; it seemed magical to me, and as mysterious as the landscape. Some of the stories of Los heréticos were written and inspired by the religious tenor of this region. Later, after I moved to Paris, I got the idea for Hay que sonreír from the prostitutes I saw picking up men and wandering o¬ to the Bois de Boulogne with them. Like the prostitutes I had observed in the Retiro district of Buenos Aires, the Parisian ones were just as brave. I was amazed by the courage they had 98

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to have to get in a car with any stranger who passed by. In this novel, my concern was the male domination of women and the plight of women who attempt to make a place for themselves in a world tainted by sexism. gd: And what happened with your husband? lv: We had a daughter, Anna-Lisa Marjak, and eventually returned to Buenos Aires, where we decided to end the marriage. In Buenos Aires, I resumed my career as a journalist and wrote for La Nación newspaper, the journal Crisis, and several other publications, until 1969, when I received a Fulbright Award to go the International Writers Program at the University of Iowa. gd: It was in Iowa that your career as a writer took a new turn. Perhaps one might say you found a new voice. Tell us about your experience in the Iowa Writing Program and the genesis of El gato eficaz. lv: It is true, as you state, that my writing took a new turn there. Until then my narration was linear, but with El gato I felt a new voice arise from within me. At this time of experimentation in Latin American literature, my prose took on a new rhythm and a new tone. What is interesting is that this novel, which signals a rupture with my previous style, flowed out of me as naturally as water from a fountain, and I refrained from censoring the process. gd: Metamorphosis and transformation are two intriguing aspects of El gato eficaz. Would you comment on this? lv: Change is always present in life, and change has deep e¬ects within us. El gato was born in Iowa, where I felt secluded and was under the stress to produce; it continued its course in New York City in the sixties, a time of social protest and revolt. I woke up one night in Iowa, half asleep, and began to write what I thought was a story, something very strange, about death and fear. Then later, when I was in New York, it began to take on more shape. This exploration into the dark side of life, into the subconscious, became evident one evening in the Village, when I went to hear Herbie Mann play jazz. The musicians were jamming, and all of a sudden I began to howl along with the musicians, and we were all acting very strangely, almost instinctually. It was a bizarre experience, certainly something that would épater les bourgeois (shock the bourgeois), as the surrealists intended. Experiences such as these led me to focus on the other side of what we call reality and to value subconscious knowledge. With El gato I realized that exploring our fears can be beneficial because it can help us become aware of things that could otherwise destroy us. luisa valenzuela

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gd: Como en la guerra is also a novel of rupture, or I might even say disintegration. This book is centered on the dissolution of the concept of self and identity. How did you come to write this novel? lv: Several things came into play for me at this time. I was reading Jacques Lacan’s theories on language and the unconscious and also traveling a lot. I lived in Barcelona and Mexico and took sporadic trips to New York, Paris, and back to Buenos Aires. In Buenos Aires the political scene was becoming more and more repressive and unstable. In Como en la guerra I continued my exploration of the dark side of life while at the same time experimenting with language and its relationship to unconscious desire. gd: In this novel there are two searches, the search for authenticity by the main character and the search for a new form of expression by the author. To what extent do you believe that the exploration of our inner self and the exploration of language are connected? lv: I believe they are profoundly connected. One of the most powerful weapons for understanding our selves is language. It is through language that we acquire knowledge; this is the case for occidental people. Were we orientals, we might find self-knowledge through meditation. gd: Was the torture scene on “page zero” of Como en la guerra ever published in Argentina? lv: No, it has not been published in Spanish. That page was omitted in the Argentine edition because it so blatantly referred to the atrocities already taking place there. It does appear in the English translation, however. I would like to publish it again in Spanish as part of a trilogy of urban novels to also include Hay que sonreír and Novela negra con argentinos. All three explore the low-life back alleys of cities as well as the dark side of the human soul. gd: Was your move to New York in fact an escape from Argentina during the time of repression? Did you fear for your safety living in Argentina? lv: I left Argentina because I felt that I could no longer express myself freely. I felt as if I were su¬ering from a type of claustrophobia. As I was writing Cambio de armas, I was afraid to show it to anyone because it dealt with the violence of the Dirty War. I realized I did not have interlocutors; the next step would be silence or denial. I did not want to lose my memory of what was happening, nor censor my writing either. So when I was invited to Columbia University in New York for a writer’s residency, I decided I would leave for a long time. 100

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gd: However, you did live in Argentina between 1976 and 1979, three of the worst years of the repression. Were there any incidents that threatened your life? lv: Yes. In 1976 the police went to look for me at my home. It so happened that I was out of the country. My friends advised me not to return for a while. When I came back I found that everything had become more secret, more hidden, and people had slipped into denial, in the Freudian sense. That made me feel even more uneasy. Therefore I knew it was best for me to leave, and I moved to New York, where I lived until 1989. There I was active in organizations like Amnesty International and the Freedom to Write Committee of PEN. I did return to Argentina occasionally, and when I did, I was afraid of being apprehended, not only because of what I had published but also because both in Argentina and in the United States I was active in finding asylum for people who were persecuted by the dictatorship. gd: There seems to be a sort of resentment among the writers who stayed in Argentina during the repression toward those who left the country. There is a strange mechanism at work of suspicion and accusation by these authors toward those who left or felt the need to go into exile. What do you think about this? lv: Unfortunately, what you are saying was true at that time. Feelings of resentment toward those who left were common. One of the accusations that I have denounced is the notion that there were two Argentine literatures. Some misguided critics theorized that the writers who had remained in Argentina would produce the authentic Argentine literature, while those who had left would slowly lose their roots and become separated from the country’s mother trunk. I criticized this view as narrow-minded, for I felt I had taken my roots with me and had remained very much in touch with what was happening in my country. Besides, when one moves, one develops a broader perspective on any given situation. Some of the writers who stayed were silenced and produced very little. Others, who did write, were persecuted and murdered, as was the case with Rodolfo Walsh and Haroldo Conti, both of whom I knew well. gd: Do you believe that the Argentine writer had and perhaps still has the responsibility to write about the political problems that plagued the country? lv: I do not believe that one can ask the artist to be responsible for any particular issue. What one can ask is that she show the truth, or the truth as she experiences it. An artist has only the responsibility of creating a view of the luisa valenzuela

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world as it is experienced, whether it deals with the political or not. I believe, like Borges, in art for art’s sake, not in directed art. In my case, I had to write about the political because I was totally immersed in it. What I consider to be dishonest is when writers feel that they should write about something but do not because it will not make money for them or bring them prestige. Also, the reverse is regrettable, when the artist writes about a topic simply because it is politically correct. I believe the responsibility of the writer is to be faithful to herself. gd: What are your aesthetic concerns? What are the formal and technical aspects of writing that you wish to pursue in your texts? lv: I do not think in terms of an aesthetic; I think in terms of a style and a voice. I think that what most interests me for each narrative, each novel, each story, is to find the voice that is going to narrate. This voice determines a view, a narrative position from which a language evolves. What is important to me is that rhythm, that breath that is going to narrate the story. I am less interested in anecdote and focus more on the gaze from which it is narrated. I might describe this gaze as oblique, a gaze that cuts deeply and goes beyond the superficial to touch the core. I want to find what is underneath the word, hidden by it, what is not said, yet is present there within the word. I try to excavate and bring to the surface the hidden meanings of language, not to explain things but rather to bring them to light. gd: Your writing has a highly erotic charge. In Cambio de armas, for example, you suggest an association between language, power, and woman’s desire that could be seen, through a Lacanian reading, to point toward woman’s search for a place in the power structure. Nevertheless, I perceive in your writing something that cannot be reduced to the search for social power; there is a desire that is very much physical and at the same time spiritual in the erotic relationship between a man and a woman. Do you see this? lv: That is an interesting comment. It speaks to two issues that I am concerned with in my work and that I believe are closely intertwined. I talk often about writing with the body, and that is an idea that I have tried to verbalize and conceptualize. I believe that language, the physical body, and sexuality are very much tied together. As Freud suggests (a more contemporary Freud rather than the Victorian one), language has an absolutely sexual charge. Every word, each utterance is charged by desire. You cannot separate the logos from the body. It is in this space in which word and body 102

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become one that the power struggle dies; the word will not be used to dominate the other, but rather to express one’s desire. However, it is very di~cult to express desire because it does not want to be spoken, so there is a struggle to dominate the other, to have him speak his desire. As women, those of us who write are engaged in recovering the word, recovering a language that has often been denied to us. We are struggling to recover the word of the subject of desire. gd: Women have also been denied the power of sexuality in the sense that when women are sexualized, they are objectified or they are valued as erotic objects rather than as women of worth. Similarly, women who are sensual and express their eroticism are viewed as easy and scorned by society. lv: Yes, this is often the case. Margo Glantz has written well about this issue when she speaks of the two mouths of women and how both the upper one and the lower one have been forced shut in an e¬ort to diminish both her intellectual and her sexual power. gd: Getting back to your discussion about narrative voice, in your work there is a group of voices that surface occasionally from novel to novel. You have developed something like a small family of characters whose voices you seem to echo in various di¬erent plots. I am thinking of characters like Ava Taurel, Hector Bravo, and Navoni. Is there a specific purpose for this intertextual development of characters? lv: I supposed you could say that I have developed a small family of characters. They appear with a specific voice and within a specific typecasting. Navoni is the man of action: if he has to put his body in harm’s way, he will do so. Hector Bravo is the man of reflection and thought, Ava Taurel is the woman who pushes the limits, in a perverse sense. Ava Taurel is patterned after a real person, or rather stylized in her fashion. Navoni has some fictional characteristics, though he shares some qualities with a person I know. Hector Bravo, on the other hand, is purely fictional. As I reflect on my body of work, I do find a series of core topics that run through most of them. gd: What are the thematic concerns that you feel compelled to explore? Are there issues that obsess you, that repeatedly pull your pen in their direction? lv: Early in my career I was drawn to the idea of excess, religious excesses to be precise, that push the limits and fall beyond reason into the other side of sanity. In Los heréticos, I portray extreme religious fervor or fanaticism luisa valenzuela

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that degenerates into mistaken attitudes and messianic insanity. I think this idea remained with me and evolved into my preoccupation with power, which is present in most of my novels. Another topic that I am drawn to is the exploration of our hidden self, the phantoms that lie beneath the surface of day-to-day existence, yet motivate our actions. When I am writing and am deeply involved with it, my hidden phantoms begin to appear and I must face them. This takes courage; literature is an act of courage. In the time of Borges and Sábato, writers used to talk about their fear of becoming insane when they were writing. Now, I believe that we have explained that sense of uneasiness that writing can provoke as the fear of confronting the dark side of ourselves, the Freudian Id. In that sense, literature is a positive force that brings us closer to understanding ourselves. gd: It is positive for the writer and for the reader as well, because literature permits us to open those places within that we are afraid to recognize, as in Freud’s idea of bringing to our consciousness what we have repressed in our subconscious. This is the theme of Novela negra con argentinos, where Agustin’s inner turmoil pushes him toward murder. This novel touches on the powerful e¬ects that the military dictatorship had on people and refers to the physical and psychological traumas su¬ered by the victims of the repression. Here you bring us face-to-face again with the topics of power and domination. lv: I believe that power and the excess or abuse of power are at the heart of my literary exploration. When I wrote about torture and abuse in “Cambio de armas,” I was writing fiction. But when the stories of the actual tortures were brought to light in the trials that took place in Argentina afterward, I realized that such abuses of power were not imaginary, but very real, and that reality was often even more perverse than fiction. “Simetrías” was based on bits and pieces of real stories and testimonies of victims of the repression. gd: I believe it takes a lot of courage to write torture. I am not saying to write about torture, but to write torture in the sense of describing it (and keeping in mind your idea about writing with the body). You have done this and so has Elvira Orphée. What has led you to confront torture, and have you asked yourself how one can explain torture? lv: I have written about torture because it happened, because it must not be forgotten, because I hope that the memory of it will expose it and help us avoid it in the future. It is something that goes beyond the rational and 104

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falls into the hidden, dark side of the self, the side I try to bring to light. I think that the torturer may be motivated by the thought that through torture, he can dominate death. He knows just how far he can go, and he can delay death or bring it about. In so doing, the torturer feels that he can control death and, by extension, that he has power over death. As you note, Elvira Orphée has delved into the psychology of torture quite well, particularly in her book La última conquista de El Ángel. gd: I think the best example of courage during the Dirty War was the call to action of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. They risked torture and their very lives to expose the atrocities of missing children and torture victims. lv: There is no doubt that the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo were able to get to the truth of the matter and had the courage to do so. They were able to give voice and words to that which was totally unspeakable, the horror of torture, the horror of the people forced to “disappear.” They showed great bravery in confronting the dictatorship with the truth of what was going on. They exposed the truth about the so-called disappeared by parading with poster-size photographs of their children, the victims. Up until then, most people in Argentina were not willing to admit what was going on in the country. This process of bringing to light that which is hidden, of speaking the unspeakable, is something that I aim for in the act of writing. gd: Do you think the human being can escape the vicious cycle of power, or that we are condemned to live in relationships of domination? lv: My literary quest is precisely to try to figure out how one can escape the cycle of power and domination. I think the only way to escape it is through a true reading of the situation, through understanding how one is dominated and how one may feel compelled to dominate. Through understanding, it is more likely that we can have a dialogue with each other as equals rather than in terms of the powerful and the powerless. gd: How was your work a¬ected by the repression in Argentina? lv: I think that after the repression my writing was no longer the same. The repression was a mark, a brand that stays with you, and I am interested in it staying with me. It was a wound that all of us received and that we must work on healing. But it must be a deep healing, not a superficial one. In my work I want to dig deep into the wound to find its origins and to understand how to cure it. gd: How do you see women positioned within the power structure of Argentina? luisa valenzuela

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lv: Something very contradictory takes place regarding women here. In Argentina, women have been deeply involved in politics and activism, such as the case of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, for example, as well as the militants and many others. However, we still live in a society that devalues women and views them as secondary, particularly in matters of power. I am specifically concerned with the fact that political literature written by women is given less worth than that of men. There have been many important political books written by women, and they have not received the attention that others of less significance have received. Men tend to see the political in a linear fashion, where the “good guys” are on one side and the “bad guys” on the other. Women write about these issues in a more ambiguous manner, dealing with the unconscious and with subtle nuances within the characters. gd: Your work is very much a critique of political structures. Has your political writing been disregarded in Argentina? lv: Yes, to a certain extent. Only recently has my work been acknowledged for its political content, yet I have been writing about these problems since my earliest stories. When the book Simetrías came out in Argentina, critics discussed all the stories except “Simetrías” itself, the axial story of the collection and the most overly critical of the repression. It was as if there was a collective denial of or refusal to acknowledge that story. Outside of the country, critics have long been writing about the political content of my writing. It is just now beginning to be discussed in Argentina. gd: Of course politics and power, as Foucault and many others have noted, are very closely intertwined. How is the subject of power treated in your work? lv: In some strange fashion, the topic of power seems to run through almost all of my work. In Hay que sonreír I was interested in investigating male domination of women. Having encountered machismo myself, I wrote this novel about a young woman who tries to make a life for herself in a sexist, exploitative society. In Los heréticos, my idea was that religion is like a border that, once crossed through excessive piety or fanaticism, becomes destructive. So there, the power of religious fanaticism is viewed as an evil. El gato eficaz is more playful, yet it revolves around the subject of death, which is tied to power itself. gd: Your notions of power seem to evolve from book to book. In my view, Cola de lagartija, about the megalomaniacal López Rega, is where you most scathingly develop the dark side of power. 106

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lv: In Cola de lagartija, power is a force that rules, controls, and subjugates. I conceptualize power as a masculine force. The ambition to dominate others is a desire to be the lord and master of people, and it is usually a negative impulse. gd: So you define power as something negative? lv: More precisely, in my writing I develop the negative consequences of power. Power is a two-headed monster. On the one side it can be positive, as in the case of self-realization, self-worth, the power to help others and better oneself. But more often than not, power is something that one person wields over another; someone powerful controls someone who is placed in a position of weakness. What interests me about power is how it can grow from something harmless to something overwhelmingly dangerous. In Cola de lagartija, the character wants to become lord of the world, or even a god, hence his reign of terror. Another type of power that concerns me is the power that language has over us, something I develop in the story “Transparencias” (Transparencies). I believe that language gives us the power to understand ourselves and be understood, but language can also control and subjugate, and we need to be alerted to its power to manipulate us. As with words, the problem with power is not power itself, but how it is employed and the abuse to which it lends itself. gd: In Cambio de armas there are relationships based on power and domination. It appears in the sexual relationships between men and women and in the social and political world in which they move. In Cola de lagartija and Novela negra con argentinos, power and sexuality also seem to come together in a bizarre way. Could you comment on this? lv: I think power and sexuality are closely related. Power is a sexual high, it fascinates and attracts at the same time. The existence of sadism and masochism speaks to the relationship between sexuality and domination. gd: In Novela negra con argentinos, your interest in these issues is incarnated in the character of the sadomasochistic dominatrix Ava Taurel. It is interesting that the character of Agustín has been rendered impotent precisely because of his lack of power to control his circumstances. lv: In Novela negra I work with the idea of the power of denial and repression. The character of Agustín has repressed his past in Argentina, and this refusal to deal with his past creates problems for him years later. Roberta is able to move more freely, to create more freely, because she has not allowed herself to be trapped by her past. She is able to escape the trap and luisa valenzuela

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look at things from the outside. Agustín is trapped in his denial and inability to acknowledge the phantoms of his past. This dilemma is also developed in my latest novel, La travesía (The Journey), where the problem lies in what is not said, or, what one has said and done but refuses to accept. gd: How about Realidad nacional desde la cama? How does the notion of power appear there? lv: In that novel, which was initially intended to be a play, I wanted to work with the idea that passivity can be active and generate power. That woman who does not want to get out of bed, who only views the world from her bedroom window and her television, ends up generating a substantial force field. She cannot isolate herself, the real world invades her space, and she in turn a¬ects the real world. gd: Let’s discuss the two stories from Simetrías included here, “Tango” and “La llave” (The Key). My reading of “Tango” is that the female character chooses to follow the sexist rules of the tango etiquette because that is what is expected of her if she wants to dance. But I also see the story as a critique of machismo in the tango and by extension in Argentine society. lv: I wrote this story as a tongue-in-cheek perspective of tango and malefemale relationships. To me, this character is going along with the game because she wants to amuse herself by dancing. She does not feel victimized because she is in control; she chooses to play the game. But when she does not balk at accepting his invitation for something more and readily accepts his advances, he feels like he has lost control, he has lost his role as leader, hence the abrupt exit. gd: In the story “La llave,” the female character has become powerful by rebelling against the notion of obedience to men and taking possession of her own story or rhetoric by becoming a writer. lv: Yes, to the extent to which a woman chooses to tell her own story, rather than accept the story that men have created for her, she will be free. It is no coincidence that the story is dedicated to the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, who spoke the unspeakable terror of murdered and missing children and risked their lives doing so. These women, who rejected their traditional role of passivity and spoke out heroically against repression, were instrumental in the shift of power that eventually led to the defeat of the repressive regime. gd: Perhaps the central issue in your work is the power of discourse. Would you agree? 108

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lv: That is certainly an important theme. I am more concerned with dismantling power than with possessing it. I want to find what is behind what is said, I want to investigate the intent to deceive with words, and also to seduce with words. The word may be saying one thing, but if you deconstruct it carefully you may find it is saying something quite di¬erent. Political discourse is a good example; if it is listened to critically, it betrays its own statements. The words that are used to subdue you can also set you free if you analyze them wisely. gd: A di¬erent form of power is found in the complex relationship between mothers and daughters. Your story “Cuchillo y madre” touches on this dynamic. lv: In that story, which is somewhat autobiographical, power shifts back and forth between the mother and the daughter; between the two is the dagger, which, like the word, functions as a symbol of control and power. gd: The words of our parents have the immense power to mold who we are and how we see ourselves. lv: Yes, but Lacan points out that it is the mother who gives the name of the father, it is the mother who has the primary word, and therein lies her power. The mother-daughter relationship is possibly the most complex, and that may be because of the mandate that the mother transmits to the daughter, the mandate to be submissive, to obey and to tend to home and children. That is not an attractive mandate, and the young woman is likely to rebel. Things are better now because this mandate is not as pervasively transmitted to the younger generation of women. It must be di~cult for our mothers, who lived in submission, to accept the fact that their daughters did not, that they were free to choose a more independent life. gd: Men have also received a mandate in regard to their gender role. They, too, are a¬ected by their mothers, particularly by the need to separate and di¬erentiate from the mother, thus man’s search for power. lv: Men are educated in the search for power, but they are also insecure. Not just because of gender di¬erentiation and separation from the mother, but also because they depend on an organ that is unreliable. Man’s mandate is to perform, but sometimes he cannot. This, too, is a di~cult charge to bear: he must always be ready to perform, he must not cry, he must be strong, he must be in control. If he is not, then he is viewed as less of a man. gd: Is there a power that is valid in your view? luisa valenzuela

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lv: The clue to power lies in its use. As long as power is something that is used to subdue the other, it is invalid power. Valid power is that which allows us to feel good about ourselves without imposing our selves on others, without using them as mirrors or subordinates. Hegel’s master-slave dialectic should be reconsidered. Men who still view women as inferior or subordinate are operating under an archaic Hegelian structure, which is now being challenged by new social advances for women. Today’s men are having di~culty learning to adjust to the new gender roles. When women make more money than their spouses or have better jobs, the master-slave dialectic becomes inoperative. Once the victim escapes the role of victim, there no longer is a master and a slave, and the social structure is forced to reorganize itself. gd: Do you believe that literature has the power to change the human being? lv: Literature has to power to make us reflect and understand. It allows us to acquire integrity as thinking individuals. But the power of literature is only as e¬ective as the reader’s ability to make an insightful reading of the text. The power lies in the reader’s relationship with the text that he or she processes. That is why it is so important that people continue to read. Otherwise, our society will lose the ability to read critically and think critically, as in Orwell’s 1984. People who do not read can be easily controlled and manipulated. We must defend our capacity to reflect and discern, and literature provides the opportunity to do so.

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Tango

They told me: you have to sit near the bar in this place, to the left, not far from the cash register; order a glass of wine, nothing stronger, because women don’t do that kind of thing, and don’t drink beer, because beer makes you pee and peeing is something else women don’t do. There was a guy from around here who dropped his girlfriend when he saw her once coming out of the ladies’. He alleged, so it seems: I thought she was a pure spirit, a sprite. His girlfriend was left on the shelf, an expression that, in this part of the world, still has connotations of loneliness and singledom, something that is much frowned upon. In women, that is. Or so they told me. I live on my own, and the rest of the week I don’t mind, but on Saturdays, I like a bit of company. I like to be held close. That’s why I dance the tango. I learned it with great dedication and e¬ort, wearing high heels and a tight skirt with a slit up the side. Now I even carry the inevitable elastic bands around in my handbag, the equivalent, if I were a tennis player, of always having my racquet with me, only rather less cumbersome. I keep the elastic bands in my bag, and sometimes, when I’m queuing at the bank or at a counter, when they keep me waiting over some formality, I stroke the elastic bands absentmindedly, distractedly, and perhaps, I’m not sure, I console myself with the idea that, at that very moment, I could be dancing the tango instead of waiting until some inconsiderate pen-pusher deigns to help me. I know that somewhere in the city, whatever the hour, people will be dancing in some dimly lit salon. There you can’t tell if it’s day or night—nobody cares if it’s day or night—and the elastic bands are useful for slipping round the instep of your street shoes, which get baggy with all that schlepping back and forth in search of work. On Saturday night, the last thing you’re looking for is work. And I wait, sitting at a table near the bar, as recommended. In this place, the bar is the key position, they insisted; that way the men can check you out on their way to the gents’. They are allowed that luxury. Bladders bursting, they push open the swing door—a gust of ammonia hits us—and they emerge much lighter, ready to take up the dance again. I know now when it’s my turn to dance with one of them. And which one. I luisa valenzuela

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can detect that minimal movement of the head that indicates to me that I am the chosen one, I recognize it as an invitation, and when I want to accept I smile shyly. That is, I accept but I don’t move; he will come to me, he will hold out his hand to me, we will pause face-to-face on the edge of the dance floor, and we will wait for the thread to draw tight, for the bandoneón to build until we’re almost ready to burst, and then, on some unexpected chord, he will put his arm about my waist and we will weigh anchor. With our sails full, we will set out, with the wind behind us if we’re dancing a milonga; if it’s a tango, we lean into it. And our feet never get tangled up because he indicates the steps to me with a touch of his fingers on my back. There’s some new move, a figure I don’t know, and then I improvise and sometimes I even acquit myself quite well. I let one foot fly out, I lean in to starboard, keeping my legs close together, he places his feet elegantly and I follow. Sometimes I stop, when his middle finger presses lightly on my spine. I put the woman in neutral, my teacher used to say, and then you had to remain frozen in mid-step, so that he could perform his twirls and flourishes. I learned it properly, I drank it in with my mother’s milk, as they say. It’s something about the way the men hold themselves, which alludes to something else entirely. That’s what the tango is all about. And it’s so beautiful that you end up giving in to it. My name is Sandra, but in the dance halls I prefer to be called Sonia, because it’s more romantic. Here, though, hardly anyone asks for or gives a name, hardly anyone speaks. Some of them do smile to themselves, listening to the inner music they’re dancing to, which isn’t always just pure nostalgia. We women laugh as well, and smile. I laugh when they dance with me for a second time (and we stand there in the middle of the dance floor, silent and sometimes smiling, waiting for the next number), I laugh because this tango music oozes up from the floor and seeps in through the soles of our feet and shakes us and draws us on. I love it, the tango. And therefore I also love the man dancing with me, transmitting the music to me through his fingertips. I don’t mind walking the thirty or so blocks back home. On some Saturdays, I even spend my bus fare at the tango salon, and I don’t mind in the least. On some Saturdays, a sound of, shall we say, celestial trumpets rises above the bandoneóns and I lift o¬. I levitate. On some Saturdays, I don’t even need elastic bands around my shoes, my shoes stay on themselves. It’s worth it. The rest of the week passes by banally enough, and I hear the stupid comments 112

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from men in the street, so obvious when compared to the obliqueness of the tango. In the here and now, I am practically leaning on the bar in order to get a good view of the dance floor; I look almost insistently at some mature gentleman, and I smile at him. They’re the best dancers. Let’s see which of them decides to approach. The twitch of the head comes from the one on the left, almost hidden behind the column. Such a delicate movement that it’s almost as if he were merely tilting his ear toward his shoulder, listening to it. I like him. I like the man. I smile frankly back at him and only then does he stand up and come over. You can’t expect any greater degree of boldness. No one here would risk rejection face-to-face, no one is prepared to return to his seat alone, beneath the mocking gaze of the others. He knows he has me and he moves slowly, and, close too, I like him less, he’s older than I thought and rather o¬hand. The prevailing ethics don’t allow me to back o¬. I stand up, he leads me to a rather remote corner of the dance floor and then he actually speaks to me! Not like the man who, some time ago, only spoke in order to apologize for the fact that he wouldn’t be speaking to me again, because, he said, I come here to dance not chat, and that was the last time he opened his mouth. This man makes some general remark, it’s quite touching really. He asks, have I seen the mess the country’s in, and I say yes, I bloody well have, except I don’t say it in those words, I play the part of the gracious lady, Sonia: yes, I say, absolutely frightful, but he doesn’t allow me to elaborate on the idea because he already has me firmly in his grasp ready to enter the dance at the next beat. Absorbed, silent, I console myself thinking this one won’t let me drown. It turns out to be a tango of pure concentration, of cosmic understanding. I do the steps that I saw the woman in the crochet dress do, the plump woman who really enjoys herself, the one who whirls her shapely calves so adeptly that you forget the rest of her opulent anatomy. I dance on, thinking about the fat woman in her green crochet dress—the color of hope, they say—about the pleasure that she takes in dancing, a replica or possibly a reflection of the pleasure she perhaps took in her crochet work—a vast dress for her vast body—and her contentment as she dreamed of the moment when she could wear it for the first time and dance. I don’t know how to crochet and I don’t dance as well as the fat woman, although I do at the moment, because the miracle has happened. And when the dance ends and my partner again comments on the mess the luisa valenzuela

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country’s in, I listen to him respectfully, but I don’t reply, I leave him space to add: “And have you seen the price of motels now? I’m a widower and I live with my two children. I used to be able to a¬ord to take a lady out for a meal in a restaurant and then back to a motel. Now all I can do is ask the lady if she has a flat somewhere central, because I can just about a¬ord a chicken and a bottle of wine.” I remember those flying feet—mine—those filigree steps. I think of the happy fat woman with her happy husband, I even feel the awakening of a genuine vocation for crocheting. “I haven’t got a flat,” I tell him, “but I do have a room in a boarding house, in a nice area, very clean. And I’ve got plates and cutlery and two green stem glasses, nice tall ones.” “Green? They’re for white wine.” “Yes, they are.” “Sorry, I never touch white wine.” And without dancing even one more step, we part. Translated by Margaret Jull Costa

The Key

One dies a thousand deaths. I, for one, die almost daily, but I recognize that I owe the fact that I am still around to tell the tale (for so that the tale can be told) to the very circumstance for which I have so often been and still am condemned. I confess that I saved myself thanks to that virtue, as I learned to call it, although everyone else called it an ugly vice, and thanks, too, to a certain capacity for deduction that helps me to see through tricks and also to communicate what I have seen and learned. Everything was so di~cult then. They say that only God could have saved me, or, rather, my brothers—probably sent by God—who freed me from the ogre. They told me so from the start. They gave me no credit at all, on the contrary. Times have changed, and I say to myself again and again, however often they try to discredit me, that I must have done something right to survive into the end of the twentieth century. 114

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You can’t be that good if now you’re appearing in Argentina, that backwater of the world, the resentful tell me (Argentines themselves). Even so, even here, I earn my living honorably, using the gifts I was born with. I have to tell myself this all the time, because they tend to undermine me so much that I end up losing confidence, I who have always been so good at dredging up courage out of nowhere. That’s what I talk about in my seminars: how to ignore the condemnatory voices from outside. You have to be strong to do it, but if I managed it—an innocent young girl, who had never before left home, spoiled, fortunate, pampered, groomed, always dressed in long skirts of pale lace—others can do it too. Especially in these times that produce so many battle-hardened types. I give my seminars to fairly large audiences, almost entirely female. But at least now you could say that I do draw a crowd. I feel needed, even though, as I said at the beginning, one dies a thousand times and I have died a thousand times. With each new version of my story I die a little more or I die in a di¬erent way. But I have to admit that I was lucky to start with, despite what came to be known as my defect, all because of a certain Perrault—may he rest in peace— the first to tell my story. Now I tell my own story. But then I was just a sweet little girl, very sweet, I had barely had time to round the corner of childhood before they had married me o¬ to that huge, powerful man. They say that I chose my lord, and yet he was such a rough man, with that strange-colored beard of his. Perhaps I felt sorry for him: no one seemed to love him. He certainly made no attempt to make people love him. Perhaps that is why I felt slightly sorry for him. I do not have much understanding of love, having only touched it briefly with one fingertip. I know an awful lot about the other thing though. You could say I am a real expert, and perhaps, for that very reason, love eludes me and men flee from me; through centuries men have always fled from me because I have made a virtue of a sin and they cannot forgive that. They’re the ones who call attention to the sin. It’s a women’s thing, they say (but I don’t want to go down that particular path either, there are so many specialists in the subject nowadays). Let’s just say that I merely try to give as good as I get, as we say in this part of the world; or, rather, to turn their point of view on its head. luisa valenzuela

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As I said before, I have always been accused of a defect that, although it seemed to take me to the brink of death, was, in the end, my salvation. A “defect” that I learned—with great e¬ort and a good deal of pain and sacrifice— to defend with my life. I do talk about that in my meditation groups and seminars and also in my weekend workshops. I prefer the workshops. I lead them simply and methodically. Like this: On Friday evening, during our first meeting, I simply tell my story. I describe the various versions that have grown up through the centuries and I make clear, of course, that the first version is the correct one: I married extremely young, they set what some might call a trap for me, I fell into the trap if you care to see it like that, and I saved myself, perhaps in order to save all women a little. Toward the end of the evening, depending on how inspired I feel, I make that ogre of an ex-husband of mine even more monstrous and I paint his beard in terrifying colors. I don’t think I’m exaggerating, though. Not even when I describe his vast fortune. It wasn’t his fortune that helped me get where I am; what helped me was the very talent for which so many have criticized me. My husband’s fortune, which, naturally, I inherited, I shared among my closest relatives and among the poor. I left the castle as a museum, although I knew no one would look after it and that it would eventually fall into ruin, as, in fact, it did. I don’t care, I didn’t want to soil my hands. I would rather have gone hungry. It took me centuries to reach the necessary level of understanding that allows me to carry out this consciousness-raising work, as they call it nowadays. On Fridays, then, I only see introductory material, but I leave them all prepared for the work that awaits them during the weekend. On Saturday morning, after a few breathing and relaxation exercises that I incorporated into my technique when I worked in California, I read them the moral that, toward the end of the seventeenth century, Perrault gave to my story. “Despite its many charms, curiosity often causes great pain. You can see thousands of examples of this every day. I do not wish to anger the fair sex, but it is an ephemeral pleasure. The moment you taste it, it is gone, and the price you pay is always too high.” Sacred curiosity, an ephemeral pleasure! I repeat indignantly, and my indignation has remained undiminished over the centuries. An ephemeral pleasure, the curiosity that saved me forever when my lord went o¬ on a journey, 116

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leaving me with a huge bunch of keys and forbidding me on pain of death to use the smallest of them, the curiosity that drove me to uncover the mystery of the locked room. And does no one ever ask what would have become of me in a castle with a room full of dead women hanging from hooks on the walls, their throats slit, living with the man who had been the husband of those women and who had obviously killed each one with his own hands? Some women in the seminars still don’t understand. How many rooms did the castle have in all, they ask, and I reply as if I didn’t know what they were getting at, and they say what harm can one locked room do us when there are so many other unlocked rooms full of treasures, and I just let them talk because I know that they will answer their own questions before the seminar is over. Some insist. They would, in principle, have opted for a life without curiosity, they would have kept their mouths shut, in exchange for so many commodities. Commodities? I ask rhetorically, how can you talk about commodities when confronted by the locked door of a room with its floor drenched in blood, a room full of dead women who bled to death, hanging from hooks, and where a nice clean hook doubtless waits for me? They were all victims of their own curiosity, so the manuals say, and often the people who participate in the workshops tell me so too. And what about the first one? I ask, trying to remain calm. What was the first one curious about, what could she have seen? In my time as a young chatelaine, a prisoner—without knowing it—of the ogre, fate, or, rather, my curiosity, helped me break the circle. Otherwise, you can be sure that I would have joined the circle. The mere existence of that secret room made life in the castle unlivable. That always generates a great deal of discussion. Because I present the options and we all poke and rummage around among them, and give ourselves over to essentially female activities: we take the lids o¬ pots and tear to shreds the so-called veil of secrecy, which some consider merciful. Before finishing work on Sunday, I take up the theme of the key again and, just as on that distant day when my ex-husband handed me a huge bunch of huge keys, I hand to the participants a huge bunch of imaginary keys and I let them take the keys home with them and they sleep with those keys and dream of those keys, and among the large keys that they are allowed to use, they find luisa valenzuela

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the forbidden key, the golden key, and they discover which forbidden room that key locks, and with that key in their hand, what they find out, above all, is whether they turn their backs on the forbidden room or whether they face it. Sunday is usually spent in an atmosphere of tense expectation. The women in the group tell me their stories, putting o¬ the moment when the doors opened with the keys they were allowed to use, the irrelevant ones. Until, at last, someone gets up their courage key: it is always stained with blood. It even frightens me sometimes. Unexpected deaths often surface in these explorations, the one constant is fear. Exactly as happened to me all that time ago, as happens to all who have the courage to use it, the little key falls to the floor and is stigmatized forever. Stained with blood. When it was my turn, in order to save myself, so that the ogre, my lord and husband, would not learn of my disobedience, I tried to wash it in bleach, in boiling water, in vinegar, in the strongest alcohols I could find in the castle cellar. I tried to polish it with sandpaper, but it was no good. Nothing removes blood. I tried to clean the little golden key that had been given to me with so many reservations, and all the women I have ever met in my workshops up until now have all done what they could to wash it too, trying to hide their transgression. Don’t use this key, although they know that they have to. But they are never prepared to pay the price. And they, in turn, try to scrub the little golden key clean, or to lose it, to deny having used it or to try to hide it from me for fear of reprisals. They are all the same, everywhere. Apart from this woman, today, in Buenos Aires, this utterly serene woman wearing a white headscarf. She raises her arms as high as the mast of a ship, and in her hand the blood on her key shines more brightly than the key itself. The woman shows it with a pride that is not without sadness, and I cannot contain my applause and even a tear. There are a lot of women like me here. When we walk round and round the main square each Thursday, some say we are mad, although it has been proved beyond doubt that they are the mad ones, says the woman with the white headscarf. I applaud and laugh, relieved at last: the lesson seems to have gone home. My lord Bluebeard must be turning in his grave. For Renée Epelbaum and the other Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo Translated by Margaret Jull Costa

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publications Hay que sonreír. Buenos Aires: Américalee, 1966. Los heréticos. Buenos Aires: Paidós, 1967. El gato eficaz. Mexico City: Mortiz, 1972. Aquí pasan cosas raras. Buenos Aires: Ediciones La Flor, 1975. Como en la guerra. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1977. Libro que no muerde. Mexico City: UNAM, 1980. Cambio de armas. Hanover, N.H.: Ediciones del Norte, 1982. Cola de lagartija. Buenos Aires: Bruguera, 1983. Donde viven las águilas. Buenos Aires: Celtia, 1983. Novela negra con argentinos. Hanover, N.H.: Ediciones del Norte, 1990; Barcelona: Plaza y Janés, 1990. Realidad nacional desde la cama. Buenos Aires: Grupo Editor Latinoamericano, 1990. Simetrías. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1993. Luisa Valenzuela: Antología personal. Buenos Aires: Desde la gente, 1998. Cuentos completos y uno más. Mexico City: Alfaguara, 1998. Peligrosas palabras. Buenos Aires: Temas Grupo Editorial, 2001. La travesía. Buenos Aires: Grupo Editorial Norma, 2001. Los deseos oscuros. Buenos Aires: Grupo Editorial Norma, 2003. El placer rebelde. Buenos Aires: Tierra Firme, 2004. Brevs. Microrrelatos completos hasta hoy. Buenos Aires: Alción Editora, 2004. translations Clara: Thirteen Short Stories and a Novel. Trans. Hortense Carpentier and J. Jorge Castello. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1976. Strange Things Happen Here: Twenty-Six Stories and a Novel. Trans. Helen Lane. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1979. He Who Searches. Trans. Helen Lane. Elmwood Park, Ill.: Dalkey Archive, 1979. The Lizard’s Tail. Trans. Gregory Rabassa. New York: Farrar Straus and Giroux, 1983. Other Weapons. Trans. Debora Bonner. Hanover, N.H.: Ediciones del Norte, 1985. He Who Searches. Trans. Helen Lane. 2d ed. Elmwood Park, Ill.: Dalkey Archive, 1986. Open Door: Stories by Luisa Valenzuela. Trans. Hortense Carpentier, J. Jorge Castello, Helen Lane, Christopher Leland, Margaret Sayers Peden, and David Unger. San Francisco: North Point, 1988. The Censors. Trans. Hortense Carpentier, J. Jorge Castello, Helen Lane, Christopher Leland, Margaret Sayers Peden, and David Unger. Willimantic, Conn.: Curbstone, 1988. Black Novel with Argentines. Trans. Toby Talbot. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992. Bedside Manners. Trans. Margaret Jull Costa. London: Serpent’s Tail/High Risk, 1994. Symmetries. Trans. Margaret Jull Costa. London: High Risk Books, 1998. luisa valenzuela

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Tununa Mercado Tununa Mercado is a slender woman with a fair complexion and a massive mane of very dark hair. She walks and moves with a boyish gait as if trying to assert her inner strength, in light of her small physical stature. She speaks decidedly and often strays into poetic tangents that lead into her circuitous creativity, yet she always winds back to the point in question. Her home displays her interests: books, photographs, artwork, exotic souvenirs, and a love for the earthy side of life.

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Tununa Mercado | The Author and Her Work Tununa Mercado (Nilda Mercado by birth) was born in the city of Córdoba in 1939. Her father was a lawyer who instilled in her a love for reading the classics of Spanish Golden Age literature, and her mother was a law clerk, or escribana, a degreed career in Argentina. Mercado attended a public school for teachers, Escuela Normal Nacional Alejandro Carbo, and later studied philosophy and literature at the University of Córdoba, a university known for high academic standards and political involvement. There she met and married the writer and professor Noé Jitrik. The couple moved in 1964 to Buenos Aires, where she began to work in publishing houses as an editor and translator. In 1966, due to the military coup lead by Onganía, her husband was forced to resign his posts at the University of Córdoba and the University of Buenos Aires. The couple left the country and settled in Besançon, France, where Mercado taught Latin American literature and civilization and became familiar with the intellectual production of the poststructuralists and other thinkers who lived in France at the time. The pair returned to Buenos Aires in 1970, after Onganía was overthrown, and Mercado began to work at the prestigious newspaper La Opinión, headed by Jacobo Timerman, where she wrote in the women’s section and spearheaded a subtle yet persistent feminist agenda. Once again the political turmoil and repression of the early 1970s in Argentina forced Mercado and her family (under threat of death) into exile, this time in Mexico. There she continued to pursue her career as a journalist covering political and international stories in newspapers and journals like unomasuno, El Universal, La Jornada Semanal, Creación y Crítica, and others. In Mexico she was a member of the collective directorship of the magazine fem., one of the first Latin American feminist magazines. At this time she also began to write the stories gathered in Canon de alcoba (Bedroom Canon), episodes of her novel En estado de memoria (In a State of Memory), and the essays from La letra de lo mínimo (The Letter of the Minute). She also worked in the Dirección de Artes Plásticas of the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes (Plastic Arts Division, National Institute of Fine Arts), an experience that she credits with having had a great impact on the development of her style and aesthetic. As Mercado became more and more established as a journalist, essayist, and fiction writer, her work reached international markets such as Temps Moderne (France), Nueva Sociedad (Venezuela), Nuevo Texto Crítico (Stanford), Revista de Occidente (Spain), and, upon her return to Buenos Aires in 1987 (after the tununa mercado

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restoration of democracy), in Argentine newspapers: the literary supplement of Clarín, Página 12, and its supplements Primer Plano and Radar. Mercado is also an accomplished translator who has translated from French into Spanish works by Eisenstein, Pierre Bourdieu, François Lyotard, Jacques Soustelle, Francoise Davoine, and others. In 1998 Mercado received a Guggenheim Award to work on a new book of fiction. Mercado’s creative production began in 1967, when she published Celebrar a la mujer como a una pascua (To Celebrate a Woman Like Easter), for which she received an honorable mention in the Casa de las Américas competition. After years as a journalist, she resumed her creative-writing career in 1988 with Canon de Alcoba (Bedroom Canon). In 1990, she published En estado de memoria (In a State of Memory), a novel about exile and return to the homeland, inspired by her years in Mexico. In her 1994 book of essays La letra de lo mínimo (The Letter of the Minute), about her impressions of life in Mexico, she developed her preoccupation with writing and theory. In 1996 she published La madriguera (The Burrow), a novel where she evokes her childhood in Córdoba and her romantic recollection of the charming city where she grew up. The subject of this novel is memory itself, as well as our gaze toward the past. Finally, her book Narrar Depués (Narrating Later), published in 2003, is a collection of eclectic texts, literature, erotica, and memoirs that chronicle contemporary times. The two narratives chosen for this chapter come from Mercado’s 1988 collection, Canon de Alcoba, for which she received the Boris Vian prize. This is a prize conferred by writers to writers for works considered to be of groundbreaking originality. In this collection, Mercado’s style is carefully crafted, insightfully poetic, suggestive, and precise. The richness of her language and the originality of her expression lead the reader from the minute to the universal, from the object to the abstract, from the insignificant to the meaningful. Subtle yet explicit, and with a refined sense of observation, her narratives state the universal by exploring the details of daily life and relationships. There are no specific characters. The nameless protagonists of the narratives share an omniscient female presence that conveys a woman’s sensibility and point of view. This collection of lyrical narratives is divided into seven sections: “Antieros,” “Espejismos,” “Sueños,” “Realidades,” “Eros,” “Amor Udrí,” and “Punto final.” Each section consists of brief narratives that portray some form of sensual situation or erotic encounter described in a detached, impersonal 124

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manner, but at the same time conveying with precision the intimate and personal nature of the sensual. In “Antieros,” the domestic chores of the housewife develop into a frenzy of cooking, spices, and aromas that culminate in an autoerotic moment in which the woman transfers the sensuality of aromas and tastes to the sensuality of her own body. “Espejismos” (Mirages) begins with a description of an act of exhibitionism in the metro that humorously alludes to the exhibitionist and his personified penis as two entities that stroll down the street like two kings closely allied to one another. Other selections of the section include “Ver” (To See), a voyeuristic encounter between a man and the nude woman he observes through the window across the street. The provocative movements of the woman reveal that she is aware of his gaze, and this heightens not only his desire but hers as well. In “Oir” (To Hear), two women make love to each other while a third, their friend, listens to the sounds they make in her adjacent room, sharing vicariously in the experience. The section titled “Sueños” (Dreams) presents a series of surreal descriptions of landscapes consumed by fire, dreams of flight and of exuberant exotic birds, of horses that gallop toward the viewer and disappear rhythmically into the horizon, and dreams of people in exile who reminisce nostalgically about the homes they left behind. “Realidades” portrays several views of how political reality is experienced—whether it is seen in the desolation felt by a woman whose husband has just been murdered, in the chaotic excitement generated in a political rally, or in the violent and the despotic discourse of a general. “Eros,” which includes the two stories selected, contains eight erotic narratives depicting sexual situations that constitute a type of poetics of the erotic. One story describes the sexual act as a coming and going that weaves together moments of variable intensity, creating undulating textures and round forms. Another describes desire in terms of the discourse of two lovers who relate their stories to each other through the metaphor of embroidery. The result is the tapestry of their relationship in which word and desire have come together to form a couple. The attempt to recover lost desire is depicted in a scene where a lover struggles hopelessly to become aroused by a partner who no longer attracts her. The desire of one woman for another is seen when one evokes the memory of the other, far away, reminiscing about the pleasure of their physical contact. The first narrative presented in this chapter, “Amor Combatiente” (Combatant Love), describes the sexual act in terms of an act of military conquest. tununa mercado

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The lover/combatant views the partner/female as a battlefield to be dominated and conquered. This perceptive metaphor shows how the male conceives the sexual encounter as an act of domination and subjugation, a power struggle between one who takes possession of a territory and one whose territory is possessed. The second selection of this chapter is “Amor delirante” (Delirious Love). Here we enter the consciousness of a woman who is obsessed with her absent lover and spends all of her waking hours reminiscing about their previous encounter and anticipating their next one. She describes her rendezvous with her lover as a game of life and death, where passion is so overwhelming that she must refuse him at times to survive. Each hour of her day is marked by his absence and the anticipation of his return. In each waking moment of her existence she evokes his presence and painfully su¬ers his absence. She has become a prisoner of her own love, of an obsession that totally controls her existence. The story reflects the power of desire and the way in which desire can become a force so strong that it can consume us. The book ends with “Amor Udrí” (Udri Love), a section that captures the relationship between writing, the word, and desire, and “Punto Final” (End Period), which skillfully retakes the metaphor of writing as embroidery and so concludes with the final stitch of a book where ideas, like stitches, are woven together to create a masterful tapestry of desire. This collection depicts a diversity of situations of a sensual nature experienced by characters who are either overpowered or overpowering. In many cases, the characters are overpowered by the sheer force of obsession or desire, reflecting the struggle for personal freedom faced by all who sustain intimate relationships with others.

Conversation with Tununa Mercado Gwendolyn Díaz: I would like to center our conversation on certain basic aspects of your work, such as your aesthetic, your themes, and ultimately concentrate on how you view relationships of power and how this surfaces in your writing. Two things have caught my attention regarding the formal quality of your writing: one is the importance of the visual, the gaze, and the other is the sense of atemporality conveyed in your narratives. Tununa Mercado: I have always resisted the type of narrative that links together events in the ruse of fiction. I did not want to write stories that joined together a sequence of fictional events. In rejecting storytelling, I 126

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developed my own style, which is more akin to a flow of sensations and experiences where specific characters with a specific story line are not needed. This is, perhaps, why my writing seems to be outside of time. The character is not as important as what the character experiences. In the story “Antieros,” from Canon de alcoba (Bedroom Canon), for instance, there is no subject, there are instead infinitive verbs carried out by a nameless character, a list of actions that suggest the style of writing of recipes in cookbooks: boil the wet ingredients, baste the confection, place in a dish. And in this way I create a story about a nameless woman, any woman, focusing on her actions and what she experiences as she goes about her daily domestic chores. In En estado de memoria (In the State of Memory) I do have a first-person narrative, and in La madriguera (The Burrow) there is a subject that is very vague and subjective, but again, these do not relate a sequence of events, but rather create an atmosphere or convey senses and experiences. To me, writing has consisted of a series of prohibitions and challenges. I have prohibited myself from writing in standard forms and have challenged myself to create an original form of expression. I refuse to use set phrases, common places, or rhetorical structure that is not my own. My writing is not anecdotal; rather, it is an immersion into subjectivity, a looking inward. gd: Your writing is highly visual. From where does your inclination toward observation and description based on the sense of sight come? tm: My eye, my ability to see beyond to what others might not see, was greatly enhanced when I worked in the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes (National Institute of Fine Arts) in Mexico City. There I produced catalogues for artists and their works and evaluated their work in the process. That’s when I began to “see” and at the same time to look for unique ways of writing about art, devoid of the jargon of the critic or the academic. I have always found delight in the ability to express thoughts in a new and fresh light. That is why my vocation is a pleasure to me. Also, I credit my work as a journalist for teaching me the immediacy of words and the discipline of writing. gd: Tununa, how would you describe the themes of your work? Are there recurrent preoccupations? What are the thematic common denominators of your writing? tm: One of my constants is a concern with memory. This can be seen in the novel En estado de memoria, about the e¬ects of dictatorship and exile on the tununa mercado

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individual and the memory of the past left behind. Some of the texts of Canon de alcoba also deal with memory, the memory of a lost love. This theme is important as well in my novel La madriguera, about the memory of childhood experiences and of a city romanticized by the nostalgia of things lost. There is a tone of reminiscing, of evoking, that leads to a kind of mise en abîme, or sense of sadness, that dwells on loss, separation, and exodus. I would describe this as a tone of melancholic rapture. This may seem extreme, but I only find meaning in writing about pain, hurt, loss, that which is impossible. This is evidenced in my writing about exile, another one of my interests, and even in much of my erotic literature, which is tinged with a sense of loss and nostalgia. I am currently working on another novel that stems from an episode in En estado de memoria. It is about a child whose mother loses him after a bomb explodes during the war in Europe. Here also I explore the sense of loss and separation. gd: Would you say that you also convey in your writing a concern for the plight of women? Do you think it is important to continue with the feminist struggle? tm: I am a feminist; this is a fact. When I lived in Mexico and was part of the directorship of the feminist magazine fem., I had the opportunity to deal with the struggle on a daily basis. Now I see myself as someone in a reserve army who comes out to fight when the need presents itself. While working with fem., I wrote about issues of social justice and equality for women. As I matured as a creative writer, my concern for women’s issues surfaced in the form of writing about women’s perception and sensibility. Regarding the feminist struggle, I believe we are still far from achieving our desires. In Argentina, for instance, abortion is illegal and we do not have sex education, nor do we o¬er young women information on birth control and reproduction. There is still much to be done in the fight for women’s rights, not only through laws and social programs, but also in educating a society that still views women as secondary. gd: This chapter includes the stories “Amor combatiente” (Combatant Love) and “Amor delirante” (Delirious Love) from the section titled “Eros” of Canon de alcoba. Each story reflects a di¬erent manifestation of the way power is experienced in a love relationship. What are your comments on the portrayal of power within these two stories? tm: This section is a type of theory of love where I explore di¬erent figures or forms that love relationships can take. In “Amor delirante” I wanted to 128

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portray how love can sometimes become a confining prison that enslaves a lover, much like an obsession can be enslaving. Love is like a powerful force that takes up all the spaces and makes the lover fall under its domination. In the story “Amor combatiente” we see a very masculinized rendition of love through the use of the metaphor of a warrior who takes over a territory. The territory he is taking possession of, the woman’s body, is seen as being trampled; he destroys in his wake all that is sensitive and delicate. This text reflects a brutal love that views the sexual encounter as a feat of conquest, force, and possession. I think it would be interesting to do a study of erotic literature written by men. In women’s writing the erotic is often described with deliberate attention to the subtleties of the body and its feelings. It gives attention to texture, tact, delicate forms, sensations that are apprehended by our fine musculature. However, men’s literature tends to describe the erotic in terms of domination, conquest, and triumph over the female body. Only seldom is love described as a relationship between equals. gd: In the narratives of Canon de alcoba, most relationships reflect a power struggle, whether it is one lover asserting himself or herself over the other, or the power of love itself to subjugate a person. Do you feel that in love relationships there is always a power struggle? tm: I have a basic belief that there is really nothing that is innate or immutable. I feel human relationships are culturally defined and consequently can change or be modified. I have often wondered how one could reverse the power from one subject to the other within a relationship. I have also thought about how a woman might appropriate male domination and make it something she can respond to on an equal basis. I recall that when I was working with the magazine fem., I translated an article by Rosi Braidotti about sadomasochism. Her claim was that women had traditionally been left out of these forms of sexual expression and that this was a cultural manifestation of sexism. The article caused a lot of controversy. Many feminists accused her of attempting to advocate a phallic approach to sexuality. However, what this article by Braidotti implies is that sexual roles for males and females are culturally imposed and that positions of power within a relationship can be reversed. gd: What you describe above is a reversal of power, a substitution of male domination for female domination. Is domination itself inescapable in a relationship, as Hegel suggests? tununa mercado

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tm: I think the dialectic of power is evident in most social relationships. One thing that all these years of feminist struggle have accomplished is an increased access for women to positions of power. Women have realized not only that they can access positions of power, but that in order to attain equality, they must occupy these positions. This was not the case some sixty years ago, when women did not conceive of getting elected to political o~ce or occupying important corporate or professional positions. It is unusual today for a woman to say that she is not interested in power. Those who are not interested in power are willing to allow others to subjugate them. Another form of power is power with a small “p,” such as in situations of a more personal nature. This is seen in domestic relationships of husbands and wives, parents and children, employers and employees. The control and manipulation of others is evidenced here as well. The most negative manifestation of power is totalitarianism, power as dictatorship, and political oppression. This is the power that we must stand up to, because otherwise we would be crushed under its destructive force. gd: Much of Latin American literature has been preoccupied with the ravages of totalitarian power. In Argentina, for instance, the military dictatorships of the 1970s and 1980s became the focus of a vast production of works that denounced repression, torture, and authoritarianism. Domination took on a sexual nature whereby the torturers penetrated the bodies of the subversives with the intent of not only subjugating them but also reinscribing their own order on them. How did the military dictatorships in Argentina a¬ect you and your writing? In what ways were you marked by this experience? tm: We left Argentina in 1974, when Isabelita Perón was in power and the AAA (Argentine Anticommunist Alliance) was mobilized. When we were in exile, our constant preoccupation and occupation were the events taking place in Argentina. That was a real and present element of our daily life abroad. At this time we were part of a group of exiled people living in Mexico who bonded through the common experience of separation and concern for the homeland we were forced to flee. Though these issues were always in my mind, I initially resisted writing about them. What I proposed to do in my writing was to approach the political by developing a style and wording that cut across language in a new or di¬erent way. I mean to say that I was not interested in the political pamphlet approach or in direct denunciation of the dictatorship. These rhetorics were repetitive and did not 130

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generate a new way of looking at the issues or at writing itself. My interest has always focused on the formal and aesthetic qualities of language and expression. At this time I began to write the texts that are gathered in Canon de alcoba, which deal with issues of domination, but at a personal level. There is one section in Canon, “Realidades,” that is informed by the political. There we hear the voices and see the actions of people who have been a¬ected in one way or another by the abusive nature of political power. At this time I also began to work on En estado de memoria, my novel about exile and its e¬ects on those who must leave behind all they hold dear. My life and work have both been a¬ected by the abuse of power. What I intend to portray in my work is not only an oblique critique of these abuses, but also how these circumstances have led me to develop a new way of seeing and a new way of using the word.

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Combatant Love

He unsheathes his weapon all too soon; bedazzled by the battlefield splayed before his eyes, unable to mark the boundaries of his passion, he charges into the fray with strides of a giant; trampling the grass, his footfalls resonate as if they should be heard at the center of all plexus. He does not realize that desire cracks her doors with delicacy, with a gentle pu¬ of air, without so much as touching the latches or rotating the hinges, demanding silence rather than vociferation. But this love sni¬s and snorts like a fauna of animals, multiplied, their snouts drawn to the least promise of water, and they spit their thirst into the most generous basins; he drags his enormous boots through the tepid mud, over the smooth tuberoses. Between his fingers he holds neither twig nor branch, but tears away clumps of leaves along his way; without diluting the essence, heavy upon all tracks and opaque to the halos of the other’s breath, combatant love yearns to leave a mark, a scar, his name solemnly engraved on the crust of the earth over which he treads. The other, he or she, terrorized by the attack, with no time to protect her flanks or consolidate her defenses, shifts her imaginary lines, but love has blurred them beneath her feet. From above, with a crushing fall like a press, with a weight that expels the air from the other body and leaves it flat as a sheet, to the beat of desperate strokes of a clock, the combatant does not concede, as if the world were about to end and there weren’t even time to turn out the lights, to close the water-taps, to contain the rising tide or to exalt the descent, as if with the honey-sweet love that will proceed from his sex, that liminal substance owing to its nobility, he had to settle the ancient accounts of the species, to pay for all the risks and purchase all the surprises. Time is running out; he imagines himself galloping over vast plains, with an exterminator’s vocation he pulverizes the petals beneath his boots, he vanquishes the pollens, crushes the gossamer in the grass, the dewdrops become tears before the invader-lover with his foreign strategy, so distant from the body o¬ered to him, a target beyond his reach that has little to do with the love underlying his advance and that now, as the hammer falls upon the anvil, shoots forth, ejected through the socketless eye, through the solitary pupil of love, like an arrow. The combatant is all alone. Translated by Peter Kahn 132

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Delirious Love

Caught o¬ guard and unaccustomed to the mischievous touch, his surprise was proof of his innocence when, just about anywhere and even in the absence of special or propitious circumstances, she would slide her hand—as if indi¬erent to what she was doing—toward his sex and, gently pressing his trousers, lavish him with a caress. They might have been on the street or in the subway, in a well-lit room contemplating a painting or in a bookstore browsing through books, she would not waver. He was surprised by an audacity that was no more, really, than a resource within easy reach of her hand, so she could let him know that she loved him beyond the limits of the occasion. To express herself she had no need of appropriate settings and when she did have them, as pretext or background for one of their meetings, the ease of the situation could actually chill her inclination. As if the forces of adversity constituted the best conditions for making love and as if the barrier to be surmounted was itself the mysterious incitement for taking the leap. As she listened to his voice, something in her life would change. She permitted the opaque, persuasive voice to enter her body and remain where she could preserve it in a kind of inner sanctuary, stored away for seasons of want, or so she believed. The voice entered and filled the hollow spaces and joined other images called up out of love in a perpetual exercise whose e¬ects were not always pleasurable but rather blended and alternated pleasure with pain. His voice would precede his presence in the flesh, calling her name and announcing his presence from the hollows of the staircase, preempting what might have been a shock had he simply appeared all of a sudden. She would have liked to have been able to describe what she felt when he reached her, crossing the room with his long strides and discovering her, first with his eyes, then with his mouth, his hands, until finally enclosing her, completely, in his arms and body. It was like throwing herself into the abyss, although she thought the idea of the abyss was not quite right because it presupposed a fall with no return and a kind of absolute faith in gravity, whereas, she preferred to believe, what she felt was more a state of flight (or flotation), whose abyss, though she felt it had to be there, only emphasized the element of suspension in air or water and only insinuated a fear of the bottom, whenever the attraction preceded the fall. tununa mercado

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Dark, olive-colored, with a submerged gaze for reasons that only the eyes could impart, submerged in tumults that no reason could possibly clear away; nocturnal cavalier of the sort that attacks the alcoves as if there, within the alcoves, a life-or-death dual had to be played out and not just a simple play of contradictions, an elementary give-and-take. He did not ascend by ladder nor did he climb the wall like a human fly; still, when his voice announced his presence on the stairs, it would not have been hard to imagine him with a sword at the ready, a hidden dagger in his green leggings, a tuft of feathers in his hat, dressed in a tight-fitting jerkin. A few meters separated her from him, he would shortly become that inevitable fact at her side; just a few seconds and he would be there, his breath up close; the distance he had to cover with his strides concealed no traps nor was it mined but, nonetheless, this passage held a gripping terror for her, like that confronted when one is at the portal of losing life and breath. Nothing could detain him on his way, the abyss over which they floated was not going to swallow him up but, still, she felt that a thousand mouths were stalking him, merciless animals could rob her of his body or snatch away his caresses. His arrival was a point in time that had begun days, weeks, months before—she no longer knew what measurements to apply to the lapse of time since she had met him—and it seemed to her that she was living a long season in which the changes in weather succeeded one another, causing sudden flowerings, unexpected declines, as if birth and wilting had no season of their own but rather occurred in the same way in which mood-swings occur, with neither control nor system. Before he would arrive, the hope of seeing him appear at the door at any instant marked the passing of the hours. Night and day, that same sleeplessness and progressive languor began to leave bags under her eyes and to cloud them over with a veil of uncertainty. At all times she was preparing herself for the meeting. From early in the morning and all through the nights, during the long siestas, that state, which spanned all seasons, obliged her to remove her clothing, a prisoner to intense heat flashes, to protect herself beneath the heavy blankets from the cold that coursed over her body, its needles prickling her from head to toe; it pitilessly shook with storms of the body and blizzards of the heart against which she had no defenses and whose e¬ects very often she could not control with the balm of his evoked image, nor with expectations of the happiness his appearance would provoke: love that gave her no peace and that according to all the signs appeared as

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more of a calamity of the soul and an anomaly of the body than that oft-cited feeling that fits human beings together in a closed form. The nights tended to be horrific. She felt that a combination of unbearable tenderness and terror was hanging over her, depriving her of air and wearing her down to a mere sob. She thought of his body and imagined it stretched out in another bed, giving o¬ a bodily heat that was now lacking in hers; she searched the mirror for his face, believing that in her own reflection she might find his eyes, his half-open mouth, his unspoken words; that he would respond to her summons and that he would lie beside her through some kind of miracle. She thought of his profile, pressed against her, so close that their breathing blended and she remembered—numerous times per day, in infinite fragments of memory—a certain lyrical breath, supposing that in that delicate word, stripped of its literary or rhetorical character, there might be the figure of the outline of his face resigned to the labors of love, her disposition to discover the form of his desire, the rhythm of his approval. Lyrical it was, then, that halo that outlined his profile in the semi-darkness of the room when he stood up and gazed at her from above stretched out on the bed, eager for a full view of the body of his desire while his own was projected as a neat shadow upon the wall: the nose, the chin, the Adam’s apple throbbing, the hair down to the last curl, the hollow curve at his waist and the abrupt bulge of his buttocks, the penis projected in all its potency like sca¬olding extending an invitation to be scaled—a cornice-like foothold for her to grab onto. Contemplation turned to stupor, surprise to desperation, driven mad by the perfidy of that silhouette stamped on the wall, she was determined to extract some meaning from it that would say more to her than the body from which it sprang. Perpetual shakes, anorexia, nocturnal panic-attacks, diurnal vertigos, voices heard in the void of time, signs of presences that weren’t really there, lures of love that only led to absence, fantasies and even delirium, all conspired to make her wait in a kind of limbo, yearning, even for the possibility of an echo in him of what drove her delirious, a refraction of the agonizing lamentation that had become her love for him. She would watch him remove his shoes and socks, his naked feet promising an unveiling that she willed to proceed more slowly, without the hurried rough-and-tumble of a passion that is ignited only to be extinguished. In his pants, drawn tight by his erection, she could already see the signs of the end;

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what had immeasurably grown between his legs was the beginning of a process, an incipient manifestation containing in itself a development and an arrival and, as consequence, no one and nothing could halt the advancing stages of what she pulsated between her fingers like a chronometric whip. Between this mass that had emerged and that she had rubbed with her pubis in a fullbody hug, that she had even touched with the admiration of one who discovers a phenomenon of nature, and the profile that would be projected upon the wall, there was an eternal space of time, of endless anxiety; in each phase of the act she passed through feelings of love and terror, enrichment and loss, accumulation and waste. Nonetheless, all was stored within her for a future that was going to happen as soon as he had left, leaving her in a state of wakefulness, picking up the leftovers, the crumbs, the threads of a physical presence that, though physical, was always an illusion and failed to restore peace of mind or to ease her delirium. A handkerchief, a stubbed cigarette, the aroma of his body on her fingers, on the sheets, on the glasses: she examined all these objects and found in them only his absence. Each time she was convinced she had recovered his image, she experienced a wave of excitement; each time she lost the image, a gust of sorrow obliged her to collapse, flung to the floor like an abandoned animal. Little by little her life became protracted insomnia. Captive and shackled by the bonds of love, she wandered from room to room, back and forth from kitchen to living room, with agitated breath, chills, her body and soul atremble. She searched through books for traces of her malady, she cried over verses of love, amorous su¬erings in fiction intensified her own, the stab wounds inflicted on other hearts for love all through history opened new wounds and deepened those whose marks she already bore. Pale, catatonic, she lay horizontal on her bed and remained for hours contemplating her own desire, but without committing to a single movement, as if she sought the delicacies of the absent body through pure evocation. But when that body was at her side or wished to be near her, she preferred to rebu¬ it, to distance it, as if simply seeing it might overwhelm her. She didn’t care what he said so much as how he said it. Accustomed to dissecting the discourses of others, she now preferred the broken silences that were his way of speaking: not, of course, the vagaries he employed, but his tone of voice, the depth of the echoes. She knew little of him and he knew little of her. They were not in the classic situation of mutual understanding and familiarity, no biography would ever emerge from their meetings. The 136

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love they exchanged was so powerful, the involvement was so intense, that it seemed that neither one had thought to check up on the other, to convert the inferno that consumed them into a “relationship” that, with the passage of the years, could have yielded specifics, certainties, convictions on the part of one with respect to the other. This burning state existed in its own right and she conserved the fire on an altar, daily, minute by minute, with the vocation of a priestess. Later, he disappeared. He missed their date. He didn’t come to any of their dates. She went through all the motions of adoration, of wakefulness and waiting, the encounter, she would lie catatonic across the bed, prepared to die in quest of his image. His profile projected on the wall, the body to gaze at, the penetrating voice and his ways of modulating it, this bevy of movements swung before her like a door opening and closing on disjointed hinges. Over the weeks and months, she converted her prison of love into a prison of death where the principal deprivation was the progressive lack of images. All that she had stored slowly drained away, diluted with sorrow; what she managed to salvage was irremissibly lost; memory could no longer sustain the subtle networks where she had deposited her desire; there was nothing “representative” in what the images could a~rm and she had scarcely two or three impressions left: the sparkle of lyricism she had felt was like a halo all around him, like perfume, and the idea that had often crossed her mind when she saw him, simply seeing him, stretched out somewhere, to enjoy him, simply, with her gaze. Translated by Peter Kahn

publications Celebrar a la mujer como a una pascua. Buenos Aires: Editorial Jorge Alvarez, 1967. Canon de alcoba. Buenos Aires: Ada Korn, 1988; Venezuela: Monteavila Editores, 1994; Spain: Ediciones Serbal, 1995. En estado de memoria. Buenos Aires: Ada Korn, 1990; Mexico: Difución Cultural de la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de Mexico, Coleccion Rayuela Internacional, 1992; Córdoba: Alción Editora, 1998. La letra de lo mínimo. Rosario: Beatriz Viterbo Editora, Colección El Escribiente, 1994. La madriguera. Buenos Aires: Tusquets, 1996. Narrar después. Rosario: Beatriz Viterbo Editora, 2003. Yo nunca te prometía la eternidad. Buenos Aires: Alcion, 2005. tununa mercado

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translations “Antieros.” Trans. Peter Kahn. Grand Street 63 (Winter 1998). In a State of Memory. Trans. Peter Kahn. Lincoln, Neb.: University of Nebraska Press, 2000. “The Cold That Never Comes” (excerpt from In a State of Memory). Trans. Peter Kahn. In The Argentina Reader: Culture, Politics and Society, ed. Gabriela Nouzeilles and Graciola Montaldo. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000. Canon de alcoba. Trans. Monica Bar Cendon. Xerais de Galicia: Vigo, 2000.

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Alicia Dujovne Ortiz Alicia Dujovne Ortiz is unequivocally a free spirit. Her eyes meet ours with frank sincerity; her smile is wide, earnest, and engaging. She has the gaze of someone who has lived a lot and su¬ered a lot, yet has retained the joyful soul of the young at heart. Her voice springs forth like a waterfall flowing gently and rhythmically as she speaks; her laughter is loud and carefree.

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Alicia Dujovne Ortiz | The Author and Her Work Alicia Dujovne Ortiz was born in Buenos Aires in 1940. As her surnames suggest, her ethnic origin is dual and has provided her with a cultural hybridity that has marked her life, her experiences, and her work. Her father, Carlos Dujovne, was the son of Jewish immigrants born in the colonies of the Baron of Hirsh, in Argentina. Her mother, Alicia Ortiz, was a writer and a dedicated feminist who came from a well-known family from the province of Entre Ríos. They met in a meeting of the Communist Party, to which they both belonged. As communists and feminists in the forties and fifties, her parents were always outsiders to the Argentine establishment, a fact that left its imprint on young Alicia and would later surface in her writing. Dujovne Ortiz was an only child, reared by two loving and unconventional parents who taught her that the world was hers for the taking. As a child she was solitary and introspective. She was an avid reader and remembers taking solace in books and feeling di¬erent from her classmates because of her family. At age seven she wrote her first story. She attended public school in Flores, a neighborhood of Buenos Aires, and was known as the best student in the school. While she was a child, her father was incarcerated because of his communist activities, and she visited him in prison, an event that made a significant impression on her. When she became an adolescent, she began writing poetry and realized then that she would become a writer. Dujovne Ortiz studied philosophy and literature at the University of Buenos Aires for three years. These years at the university were a very rewarding experience for her and helped her to blossom into a self-confident and determined young woman. Before finishing her degree, she quit her studies and moved to Europe in the early 1960s, where she wrote poetry. She married a Bulgarian refugee she met in Rome, but the marriage did not last long. During her second marriage, she gave birth to her only child, Cynthia. In the 1960s and 1970s, she began to publish her poetry. Her first book was a collection of poems called Orejas invisibles para el rumor de nuestros pasos (Invisible Ears for the Murmur of Our Steps), published in Buenos Aires in 1967. It was followed by two more poetry collections, Mapa del tesoro olvidado (Map of the Forgotten Treasure), published in 1969, and Recetas, florecillas y otros contentos (Recipes, Flowers, and Other Happiness), which appeared in 1973. All three books portray a pantheistic view of nature; they are idyllic and uplifting. In 1977 Dujovne Ortiz published her first novel, El buzón alicia dujovne ortiz

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de la esquina (The Corner Mailbox), a work full of natural wonder, humor, and mysticism. During the 1970s she worked as a journalist and wrote for the outspoken and progressive newspaper La opinión (The Opinion), which was eventually censored and shut down by the military dictatorship. In 1978, during the throes of the military dictatorship in Argentina, she felt it best that she and her thirteen-year-old daughter leave the country to stay out of harm’s way. The experience of exile and uprootedness is depicted in her second novel, El agujero en la tierra (The Hole in the Earth), published in 1980. Here she creates the metaphor of a tree that flies away, leaving a deep hole in the ground, to elaborate on exile and its e¬ects, a theme that is present in most of her subsequent work. In 1986 she received a Guggenheim Award, and during the 1980s she was an advisor to the prestigious French publishing house Gallimard. After the long period of political repression in Argentina, Dujovne Ortiz returned to Buenos Aires, but never actually severed ties with France. In fact, she traveled back and forth between France and Argentina, maintaining her professional endeavors as a journalist and writer in both countries. In 1994 she published Maradona soy yo (I am Maradona), a book combining both journalism and literary style, about the Argentine soccer legend Diego Maradona. The book was a success not only in Argentina and France, but also in Italy, Japan, and several other countries. Her most successful book to date has been Eva Perón, la biografía (Eva Perón, the Biography), which appeared in 1996. She first wrote it in French and later translated it herself into Spanish. It was translated into seventeen di¬erent languages and is ground-breaking as an unconventional biography that employs the imagination of the writer to mold the biography of Eva Perón. Her next work, El árbol de la gitana (The Gypsy’s Tree), from 1997, is a novel that weaves together autobiographical incidents with fiction. Here Dujovne Ortiz elaborates on her ethnic heritage, her life as an outsider, her experiences in Argentina in the 1970s, and her exile in Europe, from the imaginative perspective of a fiction writer. In 1998 she published Mireya, a novel about a prostitute and model for Toulouse Lautrec who immigrated to Argentina. It explores the plight of prostitutes in the River Plate in the first half of the twentieth century. She explores historical fiction again in her 2003 novel Anita cubierta de arena (Anita Covered in Sand), about the Brazilian lover of José Garibaldi, who fought by his side and became a heroine in Brazil. In the 1990s, Dujovne Ortiz spent most of her time in Buenos Aires writing, working as a journalist, and teaching writing workshops. In 2002, she returned to Paris, where by 2004 she had completed Dora Maar: Prisonnière du re144

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gard (Dora Maar: Prisoner of the Gaze), an insightful biography of the surrealist photographer and lover of Pablo Picasso who was reared in Argentina. This biography, written much like the one she wrote on Eva Perón, o¬ers an interesting perspective not only on the person of Dora Maar, but also on women, relationships, and art.

Conversation with Alicia Dujovne Ortiz Gwendolyn Díaz: Alicia, what childhood circumstances do you consider to have had an influence on your attitude toward life and your interests? Were there any events during your early years that were instrumental in forming your personality and your worldview? Did you have a privileged upbringing, or did you su¬er hardships? Alicia Dujovne Ortiz: I consider myself privileged because I was reared by bright and loving parents who encouraged me to think independently and follow my inclination to become a writer. My mother was a writer, and she read everything I wrote and told me since I began my first compositions that I was a good writer. My father also read my work and supported my desire to become an author even though he felt I would not be able to support myself as such. When I was a teenager he told me that in a perfect world I would be able to make a living writing poetry, but that the world was not perfect, so I should go ahead and follow my passion and he would support me. This was a great incentive, yet at the same time it made it di~cult for me to learn to make a living on my own. For these and other reasons, such as the political and feminist inclinations of my parents, I consider myself privileged, yet we did not enjoy a comfortable economic position, and money was hard to come by. gd: You have mentioned that you have always felt like an outsider. Did your parents have anything to do with that feeling of otherness with which you identify? ado: Yes, my family did indeed have an e¬ect on my sense of being di¬erent. My father, Carlos Dujovne, was one of the founders of the Argentine Communist Party and the creator of Editorial Problemas (Problems Publishing House), dedicated to Marxist work. He was of Russian-Jewish descent and traveled to the U.S.S.R. when the Communist Party was established because he wanted to be a part of what he considered a unique historical moment. Upon his return, he brought back projects and ideas that helped esalicia dujovne ortiz

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tablish the Argentine Communist Party. My mother, Alicia Ortiz, was a writer and an outspoken feminist from a prominent family of the province of Entre Ríos. Both of my parents were activists, idealists, and dedicated to the dissemination of their beliefs. They shared an enormous intellectual complicity. These qualities separated us from the average Argentine family, which tended to be traditional in its gender roles and conservative in politics. gd: In what ways did your unique family experience a¬ect you as a child? ado: I was a solitary, shy child who loved to read, an only child surrounded by books rather than by friends and feeling that I was di¬erent because of my parents. I had very little to say to the girls my age. I played alone, mostly, and loved to play dress-up and wear disguises. I never enjoyed playing with dolls or playing sports. I went to a public school in the neighborhood of Flores and was the best student in language and drawing and the worst in mathematics. I did not even bother to do the math homework, as my classmates would do it for me, in exchange for which I did their writing and drawing. gd: What childhood events do you remember as formative? ado: I remember two events that had a very significant impact on me then and that helped mold me into the person I later became. One was the trip my mother and I took to Europe, where we lived for over a year. That trip was my parents’ way of saying that the world was vast and that my horizons should be vast also. Another was the time I went to visit my father in prison; he was a political prisoner accused of communist activities. My trip to Europe was formative in that I found in Europe a second home. My father’s imprisonment not only hurt, but also added to my feeling of being an outsider. gd: When did you begin to write? ado: I wrote my first story when I was seven years old. By the time I was a teenager, there was no doubt among my family and friends that I would one day become a writer. It was almost a family mandate (one I delighted in), as we already had one famous writer in the family, Raul Scalabrini Ortiz. gd: Were you also shy and withdrawn as a young adult? ado: No, as a matter of fact, I changed considerably when I began my studies at the University of Buenos Aires. I studied philosophy and literature and was a founding member of a literary magazine called Airon. I became an 146

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audacious and impetuous young woman. After three years at the university I abandoned my studies and went to Europe to recover from a failed love a¬air. I lived in Rome and in Paris and wrote poetry. In Rome I met a Bulgarian refugee who sang in bars, and I would pass the hat around to collect tips for him. We later married, but that relationship did not last long. My second husband was to become the father of my daughter Cynthia, who was born in 1965. After that marriage ended, I began to live the life of an adventurous young woman, enjoying the carefree lifestyle of the seventies and happy in my role as a young mother, a poet, and a journalist who was gaining recognition. gd: Are there prevailing themes in your writing? What topics and issues do you develop in your work? ado: My first three books of poetry and my first novel belong to what I would call my idyllic, mystical phase. This writing tends to be sensual and close to the earth—in a sense, pantheistic. At the time, I was fascinated by mysticism and would spend hours in the libraries reading about the sufis and other such things. My initial work, the three books of poetry and my first novel, El buzón de la esquina (The Corner Mailbox, 1977), was of a hedonistic nature. I was not interested in politics, perhaps because that had been such a big part of my family life that I wanted to get away from it. My second novel ushers in the next stage of my work. This stage focuses on topics of exile and marginality. El agujero en la tierra (The Hole in the Earth, 1980) is about a tree that is uprooted and flies away, leaving a huge hole in the earth. Though still idyllic in nature, that work serves as a transition toward my new direction, focused on the experience of exile. This new interest coincided with my departure from Argentina in 1978, when I moved to Paris. gd: That was during the height of the military dictatorship. Why did you leave Argentina? Were you forced to go into exile? ado: I was not exactly forced to leave, but I knew it would be best for me and my thirteen-year-old daughter to leave the country. I worked for La Opinión newspaper, which was critical of the dictatorship and had been threatened by it and surrounded by the army. I had many friends and colleagues who were desaparecidos. So I, the mother of a young daughter, was not willing to wait to see what happened; after all, Paris was like a second home to me, so the decision to leave was not too di~cult. gd: In your third novel, El árbol de la gitana (The Gypsy’s Tree), published first in France in 1991 and later in Buenos Aires and Madrid in 1998, you write alicia dujovne ortiz

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about some of your experiences in Argentina during the repression and about the events that led to your move to Paris. How would you assess that work? Would it be fair to call it a fictional autobiography? ado: El árbol de la gitana is a novel in which I portray a fictionalized account of my family history and personal experiences. The episodes about my ancestors are more fictionalized than the ones about my parents and me, where the events become more factual. My background is fascinating because of the mixture of cultures and the adventurous characters from whom I descended. It has provided me with a double identity that has been both a source of conflict and a source of enrichment for me. In the novel I explore my double identity as a Jew and a non-Jew and as an Argentine who feels like an outsider. I speculate about my Russian-Jewish ancestors as well as the ones from Genoa who knew Christopher Columbus. These men and women were adventurers, land owners, and conquistadores who eventually immigrated to Argentina. The story leads up to the character of the gypsy, my alter ego, who lives through frightening times during the Argentine military repression of the seventies and finally exiles herself to Paris. I identify with the image of the gypsy. I have within me gypsy-like qualities that propel me to move from one place to another, searching for adventures and new horizons. gd: After that novel, your work seems to take a new turn. You begin to write about icons of the Argentine culture, such as Eva Perón and Diego Maradona. What motivates this new phase of your writing? ado: I came to realize that, like many Argentines of the educated class, I had been oblivious to the rich cultural phenomena of my own country. I began to take notice of the mysterious popular folklore of Argentina and to focus on the wealth of fascinating characters that existed in my own midst. It was then that I became interested in soccer, Peronism, and the tango, perhaps three of the most defining cultural phenomena of the Argentine experience. gd: Your book about Maradona is titled Maradona soy yo (I am Maradona). What is it about Maradona, a working-class soccer star, that you identify with? ado: Maradona also possesses a double identity and is viewed as a marginal figure. He is both Argentine and at home in Italy. The Italians claim him as one of their own. When I was in Naples I recall Italian men crying when they talked about the genius of Maradona’s soccer plays. He rose to star148

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dom, yet was always a marginal character. He was a world-class athlete and a drug addict, a role model and an embarrassment. I narrate the book in first person; the narrative voice is mine, the researcher who is in the process of investigating Maradona’s life in Naples. The first-person narration reflects the bond that unites us, that of being an outsider living a double life. gd: You wrote your biography of Eva Perón in French first, in 1995, and later wrote the Spanish version, Eva Perón, la biografia (Eva Perón, the Biography), in 1996. Here you delve into an Argentine personality of both historical and mythical proportions. What attracted you to this topic? ado: There were a lot of things about this topic that I found fascinating. Interestingly, Eva also had a double identity and lived a marginalized existence. She came from a poor family; her mother had been sold to her partner for a mare and a wagon. Yet Eva rose to become one of the most famous and powerful women of her times. She su¬ered the shame of her poor origins even when she was at the apex of her wealth and fame. She also embodied the double identity of a young girl from the provincial country town of Los Toldos who rose to live in the presidential palace of the cosmopolitan capital city of Buenos Aires as the wife of the charismatic president Juan Domingo Perón. Though she was an immensely popular first lady, the upper classes of the country not only rejected her, but also vilified and ridiculed her. A poor country girl who immigrated to the big city to become an actress, she personifies all of the themes that haunt me, double identity, marginality, and immigration. gd: Your novel Mireya (1998), about a French prostitute who settles in Argentina, also depicts these same interests. How would you characterize that novel? ado: Mireya depicts the life of a French prostitute who had been a model for Toulouse Lautrec and immigrated to Buenos Aires to work in a brothel. She is an immigrant and a woman who lives on the fringes of society, making her living through prostitution. The novel also touches on the topic of the tango and its mystique. One of the characters in the novel is the tango singer Carlos Gardel, another marginal figure who rises to fame. He was born in Toulouse, France, was half Argentine and half French, and became famous throughout the world for his singing of the tango. gd: The characters of these narratives share qualities that are present in your own life experience. How would you summarize these qualities? alicia dujovne ortiz

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ado: I can identify personally with characters that are unsure of their identities, that have what I call a double identity, that is, they come from two distinct ethnic and cultural backgrounds. I feel an a~nity for characters that move from one place to another and call more than one place home. I also find common ground with those who experience life from the margins of society and have the sense of being outsiders. These are the characters that I find fascinating and that interest me the most. gd: You have written poetry, novels, and biographies. Your biography of Eva Perón is unique for the way in which it is written. One can see the hand of the novelist in this work. How would you describe your aesthetic criteria in this work? Do you see yourself as a biographer, a novelist, or both? ado: I see myself as a novelist, and I see myself as a novelist who writes biography. I do not write biographies like a historian or an academic would; I write them as a novelist, tying ends here and there and coming to conclusions that I am led to by the facts at hand. I write biography in a writerly fashion; you can see the style of the novelist in the prose. I did not fictionalize the biography, but rather I wove it together as a prose writer would. It seemed natural to me that when I received two items of information about Evita, two bits of data that appeared to be related, I should tie them together, whereas the historian would make two separate entries. I collected an enormous amount of information about Eva, and much of the information was contradictory, so I had to make a selection of data, much like the historian does. What is original about this biography is that I wove bits of information together to create the fabric of the life of Eva Perón. As a novelist, I wanted to get inside Evita’s head, but I refrained from novelizing. gd: Did you write this novel for an Argentine readership or an international one? ado: I wrote the biography first in French, thinking that my readers would be French, at most European. I did not think the Argentines would be interested in yet another biography of Eva Perón. But I was wrong. The book was not only successful in Argentina, but was also translated into English, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, and various other European languages. gd: What did you find fascinating about Dora Maar, the focus of your second biography? What led you to write Dora Maar: Prisonnière du regard (Dora Maar, Prisoner of the Gaze) in 2004? ado: Dora Maar was an enigma to me. I was interested in learning how a woman of such talent and creativity could submit so fully to a man, in this 150

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case Pablo Picasso. She was a surrealist photographer who was reared in Argentina and later moved to Europe, where she became involved with the artists and intellectuals who lived in Paris. One of those was Pablo Picasso, who became her lover. It was Dora Maar who influenced Picasso during the time of the war and encouraged him to paint his famous Guernica. She was a friend of André Breton and other surrealists and belonged to an antifascist organization. It was she who guided Picasso toward political works. Her relationship with Picasso was rather tragic. He abandoned her after she began su¬ering bouts of mental illness, and eventually she retreated into Catholic mysticism and became a recluse. Her life, unlike Evita’s, is surmised from those who surrounded her, rather than from her own presence. I see her as a void that takes form by what delineates it. gd: Your work on Eva Perón and Dora Maar might lead one to conclude that you have an interest in notable women. Do you consider yourself a feminist? ado: My problem with feminism is that my mother was a feminist, and she imbued that ideology in me so deeply that I became oversaturated with it. As years go by, I consider myself more and more a feminist. And even if I did not, others define me as such. My choice of topics, my journalism and opinion pieces, all belie an interest in women’s issues, so whether or not I consider myself a feminist, I obviously have become one. gd: Do you approach the topic of women and power in your work? ado: The ambition of power was definitely a key element in my book on Eva Perón. However, that was perhaps the most di~cult aspect of Evita’s personality for me to identify with. My ambitions, my passions, are di¬erent. I can understand the passion for love and for glory, but not for power. So in the case of my work on Evita, I had to dig deep into myself to fathom her ambition for power. Interestingly, Evita is the only character in my work that has this ambition, and indeed, she becomes a very powerful woman. On the whole, though, my work is more focused on female characters who lack power or deny it to themselves. Personalities like the prostitute Mireya or Dora Maar, for instance, function like the negative image of power; they are overwhelmed by it. I am interested in exploring why it is that many bright, talented women have allowed themselves to be subjugated and dominated. I want to know what it is about them, and perhaps about many other women, that drives them to submit rather than to be free. gd: Was Dora Maar overwhelmed by Picasso? alicia dujovne ortiz

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ado: Yes, very much so, and this is what I find so intriguing. When she meets Picasso she is a liberated woman, a muse for the surrealists and an excellent photographer, as talented as the famous Cartier Bresson. Yet, she allows Picasso to control and to dominate her life as well as her work. And in some ways, even Evita had a submissive side to her. gd: I have always thought that Evita was a tremendously powerful woman, yet amazingly subservient to her husband. And, of course, there were political reasons for this. Would you comment on this issue? ado: Evita was rebellious and willful to the core, yet when it came to Juan Domingo Perón she displayed an attitude of gratitude and submission. Rather than fight for her political ambitions openly, she did so behind the scenes, behind her man, something that, in my opinion, eventually led to the cancer that cannibalized her. Perhaps my interest in the topic of women and power is from its underside, the aspect of submission. gd: Evita had an ambiguous relationship to power. She was not at all shy about wielding her enormous power, but conversely, she portrayed herself publicly as the adoring wife and submissive servant of Juan Perón. ado: The ambiguity you refer to is due to her rivalry with her husband. She was well aware that he was resentful of her immense popularity with the people of Argentina, and she also understood that she needed his support to achieve her political ambitions. Therefore, she knew she had to be extremely careful with how she handled herself in public, and she learned to develop the art of flattery to a sycophantic extreme. She would make speeches in which she would declare that everything she was, everything she knew, and everything she had, she owed to Perón. Publicly she would say that Perón was as bright as the sun, but in private she would add that one must be careful not to get too close to him, because he could burn you. gd: Explain why you think she behaved this way toward Perón if indeed she was more popular than he was? ado: At that particular time in history and in the patriarchal society of Argentina, no woman, and particularly an uneducated woman of such humble origins, could aspire to become a political head of state. Evita knew that if she was to receive the vice-presidential nomination the masses wanted for her, it would have to be with Perón’s consent, a consent he ultimately denied her. However, I think it’s important to note that along with her great strength and power, Evita also had a submissive side; otherwise she might have continued to pursue her goals without Perón. Evita had her 152

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own political party, the Feminist Peronist Party, but she thought that the rhetoric of this party should be one of support and subjugation to Perón, rather than to herself. This was due to her fear of him and to the fact that she did not think she could achieve success on her own, without him. I believe that the frustration of her thwarted ambitions led her to eventually succumb to the cancer that took her life. gd: Suprisingly, after her death, Evita was as important in Argentina, and particularly to the Peronist Party, as she was before. In fact, she became a myth, as described by Tomás Eloy Martínez in Santa Evita. ado: Yes indeed, she became even more powerful in death than she was in life. The myth of Evita still haunts the Argentine soul. We saw this with Isabelita Perón, Juan’s second wife, who patterned herself after Evita to the extent of copying her hairstyle and dress. gd: I would venture to say that in some parts of the world, Juan Perón is known as the husband of Evita. How ironic that she herself did not have confidence in her own power. ado: That is something that has concerned me for a long time. I am driven by the desire to understand why women of this stature did not succeed to the fullest. In the case of Dora Maar, she, too, falls short of her potential. After her tumultuous relationship with Picasso, she stopped painting and doing photography and withdrew to her home, where she lived cloistered like a nun, obsessed with him and saying that there was no one greater than Picasso but God. I was born a liberated woman; my parents’ ideology provided the foundation for my independence and freedom. I think that is why I am determined to look into the souls of women who subvert their own freedom. It is this aspect of power and its underside of submission which motivate my work about women. gd: In your opinion, how did the exchange of power take place in Evita and Peron’s relationship? It seems that they were engaged in power plays as if their relationship were a poker game and whoever held the best hand got the best of the other. ado: I would characterize their relationship as a game of masks and disguises. She was a frontal woman, that is to say, she could face people and tell them exactly what she thought. However, as someone from the margins of society, she was used to lying and deceiving to hide her secrets. Perón, on the other hand, was absolutely Machiavellian. He approached people in what I would call an oblique fashion, allowing them to infer what alicia dujovne ortiz

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they wanted but without ever committing to anything. The way they related to each other was also oblique or indirect. They would send messages to each other with other people and never told each other what they thought face-to-face. There was so much innuendo and ambiguity in their relationship that Evita never knew until the very last moment whether or not Perón would support her vice-presidential nomination. Though she held great power with the masses, and at one time all the government ministries (with the exception of the military) responded to her, with Perón himself she had to play the role of submission. Perón kept his resentment hidden, and she never knew until he denied her the nomination what he really thought about her powerful status. Thus, she was never able to achieve what she so much wanted, to hold an o~cial position, to be someone in her own right, not just Perón’s wife. gd: What is it about Evita that made her the powerhouse she became? How did this poor, uneducated country girl rise to become one of the most famous and infamous women of her time? ado: Without a doubt, there were elements both of chance and of will at play here. In the case of Evita, her will and determination to succeed were the key. She could have married someone of a higher social status than her own, a dentist or a lawyer, for instance, and that would have seemed accomplishment enough in the eyes of her family, but Evita wanted much more than that. Evita had a devouring desire to succeed and become someone famous. Her first ambition was to become a great actress, and indeed, when she met Perón, she saw him as someone who could open doors for her in the film industry. She was the one who took the initiative to meet Perón, then a powerful colonel and a desirable bachelor. She sat next to him at a public event and charmed him. Their relationship blossomed as he saw in her an ardent disciple who could be of great use to him, and she saw him as the leader of the people and a savior of the poor. His populist rhetoric captured her imagination and allowed her to put into words the anger she had always felt for being poor, marginalized, and ignored. gd: Anita cubierta de arena (Anita Covered in Sand, 2003) is another historically based novel you published about the lover of José Garibaldi. How would you describe that novel? ado: It is the story of the Brazilian woman that José Garibaldi met in the south of Brazil in 1839, when he was fighting in support of the popular revolution against the Empire of Brazil. Anita was a simple woman who 154

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became a heroine at his side. It is the South American story of Garibaldi seen through the eyes of a mestiza who observes the European idealist whom she loves desperately, from her South American perspective. gd: To conclude, do you feel that your work has been a¬ected by the military repression that took place in Argentina in the seventies? You worked for a newspaper that was targeted by the military, and you eventually went into self-imposed exile. What e¬ect did the repression have on your writing? ado: I write about the repression of those times in El árbol de la gitana, where I describe arriving at the newspaper building and finding it surrounded by military tanks. I remember going into the o~ce and finding a series of empty desks of colleagues who had either fled the country, died, or disappeared. I approach the topic in a more indirect way in El agujero en la tierra, where I describe an army marching toward the tree to uproot it and cut it down. But I do not embrace the topic fully; I have so far preferred to avoid it. The reason I have not chosen to focus on the political realities of Argentina is probably that my father was very involved in politics, and I grew up in a home that was almost like a political headquarters, so I have reacted against that. However, I feel that I am now ready to face that part of my life. My next work is an autobiography in which I intend to write about the years of repression in Argentina. I plan to call it Las perlas rojas (The Red Pearls), after a necklace given to me by a male friend from Kosovo who worked in Buenos Aires during the military dictatorship. He compared many of the events taking place in Kosovo with what was going on at that time in Argentina. The red pearls symbolize the blood-red fragments of my life that I try to piece together. gd: After a successful career, the novelist and biographer turns toward herself as topic for her next narrative. What aspects of your life will your autobiography depict? ado: I will dig deeper into the aspects that attracted me to characters like Eva Perón, Carlos Gardel, and Dora Maar, with whom I felt a certain a~nity. Most particularly, I plan to explore the fate of those who live as outsiders, on the fringes of society, who either are exiled or immigrated elsewhere. The cultural perspectives of such people provide a rich and valuable source of knowledge and experience.

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The Blond Madonna (Excerpt from Eva Perón: A Biography)

La cabalgata del circo, starring Liberated Lamarque and Hugo del Carril and directed by Mario So~ci, began filming in March. Evita became a blond for her role. She would remain a loyal customer of Pedro Alcaraz, the stylist who dyed her hair, for the rest of her life. He accompanied her on her trip to Europe, created the gold chignon that would become legendary, and even styled her corpse’s hair. There were no secrets between Eva and Pedro. In fact, his hair salon would become her favorite rendezvous spot when she suspected ears in the walls of the presidential palace or in her o~ce. On June 1, a photo of her, newly blond, appeared in Antena magazine. The golden locks transformed the pale brunette, though her pallor now seemed strange and her future illness would render it supernatural. Her skin’s transparency was accentuated by the contrast with the obviously artificial golden color. Since hair dyes had not yet been perfected, the color’s ambition was, in fact, not to appear natural. It was a theatrical and symbolic gold, a gold that imitated the e¬ect of the golden halos and backgrounds of the religious paintings of the Middle Ages. This art isolated holy bodies, distanced them from the earth, from heaviness and from density, and from the opaque skin that occupies space and projects shadows. Blondness was—and is—a sign of wealth and social ascent. Once Evita was blond, she discovered that it exalted her beauty. In fact, it finally let her blossom. The morning fog that once hid her had been lifted. Evita had been put on this earth to radiate light. Just as brown had entombed her, gold liberated her. Now that she was blond, she was not only on the brink of new social heights that erased from her soul all memories of Los Toldos and of the Nuñezes, but she also penetrated the privilege of sacred art, a privilege that did not imprison but projected her into the other world where she so longed to live. From now on, Evita would have a virtual halo that Peronist propaganda would often evoke. With the birth of Evita the beauty came the birth of Evita the Madonna. From then on, she would polish and refine her personality by gradually eliminating all excessive ornaments: first the banana earrings, then the flowered dresses. Meanwhile, the gold in her hair, which was pulled back tighter and tighter, would become the saintly halo that would penetrate even 156

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the deepest realms of her own self-perception. In fact, she would so literally incarnate the role of the saint that her skin would seem to become mortified. It was as if black symbolized sin, and blond was innocence. Throughout her life, she would often say, laughing, “I am a repentant brunette.” It was a joke, but repentance cannot but remind us of Mary Magdalene. Translated by Shawn Fields

White, Black, Red (Excerpt from Eva Perón: A Biography)

Two myths opposed each other: white and black. The first depicted Eva as a virgin in the flesh, as maternal tenderness, the very meaning of sacrifice. The second reflected a prostitute, a social climber thirsting for power. Both the white myth and the black myth were born of the same principle. The first loved Eva for her purity, and the second hated her because she was impure. For both, sex was reprehensible. The virgin and the whore were but opposite images of one ideal. Borges saw Evita as a prostitute. But to exalt her or to denigrate her seemed aimed at something beyond humanity. She was religiously loved; she was religiously hated. In Los mitos de una mujer (Mother Myths), Julie Taylor concluded that women and the dead create unease and disorder. As a “feminine cadaver,” Evita’s symbolic power remained intact. How to exorcise it? In Fantasías eternas a la luz del psicoanálisis (Eternal Fantasies in the Light of Psychoanalysis), Marie Langer wrote, “Everyone had two contradictory images [of Evita] deep down inside, some of them projected the good and repressed the bad, and others did the opposite.” Maybe the moment has come to not repress anything, not even a smile. The dead cease to haunt us, as feminine as they may be, the day we surprise ourselves by laughing at them, tenderly. The Cordobazo of 1969, a revolutionary movement that threw the entire population of Córdoba into the streets against the army, marked the birth of a new race of Peronists who would create Evita’s third myth, the “red myth.” These new Peronists (called Montoneros after the nineteenth-century freedom fighters) were leftists. They all had their youth in common, and those who chose the guerrilla path felt pure, committed to a mission. Dostoyevski described alicia dujovne ortiz

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them in The Demons. In general, they were middle class or bourgeois. Their parents had been anti-Peronists. All the more reason to try to seize what had escaped the previous generation, to know that Peronism was a movement of national liberation. Didn’t Perón welcoming the Nazis worry them? No, they saw in it only an old man’s drivel. They succeeded in creating an army of forty thousand men, an army against the army. This was post–Cuban Revolution, post–May 1968. Perón, whom they went to see in Madrid, told them that he agreed with them completely. They loved his ironic wisdom and thought they could infiltrate his movement to radicalize it. But Perón did not have the moral fiber of a romantic hero, and although they claimed to be Peronists, they used Evita as their flag. The same taste for self-sacrifice and death, and the same ardor, the same Robin Hood spirit. They thought they were imitating her when they stormed the supermarkets, kidnapped billionaires, and distributed their booty in the shantytowns. Evita liked to construct. She was a builder. This new group wanted to destroy in order to erect a new society. If she had lived, she certainly would have stayed to the left, but not to this extent. However, this part of her legacy was not of her choosing. By using her image, the Montoneros discovered a revolutionary energy that Perón did not possess. Of the three myths, probably the least absurd is the red one. Despite her insolent outfits, which Perón considered “cabaret” costumes, or maybe because of them, everything about Evita said Pasionaria. Besides dreaming about Evita, the Montoneros dreamt about themselves. Dreaming became their life—and their death. This dream did not lack beauty, albeit somber beauty, but it no longer exists. In today’s Argentina, as in the rest of the world, a bloodless Left is questioning itself. Eva deserves to be respected by the actual socialist Left or the Left composed of Peronist dissidents who, faced with a “heartless” liberalism, as she herself would have said, is beginning to react. Not mythologized, for myths, whether they exalt or denigrate, are disrespectful. But not analyzed objectively either, for to respect a human does not mean gravely to rub one’s chin. Translated by Shawn Fields

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publications Orejas invisibles para el rumor de nuestros pasos. Buenos Aires: Editorial Bibliográfica Omeba, 1967. Mapa del tesoro olvidado. Buenos Aires: Editorial Kraft, 1969. Recetas, florecitas y otros contentos. Buenos Aires: Editorial Rayuela, 1973. El buzón de la esquina. Buenos Aires: Editorial Calicanto, 1977. María Elena Walsh. Madrid: Editorial Júcar, Colección Los Juglares, 1979. El agujero en la tierra. Caracas: Editorial Monte Avila, 1980. Maradona soy yo. Buenos Aires: Editorial Emecé, 1994. Eva Perón, la biografía. Buenos Aires and Madrid: Editorial Aguilar, 1996. Mireya. Buenos Aires: Editorial Alfaguara, 1998. El árbol de la gitana. Buenos Aires: Editorial Alfaguara, 1998. Al que se va. Buenos Aires: Editorial El Zorzal, 2003. Anita cubierta de arena. Buenos Aires: Editorial Alfaguara, 2003. Dora Maar, prisionera de la mirada. Barcelona: Tusquests, 2005. Las perlas rojas. Buenos Aires: Editorial Alfaguara, 2005.

french publications Buenos Aires. Paris: Editions du Champ Vallon, 1984. L’or de Pizarre. Paris: Hachette, 1986. Le sourire des dauphins. Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1987. Bogotá. Paris: Editions du Champ Vallon, 1991. Eva Perón: La Madone des san-chemise. Trans. Alicia Dujovne Ortiz. Paris: Grasset et Frasquelle, 1995. Dora Maar: Prisonnière du Regard. Paris: Editions Grasset, 2004.

translations “Fiction.” Formations 5, no. 1 (1988). The Hole in the Earth (excerpt). In You Can’t Drown the Fire: Latin American Women Writing in Exile, trans. and ed. Alicia Partnoy. Pittsburgh: Cleiss Press, 1988. “Buenos Aires.” In Critical Fictions, The Politics of Imaginative Writing, trans. and ed. Philomena Mariani. Seattle: Bay Press, 1991. Eva Perón: A Biography. Trans. Shawn Fields. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996.

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Liliana Heer Liliana Heer is a petite woman, yet she walks tall and carries herself with poise and self-assurance. Her eyes are inquisitive, and her hair hangs straight, as was fashionable in the 1960s. Liliana’s most striking feature is her intense gaze. When she looks at you, she looks beyond you—into the depths of your very soul.

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Liliana Heer | The Author and Her Work Liliana Heer was born in 1941 in the town of Esperanza, in the province of Santa Fe, a small rural town founded by Swiss settlers. They were lured to Argentina with promises of riches and success in hopes that they would found a colony in which they would serve as role models to the locals. Heer says that as a child she often thought the townspeople were exaggerated in their behavior, which was disciplined and virtuous almost to a fault. Her mother, Dina Ofelia Rivero Hüber, was a concert pianist. Her father, Alfredo Eduardo Heer Kie¬er, was an epidemiologist with a degree in legal medicine. He worked with the Public Health Department and was a member of the Organización Mundial de la Salud (World Health Organization). Though Heer prefers not to comment much about her personal history as a child, she does recall evenings at the family dinner table when all were engaged in fascinating conversations about culture and language. For Heer, family, culture, books, and encyclopedias were highly valued and a part of her everyday life. Heer received a public-school education at the Escuela Normal Mixta Domingo Faustino Sarmiento (Domingo Faustino Sarmiento Co-Ed School) from elementary through high school, where she specialized in teacher education. She recounts that her talent as a writer began to develop as a young girl, when her friends and classmates would ask her to write love letters for them. Heer remembers this experience with fondness and likens herself to a sort of modern Cyrano de Bergerac, facilitating love relationships. She feels that as a result of this activity, she became curious about the human mind and the workings of psychology. Another event that influenced her desire to write was a trip she took to Paris, where she felt much at home. Upon returning to Argentina, she turned to writing as a way to connect with Paris and relive the experience. In 1962, Heer received a degree in psychology from the Universidad del Litoral (Littoral University) in Rosario, the capital of Santa Fe. She practiced as a clinical psychologist at the Psychiatric Hospital of Rosario, the Carrasco Hospital (a hospital for patients with infectious diseases), and at the Buen Pastor Reformatory School for Women. From 1963 to 1964 she received a scholarship to pursue studies in the field of methodology of scientific investigation and undertook a research project on the topic of prejudice and the discourse of discrimination. In 1965, Heer moved to the Argentine capital city of Buenos Aires, where she still resides, to further her studies at the Escuela de Psicoterápia para liliana heer

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Graduados (Graduate School of Psychotherapy). That was a three-year career under the direction of the Asociación Argentina de Psicoanálisis (Argentine Association of Psychoanalysis), an organization that was dedicated to narrowing the gap between medical doctors and psychoanalysts. During this stage of her life, she fell in love and had three children. She also wrote her first short story, “En concepción sublime” (Sublime Conception), which was published in 1980 in her first book, a collection of short stories titled Dejarse llevar (Carried Away). Heer claims that since then, she has been writing about the dark side of humanity. Her themes portray a world of violence, dominance, cruelty, and vulnerability. She attributes her interest in such themes, among other reasons, to her practice in psychology and psychoanalysis during the years of the fierce military dictatorship in Argentina, when many of her patients had been victimized. Heer’s first novel, Bloyd (1984), received the Boris Vian Award for Literature. This award was created during the dictatorship as a means of acknowledging writers who were ignored or denied recognition by the statesanctioned organizations. Bloyd takes place in a bordello and develops a discourse that explores the erotic and makes intertextual references to other masters of the erotic. Heer’s second novel, La tercera mitad (The Third Half ), was published in 1988. She describes this work as a theory of devastation conceived in four movements and based on Bach’s Mass in B. The novel revolves around a translator who comes into contact with a young woman who works on cadavers at a morgue. In both novels, the morbid themes indirectly underscore the morbid acts of the tortures and violence of the dictatorship during the Dirty War. From the end of the 1980s to the early 1990s, Heer was actively involved in organizations that made great strides in the fields of applied medicine and psychology. She organized a group of psychologists who worked with terminal patients at the Francisco Muniz Hospital for Infectious Diseases with the objective of modifying attitudes and conduct toward the patients. She was also involved in the Movimiento Ecuménico de los Derechos Humanos (Ecumenical Movement for Human Rights). Regarding the relationship between her two careers, psychologist and writer, Heer says that the dual view has allowed her to access human pathology from both a scientific and a creative perspective. She comments that through the years, she has collected a gallery of characters that are closer to the hidden aspects of the self than to the conventional social masks that clothe traditional characters. 164

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Heer’s travels to conferences and lectures abroad stimulated her interest in language and linguistics. Her desire to establish links with other languages led to her next book, Giacomo, el texto secreto de Joyce (Giacomo, Joyce’s Secret Text), published in 1992 and co-authored with J. C. Martini Real, which she describes as fictional criticism. Another perspective that enriched Heer’s writing was that of film and cinematography, of which she became an avid fan. Her next two novels, Frescos de amor (Frescos of Love, 1995) and Ángeles de vidrio (Glass Angels, 1998) are both written as if through the eye of a camera. Film influenced the structure of her work and led to the proliferation of techniques such as the flashback, the flash-forward, and the juxtaposition of things that appear incompatible. Both of these novels deal with the dark side of humanity, and both privilege the hidden aspects of the subject rather than the social mask of the character. Heer’s story included here, “Verano rojo” (Red Summer), was published as a single story in 1997 and later expanded into a novella with the title of Repetir la cacería (To Repeat the Hunt) in 2003. This piece initiates a new dimension in her writing career. Here she portrays the geographical locale of Argentina and alludes to certain autobiographical incidents, neither of which had been present in her previous work. Heer’s novel Pretexto Mozart (The Mozart Pretext) depicts a small town in Santa Fe where there once was a psychiatric ward with an open-door policy. This work is based on both memories and archival research and delves somewhat into her past. Her latest work of fiction, Neón (2006), is a novella that takes place in a prison. The characters are a warden and a young girl he instructs on becoming a guard. A strange menage à trois develops when she becomes involved with one of the prisoners. Here again, Heer delves into the mysteries of torture and prison. While still a practicing analyst, Heer has been Secretary of the Sociedad de Escritoras y Escritores de la Argentina (Society of Argentine Writers) and has consistently participated in various human-rights projects directed toward bringing to light the works of writers victimized during the Dirty War.

Conversation with Liliana Heer Gwendolyn Díaz: Liliana, what was your childhood like in the small town of Esperanza in the province of Santa Fe? Liliana Heer: Esperanza was an agricultural colony founded by SwissGermans and Swiss-French in the nineteenth century. These European liliana heer

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immigrants considered themselves a civilizing influence in the New World, a view I considered misguided. I experienced my surroundings in this quaint town of caricature-like role models of civilization with the amazement of a child who observes the circus. My parents were both of Swiss origin; my mother was a concert pianist and my father was a professor of legal medicine with expertise in public health. He was an avid reader who believed in the importance of culture. In my home we discussed literature and books at the dinner table, and one or another family member was always pulling out the dictionary to learn the exact meaning of words. gd: Do you recall any anecdotes about your youth that foreshadow your future as a writer and psychoanalyst? lh: When I was a young girl my friends used to ask me to write their love letters. I enjoyed my role as a Cyrano who put words of love in others’ mouths. It made no di¬erence to me whether I was to write the letter for a male or a female. Words came easily to me. I learned early in my life that events and language could be interpreted in many di¬erent ways. Perhaps it was this voyeuristic activity that sparked my interest in both writing and psychology, leading me eventually to earn a degree in psychology from the Universidad del Litoral in Rosario, Santa Fe, in 1962. gd: Why did you study psychology? lh: I wanted to discover the causes that lead people to become insane and the journey they must undertake to recover their sanity. I was also intrigued by the many ways in which events could be interpreted. For some people, a particular event might drive them mad, whereas for others, it might have no e¬ect. I did my internship in the Psychiatric Hospital of Rosario and in the Instituto del Buen Pastor (Good Pastor Institute), a reformatory school for young women. Later, in 1964, I received a scholarship to do research on the methodology of scientific investigation and conducted a study on the discourse of discrimination, in which I analyzed a series of chronicles and testimonies. gd: When did you move to Buenos Aires? lh: I came to Buenos Aires in 1965 to pursue graduate work. I did a threeyear program at the Graduate School for Psychotherapy, a branch of the Argentine Association for Psychoanalysis. The focus of this program was to narrow the gap between the practice of medicine and the practice of psychology.

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gd: So, during the sixties and the seventies you established your practice in psychology? lh: Yes, and at that time I also fell in love and had three children. gd: When did your career as a writer take shape? lh: I began writing in the mid-seventies, during the most repressive period of the military dictatorship that ravaged Argentina. I was driven to write because I could not speak. I was seeing many patients who came to me with horrifying stories, many of them victims or relatives of victims, and I could not speak that horror. Writing was a way in which I could express what I was not able to tell. I could not express it in a direct way, but I was not interested in being direct; rather, what I wanted was to speak the ine¬able, to put into words what was unspeakable. gd: Liliana, many of your readers have commented that your work is di~cult to read. Your prose is complex, and your style requires a lot of attention. What are you searching for regarding style, and why do you think readers find your prose di~cult? lh: What is important to me is the language itself and where the word takes us. That is to say, everything I have written has begun with a phrase, and from that phrase, each subsequent phrase spills forth. I do not work first with an idea that I put into words, but rather the word comes first and points to the idea. My concept of writing is akin to that of the nouveau roman in France in the sixties and seventies, a style that is about the work itself rather than the author’s voice. It privileges the text, not the author nor the story. I also feel close to Beckett, whose writing I admire. I am interested in exploring the power of language, whether written or oral. Oral language is particularly significant because it reveals underlying meanings that do not always surface in written language. gd: Your concept of writing seems appropriate for a psychoanalyst who bases analysis on the patient’s personal narrative, the slips, the word choices, the lapses, in sum, the unveiling of the unconscious. lh: In my writing I try to confront the subject with its lack, with that part of the subject that escapes it. This implies that characters are language; the personality is a complex tissue where gestures, habits, and words coexist. I am very interested in the subject, which is the object of psychoanalysis. I try to write the void, that which is hidden to the subject, as if my writing were a negative of the image, which a photograph presents. It’s that hidden negative, the underlying text, that I am interested in capturing. liliana heer

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gd: Jacques Lacan theorized that the subject is divided because it is not aware of its self as whole, due to the unconscious. Yet he believed that we could learn more about the unconscious if we listened carefully to the subject’s language. It seems to me that your attention to the immediateness of language reflects Lacan’s view. lh: I believe that language is the most important source of knowledge of the subject, which, as Lacan says, is divided. What I want to do in my writing is precisely to write that division, that lack, that gap where the unconscious seeps through. If the unconscious is the meaningful void, then I seek to write the void. To that end, I use and abuse and transgress against language. It is language and what it says, as well as what it veils, that I want to explore. gd: Your writing can sometimes be challenging to follow because it’s not always clear who is saying what. Could you comment on this? lh: As a narrator, I am a third person who relinquishes the point of view to other characters. Eventually the point of view returns to the narrator, but what happens is that there are multiple perspectives, multiple speaking subjects. What is at the core of my writing is not an ego nor a perspective nor a character, but rather desire itself. There is desire, but not ego. I do not agree that sometimes my writing is hard to follow; what I believe is that my work requires an active reader. gd: Are there any particular topics that interest you? What would you say are the themes that haunt you or inspire you most? lh: One of my greatest passions has been to narrate horror, cruelty, oppression, dominance, and abuse. These topics are the core of my thematic interests. The first narrative I wrote was from my book Dejarse llevar (Carried Away, 1980). It was a story about a couple who wanted a child with specific characteristics and, rather than chance a natural selection by conceiving their own naturally, they kidnap a child they find in the park. Here there is an allusion to the desaparecidos, and the tra~cking of children for adoption perpetrated by the dictatorship. What happens to this child, who is isolated by this couple and deprived of human warmth and contact, is nothing less than horrible and inhumane. gd: How do these topics surface in your first novel, Bloyd (1984)? lh: In Bloyd what I wanted to do was to capture the essence of amorous discourse throughout the ages. There are references to Nietzsche, Plato, de Sade, Machiavelli, Joyce, Robbe-Grillet, Duras, and others. The narrative 168

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takes place in a prostitution house, where Bloyd teaches erotic etiquette to the prostitutes much as Machiavelli sought to indoctrinate the prince. The novel is a narrative of the erotic. It is the narrative that counts here, a language that materializes eroticism. Love and lust are separated from the fatalism of conception. There is an implied critique of the abuse of the body that points to the abuses that were taking place during the dictatorship, when torture and the violation of women’s bodies were common. But it is not a direct reference, rather a variation on the theme. I wanted to create a universe of eroticism sculpted by language and grounded in language, where the erotic takes place between the lines, when the reader encounters the word. gd: Your next novel, La tercera mitad (The Third Half, 1988), also deals with violence and abuse and points to the torture and transgressions of the dictatorship. A somewhat gothic novel, it takes place in a morgue where bodies are sown and patched up. lh: Yes, one of the main characters is a woman who sews up cadavers in a morgue. She establishes a relationship with Blas, a translator. The topics of language, violence, and death come together here. As in Bloyd, the body is an object of transgression and violation. I wrote this novel during the time of the trials against the military in Argentina, when the torturers and dictators were placed on the stand to present their testimony in court. Images of dismemberment and death kept coming to mind and took form in this novel. Here the characters appear and disappear, they come in and out of the narrative weaving the discourse of the novel, because again, it is the discourse, the language, that is at the heart of this work. The translator Blas is able to see the di¬erence between the signifier and the signified, between the word that is uttered and the meaning of the word. Like a golddigger that digs into a cave, the novel digs into the meaning of language to find the place where the subject is shaped. gd: In postmodern fiction, the form of the work takes on equal or higher value than the theme of the work, creating a double task for the reader: to interpret the meaning and to find meaning in the form itself. That is the case in your work. To read Heer is indeed to be an active reader, as Cortázar would have phrased it. lh: I am not interested in writing events, nor history, nor even story. What I find exciting is to find the hidden truth that surfaces through language and brings to light that which is ine¬able, that which the subject is unaware of liliana heer

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or is driven by. I want the reader to write along with me. I hope that after reading one of my books, he or she will never read the same way again. I expect to challenge traditional ways of reading where events are ordered, chronological, and explained. That is not the way the unconscious works, and that is not the way I write. gd: Your next two novels seem to expand the visual element that is present in your first works. More precisely, there is a film-like quality to both Frescos de amor (Frescoes of Love, 1995) and Ángeles de vidrio (Glass Angels, 1998). Would you comment on that? lh: Frescos de amor is about madness, incest, and death. A young girl narrates the story of her brother, whose birth causes the death of his mother, and therefore he is not recognized as part of the family. Ángeles de vidrio begins with a scene in a bar where a barmaid is working. A man comes in and shatters the large mirror behind her with a bottle. They begin a relationship founded on the need for and di~culty of communication. Both of these novels were written after I began to study cinema. I felt the need to bring into my writing a new dimension, a dimension where image multiplied into other images. I wanted to expand my fictional universe by using techniques like flashbacks, flash-forwards, montage, and others. In Ángeles de vidrio, the scene of the shattering of the mirror recurs over and over again throughout the book, each time bringing new meaning. What the study of cinema did for me was to enhance not only image in my work, but also structure and form. In these two novels I make a more direct connection between language and image, as if I were writing looking through the eye of a camera. gd: In my view, all of your writing is about power, the abuse of power, and its e¬ects. You write about domination, torture, abuse, and subjugation. Would you comment on this? lh: My writing portrays power and its consequences, particularly the abuse and exploitation of others. However, what I intend to show more than anything else is the power of language. Language goes beyond what it is narrating. It belies the very structure of thought. To me, the most powerful moment is when language cuts across the word to find meaning, meaning that goes beyond the word and taps into the very core of the self, bringing forth that which was hidden. Power is in the precise word, in the word that illuminates the dark.

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gd: In “Verano rojo” (Red Summer, 1997), another kind of power is portrayed. This story about the relationship between a fourteen-year-old girl and her mother shows how the balance of power between the two is reversed in just one afternoon, when the young girl abandons her mother at the doctor’s o~ce and goes o¬ alone to explore the town. lh: Yes, here there is a power shift from the mother to the daughter. But it is subtle, as subtle as the innuendos of the lascivious furrier she encounters when she leaves her mother at the doctor’s o~ce. This is a story of coming of age. I wanted to develop the notions of dependence, separation, and loyalty between a mother and a daughter and focus on the moment that they see each other in a new light. The young girl’s perspective of herself and her relationship to her mother take on new meaning after just a few hours of experiencing life on her own. gd: I would venture to say that this story has autobiographical substance to it. Is this correct? lh: Well, I will admit that it does, but only in part. I wrote it while I was taking a writing workshop where we were charged with narrating a personal experience. This memory was spurred by the recollection of a leopard-skin coat that my mother gave me for my fourteenth birthday. In that respect there are biographical parallels, but most of the story is fiction. gd: Your novella Repetir la cacería (To Repeat the Hunt, 2003) picks up where this story began. Why did you choose to take the same characters and similar events and retell them in a new light? lh: There was much more that I wanted to say about that relationship between this mother and her daughter. In the novella I develop the theme of the young girl coming of age. She is a child and at the same time a young woman who is subject of the male gaze, who is vulnerable and violated. But this work takes a new route; it bifurcates, like a Borgean story, into another narrative, where the protagonist of Albert Camus’s The Stranger reflects on his mother and her death. Common threads make these two narratives converge, posing a question about family, relationships, and loyalty, as well as abuse. gd: Certainly your work, which often portrays women who are abused or sexually exploited, would suggest that you have concerns parallel to those of feminism. Do you consider yourself a feminist? lh: Yes, I am a feminist, and for many reasons. Let me just summarize my

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views on this topic by alluding to Muriel Rukeyser’s poem “Myth.” That poem recounts how the old and blind Oedipus came across the Sphinx after many years, and he asked the Sphinx why it was that he had not recognized his mother. The Sphinx responded that he had made a mistake when he gave the answer to the riddle, for the creature alluded to in the riddle was “man” and had not mentioned woman. Oedipus retorted that when one says “man” one includes woman as well. “Everyone knows that,” cried Oedipus. To this the Sphinx responded, “That’s what you think.” gd: Liliana, your work poses many questions and leaves them unanswered. Perhaps that is why your fiction is so compelling; it points to the human desire for knowledge and the impossibility of complete knowledge. Like a detective, the analyst-writer searches for answers with a candle in the dark.

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Red Summer while the blood and the seagulls vociferated Efraín Jara

When I turned fourteen my mother proposed that we commit suicide; she did not use that word, it was a simple suggestion void of any pathos. Humor on the peninsula. Organic presence. A jaw of fixed fondness. We were near a harbor, it was hot, we were walking arm in arm as people tend to walk in small towns; the shadow from our bodies marked the proximity of noon, its vegetal slowness. Between that mother and the daughter I then was, everything seemed too close. The opposite of “We have nothing to say,” which drove Mersault to place his mother in an asylum eighty kilometers from Algiers. Later, I went to another city, and then another one and years passed but not my love for that woman. I do not know if the appeal was in her stories or in her voice. The tone of someone who reaches innumerable worlds without needing to visit them. She knew the value of parody and at the same time was an expert in the intimate. Hearth of epitaphs. Miraculously, nothing cynical possessed her. Thanks to a clear naive style, she was devoted to the science that cannot be domesticated. As if she had watched shuddering, until she could see that marriage was deceit, celibacy desolation; to be a woman was a time bomb, to prostitute oneself, absurd, to depend on schedules, obscene. The imitation of that fugitive modality toward stereotypes and a certain mistrust in everything except the instant, proliferated in secret. I was given the tools to act with calm in unexpected situations. Landscape of hyacinth and sulfur. Lacking the soap-opera tint into which even the most sacred ideal finally falls.

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Let us return to that birthday: between the pier and the water there were few meters of distance. I still perceive the sound of the surf hitting the haunches of the ships. I think the sun made us postpone the idea. Neither of us mentioned the fear of betrayal, assuming that someone would save only one of us. Maybe the Sun is the title of the song—whose lyric I hardly remember having written—that one of my boyfriends added to the blues repertory of his band. We walked along the pier convinced that at any moment we could jump, not with the goal of killing ourselves—a small detail among immortals—but to seal a pact, the opposite of birth, the motif that would then be the slogan of my generation: “Live dangerously to the end.” Blood and love a¬airs. How could one imagine that such a scene had already been filmed by Jean Vigo in L’Atalante, and yet another would need an ethnic war so that Kusturica could film—beneath the waters of the Danube—the newlywed woman swimming in her bridal gown and flowered tiara. Memory as palimpsest. For a long time I thought that one of the two of us had deviated from the objective that morning, but I never knew whom. Sometimes I think that jumping was one of the many ideas I used to have, to which my mother listened as a gentle reader, without making comments or reproaches, only moving her head softly and calling me by my pet name. With three or four phrases of some poets, Nietzsche as a spiritual guide, and a fur coat, I went to study in a city a hundred times bigger than the city where I had been born. Creature of flesh. A few months later, initiated into the times, when there were still no legacies of that nature, drunk with the sky, I felt that I was the daughter of a hippie. Blessed by an apocryphal freedom, oscillating between the ideological universe of permanent revolution and magic veils of mescaline, my vision of the events was surreal. Useless to add anecdotes: what others believed to be exotic, seemed inevitable to me. When speaking, my tongue clipped events as scissors do, introducing minutiae into the bronchial tree, so that what was said became unsaid, stu¬ed or bitten, leaving the story in suspense, unfin174

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ished like The Thousand and One Nights, but I only claimed to tell one night, in the same way that today I return to the misunderstanding of Maybe the Sun, faithful to the rhythm, the confusion, the mistakes. Facing the di~culty of detaching myself from the fog—oneiric, diaphanous, fluent, and obstinate logic—I chose to measure its nature interweaving the cultural slivers. I should have placed myself before the evidence of my raving to convert the paradoxical into the intelligible. Slowly, like someone with two languages, one raw and the other cooked, the raw at high flame became my fictional flesh. Meager flesh lacking wings. Brine in the syntax. Blake said: “He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.” Words that once turned to the pier, condemn such avoidance. As if there were non-retrospective torments. As if the sleeping desires had the density of a remora, a barnacle, preventing our advance through the night, through the pestilence, to nurture its crusts and to make the mixture of grief and kickshaws vibrate in the bunker. That morning, another topic must have attracted our attention because we left the harbor to go in search of my gift and a record by Kurt Weill. Having always loved felines, even if it were summer, I chose without hesitation. I did not want fragments. I had to see the piece with which they would make my coat. —Felis Pardalis—the furrier said, taking an ocelot out of a white bag. The fur jacket, reaching the waist, covered just the chest and the back. He promised to give me the paws and the tail. For what? —You never know—I heard my mother say. I designed a vest.—the sleeves knitted in wool—so that this animal could be attached to my life as the mucus is attached to the hymen. Cords where the mouth lies. The furrier began to admonish me about my eccentric taste. Soon you will regret it! And after his stubborn insistence in measuring the armhole, in the end he agreed to sell me a mannequin. When two weeks later I went to the furrier’s, she could not come with me because she was in the waiting room of a specialist in undiagnosable illnesses. That type of doctor whose expertise relies on the patient’s openness. Too many words and uncertain schedules. Perhaps she did not know, and neither liliana heer

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did I, but we both should have suspected that this man was mesmerizing her with his conjectures. I think my liking of psychoanalysis comes from that guru, a mixture of an archaeologist and a detective of the soul. With scarce spatial experience I wandered past seven o’clock in the evening. I carried the jacket in a box and the half-body unwrapped, so that when I entered a cinema I needed two seats. Fixed camera. Fading of the melodrama. Pure optical situation. Time image. Vast exterior shots. Empty, sparse, neutral spaces. A montage of simple cuts. Toward the middle of the film, I could not resist the temptation to dress the mannequin. Charcoal to the fire. Eyes of magnetized stone. One point is worth more than the human shape, confessed Kandinsky. Enlightened enchantment? Who dares contradict the legend of the pink dolphins? Kind solitude, nurse of phantoms, laugh, fly without hurry. A Japanese movie about a man despised by his children was being shown. Our father who art not in heaven! The children saw their father as fearful and obsequious, faking good manners when he ran into his boss at the train station. The children lacked notions of power. They were direct, well meaning, reasonable. They did not understand how one adult could metamorphosize into another. —We are obliged to go to school. —Why do you bow your head down before Iwasaki? —Because he is the manager of my company. —You only have to become a manager. —Iwasaki pays me. —Do not accept it, pay him and have him work. Thanks to a touching tolerance, after several outrages, the harmony of the family was restored. Samsara, roulette of the malaise for the sake of wellbeing. 176

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The harbor, the furrier’s, the cinema, and the waiting room—to which I returned with fear because the film had lasted much longer than expected— were one hour away from the town in which we lived. When I arrived at the doctor’s o~ce, he was still seeing patients. The glass door was opened onto the garden, giving an illusion of freshness. Lateness is acquitted. A shy schoolgirl lifting her arm. I tried to imagine the studio but I could not. Any representation is a clot. It is better not to think. Inconclusive poem. Let us see, let us see, some distraction. The reversible myth of grace. Here are some magazines. . . . The majority of the articles stressed the grief of the president. Masses, statues, homages. Christmas without Evita, sadness in those who travel to Chapadmalal, Bariloche, Río Tercero, caravans of orphans, national mourning. —These magazines are twelve years old. Do you not have any new ones?—I asked the secretary. Just then she told me that my mother had left. It was late at night, embracing the mannequin, and with the enormous box unwrapped, I began to walk toward the furrier’s knowing that it would surely be closed. Color evolves in darkness. I tried to reject the ideas that invaded me one by one. I had a dialogue with those missiles, I deactivated them. To each attack I responded with a defense until they multiplied and I decided to stop fighting. Agitation, sweat under the armpits of a sleepless child. The warm hour of the thaw has arrived. I do not want him to touch me again. He did it as though he were measuring. The centimeter as an excuse. Eyes above eyes. As serious as a judge. Loose phrases. I, like a grape on his lips, tasting sweet. —These schoolgirls believe they are so important. Your mother is much more beautiful than you. —I know that. —And you, who taught you to lie? —Do not pamper the child, Madame. —Today. . . . —So, today is your birthday? Change of tactic. Job description: tactile teacher. Pleasure at hand. liliana heer

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I crossed the street in case the furrier was at the entrance of his shop. Scarlet whisper. I should have prayed for him to be standing there, but instead I am crossing the street. Science of the equilibrium of forces. Would he have the same attraction for wet armholes? He said something when he gave me the mannequin. He had it in a closet near the cold storage room. He wanted me to follow him. Old men always play the same game. My experience is vast in that field: there is no other fatherhood than the illegal. —Would you like to be my doll? No answer. With regret he found that the garment did not require any alteration. —Goodbye, goodbye. He could not hold me. —What a shame, I forgot to give you the remnants! —I do not want them. The neon sign was lit. The shops and the stores in the neighborhood had closed. No movement. Few people. Big cities have stricter customs, you walk along sidewalks or the coast. Suddenly I experienced a special pleasure. I had the feeling that my life until then had been an endless string of mostly expected events, a sti¬ ribbon, where time was anchored. That night carrying the only objects that I wanted to have, I had broken the circuit. I knew the dimensions of myself, as loose as ever but now free of the deceit of company. Some day I am going to travel far, very far. A lyric moment suddenly crushed by the harassment of my body. Garnet hibiscus flower. Malaise of survival. If I had run away from boarding school they would be looking for me. My photograph on the walls. To plan an escape is an adventure; to lose one’s way is stupid. Do not forget tyranny. Did the missiles return so soon? Something changed, now I attack. She will be worried as well. Suspense. Carols of temptations. Kaleidoscope. The curiosity of love. How will her fear feel? I returned alone on the final bus of the night. At last I reached the station, where I should have gone when the secretary told me that my mother was no longer there. Mountains of obligations? No, a flake, a snowflake. Vain and un178

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avoidable vanity. Longing to grow up. Wisdom of dependence. Snow on the bars of your cage: Felis Pardalis. The time to depart will come. Tragic light. The birds began to celebrate the grief. Only in the absence of blood ties, facing a time out of time, the engine that feeds and poisons will bite its pulleys until captivity is shredded. The station was full of young soldiers tanned by the rigor of the sun. Alert expression, absurd to the core. The station was full of young soldiers who would later be characters. Anatomy of destiny, steel and honey, subtle transitions. A story for each character: Juan Cruz digging a grave and dying with the passing luck that is called voluptuousness. Thirsty and unkempt. Exhausted, clumsy and confused. Without any erotic experience or gendered cunning. Given the charm of a face that looked one in the eyes, but not for a moment the victim of kinship nor the vices of social class, I reached the ticket box and waited. Someone understood that I was lost, someone paid for my ticket. An act without strategy: to sleep. Not on the lips of a poet but on the chest of a soldier who had crab lice in his eyebrows. I swear that the contact of genitalia with genitalia is another puritan invention. It is the angels who contaminate. My savior woke me a little before arriving. He lived near the road with his peasant family. He took the mannequin down and put it on the seat. Chivalry is not improvised. A useful warning. —Stay awake. Years later the soldier became Leopold: the son of a farmer and an idiot. Leopold will use the coat as a pretext for the recounting of a duel. Dressed in white pistols, godfathers. Two grave faces at twelve meters away. It matters little that lovers enter a kind of future. I crossed the square deciding not to give explanations. The belfry was mute. I had the need to hide, not to lie. My eyes on the floor. Silence. Still they were liliana heer

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taller, stronger. At first glance I could see their owners’ rights. They had power. They shouted their impotence. I never saw them so close: fools, weaklings, strangers. The honor of Hutteldorf. The list of punishments filled me with tenderness. A minimal respect for the impotence due to the loss of kingdom. They ask and respond: fearful, absolutely fragile. They ask and respond, they do not listen, they believe all that they hear has been devised to make them su¬er. She had tried to avoid it, she walked along the streets looking for me. She went to the station, to the furrier’s, to hell. She could not believe it: she was alone, threatened. Instead of waiting she preferred to denounce me. She spoke with my father, she said I had run away. Sad cunning. In a similar situation I would not have done the same. I received that which she did not dare ask of me, disloyalty: she wanted my excuses, my lies. What is the argument that justifies an accusation? You do not kill a man like a wolf. It would have been easy to accuse the furrier. To repeat the hunt: German-Jew-race-degeneration. With this thought my hand remembered the gesture of crumpling the movie program. I did not want to prove anything. Elemental verbs. The image of The Children of Tokyo came to my mind. In those times I had not yet learned to grasp the great e¬ects of small acts. Translation by Moira Fradinger

publications Dejarse Llevar. Buenos Aires: Editorial Corregidor, 1980. Bloyd. Buenos Aires: Legasa, 1984. La tercera mitad. Buenos Aires: Legasa, 1988. Giacomo: El texto secreto de Joyce. With J. C. Martini Real. Rosario: Bajo la luna nueva, 1992; 2d ed. 1997. Verano Rojo. Buenos Aires: Taller de Copistas La Letra Muerta, 1997. Frescos de amor. Buenos Aires: Seix Barral, 1995. Ángeles de vidrio. Bogotá: Grupo Editorial Norma, 1998. “Verano Rojo.” Ideas, Cuadernos en Marcha (Montevideo), no. 6 (April–May 2000). Repetir la cacería. Buenos Aires: Nuevo Hacer Grupo Editor Latinoamericano, 2003.

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Pretexto Mozart. Córdoba: Alción, 2004. Neón. Buenos Aires: Editorial Paradiso, 2006.

translations “The Letter to Ricardo.” Trans. Norman Thomas di Gionvanni and Susan Ashe. In Celeste Goes Dancing and Other Stories: An Argentine Collection, ed. Norman Thomas di Giovanni. London: Constable and Company Ltd., 1989. “Crveno Leto” (Red Summer). Selection and trans. Liliana Popovic and Branco Andjic. In Antologija Nove Argentinske Price (Anthology of Contemporary Argentine Short Stories). Novi Sad, Yugoslavia: Ed. Svetovi, 2001.

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Liliana Heker Liliana Heker is a short, small woman with long, straight bangs and a rounded face. She has the wide-eyed look of someone who is curious, aware, and thoughtful. She is sure of herself, and at the same time, gracious. Liliana moves freely and confidently in a world she feels defines her, the world of Argentine literature.

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Liliana Heker | The Author and Her Work Though Liliana Heker’s family was living in the southern city of Bahía Blanca in 1943, her mother gave birth to her in the neighborhood of Almagro, in the Argentine capital city of Buenos Aires. Nonetheless, Liliana lived in Bahía Blanca until she was one year old, when her family took residence in Buenos Aires, where she has lived ever since. Her maternal grandparents had arrived in Argentina on the first boat that brought Russian Jews to the country. Her mother, Catalina Gosidoy, was born in Argentina. Her father, Gregorio Heker, was born in the Ukraine, and when he was just a few months old his parents settled in the province of La Pampa. Heker says that her parents were poor, but very intelligent, and that they always encouraged her to get a good education. She feels that their legacy to her and sister was one of love, freedom, and a passion for reading. It was her sister who influenced her the most. Six years her senior and very headstrong, her sister took it upon herself to educate young Liliana, and was instrumental in her formation and development as a writer. Heker believes her gift for storytelling began when she was a little girl. She recalls making up stories in her head while she walked back and forth along the edges of her grandmother’s patio. Her memories of her childhood are quite clear and insightful—perhaps the reason for the numerous stories she has written about children. She attended an elementary school in her neighborhood, where many of her classmates came from poor families that lived in tenement homes. Her high school was a teachers’ preparation school called the Escuela Normal Número 7 (Teacher’s School Number 7), which was a lowincome school. In the 1960s she studied physics for four years at the Universidad de Buenos Aires, Facultad de Ciencias Exactas (School of Exact Sciences of the University of Buenos Aires). At the same time, she began working for a literary magazine by the name of El grillo de papel (The Paper Cricket) and eventually abandoned physics in favor of a literary career. She co-founded two literary magazines of note, El escarabajo de oro (The Golden Scarab) and El ornitorrinco (The Platypus), a left-wing literary magazine published between 1977 and 1986, during the military dictatorship. Heker’s first book, Los que vieron la zarza (Those Who Beheld the Burning Bush, 1966), is a collection of eleven stories about tormented childhood, relationship problems, and other conflicted situations. This book received a prize from the prestigious Casa de las Américas. Her second book, titled Acuario liliana heker

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(Aquarium, 1972), is also a short-story collection thematically similar to the first one. Her 1977 collection Un resplandor que se apagó en el mundo (A Light That Went Out in the World) is a triptych comprised of one novella and two short stories with repeated characters that portray problematic relationships. The last story takes place when the characters are young and still have a chance for happiness. In 1982 she published Las peras del mal (Pears of Evil). These are stories that seem realistic but often burst into the absurd or into madness. Heker began her career as a novelist in 1987 with Zona de clivaje (Slopping Zone), a novel of seduction and disappointment that leads to eventual personal growth. The protagonist is a bright young woman who falls in love with her professor. The novel develops the idea of the tyrannical force that is often characteristic of love relationships. This novel was followed by a collection of short stories and a novella titled Los bordes de lo real (The Borders of the Real, 1991), in which Heker develops the themes that continue to fascinate her: relationships, madness, and the absurdity of life. In 1996 she published her second novel, El fin de la historia (The End of the Story). This novel is loosely based on her friendship with a young girl who later became a political activist and was tortured by the military dictatorship. The work depicts the life of two idealistic young characters and the divergent paths their lives take during the political repression of the 1970s in Argentina. Heker’s 1999 book Las hermanas de Shakespeare (Shakespeare’s Sisters) is a collection of essays on topics such as women in literature. La crueldad de la vida (The Cruelty of Life) is a short-story collection published in 2001 that centers on the search for happiness and familial conflicts. The collection includes a novella about a woman who is looking for her estranged mother and has the strange sensation that she, too, is somewhat lost in an absurd world. Diálogos sobre la vida y la muerte (Dialogues on Life and Death, 2003) collects ten extensive interviews with professionals of various careers on the topic of life and death. Liliana Heker’s accomplished career as a narrator and fiction writer continues to flourish. She is very active in the world of literature in Argentina and committed to social issues, speaking for those who do not have a voice: the poor, the weak, or the disenfranchised. She has been outspoken in her critique of power and active in her social commitment to improve the lot of the powerless.

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Conversation with Liliana Heker Gwendolyn Díaz: The perspective of children and childhood experiences has a prominent place in your fiction. What memories do you have of your childhood and early years with your parents? Liliana Heker: I have a lot of vivid memories of my childhood. I can still remember small details and impressions from that time. I love children and am fascinated by their imagination. As a child I was very imaginative. I remember that when I was about four years old, I used to walk and run up and down my grandmother’s patio while I made up stories in my head. I thought real-life stories were boring, and I enjoyed making up far-fetched stories. Usually I was the protagonist and portrayed myself in complicated and amusing plots with a lot of detail. When my stories reached their climactic point, I would get more and more excited and begin to pace faster and faster, running back and forth from one end of the patio to the other. Even today, when I write and become passionate about what I’m writing, I unconsciously begin to pace back and forth as I develop the plot. gd: What was your home life like? What influence did your parents have on you? lh: My parents were both intelligent, though they did not study beyond grade school. Even though we were poor, each of my parents had a good imagination and a sense of humor and always encouraged my sister and me to read and get an education. Their legacy to us was a love for freedom and an appreciation for learning. The greatest family influence on me was my sister. She was six years older than me and took it upon herself to educate me beyond what the schools could provide. She instilled in me a love for reading and literature. Though she seemed somewhat forceful and authoritarian when I was a child, I have always loved her dearly and have portrayed her in several of my stories. gd: After high school, you studied physics for four years and worked as an accountant and a physics tutor. Why did you become a writer rather than a scientist? lh: While I was studying physics at the University of Buenos Aires, I came across a literary magazine that caught my attention, El grillo de papel (The Paper Cricket). I sent the magazine a poem and a letter and received a response from the one of the directors, Abelardo Castillo, now one of the most prominent Argentine authors, but at that time a young man in his liliana heker

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twenties who wanted to become a writer. In his response he told me that my poem was not very good but that he was able to see that I had great promise as a writer because of the letter I included. Shortly thereafter I began to work for that magazine and began a life-long career as a literary magazine editor, essayist, and publisher. gd: Liliana, all the magazines you have worked with have been grounded in leftist ideology. I would like for you to comment more on your ideological views and how these surface in the magazines with which you have been involved. lh: I became interested in El grillo de papel because it maintained that literature was not a means to make a living, but rather a way to live. I believed that all people should have access to great literature, not just the elite. My working-class roots contributed to my leftist ideology. Most intellectuals of the time were critical of the class-oriented society that privileged the upper classes and ignored the poor. We felt we had a responsibility to create new opportunities, a new world, a new man. The literary e¬ort in these publications was parallel to our ideological cause. Thus, our publications were polemical and controversial. The next literary magazine I worked with was El escarabajo de oro (The Golden Scarab). Abelardo and I founded El escarabajo, and it was published between 1961 and 1974. It has been credited with promoting an outstanding generation of fiction writers and with providing thought-provoking editorials and essays. gd: I recall an interesting controversy between you and Julio Cortázar regarding Argentine authors in exile and those that remained in Argentina and continued to publish during the repression of the 1970s and 1980s. Tell me more about that polemical exchange between you and Julio Cortázar. lh: Julio had sent us a story for the magazine that contained several derogatory statements against Videla, the dictator at the time. His accusations were clear and direct. He told us that he did not believe that we would publish his piece, inferring that we would not dare to do so. I wrote to him and told him that the di¬erence between writers in exile and those who lived under the dictatorship was one of risk, not conviction. I made it clear that it was easy to criticize when living outside of the country, safe from retaliation, but those of us who lived in Argentina took care to be more careful with our language, lest we became another casualty of the regime. Nevertheless, we published his story.

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gd: What other issues did you and Cortázar debate at this time? lh: I took him to task for some of his comments that I considered illfounded. I must say that I had and still have enormous admiration for Cortázar, as most of us did, and consider him a great writer. But I confronted him with a couple of mistaken positions he formulated regarding the years of repression. First of all, he suggested that those of us who stayed in Argentina were not true dissenters from the military regime because the real revolutionaries were those who had fled the country. He also implied that he was one of them, and that was untrue, since he had left in 1951, during Perón’s time. He was not forced to leave. The second issue that I took up with him was his statement that during the military dictatorship, culture and literature in Argentina had been totally smothered. That was not quite the case. While it was true that the regime created a repressive atmosphere and we had to be careful with what we said and did, we nevertheless continued to write and to publish. There was a wellentrenched resistance movement in the cultural milieu of Argentina at the time. Later Cortázar acknowledged this, but at the time it was quite a heated debate. gd: When El escarabajo de oro closed, you and Abelardo Castillo founded another literary magazine by the name of El ornitorrinco (The Platypus). What was that publication like? lh: El ornitorrinco was published from 1977 to 1986, during the entire duration of the military dictatorship in Argentina and a few years afterward. In spite of the repression and censorship, we did not refrain from publishing topics of human rights, freedom of speech, and other sensitive topics such as the desaparecidos (disappeared persons) that were probably dangerous for us to write about. However, we did not think they would read what we published. The greatest act of censorship was the self-censorship we practiced. We realized we had to talk around issues rather than attack them directly. gd: It took a lot of courage to publish such controversial material during the repression, when so many people were victimized for their beliefs. Were you not afraid? lh: Yes, I was afraid, but I did not think I was at risk. If I had thought that we would be apprehended, I would not have taken those actions. We did what we did because we thought we could get away with it, and we happened to

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be right. Others, however, were not as lucky, as in the cases of authors Rodolfo Walsh and Haroldo Conti, both murdered because their literature was considered subversive. gd: I think of you as a consummate and prolific short-story writer. When did you begin writing short stories, and how has your career as a fiction writer evolved? lh: My first stories were published in El Grillo de papel in the sixties. These were later collected in a volume called Los que vieron la zarza (Those Who Beheld the Burning Bush), published in 1966. They are stories about tormented childhood, jealousy, and insanity. In 1972 I published Acuario (Aquarium), another collection of stories of a similar theme. In 1977, Un resplandor que se apagó en el mundo (A Light That Went Out in the World) came out. It is a triptych composed of two short stories and a novella about a woman’s di~cult relationship with her alcoholic husband. All three narrations come together in the final story, when the characters are young and still have a chance to be happy. Las peras del mal (Pears of Evil) came out in 1982. It collects eleven stories that depict realistic situations but suddenly erupt into the absurd. And finally, my last collection is Los bordes de lo real (The Edges of Reality, 1991), a new edition of the previous stories, corrected, expanded, and with the addition of a novella called “Don Juan de la Casa Blanca” (Don Juan of the White House). gd: What themes interest you the most when writing a story? Are there themes that seem to haunt you or to surface frequently in your narrative? lh: I suppose that one recurring theme is the eruption of insanity, chaos, or horror within an apparently normal, everyday situation. I want to explore the contradiction between our concept of normality or bourgeois reality and the absurdity of life that we face when we least expect it. Another recurring conflict in my work is that of someone who undertakes a goal that is beyond his or her ability to accomplish. This leads to my interest in why people fail to achieve their goals. gd: What is your process when writing a short story? How do you develop an idea; what are your aesthetic concerns? lh: Form and language are central to my expression. I am not interested in stating the obvious; I want the text to speak for itself, to act on its own. My aim is to create a certain rhythm and texture in my prose that also conveys a message. The literary text should include all the possibilities of language, its musicality, its pace, its structure, as well as its meaning. When writing a 190

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novel I have the same preoccupation with form, structure, and musicality, but in the case of the novel the pace is di¬erent. gd: In 1987 you published your first novel, Zona de clivaje (Slopping Zone), about a young woman who falls in love with a Don Juan, the stereotypical inveterate seducer. What is interesting about this novel is that the seducer is portrayed from the perspective of the female, and thus you develop a new and more condemning view of the Casanova. lh: Yes, that is precisely what I intended to do. Most works about the Don Juan character have been written from the male perspective. He is a personality type that both fascinates and infuriates women. To have Don Juan is to lose him. Therefore, I set out to depict the seducer from the point of view of the woman who su¬ers him. In my novel, the Casanova is a professor and eventually is responsible for shattering the relationship as well as the life of the young woman he seduces. gd: Would you consider yourself a feminist? Certainly this novel depicts a female perspective on a negative male stereotype. lh: No, I do not consider myself a feminist. What bothers me about feminism is that it focuses on just one aspect of reality, that of women’s struggles. It concerns itself with only one set of issues. I believe that women must embrace all aspects of life: politics, environment, class struggles, economics. Though I realize there are problems that are specific to women, I believe they should be contextualized within a universal framework. Also, I think that in the developing world, women face more serious problems than those of inequality with men. They face problems of poverty, access to education, childcare, and starvation. These are problems that men in these cultures are subject to as well. gd: You started to publish in the 1960s. Did you find that it was more di~cult to make a place for yourself in the literary scene because you were a woman? lh: That was not the case for me. I started working at El grillo de papel at age sixteen, and at age seventeen I published my first story. The magazine gave me access to publishing, and I developed friendships with people in the literary world who opened many doors for me. However, I do realize that we live in a society that privileges men over women, there is no doubt of that, and as a result women have to make a greater e¬ort to succeed in the literary world than men do. gd: Do you think women write di¬erently than men? liliana heker

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lh: I think that writers write with everything they have, their gender, their sexuality, their body type, their social class, their experience, and so on. I also believe that male writers can create authentic female characters and vice versa. Some believe that women choose topics and styles that reflect an interior vision of reality while men tend to write about exterior reality, adventure, and history, for example. Nevertheless, there are always exceptions, as in the case of Proust’s exploration of interiority and Marguerite Yourcenar’s narratives. I do believe that women describe the erotic experience di¬erently than men do. My novel Zona de clivaje (Slopping Zone) is a good example of that. The erotic experience depicted there is reflective of a specifically female subjectivity. I don’t think a man could have portrayed that perspective. gd: Your second novel, El fin de la historia (The End of the Story, 1996), is set during the time of the military dictatorship of the 1970s and depicts the lives of two young women, one a political activist, the other a writer. Is this work based on real persons and events? lh: It is a work of fiction based on reality. The main character, the activist, is based on a historical person I got to know very well who spent many hours telling me her story. There are some episodes of my own life that are woven into the plot as well, but most of the characters are fictional. The novel takes place in Buenos Aires during the military dictatorship and makes note of dates, events, and places that are historical. For example, when I mention La Escuela (The School), I am referring to the Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada (School of Mechanics of the Armed Forces), the infamous complex where political prisoners were held and tortured. It’s also clear that the Admiral is the famous torturer Massera. The best way to describe the novel is that it intertwines historical episodes within a fictional context. gd: What led you to write this novel several years after the dictatorship? lh: I felt the need to write a novel that bore witness to the ideology and the conflicts that marked my generation. I wanted to bring to light another story about the e¬ects of the repression and persecution on the youth of that time. We believed that we could change the world, that we could improve the conditions of the poor and create a more just and egalitarian society. The rhetoric of the left seemed to o¬er a better solution to the social and economic problems we experienced in Argentina. We were inspired by the Cuban revolution and hoped to lead Latin America toward a more 192

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hopeful future. However, the result was devastating. We ended up in a horrifying bloodbath instead, in which thousands of young people were tortured and murdered. I read and researched a lot about this period in preparation for this novel and informed myself extensively about both sides of the struggle. gd: This brings us to the concept of power. In this novel you describe the struggle for power from a political perspective, but your work also deals with relationships of power in routine situations, such as the struggles within a marriage, or a school, or a family. Do you believe that power struggles are inevitable? lh: I believe that there are many situations that result in establishing relationships of power. I don’t believe that power struggles are always inevitable, though power seems to rule most social arrangements. gd: Is power inherently evil? lh: I think that it is. Exceptions to this would be the power of words, the power of intelligence, the power of the people. But power exists because of the threat to inflict punishment. It thrives on fear, control, and force. Power is almost always an excess; where authority and reason can produce constructive change, power holds the threat of destruction should the opposition not comply. Power connotes the ability to control and dominate because it holds the ability to bring death and destruction regardless of reason, regardless of the needs of others. gd: In your story “Los que viven lejos” (Far Away), there are several types of power relationships developed within the plot. The main struggle is that of the rural schoolteacher who attempts to fight the municipal authorities who want to shut down her school because the enrollment is low. lh: This story was based on a real incident that happened some thirty years ago in the countryside of Argentina. I learned about a country teacher who was upset that the authorities of the locale were going to shut down the school where she taught because of a matter of two or three students. Her enrollment had dropped by a couple of students, and for that reason the rest of them were going to be left without a school and without an education. I was horrified by this account, and this motivated me to write the story. It’s even more disappointing that this continues to be a reality today in the interior of the country. gd: What’s interesting is the way in which you depict the social hierarchy of the country town, which in turn reveals other levels of power and control. liliana heker

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lh: Yes, for instance, the daughter of the grocer has more status because she has more money and better clothes, while the poor girl is shy and ignored. At the same time, the older male student, who seems to bully the teacher, ends up helping her cause when he is needed. There are those who have a certain power because they are smart and those who lack it because they have lice. So here we see many levels of power as revealed by social status within the classroom. Yet they all come together in a moment of solidarity when they realize their school might be closed. When they face an even greater power that threatens them, they band together. gd: How would you characterize your most recent book, La crueldad de la vida (The Cruelty of Life)? lh: It is a collection of eight short stories and a novella that revolve around family relations. The protagonist of the novella is a woman who is looking for her mother who is lost. At the same time, she feels that she is losing herself. Again, the absurdity of life erupts within the framework of what seems normal and routine. gd: To conclude, I would like to ask you, as the exemplary short-story writer that you are: What do you believe to be the most fascinating quality of a story? lh: I believe that a story brings to light special aspects of life that would have remained in the dark without it. A story opens up a window into the real, and at the same time allows the absurd to surface. In short, a story is the revelation of something small, yet very meaningful.

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Far Away

In Colonia Vela, if you followed the path which Christina Bonfanti took on March 1, you would probably not come across a single living soul: the police station, the general store, and the Mosqueras’ house are on the opposite side, toward the railroad; but the rest of the houses, she was told, were farther away, in the other direction. “This is a beautiful morning,” she thought, and, “After all, everything is going to be quite easy.” The country teacher has gone out for her morning walk. The words had sounded so cheerful that she almost imagined herself in an ankle-long dress that barely allowed a glimpse of a tiny pair of black laced boots, and on her head, a sunhat wreathed with daisies. Sure there are kids, the policeman had said, and Señor Mosquera had confirmed it. “Sure there are kids, Miss,” he had said. “The problem is that these brutes don’t care a damn for their children’s education. I bet there’s not more than two who can read the sign,” and Señor Mosquera pointed a fat authoritarian finger at the board on which, for seven days now, it could be read that Monday March 2 was the first day of school. “We put up the sign, you know,” the School Board secretary had said, “but there’s really no need for it: we’ve been personally around to all the houses.” What he said later—“There have to be more than fifteen students, otherwise we shut down the school”—didn’t seem a problem until after a week with no enrollments, no one except Isabel Mosquera. Isabel came in every morning with her narrow braids and pancake face, and asked if any new students had put down their names. “My daddy tells everyone he sees, so they’re sure to come, Miss, don’t you worry.” And she would stand there, touching everything, following Christina Bonfanti through the two rooms, pointing at a desk: “This is where I’ll sit, and you will like me better than any of the others, won’t you, Miss? When the others come you’ll see: they don’t even wear shoes, and they say dirty words. I don’t mix with them. Why are you trying to open that closet, Miss?” “I need a few things out of there, Isabel.” “Are those the school things, Miss? Can I help you, please? Won’t you give me a notebook, Miss?”

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“No, dear, it’s my own closet. Tell your father I’ll let him know if there’s any news.” “And can I see what you’ve got there, Miss? I like that blue blouse you wore yesterday. Can I try it on, Miss? Please?” “No, Isabel, no. Thank you, dear. If someone comes I’ll let you all know. Goodbye.” “Don’t you want me to stay with you, Miss? Won’t you love me more than anyone else?” “Yes, yes, of course.” “Then, can I be perfect?” “Fine, fine. Goodbye now, Isabel.” “Goodbye, Miss.” She came back in the afternoon with Señor Mosquera. “Something must be done, Miss,” he said. “Yes, of course, Señor Mosquera, if it depended at all on me. . . .” “It does depend on you, my dear; maybe they’ll listen to you. After all, you are the teacher. Go to their homes and talk to them: they won’t eat you, you know. And give them all that stu¬ about education, see if you soften them up a bit. One thing: don’t go past the Estanque Grande. That’s no place for a woman alone. But on this side here you’ll catch quite a few.” Fifteen exactly. Not one less. All in a line, on the morning of March 2, in the school playground. Later, in the afternoon, when she showed the register to the Board Inspector, Miss Christina enjoyed herself immensely, as if she were cheating at a game. “Well, well,” the Inspector said. “It seems we’re right on the edge.” “Funny how these things happen,” Miss Christina answered. And she never said anything about yesterday afternoon when, as she was leaving the Boyeros’ house (a creepy house, she thought afterward, full of birds and that hunchbacked old lady. . . . But a house all the same, wasn’t it? With people who eat and sleep and laugh there, don’t they?), she saw, in the distance, the Estanque Grande, and counted again the students she already had: nine, not counting the eldest one. “He’s busy with the corn,” the old man had said, “so I don’t think you should put any fancy school ideas into his head.” “Thirteen is not so old, sir,” Miss Christina had pointed out. “The boy can still learn to read: he’s just a child still.”

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“A child?” said the old man, and looked her over from head to foot with his sly tiny wrinkled eyes. “He’s old enough to hump you, lady.” Conflicting decisions crossed Miss Christina’s mind, but it was eleven twenty-five and, other than a dozen eggs, a dead duck, and a dead chicken, all she had managed to get were five students. She spoke in a carefully controlled voice. “I’ll come back later,” she said. “When the boy’s here.” “But even counting him in,” she thought as she left the Boyeros’ house, “there’s still five missing.” She crossed the Estanque Grande.

Afterward, when time flowed on again, that whole area became once more the place of those who lived far away, and you couldn’t make it out clearly. A bewildering, intricate strip of land perhaps, where people lived in some unspeakable and awful way, and it’s best not to think about it. As if the world were cut in two by the Estanque Grande, and we, on this side, we on the side of the school, the police station, Mosquera’s properties, the railroad, the house of Graciana Franta, Francisco Viancaba’s cabin, and the mill—we had no business thinking about it. It did not even seem real any more that Christina Bonfanti had, that afternoon, crossed the Estanque Grande and stepped onto that other side; and that she had walked on for quite a while before she came across Rafael Sivori, the second eldest of the children from Entre Rios, who stood staring at her in amazement, opening his mouth and closing it again, while she stared back at him without being able to say a single word. At last she spoke. “Are there any houses here?” Which was the very same moment that Rafael decided to let go of the words that had held him fast, overwhelmed and tongue-tied, eyes fixed on Miss Christina Bonfanti. “You are the teacher,” he said. From then on everything went well. There were five kids from Entre Rios, and all of them, thank God, within school age. The mother was kind, and she also knew how to read, “Yes, I can, Miss, and that’s good,” and yes, she was going to send them all, what more could she want for her children, “That’s right, Miss, and have another mate, won’t you, Miss?”

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There’s something di¬erent in the way you walk when you know you’ve got fourteen students on your list. But back in the cabin, the old man still would not give in. The boy, Fabio Santana, had mocking, narrow eyes, somewhat like those of the old man. He also swept over her with one long look, and then held it slowly on her breasts and down her legs. He said: “Well, if Teacher says so, we’ll have to learn to read.” And on the afternoon of March 2, after fifteen minutes of looking through her papers, the Inspector, without realizing it, repeated Miss Bonfanti’s very words: “Funny how these things happen.” And before leaving he added, “You’ll have to tie them down. One of them might get away and then we’d simply have to close the school.”

The first few days, however, Miss Christina didn’t give it a thought. It’s true that the kids from Entre Rios missed quite a number of classes, and that, in the end, the two girls and the oldest of the boys stopped coming, but who’s going to stop and think about these things when twenty-four hours are not enough for all that’s got to be done during the day? “And on top of all that she’s messing with the seeds,” complained old Felicidad, the housekeeper. “I can’t imagine,” she would say, “how someone could be crazy enough to try to teach these kids gardening and planting— these kids, who’ve been out in the fields from the day they were born.” “But Felicidad,” Miss Christina would explain, “it’s not up to me, it’s in the program, what am I supposed to do? Any day now an Inspector can show up and what would I say?” “I don’t care. If you’re crazy enough, that’s fine. The kids will laugh in your face.” But they didn’t. You should have seen them: fascinated because Miss Christina had made a hole in the ground, and put a seed in the hole, and covered the seed with dirt, and poured water over the dirt. Amazed and silent, they were still waiting for the final act of the ritual, when Miss Christina, glowing from the exertion, lifted her eyes and asked: “Understood?” “Yes, Miss,” answered the solemn chorus, even if not one of its members would ever in their lives know what it was they were meant to understand. 198

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“Let’s see. Rosaura, how does one plant squash?” Rosaura unhesitatingly opened her mouth, and kept it open in amazement. “Look out or you’ll swallow a chicken,” said Jacinto Boyero. Everyone laughed. And Isabel Mosquera took advantage of the situation to wave her hand. “I know, Miss, I know.” “All right, Isabel,” said Miss Christina. “Explain to the rest of the class how one plants squash.” Isabel left the group and stood next to Miss Christina, and there, in front of the others, took a deep breath and spoke. “Very good, Isabel,” said Miss Christina. “You’ve studied.” From the back, someone whistled. “Who’s whistling like that?” Miss Christina asked. Even though she knew perfectly well who was the only one capable of making that drawn-out, provoking, cheeky sound. She had heard it many times when she crossed her legs, when she bent over, when falling asleep, in a whistle in her dreams. She had heard it alone in her room, while undressing, and on several nights, trying to fall asleep, the whistle would come to her, clear and close, through the open window. She had climbed out of bed and bolted the window. Outside, someone’s laughter. “Who whistled?” she asked again. “Don’t you know who whistles at you, sweetheart, day and night?” said Fabio Santana. “Don’t do it again,” said Miss Christina. “It’s your fault, sweetheart, for disappointing me,” said Fabio Santana. “Why let these kids believe that what Shithead there does is called studying?” No one knew if it had been Fabio Santana who first called Isabel Mosquera by that name but, of course, he was the only one who would risk calling her that in front of the teacher. “How dare you!” “And so what? What will you do? Put me in the corner?” “Go and play, children! Go and play! It’s time for recess.” She went back into the classroom, as she always did when something happened between her and the boy. “Look at this crybaby,” said Felicidad, “sni¬ling like a two-year-old. In the meantime, out there they’re killing each other.” “Out there?” said Miss Christina. “What’s happening out there?” liliana heker

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“It’s Rosaura; she’s had her eye on the grocer’s daughter. She’s really going at her.” Rosaura, her knees on Isabel Mosquera’s stomach, was pulling at the girl’s braids. “What’s the matter here?” asked Miss Christina. The girls separated. Isabel, sobbing, tried to explain something. Rosaura blurted out: “She . . . in all her life she never planted squash.” “I studied, Miss,” sobbed Isabel Mosquera. “I swear I studied. It’s not my fault if we don’t have squash at home.” “Yes,” said Miss Christina. “It’s not her fault if she doesn’t have squash at home.” There was a moment of deep silence. For a whole second, everyone felt sorry for Isabel Mosquera. Isabel started crying again. “Punish her, Miss,” she said. “She hurt me.” “You’ll stay after school, Rosaura,” said Miss Christina. “Now, Miss,” said Isabel. “I want to see how you punish her now. She’s bad, very bad, Miss. And my daddy knows things about her. Terribly bad things, I heard.” “Quiet, Isabel. Silence, children. Back into the classroom.” “Where are you going?” Miss Christina asked her. “Home, Miss,” she said. “Where else?” “Don’t you remember what I said, Rosaura?” “No, Miss.” “I said you should stay after school.” “Ah.” Indian face. Shifty and deceitful. Impossible to love her. There was something intimidating in her eyes, as in the eyes of Fabio. Impossible to teach them anything. “Poor thing, she’s just a child.” She stroked her hair. “Tell me about it. Rosaura,” she said. “Tell me why you did that.” “Never, Miss. I’ll never tell. I’ll die before I tell.” “Come on, don’t exaggerate. You know a teacher is like a second mother. You’ll see, you’ll feel better afterward.” “And you swear by the Holy Virgin that whatever happens you will never in your whole life tell anyone?” “I swear.” Rosaura looked in every corner, under every desk, and closed the door. 200

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“She wants to murder me, Miss.” “Rosaura, how can you say something so terrible? Aren’t you afraid of God?” “And she, Miss? Why don’t you ask her if she isn’t afraid of God? Or don’t you believe me, Miss?” “But Rosaura, how can I believe such a thing of poor Isabel, who’s incapable of harming a fly?” “You’ll see, Miss. You’ll see the proof.” When Miss Christina stopped her there was already some blood on Rosaura’s wrists. “Why did you do that, Rosaura?” “So that you believe me, Miss.” “You were going to lie to me.” “Now, yes, Miss. But before, never, never ever did I lie to you. She wants to kill me because I’m the real owner of all this, and I was stolen from my cot when I was a baby. Isabel’s father kidnapped me and killed my mummy and daddy and threw me into the cabin where I am now, and they took all my bracelets and my dresses, and gave them all to Isabel. And if one day a policeman comes who will listen to my story, I’ll tell him everything, and they’ll put Isabel in prison. Don’t you believe me, Miss, now? Say that you believe me.” “I love you, Rosaura, and I want you never to be afraid again when you’re with me. If something happens to you, come and tell me. And try to be happy, for God’s sake.” And Miss Christina gave her a glass of milk and bread and jam. And Rosaura told her about the chickens that were born in her house. A green one was born once, she said. And it chirped like the Green Chick in the fairy tale. And Miss Christina laughed. And Rosaura also laughed. And she finished o¬ all the bread. And she emptied the jar of jam. And when she left, she had a wonderful white moustache around her lips.

(Santiago Juan is the most intelligent of all, and Graciana Franta is the one who works the hardest, but Francisco Viancaba puts a great deal of time and e¬ort into everything he does, and that, as Miss Christina says, has a great deal of merit. Angela Maria Contouris agrees with everything except that she doesn’t think Graciana Franta is the one who works the hardest. She shows her work to the class and wants to know who dares to say that she hasn’t liliana heker

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worked harder than Graciana Franta. Miss Christina says your work is very neat, Angela Maria, and that it’s a very good thing to try so hard to be better, but it’s wrong to be envious of a classmate. What they all like best is the singing, but Octavio Sivori, who’s very proper, explains to whoever cares to listen that he, personally, prefers math and dictation. Nobody likes Fabio Santana because he’s so much bigger than the others, because he whistles in class all the time, and because he makes fun of Miss Christina who is so kind to us. Isabel Mosquera has a box of crayons with twenty-four crayons inside, and everyone in the class is crazy about it, but you have to be very well behaved for Isabel to lend you one; she’s missing five already, and Isabel has said that if they keep on stealing them from her, her father will bring the police in and the thief will be thrown into jail. Recesses are complicated because the boys lift the girls’ skirts. Angela Maria Contouris says that Francisco Viancaba touched her ass. Miss Christina explains that you mustn’t use that word, Angela Maria, but Angela Maria says that he touched her ass all the same. Vincente Moruzzi and Graciana Franta bring fresh eggs for Miss Christina, but once Santiago Juan brought a turkey, and nobody could beat that. Francisco Viancaba and Vincente Moruzzi have lice and one day Miss Christina had them stay after school to wash their heads with kerosene; she gave them a delicious lunch and for dessert, chocolate pudding. “I wish I had lice,” said Santiago Juan. One morning a piece of the roof caved in, and between Santiago Juan, Fabio Santana, and Rafael Sivori they fixed it up perfectly. Miss Christina put four posters up on the wall: one showing General San Martin, hero of the Independence, crossing the Andes; another of the House of Tucuman, where Independence was signed; a third of two children in a meadow picking flowers for their mother; and a fourth of the seven dwarves from a story that Miss Christina told them. Another day they pinned up a beautiful drawing by Rafael Sivori; and on yet another day, a large piece of cardboard with pieces of colored paper pasted on it by Graciana Franta. The school looks lovely and cheerful.)

It was the School Board Inspector who made Miss Christina face the facts: not only three of the kids from Entre Rios, but also the two Boyero children had disappeared. “But that’s only seven days ago, Inspector,” Miss Christina Bonfanti argued. “Something could have happened to them.” 202

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“I’m not saying that’s not possible, Miss Bonfanti,” said the Inspector, “but you must try to bring things back to normal. Even before this you were already down to the very limit.” “I suppose,” said Miss Christina Bonfanti, “that this doesn’t mean that now, in May and with almost fifteen students well on their way, you’re going to shut down the school, Inspector.” “Rules are rules, Miss Bonfanti,” said the Inspector. “But not to worry; you carry on and we’ll be back sometime later.”

The notice arrived a week later: it announced that on May 22 a School Board Commission would visit the school in order to verify that the number of students enrolled was according to regulations; in case of this not being so, the Commission, much to their regret, would proceed to shut down the elementary school at Colonia Vela for the current year. Francisco Viancaba told her that yes, he knew why the Boyeros had stopped coming. “Their farm was burnt down,” he said, “because they were witches.” “Witches?” asked Miss Christina. “What do you mean, witches?” Francisco Viancaba shrugged his shoulders. You can’t answer a question like that. Just witches, you know, and everybody knew. And no one was surprised when finally the law came one night and set fire to the whole thing. It was stupendous: terrible and wonderful at the same time. He had climbed out of bed to look. There were shadows running in fear. And cries like curses cutting through the dark. Then he had called out: Jacinto! “Jacinto!” The two shadows came running, holding hands. Aurora was crying, but Jacinto had clenched his teeth and looked him straight in the eye. For a long while (Francisco thought) they stood there, then someone called them. Francisco watched them as they walked away, until they were just two more shapes, blurred against the flames. “No,” he said. “I’ve no idea where they went.” So there’re only ten left, thought Miss Christina. That night she cried.

She sat on the floor, among strips of white and blue crêpe paper, the colors of the Argentine flag. And she had specifically told Angela Maria not to cut the strips so narrow. Lost in the middle of a paper field, barely lit by the flickering liliana heker

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light of a gas lamp, very cross at Angela Maria Contouris for having cut too narrow the strips of flag that would never, ever, celebrate a splendid Independence Day with poems and speeches and with an unlikely, uneven, roaring National Anthem. They always do everything the wrong way round: you tell them wide, they think you’ve told them narrow; you tell them the order—blue, white, blue—and they come up to you, pleased as punch, to show you white, blue, white. You get mad at them because they’re so dumb, and yet, at night, when they should collapse on their beds after having been at the hoe, or at the pump, or cleaning the kitchen, or piling up wood, they feel sorry for being so dumb, and on tiptoes, groping in the dark, come looking for a piece of white cloth and a piece of blue cloth and think that orange will do as well, and that night they go to bed grinning from ear to ear, proudly hugging a bunch of rags that are white, orange, white. She heard a knocking at the door. Here he is again, what does he think he’s up to? What’s he got to do with the Hymn to the Flag, with Isabel Mosquera’s crayons, with sums and subtractions? But it wasn’t Fabio Santana. A girl outside, screaming madly, “Open up, Miss, open up, you told me to come, Miss, please, open up!” Rosaura, stark naked, staring at her like a wild animal, burst into the classroom. “They’re after me,” she said. “I told you they came to my bed to kill me, and I ran away. Hide me, Miss, hide me.” Behind her, Señor Mosquera was howling, and the policeman. “You whore!” Señor Mosquera was howling, and the policeman, too. “Whore!” shouted Señor Mosquera, “I knew I’d get you one day, you whore!” And Señor Mosquera threw himself on tiny eight-year-old Rosaura Cardales, who, trembling with fright under a blanket, was trying to cover herself as much as possible. Even her face. The story came out. How for twenty pesos a time Rosaura’s mother gave her over to the grocer’s assistant. And how the indignant Señor Mosquera carried on his virtuous quest until he found her just like that, naked in the man’s bed, the very incarnation of sin, just look at her will you, she should be taken away and locked up. And then Miss Christina cried, and the policeman gave in, and Rosaura’s mother explained. Because anyway that’s how she’ll end up, poor bitch, so tell me, Señor Mosquera, where’s the sin in letting her mother have a little cash in advance? And Señor Mosquera made arrangements. That night Rosaura slept soundly in Miss Christina’s bed, and Miss Christina wasn’t able to sleep a wink all night. What for, Rosaura, why? Why, watching over you, feeling for you, seeing you sleep so peacefully, just like any other child in the world, why think of you tomorrow, waking up, you and I talking, I 204

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giving you bread and jam, I asking you to be happy? Why practice our lines tomorrow, why should Angela Maria work hard at cutting the strips of paper to the right width, why scold Vincente Moruzzi for having made a big inkstain, and why, when the others don’t see me, wash Francisco Viancaba’s ears, and why tell Graciana Franta that if she’s missing two in her subtraction, she should take ten from above, and why read them all the story of Hansel and Gretel? Why, what for, if you are only ten, ten poor little devils lost in this huge land? Why if in barely four days justice will be done and no one will remember that ears should be kept clean, and that if it’s thirteen you put down three and carry one, and that the opening line of the National Anthem is “Oh hear you mortals the sacred cry!” and that “i” goes before “e” except after “c,” and that it’s bad, Rosaura, very bad in the eyes of God for an eight-year-old to lie naked in a grown man’s bed? Why bother, Rosaura, if Jacinto and Aurora Boyero are wandering down some long-lost road and have never learned to draw their letters straight? Why bother, if in just a few years you’ll end up like that anyway, you poor thing? Why bother, if the other side of the Estanque Grande is no place for a woman alone on her own, so we’re sorry, but see? The others, the ones on the other side, were never informed that almost three months ago the school year started here, on this side, nor will they ever know that there were only ten students and that it wasn’t worthwhile to keep a school open just for that? Why then the blue and white strips of paper? What for, Rosaura? “But you promised, Miss,” Graciana said the next day. “True, but we have enough flags for this year already.” “But at least I’ll be able to finish this one, right, Miss?” said Vincente. “No, Vincente, you won’t be able to finish it, I’ve locked up the closet. We’ve wasted enough time with these strips of paper.”

One day before the Commission was supposed to arrive. A stifling May 21, grey, and dull. They were all there: Angela Maria Contouris, and Rosaura Cardales, and Francisco Viancaba, and Rafael Sivori, and Isabel Mosquera, and Graciana Franta, and Octavio Sivori, and Fabio Santana, and Vincente Moruzzi, and Santiago Juan. And even though Angela Maria was probably not aware of this, from that moment onward it didn’t matter in the least how wide the strips were cut. At a quarter past ten that morning, to the great delight of the students, the first peals of thunder were heard. Half an hour later, Colonia Vela was nothing liliana heker

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but water. The rain didn’t stop until a quarter past seven, so that day no one was able to leave the school early. Even Isabel Mosquera, whom they came to collect with an umbrella, raincoat, and boots, decided to stay. What happened during those eight hours in which they all huddled together under the school roof is not easy to explain. What happens to twelve people like that, lost in the universe? If twelve people are hungry and cold, what they do is this: they light a fine fire, and come close together, and then look all over the place, even climbing on one another’s shoulders, until they find something to eat. And Rosaura, who can make the best apple fritters in the village, asks Graciana to reach her the flour, and Francisco Viancaba lights the oven, and Isabel Mosquera finds the mate, and Santiago Juan puts on the kettle, and old Felicidad brings out a jar of fig jam that she has stored away, and Miss Christina puts sugar in the cups, and Angela Maria pours the milk, and Octavio Sivori slices the bread. If twelve people look one another in the eyes and smile, it’s not surprising that Rafael Sivori becomes less shy and recites from memory a long, very long poem about gauchos, without making a single mistake. If eleven people have listened, silent and with tears in their eyes, to Rafael reciting, it’s no longer surprising that they then decide to sing: all together, with Miss Christina conducting the choir and old Felicidad standing in the back, making up wonderful words. If twelve people have sung together, had a meal together while outside the storm sweeps away the landscape, the school begins to feel for the first time as if it truly belonged to everyone. This is the day when Miss Christina’s closet may be opened, and you are allowed to mess around with the magnificent things she keeps in there. This is the day when Isabel Mosquera finds the blue blouse and says, “You can’t imagine how much I like this blouse, Miss.” And Miss Christina will ask her to try it on, and another girl will find a shawl, and another a hat, and an unforgettable skirt with frills around it. And they will have fun: curious and excited, making up characters for their dress-ups, laughing. And when people laugh so much that their stomachs ache, and they have to roll around with laughter on the bed, and when Isabel Mosquera has put on the blue blouse, no one will find it surprising when Isabel herself suddenly remarks that Rosaura has the very same eyes as an actress she once saw in a film, eyes so beautiful that she dreamt of them at night and has never forgotten them. And she says: “Rosaura,” she says, “you have the prettiest eyes in the whole school.” And then she tells them all the film, and afterward Rosaura gives Isabel her 206

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two raisins because anyway she doesn’t like them, so why not. And Francisco Viancaba tells the story of his great-grandfather. And Vicente Moruzzi, who has become the school’s performer, makes everybody laugh by imitating a certain madman who a long time ago used to roam around Colonia Vela telling people that he was the Redeemer and had come to save them because they, the poor of this miserable and lonely land, were the Chosen People and theirs was the Kingdom of Heaven. And Octavio Sibori dances a malambo. And because there are only two days left before Independence Day, Angela Maria remembers the decorations. And the doors of the closet open and all the ribbons and bows and flags come out, and everyone starts cutting, pasting, sewing, hammering on the walls, painting, hanging the colored strips of paper. No one can destroy this school; Miss Christina has made up her mind; she has gone into her bedroom and is hunting for her best writing paper. “This letter is for your mother,” she says to Rafael Sivori. And standing in front of her class, she explains that tomorrow, May 22, the Commission is coming to shut down the school. “But we, children, will not allow them to do that.” In the class there’s a riot. A little later, they have all understood exactly what they’re supposed to do. Rafael Sivori will give his mother the letter, and she, struck by the urgent and yet kind words of Miss Christina, words proclaiming with eloquence that the obligation of every Argentine mother is to make her children go to school, will send the missing three. And as far as Jacinto and Aurora are concerned, well, children, we’ll just say that they’re in bed with chicken pox but that they’re getting better, thank God, and that we’ll soon have them again among us. Fabio Santana let out a whistle. “What’s your problem, Fabio Santana?” “I just want to know what all this fuss is about.” “You don’t care about all this, do you? Do you? Can you tell me what you’re doing here?” “Just watching you, sweetheart.” “That’s not a reason to come to school, you hear me? Why on earth don’t you just leave?” “So that we’re fifteen, sweetheart; so that you get your way.” It had stopped raining. He’s going to play a dirty trick on me, thought Miss Christina. But only for a moment. She had to go and dismiss the children. Because when it has rained, and people have laughed and eaten and spent time liliana heker

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and cried together, goodbyes have something sad about them, something of cold and deserted train stations where you know, deep inside you, that goodbyes are painful and terrible and last for the rest of your life. On May 22 the school was shining with all that sun and all those blue and white ribbons. The letter Rafael Sivori brought with him read: Miss is very kind and i would like so much for them to go to school and learn to read and write and soon i hope god willing and the holy virgin permitting i will send them all but now my legs are bad and i need alicia and leonor to help around the house and alfonso to bring home some pesos and it would be nice to send them all now but my legs are bad and i need them at home. Andrea Sivori.

“Children,” said Miss Christina, “remember what day is today?” Isabel remembered. “May 22,” she said. “Right, Isabel,” said Miss Christina. “Today is May 22. Today the Commission is coming. Remember to be very well behaved.” “Do we hang up the rest of the flags, Miss?” Angela Maria asked. “No,” said Miss Christina. “We won’t hang up any more flags. There’ll be no celebration, children. Very quietly, very carefully, we’ll take down all the decorations.” Angela Maria was about to cry. Santiago Juan was about to kick a desk. It was Francisco Viancaba who sounded the alert. “There,” he said. “In the big wagon.” Everyone ran to the door. From the distance, you couldn’t quite tell how many were coming. “About ten,” said Vicente Moruzzi. Standing at the front, holding the reins, was Fabio Santana. There were seven. A rickety wagon was bringing them straight to the school. The ten on this side waved a welcome. The seven in the wagon waved back. “They’re the ones from the other side of the Estanque Grande.” Fabio Santana explained as he helped them down. “After today an old man from over there will be bringing them over.” Isabel Mosquera, prefect to the Colonia Vela school, brought the register. Santiago Juan distributed notebooks. Francisco Viancaba carried in two chairs from Miss Christina’s bedroom. 208

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“These will do for now,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll get the rest of the boys to build two more like the others.” Vicente Moruzzi pulled up the skirt of the eldest girl. Isabel Mosquera said that two boys were sure to have lice so she wasn’t going to play with them. Angela Maria showed them the flags. “They are for May 25, Independence Day,” she said. “Ours is the bestdecorated school in the whole world.” Octavio Sivori opened his notebook in front of each of the seven newcomers, and pointed out to each of them that he not only knew how to write, but also that he wrote in ink. “I bet you can’t,” he said to each one in turn. And Graciana Franta told each of them not to worry, because she, long ago, she didn’t know anything either, but Miss Christina is wonderful and can teach us all. Santiago Juan showed Eustaquio Fernandez where the outhouse was. “Just a moment,” said Miss Christina. “Just a moment before you go. Give me your name, it’s the only one missing.” “Eustaquio Fernandez,” said the boy. Miss Christina wrote in the register: “Eustaquio Fernandez.” Then she counted them. Seventeen. After that she was going to lift her eyes and smile at the young man, so that Fabio Santana would know how Miss Christina could look real sweet when she wanted to: real tender, like she used to, a long time ago, at the village dances. In the classroom, shouting, showing o¬ their exercise books, pulling one another’s hair, laughing, were sixteen noisy brats. Miss Christina stopped a moment to watch them and then walked to the door. Far away, through the fields, the wagon was disappearing. Not toward the general store, not toward the railroad tracks. In some other direction. Miss Christina didn’t know why. But it seemed to her that Fabio Santana, standing, all alone, in the middle of the wagon, must have been whistling. Translated by Alberto Manguel

publications Los que vieron la zarza. Buenos Aires: Jorge Alvarez, 1966. Acuario. Buenos Aires: Centro Editor de América Latina, 1972. liliana heker

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Un resplandor que se apagó en el mundo. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1977. Las peras del mal. Buenos Aires: Editorial Belgrano, 1982. Zona de clivaje. Buenos Aires: Legasa, 1987. Los bordes de lo real. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 1991. El fin de la historia. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 1996. Las hermanas de Shakespeare. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 1999. La crueldad de la vida. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 2001. Diálogos sobre la vida y muerte. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 2003. translations The Stolen Party and Other Stories. Trans. Alberto Manguel. Toronto: Coach House Press, 1994. “Jocasta.” Trans. Alberto Manguel, ed. Eldon Garnet. Impulse (Toronto), no. 2 (1985). “The Stolen Party.” Trans. Alberto Manguel, ed. Barry Callaghan. Exile: A Literary Quarterly (Toronto) 10, n.s. 3 and 4 (1985). “Mariana of the Universe.” Trans. Alberto Manguel. Now (Toronto) (October 10, 1986). “Early Beginnings, or Ars Poetica.” Trans. Alberto Manguel. What (Conman Productions, Toronto) (Nov./Dec. 1986). “Family Life.” Trans. Alberto Manguel. What (Conman Productions, Toronto) (May– June 1987). “Far Away.” Trans. Alberto Manguel, ed. Peter O’Brien and David Manicom. Rubicon: Bi-annual Journal of Contemporary Writing and Visual Art no. 10 (Fall 1988). “Early Beginnings, or Ars Poetica: Argentine Writing in the Eighties.” Trans. Alberto Manguel. The Literary Review (Fairleigh Dickinson University at Madison) (Summer 1989). “Early Beginnings, or Ars Poetica.” Trans. Alberto Manguel. In Soho Square III. London: Bloomsbury Publishing Ltd., 1990. “The Night of the Comet.” Trans. Alberto Manguel. Grand Street (New York), no. 61 (1997). “A Morning Made for Happiness.” Trans. Alfred MacAdam. Bomb (New York) no. 78 (Winter 2001/2002). “Sunday Music.” Trans. Alfred MacAdam. Review: Latin American Literature and Arts (New York) no. 65 (Fall 2002). The End of the Story. Trans. Andrea Labinger. Forthcoming.

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Alina Diaconú Alina Diaconú is a slender woman with long, auburn hair and large eyes that look deep into those that meet hers. Tied to the mystical side of life, she is both serious and thoughtful; but her wide smile conveys warmth and friendship. Her style and demeanor reflect her European upbringing, yet she is completely at home in her quaint apartment in the colonial porteño neighborhood of San Telmo, surrounded by works of art and books.

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Alina Diaconú | The Author and Her Work Alina Diaconú was born in Bucharest, Romania, in 1945 and immigrated to Buenos Aires in 1959. She remembers her mother as a very powerful figure. She was an immensely strong-willed woman who had a business as an artistic bookbinder, at which she was very talented. The author’s father was an intellectual, a writer, a lawyer, and an art collector. He enjoyed a position of importance within the Bucharest society of the time. However, in spite of his position and accomplishments, it was Diaconú’s mother who was the figure of power in the family, far more so than her father. Diaconú claims she was always fascinated by the power plays within her family structure, and began to realize that power often resided not with the obvious person, but with those behind the scenes. She was intrigued also by the fact that in spite of her almost despotic power, her mother also had a vulnerable, weak side. She was indeed a significant influence on the author and on her predilection for characters and narratives centered on the topic of domination. Diaconú remembers Bucharest as a place of beautiful landscapes, vineyards, and flowers, which stimulated her propensity for the mystical side of life. This mystical view was heightened by her experiences in the idyllic town of Sinaia, in the Carpathian Mountains, the place where she spent her summers and which she remembers as magical and paradisiacal. Her home was filled with books and museum-worthy paintings collected by her father. She was an only child and, perhaps because of that, a solitary one. Her favorite pastime was reading, and she began to write at the age of ten, when she composed verses in both Romanian and French, her second language. It was during her childhood in Bucharest that Diaconú began to acquire a taste for art, antiques, and the finer things in life. Her appreciation and eye for aesthetics permeates her work as well as her style. Because of political pressures, her family decided to emigrate. This was the time of Gheorghiu-Dej, Ceausescu’s predecessor and a puppet of Stalin, according to Diaconú. She depicts this historical period as a dictatorship of the proletariat, because of the regime’s repressive and totalitarian rule. A teenager at the time, she spent two di~cult months in Paris, uprooted from her home and all she loved, before finally immigrating to Argentina. She recalls her first two years in Buenos Aires as a period in which she lost her identity. These were very di~cult, soul-searching years for her, years of existential anguish heightened by puberty. Yet with time and the help of friends from the alina diaconú

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Mallinckrodt School, which she attended upon arrival, she assimilated into the Argentine culture, a culture she now claims as her own. Upon reflection, Diaconú believes these experiences of exile and acculturation have given her a broader and deeper perspective on life and the world and have significantly enriched her writing. Another element that has a¬ected Diaconú’s writing is her exposure to two politically repressive cultures, Stalinist Romania initially and the Argentina of the Dirty War subsequently. She considers herself and her writing to be marked by the experience of repression. After receiving her Licentiate Degree in Communication at the University of Salvador, in Buenos Aires, she spent two years in Paris, where she became acquainted with Eugene Ionesco and E. M. Cioran, two very significant influences on her work and literary preferences. When she returned to Buenos Aires, she dedicated herself to her career as a novelist and also began to practice freelance journalism. In addition to writing opinion pieces for newspapers, she was a columnist for several cultural magazines, such as Octavio Paz’s Vuelta, Vigencia, Asuntos Culturales, and Cultura. Her work as a translator is of note as well; she translated the work of several Romanian poets and of Eugene Ionesco and E. M. Cioran into Spanish. Diaconú received a Fulbright Award to the University of Iowa’s International Writers Program in 1985 and has received numerous awards for her journalism and for her fiction. In 1994 she was granted an award by The American Romanian Academy of Arts and Sciences (in California) for her creative work in defense of freedom. Her first novel, Señora, published in 1975, is about a conflicted forty-year-old woman who writes fiction and who borders on insanity because of her di~culty separating the real world from her imaginary one. In 1979 she published her novel, Buenas noches, profesor (Good Night, Professor), for which she received the Prize of Honor from the Sociedad Argentina de Escritores (Society of Argentine Writers). What interested her about this novel, which features a male protagonist and is written in the first person, was the challenge of writing in a voice and gender di¬erent from her own. The novel was censured by the military government of the time and pulled o¬ the shelves of the bookstores. Diaconú claims this was an arbitrary act that she never understood. In 1981 she published her second novel, Enamorada del muro (Enamored of the Wall), about an adolescent protagonist’s adventures in Buenos Aires and her encounters with love, loneliness, and sorrow. This was the first of what Diaconú considers to be a trilogy of fantastic literature. The second book of the trilogy was Cama de ángeles (Bed of Angels, 216

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1983), about a diva who is in decline, losing her charm and power. The third, Los ojos azules (Blue Eyes, 1986) portrays the problems of prejudice and discrimination toward those who are di¬erent—in this case, a woman with blue eyes in a fantasy land where no one else has blue eyes. In 1989 Diaconú published El penúltimo viaje (The Penultimate Voyage), where she develops the topic of repressive totalitarian governments. Here she shows an interesting parallel between the power struggles in Romania and those in Argentina. This novel received the trophy prize of El meridiano de plata 1989 (The Silver Meridian 1989), for best novel of the year. Her novel Los devorados (The Devoured, 1992) brings together the lives of three unlikely characters: a wealthy marquise, a street bum, and a middle-class intellectual obsessed with studying carnivorous plants. The three intersect in the backdrop of the quaint neighborhoods of the city of Buenos Aires. In 1995 Diaconú published her first collection of short stories, ¿Qué nos pasa, Nicolás? (What’s Happening to Us, Nicolás?). The story “Mal de ojo” (Evil Eye), included here, is from this collection. It is the tale of a young woman who resorts to a curandera (an unconventional healer or medicine woman) to help her through a crisis. An educated woman who has always considered herself an atheist, she succumbs in a moment of physical and emotional weakness to the possible power of faith, placing her hopes in the hands of the old witch-like healer. In 1998 Diaconú authored a book of journalistic content titled Preguntas y respuestas (Questions and Answers), and in the same year she published Calidoscopio (Kaleidoscope), a book of reflections on daily life. Her novel Una mujer secreta (A Secret Woman) was published by the Fundación Internacional Jorge Luis Borges (International Jorge Luis Borges Foundation) in 2002. On the surface, this is a novel about a writer who writes about a beguiling woman in a green dress who travels to exotic places and has an a¬air with a young man her son’s age. The protagonist possesses the power of charm and mesmerizes others who find in her a source of comfort and wisdom. On a deeper level, this book is a postmodern exploration of the creative process and the act of writing itself, where fiction often intersects with reality. The work of Alina Diaconú is unique because of her unusual treatment of themes as well as her sophisticated aesthetics. The tapestry of her dream-like fiction weaves together a world of exile, mysticism, and fantasy, and a preoccupation with the problems and consequences of the misuse of power.

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Conversation with Alina Diaconú Gwendolyn Díaz: Alina, what do you remember about your childhood in Bucharest? What was your home and family environment like? Alina Diaconú: I lived surrounded by books and paintings, and my home environment was intellectually stimulating. My father, an art critic and collector, was constantly reading and writing. In our home we had a wonderful library, to me the most wonderful room in the house, where I enjoyed reading books or looking through them to see the images in the art books. My mother was an artistic bookbinder. She used a medieval French technique in her work, employing special tools to create the desired effects. For several years she taught that technique here in Buenos Aires. Books were my most prized possessions. I was an only child and somewhat solitary, so I found companionship and adventure in the books I read and in the exercise of my imagination. gd: What was it like living in Bucharest? What memories come to mind of your experiences there? What are your impressions of what life was like for you then? ad: That early period of my life is like an island to me. It seems removed and almost fantastic. I have both happy and unpleasant memories of that time. It was there that I experienced death for the first time, the death of my grandparents, who lived with us. My most pleasant memories are those of a young girl who lived in profound contact with nature. Our home had a wonderful garden and a vineyard under which we took our meals. I remember the flowers, the aromas, the animals and pets we had. I have cherished memories of our vacations in Sinaia, at the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. In that idyllic countryside I had deep spiritual experiences, as I felt the nature was so beautiful that I must be in paradise. gd: Why did your family leave Bucharest? Were you in political danger? ad: My father directed an art journal in which he wrote and published criticism and opinions that did not reflect the interest of the Stalinist state. One day he received a phone call telling him that his journal did not conform to the views of the communist regime. Since he refused to conform to the state’s demands, he decided it was best to emigrate. I had an aunt in Argentina who was well connected politically and was able to arrange, through diplomatic recourse, our invitation to Argentina and subsequent

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immigration. We were fortunate. However, we had to leave behind all that we owned, the art, the books, everything, even our nationality. gd: What was it like for a young girl of fourteen to leave her home and country? ad: It was an unspeakably painful experience for me. I did not want to leave my home and all I knew and loved. Exile, for me, was to leave the world I loved behind and face a new world, Argentina, with a language I did not speak and codes I did not understand. I still remember the day mother told me we were leaving. I recall thinking to myself, as I walked up the path leading to my house, that I knew my mother would tell me that day that we had to go. And indeed, as I walked in, I saw her sitting at the table, elbow bent upon the table cradling her head, and she told me we were immigrating to Argentina. gd: And when you arrived in Argentina you were a teenager, alone, in a foreign country with a language you did not speak. ad: Yes, puberty itself is a difficult experience for most people. For me it was painfully unsettling. During my first two years in Buenos Aires I had a sense of having lost my identity. I had begun to keep a journal in France, where we lived for two months before moving to Argentina, and I continued to find refuge in my writing in Buenos Aires. Ten days after I arrived, I was placed in a private Catholic German girls’ school run by nuns (something quite foreign to a girl reared in an atheist society), and there I began to learn to adapt to my new life. gd: I share with you the experience of being uprooted. I left Argentina when I finished high school and subsequently traveled a lot. These experiences of rupture, discontinuity, and change had profound effects on me; perhaps that’s why I have strived to live in both worlds, straddling the continent from one end to the other. I would like to know how your experiences affected you personally, as well as your writing. ad: I think I would have been a writer regardless of my destination. I had begun writing in Romania and had composed verses in both Romanian and French. The changes I lived through when moving to a new country, though, had a deep impact on my view of the world. Those life-changing experiences are so overwhelming that one must learn how to cope with them or die. You, also, may have felt that living in different cultures broadened your perspective of life, your vision. I feel enriched by the changes I

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have lived through, as difficult as they were. My view of the world is much broader and more complete because of them. This is reflected in my concerns and my work. I have had the opportunity to go from a communist regime during the time of the Iron Curtain to the freedom of democracy in Paris and later Argentina. It was then that I took stock of just how repressive our life in communist Romania was. Yet, at the same time, I learned, while living in the Western world, that capitalism has its flaws as well. gd: Sadly, though, your life was once again touched by repression when the Dirty War began in Argentina in 1976. How did this new encounter with authoritarianism affect you and your work? ad: I have frequently pondered why my life has been marked by intolerant and repressive political systems. The military dictatorships of Argentina in the seventies brought me face-to-face with a new kind of arbitrariness; I was thus able to compare the different faces of intolerance. The effects of totalitarianism and intolerance surface frequently in my novels. The most obvious example is El penúltimo viaje (The Penultimate Voyage). I have rendered intolerance metaphorically in my fiction through the creation of a suffocating atmosphere that reflects life under the influence of repression. Because of my life experiences, I have been painfully aware that freedom cannot be taken for granted; it is a privilege that must be cherished. gd: Latin American writers have often felt the need to cultivate fantastic and metaphorical styles in order to avoid the censorship of repressive governments. Your style is a unique blend of the oneiric, the metaphorical, and the fantastic. It lives somewhere between dream, nightmare, and reality, in a sort of creative limbo that is difficult to describe. Yet, I would not call it fantastic or magical realist (that much-abused term). Is it fair to say that your subtle and indirect style, the dreamlike atmosphere of your work, your use of symbol, metaphor, and fantasy, are due in part to a desire to escape censorship? ad: What you are saying is very interesting. I cannot define my literature. I do feel that my style is unusual. Perhaps it is a result of the mixture of European influences and Latin American ones. I loved reading the Russian writers; I became fascinated by Kafka and read many other Eastern European writers. Here in Argentina I read the writers of the Latin American “Boom,” who also had an impact on me. However, I do not feel identified with any particular writer or style. I believe that my writing, much as you described it, moves in an undefined territory between the oneiric and the 220

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real, as if those worlds coexisted. In this creative space, the dead inhabit the world together with the living and characters may just as well be alive as be ghosts. To address the first part of your question, I feel that my style has evolved from these preferences and influences. But it is also a result of censorship and the desire to avoid it. My second novel, Buenas noches, profesor (Good Night, Professor), which appeared in 1979 during the military dictatorship, was censored. It had been published and had won an award, but it was soon taken from the shelves of the bookstores and prohibited. I never really knew why, and have always been puzzled by it, but I was advised not to ask questions because it was dangerous to do so at that time. As a result of that experience, my writing became more subtle and indirect. gd: This fluctuation in your writing between the real and the oneiric reminds me of the world of psychoanalysis, where the objective is to be able to go back and forth from the conscious to the unconscious to find meaning. It is reminiscent as well of the dynamics of chaos theory, where the search for order is generated from the chaos of existence and there is a reciprocal influence between one and the other. The idea is that the world is chaotic and humans have always attempted to order it, structure it. However, chaos is still there. ad: My view of writing and experience fits well with what you are saying about chaos and order. I feel we use reason and logic to organize our lives and have trouble dealing with those things we cannot understand. But at the same time, the world is not that easily understood. There is a realm of experience that we do not understand or are not conscious of, but that nevertheless coexists with us. It is as if those divisions we make between body, mind, and soul, conscious and unconscious, yesterday and today, are arbitrary and false. We use terms to separate them—dreams and reality, body and mind, fantasy and reason—but in actuality these divisions are arbitrary, whereas experience, like time, is singular and non-differentiated. My fiction reflects this dynamic. gd: Another aspect of your writing that I find interesting is that it has many different layers of interpretation and meaning. Would you comment on that? ad: Certainly. This quality of multivalency is not only a preference of mine but also a challenge. I want my works to offer multiple ways of reading. I like for the reader to invent along with me. Therefore my novels usually have an open ending, and readers go back to reread and recompose; they reflect alina diaconú

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about the novel and its meanings as if they were collaborating in a work in progress. gd: Cortázar, of course, was a proponent of “active” reading, a reading in which the reader participates in the making of the work. He said that the only character that he was interested in was the reader. How does this apply to you? ad: As much as I admire Cortázar, I could not say that my main interest is the reader. When I write, the only reader that I am interested in is myself. I write for myself. At the moment of creation the reader does not exist for me. But, after a certain stage of the writing, I get a special feeling of excitement, as if I am creating a complicitous text with my future readers there, in the back of my mind. I feel that the story I am telling will be deciphered by a particular group of readers who are picking up the clues I leave behind. Much like a game or a ruse, I want to have a brotherhood of readers that is involved in that game. I realize that maybe I won’t have many readers, but I cherish the idea of sharing the act of creation with those who choose to read my work. gd: I see; you present the game, you establish the rules, and then you leave it there for whoever may want to play the game and share the creative experience with you. ad: Exactly. The readers are my accomplices in the adventure of fiction. gd: Your writing, as diverse as it is, seems to revolve around a series of themes, one of which is political repression, as mentioned above. Another theme that appears frequently in your work is an interest in the metaphysical overtones of life. Would you comment on this? ad: I have always been interested in that which I did not know. I feel there is a dimension to our lives that cannot be reached through reason. I know this intuitively and am interested in exploring it. There is something beyond the concrete and rational, and I want to approach this in my literature. gd: Another topic I find in your work is a concern for the status of women. Though I would not say you are a feminist writer, your work does deal often with the plight of women in a world where the genders receive different treatment. I am thinking specifically of your novel Los ojos azules (Blue Eyes), where the female protagonist receives abusive treatment simply because she is different. Her biology is devalued and described in terms of vulnerability. ad: In Los ojos azules, though not necessarily in other works, I was specifically 222

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interested in developing a female protagonist. In a sense, the novel can be seen as a metaphor for sexual discrimination on the basis of difference, in this case gender. However, I have made a conscious decision to develop male protagonists and to portray the male experience in order to show that a woman writer can create authentic male characters. Male writers have created credible female characters (Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina), and women writers can create plausible male characters as well. I believe the creative process is androgynous, and I have assumed the challenge of creating male characters as well as female ones, also homosexual characters and personages with bizarre sexuality, such as in the case of Cama de ángeles (Bed of Angels). I believe that we are multiple beings and that we have aspects of all of those different ways of being within us, not only psychologically, but also physically and emotionally. I am indeed interested in the female protagonist, but not only that; I also enjoy the challenge of creating characters different from myself. gd: Your views on sexuality are reminiscent of what Jacques Lacan states regarding sexual positions. For Lacan, sexuality is a broad spectrum of possible positions vis-à-vis gender, and the subject positions itself somewhere along that spectrum. Do you feel, however, that there are certain generalizations about women’s and men’s writing that are idiosyncratic to each? ad: No. I would not dare to say that. There are always exceptions that prove the generalizations wrong. I am thinking of Marguerite Yourcenar, for example, who had great success in France, but her success was due to the fact that her readers and critics said she wrote like a man. They said that her intelligence and her style were masculine. I disagree with such a view. Her intelligence was neither masculine nor feminine. It was intelligence. She was a great writer who happened to be female. To say that her writing was masculine is a prejudiced statement. I think a serious writer, one who is intent on creating or recreating the world, can and does give verisimilitude to different psychologies, social classes, genders, and other distinctions. gd: In the early days of feminism, it was thought that men tended to write about exterior experiences, adventures, history, great feats (Norman Mailer, Hemingway), and that women tended toward the interiorization of experience, the subjective narrative. What is your view? ad: I disagree with that view. Let me mention my examples: James Joyce, Marcel Proust, Franz Kafka, all reflected an interiorization of experience. There alina diaconú

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is a long list of examples that show the contrary. Perhaps men do tend toward exteriorization and women toward being introspective, but very many writers fall outside of this scheme. Kafka’s prose springs from the subjective interiorization of experience, while Yourcenar writes about history, battles, and emperors. I think those generalizations are prone to simplifying something that is not simple. I think writers, men or women, have a heightened sensitivity that allows them to write from beyond their own sexuality. The soul is asexual. gd: Are you a religious person? Do you associate with any particular political ideology? ad: I do not belong to any organized religion. I believe I am a spiritual being; I believe there is a dimension beyond the physical, something I cannot apprehend or comprehend, yet it is there. We could call this God or the spirit. But I am not interested in religion or the church. As for politics, I do not associate with any party or ideology. When I lived in a communist country, I felt I was a capitalist, and when lived in a capitalist country, I felt I was a communist. I have a sense of ethics that makes me disapprove of what is unjust, whether the injustice is on one side or the other. My experience has been that politics, political parties, do not work. My view of both communism and capitalism is that both have failed. My only position is one of questioning and denouncing injustice. gd: Power and its effects is a topic that seems to run through most of your work. You write about forced exile, power struggles in relationships, domination, political repression. Would you comment on this topic and your fascination with issues of power? ad: Power is always present in our lives, in all realms of our existence. In my work I show different types of power struggle. My novel El penúltimo viaje is dedicated entirely to the theme of political repression in Eastern Europe, communism, and the fall of communism. Here I draw a parallel between the political repression in Romania and what happened in Argentina during the military dictatorship. The novel portrays the change of power that takes place in Eastern Europe when the upper classes are overthrown by the revolution of the proletariat and simultaneously shows what happened in Argentina after the military took control of the government and began its Dirty War against the subversives. Here, the symbol of power is incarnated in the all-powerful father. My intent was to explore the effects of domination and how the change of power from one group to another af224

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fects people and their countries. However, I believe that the issue of power surfaces in all human relationships. Here, the symbol of power is incarnated in the all-powerful father figure. gd: In your trilogy that you refer to as fantastic, Los ojos azules, Cama de ángeles, and Enamorada del muro (Enamored of the Wall), the topic of power appears as well, don’t you think? ad: Yes it does, in different ways. Certainly it appears in Los ojos azules, where the protagonist lives a torturous experience in the hands of those who are interrogating her. What concerned me here were the effects of discrimination and how the powerful subjugate those who are different, in this case a woman with blue eyes in an island where everyone has dark eyes. In Cama de ángeles I portray a diva in decline. Once someone of importance, she loses her power as she ages and her powerful status begins to crumble. Here the concern is the loss of power. In Enamorada del muro the protagonist is a lonely and insecure adolescent who falls prey to a strange sect. She is able to escape its powerful grip, yet that power is still a constant threat. gd: Your novel Los devorados (The Devoured) seems to explore the powerful effects of life circumstances on people of all social classes. ad: This novel portrays three different social classes through three characters: the beggar, the intellectual biologist, and the wealthy socialite, a powerful yet vulnerable woman. Destiny brings them together at one particular moment when their lives intertwine. In the backdrop of this scenario are the carnivorous plants that attract their victims to devour them. It is the power of life itself that ends up devouring everything. gd: In your short-story collection ¿Qué nos pasa, Nicolás? (What’s Happening to Us, Nicolás?), we can also find issues of power. ad: I am above all a novelist, but I have a lot of respect for the genre of the short story. Short stories come to me between novel and novel, like an intermezzo, a short composition that I can resolve more rapidly than a novel. When I compiled this anthology, I wanted to include the most representative and heterogeneous stories I had written throughout the years. There are several styles of writing in this collection, some tending toward the real and others toward fantasy. The topic of power appears in several stories. The title story “¿Qué nos pasa, Nicolás?” is about a domineering mother and her inability to communicate with her son. gd: That collection includes the story “Mal de ojo” (The Evil Eye), which I selected for inclusion in this chapter because of its portrayal of that mysterialina diaconú

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ous power that goes beyond the rational, as in the case of faith healing and curanderismo (folk healing). ad: “Mal de ojo” is a story I have a lot of affection for. I enjoyed writing it. It is serious, and at the same time it plays with the contradictory notions of intellectual skepticism and trust in the unknown. gd: You mentioned before that your life experiences have led you to your fascination with power. One of those experiences was living through the military dictatorship of the seventies in Argentina. Were you personally threatened during the Dirty War? ad: At that time we lived with the constant presence of fear and threat. Writers and intellectuals were considered suspect along with the political activists. My most personal experience with the Argentine repression was the censorship of my novel Buenas noches, profesor. Though I was desperate to learn why my novel had been forbidden, I did not dare ask questions for fear of being apprehended. Also, there was the fear of one’s name appearing in the address book of one of the subversives who were captive. It was common knowledge that the military used these address books to find other suspects. They operated under the false premise that to be in a prisoner’s address book was to be a subversive. Many innocent desaparecidos were rounded up in this fashion. Nevertheless, I decided to stay in Argentina. I had already been through one very difficult exile and was not willing to go through another one. gd: What would it take for our society to overcome the tendency toward domination and subjugation? ad: What is needed is a profound change of values, a change that comes from within the individual. We need a change of paradigms to replace greed, consumerism, and materialism. I am skeptical that such a change will take place, but I believe that writing is one avenue of change. For me, the most interesting place from which to explore these issues has been literature, which has allowed me a critical stance, an ethical position, and belief in a reality beyond.

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The Evil Eye

When she heard the doorbell, she jumped. She wrapped the blue bathrobe even tighter around her body, making herself appear even thinner, whiter, and more worn out than she already was. She ran her hand through her hair, long and uneven like an old feather duster, and with a slow, faltering step, walked toward the door. When she opened it, she found herself facing an image that had not one single feature in common with what she had been expecting. An obese woman with a wig piled high upon her head, like a wedding cake, a grotesquely madeup face and a mouth full of dancing teeth. “Are you the sick woman?” “Yes,” she replied, observing the woman with a mixture of hope and revulsion. “Come in.” “So young . . . such a shame.” She swallowed hard. Of course it was a shame, not that she was young but that she was young and sick, young and like a walking ghost, with that extreme whiteness that reminded one more of a dead person’s face than the chilly splendor of a marble statue. I know it’s a shame, madam, please have a seat, there, in that chair right there. The woman settled down into the chair, with di~culty. Her legs and thighs fought in vain against her narrow skirt; it seemed as though at any moment the seams might burst and her flesh would spill out, forming a pool on the corduroy chair, exposing her cellulite, varicose veins, and/or hair growth. Nevertheless, not a single seam burst, and the woman looked her straight in the eyes and said: “I’m going to help you. And specifically today is a very special day for me. I have Christ’s stigmata on both hands. See, see this little hole. . . .” She tried to concentrate so that she could see the little hole that her guest was showing her. The only thing she saw was a sweaty palm, and several stumpy fingers, with fuchsia-colored nails, the lacquer chipped. “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see?” the woman insisted. “Today, I am illuminated.” She reexamined the outstretched hand, over and over again, until finally she thought she saw a little slit. It was miniscule. alina diaconú

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“Yes, I see it.” After a while she wouldn’t know if the little hole had really been there or if she had simply wanted to see it. “Yes, I see it.” The woman suddenly closed her hand into a fist. “Tell me what’s happening to you. And let’s not be so formal, after this you and I will be friends.” She parted her lips. She had no idea how to begin to describe everything that she was feeling. For a few moments she remained silent, and then whispered: “I’m an actress. The first time was three or four months ago . . . a sudden dizzy spell, right onstage . . . it was awful . . . a kind of itch inside my head and then, a heavy weight crashing down in the center of my brain. . . .” Another pause. Another dizzy spell. Another itch. Another heavy weight. “I feel sick . . . really sick. . . .” “I understand. I fully understand.” They seemed magical, those words—just what she needed to hear at that moment. Unexpectedly she grabbed the woman’s hand, rather unexpectedly, and in between her sobs she whispered: “I feel sick and nobody understands me. Not even the doctors. Nobody realizes the truth.” The woman stood up. Brusquely she readjusted her wrinkled skirt. “I know. You think that everyone else thinks you’re crazy. But you know you’re not crazy. There’s something evil inside of you, something evil that nobody else understands.” “Yes, yes,” she stammered, pulling the robe even tighter across her chest. “I’m going to help you. You’re a pretty girl, so smart . . . an artist. I’m going to help you.” Reaching underneath her sweater, she rearranged her bra straps. She had large, pointy breasts, like the girls in the calendars that hang on the walls of auto-body shops. “Sit down, right here.” She sat down. “Close your eyes.” She closed them. For a few moments the unintelligible stream of words the woman chanted into the back of her neck was like a mosquito’s low hum. Every so often, she 228

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would hear words like God, the Devil, Evil, and Good. The same words that she had heard all her life, almost everywhere: in children’s stories, in the catechism, in sermons delivered by her father-father, her father-priest, her mother-mother, her mother-nun, in the long monologues memorized in front of a mirror, in her theatrical tears and in her real ones as well. Nothing ever changes in the human repertory; the words are always the same. “You have to have faith. I will cure you.” When she opened her eyes, she saw the obese woman remove from her plastic pocketbook a tiny bottle that looked like nail-polish remover. The woman unscrewed the cap and poured some of the colorless, odorless liquid onto her hands, which she then began to rub across the actress’s temples. The sensation was a familiar one; some time before, lying on a soothing stretcher in a beauty spa, she had felt a pair of lanolin-covered hands do the very same thing to her during a facial. “You have to have faith, honey.” And the worst part of all was that she did. She had faith, she had faith in her. “I have faith,” she said. Her mind was then wiped clean of all the old conflicts, of her classmates at the Conservatory, of her lifelong friends, of the conversations over co¬ee, of the rehearsals and all the arguments that had nothing to do with the theater, of the meetings filled with youthful fury and vitriolic debates in which she would announce to everyone present that she was an atheist, absolutely atheist from head to toe. “I have faith,” she repeated. “That’s what I like to hear,” the woman whispered, closing the little jar that had indeed been filled with nail-polish remover. “That was holy water I just dabbed you with.” Holy according to whom? she thought, but decided to banish this and any other similar question that came into her mind. “From now on you are going to feel much, much better. Still, what they did to you was very serious. We’re going to have to undo it with patience, little by little.” The actress tried to determine if she actually felt better or not. No, the truth was, she felt worse: a kind of dizziness was now taking over her head, her muscles. She clenched her teeth, convincing herself that she did feel better, that she was supposed to feel better, and suddenly, she felt better. Of the struggle between Good and Evil, an in-between victory. alina diaconú

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“I’m going to go now,” the woman murmured. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” “How much do I owe you?” “We can worry about that later, honey.” She pushed the door shut. For a moment, she felt stunned. Idly she wondered about the garishly made-up woman who had just left in such an obvious hurry, because it was eight o’clock at night, because she probably had to make dinner for her family, and because of who knew what else. She looked down at the little piece of paper the woman had handed her before leaving. On it she found a strange prayer, written in an absurd, childish handwriting, full of misspellings, invoking things like divine will, evil spirits, and envy. Tired, she flopped onto the bed, transfixed by the beautifully framed photograph of her lovely face, from that celebrated performance of The Glass Menagerie. Her eyes searched the portrait, hoping to recognize something of herself in it, but she couldn’t. A nightmare stood between the girl in the photograph and the anemic shadow that now lay upon her pillows in such agony. Tales of love and jealousy, resentment and cowardice, her own bitter little story with a barely perceptible hint of glory. In desperation, she cried. Translated by Kristina Cordero

publications La señora. Buenos Aires: Rodolfo Alonzo Editor, 1975. Buenas noches, profesor. Buenos Aires: Editorial Corregidor, 1978. Enamorada del muro. Buenos Aires: Editorial Corregidor, 1981. Cama de ángeles. Buenos Aires: Emecé Editores, 1983. Los ojos azules. Buenos Aires: Editorial Fraterna, 1986. El penúltimo viaje. Buenos Aires: Javier Vergara Editor, 1989. Los devorados. Buenos Aires: Editorial Atlántida, 1992. ¿Qué nos pasa, Nicolás? Buenos Aires: Editorial Atlántida, 1995. Preguntas con respuestas: Entrevistas a Borges, Cioran, Girri, Ionesco, y Sarduy. Buenos Aires: Editorial Vinciguerra, 1998. Una mujer secreta. Buenos Aires: Fundación Internacional Jorge Luis Borges, 2002.

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translations “Mamaya.” Trans. Hugo Ruiz Ávila and Michael Newton. Short Story International 11, no. 62 (1987). “Welcome to Albany” and “The Widower.” Trans. Richard Schaaf. In Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992. “The Drawer.” Trans. Kristina Cordero. Grand Street 62 (Fall 1997). The Penultimate Voyage (excerpt). In Contemporary Argentinean Women Writers, ed. Gustavo Fares and Eliana C. Hermann. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1998.

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María Kodama María Kodama is a petite and striking figure. Her eyes reveal both a woman of serene intelligence and a sensitive and vulnerable soul. Her voice is soft and smooth like a quiet, hidden creek. She has naturally streaked hair; a dark brown layer lies beneath a layer of platinum gray. Elegantly unconventional, her demeanor and style reveal a fondness for the unique. Her presence conveys grace, subtlety, and introspection.

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María Kodama | The Author and Her Work María Kodama was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Her father, who was Japanese, had emigrated to Argentina, where he met his future wife at a welcome party held by friends upon his arrival to the new country. Mrs. Kodama, originally from Uruguay, had studied piano and French. A devotée of music, she taught piano while her daughter was young. Mr. Kodama was a chemist and an aficionado of the arts, particularly painting. Kodama remembers her father as a sensitive and bright man who taught her respect for others and a love of beauty and the arts. Kodama attended the public schools of her neighborhood, an uptown residential area near the Recoleta Mausoleum. In the 1960s, she attended the School of Philosophy and Letters of the University of Buenos Aires and graduated with the title of Professor, the title required for teaching. It was there that she took classes and became acquainted with Ana María Barrenechea, the Argentine scholar whose stellar career centered on scholarship about the works of Jorge Luis Borges. While attending the university, Kodama worked teaching Spanish to international professionals, particularly Japanese, who had come to work in Argentina. She contacted her students through various embassies, particularly those of Japan, Turkey, and Great Britain, o¬ering her services as an instructor to diplomats and businessmen who needed to learn Spanish. She also taught them Argentine literature and art. Kodama’s relationship with Borges began when she was merely sixteen. At this time she agreed to study Anglo-Saxon with him, and they met periodically to learn the language together. With time they grew closer, and she became not only his reader, as he began to lose his eyesight, but also his confidant and travel partner. When she began her university career she also began to imagine and write short stories. She published her first story, “Altamira,” in La Nación newspaper in the 1960s, but was careful not to take advantage of Borges’ status to promote her own career; her writing took second place to her life experiences with the literary genius. For many years Kodama and Borges were a team. She read to him, transcribed many of his works, and traveled all over the world to accompany him to lectures, readings, and conferences in his honor. Eventually they fell in love. Kodama sustains that she had never wanted to marry anyone, perhaps because of the pain she had su¬ered when her own parents separated, but after many maría kodama

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years together she accepted Borges’ proposal to marry. Her marriage to him toward the end of his life was very controversial within Argentine society and the literary community. As a result, Kodama endured both the scorn and the envy of her detractors. Though she has written three collections of short stories, Kodama has not published much of her fiction. Only a few individual stories have been published. “Leonor,” which appeared in La Nación newspaper’s Suplemento literario (Literary Supplement) in 1987, depicts the overwhelming power that parents have over the psychological formation of their children, particularly when the children are rejected or ignored. Leonor is a young girl who has been neglected and betrayed by her parents. The pain of her loss is so great that she retreats into her own imagination, eventually becoming alienated from everyone and everything, losing herself in a world of fantasy. Perhaps reminiscent of the author’s own pain su¬ered during her parents’ separation, the story succeeds in portraying the feeling of loneliness and betrayal from the perspective of a sensitive young soul. It captures the ancestral feeling of loss experienced when a loved one abandons a child. It also conveys the innocence of a young girl who is delicate and fragile, yet also strong and determined. Kodama’s style in this and other stories is subtle, concise, and poetic. Her prose is rooted in the visual image, which is carefully developed throughout each piece. With a narrative voice that is often detached, she is able to convey the most delicate conflicts of human existence dispassionately. Following are Kodama’s descriptions of her yet-unpublished collections of short stories. Metropolitan, Sala Quinta (Metropolitan, Fifth Room) features stories about works of art in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Homenaje a doce pintores (Homage to Twelve Painters) describes in words the painting of artists such as Edvard Munch, Goya, and Hieronymos Bosch and creates a fictional story based on each one of the paintings. Trípticos (Triptychs) is a collection of narratives that refer to events of three di¬erent time periods that are related by one or two common elements that bring them together. Each story portrays three events that share common denominators. Kodama participated with Borges in the authorship of several translations into Spanish of literature from Anglo-Saxon and English. She also worked on an anthology and study of the work of Horacio Quiroga as well as Alberto Girri. Although Kodama continued to write her own stories throughout her years with Borges, she felt strongly that she did not want to take advantage of her relationship with him to advance her career as a writer; therefore, much of 236

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her writing remains unpublished. After Borges’ death in 1986, she founded and became the president of the Fundación Internacional Jorge Luis Borges, dedicated to organizing conferences, seminars, exhibits, and cultural exchanges on literature and the arts, with a specific focus on the work of Jorge Luis Borges. Kodama travels throughout the world giving lectures and workshops on both Borges and Argentine literature. In Argentina she heads a very active cultural agenda at the Fundación and has recently revived the two literary journals once headed by Borges, Prisma and Proa. Many of her essays have appeared in literary journals, magazines, and newspapers in Argentina. She is a significant figure in the literary and cultural life of Latin America because of her shared life with one of the greatest literary geniuses of our time, as well as for her work as a scholar, lecturer, and promoter of Argentine literature, art, and culture.

Conversation with María Kodama Gwendolyn Díaz: María, you have always been an intriguing personality. Your name Kodama, your heritage and unique appearance, your unconventional sense of style, have set you apart from the rest of the Argentine world of letters. Why do you think this is the case? Did your Japanese ancestry influence your formation? María Kodama: Perhaps it did in one simple way. My father, who was Japanese, was one of the greatest influences in my life. I was born and raised in Buenos Aires. My mother was from the Río de la Plata area, so my formation was that of a middle-class Argentine. But it was my father and his ways that had the most influence on me and deeply affected who I became. He was born in Japan and was reared by his grandmother. When she passed away, he had no other family; therefore he left Japan as a young man to come to Argentina. He was a chemist by profession and a very cultured man who had a deep appreciation for the arts. I remember him as gentle and wise, and I admired him enormously. He instilled in me a passion for painting. He and my mother separated during my early childhood, something that was very painful for me. gd: What do you remember most about your father, and in what ways did he influence you? mk: He was a sensitive and intelligent man who had a passion for art and loved teaching it to me. When he would come to pick me up for our visits maría kodama

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together, we often went to the museums of Buenos Aires. When I was only five years old, he began to take me to the Bellas Artes Museum, the Museum of Decorative Arts, and many others. We explored art galleries and exhibitions together, and he would always explain the works and teach me all he knew about them. I still remember clearly one particular lesson he gave me in aesthetics. I asked him one day what beauty was, and he said he would show me what that was the following week when we got together. I waited anxiously all week long for our meeting and for the secret that would soon be revealed to me. When he returned he brought me an art book, which I still keep with me after all these years, and he opened it to a photograph of the headless classical sculpture, “Victory of Samotracia.” Surprised, I then exclaimed that she was headless, and his response was: “Whoever told you that beauty was a face?” He told me to look at the folds of the statue’s tunic, which seemed to be fluttering in the breeze from the sea. He explained that beauty lied in detaining that movement of the tunic for eternity. I will never forget that explanation. People tell me jokingly that I have an oedipal fixation on my father; perhaps there is some truth to that. What I do know for sure is that my father was a very special person to me. gd: What was your mother like? mk: Mother lived in Uruguay when she was young; her family heritage was Spanish, German, and British. She moved to Buenos Aires with her family when she was only a few months old. It was here that she met my father. When he arrived in Buenos Aires from Japan, some friends organized a welcome party for him, and it was at that gathering that he met my mother. Soon thereafter they were married. Many years later, Mother told me that she fell in love with him at first sight because he reminded her of an exotic prince from faraway lands. gd: Did your mother work? mk: She was a piano teacher and also taught French. But her great love was playing the piano; she was an excellent performer. I remember how I used to love to hear her play when I was young. Mother would sit at the piano for hours, lost in her music; she played for herself and I knew she wanted to be alone, so I did not disturb her. She played so well that our neighbors sometimes thought the music they heard was coming from the radio or records, but it was Mother playing her pieces. gd: There is a side to your personality that I would describe as a certain defi-

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ance toward convention and that leads me to believe you were rebellious when you were young. mk: In many ways I was and I still am rebellious. I always knew that I would not live a conventional life. I was never interested in getting married, having children, and sharing life with a family of my own. I wanted a career of my own and a life of my own. My personal experience growing up in a broken home as well as my observation of other marriages and families that had failed led me to mistrust marriage and the conventional expectations of life. In that sense I am a rebel, in that I want to live my life as I please and not as others expect. gd: Tell me about your education and the years you spent at the University of Buenos Aires. mk: I attended the public schools of the urban neighborhood of La Recoleta, north of downtown Buenos Aires, where I was born and reared. My years at the School of Philosophy and Letters of the University of Buenos Aires were memorable to me. I enjoyed both my studies and the wonderful professors I met there. It was during the sixties, and even though the university had started to undergo political turmoil, it had not yet reached the extreme proportions that it did in the seventies, when it was plagued by both government interventions and student strikes. I had the privilege of studying with Ana María Barrenechea, the prestigious grammarian and Borges scholar, and also a wonderful professor by the name of Thiele, who taught me Greek and a love for the classics. There I received the degree of Professor of Literature, a teaching degree. gd: Did you teach then? mk: Yes, but not necessarily in schools. I taught Spanish language, grammar, and literature to foreign professionals and diplomats who worked or had business in Argentina. Initially I began this work through the Japanese Embassy, where my father had some acquaintances. Later, through word of mouth, my skills became known, and I was contacted by various other embassies and corporations. It was pleasant work. Often I would take my students to the museums of Buenos Aires and teach them about art and culture as well as the language. gd: Jorge Luis Borges was a pivotal person in your life. What were your years with him like? When did you meet, and how did your relationship develop? mk: Borges was the love of my life. I first remember hearing about him when

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I was only twelve, when a friend of my father took me to hear him give a lecture. Of course, I did not understand a thing, except for a few words here and there that struck me as interesting and unusual. Four years later, when I was sixteen, I came upon Borges while he was taking a walk downtown. I went up to him and told him that I had met him once when I was a child, but that now I was grown up. And he agreed that I was grown up, though he could surely tell from my voice that I was still quite young. He asked me what I was studying and inquired whether I would be interested in studying Anglo-Saxon. I immediately responded, “Yes!” And then I wondered to myself what that was. So Borges told me it was Old English and that you would study it as you would any other language. This was how we began to get to know each other. We would meet in cafés, restaurants, and other places in the city to study Anglo-Saxon together. I later surmised he needed someone to help him with learning the language, as his eyesight was already failing, and I was that person. gd: When did you begin to write? Did Borges have an influence on your desire to write? mk: I began writing poetry when I was a teenager. Later, while I was attending the university, I started to write short stories. My relationship with Borges was thriving then, and I had shown him some of the stories. He encouraged me to publish, and I sent one titled “Altamira” to La Nación newspaper. I recall that after it was published, Borges commented that my writing was not like his, that I had my own style and my own unique voice. His comment struck me as very generous, an example of the kindness of his spirit. He did not care to take pride in his influence on me; rather, he was pleased to see I had a voice of my own. gd: What was your relationship with Borges like at this time? Were you ever his secretary? mk: No, I was not his secretary. We were friends, initially, and because of his failing eyesight and my admiration and respect for him, I helped him in any way I could. I read to him, I helped him edit his last works, he dictated new works to me, and in this fashion I came to know him and love him more than anything else in my life. I wanted him to know that I loved him for who he was as a person, not as a personality. I wanted him to understand that I cared for him and not the world-renowned author. In the dialectic that he described in his story “Borges and I,” I loved him as the “I,” the individual that he was, not as “Borges” the celebrity. This is probably 240

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the reason I did not publish much. I did not want him to think I was taking advantage of him. I did not want to use his name or ask him to write the prologue for my book. Everyone else asked him for those favors, a recommendation, a publication, a prologue, a blurb, but I did not want to. I wanted him to know that I cared for him and not for what he could do for me. I admired his genius, but what I truly wanted was his soul. Our relationship was not about literature, it was about two people who loved each other. gd: How was it that you came to marry him? mk: Borges had spoken to me about marriage, but I had always reacted in a playful manner to that conversation. I told him I did not intend to marry anyone (my own experience as the child of a broken marriage had soured me on the concept), but that if marriage had been for me, he would be the one I would have chosen. I recall that once, when he spoke to me of marriage, he said that my name would sound very good with his, and as he enunciated the name: María Kodama de Borges, I quickly answered that I did not belong to anyone, as the preposition “de” (of ) suggested. He laughed good-naturedly at my response and told me he must be destined to such a fate because he had received a similar answer from Cecilia Ingenieros, when he asked her if she was the daughter of (hija de) José Ingenieros. He said that she responded, in the same tone of voice that I did, that she was not de nadie, meaning that she did not belong to anyone. gd: So even though you loved each other, Borges understood that you did not intend to marry? mk: Yes, he did, and we were quite happy that way for many years. However, toward the end of his life, when he knew he did not have much time left, he proposed to me again, and I accepted. He once told me that he saw himself as a Victorian gentleman, and therefore felt that because he loved me, he should honor me through marriage. To this I answered that I saw myself as a woman of the Heian period, a cultural movement in Japanese tradition during which women enjoyed great freedom and independence and felt no need for marriage. So then he told me to make him a promise, which was that I marry him if he died before I did, which was most probable. That way, he said, he would be able to leave this world happy and in peace. I answered that if I were to die before him, which was also possible, I would also promise to marry him so that he could live happily and in peace. We laughed together and thus sealed that double promise, which later would maría kodama

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come true. Eventually, toward the very end of his life, and after all the years and experiences we had shared together, we married. gd: Your marriage was quite controversial in Argentina. You were in the media frequently and had many detractors besieging you. mk: Yes, I was in the center of a controversy that was very painful and difficult for me. I was grieving because of Borges’ death, and the media and many people in Buenos Aires added to my grief with their criticism and gossip. They speculated about the reason for the marriage, my intentions, his age, and many other issues, but what was at the root of all of it was simply envy. I have had to struggle with that resentment ever since Borges died. What keeps me going is the love that I still have for him and the work that I do in the Fundación Internacional Jorge Luis Borges (International Jorge Luis Borges Foundation). gd: What kind of organization is the Fundación Internacional Jorge Luis Borges, and what kinds of activity does it sponsor? mk: I founded the organization with the purpose of disseminating the work of Borges all over the world. Our activities are quite varied and revolve, mostly, around the work and interests of Borges. We organize conferences, seminars, and symposia on Borges or on authors that he admired. We host readings and lectures by famous scholars and authors such as Juan Goytisolo and José Saramago and organize concerts on topics in which Borges was interested, such as the one that we sponsored on music of the time of Dante, performed with instruments of the period. We are also partners in several types of research and cultural exchanges with universities in Europe and the United States and have a small publishing house that publishes books about Borges, as well as novels and works of fiction and scholarship. I am particularly proud of our exhibit Homenaje a Jorge Luis Borges (Homage to Jorge Luis Borges), which has toured internationally. It premiered in Venice and later went to Paris, Rome, and Buenos Aires. The exhibit consists of Borges’ manuscripts, his books with personal annotations, his favorite artwork and possessions, paintings and drawings of Borges by various illustrators and artists, and other such articles of interest. The Foundation is very active in promoting and disseminating the work and the world of Borges in Argentina and internationally as well. gd: You, María, are a Borges scholar yourself. You give conferences on his work throughout Argentina and travel the world giving lectures on the topic. How would you describe this aspect of your work? 242

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mk: It has always been exciting for me to talk about Borges’ work. I shared so much of the writing process with him, either taking dictation or assisting him with revision, that I can speak firsthand about much of it. Borges and I worked together on several translations and anthologies. I assisted him with some of his translations from Anglo-Saxon and English and with several anthologies of Spanish-speaking authors. I also assisted him with revisions of his own work and was witness to his creative process and literary genius. I have spent most of my life studying and researching his work. Now, I travel frequently to give lectures and to participate in conferences on Borges, his work, and his interests. gd: I remember a trip you took with Borges in 1976, when you accompanied him to the University of Texas at Austin for a series of lectures. I was a doctoral student at the time and recall the excitement I felt when I met Borges. Though I had seen him and spoken to him several times in Buenos Aires, on this occasion I had the opportunity to spend time with him as a graduate student, a real privilege. He was like a living myth, and at the same time a gentle and approachable person. This was the time of the military repression in Argentina, and I remember that after his lecture, the topic was raised in questions from the audience. Was either of you ever affected by the political turmoil of those years? mk: We were not directly affected, but it did leave its mark on us. During those years Borges received many invitations to speak and lecture all over the world, and we traveled a lot. We were constantly in and out of the country, so I experienced the repression in a strange way. It was as if I had been living in two different realities during the repression, the reality of Argentina and that of the rest of the world. It was strange and unsettling to read about the atrocities when we were abroad and then return home to find the people of Argentina blinded to the seriousness of the problems. gd: How were these two realities different? mk: In the countries where we traveled, there was a clear notion of the harshness of the repression and the military dictatorship. It was always a topic of concern that arose in conversations and after the lectures when we traveled. People abroad were relatively well informed about the situation. However, when we would return to Argentina, the perception of the problems was different. In Argentina people seemed to be in denial, it was as if they did not want to admit such things were taking place or were afraid to admit it. Borges wrote an interesting article about this attitude called “De maría kodama

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la hipocresía de los argentinos” (On the Hypocrisy of Argentines), where he critiques the failure of Argentines to face their problems. gd: Were either you or Borges ever personally threatened by the repression? mk: No, not when we were together, perhaps because Borges’ stature was such that he was perceived as untouchable. However, Borges did have serious problems in the forties and fifties, with the Perón regime, which he opposed. And, of course, like most Argentines, I had friends who were desaparecidos (disappeared or murdered persons) and friends who were forced into exile. gd: How do you explain your determination to be a single and independent woman in a society where women are expected to marry and fit into a male-dominated social structure? Would you consider yourself a feminist? mk: My father’s example taught me that men and women deserve the same respect. When my grandmother would say to him that there were certain things that young girls should not do, my father would respond that girls and boys were both human beings with the same rights and the same responsibilities. I never felt less deserving because I was a woman. I grew up believing that I had all the rights of any other human being and that I could build a successful life for myself on my own, without depending on a man or on a marriage. gd: In your travels abroad, have you noticed that some countries are less accepting of women than others? mk: That is a complex issue and a difficult one to generalize about. For example, India is a country with a very poor record of human rights toward women. Nevertheless, they have had great leaders, such as Indira Gandhi, who are women. In the United States, where women are much freer, there has never been a female president. I believe it is a mistake to generalize about these issues. To answer your question, though, I consider myself a feminist because I believe that all human beings should have the same rights and responsibilities. gd: Though you have written many stories and have compiled enough of them for three collections, you have not actively pursued publishing them. Why is that? mk: Though I love to write, and the stories I have published have received excellent reviews, I have dedicated most of my time to what I see as my mission in life, to disseminate and promote the work of Borges. When he was living, my life was absorbed by all the activities in which we participated. 244

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Also, I felt very strongly that I did not want to ask him to write a prologue for a book or any other favor of the sort, because I wanted him to know I loved him for who he was, not for what he could do for me. After his death, I continued to honor him through the work of the Foundation, which is very demanding. Nevertheless, I continue to write and have plans to publish more. gd: I look forward to reading more of your work. Your story “Leonor” is remarkable. What strikes me the most about the story is the poetic style and delicate tone in which it is written. The narrative voice leads us to the mysterious world of an emotionally disturbed young girl, whose heart has been broken by uncaring parents, so she takes refuge in a fantasy world. You describe the child’s frail state of mind with empathy, yet at the same time detachment. How would you describe Leonor’s dilemma? mk: To me, Leonor is a young girl who has been utterly disappointed by the ugliness of the world in which she lives, particularly the world of her parents, who have deceived her. What she wants is beauty and marvel. Ultimately the story is about the desire for beauty and perfection in a world that is incomprehensible and incongruous. gd: Have you found beauty in the world, María? mk: I have found the beauty of a love that never dies.

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Leonor

She moved forward slowly, pushing aside the fruit-bearing branches grazing her hair. Further on, the prairie, laid bare by sunlight, o¬ered no protection. It was better that way, she thought, since she would be obliged not to stop until having reached the thicket’s hedge she had discovered the previous day, from which she could see the river. She could anticipate the meek caress of the water—which her body would shape—and felt pleasure, yet she knew it was as impossible as trying to remember the constellations. Where had she seen them last? Maybe in a book in her father’s library, or perhaps in the room on the school terrace. In the midst of planispheres, terrestrial globes, and compasses, she saw there a heap of bones supported by a metal pole which since then screamed at her in all her dreams, which were eternity, because they triumphed over life. She felt her forehead and hands were wet, and knew she had been expelled from paradise, because once again fear overwhelmed her. In a very low voice she began to utter the same words she repeated all day: she was Leonor, eleven years old, and couldn’t be harmed, nor could she harm anyone as long as she didn’t stretch her arms seeking shelter, as long as she didn’t experience love, and neither betray nor hate. She must be still and silent so that nobody would take notice of her. Then, at each sunset, she would be able to project her world and gain definitive access to it only when she remembered the constellations, which would indicate the straight course to her life. She found it hard to recognize her voice in the scream that kept growing inside, until it overflowed her . . . as the first time—she didn’t remember where —in a party, maybe for Christmas. There were many presents, and everybody was cheerful. From the top of the stair she saw them smile and dance, greet one another and toast in a whirlwind she could not understand. The adult world, which she would enter one day. Her grandmother had picked her up to take her to her room and put her to bed, as when she was very little. Her grandmother left when she thought she was asleep, with Miki, her soft toy cat, in her arms. As she had done many times before, she then got up, ran to the window and, placing her fingertips on the glass, looked at the garden outside, to try to spot the elves among the trees and see the princes riding down the moonbeams. But that night they 246

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would not be there: music and noise were not their allies. Suddenly she was cold. She knew that the crystal pane, her only protection against fear, would not be her shield that night, because something insidious would filter through, contaminating her. She was about to walk away when she saw shadows moving. She got nearer to the window and saw her father embracing a woman, and remembered her mother’s eyes fixed on her uncle Daniel’s that morning in the same place in the garden, their fingers interlaced. She understood why she sensed cold every time her parents looked at each other over her head, hieratical as wax figures. Everything she felt in her blood with each heartbeat swelled up now, drowning her. She could only open her mouth and let escape that sound that was like the agonizing cry of a hurt animal. An instant later painted faces, dark costumes, and hands holding overbrimming goblets crowded at the door of her room and looked inside, startled by that unending scream that imposed itself on the music’s disorder. She didn’t hear the door close, nor did she see her grandmother approach. Her soft toy cat Miki on the floor marked the frontier between her and horror. Whoever understood that would have entry to her inner self and become her friend. Miki would tell her. From a distance she heard the voice of her grandmother: “Be silent, don’t scream, Leonor, or you will scare the angels. The angels are with God, Leonor, and God is silence.” She understood she had lost her when a moment before feeling her arms around her she saw Miki disappear under the pleats of her skirt, ignored and trodden by her. She allowed her grandmother to hug her and looked at her for the last time, grateful for the key she had given her: silence. Silence was God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. From silence God imposed order on chaos, separated water from solid earth. If she only could. . . . She didn’t close her eyes that night, nor the next, nor the following one, until every object in her room disappeared behind a mist through which they would not emerge, except as a luminous glow, a will-o’-the-wisp. First it was the objects, then people. She no longer felt repelled. She let herself go with what the adults saw as an illness or death wish. She saw, instead, human beings magically transformed into bright rays that sometimes hurt her eyes, other times surrounded her with a softly sieved light. She knew the former were those who didn’t love her, the latter those who did or who felt indi¬erent toward her. At first she was upset for not being able to distinguish between the latter; then, even that ceased to matter. maría kodama

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Just as the visible world vanished for her, Miki, her frontier, became invisible for those who came to see her. They came near, trying to communicate something. She felt pressure on her arm, a weak pain like a prick, and then a fresh sensation overcoming her, running through her veins toward all the corners of her body, up to her head. Then they were gone, and she floated in the silence, near the angels, almost near God. She sat with her back on the crystal glass. Waiting, she didn’t know exactly for what. Waiting only for something that would come, or happen. She didn’t mind how long the wait would take, as long as that eternity of silence surrounded her. Gradually she saw small green sprouts near Miki, which began to grow and stretch until they became a prairie. Afterward the trees grew, and much later her own certainty about the presence of the river beyond the hedge grew as well. At first she didn’t dare to walk on the prairie. She just looked at it. Then, one day, she stepped in. She barely rested her feet on the wet grass. The aroma of the earth filled her lungs until it hurt. She closed her eyes to feel that she was not breathing the aroma, but instead she was the aroma carried by the wind. And she became the aroma. The noise of the door made her open her eyes, and once more she saw the bright rays spinning around her, clouding her sight and separating her from her world. Then everything started again . . . the small green sprouts, fruits, and her trying to reach the thicket hedge under the midday sun. Feeling tired. Suddenly her wet forehead, her wet hands, fear. Being expelled from paradise once again. She had to remember the constellations. See them. Then she would be safe. Nothing, nobody would then be able to pull her out of the prairie. For that she must make a sacrifice; no, an o¬ering. An o¬ering was better. She would o¬er her hands, which would no longer brush aside the fruit-bearing branches, nor would they caress Miki. She would tie them up symbolically, so they would have the strength that only magic thread has to tie an indestructible knot. The price for getting them untied is the gift of life, she said to herself. And didn’t hesitate. She raised her left arm until her pulse and the palm of her hand were at the level of her eyes. She saw the bluish woof of her veins, the pattern of her physical existence. Then she looked attentively at the tenuous lines on her palms, horizontal, vertical lines, some linked together in chains, others crisscrossing one another. She felt giddy, and from the center of her vertigo remembered that her uncle Daniel had said that the lines had names and were very important because they contained the future. 248

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Uncle Daniel had told her she was the future. As if performing a ritual she now raised her right arm, crossed both hands, and in a trance stared at the filigree in her palms, duplicate and yet so di¬erent at the same time. She told herself at that instant that by merely closing her hands she would blot out both the past and the future. Softly her fingers bent themselves over her open palms. She saw her tied-up wrists, forming a cross. The o¬ering had been made. At that moment the bright rays fell on her. She folded upon herself, her hair falling on her face. She felt it wet, and glued to her forehead. Something that did not happen every day was about to take place: she knew it before her eyes saw the shadow neatly outlined among the bright rays. The shadow walking toward her saw Miki on the floor and picked it up. Doctor Pablo Quiroga gently picked up the soft toy cat without looking at the girl, his first patient. He signaled to Leonor’s parents to leave him alone with her. When he heard the door close behind them, he realized the enormous responsibility he had accepted. Why would he succeed, when others with years of experience had failed? He tried to relax. To gain time, he began to caress the toy cat and speak in a low, soft voice, saying how pretty it was and giving it names while trying to guess Leonor’s reactions. He had noticed that her hands—which she held crossed as if they were tied together—trembled when he picked up that thing —he could not see what it was at first. Had his colleagues seen it? Anyway, he didn’t recall their mentioning it as something important. Yet he felt the key was there. He didn’t address her, nor did he try to go near. Each sunset, after his day at the clinic, he resumed his treatment, which eventually, unconsciously, was moving away from medicine to become a ritual. Each sunset he found the toy cat in the same place. He sat on the floor, somewhat behind the invisible line. He took the soft animal in his hands and talked to it, framing questions that in fact were addressed to Leonor. He intuited that was the limit of something that couldn’t be trespassed without entailing some form of profanation. Sitting with her back turned to the window, Leonor floated indi¬erent to everything around her. Sometimes a smile raised the corners of her mouth; at other times she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her hands were always in the same position, resting on her lap. What had brought about her illness? Perhaps looking for a cause would just be a logical mistake. It was up to him to clear the soil of brushwood, get to the roots, rescue the truth. By God! What truth, sanity’s, or that other truth reigning on the other side of the frontier? At maría kodama

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times he imagined that side inhabited from the beginnings of time by a race of beings that possessed another, more complex and perfect reality. A voice uprooted him from his reverie. Dr. Quiroga held his breath. For an instant he thought that the voice was only part of the hope he had of hearing it. He looked at Leonor. From the penumbra of the room, she brokenly and softly kept repeating: “Miki is my cat. His name is Miki.” He realized that, beyond whatever it was that science might attain, he had now before him a delicate thread of words in which the way to a soul was being bestowed. With a voice that he almost didn’t recognize as his own, he heard himself say: “Thank you. My name is Pablo. I want to be your friend.” He fought back his impulse to stretch his hands. He crossed them over Miki imitating Lenore’s gesture without realizing it. From the timeless light of her prairie, she had glimpsed a shadow, a figure that stayed beside her, sharing Silence and Creation. Almost at once a squirrel appeared on the prairie, as small as the squirrels that looked at her from a tapestry in her aunt’s house, far away in the city, next to the fox with slanting eyes and the gentle-eyed deer. From that infinite sky of days without setting sun came also the dove and the hawk, and they became a single tremor on the grass. Then, with wisdom prior to sense and intelligence, she knew she must walk with them toward the river. Gliding in her silence, she would reach the constellations. She thought she would never make it. Exhaustion was gaining on her, and the thicket hedge seemed farther away with each step. The animals sometimes preceded her, at other times disappeared from view. With fixed eyes that hurt from the reverberating sun, she kept on walking. She sighed when she felt the first branches flailing her face. She felt pain in her tied-up wrists, but didn’t even try to take them to her breast to relieve it. She raised them when, separated only by the filigree of the trees’ leaves, she saw the river and all her friends, the animals, looking with eyes wet by tenderness at that being made of light and shadow, the tiger, drinking near a gazelle. She felt inside her breast what God must have felt on seeing His creature asleep for the first time, and knew that trees and animals and stars and the immutability of innocence would not be enough to live forever. From His ubiquity, which is the Void, from His Nothingness containing all, for which everything is possible, from the sleep of man He created woman, and with her a verb: share.

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Then Leonor’s lips moved, forming a name in the midst of silence: “Pablo . . . Pablo . . . Pablo.” She repeated it until it grew and overflowed her like a river of words that stitched together an old story in which solitude is magic and creation and pain are strength. It all reached Pablo, who felt overwhelmed by a world surmised but not yet known, to which he wished to belong. Time flowed for him in a di¬erent way too. It was the vertigo of the present, with no before and no afterward. He felt floating free in eternity, without support, without the deceptions of the body.

When he closed the door and was going downstairs, the music coming from the room of Berta, Leonor’s nurse, knocked him back to reality. He was Dr. Pablo Quiroga, and was there to bring back a child to normality and sanity. He had to subject a mind to a body subject to a here and now, a before and after, everything subject, at the same time, to a previous abstraction in which, paradoxically, that reality didn’t count anymore because it went back to its point of origin or to its reflection: a power without time or space, eternal, creator of the world. All these ideas crowded together in his head, unable to blot out its fascination with time out of time, which Leonor had revealed. He realized he was not mature enough to solve the case. On reaching Berta’s room he knocked on her door two, three times, until she peeped out as if pushed by the chaotic music that hurt him. He heard himself give her instructions for the weekend in a voice that was like a scream. He told her he would not be back. He would speak with Leonor’s parents when they returned from their trip. Until then, Dr. Martínez would go daily for routine exams. He left. As he neared his car his uneasiness was becoming something else, turning itself into a new word that defined his most intimate being, coward. That word estranged him from paradise and left him alone forever before the strenuous task of carving for himself a mask made up of gestures, words, and exact acts that would help him forget that feeling that kept growing. Loneliness with no force, with no passion. Hell with the obsessive repetition of the same act that ruined us. He drove slowly through the park until reaching the gate, and crossed it. He didn’t look back.

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Leonor shivered. Pablo had understood. Words, fruitless shells, fell between them to strip them further. That was the tribute he was hoping for, his miracle. Now he would be able to enter the prairie with her holding his hand. She would introduce him to her friends, the animals. Together they would find the constellations. Where had she seen them? That didn’t matter now. Pablo would guide her.

Once again the waiting, but a di¬erent wait. Silence was not an eternity in which she could sink in order to emerge free. All her senses were alive, detained in that tension that hurt. She didn’t sleep that night, or the next, or the following night, until she realized that she was waiting in vain. She didn’t scream. She concentrated on a wish: Pablo’s death. Then she closed her eyes slowly and she became death itself, with its impassive intensity. When she opened them she could barely glimpse the prairie through the light separating her from it, blinding her. Her forehead and hands were wet, and she knew she had been expelled from paradise, because she was again in the grip of fear. Like before, she began to utter in a low voice the same words she had repeated so many times: that she was Leonor, eleven years old, that no one could harm her nor could she harm anyone as long as her arms didn’t reach for shelter, as long as she didn’t love, betray, or hate.

Light began to fade out. She clearly saw the river and the animals, and ran. With them she would be safe and reach the constellations. Everything would be all right.

Hounding her from all the corners of her body, closing in on her, she heard the beating of her heart. That sound could devastate paradise, the trees, herself. She stopped. Curiously, she didn’t feel uneasy when seeing the evening light invade the prairie, or the animals’ immobility, lined up before the river, which now carried dry ferns and a dead bird. It was the sensation of being observed in a di¬erent way that made her tremble and seek her friends’ eyes. Then she saw that their eyes were like hard stones in the round or oblique sockets, and in their look she sensed something perverse and corrupt clinging to her skin, and backed away. She stepped on Miki with her bare feet. She 252

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leaned on something that gave way and, not knowing how, found herself in a corridor leading to a very high, almost straight stair. She didn’t know when in her ascent she realized the meaning of having been death, that white, luminous, frozen thing able to destroy with the thoroughness of indi¬erence, instant by instant, that sum of instants that had been Pablo. She had lost her world. Now she would have to find the constellations alone. The cold doorknob turning in her hand wet by fear calmed down her agitation. She thought she must act with caution in order not to be heard. She slipped into the room whose quietness invited her in. Little by little she began to discover pictures turned against the wall, books, and some toys that had belonged to her. She stopped before a coat and hat rack from which some dresses, hats, and a long black lace shawl were hanging. She took the shawl and wrapped herself up with it. Something she could not remember, vaguely associated with sobbing, made her feel uneasy. She went on walking without seeing now the other objects that time had covered with silence and that perverse patina that keeps intact the worst enemy: memory. She only saw the old large chest, on the far side of the room, by the window. She remembered a story she heard about a man, over a century ago, who was persecuted by a tyrant and saved himself by hiding in a double-bottomed chest. All the rest was a blur. Were they after him to cut his throat . . . or had he cut somebody’s throat? No. A tyrant persecuted him. A tyrant? She had studied that at school, but didn’t remember. She wondered what the man felt when he pushed the button and saw that metal sheet that by covering him would save his life. He also depended on the loyalty of his servants, who were now hurriedly ordering the books that would justify the chest’s weight if somebody stopped them on the way to the harbor. And on the third day he rose from the dead. No. That was something her grandmother had taught her. Uncle Daniel always spoke about number three, a magical number. Had he been inside the chest for three minutes or three hours? It didn’t matter. Now she tried to imagine the man on the deck of the sloop, breathing avidly, gratefully, the humid air of a summer night that would take him to liberty and life, while his eyes, turned toward the sky, saw the Southern Cross and the constellations. The constellations! She had to find them, no, she had to hide until she remembered them, and then look for them. She went near the chest and tried to raise the lid. She failed once and again. Her eager eyes suddenly saw on the floor a horse’s head on a stick. She remembered her disillusionment when they gave her that. She had asked for a maría kodama

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live, warm horse with whom to play. However, now it was there to help her, and that made grief go away. She rested the horse on the chair and the chest and pushed until the lid, thanks to its mechanism, went up slowly but easily. Then, gaping on account of her astonishment, she saw the constellations through her tears. She was not able to tell if the stars now shining in the sky over the garden reflected those other ones, embodied by oil paints, faded by time, marking their inexorable cycle with certain slowness, or if it was the other way around. She held back her tears, telling herself it was time to inaugurate new rituals, the rituals of space. She turned slowly, until she felt bodiless. She extended her arms upward, as if shaking o¬ drowsiness after a long sleep, and industriously crossed her fingers, the palms of her hands outward, until she formed a lattice on which she rested her forehead. Then, always turning, she lowered her hands until she felt her crossed fingers on her eyelids. She stopped, holding her breath, telling herself she must open slowly her left eye. The constellation she saw would be her guide when time was ripe. She took some time to get used to the double di~culty posed by the half light and the small space between her fingers, until she clearly saw the figure of the Archer, half man, half horse, intent on the task of hurling his arrow beyond the constellations, toward a target unimaginable in that vast space. She was glad that was her guide. He was always seeking something beyond. They would understand each other. Standing now on the chair, she stretched until she was able to push the hinge that would close the chest slowly, giving her time to slip in, while in her mind spun the phrases—senseless now—to conjure up her fear, now definitely banished. She pushed the button that would close the double bottom. With a joy that hurt—so unknown and intense it was—she told herself everything was all right: in three minutes, on the croup of the Archer, she would be traveling among the constellations, and then peace would be with her. Translated by Rolando Costa Picazo

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publications Traducción breve: Antología anglosajona. Trans. Jorges Luis Borges and María Kodama. Buenos Aires: Editorial Librería la Ciudad, 1975. “Altamira.” Suplemento literario, La Nación (Buenos Aires). May 30, 1976. Cien dísticos de Ángelus Sibelius. Trans. Jorges Luis Borges and María Kodama. Buenos Aires: Alianza, 1977. “La Sentencia.” Suplemento Literario, La Opinión (Buenos Aires). June 4, 1978. “El Moai.” Suplemento Literario, La Prensa (Buenos Aires). June 4, 1978. Atlas. With Jorges Luis Borges. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1984; 2d ed., Buenos Aires: Lumen, 1999. “Leonor.” Suplemento literario, La Nación (Buenos Aires). July 14, 1987. “El Dinosaurio.” Revista First (Buenos Aires). July 25, 1988. “Horacio Quiroga.” Suplemento Literario, La Prensa (Buenos Aires). August 5, 1989. Alberto Girri: Antología de Poemas. Buenos Aires: Editorial Alianza, 1990. Borges y la Ciencia. Buenos Aires: Editorial Eudeba, Colección Cea, 1999.

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Cristina Siscar Cristina Siscar is a statuesque woman, with large dark eyes and flowing hair. Her movements are slow and measured, like a feline’s. The cadence of her voice is deliberate and smooth. She pauses when she speaks to choose just the right word to convey a precise thought. One senses many levels of depth in her thought, marked by a feminine gentleness, almost frail, yet imposing.

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Cristina Siscar | The Author and Her Work Cristina Siscar was born in the Argentine capital city of Buenos Aires in 1947. She was reared in a middle-class family of modest means; her mother was a seamstress and housewife, and her father was an accountant. She comments that in her home there was no library, and no one read. However, as a child she loved to read and began by reading the only book she had at home, an encyclopedia. At first she was methodical about it; she began with the letter “A” and went forward from there. But then one word would lead to another one associated with it, and in this fashion, she claims, she imagined connective threads between one term and another and began to create her own fictions about them. Siscar notes that she read all types of books: borrowed books, library books, recommended books, and more. In school she became the student librarian, and this gave her the possibility of reading all the books she wanted to read. It was then that she began to read legends, a type of writing that has always fascinated her. She believes that her literary vocation became evident to her in high school. Her teachers encouraged her in that direction, and she won several literary contests during those years. When she was nineteen years old, she won a citywide poetry contest, and that confirmed her in her vocation as a writer. After high school she received her degree to become a high school literature teacher from the Instituto Superior del Profesorado Pedro Elizalde (Pedro Elizalde Institute for Teachers). She also studied Ciencias de la Educación (Education Sciences) at the University of Buenos Aires, but this step of her career was truncated by political interventions in the university. These were the years immediately before the military coup of General Videla, and the state universities were seen as sites of political unrest and subversion. Siscar continued to write poetry and began to practice journalism, writing newspaper articles on culture and books. In the early 1970s, the political unrest in Argentina was becoming more and more heated. Siscar, like many of the intellectual young people of that time, was attracted to leftist ideology. She and her husband, together with some colleagues, worked toward establishing a literary magazine to put forth some of their views and convictions. She maintains that she was very dogmatic in her political views then, so much so that she stopped reading literature to read only political ideology.

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Her political activism reached its peak in 1977, shortly after the military coup of 1976. It was then that her life took a turn for the worse. Her husband, a journalist, was kidnapped and became a desaparecido (missing or disappeared person). He was allegedly murdered by the military dictatorship. Her sister and brother-in-law were also kidnapped and became desaparecidos, as well as many friends and colleagues. She found herself living alone with her son, almost in hiding, reading and writing and keeping a low profile. She knew she was in danger, but did not want to go into exile because to do so would mean leaving her son behind. In 1979 she finally left the country and fled to Brazil and later Paris, where she lived for seven years. As painful as it was for her, she was forced to leave her son in Argentina with her parents because of the Patria Potestad law, which requires a father’s permission for a mother to take a child out of the country. She remarks that she could have claimed her husband was dead and that she was the child’s only parent, but to do so would mean that she had given up her search for her husband, something she was not willing to do. Eventually, Siscar became disillusioned with what seemed to be unrealistic political solutions, and she distanced herself from politics to return to literature, her first love. The seven years that she lived in exile in Paris were instrumental in her literary formation. There she met writers, artists, and intellectuals from all over the world, who contributed to her literary formation. She devoted a lot of time to reading a wide range of literature and to developing her own writing. In France she earned her living as best she could with various odd jobs while learning French, and eventually taught and became involved in journalism. In 1983, when the democratic government of Raul Alfonsín came into power in Argentina, Siscar was finally able to get a passport for her son, and he joined her in Paris. However, by this time he was in high school and was not happy in France, so he returned to Buenos Aires and the life he knew there. Siscar herself returned to Buenos Aires in 1986, earning a living as a journalist, a translator, and an anthologist. Her first published work was a book of poetry called Tatuajes/Tatuages (Tattoos). It is a bilingual Spanish and French edition published in Paris in 1985. Its four sections, “Tatuajes” (Tattoos), “Erosiones” (Erosions), “Sonoro Silencio” (Sounds of Silence), and “Rastros” (Traces), revolve around the themes of farewells, travels, absences, loneliness, and separation. Common throughout the collection is a preoccupation with language and an acute perception of detail. In 1987 Siscar published Reescrito en la bruma (Rewritten in the Fog), a col260

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lection of short stories published in Buenos Aires. These stories about children and the young, written mostly while she was in exile in France, are drawn against a backdrop of violence and ambiguity. The title story, “Reescrito en la bruma,” portrays the dilemma of a young woman who relives a bombing incident. Similarly, in “Mundo, mundo” (World, World), the innocence of children at play in a neighborhood is contrasted with the violence of the city in which they live. The style of the collection is very carefully crafted, and Siscar’s use of language seems distilled into a prose that goes beyond the ordinary and moves toward the legendary. In 1988 Siscar published Lugar de todos los nombres (The Place of All Names), a second collection of short stories. Her interest in both legend and the atemporal style of legend prose are the focus of this book. The themes of dream life and mental time travel are woven together with an interest in the act of writing itself. The stories “El lugar de todos los nombres” and “La muerte del autor” (Death of the Author) received prizes in the category of fantastic fiction from the Fondo Nacional de Artes (National Foundation for the Arts) and the Fundación Konex (Konex Foundation) in 1987. Her novella titled Las líneas de la mano (The Lines of the Hand) appeared in 1993. It is an initiation narrative reminiscent of The Odyssey and is told from the point of view of a 16-year-old girl. This young woman undergoes a series of adventures in a sector of Buenos Aires called Villa Luro, where all the names of the streets are names of famous writers. Fittingly, her odyssey begins on Homer Street. This adolescent adventure story is now part of the Argentine high-school curriculum. Siscar’s third book of stories, Los efectos personales (Personal E¬ects, 1994), was written through a grant she received from the Creative Narrative Fund of the National Foundation for the Arts. It contains a collection of narratives about the possessions that were dear to adolescent women of the author’s generation: banlon fabric, record albums, the bicycle, the bra. These stories highlight experiences that were cherished by youth of the second half of the twentieth century, yet the delicate and sensitive prose style of the author, the concise and insightful mode, elevate the work to a level beyond any specific time. The story “Bastidor, hilos, cañamazo” (Hoop, Thread, and Canvas), included in this anthology, received the Gloria Kehoe Wilson Award granted by the Permanent Assembly on Human Rights of Argentina in 1992. The story depicts two young women who are innocently engaged in embroidering, yet when one pricks her finger with the needle and blood is shed, it is reminiscent cristina siscar

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of a greater bloodshed, one in which her father was involved and which took place during the Dirty War in Argentina. Innocence is contrasted with power and violence through the apparently trivial task of embroidery. The second brief narrative (or micro-story, a style popular in Argentina) included in this chapter is “El corpiño” (The Bra). It describes the ambiguous feelings of both power and apprehension experienced by young women when wearing their first bra. In 1999 Siscar published her first full-length novel, La sombra del jardín (The Shade of the Garden). In this work she depicts the adventures, both physical and intellectual, of a young woman in exile in Paris. While the work has autobiographical references, it transcends personal experiences, becoming a search for self, for identity, and for meaning. This search is relevant to all who have felt out of step and out of place with their surroundings. Though a new setting o¬ers new views, the protagonist realizes her violent past cannot be denied; it is with her always, even if only as a legendary memory. The novel delves into the e¬ects of the abuse of power on those who have been a¬ected by it and frames it in the specific experience of exile. Siscar is also the compiler of four anthologies: Violencia: Visiones femeninas (Violence: Feminine Views, 1994), a book of short stories by Argentine and Uruguayan women authors; Los viajes (The Voyages, 1995), stories by contemporary writers; Varados: Viajes sin partida ni regreso (Stuck: Voyages without Departure or Return, 1996), stories by Latin American authors; and El lenguaje de las cosas en la literatura del siglo XX (The Language of Things in TwentiethCentury Literature, 2001), which includes stories, poems, and essays. Currently she lives in the quaint colonial district of San Telmo, in Buenos Aires, where she continues to write, work as a journalist and editor, and participate in conferences and workshops.

Conversation with Cristina Siscar Gwendolyn Díaz: Cristina, what do you recall most about your childhood? What aspects of your childhood relate to your formation as a writer? Cristina Siscar: During my childhood my mother, a seamstress and housewife, was always sewing. My father was an accountant who worked in administrative positions. I remember that my family was not given to reading. But I was di¬erent from the rest of them in that respect. I devoured any book I could get ahold of. The first book I read was the Enciclopedia Es262

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pasa Calpe. Those four volumes of the encyclopedia were the only books we had. My plan was to begin with the letter “A” and read through to “Z.” That did not happen, of course. I read the encyclopedia as if it were an adventure book; as a matter of fact, to me it was. Each word I read led me to another one, and in that fashion I wove a story together in my imagination. For instance, the word “pirate” might lead me to “buccaneer,” and from there I would develop an associative chain that became a mental adventure, stimulated by the photos, drawings, and maps included in the encyclopedia. I recall, as well, that as a young child, rather than play with dolls I told them stories. Later my little sister expected me to tell her stories, and she demanded sequels that became like chapters in a never-ending story. gd: How did you expand your reading repertoire? cs: It happened because of a fortuitous event. In elementary school I was picked to be the school student librarian. This allowed me the privilege of taking out several books at a time, whereas my classmates could only check out one. I recall that one of the first books I read there was about the legends of the Guaraní Indians, Las leyendas guaraníes. I became fascinated by legends and their style. I am convinced that when my writing delves into the imaginary, it is not because of the influence of Latin American magical realism, but rather because of the impact that the genre of the legend had on me. gd: When did you realize you wanted to become a writer? cs: I suppose it was in high school. My teachers encouraged me in my writing and were very supportive. When I was a junior I entered a writing contest in which I was to pick one of three themes and write a précis about it on the spot and in thirty minutes. I picked the poetry of Alfonsina Storni, the marvelous and melancholy poet who committed suicide in the seaside city of Mar del Plata. I knew many of her poems by heart. In my essay I condensed the essence of her poetry as best I could, and I won the contest with the unanimous support of the jurors. As a young teenager I wrote a lot, but my writing was like that of most teenagers; it was about love and the catharsis of personal feelings. But when I reached eighteen, I made a conscious decision to start writing with a system and a method. I submitted my work to writers whom I respected to get their feedback and was diligent about polishing my style. When I was nineteen I entered a citywide poetry contest and won first prize. It was then that I felt confirmed in my vocation. gd: When did your interest in politics begin? cristina siscar

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cs: It was in the early seventies, the time of political unrest prior to the military coup. My husband and I were ideologically involved with the leftist movements of the time. I became very dogmatic in my views and abandoned my literary career to immerse myself in political ideology. My husband and I, together with some friends, had made plans to establish a literary journal in which we could put forth our ideology. But our plans were interrupted because of the threatening political atmosphere of the times. Eventually, my interest in dogmatic leftist ideology began to wane. I became skeptical of their views of the model of the “New Man” marked by intellectual awareness and mastery. I felt this model was artificial and unrealistic. So I pulled away from the political world to pursue my career as a writer. gd: How did that time of political activism a¬ect you personally? How did it a¬ect you and your writing? cs: My political involvement began to reach a crisis in 1977, not long after the 1976 military coup of General Jorge Videla. I had already become disillusioned with the promise of a better life from the left, but the right-wing dictatorship was a nightmare; we lived in a state of siege. My husband, an outspoken journalist, was kidnapped and murdered by the government, becoming what was known as a desaparecido (missing or disappeared person). Of course, I had no proof of his death and kept hoping that perhaps one day he would reappear. My sister and her husband were also kidnapped and became desaparecidos. Many of my friends and colleagues su¬ered the same fate. I lived in hiding with my son. The atmosphere of fear was almost palpable. Whenever my son and I would go out on the streets, we would send secret messages back and forth to advise each other of danger. If he saw a jeep with military personnel or a Ford Falcon, the undercover car used by the secret police that pursued the leftists, he would pull on my sleeve. This meant “danger ahead.” We were constantly hearing about people and friends whose homes had been ransacked and who had been taken for interrogation. Later we began to hear about the torture and about the detention halls where the prisoners were kept. gd: When did you decide to leave the country? cs: I lived under constant threat, not only to myself, but also to my son. So I decided to leave in 1979, having requested political asylum from the United Nations. I had not done so earlier because I knew I could not take my son with me. The Patria Potestad law required his father’s written consent be264

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fore his mother could take him out of the country; I needed his father’s signed permission. Of course, his father was missing, and I knew he would probably never return, but I was not ready to admit this. The most painful moment was when I left my son behind to go into exile, first in Brazil and later in Paris. I had to leave him with my parents in Buenos Aires, and that cost me dearly. The seven years I lived in Paris were seven years of his childhood that I missed; I was not there to help him with schoolwork, to take him to his sport events, to share his growing pains and successes. In 1983 the democratic party of Raul Alfonsín took o~ce, and I immediately got a passport for my son. He joined me in Paris, but he was not happy there. After all, he had grown up in Buenos Aires, and that was his home. Much to my chagrin, he returned to Buenos Aires, and that is why in 1986 I decided to return as well. gd: What were those seven years in Paris like? What did you do? Did you return to your writing? cs: My experiences in Paris were a great stimulus to my development as a person and as a writer. There I made a concerted e¬ort not only to read voraciously, but also to formulate my own aesthetic parameters and to develop a poetic language. Language itself became an object of attention. At the same time that I learned French, I also developed a new awareness of my own language; I became aware of the di¬erences between my Argentine Spanish and that of Spanish from other countries. The friendships that I developed in Paris with Latin Americans and international people of diverse backgrounds were a source of significant cultural and intellectual growth. These experiences led me to ponder issues of identity, culture, exile, and alienation that later appeared in my works. I made a living by practicing several occupations. At first I was a nanny, a sales clerk, and a cashier, but eventually I began to teach Spanish in high school and later at the university level. I also became director of the Latin American section of a radio program, wrote cultural journalism, and published stories in several magazines of Paris and Barcelona. gd: Your novel La sombra del jardín (The Shade of the Garden) is about a young woman in exile in Paris. Is this an autobiographical novel? cs: No, not really. Some of the experiences narrated there are related to my own in Paris. However, this novel is a work of fiction. It has to do with the experience of exile itself, with the sense of perpetual travel and perpetual search. It also focuses on political violence in the twentieth century. The cristina siscar

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protagonist, a political refugee from Argentina, encounters a portrait of a young woman who was a victim of the Nazis and who reminds her of herself. In her search for more information on this young woman, the plight of the victims of Nazi repression is intertwined with that of the victims of Argentina’s military dictatorship. gd: What did you learn from the experience of exile? In what ways did it change you? cs: I learned a lot, and I was significantly changed as a result. Exile concentrates and makes visible something that is intrinsic to the human experience, that is, our radical estrangement, our alienation from the world that surrounds us. Exile taught me that no matter what we might do in life, we are only passing by; we are passengers on a fast-moving train, always looking for a place where we might settle, yet the search never ends. The experience of estrangement is unforgettable, and it becomes even more pronounced when one returns, after an absence, to the place that was once home. gd: In what ways did the experience of exile mark your writing? cs: It provided me with a number of circumstances that evolved into the issues and themes that pervade my work. Tatuajes (Tatoos), my book of poetry, portrays a sense of rupture, separation, and alienation; it explores the condition of being foreign. These themes appear as well in my novel and in Reescrito en la bruma (Rewritten in the Fog) and Lugar de todos los nombres (The Place of All Names), not as anecdotes or personal episodes, but rather as experience translated into the realm of the symbolic and mythical. My stay in Europe put me in contact with other cultures and other historical times, therefore accentuating my tendency toward myth, which is the common denominator in the stories of Lugar de todos los nombres. It also led me to perceive objects and events with a heightened sense of awareness; I developed a hyper-real vision of my surroundings, and I always viewed things with a question mark in mind. gd: What do you think of the debate that took place between the Argentines who went into exile abroad and those who remained undercover, in a sort of exile within their own country? cs: My answer to that question is the one that Cortázar suggested to me when I met him in Paris. When he learned about my situation in Argentina, he remarked that I had already known an internal exile back in Argentina and that now I was living a second one. It never occurred to me to judge some266

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one on whether they left the country or stayed. Some chose to remain, others to leave, and some had no means to leave. The ones I do judge are the people who placed themselves above the political strife of the times and chose to remain oblivious to the violence that surrounded us and the su¬ering that so many Argentines underwent. gd: What was it like to return to your country after living abroad for so long? What kind of surprises did you find? cs: My return to Argentina was a disconcerting experience. I was faced with significant readjustments in my family structure. My son had been reared by my parents, and it was not easy to close the distance between us. Then there were the friends and colleagues who looked at me suspiciously or felt that after my stay in Paris I might present a professional threat to them. I even encountered some who resented the fact that I was still alive, unlike their own loved ones who had stayed in Argentina. Some of my more loyal friends, however, o¬ered me professional opportunities in journalism, translation, and editing, and in time I was able to reestablish myself in my country. All in all, I felt just as alone upon my return to Buenos Aires as I felt when I first arrived in Paris. gd: What are your views on the topic of power and the misuse of power? How do these issues surface in your work? cs: Rather than looking at power itself, from the inside or as an object of specific attention, I have focused on the e¬ects of power, which is the other side of the coin. Political power appears in my work as something that seems beyond the grasp of day-to-day life. It appears as a strange but real force in the backdrop of existence. In my story “Mundo, mundo” (World, World), for instance, the children of an apparently peaceful neighborhood are at play in the innocent world of childhood dreams and imagination, but this seemingly peaceful scene is contrasted with the violence of their surroundings. Signs of danger intrude in the neighborhood: sirens are heard, police cars rush by, an explosion erupts, and ultimately the children have to break up their game because of the tear gas that invades the streets where they are playing. In “Bastidor, hilos, cañamazo” (Hoop, Thread, and Canvas), two girlfriends get together in the afternoon to embroider. In the background one can hear the chatter of the mothers, who refer to the violent behavior of one of the spouses, a military o~cer. The pervading threat of violence is underscored by the fact that one of the young girls pricks her finger and begins to bleed. Blood, like violence, is a cristina siscar

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stain that cannot be erased. The destructive e¬ects of power and violence contrast with the daily routine of two young girls who are engaged in the vital act of creating a tapestry. My novel La sombra del jardín, as I mentioned before, depicts another aspect of the abuse of power, that of being subjected to exile and alienation. The protagonist of the novel is a woman who is a victim of political persecution, something that involves particularly grueling di~culties for a woman. gd: I find it interesting that your stories often focus on ordinary objects to find in them an extraordinary power. Your story “El corpiño” (The Bra) plays with the idea of the power of femininity and the symbolic value of this item. cs: That story comes from my collection Los efectos personales (Personal E¬ects), where I wanted precisely to focus on everyday objects and elevate them to the status of cultural symbols. The first bra, for example, reflects the experience of female initiation as well as the power and danger of becoming a woman. gd: What are your views regarding feminism? Do you consider yourself a feminist? cs: There is no doubt that the law has always placed obstacles to a woman’s freedom and independence. My inability to take my son with me when I went to Paris is a clear example of this. Regarding the phenomenon of women authors, our situation is complicated by the fact that not only are we expected to provide most of the domestic and mothering needs of the family, but we ourselves feel inadequate if we allow our work to take precedence over our familial responsibilities. While it is true that nowadays men tend to be more involved in domestic responsibilities, they find it easier to put work first. Women are caught in a trap, perhaps of their own making, but a trap that is di~cult to escape. There are some exceptions, such as women who are financially well-to-do, or who have domestic help and do not need to work. gd: Does your work reflect feminist concerns? Do you believe women’s writing can be contrasted to that of men? cs: In my fiction I have not approached the topic of vindication of the status of women or the political and social debate on gender inequality. What interests me about women’s writing is its aesthetic quality. Speaking in broad, general terms, I believe female writing (I think men can also partake in a female style of writing) is more given to the artisanship and the 268

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craftsmanship of the text. Women’s writing tends to focus more on how the text is molded, object by object, word by word. This is not to say that men do not craft their writing, but in general terms, particularly in Argentina today, fiction by men goes in a di¬erent direction, a direction I call “masculinist.” It is defined by the publishing industry as “hard” literature, “strong” literature, and it tends to be historical, violent, explicit, and onedimensional. For example, I recall the blurb on the jacket of a recent male colleague’s novel describing it with these words: “It hits you, it hits you hard.” On the other hand, much of the writing by Argentine women these days tends toward suggestion, layered meaning, and complicity with the reader. This is the writing I call feminine writing. At the same time, I must add, there are women who practice masculinist writing. gd: What most attracts me about your work is its aesthetic subtlety and richness, its lyrical quality, its carefully crafted artisanship, which you mentioned above. What are your stylistic interests? cs: I am interested in poetic writing as understood by Roland Barthes, particularly when he defines writing as displacing our perception to set free the secrets of form. My stories come from an image, which later I tend to convert into a metaphor. After the first image, I develop a series of associations that allows that first point of perception to evolve, and I perceive the image from other points of view, associating it with my own cultural background or with other words or works or even textual quotes. In some cases I use paraphrases or parody. Often my writing generates a kind of intertextual dialogue with other texts, works of art, films, or memories. gd: Could you describe the most essential concerns of your poetics? cs: The first thing that comes to mind is that my writing is symbolic. I tend toward connotation rather than denotation, toward suggestion and ambiguity. I am interested in narration that captures the essence of legend, narration that takes us beyond the here and now to lead us to an ancestral knowledge. I feel like at the moment of narrating, I adopt a point of view from far away and long ago, therefore my writing has the feel of life experience distilled into legendary tale. gd: What about your word games? I am thinking of stories like the ones in Reescrito en la bruma, where you create associative chains of words that are full of meaning and at the same time playful and lyrical. cs: Most of the stories of that collection were written when I was in exile in Paris. Language itself became the focus of my attention, partly because I cristina siscar

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was learning a new language and partly because I saw my own language in a new light; I began to focus on it as an object of attention and analysis. Language was no longer just a means of communication, but rather a source of ontological meaning, a cultural chain of signification. gd: To conclude, I reflect on one of the stories here included, “Bastidor, hilos, cañamazo.” In this story, which is apparently simple, yet is not simple at all, I appreciate your interest in suggestion rather than denotation, something quite evident in this narrative, which initially seems about nothing more than two girlfriends engaged in embroidery, yet merited an award from a human-rights association. cs: This story is an example of the multilayered text I described before. On the surface the events seem innocuous, but in the background, beneath the surface, lie several layers of discourse: that of the mothers talking about the violence, that of the girls’ reactions to what they say and their lack of reaction to what happens. Also subtle, yet full of meaning, are the symbols of the story. The e¬ects of violence and power gone awry are the subtext, which is perhaps even more e¬ective since it is told from the point of view of the young girls. In short, this story is an example of what most interests me about the abuse of power and the e¬ect it has on the average person engaged in day-to-day events.

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Hoop, Thread, and Canvas

The shadow of an arm caressed the frosted glass bricks. As soon as Clara had her suspicions about the girl’s hair blowing in the wind, the dress’s flight, she heard Lina’s fist knocking on that translucent wall. When Clara went out onto the patio, Lina stretched her arm toward the sky, from which her eyes were emissaries. The girls climbed up to the flat roof where thousands of small puddles still sparkled. The arc was perfect, but its blurred colors blended into one another. “I would like to have a painted rainbow, not one drawn with a compass,” Clara said. “I would like it to have intense tones and uneven brush strokes. To give the e¬ect of jewels encrusted in the sky. A real rainbow.” Lina grew indignant: “A rainbow is an air of colors, soft like a large feather pillow.” The words large feather pillow hung on Clara’s ear while Lina, sighing, sank her head into the clouds. Then, Clara dragged her downstairs, took her into the kitchen, and pointed to the table. On the table stood an embroidery hoop, a legacy from her grandmother. Clara slid her hands over the wooden stand and hoop. She stopped at the metal butterfly, spun it around, and separated the hoop into its two parts. Through the slit she passed an imaginary piece of fabric. Next, she opened a sewing box filled with embroidery needles and threads. Immediately, four hands were turning over the colors. They wound through silk threads, pearl and mercerized cottons, moulinè, handspun; what flowed together into braided tangles, into iridescent dreams, they separated. All of a sudden Lina ran out, not in search of but rather to the imperious summons of her own embroidery hoop. Her shadow fluttered a moment behind the glass bricks.

The following afternoon, their backs to the bricks, the circle of embroidered canvas filtering the light onto their skirts, the girls held that age-old pose, which simultaneously indicated their almost immutable future pose. Seated, wrapped in their work, frowning both lips and brow, they seemed a caricature of generational indefinition, the only di¬erence being they were not wearing a fichu like the grandmother had. In a similar way the embroidery canvas, that is, its state of definition, fell somewhere between the previous day’s invisible cristina siscar

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cloth and a completely finished tapestry: at the moment it provided a semblance of sky onto which each girl was embroidering her rainbow. They had followed the process carefully, becoming more adept with each step. Center the embroidery canvas well before enclosing it between the hoop’s rings. The more taut, the more ethereal. Only with a fine net can dreams be captured; but they can escape if they are not first sketched on paper. Some trace the design on the canvas before beginning to sew. “No! I do not want a rainbow that has been copied.” What you embroider has a shape; it is tangible. From petit point to bargello, the needles pass in and out; so does the cuckoo. Grandmother is present, then she is gone, like the turn of a doorbell. Her steps brush against the floor and pause; in between clatter the skips of little sister who comes and goes.

Clara’s needle is thick and has a large eye, an occidental eye; on the other hand, Lina’s only allows the most delicate of fibers to pass, a moulinè. No raised contours for her. She wants the colors to dilute into the canvas’s weave, like their mother’s shadows behind the glass brick wall.

The chessboard of translucent bricks is framed by a fine row of vitreaux, etched with tulip garlands. The cooing of a frightened dove announces Lina’s mother; when she appears, Clara’s mother stirs the air around her with the exaggerated movements of a hen. Enclosed within the floral frame, their shadows grow larger and smaller while their voices, like threads, pass from a confused whisper to a burst of words. “. . . He broke the set of cups . . . the porcelain ones . . . so I . . .” “H . . . H . . . How?” “. . . been disturbed . . . he shouts and . . .” Into the mutterings of this account, a clucking sound is sometimes inserted. The needles move up, to the side, behind. Lina is sinking into a pale rainbow. Grandmother’s steps still shu¬le along the floor; the little sister’s skips come and go, one afternoon after another. “I think you will be able to see mine at night,” Clara says when she finishes the red stripe, which crosses from one side of the hoop to the other like a flare. 272

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When they heard the cooing amid the tulips, Lina stuck her finger. “Wh . . . What? That man is really in a bad way. . . .” Clara looks askance at the shadows dimming her embroidery; then she looks at Lina who is sucking her finger. A drop of blood has stained her canvas. “He doesn’t talk to us about it. Not to me, not to our daughter.” With saliva, Lina rubs at the stain, which grows increasingly apparent over the pale tones. The rainbow around the hoop. “. . . to insult us, . . . to threaten us. . . .” “. . . and what does . . . ?” The cuckoo appears; Lina’s mother’s voice echoes against the glass bricks. “He thinks he is still in the army.” “I’m going to have a party to celebrate my birthday,” Clara says. “I’m going to give myself a big pillow.” Concentric semi-circles are seen from above: pink, a ducking yellow, Nile green, sky blue. They range from larger to smaller. Doubled over the embroidery hoop resting against her legs, Lina frets. Clara compares several bright colors lying on the table; finally she selects an indigo. Executed in handspun threads, her embroidery resembles the tail of an electric comet. By the glass brick wall the shadows stir. Lina’s mother moans: “. . . All day long, sitting in the corner . . . not speaking . . . listening to the radio. . . .” “At best, they will give me a record player for my birthday!” Clara exclaims. “He can’t stand not being at the barracks anymore.” “. . . And . . .?” “Oh! I was doing cross stitch and didn’t even notice!” Clara grumbles. “It’s always the same thing, that no one cares about him. . . .” They hear the dove’s sobs, the velvety words of consolation from Clara’s mother. “. . . that one day he is going to kill us all.” More light enters; the shadows move away.

There’s very little to do; one band in lilac, one band in purple. It’s now Thursday and the birthday party is Saturday. “Li, are you going to help me with the preparations?” The cuckoo appears.

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At first shouts are heard, then a loud clamor from Lina’s mother, and the banging of the door when Clara’s mother runs out into the patio. “. . . He killed himself . . . he killed himself. . . .” Fists beat against the glass bricks. “He shot himself.” The cuckoo grew quiet. Lina stood up, her gaze fixed on her work. She was crying. Clara could distinguish a rainbow in her sky-colored eyes. Suddenly, Lina sat down and continued to sew until she finished her seventh color. It was then she noticed that the bloodstain had been transformed into a hole from so much rubbing.

Again canvas, hoops, needles, and threads: another pillow in its infancy. They embroider, their backs to the glass brick wall, still beside each other within the floral frame. From petit point to bargello, grandmother shu¬les along while little sister skips. Translated by Martha J. Manier

The Bra

Double was its mission: to reveal and to hide. A strap could be seen, sliding, or the betraying hook outlined against the back, detailed through the translucent blouse. But the sti¬ nipples were softened over slight mounds. The first bra was the size of modesty: pride beneath the shyness of what was evident. It was the first truly intimate garment. A quiet utterance. It insinuated that the little girl had remained behind, as in dreams, awakening the suspicious glances that confirmed her while at the same time made her as ethereal as the gauze of the bra. The whispering of lingerie. Above all, not to scream out what one has not yet become. The bra was the sign of di¬erence. The moment in which men became evidently on the other side. Ah, how many people there were, everywhere.

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Shield that became a target, exposed by the satin strap; identity’s coat of arms, that softly rounded lace. What will I be? That ephemeral bra could be cupped in a fist. The diminutive object held the promise of greatness. Translated by Gwendolyn Díaz

publications Tatuajes/Tatuages. Spanish-French bilingual edition. Paris: Correcaminos, 1985. Reescrito en la bruma. Buenos Aires: Per Abbat, 1987. Lugar de todos los nombres. Buenos Aires: Punto Sur, 1988. Las líneas de la mano. Buenos Aires: Colihue, 1993. Los efectos personales. Buenos Aires: Ediciones La Flor, 1994. Violencia: Visiones femeninas. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Desde la Gente, 1994. Los viajes. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Desde la Gente, 1995. Varados: Viajes sin partida ni regreso. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Desde la Gente, 1996 La sombra del jardín. Buenos Aires: Simurg, 1999. El viaje: Itinerarios de la lectura. Córdoba: Alción, 2003.

translations by the author Frankenstein. By Mary Shelley. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la Urraca, 1991. Bar de flots noir. By Olivier Rolin. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1988. El laberinto y otros juegos matemáticos. By Edouard Lucas. Buenos Aires: Editorial Juegos y Co., 1991.

translations “Monde monde” and “Exmenino.” Trans. and ed. Maryline Renard. In Nouvelles de nos exils. Paris: Arcanterre, 1987. “Il giardino di Zahir.” Trans. Roldano Romanelli. In Intorno ai soli, nel buio. Bolonia: Perseo Libri, 1991. “La mort de l’auteur.” Trans. Sylvie Ponce and Felipe Navarro. In Anthologie de la nouvelle latino-americaine. Paris: Unesco/Belfond, 1991. Tatuajes/Tatuages. Trans. Claude Bazin. Paris: Correcaminos, 1985. “Eine Nacht in Ámsterdam.” Trans. Matthias Jager. In ExilBilder—Lateinamerikanische Schriftsteller und Künstler in Europa und Nordamerika, ed. Susanne Dölle et al. Berlin: Tranvía Sur, 2004.

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Ana María Shua Ana María Shua, or Ani, as she is known to her friends, exudes the aura of a woman who is not afraid of her sensuality or of her maternal inclination. She has deeply set dark eyes that convey her pragmatic nature. Her smile is broad and engaging, her voice slow and rhythmical. When surrounded by her daughters, she is playful. When immersed in her thoughts she becomes somber, yet her dark side is curbed by her sense of humor and love of life.

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Ana María Shua | The Author and Her Work Born in 1951 in Buenos Aires, Ana María Shua is a daughter of the Argentine bourgeoisie. Her mother was a dentist at the time of Shua’s birth and later became a psychologist. Her father held a degree in agronomy, but his main occupation was owner of a company that manufactured high-tension wires. Her parents were children of immigrants: on her mother’s side, Shua’s heritage is Polish Jewish; on her father’s side, the family was Jewish of Moroccan and Lebanese origin. Shua claims she was always a writer. She recalls writing poetry at the age of seven and having a lengthy collection of poetry by age ten. In school she was asked to write poems for national holiday celebrations and for special events and was known as the school poet. At age thirteen she declared she wanted to pursue a career in theater, but her mother, who felt that the life of the theater was not dignified enough for her daughter, hired a special tutor to help her develop her love of writing. As a young child, reading was also her passion. She says that initially she fell in love with the characters, later with the writers, but soon she came to realize that what she loved the most were the words themselves, that she had chosen “a world where all things, mountains, skies, pumas, pain, pleasure, trees, or friends, were made of words” (see interview below). Shua went to public high school at the highly regarded Escuela Nacional de Buenos Aires (Buenos Aires National School) and later received the degree of Profesora de Letras (Professor of Literature) from the University of Buenos Aires, though, like so many other writers, she never taught. Instead, she continued to read and write voraciously and began to work in publicity, writing advertisements for marketing companies. She also developed a successful career as a freelance journalist and has written opinion pieces for most newspapers in Argentina as well as many magazines. Some of these opinion pieces were the source of what later became a book of significant commercial success: El marido argentino promedio (The Average Argentine Husband), modeled not necessarily after her own husband, a photographer and father of their three daughters, but rather after the humorous traits she finds to be common denominators of the average Argentine male. Shua’s writing career has been very diverse and productive. She has authored novels, short stories, micro-stories, poetry, screenplays, children’s books, books of humor, and erotic writing. She has focused both on the quality of her literature and on reaching a large and diverse audience. Therefore, she has tarana maría shua

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geted some of her writing to popular audiences, while other works are more specifically aimed at the literary audience. Her influences have been as diverse as her readings, and Shua claims that she doesn’t truly have a hierarchy of favorite authors. However, she frequently mentions Franz Kafka, Julio Cortázar, and Jorge Luis Borges. She believes that “reading is a profoundly antisocial act; a private and secret revelation of love, desire and death” (see interview below), and that literature reminds us both of our mortality and of our illusion of eternity. Shua’s first book was a book of poetry, El sol y yo (The Sun and I, 1967), which received a prize from the Sociedad Argentina de Escritores (Argentine Society of Writers) and from Fondo Nacional de Artes (National Foundation for the Arts). Her first novel, Soy paciente (Patient), was published in 1980. It received the first prize in the Losada International Literature Competition and was made into a movie directed by Rodolfo Corral in 1986. This novel was published again by Editorial Sudamericana in 1996 and is included in Atalaya’s volume of Maestros de la literatura contemporanea (Masters of Contemporary Literature). The title of the novel refers to both being a patient and being a patient person. The protagonist is in a hospital undergoing the myriad of dehumanizing circumstances that a patient encounters while receiving treatment. At the same time, the novel also points to a broader, more symbolic reading that comments on the state of humanity in the modern world. Shua’s book of short stories, Los días de pesca (Fishing Days, 1981), is a collection of narratives, many based on personal experiences, such as the death of her father (referred to in the title story). Her style here is forthright, humorous, and told from a youthful point of view. In her 1984 novel Los amores de Laurita (Laurita’s Loves), she explores the genre of erotic literature. A product of the sexual revolution of the 1960s, Laurita is the young female protagonist who searches for pleasure in the act of physical love. La sueñera (Sleepyness) is a collection of Shua’s first attempts at a genre that she feels a great attraction to, the micro-story, stories of just a few lines, in this case marvelous tiny stories that seem to stem from the realm of our dreams. She received first prize in the erotic story competition of the magazine Don Juan for the title story of her book Viajando se conoce gente (Traveling One Meets People, 1988). This book’s stories of strange adventures and surprising relationships are humorous, ironic, and sometimes shocking. Her popular book of humor El marido argentino promedio (The Average Argentine Husband, 1991) was a commercial success; however, she also laments that after its publication, she was labeled a 280

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popular writer, or escritora light. The essays in this book point to stereotypical male traits, such as obsessive possession of the television’s remote-control device. In 1992, Shua’s second book of micro-stories was published, Casa de Geishas (House of Geishas), which collects dozens of clever and insightful brief narratives about topics as diverse as watching television to speculating on deep philosophical concepts. Her third novel, Libro de los recuerdos (Book of Memories) came out in 1994 and was followed in 1995 by El pueblo de los tontos (The Town of the Fools), an anthology of traditional Jewish humor. Her 1997 novel La muerte como efecto secundario (Death as a Side E¬ect) portrays a futuristic society where violence and an aging population lead to a chaotic urban existence not too di¬erent from reality. Another anthology of Jewish humor, Sabiduría popular judía (Popular Jewish Wisdom), also came out in 1997. The following year Shua published Como agua del manantial: Antología de la copla popular (Like Water for a Spring: Anthology of the Popular Couplet). Also in 1998, she authored an anthology of narratives on the theme of fear of women: Cabras, mujeres y mulas: Antololgía del odio/miedo a la mujer en la literatura popular (Goats, Women, and Mules: Anthology of Hatred/Fear of Women in Popular Literature). She published another anthology together with Alicia Steinberg titled Antología de amor apasionado (Anthology of Passionate Love) in 1999. Shua is also author of thirteen children’s books, listed in the bibliography section. Death as a Side E¬ect, an excerpt of which is included here, is Shua’s favorite novel. It is set in a not-too-distant future where a middle-age man struggles with his mother’s insanity (a condition akin to Alzheimer’s disease) and his father’s colon cancer. In this futuristic society, crime is so violent that people do not go out in the streets unless they are in bulletproof cars. They live in secluded areas policed by security guards, and when they reach a certain advanced age they are required to move into a nursing home, where they are cared for until they die. The protagonist’s father is a tyrannical parent who has exerted great control over both his son and his daughter. Now that they are faced with his impending move into a nursing home and his possible death, the father makes selfish demands of his children and tries to coerce them into making arrangements to benefit him in spite of the burden it creates for them. This novel is a masterful depiction of the power struggle between a father and his son and daughter, his overbearing control over them, and their sense of rebellion tinged with remorse and guilt for wanting to break away from his domination. ana maría shua

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The other selection included in this chapter is “La columna vertebral” (The Spinal Column), a short story set at the University of Kentucky during a medical conference in which two Argentines meet, one a doctor, the other a physical therapist. They had been partner activists during the Dirty War in Argentina, and they meet each other by chance years later at the conference. The story moves back and forth between their memories of the years they shared together as revolutionaries in Argentina and the seemingly comfortable professional world they move in now, many years later. The body of the patient undergoing spinal surgery is reminiscent of the broken bodies of the victims of political torture. In this multilayered narrative, Shua depicts those crucial moments in life that have the power to make us transcend our day-to-day routine circumstances and face reality as a raw existential experience. Without a doubt, Shua is one of the most prolific Argentine writers of today. She is also one of the few who earns her living through her publications. She has written many books for children, several of which have received prizes for children’s literature. Her books Soy paciente and Los amores de Laurita have gone through several editions and have both been made into films for cinema. She has received numerous awards and distinctions for her novels, stories, and essays. Shua lives a productive life in Buenos Aires as a professional writer and journalist. Although she travels frequently abroad to read and participate in literary events, she spends most of her time in Buenos Aires writing and enjoying the company of her husband and three daughters.

Conversation with Ana María Shua Gwendolyn Díaz: To read Ana María Shua is to walk in the shoes of an Argentine, to see, hear, and smell the streets of Buenos Aires. This is why I love to read your work. I feel transported into the core of what it means to be porteño (from the port city of Buenos Aires). Is this argentinidad (Argentine quality) something you strive for deliberately, or does it flow from your pen naturally? Ana María Shua: I believe that one writes with everything that one is, with one’s gender, one’s nationality, one’s personality. The more a writer is centered in her genuine self, the better the literature she will produce. Tolstoy’s view that in painting our village we paint the world is true. When I first began to write, I did not realize that my day-to-day experience was 282

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material worthy of literature; my stories were initially very general and somewhat conventional. My writing began to acquire more depth when I discovered that literature could spring from my own personal experience in the world, in my case, that of an Argentine woman, of Jewish descent, living in Buenos Aires, walking down Rivadavia Street, strolling in Lesica Park, drinking an espresso in a café or hailing a taxicab. Herman Hesse’s stories were initially of a fantastic nature, yet later they became quite realistic, and in my opinion more interesting because of it. gd: Like your literary content, your language and style also reflect colloquial Argentine speech and expression. Is this deliberate? Do you believe that the use of local jargon makes your writing more authentic, or do you wonder whether it will limit your audience? as: I arrived at the use of colloquial language after my initial experience with poetry. I concluded that my prose should spring from the speech of the people, and thus my characters would be credible and authentic. I am very careful in my choice of words; the selection of a colloquial term can be a tricky balancing act of choosing between the most e¬ective word and one that will reach the largest audience. If I use jargon, it is jargon that I know will survive the test of time. gd: What writers influenced you and your writing? as: My influences are as varied as my readings. I have always read extensively and have chosen a wide variety of readings. In my work I have made allusions to Franz Kafka, to whom there is a reference in my book La sueñera (Sleepyness), as well as to Herman Hesse and others. But I do not see those or other writers as having influenced me. I read a lot, and my readings are eclectic and broad. gd: How do you see your work within the context of contemporary Argentine literature? as: I am above all a fiction writer. Unfortunately, the genre of fiction has lost the privileged place it once had in Argentina. Fewer people seem to read fiction, and fewer publishers publish it. What people are reading now in Argentina is historical writing or fiction that is deeply rooted in history; they seem to be looking for works that are grounded in verifiable facts. This refusal to read fiction is so prevalent that the genre of comic books (historietas) is disappearing in Argentina. The historieta was a wellestablished form of writing in this country, and there were many talented writers in this area who showed great insight into the society. Now many ana maría shua

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of these writers have moved to Europe and are employed there writing their social satire in comic-strip fashion. My work encompasses many genres; I write literature (novels, short stories, erotic stories, the micro-story, poetry) and also write popular literature, anthologies, children’s stories, film scripts, and opinion pieces. My topics are also varied; some constants in my work are the use of humor and irony, an interest in the erotic, and the theme of illness. gd: In my research in Buenos Aires with diverse Argentine writers, I have frequently come across the term “psicobolche” (“psychobolshe”—i.e., psychoBolshevik) in reference to the writers who came of age during the time of the military repression and whose work is often marked by an interest in both psychoanalytic theory and leftist ideology. What interests me about this categorization of Argentine writing is the fact that the new generation of writers, those who were infants or were too young to remember the repression, have now turned their backs on the political history of the country and prefer to write fiction with postmodern overtones and an emphasis on technology and urban life. What do you think of this, and where do you place yourself in this divide? as: I consider myself a “psychobolche.” I belonged to that group of Argentine intellectuals who came of age around the sixties and who looked for answers both in psychoanalysis and in leftist ideology. However, our myths seem to have fallen. We no longer hold much hope in the possibility of more equitable political structures or in the saving grace of psychoanalysis. As for the younger generation of writers, they chose to write about a postmodern reality that was immediate to them and in which they felt grounded. gd: But don’t you think it is dangerous to turn your back on your own history, particularly when there are young people of their generation who are discovering that they are adopted children of the disappeared? as: Yes, I believe we must face our history, no matter how di~cult that may be. But also I believe that each generation strives to find its own place in history, and often that is done by rebelling against one’s predecessors. gd: How would you describe your writing process, and what are your aesthetic concerns? as: When I write, I am in search of my own voice as well as the voice of a specific text. In each new work that I write, I set out to find a new way of expression, a new voice that I have not yet explored. At the same time, I try 284

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to develop a tone and the literary style appropriate to the subject matter of each specific text. I often work against my own natural writing style; this is part of my aesthetic challenge. For instance, I tend toward synthesis, but I’ve written works that are long and well developed. Similarly, humor comes easily to me; therefore, I deliberately worked against that tendency in La muerte como efecto secundario (Death as a Side E¬ect), which is a dark novel devoid of humor. The more I write, the more I look for new challenges, either by attempting to push my own style to its most polished extreme or by writing against the grain of my natural inclination. gd: Your futuristic novel La muerte como efecto secundario depicts a possible world where violence, scarce natural resources, and inhumane corporations create depressing living conditions for the population. I am particularly interested in the power struggles between the father and his son, the protagonist, whose only consolation from his father’s abusive control over him is his imaginary relationship with the woman of his dreams. Would you comment on the power relations in this novel? Also, does this view of a violent, decadent society populated by aged citizens represent a possible future in a world where power, violence, and money have eclipsed more humane aspirations? as: I do not consider this novel to be science fiction, though you are correct in saying it is futuristic. What I intended to do in this work was to speculate about what life would be like in a not-too-distant future if the problems that we are living with today became exacerbated. I projected our current social maladies forward in time to imagine what our future will be like. For instance, in today’s world, private companies are taking over services that once were the domain of the state. Whereas that may work well in a society like the United States, where the state is strong, here in Latin America, where the states are weak, those companies work somewhat like feudal lords, with little or no controls placed upon them. When I began the novel, I came up with the idea of obligatory nursing homes for the elderly. Very shortly thereafter and before the publication of the novel, Argentina’s Director of the State O~ce of Retired Persons proposed the possibility of allowing foreign interests to build nursing homes in remote parts of the country with the idea that the elderly would be taken to these homes. gd: This is reminiscent of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. as: Aldous Huxley’s vision is now almost a real possibility. The world that I depict in my novel is not too far from reality. I simply took certain probana maría shua

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lems we face today—crime, violence, unemployment, corporate power without controls, contamination of the environment, depletion of natural resources—and extended them into the future, projecting their possible detrimental consequences. gd: The socio-economic problems that you portray in your novel can be seen as the result of political power plays. What are your views regarding power and relationships of domination and subjugation in Argentina, and by extension in your work? as: Power is not always possessed by the same people; those who possess power can lose it, and those who were powerless can obtain it. It shifts from hand to hand. As I grew up here in Argentina, I saw power alternate in a cycle that fluctuated between democratic and military governments. As one rose, the other was dormant until it found the opportunity to rise again. Neither government was strong enough to maintain the power. This was the case until the last military dictatorship of 1976–83, the years of the Dirty War, after which it finally became clear to the Argentines that they could no longer tolerate a military government. Since then, we have been undergoing a process of democratization, with which we are still at odds. On the one hand, we are happy to have democracy. But on the other hand, we are su¬ering the consequence of a democratic government that has very little power in relationship to the enormous economic power wielded by the multinational corporations that influence our own economy. Today we have a democratic government, but it is handcu¬ed and forced to submit to powerful international corporate interests that control the world and particularly the Third World today. The International Monetary Fund and the World Bank are a physical representation of this power, yet they are just a symbol of a greater, more di~cult-to-grasp power. gd: So whereas during the repression of the seventies it was the military regime that exerted its politically motivated domination over the population, the Argentines of today are oppressed by economic exploitation? as: That is true. The majority of the population of our country is su¬ering from unemployment and poverty like it never has before and did not during those years of military repression. Our once-large middle class has begun to dwindle. Now we do not have desaparecidos (the disappeared persons) nor torture victims, but our indices of infant mortality and of crime have risen, all due to unemployment and a rise in poverty. Regarding my own work, I have dealt with the topic of power in a variety of ways. In my 286

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erotic fiction, particularly in Los amores de Laurita (Laurita’s Loves), I portray structures of domination and subjugation as they relate to love relationships. In other works, such as Soy paciente (Patient) and especially La muerte como efecto secundario, I approach the topic of power by focusing on how its consequences a¬ect my characters and the situations in which they find themselves. gd: How did the military dictatorship of the seventies and early eighties a¬ect you, your writing, and how you perceived your role as a writer, at a time in which authors like Rodolfo Walsh were murdered for their work? as: I was just beginning to become a writer at the time of the dictatorship. I was twenty-five years old in 1976, and my first book, Soy paciente, was published in 1980, during the dictatorship. At the time I felt that there were many things that could not be said and could not be written about—and those were precisely the most important issues to deal with and write about, the dictatorship and its consequences. But terror was very e¬ective. If one wrote about this, one was risking not just imprisonment, but torture and death as well. Therefore many of us tried deliberately not to write about the situation, and consequently we often felt our words were trivial. I felt as if I were circling around a large black hole and had to take great steps not to be sucked into it. Two interesting things happened to me, which apparently were somewhat unconscious. One was my story “Fiestita con animación” (A Party with Animation), from my book Viajando se conoce gente (Traveling One Meets People). This story was rejected for publication because it was about a birthday party where a young girl who had been practicing magic tricks made her little sister disappear, never to be found again. It was not until I sent the story to the newspaper that rejected it that I realized that even the word desaparecer (to disappear) had become too risky to publish. Another surprise that I experienced later was that my novel Soy paciente was considered to be among the novels that portray the theme of the dictatorship. At the time that I wrote it, I did not realize that this was the case. Had I suspected it, I would not have published it at that time. But apparently my subconscious was working where my conscious mind did not dare. gd: Were you or your family persecuted by the dictatorship? as: My family, like so many others, su¬ered losses during the repression. My sister had to flee the country in 1976, and she immigrated to the United States. My two cousins also had to escape; they moved to Europe. The fianana maría shua

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cées of my two cousins were murdered or “disappeared.” I also left the country in 1976, but my husband and I returned in 1977 because we missed our homeland too much. gd: Gender discrimination, another form of repression, is the focus of feminism. How would you define feminism, and do you consider yourself a feminist? as: Feminism can be defined many di¬erent ways. I consider myself a feminist in the sense that my grandmother meant when she would exclaim at the birth into the family of a female child, “Poor thing, she will have to su¬er in life.” I no longer believe, as my grandmother did, that women are destined to su¬er; however, I do share with her the consciousness that women face more obstacles than men do and have less access to the rights and rewards of society. gd: Do you feel that women are subjected to discrimination, and if so, in what ways do you see this happening? as: Yes, I do. However, nowadays women are gaining more access to the workplace and the political world. But this presents a complication, because while women acquire more public power, they also lose power in the private space of the home and family. What is di~cult is for women to be able to gain public power and at the same time retain their control of the family structure. gd: Are you referring to what is called the “superwoman” syndrome, the woman who works night and day to succeed in the workplace and at the same time ensure that all the needs of home and family are met? as: Yes. But I think that the superwoman is not a new phenomenon. In the Jewish culture we have the tradition of the woman supporting her husband while he studies the Talmud. For generations those women worked, supported their families, gave birth to and raised children, and had a considerable amount of power. At the same time, though, they were still in a subservient position, as they were not allowed to study the Talmud themselves. gd: What has your experience been with regard to being a female writer in a male-dominated literary world? Have you encountered any problems? as: I personally have not had problems getting my work published. My work appeals to a large audience, and publishers generally have welcomed it. I think that in the last few years, Latin American women writers have been in a more advantageous position than their male counterparts because women are selling more books. The market is seeking them out, and the 288

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latest statistics are showing that sixty to seventy percent of readers are women. There is another side to this situation, though. Women may sell more books, but they still have more di~culty being accepted into the circles of prestige within the world of literature. Critics, as well, have focused more attention on the work of male authors than women authors, and I feel that this is the struggle toward which we need to aim our e¬orts now. There are women writers of great literary merit who do not receive the recognition they deserve. gd: Is that because the positions of power in the literary and publishing world are dominated by men? as: I would say that it is because those positions are held by people who uphold masculine power, whether they are men or women. One example of this uneven treatment is the fact that in most Argentine anthologies and collections of Argentine literature, women writers are grossly underrepresented, in spite of the fact that there are many excellent female authors in this country. gd: I would like to ask you to comment on the short story featured here, “La columna vertebral” (The Spinal Column), from your book Como una buena madre (2003). Two Argentines have met at a medical conference in Kentucky. Some twenty years earlier they had shared not only a bed but also the revolutionary fervor of their political activism. As they renew their acquaintance, they also reminisce about their past illusions from the standpoint of a present that is far from what they had imagined when they were young. What motivated you to write this story? as: My sister was a political militant in the seventies. She left Argentina and moved to Chicago. Two years ago, when she was back home for a visit, we went to the supermarket together. All of a sudden I saw her run toward a man in the check-out line who seemed to be about our age. He was a fellow political militant with whom she had had a romantic relationship twentyfive years back. She realized she didn’t even know his real name, because they had called each other by pseudonyms. At that moment, and for the first time, they told each other their real names and made plans to meet for co¬ee and tell each other the story of their lives. This episode made a strong impression on me, and I decided it would be excellent material for a story. gd: Initially this seems to be a story about two former lovers who meet years later. But the story has several levels of meaning, each relating to a ana maría shua

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changed perception of personal power. Their revolutionary passion of years past is contextualized in the light of the present, when all of their aspirations of social justice have faded. Their present values are based on their professional achievements, yet with an ironic twist: professional success has brought about a loss of ideals as well as an aging body. as: What I like about this story is how true it rings. It takes the tumultuous past and brings it into the routine of the present. Like Proust’s madeleine, this encounter reconnects the protagonist to her past and forces her to rethink her present. Life is often more surprising than fiction.

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The Spinal Column

She was looking in her purse for a LifeSaver when she heard Dr. Rosenfeld’s voice saying the lecture was over and inviting his audience to enjoy the video. When she looked up, the doctor was exactly the way she thought he would be, leaning back with his arms crossed and his long legs stretched out, sitting as relaxed as he could get in his uncomfortable chair. Stella put her headphones back on to listen to the simultaneous translation. The first part of the tape was disgusting and bloody. They never showed the patient’s face. Except for the surgical field, the entire body was covered, lying face up. In order to access the spinal column from the front, by entering through the sides of the belly, they had to cut through a large amount of tissue. You didn’t need to see the patient’s face or body to know he was fat; the thick layer of yellow fat was bleeding too. During the second stage of the operation, a balloon was inserted into the body and inflated in order to separate the intestines from the muscle layers. Stella looked away; as a physical therapist, she wasn’t interested in that part of the surgery. As she felt a hot flash rise up her back, making her face break out in a sweat, she remembered that Dr. Rosenfeld had told them to “enjoy” the video. In her country no orthopedic surgeon would have operated on such a fat man. Most of the positive e¬ects of the surgery would be canceled out by all the excess weight the patient loaded on his poor spine. Maybe the American doctors didn’t have a choice in the matter, given the increasing obesity of the population. When the laparoscope finally made it to the spinal cord, she became intrigued by the way the instruments maneuvered the vertebrae, and actually began to enjoy the video. The narrator reminded them that they had yet to invent a synthetic material as flexible and, at the same time, as resistant as human cartilage, capable of supporting the pull of gravity and the natural movement of the spine. The Rosenfeld technique involved removing the herniated disc and replacing it with a little cage filled with a spongy material (“cages” that the interpreter translated incorrectly as cajas, boxes). Then the respective vertebrae were stabilized by tying down the dorsal apophysis with platinum wire. By eliminating the movement between the vertebrae, transforming them into a rigid structure, the spinal column lost some of its flexibility, but there was less danger of a rupture or tear. ana maría shua

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A queasy feeling came over her again as she entered the co¬ee shop. On a metal counter about twenty co¬eepots were warming on hot plates. There was hazelnut-flavored co¬ee, vanilla-flavored co¬ee, cinnamon-flavored co¬ee, almond-flavored co¬ee, and mint-flavored co¬ee. They probably even had co¬ee-flavored co¬ee, but Stella didn’t feel like trying it, nauseated as she was by the mixture of artificial fragrances that transformed the air into a dense mass that made it hard for her to breathe. She dried the sweat from her face with a napkin, thinking it was a good thing she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She felt better in the lounge. As usual, what goes on at conferences in the restaurants, hallways, and the university cafeteria was much more interesting than the talks. She ran into an Argentine orthopedic surgeon, a friend of hers who was working in Holland, and a colleague from Colombia. She soon joined in on their discussion about the long-term e¬ects of certain surgical procedures. Stella was one of the few Latin American specialists in women’s sports medicine. The silence and attention she commanded when she spoke never ceased to amaze her, and made her feel uncomfortable at times, as if people were expecting some important revelations or words of wisdom from her. At this point she was considered one of the Elders of the Tribe, although certainly one of the youngest. She liked the feeling of power. A blue-eyed man stared at her from across the room. Although she didn’t recognize him, Stella smiled at him and waved. He was wearing an outrageous pair of plaid pants, as American as the tidy, aseptic beauty of the university where the conference was being held. The thick, padded carpet (comfortable, but not good for the arches of the feet, according to her professional eye), the clean walls, the o~ces with their bookshelves and guarded privacy where no professor would dare close the door when talking with a student for fear of being accused of sexual harassment. The beautiful, well-stocked library with its huge windows that looked out on the campus o¬ering a perfect view of the perfect lawn and the perfect trees with their autumn leaves that looked like a postcard stuck to the glass. Everything seemed to be placed there deliberately, as if to emphasize the sharp contrast to the poverty and chaos of the state universities where the few Latin American panelists had studied. Stella had greeted the man who was looking at her so intently because she knew that in the United States it was considered rude to stare at strangers. Although she couldn’t remember his face, he could have recognized her, and she didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. His blue eyes seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place them. She’d never been good at placing faces with names, 292

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but lately she found herself with people she knew well, and yet it wasn’t just their names that seemed to have vanished from her mind, but any clue that could help her identify them: a distant cousin, a neighborhood shopkeeper, a friend of a friend, a patient, a colleague? She had learned to fake it so that people wouldn’t feel o¬ended or embarrassed that she had no memory of them. In a way that minor problem was a sign of how far she had come after years of working in her specialty. She knew lots of people from all over the world, and even more people knew her: the price of success, a reason to feel proud of herself. Napoleon and the names of his soldiers. What trick did he use? The co¬ee break was over and some of the people around her were getting up to go to other lectures or round-table discussions. Many pretended to be interested in a particular topic being presented in another building and, with that excuse, sneaked o¬ campus, slipping away in taxis to go shopping downtown or to rest in their hotel. The celebrities and the nobodies didn’t bother to put on an act. Some left with no pretense, while others stayed behind to chat in the lounge or in the cafeteria, waiting for a friend. Some left just to have a smoke outside, even though it was cold. Stella wanted to go to her surgeon friend’s talk, partly out of professional solidarity, but also out of curiosity, to see if a few years in Holland had been enough to change his charlatan style. As she was getting up from her chair to go with him to the session, the blue-eyed man, who had been watching her, passed by and smiled, saying a word in an unknown language. Her old friend was still the same old con artist, naturally. Just another example of Argentine provincialism, always ready to believe we’re the best or the worst in the world, she said to herself. We had thought that in a real country this guy wouldn’t fool anyone, and yet, there he was, the fast talker, representing a prestigious Dutch institution with the same cavalier attitude as always, and an enviable command of English. Stella’s mind wandered and returned to the blue-eyed man, fantasizing that he was interested in her for other than professional reasons, toying with the idea, flattering herself with the possible meaning of the word he had said to her as he went by. A greeting? A compliment? Suddenly, in her brain, the meandering thought took a turn down a path that had been closed o¬ for ages, down the pathway of an old synapse, as useless as an abandoned mine shaft without the slightest trace of gold. Something stirred, came together, and took shape, and all of a sudden she understood the word, not the meaning, because it didn’t have one, but the sense of the word. A trademark name ana maría shua

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in her country for the little Brillo pads of metal shavings or steel wool used for scrubbing the bottoms of pots and pans. The man with the blue eyes and the wild pants had called her Virulana. It had been nearly twenty-five years since anyone had called her Virulana. A hot flash came over her, making her pull away from the chair which felt like a burning red coil against her back. That nickname wouldn’t make any sense now that she had short, straight hair instead of the cascade of curls she was known for ages ago. She looked around for him, knowing that he had come into the room ahead of her. Now she knew not only where those blue eyes came from, but why she had thought the word Virulana sounded foreign to her. It was that way Pampa had of speaking with his mouth closed, which didn’t make his orders any less direct or respected. Virulana gave Pampa an enormous, trembling smile, and without realizing what she was doing, with an absurd gesture that came from her guts and certain regions of the past, from empty, dark rooms that she rarely visited, covered up the conference badge that revealed her real name. Then she left the auditorium knowing that Pampa would follow her. The cafeteria was nearly empty. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said. The emotion was real, but happiness was another matter. Survivors of a shipwreck, each of them rescued by boats from di¬erent remote countries without knowing if the other had made it to shore. Overloaded with the dead. Stella made an abrupt movement and spilled her Coke. As she tried to dry o¬ the table with some napkins, he put his hand on her shoulder to calm her down, and suggested that they move to another table. “You ironed your hair, Virulana,” he said. “No, it’s just that I used to perm it before,” she said. Stella half-closed her eyes for a second, trying to see through the veil of time, to restore to his kind and somewhat pu¬y face, with its crow’s feet around the eyes, the other face, the thin and anxious one that she kept in her memory. “You know, it’s funny,” he said, stroking the badge pinned to her lapel with his finger. “Really funny. Dossi. I always thought your last name would be Jewish.” How strange: to have known their bodies so well, and not their real names. Since he wasn’t wearing a badge, Stella began by asking him his name, who he was, where he lived, as if they had never kissed, as if they had never hugged 294

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each other, frightened, lying in some motel bed for hours, listening for footsteps and noises outside that seemed threatening to them, sounds of the police. When they meet many years later, people who once shared the same time and intimate space usually try to sum up everything that happened since they last saw each other. Virulana and Pampa, on the other hand, were much less interested in knowing what happened afterward, where they both ended up and how far they got, than in finding out what they were doing during that time when they risked everything together, forcing themselves to know as little as possible about each other. At times it was so hard, at times they had to pretend that they didn’t know someone who had been a lifelong friend, or that they knew an old friend by only his or her code name, or, as in their case, they had to try hard to ignore the many clues that would reveal the true identity of their lover. And so they talked in the cafeteria of that American university, which sheltered them with its easy and generous wealth, and at the same time, mocked them and the hates and hopes they had twenty-five years ago. Of course they avoided any recollection of those hates and hopes while they reminisced about their work and studies, their friends and families. They revealed their true old addresses, where neither of them lived anymore, and spoke about their parents, about their everyday secret lives that went on at the same time they attended political meetings to raise the consciousness of their neighbors, handing out flyers, collaborating on community tasks, ringing doorbells from house to house to meet, converse, and win over the ladies of the neighborhood. They didn’t mention those endless political meetings at which they argued and analyzed the orders they received from above, from some lofty, unreal place occupied by their leaders whom they always had to obey. They didn’t bring up how they organized themselves to march in protest, and learned how to handle, with fear and pride, the weapons they kept in the basement. They still hadn’t spoken about the memories they shared, opting instead to talk about that other area of their lives which they had never shared or known, which they had had to hide then as part of their political activism, which could have become forbidden and clandestine at any moment, as indeed it did. The cafeteria filled up. Panelists, audience members, and students carried trays laden with food that seemed tasteless and repulsive to Stella Maris Dossi or Virulana, but not to Pampa, otherwise known as Dr. Alejandro Mallet, who seemed accustomed to it after living in the States for so many years. Some ana maría shua

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other colleagues asked if they could share the table with them. Pampa served himself a huge amount of salad with cold pasta, adding a ladle full of a thick, white, slimy, lumpy substance that looked like it had been made from some petroleum derivative. “Blue cheese,” he remarked with an apologetic tone. “I love these dressings.” Who was Virulana to argue over the benefits and flavor of gringo salad dressings with the man who had been in charge of her unit? She used to like the contrast between Pampa’s blue eyes and his coal black hair; now the color looked washed out as it faded into his nearly white hair. Stella didn’t eat much. For some reason her hot flashes seemed to be strangely related to her digestive system. That night they went dancing with a group of colleagues, choosing a discotheque that played golden oldies from the sixties. Stella was in rare form as she danced to Chubby Checker’s “Twist and Shout” with a Canadian neurologist who specialized in myograms. She kicked o¬ her shoes so she could slide better in her stocking feet on the waxed floor. Thanks to her daily exercises to strengthen the quadriceps, she was able to execute the twist’s complex movements, going up and down slowly on tiptoes with her legs bent, rotating from side to side, in spite of the slight arthritis in her left kneecap. Her partner cheered her on but didn’t try it. She went back and sat down triumphantly, drenched in sweat, and Pampa kissed her on the neck all over. “Nice and salty,” he said. “Let’s go to the hotel.” “Tomorrow,” Stella suggested. “My wife’s coming tomorrow,” he said with a smile. They left without anyone noticing. The disco was closing soon anyway, and Stella reminded him with a bit of feigned astonishment that at one o’clock in Buenos Aires her children would just be getting dressed to go out, but that didn’t shock Pampa, who traveled to Argentina frequently. There was only one brief, awkward moment when he lay on top of her, and she felt the surge of a hot flash, as if a huge water bottle was covering her body. She had to restrain herself from kicking him o¬ as she usually did with the bedcovers, disturbing her husband, who would protest feebly and try to go back to sleep. Moving as discreetly as possible, she got him to change position and then everything slid into place with intensity. She was proud of that, of her passion, and of her breasts, which were still firm and strong. Proud also of her 296

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hands, her long fingers, and even more of the precision and power that her hands had acquired from the constant physical work her job demanded. She moaned a little at the end for him, and for herself. Afterward, they lay naked in the enormous bed, this time without smoking—but how could they forget the pleasure from smoking those strong black cigarettes together, and passing the cheap gin from mouth to mouth. She enjoyed the feeling of satisfaction that comes from good, hot sex. They talked some more about people and situations, each one of them providing di¬erent bits of information, as they tried to put back together that puzzle, the period of militancy and dictatorship, a time when it was only possible to know arbitrary fragments of reality, a puzzle that will always have missing pieces. They spoke about people and what happened to them, and tried to reconstruct the past, confessing everything that was possible to confess, remembering each of their friends one by one, and managing, between the two of them, to restore some of their lives or deaths. She wondered why Pampa didn’t mention his great friend and enemy from those days. They were always together and always at odds, ready to turn the most theoretical political issues into a dog fight. “Pampa and Tano,” Stella reminded him. “The enemy tribes are at it again, we used to say in the meetings.” They ordered a bottle of champagne from California—which turned out to be much better than she had anticipated—they drank it slowly, sipping it from the same glass, feeling guilty and, at the same time, happy to be alive. Pampa put the glass on the night stand and turned on the television with the remote control. “I like to watch TV without the sound,” he said. “I got used to it here, when I was a resident in the hospital.” “Tano always had rosy cheeks. Maybe he wasn’t that smart or that goodlooking, but there was something about him. He was a nice guy.” “Did you like him?” he asked, with his eyes glued to the set. On the screen a dog was barking in silence at an empty jar shaped like a biscuit. Stella remembered a bad Italian movie, a laboratory where they experimented on dogs, cutting their vocal chords so they wouldn’t bother the scientists with their howls of pain. “He was too young for me. He sort of stuttered, don’t you remember? He would get stuck on the ‘p’ in anti-imppppperialism. He didn’t have much of a future as a leftist!” ana maría shua

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“He really liked you,” Pampa said. “He was crazy about you. He really felt bad when you left.” “You’re kidding,” Stella smiled. “I think about Tano sometimes, what he must be doing now. I bet he’s a doctor too, but not the kind that sees patients. Maybe a health specialist in Patagonia, or something like that.” “He’s dead,” said Pampa, and started to get dressed. They were in Stella’s room. “Aren’t you going to spend the night?” Stella asked, pretending to be disappointed out of politeness, when she really felt like being alone so that she could reorganize the files of her memories that had been disturbed by the whirlwind of someone else’s recollections. Tano, just one more among so many faces and gestures frozen in time by the click of the camera in the eternal photograph of death. She didn’t want to know what had happened to him, whether they had taken him from his house or they had captured him in some confrontation, if someone had seen him for the last time in a camp for the disappeared, whether he had resisted or broken down under torture. She didn’t want to know, she wasn’t interested. “I’d rather be in my room,” Pampa apologized. “I don’t know what time my wife will get here.” But Tano wasn’t just one more. Without knowing why, Stella rebelled, or tried to rebel. It can’t be, she told herself, repeating over and over the first sentence people use to deny the one thing that is always true, the one common destiny of everything that is ever born. Stella didn’t want Tano to be dead. Maybe because of his rosy cheeks. It can’t be. Rumors come and go, they’re not all true, there were mix-ups, the same names and nicknames, mistakes or dubious information that was impossible to confirm. “Who told you that Tano died?” she asked. “How can you be sure?” “He was in a car accident, a few months after you left. No one used seat belts in Buenos Aires back then. He didn’t have to die.” Pampa put on his jacket, looked in the mirror and slowly began transforming into Dr. Alejandro Mallet again. He ran a hand over his face as if to erase or change his features. “Where did you hear that?” Stella insisted. “Did it happen in our neighborhood? Did you see it with your own eyes?” “Tanito was my younger brother. I can’t believe you didn’t know that,” said Pampa. “I was driving.” Then he stroked her hair, and gave her a kiss on the cheek and a card with 298

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his address and phone number in Louisville, Kentucky, and left, stepping quietly across the thickly padded carpet, almost without pain, as if caressing an old scar that still hurts on rainy days.

For Stella, the wound was smaller, not quite as deep, but recently opened. The spinal column must be accessed from the front. The instruments are inserted into the covered, anonymous body. Blood and fat. The platinum wires tie down the vertebrae. A slight sensation of nausea. Tano was no longer a health specialist anywhere in the world. He was still too young for that, forever young. He didn’t have to dye his dark, shiny hair, arthritis hadn’t deformed his young and perfect joints, he never had the chance to make concessions, to weaken, give in, and survive, to succeed professionally, he never lied or betrayed, or believed he was any better than he was. A nice, honest guy, Tano. Stella didn’t need to look in the mirror to see herself with those eyes, Tano’s eyes, eyes too young, innocent, and cruel. She saw the loose flesh of her arms and her sagging belly, hanging in a flabby fold over her pelvis, her sunken cheeks and double chin, the mascara smudged around her eyes, the wrinkles spreading out like dusty crevices in the thick layer of makeup. An old woman, dirty and ridiculous, still anxious to o¬er her overripe flesh, a soft, wrinkled peach someone forgot to put in the refrigerator. A matronly, menopausal, sweaty Wendy who sees the never-changing figure of Peter Pan enter her window one more time, and knows that he hasn’t come for her, that he doesn’t remember her and isn’t looking for her anymore. A Wendy on whom it makes no sense to waste fairy dust because she’s too heavy to fly away to the island of Never Never Land. For the first time, Stella Maris Dossi, successful physical therapist with her master’s degree in sports medicine, who, as a general rule, opposed procedures that removed, replaced, and secured, converting the flexible spinal column into a rigid structure, understood the absolute necessity of cushioning the contact between the damaged vertebrae with a spongy material, understood for the first time the great urgency of tying them down with platinum wire to keep them together, still, immobile, as if dead, without movement, without pain. Translated by Rhonda Dahl Buchanan

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Death as a Side Effect (Excerpt from La muerte como efecto secundario)

two That night the phone woke me, as if it were screaming. It was my father, and I called a cab to go to his house. To get there, I have to go through several dangerous blocks, but I feel safe riding in an armored car. Taxis are little forts on wheels, one of the few reliable institutions. Not many years ago, it was still possible to walk in the city. When we began seeing each other, I let myself imagine that sometime we’d walk together along the street. . . . Take a walk together—we could still do that if you like. Not only in the shopping centers or the gated communities: there are many walkadromes in the city, guarded places that simulate any neighborhood, where for a modest fee you can walk for as long as you like, wandering infinite landscapes—or limited ones—almost real. Almost. Like any of those synthetic substitutes that replace natural foods. Good for those who never tasted anything else, and for them, even better than the Real Thing. I’m growing old. My father’s voice on the telephone sounded terrified. three It wasn’t an easy decision. If Father had the surgery, his chances for survival were slim. It was unlikely that a man of his age could withstand such a serious operation. They’d have to cut out a piece of his intestine and make an artificial anus, a hole in the abdomen from which the shit would gush gently, pushed by the peristaltic contractions. If the piece they removed wasn’t long, and if everything turned out better than expected, a new surgical procedure could be performed soon after the first to join the two loose ends of the intestine together again, allowing my father to regain use of his sphincter. Even so, the recovery would be very long and he’d be laid up for quite a while. Once in the hospital, no one could keep him from being sent to a House. People live for a long time in the Recovery Houses, but no one ever recovers enough to leave them.

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The other option my father had was to die, bursting in his own feces. Ruling out surgery, he could allow the obstruction to advance, swelling the intestines with bits of poorly digested food, increasingly less digested, mixed with his epithelial cells, until the accumulated, fermented substance reached the stomach, provoking feculent vomiting, until a weak spot in the scarred intestinal wall erupted mercifully from the pressure of the gases, and the material oozing into the cavity produced a benevolent, deadly peritonitis. He had to choose between surgery, and consequently the House, or eruption, or suicide. The secret doctor pretended to console my mother. It’s not uncommon for these characters to work for the Recovery Houses also. What they earn in hard cash is not only their medical attention, but especially their silence, the courtesy of not disclosing an illness or handicap. Mother’s gaze was opaque and aloof. She’d always been like that, as if wrapped in a cloud that veiled her senses and her feelings, particularly pleasure and happiness, but also colors and, to some extent, reality. Nevertheless, it surprised me not to see her wring her hands in desperation or give in to the pain, the only sensation that kept her lucid. At that moment I wasn’t aware of what was happening. Cora should have filled me in. Recovery Houses. A logical name. Politically correct vocabulary is spreading throughout the world, exiling cruel truths from language in order to replace them with more tolerable synonyms for our humanitarian sensitivity. Why say what can be insinuated? I can still remember back when they used to call them asylums, and later geriatric centers and old-age homes, or simply rest homes, but of course they weren’t exactly the same as the Houses: they weren’t mandatory. The Houses are their own world within the world, a part of life no one knows much about until it’s his turn to enter it, like the way the two of us went about exploring the fleeting universe of forbidden love. My father’s face was contorted from pain. The intestinal contractions a¬ected the vagus nerve, causing him to su¬er not only pain, but also cold sweats, nausea, and fainting spells. He would choose suicide, of course, as we had discussed many times. Now the haggling would begin with his secret doctor: how much for a quick and pleasant death, how much for one that took a little longer, or was less painful, or in the long run, would it be better to throw himself over the balcony and die without paying a cent: in order to leave your

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mother in a better financial situation, he would say to me. I didn’t want to hear it, I wasn’t ready to handle it. Translated by Rhonda Dahl Buchanan

publications El sol y yo. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Pro, 1967. Soy paciente. Buenos Aires: Losada, 1980; reprint, Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1996. Los días de la pesca. Buenos Aires: Corregidor, 1981. La sueñera. Buenos Aires: Minotauro, 1984; reprint, Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 1996. Los amores de Laurita. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1984. La batalla entre los elefantes y los cocodrilos. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1988. Expedición al Amazonas. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1988. Viajando se conoce gente. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1988. La fábrica del terror. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1990. El marido argentino promedio. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1991. Casa de geishas. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1992. La puerta para salir del mundo. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1992. Risas y emociones de la cocina judía. Buenos Aires: Grupo Editorial Shalom, 1993. Cuentos judíos con fantasmas y demonios. Buenos Aires: Grupo Editorial Shalom, 1994. El libro de los recuerdos. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1994. El pueblo de los tontos. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1995. El tigre gente. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1995. Ani salva a la perra Laika. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1996. La muerte como efecto secundario. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1997. Sabiduría popular judía. Buenos Aires: Ameghino, 1997. Cabras, mujeres y mulas: Antología del odio/miedo a la mujer en la literatura popular. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1998. Como agua del manantial: Antología de la copla popular. Buenos Aires: Ameghino, 1998. Las cosas que odio y otras exageraciones. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 1998. La fábrica del Terror II. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1998. Historia de un cuento. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1998. Antología de amor apasionado. Ed. Ana María Shua and Alicia Steimberg. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 1999. Cuentos con magia. Buenos Aires: Ameghino, 1999. Cuentos con magia II. Buenos Aires: Ameghino, 1999. La valiente y la bella: Cuentos de amor y aventura. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 1999. Botánica del caos. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2000. 302

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Como una buena madre. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 2001. El libro del ingenio y la sabiduría, antología de cuento popular. Buenos Aires: Alfaguara, 2003. Libros prohibidos. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 2003. Cuentos judíos con fantasmas y demonios. Mexico City: Editorial Alfaguara, Quito, 2003. Los monstruos del Riachuelo. Quito: Editorial Alfaguara, 2004. El valiente y la bella. Quito: Editorial Alfaguara, 2004. Expedición al Amazonas. Seoul, Korea: Editorial Goodmother, 2004. Historias verdaderas. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2004. Temporada de fantasmas. Madrid: Editorial Páginas de Espuma, 2004. Temporada de fantasmas. Buenos Aires: Ed. Páginas de Espuma, 2004.

translations in english “Excerpts from Dream Time.” Trans. Regina Harrison. In Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992. “Fishing Days” and “Other/Other.” Trans. Mary G. Berg. In Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women of Argentina and Chile, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1992. “Family Chronicle.” Trans. Norman Thomas di Giovanni. In Hand-in-Hand Alongside the Tracks, ed. Norman Thomas di Giovanni. London: Constable Publishing House, 1992. “Ana María Shua—Short-Short Stories in Translation.” Trans. Gilbert Alter-Gilbert. World Letters (Iowa City) 7 (1996). “A Good Mother.” Trans. Dick Gerdes. The Massachusetts Review—Issue on the Hispanic Diaspora, ed. Ilan Stavans, vol. 37, no. 3 (Fall 1996). “A Profession Like Any Other.” Trans. Kathy Leonard. Puerto del sol (University of New Mexico) 31, no. 2 (1997). Patient. Trans. David William Foster. Discoveries Series. Pittsburgh, Pa.: Latin American Literary Review Press, 1997. “Twelve Short Short Stories by Ana María Shua.” Trans. Rhonda Dahl Buchanan. American Voice 44 (1997): 101–4. “Minor Surgery” and “A Profession Like Any Other.” Trans. Kathy Leonard. In Cruel Fictions, Cruel Realities: Short Stories by Latin American Women Writers. Pittsburgh, Pa.: Latin American Literary Review Press, 1997. “My Adventures at the Center of the Earth.” Trans. Mary Ann Newman. In Spotlights on Literacy—5th Grade. New York: McMillan-McGraw Hill, 1997. “A Good Mother.” Trans. Dick Gerdes. In Prospero’s Dream—A Translator’s Portfolio, ed. Ilan Stavans. Willimantic, Conn.: Curbstone Press, 1998. ana maría shua

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The Book of Memories. Trans. Dick Gerdes. Jewish Latin America Series. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998. “Almost Like America.” Trans. Dick Gerdes. In The House of Memory—Stories by Jewish Women Writers of Latin America, ed. Marjorie Agosín. New York: The Feminist Press, 1998. “Cuentos brevísimos/Short Short Stories by Ana María Shua.” Trans. Rhonda Dahl Buchanan. Confluencia 13, no. 2 (1998): 212–14. “Selection from House of Geishas by Ana María Shua.” Trans. David William Foster. The Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature 53, no. 1 (Spring 1999). “The Golem and the Rabbi I—V.” Trans. Rhonda Dahl Buchanan. In In Miriam’s Words: Jewish Women Poets of Latin America, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Santa Fe, N.M.: Sherman Asher Publishers, 2000. “The Spinal Column.” Trans. Rhonda Dahl Buchanan. South-West Review: Writers and Human Rights in Latin America, ed. Marjorie Agosín, vol. 85, no. 3 (2000).

other translations “Als een goede moeder.” Trans. Anke van Haastrecht. In Tegendraadse tango’s, ed. Bakker and Anke van Haastrecht. Amsterdam: Het Wereldvenster, 1989. “Histoire de famille.” Trans. Louis Jolicoeur. In Rencontres, ed. Marie-José Theriault. Montreal: Editions Sans Nome, 1989. “Wenn man reist, lernt man Leute kennen.” Trans. Ray-Güde Mertin. In Betonblumen, ed. Ray-Güde Mertin. Frankfurt: Fischer Verlag, 1992. Contos judaicos com fantasmas e demonios. Trans. Inés Noguera. São Paulo, Brazil: Shalom, 1994. Lauritas Liebschaften. Trans. Gunhild Neggestich. Wuppertal, Germany: Peter Hammer Verlag, 1992; Munich: Editoria Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1995. Sono Paziente. Trans. Giovanni Lorenzi. Zanzibar Series. Florence: Gruppo Editoriale Giunti, 1997. “Nastan Amerika” (from The Book of Memories). Trans. Goran Skogberg. In En färd mot vindens ansikte. Stockholm: Bok for Alla, 1998. “Buenos Aires, die Könignin ohne Krone.” Trans. Ray-Güde Mertin, ed. University of Stuttgart. Kultur Asutausch (Stuttgart), no. 49, year 2 (August 1999). A morte como efeito colateral. Trans. André de Oliveira Lima. São Paulo, Brazil: Editora Globo, 2004.

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Alicia Kozameh Alicia Kozameh is a striking woman with abundant, curly auburn hair that crowns her slender figure. Her large, wide eyes reflect both seriousness and vulnerability. She is a dual soul: a woman of great strength and conviction, and a woman wounded by the turmoil she still carries within. Alicia is frank, outspoken, and sincerely interested in others.

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Alicia Kozameh | The Author and Her Work Alicia Kozameh was born in 1953 in the city of Rosario, province of Santa Fe. Like Córdoba and La Plata, Rosario is one of the Argentine cities (other than Buenos Aires) that provide the best opportunities for higher education. Kozameh’s father, Enrique, was a banker of Lebanese and Greek Orthodox origin. Her mother’s family was Jewish, of Syrian origin. Raquel Ades de Kozameh converted to Catholicism in order to marry into her husband’s family. At this time anti-Semitism was prevalent, and the Kozameh family insisted on rearing Alicia as a Catholic. Her older sister Liliana su¬ered brain damage at childbirth and was severely handicapped. This created a dysfunctional atmosphere in her family life. Much of the sister’s care fell upon Alicia, who was four years her junior. Kozameh felt that her parents’ lack of understanding and support of her was due to their frustration with her sister’s condition. Kozameh’s mother was a housewife, and her father traveled from city to city working in various branches of the Banco de la Nación Argentina (National Bank of Argentina); therefore, Kozameh changed schools frequently. She attended Catholic high schools, and when she was a student at Nuestra Señora de la Misericordia (Our Lady of Mercy), she helped to close down the school as part of the political rebellion called the Rosariazo, a city-wide political manifestation against the government. This was the late 1960s, a time of political unrest and strained relations between the government and the leftist activists. Her sister died around this time, and Kozameh, who had endured both her sister’s hardships and her di~cult relationship with her parents, grew even more distant from her mother and father. She left her home at age seventeen and lived in a boarding house while studying at the Universidad Nacional de Rosario (National University of Rosario). She also began her involvement with politics and activism, which led to a lifelong search for justice and equality. In the early 1970s, while she studied philosophy and literature at the university, she became a member of the PRT, or Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores (Workers Revolutionary Party). Eventually, Kozameh became so involved in political activism that the PRT advised her to change her activity and hide, lest she be arrested and possibly murdered. In 1975 she was apprehended and jailed by the military regime and was kept in the infamous sótano (“basement”) of the Rosario Police Station for fourteen months. After that she was transferred to the prison of Villa Devoto, in Buenos Aires. Three years later, and due

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to the pressure of groups like Amnesty International, she was released from prison. Kozameh went into exile in California in 1980, where she took odd jobs such as house-cleaning to survive. She had always felt the need to write, and in California she made the time to write down her experiences. She published her first novel, Pasos bajo el agua (Steps under Water), in 1987. This work is a novel based on the three years and three months that she spent imprisoned during the military dictatorship. Here she aimed to go beyond a mere testimonial to create an intense work of fiction based on life experience. The protagonist is a woman by the name of Sara, yet the point of view fluctuates between first and third persons, and other voices are heard throughout the work, which includes diaries, letters, notes, and other forms of communication. The novel is political, but it also deals with relationships and loss both of friends and of a sense of self. Throughout the piece, the victimized protagonist gradually rediscovers her own body and identity. Kozameh is currently working on a film adaptation of this novel with Gastón Biraben, an Argentine director who lives in Los Angeles. Kozameh wrote her second novel, Patas de avestruz (Ostrich Legs), in 1989, but did not publish it in Spanish. A professor at the University of Graz in Austria read one of the chapters and o¬ered to translate the book. Thus it was published first in German in 1992. The original Spanish version was published in 2003 in Argentina. The topic of this novel is the relationship between two sisters, one healthy and one incapacitated. Kozameh draws from her own experiences with her sister to create a moving novel about love, hate, and the frustration of living in a family marred by anger and the distress of caring for a mentally and physically handicapped child. Kozameh’s third novel, titled 259 saltos, uno immortal (259 Leaps, One Immortal), was published in 2001 and portrays her experiences after her exile. It takes place in California and Mexico, where she lived for a brief time. In this novel she experiments with style. It is written in paragraphs that seem disconnected, though there is a thread of continuity that runs through the piece. It describes anecdotes, reflections, and characters that are woven loosely together throughout the work. The common denominator is the experience of exile, the feeling of estrangement, rupture, and sadness, as well as the excitement of the new adventure. She uses “Leaps” in the novel’s title because it reflects the emotional ups and downs experienced by people living in exile. Kozameh has published many of her stories in anthologies and journals 310

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both in the Americas and in Europe. Among those which have received awards are “Carta a Aubervillieres” (Letter to Aubervillieres), awarded the Crisis magazine prize in 1986, and “Vientos de rotación perpendicular” (Winds of Perpendicular Rotation), awarded the Historical Memory of Women in Latin America and the Caribbean 2000 prizes. This chapter presents her story “Bosquejo de alturas” (Impression of Heights), published in Hispamérica in 1994. This piece could have been a chapter in her first novel about her imprisonment. It takes place in the basement of the Rosario Police Headquarters, where thirty women prisoners are being held. There does not seem to be one particular protagonist; rather, the prisoners are seen as a collective, a mass of body parts, fears, and hunger. The story portrays both the anxiety of their situation as well as the humorous coping strategies they devise to stay alert and entertained. It is a testament to the will to survive and to the power that friendship and solidarity can provide in the direst conditions. Though these women are victims of the military regime, they find ways to empower themselves by creating games, teaching and learning opportunities, and humorous storytelling. In 2006, Kozameh co-edited an important collection of testimonial literature, drawings, and various types of texts written by women political prisoners of the Dirty War in Argentina. The book gives voices to numerous women victimized by the military regime, as evidenced in its title, Nosotras presas políticas: Obra colectiva de 112 prisioneras políticas entre 1974 y 1983 (We Political Prisoners: Collective Work of 112 Women Political Prisoners Between 1974 and 1983). Kozameh is finishing a fourth novel with the working title of Cantata about the experience of belonging to di¬erent types of groups. Here she continues to develop her interest in group psychology and loyalty. She lives with her daughter Sara Julia in Los Angeles, California, where she teaches Spanish language and creative writing. She remains actively involved in Amnesty International, as well as other human-rights organizations.

Conversation with Alicia Kozameh Gwendolyn Díaz: Alicia, tell me about your parents and your childhood. In what kind of a home were you reared? What experiences did you have as a child that contributed to who you are today as a woman and a writer? Alicia Kozameh: My parents were children of immigrants from the Middle East. My father’s family was Greek Orthodox from Lebanon. My mother’s family was from Syria, and they were Jewish. My parents met in Rosario, alicia kozameh

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fell in love, and were forced to elope because of the family’s religious di¬erences. My father, Enrique Kozameh, was a banker who worked in many di¬erent branches of the Banco de la Nación Argentina (National Bank of Argentina), the reason for our frequent moves. My mother, Raquel Ades, was a housewife married to a man who was a machista (male chauvinist) and was very much subjected to him and his control. I had a sister four years older than me who was born with her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck; she nearly su¬ocated at birth. She remained mentally and physically handicapped for the rest of her life, which caused great problems in our family life. To answer your question directly, my family was dysfunctional. Anger and disappointment clouded our lives. My father became aggressively abusive toward me. My mother never came to my defense. She took my father’s side and also felt great resentment because of my sister’s situation. Often the care of my sister fell upon me. I had a love/hate relationship with Liliana. I loved her, but also felt burdened by my role as her caretaker when I was still so young. She died at age twentyone, when I was seventeen, and shortly thereafter, I left home. gd: How did your relationship with your parents a¬ect you? In what ways were you shaped by it? ak: I was deeply marked by my family situation. There is no way to escape our childhood circumstances, particularly when they are so di~cult and we are impressionable young children. gd: How did you cope with those di~cult circumstances? Did you have a surrogate parent figure you could turn to? ak: No, there was no surrogate parent figure in my life, though I did often find a¬ection from the house domestic. The way I coped was by writing. I escaped into my notebook, a safe place where I could hide and create a di¬erent reality for myself. I learned to write and began writing when I was only four. I suppose I started that young because I needed a refuge away from the daily chaos of our life. I did later attempt to reconcile with my parents, but it was not possible. As a result, my closest relationships have always been my friends. To me, friendship is a fundamental aspect of life. Perhaps that is why I became so involved with my activist friends and the cause that brought us together. With them I found a camaraderie and closeness I had not experienced with my family. gd: What schools did you attend? What was your elementary and high-school experience like? 312

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ak: I attended many di¬erent elementary schools because my father’s work took us from town to town. My high-school experience was similar. I attended Catholic schools for girls as a boarder. My parents wanted to hide my Jewish ancestry and attempted to cover it up by placing me in Catholic schools and making me take the First Communion and other sacraments. While attending Nuestra Señora de la Misericordia School (Our Lady of Mercy) in Rosario I became involved with the Rosariazo, a city-wide political demonstration against the economic and social injustices of the government. My classmates and I managed to shut down the school. This was in the sixties, the time of the surge of leftist ideology in Latin America, the revolutionary changes in Cuba, and the murder of Che Guevara. gd: Alicia, how did you become part of the revolutionary movement of Argentina at that time? What led you to take this path? ak: There are many things in my life that a¬ected the direction I took. My problems at home with my father’s aggressiveness and my mother’s disappointment, as well as my sister’s condition, were a big part of my search for justice. The ideals of the left regarding the “New Man” and a new, more equitable world resounded deeply within me. There were also smaller yet still significant events that I still recall as formative—for instance, the way in which my parents treated the woman who did the domestic chores in our house. They did not necessarily treat her rudely, yet they did not o¬er her the respect that they gave those they viewed as equals, like their friends. I recall that frequently, at dinner, when my father wanted to punish me, he would do so by sending me to eat in the kitchen with the domestic. He understood this as a form of belittling me. However, to me it was not a punishment. I preferred to eat with her because she gave me more a¬ection than anyone else in the family. Eventually I came to feel that it was important to better the plight of working-class people, and as I began to read philosophy and Marx, I decided to get connected with the Partido (Party). gd: What political party did you belong to? In what ways did you participate in the party and its mission? ak: I belonged to the PRT, or Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores. I first learned about them when I was just sixteen. By the time I went to the University of Rosario, I was an active member of the party. Between 1973 and 1975 I studied philosophy and literature and was a militant for the PRT. We were organized in cells, and my front was the university. I studied, went to the party meetings, participated in demonstrations, and also bealicia kozameh

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came active in the workers’ front. After almost two years of this, I had to change my realm of activity within the party. My own party members told me I should pull out because I had been so active that I had become a risk. They feared that if I did not retreat, I would be captured or murdered. gd: Shortly thereafter, you were indeed arrested. How did this happen and why? ak: I was living with my partner, and one day while he was gone a group of nine men came to look for me. Two were from the Federal Police and the others from a paramilitary enforcement group that eventually became the infamous AAA (Argentine Anticommunist Alliance). They questioned me, beat me, and then told me they had killed my partner. They arrested me on the grounds that I was a member of the PRT and imprisoned me in the sótano, the basement of the police department where they kept the female prisoners. Soon I learned that my partner was still alive. I was held captive there, in a small group cell with thirty other women, for over a year. Later, I was sent to another prison in Villa Devoto, in the capital city of Buenos Aires. gd: Did you undergo a trial? Of what were you accused? ak: Yes, they tried me. I was accused of being a militant in the subversive PRT. However, they were not able to prove that I was guilty. They kept me in prison anyway, but there was a record of my trial and of the outcome, something that eventually would work in my favor. Six months after my arrest, the 1976 military coup that installed General Videla took place, and a state of siege was declared. The repression became even more organized, and Argentina fell into what would become in essence a seven-year civil war. The military government called this period the Proceso de Reorganización Nacional (Process of National Reorganization), but outside of the country it was called the Dirty War. During these years, the most outrageous human-rights violations took place. We coined a new word, the desaparecidos (disappeared persons), citizens that were tortured and murdered because of their opposition to the government. gd: Why did they not release you after your trial failed to prove you guilty? ak: Because there was a decree called the PEN (Poder Ejecutivo Nacional, National Executive Power) that gave the government in state of siege the power to hold captive people whom they considered to be subversive. gd: Why were you eventually moved to the prison in Villa Devoto? ak: Because that was where they moved all the female prisoners that were go314

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ing to be spared. They could not kill us or “disappear” us because we were prisoners with a record, unlike those who were arrested secretly after the coup. There was a record of our arrest, thus we could not “disappear.” There was paperwork on us, and our names were circulating all over the world on lists of human-rights organizations like Amnesty International and the Red Cross. gd: Did you and the other prisoners know that you would be spared? ak: No, we did not know that for sure. In some cases someone among us would be taken from the cell and never returned; some were murdered anyway. There were no assurances during those dark times. ak: When and how were you finally released? gd: I was released on December 24, 1978, three years and three months after I had been imprisoned. They used to set free groups of us for certain special occasions due to the immense international pressure. My occasion was Christmas Eve. I was let go under what was called Libertad condicional (Conditional Freedom), a type of probation during which I had to report daily and later weekly to the police department. Many months later, they still continued to spy on me and follow me. gd: Did you become politically active again? ak: No, things had changed a lot in those years, many people had died, and the situation was no longer what it had been. I did, however, get together with my prisonmates who had been released. To this day, the bond of solidarity that unites us is as strong as ever. Those years and those people defined who I am now. I often wonder what my life would have been like had I not experienced such an unhappy childhood, had I not become a prisoner. Perhaps things would have been very di¬erent for me, but I do not regret the past. gd: Why did you leave the country? Were you forced to go into exile? ak: Yes, the police kept track of me constantly, and they told me it was in my best interest to leave the country. However, the state department delayed the processing of my passport, and I could not get out without it. Finally, after eight di~cult months of persistence, I was issued my passport and decided to move to California. I had some contacts in Los Angeles who helped me, a group of exiled Argentines who belonged to an organization called Comité por la democracia en Argentina (Committee for Democracy in Argentina). With their help I was able to leave the country in 1980 and get established in Los Angeles. alicia kozameh

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gd: What did you do once you arrived in Los Angeles? ak: I took work as a maid with a family in Pasadena for a year. The woman that I worked for soon noticed that I was not the typical domestic. She asked me about my past, and I told her about it, as well as my intention to become an established writer. She was very supportive of me. She placed a typewriter in my room and encouraged me to write. Many years later, when my novel was published in English, this wonderful family attended the book signing. gd: Did you ever see any of your fellow prisoners in California? ak: Yes, shortly after I was released from prison, my partner was released also, and he joined me in California. Six years after we had been separated by the military regime, we were reunited in Los Angeles and got married. The marriage did not last long because we had changed a lot in those six years. But we both felt a certain satisfaction for being able to reestablish a relationship that had been so abruptly severed. gd: What role has writing played in your life? You talked about it being a refuge for you when you were a child. Did you write while you were at the university and in prison? ak: Writing has always been a big part of my life. As a child, my notebooks were my most important possession. When I went to the university and became involved in politics, I really did not have much time to write because we were so active in the cause. The ideologues of the Left felt that writing and other forms of art were bourgeois occupations and encouraged us to act rather than to write. We were expected to identify with the proletariat rather than engage in producing art. I argued these views within the party in defense of writing, but nevertheless, we did not have time for it. When I was in prison in the sótano, I wrote forty poems and was able to smuggle them out in the insole of a pair of sandals that I gave my mother during one of her infrequent visits. I was not able to write any more because we were not allowed to have any paper. There were times when the only thing they gave us was bread and water. While I was in Villa Devoto I was able to write two notebooks full of memories. We wrote in tiny letters because we did not know whether or not we would be given another notebook. gd: Let’s talk about your novels. When did you write your first novel? ak: I began writing fiction soon after moving to Los Angeles. I wrote a novel that I never published about a utopia where the revolution had succeeded. Then I began work on Pasos bajo el agua (Steps under Water), the novel 316

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based on the experiences during my imprisonment and exile. There are times in our lives of great productivity, and this was my time. I began writing Pasos in 1983, and that same year I became pregnant with my daughter Sara Julia, whom I named after the character of Sara in the novel. This work delineates the itinerary of my exile. I began writing it in Los Angeles, and I continued working on it during the two years I lived in Mexico and after I returned to Buenos Aires, where it was published in 1987. gd: Why did you return to Argentina, and why did you end up leaving again? ak: I was involved in a relationship with an Argentine writer, and I had hoped that I could make a life for myself and Sara in my homeland. Pasos was published by Contrapunto, a publishing house that was publishing many of the works written by Argentine political exiles such as Juan Gelman, David Viñas, and others. The day that we celebrated the presentation of my novel was a bittersweet day for me. The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo were there, and the presentation became an event that celebrated freedom of speech and democracy in Argentina after years of censorship. But, that very day I found out that the repressive political organisms of the past were not quite extinct yet. As I left the event and was walking home with my fouryear-old daughter, I was approached by two men who stopped me and threatened to kill me and my daughter if I did not stop publishing garbage and leave the country. As soon as I could, I returned to Los Angeles with my little daughter. gd: Pasos bajo el agua chronicles to some extent your experiences. But it is not strictly an autobiographical novel. Its form and structure merit attention, and many of the situations you narrate are fictionalized. How would you characterize this novel? ak: The novel has a circular structure. It begins on the day that the protagonist is released from prison and returns to her parents’ home. The last chapter is the moment in which the women prisoners are leaving the Devoto prison where they had been held captive. So the last chapter of the book connects to the first one, where the protagonist goes back to her parents’ home. The novel skips back and forth between episodes that take place in both the sótano of the Rosario Police Station and the Devoto prison, where several dozen women prisoners coexisted under dire conditions. Basically it is a work of fiction based on my experiences as a political prisoner. The novel describes episodes that reflect the state of siege and repression during the military dictatorship of Argentina, the hopes and fears alicia kozameh

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of these women prisoners, the mass mentality that emerged within the group, the fear, anxiety, hunger, and dread they experienced, as well as the bond of solidarity felt by people who have shared moments of extreme existential meaning. gd: This novel has many things in common with your short story “Bosquejo de alturas” (Impression of Heights), included here. Where do you place this story vis-à-vis the novel? ak: “Bosquejo de alturas” could have very well been another chapter of this novel. But I chose to publish it separately because it was conceived as a short story. gd: One of the things that strikes me the most about “Bosquejo de alturas” is the sense of a mass protagonist. There are some thirty female characters in the sótano prison, each with their own distinctive names, pains, and fears, but the story gives us the sense that they are a collective. The narrative voice speaks of “thirty pairs of eyes staring” and “sixty arms reaching.” There is a sense of collective experience that is reinforced by such wording. ak: Yes, that is precisely what I had wanted to achieve. We were all individuals, but under those circumstances, we were also all one, one mass of women undergoing extreme conditions, supporting each other and helping each other to the best of our abilities. The pain of one was the pain of all; the joy of one was the joy of all. Also, there were thirty of us crowded into a very small space for over a year. There wasn’t very much room, and our sense of boundaries became defused to the point where what happened to one a¬ected all of us. gd: Another curious aspect of this story is that in the midst of so much fear and dread, these women are able to rise above their conditions and find ways to entertain themselves, and even find humor and joy at times. ak: Humor is often a defense mechanism that surfaces in extreme situations like this one, so yes, there was laughter. The joy we felt sometimes was the joy of knowing we were there for a reason, to further a cause that was worthy. No matter how afraid we were, how hungry we were, how poorly we were treated, our human spirit was not beaten down, and this gave us a sense of power even under those conditions. We found ways to entertain each other, and we taught each other the skills and knowledge we had. Some of us knew a language, others knew about history, and others about science. These little seminars kept us intellectually as well as spiritually alive. 318

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gd: You speak of a sense of power. How is it that you could feel a sense of power while you were in prison? ak: There is a big di¬erence between common prisoners and political prisoners. Political prisoners, particularly the political prisoners of Argentina in the 1970s, had great ideological convictions. We were willing to give our lives for others and for the future of our country. We carried within us the strength of our convictions. The title “Heights” alludes to the moral height of our convictions. We felt a tremendous amount of solidarity in the struggle for the cause to bring justice to our country and to create a better world. This translates into the power of conviction and the strength to endure in the face of danger. gd: There was power in your solidarity as well. Were there ever any episodes when you attempted to save each other from torture or death? ak: Yes, I recall one instance when the guards came to search our bunks to see if they could find any illegal items. We had all been transferred to di¬erent quarters, but they kept two of us as hostages while they searched the basement. In case anything was found, those two were to pay for the rest of us. Well, they did find illegal items—needles, ballpoint-pen refills, and objects we had whittled from bone. So they took the two hostages away. We then orchestrated a big fuss about our missing companions. For days we screamed and yelled for them to bring them back. We made it clear that if they did not return them, we would make it known, through our screams in the populated sector of town where we were held, that they had murdered two legal prisoners with a record, who were thus not easy to be “disappeared.” After several days they were returned to the cell, having undergone beatings and interrogations. Nevertheless, they were alive and spared because of the turmoil we caused. gd: Did you witness or su¬er torture yourself ? ak: The torture that we su¬ered was psychological. We never knew if we would ever get out or what would become of us. We were fed extremely poorly and were not granted even the bare necessities. Also, we were sometimes beaten and slapped around. However, across the street from where we were located was the branch of the police station where they kept the subversives without a record, most of whom eventually became desaparecidos. We could hear their cries and screams of pain as they were tortured. Witnessing those sounds day and night was another form of torture. gd: How fortunate you are to have survived and to have had the opportunity alicia kozameh

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to write about what happened. In your next novel you deal with a di¬erent topic, your family. Patas de avestruz (Ostrich Legs) was published in German first. Why is that the case? ak: I published a chapter of the novel in the Argentine magazine Fin de siglo, where Erna Pfei¬er, a Spanish professor from Germany, found and read it. She then called me and asked for permission to translate and publish it. The publishing house that published her anthology also translated and published the entire novel in 1999 with the title of Straussenbeine. Patas de avestruz did not come out in Spanish until 2003, published by Alción in Argentina. gd: Why is the novel titled Ostrich Legs? ak: The novel, about two sisters, is based on my relationship with my own sister, Liliana. In the novel, as in real life, one sister is normal and the other is handicapped. The invalid has very skinny legs and knobby knees, which makes her think of the legs of an ostrich. They live with dysfunctional parents who present more obstacles to them than support. Here, through fiction, I am able to deal with the demons of my past, my parents, and the heart-breaking situation of my sister. I came to the conclusion this was an unresolved issue for me when my daughter Sara was born. Like my sister, Sara was a dependent and needed my care, but unlike my sister, she was a perfectly normal and healthy infant. When I realized that I kept calling my daughter by my sister’s name, I decided to purge myself of this painful past experience in order to allow my daughter to grow up free from this unhealthy association with my sister. gd: Your third novel, 259 saltos, uno mortal (Exile in 259 Leaps), deals with political exile, drawing from your life as an exiled Argentine in Los Angeles. How would you describe this work? ak: The novel traces the trajectory of exile in both Los Angeles and Mexico, as well as my eventual return to Argentina and decision to settle in Los Angeles. Like the others, it is a work of fiction based on my own experiences as a woman who had to flee her native land and make a life for herself in a new and very di¬erent country. It is quite painful to tear oneself away from the views and country to which we are tied. It is also di~cult to make a place for oneself in a society about which we know little or nothing. The exiled person drags along with her the pain and the wounds left behind, and confronts new fears and new challenges. This novel consists of anecdotes, reflections, and narratives that are strung together through the nar320

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rative voice and the recurring characters. It jumps and skips from one topic to another because that is how I experienced exile, as a chaotic flux of emotions. I jump from one emotion to another, from one fear and one hope to another. Each of the 259 fragments of the novel is numbered, thus I titled it Exile in 259 Leaps. gd: I would like for you to speak more about your writing style and your creative process. Are they related, and how would you describe them? ak: I cannot say that writing is a pleasurable experience for me. On the contrary, it is a painful experience. When I write, I submerge myself in a past that was very dark and frightening for the most part. So the writing process makes me relive many unpleasant situations. Sometimes the writing process puts me in an obsessive state, and I feel that I get lost in the writing and that nothing else around me exists. gd: How does this translate into the style of your works? ak: I believe there is a direct relationship between the feelings I experience when I write and the style of my work. My writing is not linear, nor does it necessarily sustain a constant point of view. Rather, it is a narrative that switches points of view, jumping from first to third persons or reflecting a mass point of view. Another characteristic is that the narrative does not follow a chronological flow of time. Instead, it jumps back and forth between present, past, and future, creating a sense of atemporality where all times coexist. gd: One could say that your work fits well within a definition of postmodern fiction because of the temporal and spatial dislocations, the multiple points of view, the questioning of authority, and the strong political intent. ak: Yes, I would feel comfortable saying that my work has those characteristics. But they are not premeditated. I write this way because this is how I feel and think when I relive and remember those experiences. gd: Do you consider yourself a feminist? Does your work reflect feminists’ views? ak: More than a feminist, I consider myself an “equalist” because of my belief that men and women are equal. To me, feminism is a matter of priorities, and in Latin America there are problems that are greater than female inequality. The problems we fought to overcome in Argentina were the problems of the people: hunger, unemployment, and exploitation. Feminism was not on the top of the list. It became more significant an issue in the United States and in Europe, where such basic needs as nourishment had alicia kozameh

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been overcome. However, in my personal case, I have always been a very independent woman. Perhaps my relationship with my father drove me to develop a sense of self-su~ciency rather than reliance on a man. At the same time, the life-and-death camaraderie I experienced with my fellow female prisoners was so great that to this day and after two marriages, my closest relationships have been with my women friends. Though the feminist perspective is not something I consciously develop in my work, it does appear as a backdrop in the sense that the women I portray are strong and purposeful women of action. gd: Alicia, what are you writing about now? ak: I am writing a novel with the working title of Cantata. It has to do with the way people come together in groups. Again there is this sense of a mass protagonist and a common voice and view. Within the work, these di¬erent groups of people interact with each other in strange and interesting ways. The novel deals with concepts like identity and belonging. gd: This topic of group identity continues to surface as one of your main interests. ak: Yes, I suppose so. Ultimately, we are what we have experienced. Some of my most extreme experiences have been in groups and have had a profound e¬ect on the person that I am today. The fact that we are social and political beings is not new. To belong to a group or groups that have a particular identity is common to most of humanity, and what binds the group together is solidarity. I know which groups I belong to, and I know clearly that without solidarity, those of us in the prison group would never have survived. As long as I have creative energy, I will be writing about these essential experiences.

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Impression of Heights To Rubén Aizcorbe, who walked along the streets of Rosario, still alive, in the winter of 1975

Flashes, explosions, activated in hidden zones. No question of trying to find them in a blue sky, or even blended with the reds and purples of certain sunsets. Only in basements. In spaces where the air is dark, and so thick that it transmits waves of creaking, the sound of boots. Of big shoes banging against the floor above. Above heads here, heads there: heads and fingertips. That give o¬ light. So many fingers and heads in random motion, often scarcely discernible, exchanging sparks. From their cerebral lobes and ridges they emit a kind of clarity, radiating through their scalp and nails, illuminating them and keeping them nourished in silence. Thirty heads, at least. And all without genetic defects. Six hundred digits. Three hundred fingers and three hundred toes. The outline of all the heads, the hair, is feminine. In other words: thirty women vibrating and communicating, jostling within a confine of inviolable space, like corpuscles in a blood vessel. And one hundred twenty extremities. Sixty arms and sixty legs. Not one spare arm, not a single tail. Darker or lighter complexions. It’s impossible to discern any di¬erences. In truth, there are no di¬erences. Or perhaps they don’t matter. No one can exceed limits; no one can express more than what the expressions of the others will allow. There are certain confines imposed by external circumstances and proportions that are determined by mutual agreement. One must respect the condition that unites them: that of being alive. There are flashes. They’re the glances that cross within that space. They’re a few words. Of understanding. Of disagreement. They brush against each other, rub together in the air. They produce light. Pupils dilate and see one another. They see and discover one another trying to move, to look at each other. Their movement provokes laughter. The sparks are joined by sounds. They laugh, stifle their laughter and release it, remembering the boundaries. They grow silent.

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The air is a mass of thoughts bursting through all the orifices of all the bodies, clogging them. There are rough surfaces. Concrete. The concrete of an empty cell. Perfect for polishing bone. Scrape, scrape. The white powder residue vaporizes, seems to disappear. But how? How? The whole piece, rubbed and rubbed by the swollen, inflamed hand, is transformed into a ring. A key ring, a pendant. A needle and some saliva, the acid of the saliva and the movement of the needle giving shape to flower petals, to the beak of a tiny bird trying to take flight from the ring, to the folded hands that, together, don’t even measure a quarter of an inch. For someone with slender fingers. Like Chana. There are rough surfaces. The concrete of the cell. Or of skin. Skin, as it becomes in basements. The sound of metal. Gates pounding against the damp wall. The guard, piercing the entrance to the pavilion with her nose and teeth with all her angles, with nose and teeth, shouting: Scraping bones against the concrete is strictly forbidden, and you all know it. And again the sound of metal. And the clank of the lock. Susana stands next to the gate without making a sound. She just curls the left side of her upper lip and half closes her eyes. She turns and walks toward the cell. With the bone in her hand, she scrapes and scrapes. The skin from her fingers peels o¬, mixing with the white powder that fills the air. Skin. The epidermis and all those pores. To let in . . . what? To keep out what? Thirty skins. Thirty textures. And hair sprouting from many of the pores. So much hair everywhere. And just one tweezers, stored with the rest of the treasures: the transistor radio, the wristwatch, three ballpoint-pen refills, and two sewing needles, beneath the loose tile in the bathroom. A job that took them more than a month: lifting up the tile and hollowing out the cement below. There are glimmers. Not from the needles hidden beneath the tiles, but from the few words that dash from mouth to ear. Sixty ears, thirty mouths. From one to the other. Sounds that mean Susana, don’t make so much noise. Glimmers that might be words, or the energy of a cockroach scurrying into its hole. Or the sound of Maura’s breathing, so vigorous despite her old age and her bad temper. Her hard, tense flesh. Her thick, tense hair; her solid, tense irises. Her ashtrays and plates, made of molded white rice, of the rice they served as a sort of lunch some three months ago when they still gave them real food, and

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whose remains she appropriated in order to amuse herself, to create a task for herself, a tough task. Tense. Dried-out, white ashtrays, piled under her bed. Glimmers that might be the energy of a cockroach trying to crawl back into its hole, or the sound of Maura’s breathing. Maura breathes. And Griselda breathes, focusing on a single point in space, in the darkness of space, the various strands of her imagination and memory that allow her to reconstruct the pages of Grande Sertão: Veredas, its episodes and metaphors—they all need metaphor so desperately—for tomorrow’s two o’clock meeting. Tomorrow it’s Griselda’s turn to reconstruct for the others a novel read in freedom. And, if Griselda’s information su~ces, Andrea will then write it down on five little cigarette papers, in minuscule letters, using one of the treasured ballpoint-pen refills. And twenty are reserved for the Anti-Düring. That’s Dora’s job. There are fewer and fewer cigarette papers left, but the library continues to grow. And Liliana, an expert by now after so many e¬orts, will make the vaginal insert. Impermeable, wrapped in layers of plastic from some bag dating from the time when they still let them receive food. Sealed with a burning cigarette. And in it goes, menstruating or not. Until now they’ve managed to avoid having fingers stuck in their crevices. Everything stored via vagina has been saved. And the library is indispensable. It contains their thoughts. Their intellectual wealth. Their apprenticeship. The teachings of one to another. The interchange. Their reason for resisting. The library confirms the existence of all of them. Of each one. Maura is so healthy at sixty-five. And so tough. Flashes of light. There are certain flashes. From the eyes of twenty-eight of the thirty heads. Growing smaller. Growing dimmer. Until the next day. Two of them, alert. Two every two hours. It’s important to stand watch so the majority can rest. It’s important to capture the movements on the upper floor. People come in. People go out. Sounds emerge. Cries of pain. Laughter. Music. Swearing. It’s important to try to anticipate whatever the ones walking upstairs may decide to do to the women’s bodies. It’s important to guard the guards. Later, a long silence. Berta and Mónica at the watchpost, waiting. Nothing. Nothing to interpret. For the last forty minutes, apparently nothing to decipher for the rest.

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And now, creaking. A metallic shriek. Two female heads turn to look. It’s coming from inside. It’s Beatriz, bouncing on the woven metal strips, trying to stand up from the pit of the upper bunk. And jumping down. Beatriz, going to pee. With her small steps. Slowly. In order to avoid a reaction from the soldiers who, from above, from outside, aim their rifles at them through the bars of the little basement windows. She opens the door halfway. She goes into the bathroom. She returns quickly. She waves at Berta and Mónica, who wave back. Nothing new. She rests her foot on the edge of the lower bunk. Unintentionally, she wakes Silvia. She jumps. And lands in the pit of woven metal. Silvia turns from side to side, sinking into her own depths. She feels pressure on her bladder. She feels the rocking of her cot, caused by Beatriz’s return, and she feels pressure on her bladder. She pokes her feet out. She walks slowly, with long strides, more on toes than on heels. She half-opens the bathroom door. She emerges very quickly. She rivets her wide-open eyes on Berta and Mónica. They shake their heads no. She reaches her bunk. She leans on the edge, climbs in, draws the sheet over herself. This jostles Beatriz a little. Where is happiness? Happiness. Where? A reflection. Of light, perhaps. Or a mirror. Zipping by at superhuman speed. Passing straight through the spaces still remaining between each one and the next. Through the distances found between certain sounds, certain words, and others, between a gesture and the expression that completes it. A reflection. Of light, perhaps. In which they see their own faces, their own eyelashes protecting their eyes, their own teeth. Zipping by. Their own eyelids and foreheads spinning at immeasurable speed. But they are trained to act swiftly, and they manage to greet each other and smile. And greet each other yet again. They see each other, speak, thread together conversations. Or perhaps they fail to recognize each other. Or they interrogate each other and give one another answers. Or merely observe one another ecstatically for as long as happiness may last. But they expect nothing. Happiness is part of whatever may come, without expecting it. It has to be there. It must. Someone is unfurling the sheet. Four hands, two at each end, stretch it and hang it from the edge of the bunks, securing it between the mattress and the metal. This will be the curtain, the backdrop for the stage. More than twenty heads strain to look up, trying to comprehend this prep326

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aratory activity. The cry No peeking! rings through the air, causing peals of laughter. And more laughter. Laughter that remains suspended above its own axis, in a circle, creeping into the interstices like smoke, awaiting the arrival of the next outburst. Fingers appearing from behind the curtain announce that it’s show time, and, as the voices and sounds continue, a Praetorian Guard slips out from behind the curtain, demanding silence. Heads send flashes back and forth, eyes blink open and shut excitedly. How’d they do it, where did they get all that aluminum foil from, how did they make the sandals, and the Praetorian Guard, brandishing a broom for a lance, replies, From the cigarette packs left over from last year. But if next Friday’s theater group is planning to try the same technique, they’re out of luck: we used them all up. And the audience shouting, Shut up, Praetorian, or we’ll confiscate your aluminum foil right now. Let’s get started! And Cleopatra. Insinuating half her body out and rolling in the towels that serve as a carpet, emerging from the tangle and stretching against the floor of broken, black tiles, draped in someone’s nightgown—maybe Maura’s, it’s so huge. Arching her brows and curling her lip, Cleopatra, regarding her public seated all around her and dangling their legs from the upper bunks, shoots them a glance no doubt very much like those the Egyptian queen arrogantly directed at her subjects. Of course. And Julius Caesar, wrapped in another sheet, bursting onstage shouting, Cleo, Cleo, the light of your violet eyes . . . and from the audience, The one with violet eyes is Liz Taylor, you idiot, and someone else, Well, it’s the same thing. Laughter. And Julius Caesar, replying from the stage, What do you mean, it’s the same thing? Please, don’t insult my queen. And the queen, assuming her role, arching her left eyebrow, a sign to which the Praetorian Guard responds by turning his lance upside down and sweeping the floor. Julius Caesar is a dirty old man—bring out Marc Anthony. Isn’t Marc Anthony back there somewhere? Go, Marc, Marky! And Marc Anthony emerging from backstage, wrapped in yet another sheet, his arms raised toward the people acclaiming him, and bursts of laughter lodging in the spaces left between them by the words This is my people, the people I fight for, the ones who justify me, as Cleopatra can’t stifle the tears of mirth welling up in her throat, and the audience from their bunks shouting, That’s it, go for it, Cleo, pick Marky! And Cleopatra: But the carpet was meant for Julius, and this one here just shows up and sticks his nose in, and more laughter, and the gate of the pavilion suddenly flings open. It flings opens, and three light automatic weapons, held by three unialicia kozameh

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formed soldiers flanked by two female guards, invade the room, aiming at Cleopatra and Marc Anthony’s verbosity. Hand over the sheet, they yell, and silence pierces the air. Julius Caesar asks, Which one? Mine, Marc Anthony’s, or the curtain? And peals of laughter again, and the women in the audience, What do you want the sheet for, Guard? The soldier sputtering, Ladies, don’t forget you’re prisoners. And you know very well that theater productions are not allowed down here. Hand over the sheet. Cleopatra ventures, If you want it, come and get it yourselves. And the barrels of the rifles hooking the white cloth, yanking it, pulling it. And the soldiers with their guards, backing out, carrying their trophy aloft, their banner. Exeunt rear. And the clank of the lock. And Andrea, from the back of the prison ward, tearing her bed apart and exchanging flashes of light with so many other eyes. Here comes another sheet, hands stretching it, rebuilding the set. The wall and the dampness of the wall, crossed by trampled electrical wires from who knows how many years ago, transmitting current to shoulders and heads, leaning against it. Heads illuminating the wall with their eyes, eyes shifting, seeking the origin of each movement. Of each sound. It’s Flor. Scratching herself. Flor, irritating the psoriasis on her legs with her short nails, full of unpredictable skin. White. Stop scratching, a shrill voice, you’re pulling o¬ pieces of skin. Verónica examines Flor’s hand motions, and repeats in a professional tone, Rub it with the palm of your hand, or splash water on it. Flor turns away with indi¬erent cheekbones and obeys. She rubs herself with the palm of her hand. She walks slowly to the bathroom and splashes water on herself. Claudia extends her arms from the bunks at the back of the prison ward, from the news corner, and calls out. All the tense foreheads turn toward her. Two of them go over and return to inform the rest. “Three criminal subversives were overcome by combined army and police forces in a regular maneuver carried out at dawn yesterday. When those executing the order attempted to subdue the occupants of the dwelling located at 126 Uriarte Street, among whom was a young woman several months pregnant, they returned fire, resulting in an exchange of gunfire in which the three terrorists were killed. At present, only the identity of the woman, María Elsa Sierra of Los Ralos, Buenos Aires Province, has been established.” Claudia, in charge of keeping the thirty heads informed. She shakes her arms, black, straight bangs bobbling over her slanted Italian eyebrows. From behind Maura’s bunk, hidden by the heap of rice ashtrays and the pile of mysterious articles hoarded by the old woman, Claudia transmits what she hears 328

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and what she sweats. Through the pores of her neck and her narrow palms oozes a urine-like liquid. It says they returned fire. From someone’s lips: Marisa had no weapons—she never did. And the denseness. The denseness of the air solidifies, paralyzing arms and heads for a moment. Careful, hide the radio. Food’s coming. Berta turns her face toward the back and, radar-like, detects metallic sounds of pots and ladles, of keys and footsteps on the tile floor. The guard, and the guard unlocks the gate. A blonde with curls plastered against her scalp, with a tic that makes her blink her right eye every fifteen seconds, and the other one, pale, with dark circles under her eyes and straight, black hair gathered at the back of her neck with a silvery barrette. The haggard-looking one with the big pot in her hands has an expression that says take this, and Olga reaches out her still-paralyzed arms, like an automaton. Olga, in charge of receiving and distributing today’s rations, together with Telma. Tomorrow Sara and Teresa. Olga’s eyes peering into the grayish, liquid contents. Soup again, she utters as the guards close the gate and leave. And the curly blonde turns back toward the gate, pokes her nose between two iron bars, pressing her cheekbones up against them and clarifies: From now on, no bones in the soup. Making rings in the cells is forbidden. And she attempts a yellow, gap-toothed smile. Like bones. Like the best marrow, the hardest, the kind used for delicate pendants. Olga lowers her gaze to the bottom of the pot and confirms the omission. And a few of the thirty heads lean over toward the opaque liquid, investigating it, deciding to eat it before it gets cold. The long wooden table, scratched and unpainted, receives the sound of the metal plates, absorbing it, silencing it, neutralizing it. The metal plates receive the sound of the liquid spilling into them, absorbing it, silencing it, neutralizing it. The liquid smothers the sound of the spoons searching for something solid, a piece of something, becoming an anxious, constant thrum. A chain of hands shapes the air, molding the vertical thrust toward mouths. Toward throats that admit the passage of history, dredged through salty, sourceless liquid, born of pale, dry vegetables. Backward and downward, to circulate among thirty tense, expectant stomachs. History backward and downward, to be digested and turned into who knows what, into how many quiet, internal waterfalls. Into what lakes and thickets, into what splendor of kidneys. Into what choruses. Into what choirs of early morning voices. What screams? Telma finishes the liquid and takes her plate and spoon from the table, unpeeling her flabby, wide thighs and buttocks from the bench. And she walks. alicia kozameh

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And other feet walk. And heads move along, one after another, and plates are transported by hands. And piled up in the bathroom sink. Olga washes. Flashes, explosions, activated in hidden zones by the force of hunger. Frail, sleepy bodies adjust their cells to the undulations of the beds. Lids closing over entire faces. Over entire expanses of skin. Over the facts. There are flashes. They’re the friction of the molecules that make up the stomach muscles and walls. They emerge from navels, from mouths; they meet in the air, collide, producing light. The heads notice them, lift their lids, exchange glances, recognize one another, speak. Carla says, I’ll tell you a movie. Anybody who wants to hear Butch Cassidy come over here. And thirty stomachs position themselves around Carla’s bed, on the floor, hanging from the upper bunks, sitting on the lower ones. And open up. They open up to digest the facts, the expressions, the words Carla pronounces letter by letter, the colors. The sepias, the horses, the magic bicycle. The music, the trains. The russets of sunset. Paul Newman’s eyes. Gunfire. The movement of hats. The dust and sweat sticking to bodies along the road. The girlfriend’s frilly dresses. Suitcases. The desert light. The communicable fear. Agony hanging in the shimmer of blue sky. Death suspended in the hot, Bolivian air. Heads, arms, feet, all try to forget about their guts. Sara stubbornly wiggles the toes of her right foot, flexing and opening them. She stretches them. From her opposite side she observes them, measures them, ponders them. From her half-open lips she pronounces I think it’s about to rain: my bunions hurt. Heads are raised against the darkened air, and eyes scan the wire screen and bars on the impossibly high windows. Through the foot-and-a-half opening on top, they can get an idea of the condition of the sky. They try to investigate, mobilize, lean their bodies against the wall, stretching them. They slide. They assume di¬erent angles. All they manage to see is a leaden gray, which could just as easily be a stormy sky as an afternoon filtered through shadows.

Seconds, gestures, minutes, signals. Liliana, Elizabeth, and Telma grow larger, multiply, become their own discourse, their Anatomy, French, and History lessons. The three groups whisper, Shhh, lower your voices; the others can’t concentrate. Their manner of expressing themselves coincides: at times, each is a mirror of the others. They laugh. I’m not shouting, it’s you, Liliana, Telma shouts, and Elizabeth looks at them in disbelief, shouting, Quiet, you’re distracting my group. And the classes go on in silence. And time leaps forward in si330

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lence. Until Andrea and Celia, from their posts, wave their arms, agitate their facial muscles, bare their teeth, point toward the bars on the gate. Break it up, someone’s coming. The members of the three groups grow tense, separate, move toward the front of the prison ward. The sound of keys in locks. Of gates opening. Two guards, one with all the keys in her hand, the other balancing a big metal bowl with something that emits steam from who knows what, but at least something hot. Susana watches the guard with the keys looking toward the areas where they had been giving lessons, follows her with her glance, checks to see that no notes or papers have been left on the beds. Gloria also goes on alert, mobilizes, rattling the thirty spoons on her way to the long wooden table, diverting the guard’s attention, or trying to. What were you doing, ladies, you know there are no classes here and no singing, this isn’t the university, and no more than three people in a group, so just watch it, from the guard’s open mouth. There isn’t very much food here, Olga replies. It’s not enough. And the clank of the lock. The haggard one with black hair turns around, explaining, We have orders to give you this amount, ladies. This is what they bring us for all of you. And she leaves, her silvery barrette digging into the back of her neck. Then the blonde: And be thankful to get anything at all. And to be alive. And walks away on her policeman’s feet. Silvia looks at Claudia’s face. Claudia observes Susana. Susana watches Elvira. Elvira scrutinizes Dora and Leticia. Telma dishes out polenta, taking a little from one plate to supplement another, measuring, calculating, scraping the bottom of the pot. Ladies of the court, your pheasant is served, Olga shouts, and then laughter, hesitant smiles, take their places around the wooden table. It’s raining, Sara pronounces, and some of them put down their spoons to watch the thread of water filtering through a break between the screen and the window. The others eat. They watch each other eating, and they eat. Olga clears the table. Telma washes. Again the locks, gates opening, the two guards and two more, the night shift, shouting Head count, ladies, heads lining up. Hands behind your backs, the blonde shouts, and they start counting, growing tense. Where’s the missing one? They count again. Answer us, the haggard one says. She escaped through the ceiling, Sonia chuckles quietly. Quiet, you, and just answer my question, and then Telma appears from the bathroom with her hands dripping soap and shouting, There’s a rat in the garbage can, Guard, and all the smiling, frightened faces. Get in line, you, and shut your mouth. You’re all going to be punished, the one from the new shift spits through her teeth, and Sonia, How do you plan to punish us, Guard, if alicia kozameh

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we don’t even have food? And they hear the gate banging against the metal frame, and the strident sound of the lock, and the four uniformed women walking away, and some laughter, swearing, linger in the dark air, spinning, gyrating, losing energy. The haggard one turns and says, Since you’re all so creative, you ought to know there’s always some new and di¬erent way. And Sara: It looks like you’re more creative than we are, Guard. And thirty throats gulp saliva, and more saliva. Nearly all of them gather around Estela. Estela is the attraction, the magnet of the evening. Estela, getting ready on one of the beds, twisting her expert fingers, rolling cigarettes, distributing tobacco. It’s almost gone, she observes, let’s share these six among all thirty of us. Estela sticks out her tongue, moistens the paper, starts sealing them up. Don’t wet them so much, they’ll break, this from Berta’s lips, and Estela, Shut up and smoke; we don’t have many of these privileges left. They look at one another. And they suck the smoke in all the way down to their stomachs. Each newly rolled cigarette passes from mouth to mouth, is consumed. Lights are extinguished; heads, minds adjust to sleep. Noises, words, laughter, pass from one bed to another, they crack jokes, the ones in the lower bunks stick their fingers through the holes in the woven metal strips of the bunks above, the ones in the upper bunks hurl insults, hit the ones below with their pillows, more jokes, more stifled laughter. Footsteps from outside the bars, a guard looks in, Ladies, enough fooling around; it’s bedtime, and lurks there, silently, watching for movement. Hada and Julieta have the first watch of guard duty. They stay still, hidden in a corner between the floor and the last bunk, where the searchlight hardly reaches. Débora moves. They hear her. Her mattress, its mu¬led creaking, can be heard hovering in the air. Her hollow breathing, in and out. The readjustment of her bones. The sweep of her straight black hair against the rough fabric of the sheets. Hada opens her pores, alert from her position. Débora shifts her whole body, emitting sounds from her half-open mouth, returns to her original position, stirs, tugs the sheet with her nails. She covers her mouth with one of her hands, straightens up, sits up rigidly, her dark eyes wide open in the darkness as though propelled by a spring against a long wall. And she screams. The others wake up. They start sitting up in their bed. Cries of What’s going on circulate, spin, echo, fill all the spaces in the air. Débora responds by perfecting her scream, refining the sound, polishing the timbre. Bodies leaping from beds, surrounding Débora’s bunk, emanating from pores sour with fear, radiating a¬ection and silence. 332

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Footsteps from beyond the bars. Approaching, growing louder. The guard, nostrils flared, What’s going on, ladies? Mecha’s voice touching Débora’s nearer shoulder, her hairline, her nape, What’s the matter? and Débora, her inflamed, feverish gums, This tooth hurts, presses her left temple with her fingers. She has a toothache, Guard, and the guard, The inmate is to stop shouting and be quiet. And Débora, I need a dentist, a painkiller, I’m going crazy, Guard, send in the nurse. And the guard, Lower your voice—this isn’t a luxury hotel. If you don’t shut up, I won’t call anyone. And Débora, I need a dentist, a painkiller, decibel level rising, her eyes exploding from their sockets, her face damp with saliva and tears. I can’t stand the pain, she exhales, I can’t stand it, and the guard’s voice from the guard post, I told you, no painkiller if you scream. And the guard, walking away, out of Débora’s—and the others’—field of vision. One more voice, two, Guard, please, call the nurse. No answer. And Débora, plunging into the dark well of her mouth. Into the permeable depths of her cavities. They move. They return to bed. But not to sleep. The lights of the external night mix with the reflections of the internal one. They grow restless. They consume each other, use each other up. Débora doesn’t stop groaning. Thirty pairs of wide open eyes blink to the rhythm of Débora’s curses. Until daybreak. And then it’s time for the head count, time for the cold shower, and the moment the guards call breakfast. And after swallowing the greenish liquid, di¬erent forms of silence. Or of noise. Andrea tries to concentrate on Berta’s eternal but ever-changing story of her kidnapping—All that matters is the essence, because there can be infinite interpretations. These are complicated facts, Berta explains, seeing their ironic smiles floating about, but there are tiny noises absorbing Andrea. Noises she recognizes and which attract her attention. Coming from outside. Andrea forgets all about Berta. What she’s sensing is happening above their heads, on the other side of the wall of the basement they occupy. Continuous, dry blows against the inside passage that surrounds the penitentiary building where they live and breathe. She follows the sound with her eyes, seeks some familiar movement, a vibration, an echo. She focuses on the windows. And, in a single motion, she climbs up on the table resting against the peeling, cold wall, and peeks through the crack between the pane of glass and the window frame, and sees. She sees high, brown, shiny shoes—her mother’s. It’s my mom, she says, and she’s with other mothers. The bodies unpeel from the cots, elongate; arms alicia kozameh

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and necks stretch out like chewed gum, and anxious eyes, about to burst from their sockets until there’s no more room on the table. They’re dropping o¬ packages of something, Silvia says, and Andrea slips and falls to the floor, and two from the upper berths help her recover her six square inches; she rejoins the group, climbs up, presses her body against the wall, her throat against the wooden ledge, her rounded lips against the screen, and removes them and says Mama in a soft voice, and the noises and joking in the basement subside, muscles tense, tendons paralyze fingers and words. Mama, she repeats, take a step backward but don’t let them see you, another step, how’s Papa, don’t look down because they’ll notice. I recognized you by your shoes. Listen, write down this telephone number, 252977, it’s Débora Glovsky’s family. Don’t try to contact them yet; call them later, from home. Tell them to insist on a dentist—Débora can’t stand the pain anymore. Mama, go buy yourself some new shoes. The ones you’re wearing are from the turn of the century. What have you brought? Why have so many mothers come? Don’t answer me. We’re all right, but they don’t feed us. Ask for a dentist for Débora. And the brown shoes take one step, two, three steps forward, moving away. Tense muscles relax; bare feet on the wooden table move and make noise, leaping down onto the tile floor. The question What’s going on? spins from head to head, suspended in the basement air, glancing o¬ one forehead, then another, rebounding. And as their gazes dissolve, Elizabeth’s voice: Andrea, your mom’s leaving, and then Andrea, ‘Bye, Mama, and the voice filtering through the screen, They’ve killed Juan Carlos, and Andrea asks Which Juan Carlos? My cousin or your neighbor? And her mother replies, Your cousin. I’ll call Débora’s father. Tell her to stay calm. And the shoes never stop, never lose a beat in their rhythm against the basement windows. And get lost in the distance. Andrea sits down on the cot, her bare toes against the floor, heels in the air, knees apart, elbows digging into her thighs, hands covering her face. She says, Why Juan Carlos? Silvia comes over to her: The lawyer? Andrea tries to reply, but just nods her head. Débora lets out a sigh and then a scream, shouting, Guard, I need a painkiller, and they hear footsteps approaching from outside the bars, and it’s another guard, the day shift. I have orders not to call the nurse if you scream. She gives them a curious look. Liliana goes over to the bars and asks, Guard, why were there so many mothers out there? The guard looks behind her, toward the area where the police are stationed, makes sure no one is listening behind her back. They’ve authorized them to bring packages once a month, with sanitary napkins, toothpaste, and 334

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toilet paper, because there won’t be any more visits this year, or next, she pronounces, chewing the letters carefully, shredding the vowels on her tongue. Anyone who’s not dressed, get dressed, ladies—male personnel’s on the way. Olga and Elizabeth approach, asking, What are they going to do, Guard? and the guard replies, I don’t know, turning her back to the bars. She leans toward the guards’ station and shouts, Are they here yet? and the other guard says, Yes, they’re waiting. And they enter: two police o~cers in uniform with two blowtorches and protective helmets, bearing a square, thick sheet of metal. They lean it against the bars on the gate. Thirty heads, sixty arms, move with the rhythm of uncertainty, approaching, crowding into the area, trying to ask, What are they going to weld? Suspecting the answer. And they watch the sparks leaping to the basement roof and falling again, their colors fragmenting in that open, ephemeral light; their eyes focus, trance-like, on the colors melting in the ever-denser air, even though the tobacco is all gone. From the depths of the basement, one of them—Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Liliana, Berta—cries, They’re walling us in. The metal sheet covers the bars from the floor nearly to the ceiling, leaving a four-inch opening on top. If they don’t cover that opening, we’ll still be able to watch the guards from the highest bunk, Dora says, pressing her forehead, her ears, trying not to hear the noise of the machines, not to smell the heated metal, not to see the colors of the shooting flames. Flashes, explosions, activated in hidden zones. No question of trying to find them in a blue sky, or even blended with the reds and purples of certain sunsets. Only in basements. In spaces where the air is dark, and so thick that it transmits waves of creaking, the sound of boots. Of big shoes banging against the floor above. Above heads here, heads there: heads and fingertips. That give o¬ light.

We are this basement, this tight knot of history. We are the strength and the ingenuity with which we loose ourselves. We are the weld and each and every spark. The body of all of us, we are. The great, complete body. The whole body. We are its blood and its bones. Its skin and breath. And the vagina of the world, we are. The great vagina. We are the urine produced by the entire human race. The urine of life. And we are the source of urine: food. And each alicia kozameh

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peal of laughter. Di¬erent ways of dying and of exploding in laughter. We are the dismantling of the stage and the infinite ways of rebuilding it. We are the blank canvas. And that stillness in the air. We are the itch of psoriasis. The great psoriasis of the history of the world, we are. The nervous tic in the hours of deepest sleep. The body, we are. And that body’s hunger. We are the soup in the pot. We are hunger and what can and cannot be done to assuage it. We are the cry in the middle of the night. We are the two missing teeth. And most of all, the two incisors remaining. A cry of pain, cavities. Painkillers. Ankles. We are the ankles of all our mothers, bearing their bodies, their exhaustion. Muscles, we are. We are that great blowtorch. That great spark. And we are the suit of armor. The comfortable scabbard. The sword. The clothing that covers us. Always ready. Translated by Andrea G. Labinger

publications “A modo de regreso.” La brújula en el bolsillo 14–15 (1983). “Carta a Aubervillieres.” Crisis 47 (1986). Pasos bajo el agua. Buenos Aires: Contrapunto, 1987. “Como patas de avestruz.” Fin de siglo 12 (1988). “Bosquejo de alturas.” Hispamérica 67, no. 23 (1994). “Dos días en la relación de mi cuñada Inés con este mundo perentorio.” Confluencia 2, no. 11 (1995). “El encuentro. Pájaros.” In Memoria colectiva y política de olvido: Argentina y Uruguay, 1970–1990, ed. Adriana Bergero and Fernando Reati. Buenos Aires: Beatriz Viterbo, 1996. “Sara, ¿qué es para vos una campera?” Feminaria 24–25 (2000). 259 saltos, uno inmortal. Buenos Aires: Narvaja, 2001. “Alcira en amarillos.” Confluencia: Revista hispánica de cultura y literatura 16, no. 2 (Spring 2001). “Vientos de rotación perpendicular.” Revista de la UNAM 611 (2002). Pasos bajo el agua. Córdoba: Alción. 2002. Patas de avestruz. Córdoba: Alción, 2003. OFRENDA de propia piel. Córdoba: Alción, 2004. Nosotras presas políticas: Obra colectiva de 112 prisioneras políticas entre 1974 y 1983. Buenos Aires: Nuestra América, 2006.

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translations “Wie Straussenfüsse.” In AMORica Latina, trans. and ed. Erna Pfei¬er. Vienna: Wiener Frauenverlag Editions, 1991. “Höhenlinien, flüchtig hingeworfen.” In Torturada, trans. and ed. Erna Pfei¬er. Vienna: Wiener Frauenverlag Editions, 1993. Steps under Water. Trans. David E. Davis. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996. Straussenbeine. Trans. Erna Pfie¬er. Vienna: Milena Verlag, 1996. “Alcira in Yellows.” In The Alchemists: Jewish Women Writers of Latin America, trans. David E. Davis, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Fredonia, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1998. “Höhenlinien, flüchtig hingeworfen.” In Krieg: Geschlecht und Gewalt, trans. Erna Pfei¬er. Graz, Austria: Leykam Press, 1999. Schritte undter Wasse. Trans. Erna Pfie¬er. Vienna: Milena Verlag, 1999. “Exile in 259 Leaps” (excerpt). Trans. David E. Davis. Special issue: “Human Rights in the Americas.” Southwest Review 85, no. 3 (Nov. 2000). “Exile in 259 Leaps” (excerpt). In Miriam’s Daughters: Jewish Latin American Women Poets, trans. David E. Davis, ed. Marjorie Agosín. Santa Fe, N.M.: Sherman Asher Publishing, 2001. Exile in 259 Leaps. Trans. Clare Sullivan. San Antonio, Texas: Wings Press, 2006. Ostrich Legs. Trans. David E. Davis. Unpublished.

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Esther Cross Esther Cross has large, doe-like brown eyes that are caring and inquisitive. Her smile is broad, and her demeanor is gentle. She is very slender and moves elegantly, like a sail in the wind. She has a contagious sense of wonder about the world that surrounds her, a wonder she expresses through humor. Often self-e¬acing, she has the charming soul of someone young and curious.

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Esther Cross | The Author and Her Work Esther Cross was born in the city of Buenos Aires in 1961. She belongs to the generation of Argentine writers whose work came to fruition in the 1990s. Her father, Federico Cross, was a professor of literature at the University of Buenos Aires, one of the most prestigious and at the same time conflict-ridden universities in Argentina. He also was part of the research organization called CONICET, or Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Técnicas (National Council of Scientific and Technical Research), where he was in charge of the International Relations branch and coordinated student and faculty exchange programs. When he retired, he went to live on a farm he owned near the rural town of Trenque Lauquen, and spent his last years working on his land. Cross’s mother, Leonor Lanz, studied chemistry at the University of Buenos Aires and eventually married and dedicated herself to the family. She was an avid fan of film and cinema, an interest she instilled in her daughter. While her parents provided her with exposure to the great works of literature and film, Cross’s maternal grandfather, an architect and art historian, also had a significant influence on her life. He collected art and had many friends who were artists; thus Cross has fond memories of growing up surrounded by the world of art her grandfather provided, a world that is evident in her writing. Although she was a happy child, her experiences at the strict Catholic elementary school she attended were unpleasant, because the nuns who ran the school created an atmosphere of fear and guilt that made her very uncomfortable. Her high-school experience, however, was a pleasant one. She attended a private English school called Sworn, where she became fluent in English and enjoyed a more open atmosphere and progressive education. She had known since childhood that she wanted to write; therefore, after she graduated, she began her career in literature at the University of Buenos Aires. Because of political problems during that time, it was di~cult to study at the University of Buenos Aires, where there were constant strikes and political unrest. Hence, she transferred to the Universidad Católica Argentina (Catholic University of Argentina), where she received a degree in psychology. She practiced child psychology for a year and realized that she was not doing what she truly wanted to do, which was to write. Soon thereafter, she began to participate in writing and literature workshops and to dedicate herself fully to her writing. She was part of a writing workshop headed by Felix della Paolera, who was in-

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strumental in encouraging her in her writing and in introducing her to writers and important figures in the world of literature. In 1987 Cross published a collection of interviews with Bioy Casares, Bioy Casares a la hora de escribir (Bioy Casares at the Moment of Writing), in collaboration with Felix della Paolera. That same year she received a prize from Mempo Giardinelli’s magazine Puro Cuento (Pure Story) for her short story “Sentido pésame” (In Sympathy), and in 1989 she received a prize from the Sociedad Argentina de Escritores (Argentine Society of Writers) for a collection of short stories that was not published until much later, when it took its final form as La divina proporción y otros cuentos (Divine Proportion and Other Stories). She continued to enter short-story contests and received several prizes for her stories. Her first novel, Crónica de alados y aprendices (Chronicle of Winged Men and Apprentices, 1992), takes place in Florence at the time of the Renaissance. The protagonist of the adventure is a powerful Florentine woman whose lover gives her a hair tonic that causes her to go bald. To plot her revenge, she solicits the services of several notables of the Florentine society, and hence a humorous series of events unfolds. Her second novel, La inundación (The Flood, 1993), is a work of fiction based on a devastating real event, the flood of 1986 that ruined her father’s farm. This novel is firmly rooted in the Argentine tradition of novels about the pampas, or grasslands, and the fortunes and misfortunes of those who live in a rural setting. The novel received first prize in the Fortabat contest in 1992. In 1994 Cross published her first book of short stories, La divina proporción y otros cuentos (Divine Proportion and Other Stories). It is a collection of stories that share an interest in the fantastic and the humorous, but at the same time delve into the complex issues of the nature of human beings and of their relationships. Aesthetically, these stories display the fine eye of a writer who has been schooled in the visual worlds of art and of film. The collection contains the two stories included in this chapter: “La receta” (The Recipe) and “Las apariencias” (Appearances). “La receta” fuses fantasy and humor to reflect on romantic attraction and how it develops. The young woman’s desire to please her fiancé transforms her in a radical and bizarre way, and conversely, his infatuation with her transformation causes him to risk losing his own identity. The story hints at issues of gender and domesticity, as well as a contemporary man’s attitude toward gender roles. “Las apariencias” deals in a very di¬erent way with the idea of gender and identity and suggests that people who are

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deeply in love become, in many ways, the object of their love. At the heart of each story is the idea that love is the most powerful of all emotions because of its ability to transform the human being. In 1999 Cross published El banquete de la araña (The Spider´s Banquet), which is about a family of art aficionados who dedicate themselves to stealing famous works of art. To be accepted, each family member must undertake some type of art caper that involves stealing or mutilating an icon of the art world. It is a refined adventure novel in which love and the love of art are depicted with humor and insight. El banquete de la araña was awarded the Premio Nacional de la Novela (National Prize for Best Novel) in 2002. Cross received a Fulbright Award in 1998 to study screenwriting at New York University, and as a result she has begun to write film scripts and become involved in the production of documentaries. In 2001 she teamed with journalist Alicia Martinez Pardíes to produce a documentary of the new homeless in Argentina. It was filmed during 2000 and 2001, just months before the forced resignation of President Fernando de la Rúa and the financial crash that followed. The documentary, Los humillados y ofendidos (The Insulted and Injured), is titled after a quote from a novel by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. It shows how Argentina, once known as the breadbasket of the Americas because of its natural bounty, has become financially crippled due to the interests of a global economy and the bad decisions of those in power. In her most recent work, Kavanagh, Cross experiments with style and develops a new form consisting of short stories connected to each other, which at the same time can be read as a novel. This subtle and original work weaves together a series of humorous and o¬beat narratives about the inhabitants of a famous art deco building, a landmark in the center of the Buenos Aires commercial district, called the Kavanagh after Corina Kavanagh, who commissioned the construction of the building. Cross is also an accomplished translator. In 2002 she published her translation of Richard Yates’s Eleven Kinds of Loneliness (Once tipos de soledad) and has undertaken a new translation project, the Spanish translation of The Devil and Sonny Liston, by Nick Tosches. In 2003 she received a fellowship from the Civitella Raineri Organization to spend a month in a European castle working on her new novel about a female robot that lives in Freedonia, the land of the Marx brothers. Social commentary and humor continue to be the distinguishing traits of her fiction.

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Conversation with Esther Cross Gwendolyn Díaz: Esther, you have enjoyed a happy and culturally privileged childhood. In what ways did your family and upbringing influence your views and your writing? Esther Cross: I was born in Buenos Aires in 1961. I am the middle child and the only daughter of a family of three children. My father, Federico Cross, was professor of literature at the University of Buenos Aires as well as a researcher for the Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Cientifícas y Técnicas (National Council of Scientific and Technical Research), known as the CONICET. He was very active in the CONICET’s International Relations O~ce, where he coordinated the scholar and student exchange programs. I grew up surrounded by his wonderful library, and I learned at a young age that I wanted to be a writer. When I told my father of my desire to write, he looked at me with a smile that conveyed both pride and pity and kissed me. Then he went on an errand to the bookstore and returned with a gift, a beautifully wrapped book: Virginia Woolf ’s A Room of One’s Own. That book and his support gave me the guidance and the inspiration I needed to become a writer. gd: How fortunate you were to have a father that gave you such encouragement. What role did your mother play in your formation? ec: My mother, Leonor Lanz, studied chemistry at the University of Buenos Aires, but decided to quit her studies during her last year to marry my father. She is a serious fan of the cinema, and she and I have spent many hours together at the movie theaters of Buenos Aires enjoying and analyzing the intricacies of film. Because of this, my writing has a cinematic quality that has been noted by many critics. gd: That speaks to one of the characteristics of your prose that I enjoy most: its visual vibrancy. Were there other influences in your background that contributed to this? ec: Yes, my maternal grandfather’s profession. He was an architect and an art historian who taught at the University of Buenos Aires. I used to spend time with him at his home, and I remember meeting and talking to the artists who visited him there and being surrounded by the wonderful works of art that he collected. He provided me with an appreciation for art and the art world that has had a significant e¬ect on my writing, both stylistically and thematically. 344

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gd: What types of schools did you attend? ec: My elementary school was absolutely dreadful! It was a very strict German Catholic girl’s school run by vicious nuns who seemed to take pleasure in the most extreme forms of discipline. I remember that when we arrived at school we had to kneel so the nuns could inspect our uniforms and make sure that the hem of our skirts touched the floor. I was not happy in that atmosphere of guilt and control. Eventually, I was expelled from the school, not because I committed any serious infringement of rules, but rather because, as the nuns explained to my parents, I asked too many questions. Fortunately, my parents were not very disappointed that I had been expelled, and I was quite pleased to leave the school. My high school was a completely di¬erent experience. I attended a British school called Sworn where I was very happy. There I found an atmosphere of openness and camaraderie, and I soon became fluent in English. gd: What was your university experience like? Did you study during the time of the military dictatorship? ec: I had prepared to enter the University of Buenos Aires in 1980, which was toward the end of the military dictatorship. However, the University of Buenos Aires was the most politicized university in Argentina; furthermore, the Facultad de Filosofía y Letras (School of Philosophy and Literature) was one of the most controversial schools, so my e¬orts to study there were never realized. There were constant strikes, there were very few courses o¬ered, and those that were did not meet frequently. The university was often raided by the military government, and the students were questioned and threatened. All in all, the atmosphere at that time was quite chaotic. For all of those reasons, I decided to enroll in the Catholic University of Argentina, where I received a Licentiate degree in Psychology. gd: Did you ever practice as a psychologist? ec: I worked for one year as a psychotherapist in the San Martín de Porres Clinic, where I administered psychological diagnostic tests. I also had a private practice where I worked with disturbed children. I realized then that I did not want to pursue my career as a psychotherapist, particularly for children, because I tended to get too involved with their cases and had di~culty separating myself from their problems. So I returned to my first love, literature. gd: What steps did you take toward your goal of becoming a writer? ec: I participated in various writing workshops headed by some of the best esther cross

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writers and professors of Buenos Aires and learned a lot in the process. Initially I was reluctant to show or publish my writing, perhaps because of shyness. But at one point one of my mentors challenged me by quoting a line from William Blake in which he states that shyness is a mask for pride. I realized then that my writing was very important to me and that my reluctance to share it was because I wanted the work to be perfect before letting others read it. Another factor in my perfectionism was my father. Since he was a literature professor, he critiqued my writing quite severely, which was both beneficial and threatening. gd: So when did you finally decide to publish? ec: I decided to give myself a year in order to prove myself as a writer. So I began to send stories to short-story contests, with very good results. I won a prize for my story “Sentido pésame” (In Sympathy) in a contest sponsored by Mempo Giardinelli’s Puro Cuento (Pure Story) magazine, and I continued to receive prizes for several other stories as well. At this time, my writing career began to flourish. I had a good rapport with the director of the writing workshop, Felix della Paolera, who o¬ered me good guidance and introduced me to many of the most important Argentine writers of the time. I had the opportunity to meet and have lunch with Jorge Luis Borges several times and also got to know Bioy Casares quite well. As a result of the time I spent with the latter, I published, in collaboration with della Paolera, my first book, a book of interviews titled Bioy Casares a la hora de escribir (Bioy Casares at the Time of Writing, 1987). gd: Let’s discuss your first novel, Crónica de alados y aprendices (Chronicle of Winged Men and Apprentices), published in 1992. ec: Actually, the first book I finished was my collection of short stories, which later became La divina proporción (The Divine Proportion). However, when I took it to the publishing house, they told me that since short stories did not sell well and I was a new writer, they would prefer to publish a novel first. Well, I did not have a novel, but that did not stop me. I went home and wrote a novel. That was the genesis of Crónica de alados y aprendices. I had recently visited Florence, a trip that had an enormous impact on my curiosity and creative interests. This trip inspired my work on a rough draft of an adventure novel about a wealthy Florentine woman during the time of the Renaissance who plots to take revenge against her husband for causing her hair to fall out. Through the character of Leonardo da Vinci, a web of intrigue and characters (an inventor, a painter, an architect, a cook) is set in 346

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motion. The novel is very humorous and was pleasant to write because it gave me the opportunity to research the works of art and personalities of a period of history, the Italian Renaissance, which I find fascinating. The publisher liked the novel and decided to publish it. That was a very intense year for me; I found out that my first novel would be published and at the same time su¬ered a great loss with the death of my father. gd: Your next publication was also a novel, La inundación (The Flood, 1993). What led you to write this novel about a flood that destroys the farm life of a rural village of the Argentine countryside? Did it have something to do with the death of your father? ec: My father su¬ered a heart attack and decided to quit his job at the university and move to our farm in Trenque Lauquen, hoping it would be less stressful than his work in the city. When I was growing up, we spent every summer on that land of ours near the charming little town of Trenque Lauquen. Just when my father began to make a profit o¬ the land, a natural disaster took place. It was the flood of 1986. The flood was so devastating that it left nothing but flooded land and homes in its wake. I recall my father calling me in Buenos Aires to tell me what was happening to our farm, and at one point he said he had to hang up because water was flooding the entire house and rising quickly. I feel certain that the stress of this event had a lot to do with his eventual death four years later. I wrote this novel just after my father’s death, and though he is not a character in the novel, that farm life that he loved so much—the people, the fauna and the flora of the Argentine countryside—are the central interest of this work. Moved by the death of my father and his devotion to the land, I wrote this novel right after his death in a period of just four months. The main character is a farmhand who reacts to the flood by building an ark like that of Noah in the Bible. There he collects two of each of the animals of the region, specifically those indigenous to the pampas (grasslands), such as the ñandú (a type of ostrich from Argentina). I wanted to portray a humorous and at the same time sympathetic view of life on the Argentine pampas and pay tribute to the Argentine rural life and traditions that I knew and loved. gd: Your book of short stories, La divina proporción, was finally published in 1994, after several of these stories had already received prizes at various contests. What strikes me the most about the collection is the imaginative use of fantasy, the sense of humor, and the visual quality that each story displays. How would you characterize these stories? esther cross

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ec: I agree with your comment on the visual quality of the stories. I would call it not only visual, but also cinematic. I feel like writing and film are two di¬erent forms of the same thing, at least for me, and I often find myself structuring a story like a film might be structured. Film influences my writing not only in its visual content, but also in the way in which I organize and conceptualize the material. For me, writing and film are very closely related; when I write, I feel that my vision is like that of an eye looking through a camera. gd: The story that I found most fascinating was “La receta” (The Recipe), about a young woman who cooks an exotic meal for her fiancé and in doing so goes through an unusual transformation that changes her life as well as his. What I find interesting is the way that the domestic act of cooking leads to a radical change in this young woman, and similarly that her fiancé is also transformed in the process. His expectations of her cause a transformation not only of her identity but also of his. Thus, the story delves into issues of male and female gender roles and the power of gender expectations in defining not only the identity of women, but also of men. ec: Initially, I did not think about the issues that this story would bring forth. I had the idea and pursued it to the point of a fantastic transformation. But evidently there is some truth to what you are saying. The ideas you mention are ideas that surface in my mind, such as the dependency implicit in traditional female roles. The ending of this story o¬ers a new, perhaps more modern interpretation of gender roles, as the male protagonist also may potentially go through a transformation. In such a case, both male and female characters are subject to the consequences of social stereotyping. gd: Ultimately, I believe the merit of this story lies in the subtle intrusion of fantasy within reality and the humorous way of viewing topics that are usually expressed in a serious voice. The second story I found of interest was “Las apariencias” (Appearances), which deals with gender issues in a more serious way. A man falls madly in love with a woman whom he never sees again. He spends the rest of his life looking for her but cannot find her. Little by little he seems to become the very object of his obsession. He, too, undergoes a transformation, due to the love he has for this woman. This story seems to speak to the power of love to transform the human soul and to transcend gender stereotypes. ec: As I was writing this story, I thought of a man who was in love with a

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woman to whom he could not have access. I remembered a phrase I had heard: “If I cannot undress her then I will dress her.” When I finished writing the story, a quote by Roland Barthes came to mind, and I used it as an epigraph: “A man is not feminized because he is homosexual but, rather, because he is in love.” I speculated on the idea of a man in love who becomes feminized because he wants to identify with and put himself in the place of the woman he loves. The story toys with the theme of how one gender has aspects of the other within itself. Traditional culture informs us that women are passive and men are powerful; by upsetting gender expectations, this story shows that women can be powerful and men can have passive feminine qualities. gd: Your next novel, El banquete de la araña (The Spider’s Banquet, 1999), returns to your interest in art. This novel about great capers of the art world also deals with the theme of identity and the personal search for self. Tell me what inspired you to write this work. ec: This is the story of a family that prides itself on committing art capers, such as stealing or mutilating works of art. Each member of the family must become initiated into the family tradition of committing such an act. My grandfather collected art and knew artists and people dedicated to restoring works of art. He had an ample library of art books that included volumes on the restoration of art. My grandmother collected newspaper articles about art capers, and she had collected several, such as the hacking of Michaelangelo’s Pietà and the theft of Leonardo da Vinci’s La Gioconda, or Mona Lisa. My grandparent’s home and interests all revolved around the theme of art, which permeated everything when I visited them, as I did frequently. So I developed the idea of a family dedicated to tampering with art. But the work also portrays other topics, particularly the search for individuality and self-determination, as is seen in the character of the young protagonist of the novel, who refuses to perpetuate the family tradition. She questions the family’s actions and penetrates the mystery of this family tradition, breaking with conformity and creating a new path for herself. gd: In your work, particularly your short stories, there is a recurring interest in the fantastic. What role does the fantastic play in your writing? ec: Often, the first solution that comes to my mind for a particular situation is a fantastic solution. However, I make an e¬ort to steer away from the fantastic and resort to the logic of everyday experience. Nevertheless, the fan-

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tastic element keeps cropping up, and sometimes I feel it is the best way to express what the story is suggesting. It’s not fantasy for the sake of fantasy; rather, it is tied to meaning and metaphor. gd: Were you influenced by writers such as Julio Cortázar and Borges? ec: I was influenced by many writers. The most influential was probably Lewis Carroll. I read Alice in Wonderland when I was young and felt that Carroll’s imagination and world of fantasy were the height of wonder. I learned from him the use of fantasy as another type of reasoning, as the language of dreams where everyday reason is inverted and transformed. To me, fantasy is a di¬erent form of logic, a change of register. I was also influenced by Jonathan Swift’s idea that women writers did not write from left to right, but rather in a transverse fashion. To me, fantasy is like this transverse writing; it cuts across the page of logic in a di¬erent yet still meaningful way. gd: What Argentine authors have inspired you? ec: There are many; Silvina Ocampo, Julio Cortázar, and Luisa Valenzuela because of their short stories, and Jorge Luis Borges, whose humor I admire. I also have enjoyed Domingo Sarmiento’s Facundo, Elvira Orphée’s poetic prose, and Lucio B. Mansilla’s works on travel through Argentina, which have stimulated my interest in themes of the Argentine countryside. gd: You entered a very politicized university during the last year or two of the military repression in Argentina. Have you written anything about the dictatorship of the seventies and eighties in Argentina? ec: I have not written specifically about that period in my fiction, although I do have a tremendous amount of respect for the writers who came before me and had the courage to publish on the topic at the risk of their own lives. I have, however, produced a video together with journalist Alicia Martínez Pardíes, called Los humillados y ofendidos (The Insulted and Injured), about the new Argentine homeless. Alicia and I believe that the serious economic problems in Argentina today have led to a new kind of desaparecidos, people who are disappearing or dropping out of society, and those are the homeless. Neither the government nor society has found a way to help these people, and their numbers are increasing daily because of unemployment and economic decline. gd: It makes sense that because of your age you have focused on the more contemporary problems in Argentine society, those of economic repression rather than political. Would you comment more on this notion of the nuevos desaparecidos (new disappeared persons) that you explore in your video? 350

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ec: The failed economy, particularly in the last few years, has led to a significant drop in the middle-class sector of Argentine society. Historically, Argentina was one of the Latin American countries with the largest middle-class populations. But this changed dramatically in recent years, and now there are former lower-middle-class people and entire families who have become indigent, who are jobless and homeless. Since they have no residence, they have no papers or documents; thus they are undocumented citizens. If an undocumented person dies, the morgue processes the person as an N.N. (No Name); hence the person has literally disappeared. This is the issue that Alicia and I want to bring to the attention of our society. Though democracy was restored in Argentina in the eighties, it was not enough to bring about a just society. The structural and economic problems of the country, as well as the e¬ects of globalization, have brought about a whole new set of problems. gd: Though you were young during the last years of the repression, you still must have some memories of that time. What are your memories? ec: I have two kinds of memory. One is a general memory of the fear that we all felt during those years. I did not know quite why the fear was there, but I felt it, and it was tied to silence. There was something there that we knew we could not talk about, and it was like a tacit presence that had a hold on us, yet was not acknowledged. In film studies we learn that the most frightening monster is the one that is out of screen, like a menacing presence looming in the background, a dark shadow. That is how I recall those years of dictatorship and repression. More specifically, there were certain episodes that come to mind, such as the time when I was told a high-school friend’s sister had died. I went running to my friend’s house in my school uniform and was surprised that at the wake there was no co~n. I realized later it was because as a “disappeared person,” a victim of the dictatorship, her body would not be recovered. Those bodies were hidden in mass graves or dropped from airplanes into the Río de la Plata to obliterate any evidence of wrongdoing. gd: So the memories are vague but quite real. ec: Yes, I will always remember the underlying fear that pervaded our lives at that time. gd: How does a writer of your generation feel about feminism? Do you sympathize with it or feel, like some Argentine women writers, that feminism does not represent them? esther cross

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ec: I believe that the feminist movement was very important in advancing the needs and interests of women all over the world because sexism was, and still is, a part of our everyday lives. gd: Have you been a¬ected by sexism as a writer? ec: My colleagues who are writers have not displayed sexism toward me nor my writing. However, some people still consider that women write about personal and relational topics and that a woman would not write an adventure novel, for instance. This, I believe, is sexism and is disturbing. A woman can and does write about anything at all. I am in the process of writing a novel about a robot, a topic that some would consider a male topic. And as far as in everyday life, I believe women are still discriminated against. I have often felt that I need to make an extraordinary e¬ort to prove to the world that I am good at what I do, in spite of being a woman. What I mean by this is that as women, we are often seen as suspect, and we feel that we must work very hard to acquire recognition, harder than a man would. gd: Does your work reflect these concerns? ec: I do not write about these issues in an overt or direct manner. However, and particularly in my stories, the themes I write about deal in some degree with what it means to be a woman in a world that is dominated by men. gd: Let’s conclude by talking about your creative process. How would you describe it? ec: Well, sometimes the idea comes to me and sometimes an image appears. The process is di¬erent depending on whether I am writing a novel or a story. For me, the short story is more demanding. The stories tend to come to me like a flash, whereas the novel is more planned and constructed slowly. When I am writing a novel, everything I experience seems to be related to the novel I am writing. I become obsessed, and it is a pleasurable obsession. A new and separate world is created, a parallel world, like a trip to a di¬erent place. I experience writing a novel like an exciting and allconsuming adventure. gd: One of the qualities I like the best about your writing is the humor. Tell me about humor in your work. ec: Humor is a philosophy to me. I look at life through the lens of humor because I believe it is the healthiest way to experience our lives. gd: Esther, I believe your philosophy has helped you achieve the success you have achieved as a writer. To see the world through your eyes is to see a brighter, lighter image of ourselves. 352

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The Recipe

She ran the blade of the knife across the surface of the tomato. That was enough for the thin skin to part and for a multitude of seeds to burst forth in a torrent from the oozing flesh. She looked at the recipe: again, she raised the knife while drying her forehead with the back of her hand. The onion crackled and split into two impeccable halves that became semicircles, slices, halfslices, chunks, and, finally, a mountain of onion fragments, launched from the tilted cutting-board into the fry pan where the boiling oil hissed. All in the same copper fry pan. She turned down the flame and lit a cigarette which she discovered had a strange flavor, and, within the vapors of boiling water and the aromas of vegetables, she eyed the cookbook with pleasure as she tossed her long hair backward, and marked the desired recipe that said, “Stewed Lupines.” Although she had not found the word “lupine” in the dictionary of the Royal Spanish Academy, she did not give up, determined as she was to please her fiancé—a research biologist of endangered species who was coming to visit her for the first time in the apartment she had rented in a fit of independence. In response to the conventional question she had put to him, “What would you like to eat?” he had not come back with the usual, “Whatever you want, anything will be fine,” but rather the more original answer: “Lupines, I think stewed lupines are fascinating.” She concealed her ignorance and said: “Ah, lupines, in a stew. Why not?” Her friend, Clara, told her over the telephone that she thought lupines were something similar to garbanzos. She searched among the dry-goods her mother had left in a closet as a kind of gift—her mother was overprotective and rather sad because her daughter had decided to move out and live on her own. She reached for a jar, brought from Paris, on which she read, “Les exotiques pois de Fauchon.” Within, she saw some white seeds, some yellowish ones, and others that had almost germinated. She opened the jar and sprinkled a portion of its contents into her mixture, which already seemed to be a hodgepodge somewhere between golden and ocher-colored, not a very tempting hodgepodge but combined—she thought—with skilled and calculated precision. The addition of “Les exotiques pois de Fauchon” produced a scandalous bonfire; she took the fry pan by the handle and sang—trying not to despair: “From the couch to the plane, from the plane to the lounge, from the harem to Paradise, they are always right esther cross

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and they always have the fry pan by the handle and the handle too,” at the same time as she tried to control with a wooden spoon the storm of miniscule grease drops splattering in all directions. An unfamiliar odor invaded the kitchen. And she—as was her duty as cook—tasted, though not without reservation, a lupine immersed in tomato, previously seasoned and then sprinkled with basil and tarragon, as called for by the recipe. From that moment on, a substantial change took place in her. And let this be understood: substantial, which is not said of important circumstances, such as her being very short with blue eyes or that she could speak perfect French and German, but rather a change in her being, in her total substance. Her skin pores slightly ached when the first feathers sprouted which, rather than feathers—to be frank—were more like paltry couch feathers or the incipient fuzz on a newborn chick. She was overcome by a frenetic urge to eat lupines and breadcrumbs, and she hardly had time to think about what was happening because her feet were becoming round like columns and because she could hardly think. In fact, her substance was changing, she was slowly losing her familiar shape and becoming—with elephantine legs and other innumerable details—some other species. But we know that man is the superior animal, we know it is superior because it is rational. And if this were true, she was becoming someone inferior and, then, she could no longer reason. She felt, however, very uncomfortable and she had the instinctive cunning—due, perhaps, to her extremely long and new tail of a fox—to avoid seeing herself in the front-hall mirror when she heard the doorbell and went to open the door. Upon seeing her, her fiancé was dumbfounded. “Is it you?” he asked, as twelve white roses dropped from his hand. She nodded with a hoarse whine, shall we say, or an ancestral moan, perhaps. He demonstrated how much he loved her because he closed his eyes and hugged her; however, a little later he drew upon his zoological knowledge and said: “The original babirussa, I’ve found the original babirussa. Dear Babirussa.” And she felt somewhat doubtful about her fiancé’s naiveté, since it was he who had requested that she make the stewed lupines; though she couldn’t disregard—because as to feeling, she still had feelings and she had memory— that it was none other than her mother who had left her in possession of “Les exotiques pois de Fauchon.” He wrapped her warm, as we tend to do with people, animals, and plants 354

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that we hardly know and wish to protect; he wrapped her although it was really very hot. Later, he went out and bought everything he could: birdseed, dog biscuits, herbs, a rubber bone, two sole fillets, mineral water, and some beautiful blue porcelain bowls. He came back into the house shouting seductively, “Babirussa, Babirussa, I’m back,” and he found his fiancée—was it really her?—atop a table, half-hidden behind the curtain and with an apple clutched between her hands (let us call them hands). None of the provisions completely gratified her because she was craving lupines. And the fact that she was not absolutely certain about what lupines really were turned her into a neurotic babirussa because she didn’t know what she wanted. And this led to her fiancé’s decision to live with her, to care for her, and, why not confess the truth, to study her as well. They had one problem: she emitted deafening sounds when she was content, and this occurred whenever he called her “my little Babirussa” as he arrived home from work and this took place every day like clockwork. When the secret was no longer concealable—because the neighbors investigate and the female neighbors gossip and there are those who are especially dedicated to listening for strange noises and movements—he searched for the recipe book, took a sharp knife, ran the blade along the skin of a tomato, and from the tomato spilled a river of seeds that blended with the minced onion to the melody of “the pan by the handle and the handle too,” and he sprinkled salt, pepper, basil, and tarragon and some lupines that his fiancée had left in the Fauchon jar. A few lupines that, in any case, took e¬ect immediately.

Appearances A man is not feminized because he is homosexual but, rather, because he is in love. roland barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments

Justo Bernabé was always in favor of democracy and against grenadine. As a child he refused to be a part of the unanimous altogether now at parties, an attitude that foreshadowed his tendency to stick out, or isolate himself, from others, albeit not the characteristic that would come to distinguish him. He was concerned to the point of obsession with the fact that he and his brother, Ponciano, did not look alike—a prejudicial uneasiness inasmuch as Mendelism esther cross

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does not dictate such a genetic necessity and, besides, as if to confirm the banality of his torment, his nose was absolutely identical to that of the baker’s. He always wore pure white shirts, nor did he cease to revere Greta Garbo and the aromas of varnish and lavender. He studied at the schools of Fine Arts, Medicine, Physics, and Architecture. During those brief forays he learned concepts that he couldn’t apply and of which he would never be able to free himself due to his remarkable memory; he could never forget them. If, in life, people can be divided among those who know what they want and those who do not, Justo Bernabé Sotero did not belong to either one category or the other. Up to this point, his biography does not di¬er greatly from the majority of those human beings who pertain to the group of individuals considered exceptional. But the life of Justo Bernabé, also exceptional as an exception, su¬ered a Copernican turn the day he saw Rosalinda Carter in the Queen Bess, where he was often found seated, assembling and disassembling a complicated puzzle. She was staring, absorbed, at the glass behind the bar. She was wearing a maroon-colored business suit, an old purse, an astrakhan overcoat, and high heels. The truth is that the hitherto student of bel canto was still exempt from the graces that fascinated the opposite sex. But Justo Bernabé noted that, had she been brunette rather than bleached blonde, and had she been acceptably tall rather than quite short, he would have been in the presence of someone identical to himself, someone with whom he shared every physical characteristic—including the baker’s nose. Two drops of water, a coin with two heads, and the only di¬erence: he was a man, she a woman and, hence, sudden infatuation. He approached the table where she was folding and unfolding small boats made from napkins. “Excuse me, señorita, please don’t take this as brazen, but I have the sensation that we are already acquainted.” “Even before getting acquainted,” said Rosalinda, indi¬erent, as she finished tying a knot with a napkin. Then she saw him, looked at him and stared, open-eyed, aroused without knowing the reason for the fascination. She felt flattered by the reverent attention that Justo was paying her and the security that she, as much as he, must be, therefore, extraordinary. They spoke little. They believed they were repeating words of a meeting that had taken place centuries before. Justo omitted any allusion to physical 356

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resemblance. He was afraid that revealing the key—which was rather evident—would break the spell. Partial to esotericism, Rosalinda Carter was inclined to think that she was in the presence of her twin soul. Surprised, they discovered significant coincidences in their lives. It was neither magic nor incredible coincidence. For them to appear so much alike, certain similar events had to have occurred in their lives to accentuate the curves of their eyebrows, the horizontal lines of their broad foreheads, a certain retractile tendency in both their bodies. Rosalinda had an audition at the Colón Theater. She consulted her gold pendantif. She draped her astrakhan overcoat over her shoulders. They said goodbye. They agreed to meet the next day, at the same time, in the same place, confident in the magnetic coming together of their samenesses. The fact is that they were so similar that while he hid the reason for his being love-struck so as not to disenchant her, she in turn, so as not to disenchant him, hid that she was engaged to a pianist. Rosalinda’s audition was a success. She didn’t forget about her date with Justo but, preoccupied with her imminent debut, she skipped it without even deigning to cancel with the usual advance notice. What she would never find out was that Justo arrived at the Queen Bess sixty minutes late, victim of a schedule misunderstanding—attributable to love, which confuses. The benefit of his mistake. Along with his frustration at not seeing her, an odd but encouraging idea occurred to him that this woman—now his woman, because he could not forget her—had left the Queen Bess feeling snubbed. He decided to make up for his misdeed as soon as possible for, upon sitting down, he realized that his prodigious memory had betrayed him. He confirmed a suspicion that occurred to him during a night of insomnia. When he sought Rosalinda Carter, he discovered that her name was not listed in either the directories or the registers. He returned to the Queen Bess on Sunday and Monday. On Tuesday, he saw a shredded napkin beside a cup of tea. Only that. Ms. Carter had disappeared from the scene of their meeting. Hope. He found out about her debut at the Colón. After a magnificent aria, the orchestra seats, the box seats, and the gods all yielded to the laconic eruption of a wave of applause. The horror. During the press conference, the new Argentine star of the opera announced, subsequent to the ovation, her world tour as well as her marriage to the pianist—who was absolutely di¬erent from her and, consequently, from Justo. Then began the melodrama, the mental disaster, the voyage of despair. esther cross

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Justo su¬ered symptoms of pain verging on romanticism. If he didn’t tear his hair out, it was because he wished to continue resembling Rosalinda Carter and to find her, in some strange way, in the mirror. One afternoon, his brother, Ponciano, sitting diametrically opposite him in a corner of the o~ce, said to him: “What did you do to your head?” He pointed with disdain at his brother’s hair, now bleached blond. Such was his e¬ort to resemble her in order to see her. He imagined her at the center of proposed toasts and music lovers. He successively found and lost her in every dream. Until the morning he happened to be looking at an album of Erté designs for the theater. “If I can’t undress her, I’m going to dress her,” he said. And he became a couturier. Thus he discovered that love unifies, it provides meaning and direction. For love, his unconnected undergraduate passions were reconciled like fibers of the body in a vertigo of eroticism. The models of the great models of the great painters would be, in turn, models for constructing his great work. He opened the box of his compass, now invaluable for its new function: the curve of the neckline, the axis of the navel. Relative and Euclidean physics. The uniformly slow movement of Rosalinda Carter moving about the stage. Every pleat would be at the service of her body: an orthopedics of gauze, a surgery of threads, a cosmetics of lace, a fireworks of beads and pearls. Everything was unified in his love for love, in his love of the work to which he would dedicate his life, as a dedication to Rosalinda. And just so that the product would be perfect—that is to say, complete and absolute—he decided to devote himself comprehensively to the design of a costume. A single costume. His whole life for that. A puzzle, because he did not know the measurements of the soprano who could, over time, put on weight or slim down or su¬er—why not?—a cervical collapse that might shrink her. All at the service of Rosalinda Carter’s costume, at the service of that and his happiness, decidedly postponed due to the calamitous missed date. He bought a mannequin with moving parts. He impaled it on a gyroscope. He needed to see the body in motion, face on, in profile, from behind. Action in its thousand-fold phases. The e¬ect of a curtsy, of a heartfelt genuflection, of an undesired onstage misstep. The costume had to accompany and exalt her, denude and protect her. He dedicated himself, heart and soul, to his work. 358

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Ponciano Sotero, dismayed, commented during a meeting at the Fencing Club that Justo Bernabé had been changing in alarming ways. First, the discoloration of his hair; later, a subscription to a fashion magazine. “Now he’s bought a Singer and spends all day pedaling so, when he walks, he looks like he’s always o¬-balance. And the worst of it is that, because of the sewing, his hand goes fluttering about in the air, his mouth is always pinched from holding pins between his teeth all the time, and the most disturbing thing is that he has the nerve to go on smoking a pipe and commenting about women, politics, and the horses with presumptuous authority.” Ponciano Sotero was speaking confidentially with an English friend in the dressing room of the Fencing Club. The friend, English as he was, sank into the usual Anglo-Saxon silence and mundanely pursed his lips. In spite of the shame and the discovery of how much Justo’s situation disturbed him, Ponciano Sotero was more content than ever at not resembling his brother in any way. News of the box-o~ce success of the diva Carter reached Buenos Aires. Massive, imposing. She now had the bosom of a prima donna and the waistline of a gigantic wasp. Success a¬orded her fame; fame led to fortune; fortune led to a farrago of fawning and pestering; fortune also led to the envy of others; envy led to the necessity to be strong; necessity led to a remarkable a~rmation and hardening of her features. Everything leads to everything else; the entire world is hidden in the most negligible and trivial. The history of costumes. Sketches of famous regies. Justo Bernabé read voraciously. Tailor’s spectacles for Justo Bernabé Sotero. The Emperor’s New Clothes, the nudity of Lady Godiva, the astrological outfits of Piel de Asno. Every so often, content in the discovery, Ponciano presented him with a commentary or a book. The Brave Little Tailor, the daring necklines of the Pompadour, a large part of French history contained in the size of the imperial bodice. The song of poor Melitón. Penélope. The indecencies of Isadora Duncan and her assassin foulard. The history of all those who dressed themselves obedient to desire and ended up, therefore, naked before the astonished contemplation of their times. Through the window of the Kavanagh flew ribbons, tulles, and frills—of course. He repeatedly changed his mind and designs. “Necessary detours,” he said, as he stroked the facets of his pipe, pensively. Ponciano Sotero swallowed hard. He decided to defend his brother against all malice. He argued that, like Chuang-Tse, he did not believe that the clothes necessarily made the Mandarin; and one afternoon, he challenged to a duel esther cross

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the meddling soul who dared to insinuate a vulgar irony during a meeting at the Fencing Club. If Justo Bernabé appeared to be rather singular, it should be attributed to his artistic gifts. He had always been a bit eccentric. Ponciano, now wise to Justo’s love for Rosalinda, spoke with the security of knowing that his brother followed, albeit in a paradoxical way, the dictates of nature. That he so often gazed at himself in the mirror, that he walked like an Austrian duck and seemed so withdrawn, had an explanation. “And the explanation,” asserted Ponciano, scrutinizing his companion over an iced gin, “does not merit such an indictment.” Justo, true to his task, passionate about his work, indi¬erent to everything else. The greatest test of this great test of his love was his confinement in the apartment. In pursuit of his idea of achieving an unearthly costume that would escape, through elegance, the ephemeral comings and goings of fashion, he decided to ignore the world that, with all its permutations, might influence him. On the other hand, the world had become intensely hostile. He only continued seeing Ponciano, who came on a weekly basis to show him the bookkeeping of the family business. In their conversations they avoided news of the planet in an e¬ort to maintain intact the strange microclimate now governing Justo’s life. Ponciano and Justo Bernabé Sotero, the two dissimilar brothers, discovered the intimate friendship that surpasses easy, anecdotal camaraderie. The transatlantic ocean-liner had left the port of Le Havre several days before. With her arms supporting her at the railing of the deck, Rosalinda Carter gazed upon the dark sea. A ship’s figurehead she appeared to be. In the dining room, the fiesta of the ridiculous. Her husband, the alcoholic pianist, believing that his Neptune costume rendered him unrecognizable, clung tightly to the waist of a Little Bo Peep. Rosalinda recalled that she was thirty-eight years old, yet to be a mother, and that for more than a decade she had been celibate in her musical marriage. Some passengers came out for air. Rosalinda had no option but to hear what they were saying. “Isn’t that Rosalinda Carter, whom we saw last month in the theater on the Champs Élysées?” asked a passenger from Buenos Aires, dressed as Count Dracula. “No, it can’t be. It’s a man dressed as a woman,” replied the other vampire, a cross between Lugosi and Gardel. She let her gauze foulard sail into the air over the Atlantic. She listened to the thunder of bongos in the ballroom. Delirio vano è questo, she said to herself, 360

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holding back a treacherous tear. She passed by the berth of her husband. She heard the univocal moan. She smiled bitterly. Now she was a strong and tested person, like few others. Ponciano Sotero sat down, as usual, on the blue stool in the o~ce. He laid his hat on his lap. After making a few observations with reference to aerostatics and fencing, he coughed in an a¬ected manner. “Justo,” he said. “Rosalinda Carter is in Buenos Aires; she’s going to sing at the Colón.” Those who did not have season tickets had to endure the immense line to acquire tickets. September heat. Binoculars and monocles. Japanese fans. Fox furs with little ears, out of place and season from any perspective. The president’s box was full. Justo Bernabé Sotero, soberly sheathed in a navy-blue suit, entered through a side door of the theater. He carried a package wrapped in brown paper under his arm. As elegant as he was démodé, as graceful as he was definitive, somewhat astonishing, he was able after all, thanks to his unlikely appearance, to slip in among the disorder of tulles, broad hips, lights, and false eyelashes. Rosalinda was touching up her cheeks with a pink powder pu¬. When they came face to face, they were both perplexed. In Justo Bernabé, Ms. Carter recognized the mislaid physiognomy of her adolescence. In the haughtiness of the soprano, Justo Bernabé noted the character of the youth he had once been. For both, the deferred love infused their gazes with a violet flush. They shared an infinite languor. The devotion to art had been absolute: Justo Bernabé, to the high fashion of love that scars and heals; the diva, to music, to the unconfessed hope that every event and sordid scandal would bring her twin soul back from memory. They envied one another. She longed for simple anonymity; he considered the applause healthy compensation for so many years of confinement and hostility. Justo Bernabé closed the door. Exhausted, he took a breath of the funereal aroma of the bouquets and the stage makeup. He opened the package. Rosalinda, speechless, stepped back. They said they loved one another just as when they had first met. Justo forgot about Ponciano waiting for him in the orchestra seats and Rosalinda forgot that her husband would already be seated at the piano in the orchestra pit. They faced each other in the mirror. They were amazed and gripped by panic. The triumphal march was—indeed—a triumph. Hieratic gods with heads of jackals and human torsos. The false gravity of the stage-prop boulders. The singer seemed neither Egyptian nor diva nor Aída. A fragile person, restrained, esther cross

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in a maroon-colored tailleur, with an astrakhan overcoat draped over her shoulders, a resplendent pendantif dangling from her neck, and high heels. A cubist-inspired purse. Aída. The fans of Ms. Carter told themselves that it was just a whim arising from the eccentricities common to all geniuses. They hardly noticed the subtle variation of register. President Ortiz’s delegation was slightly disturbed. Ponciano Sotero focused his binoculars on Ms. Carter. He dropped his program to the floor. On tiptoes, he slipped out of the auditorium. A unanimous ovation. The pianist, visibly moved, mounted the stage to embrace Rosalinda. She was startled, then recovered her composure. She smiled primly. She permitted him to take her by the arm. Ponciano, racing headlong, followed the liquid reflection of the moon on his patent leather shoes. He saw the man in the navy-blue suit turning the corner. He shouted: “Justo, Justo Bernabé Sotero.” The man turned around. He did not recognize him. He hesitated a moment. He walked toward him with evident curiosity and weariness. The familiar face appeared stunned. Ponciano smiled and said: “Do we know each other?” “So I thought,” was the brief response, as he stroked his chin with a gesture never seen before. They set out in the same direction. Toward the city center. Translated by Peter Kahn

publications Bioy Casares a la hora de escribir. Buenos Aires: Tusquets, 1987. Crónica de alados y aprendices. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1992. La inundación. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1993. La divina proporción. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1994. El banquete de la araña. Buenos Aires: Tusquets, 1999. Kavanagh. Buenos Aires: Tusquets, 2004. Radiana. Buenos Aires: Emecé Planeta, forthcoming.

translation “Das Geschenk”(“El regalo”). In Spuren im Schnee: Neue Weihnachtsgeschichten aus aller Welt, trans. and ed. Iris Gradler. Germany: Club Premiere, 2003.

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Ana Quiroga Ana Quiroga is, essentially, a feminine presence. She moves with poise and speaks in soft, undulating tones. Her long, dark hair frames a youthful, rounded face. Ana has large eyes that gaze into each person she encounters with thoughtfulness and interest. Her gentle demeanor belies a strong, purposeful woman who sees the future as limitless.

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Ana Quiroga | The Author and Her Work Ana Quiroga was born in 1967 in the town of Rodeo, which sits at the foot of the Andes Mountains in the northern province of San Juan, known for good wine and picturesque scenery. Her father, Martín Quiroga, was the only doctor in the area; thus, he delivered her in their quaint adobe home surrounded by vineyards. Her mother, María Enriqueta Martín, was a homemaker who reared their nine children. The family moved to Buenos Aires shortly after young Ana was born, and they settled in the Avellaneda neighborhood, an industrial area located to the south of the city. The Quirogas returned frequently to San Juan and spent most of their summers there visiting family and friends. Thus, Quiroga feels she has a dual identity; she is equally at home in the Buenos Aires metropolis and in the peaceful Andean town of Rodeo. This dual perspective is evident in her works of fiction, where the city is viewed from the point of view of both an insider and an outsider, and the depiction of the province o¬ers a contrasting presence to the urban scenarios. Quiroga went to a private Catholic girls’ school, Colegio María Auxiliadora (Mary of Perpetual Help School), headed by Silesian nuns whom she recalls as very strict. After completing her elementary and high-school education there, she studied philosophy at the Universidad Santo Tomás de Aquino (University of Saint Thomas Aquinas) for two years. But her mother was opposed to her studies in philosophy. Shortly thereafter, Quiroga married and became pregnant. At that time she took employment at the Deutsche Bank, acquiring a degree in banking while working there. However, Quiroga’s real love had always been storytelling; therefore, she began taking writing workshops with authors as notable as Aberlado Castillo and Felix della Paolera. She participated in writing workshops for several years and began publishing her stories at the same time. In 1989, Abelardo Castillo selected one of her stories for the First Biannual Award for Young Artists, and in 1991 she received another shortstory award, the Buenos Aires Bien Alto (Buenos Aires High Up) award. The most prestigious award she has received is the one from the Fundación Victoria Ocampo, in 2003, for her story “El cobrador” (The Bill Collector). Quiroga recalls that she loved stories ever since she was a child because her mother used to tell her fascinating tales when she put the children to bed. As a teenager she spent time with her aunt and uncle, who were both professors of Argentine literature and introduced her to some of the great Argentine shortstory writers. Quiroga belongs to the generation of young Argentine authors ana quiroga

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who began writing in the 1990s and publishing in the new millennium. She believes the writers of her generation are more interested in the short story than in other forms of literature. Though she considers herself above all a short-story writer, she is also experimenting with the novel. She is currently writing a novel, tentatively titled El edificio del Puerto (The Building in the Port), about immigrants in contemporary Argentina. Quiroga’s first collection of short stories, Dormir juntos una noche (Sleeping Together One Night), was published in 2003. The collection, written in a subtle, impassive style, develops themes of relationships and unusual experiences of revenge, disappointment, and cruelty. What ties the volume together is its deep insight into human nature and its concise and realistic prose. In the backdrop of the work lurks a secondary character, the city of Buenos Aires, with its busy streets, colonial neighborhoods, and European architecture. Quiroga’s collection is as much about the people of Buenos Aires as about the mysteries of the bustling mega-city itself. Her second book of short stories, El poeta sangra (The Poet Bleeds, 2004), continues to explore the topics of interpersonal relationships and human nature. These stories portray the soul of the Argentine bourgeoisie, as they delve into routine experiences and everyday situations. One new element Quiroga introduces in this collection is the fantastic element that appears in a few of the stories. Yet the tone and style of the work is still predominantly realistic. Quiroga’s professional career has taken her in several directions, in addition to banking; she worked as a journalist for La Prensa newspaper and as a public-relations writer. Currently, she is the director of literary and cultural programs for the prestigious Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires (Museum of Latin American Art of Buenos Aires). There she has a wide range of duties that include public relations, the editing of the museum’s online magazine El hilo de Ariadna (Ariadne’s Thread), and the programming of literary and special events.

Conversation with Ana Quiroga Gwendolyn Díaz: Ana, what memories do you have of San Juan and of your early years in that province at the foot of the Andes Mountains? Ana Quiroga: I was born in a town called Rodeo in the province of San Juan in 1967. The town sits in a beautiful valley on the edge of the Andes, just near the border with Chile. Though my family moved to Buenos Aires shortly 368

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after I was born, we visited my relatives in San Juan frequently and spent most of our summers there. As a result, I learned to appreciate the subtleties of provincial life, and the slow pace and the reflective nature of the people of the provinces. This o¬ered quite a contrast with the lifestyle of the people in the bustling metropolis of Buenos Aires. gd: Do you recall any particular experiences that made an impact on you while in San Juan? aq: I recall that during one of those visits, I woke up early one morning and noticed the household was strangely quiet. I asked my grandmother where everyone was, and she answered that they had left on an excursion to see the snow on the mountains. When I asked why they did not take me on the excursion to see the snow, my grandmother responded that only the men went on the excursion. That was the first time I realized the di¬erent treatment that men and women received. I was only seven, and I was deeply angered by such injustice. gd: Do you consider yourself a sanjuanina (from San Juan) or a porteña (from the port city)? aq: I feel that I have a double identity. Though I left San Juan at an early age, the provincial city is part of who I am and how I see myself. At the same time, I grew up and have made my life in Buenos Aires, so I am a porteña as well. I have a double-sided identity and connect equally with both sides. This can be seen in my stories, which draw from the urban experience as well as the provincial one. My story “La despedida del doctor Vargas” (The Farewell for Doctor Vargas), for instance, shows the di¬erences between city folks and country folks. The story develops a comparison between the intellectual, academic knowledge of people who grow up in urban settings and the more intuitive, instinctual knowledge of those who are raised in the country. gd: What was your home life like? How did your parents rear you? aq: I was reared in a Catholic household. At night, while putting us to bed, my mother would make all nine of us children recite the rosary in Latin. She would tell us such wonderful stories and tales of folklore that we would all sit at the edge of our beds fascinated by her words. My recollection of my school experience was less favorable. The Silesian nuns that ran my school were terribly strict, to the point of requiring that we sleep with nut shells in our beds to ward o¬ sins and impure thoughts. gd: When did you first recognize your love for literature? ana quiroga

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aq: When I was thirteen, my father bought me a book by Chesterton and later introduced me to works by Werther, Goethe, and other masters of European literature. I spent most of my vacations reading every book I could get my hands on. One summer I went to visit my aunt and uncle in the southern city of Comodoro Rivadavia and learned a lot about Argentine literature with them. They were both professors of Argentine literature and educated me in the works of Horacio Quiroga, Benito Lynch, Esteban Echeverría, Lucio V. Mansilla, José Marmol, and others. gd: What did you study in the university? aq: My interest in ideas and human nature led me to pursue philosophy. I studied philosophy for two years at Universidad Nacional Santo Tomás de Aquino (National University of Saint Thomas Aquinas). I pursued this career in spite of the fact that my mother was against it. She told me that philosophy was not an appropriate career for a woman. gd: Why did you quit your studies? aq: I got married, became pregnant, and took a job at the Deutsche Bank. Later, the reality of divorce and becoming a single mother of two daughters forced me to think in more practical terms. I began a career in business and even received a degree in banking. But I never abandoned my love for literature. While working in the business world, I also participated in writing workshops. I was mentored by Abelardo Castillo and Felix della Paolera, both excellent writers and professors, and began writing my first stories in the nineties. gd: Do you have memories of the military dictatorship in Argentina? Does your work reflect that period in any way? aq: No, I do not have many memories of that time; I was too young to remember much about that period of history. Unlike the work of the writers of the earlier generations, my fiction does not concern itself with the political repression that took place in Argentina in the seventies and eighties. However, the repression does appear as a backdrop for some of my stories. It is there as a past presence still looming in the background of the scenario where my characters evolve and come to life. For example, in one of the stories of my last collection of fiction, a story titled “El custodio” (The Watchman), the protagonist comes into contact with a night watchman or guard whom she learns had been a torturer. The repression is there as a past experience, as a reality that still intrudes in our lives, but like a phantom. 370

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gd: What is important to you when writing a story? What stylistic concerns do you have? aq: My attention is placed foremost on theme and plot development. My main interest in writing is to explore human relationships and human nature. As for my style, I consider my writing to be direct and realistic. It is straightforward, concise, and meticulously crafted. I choose my words very carefully and polish each sentence with great care. My guiding principle is an intentional economy of words. gd: Would you comment more on your thematic interests? aq: I prefer to develop themes with subtlety. The stories are not so much about the obvious plot, but rather they hint at something else going on, a subterranean theme taking shape quietly, from behind the scenes. The plot both conceals and reveals something deeper than the narrated events, something that expands our understanding of the human soul. gd: How would you describe your first book of short stories, Dormir juntos una noche (Sleeping Together One Night)? aq: This collection of stories has at its core the subject of human relationships. The characters are ordinary people in ordinary jobs, but who reveal strange and unusual aspects of humanity. Felix della Paolera has said that my characters have a Kafkaesque quality to them. I think it is because I present the strangeness of human experience in a matter-of-fact way. While my subject matter is realistic, it also conveys the ambiguity that dominates relationships and leads to misunderstandings. Often the themes are about cruelty, revenge, or envy; other times about sexuality, eroticism, and gender. gd: One aspect of this collection that caught my attention was the precision with which you describe the urban setting and architecture. You are meticulous about conveying a sense of the city and the spaces in which your characters move. One could almost say that the city is a character in this book. This focus on space as a structuring device is another parallel with Kafka. aq: Yes, I really like that quality of the book. I think that I am able to be an observer who views from both the outside and the inside, perhaps because of my dual background, city and country. When I write about the city, I feel it as an urban essence that bears upon the beings that inhabit it. When I write a story set in the province, the feeling is di¬erent, more introspective, slower paced. In my story “La despedida del doctor Vargas,” I show a conana quiroga

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trast between the country town he comes from and the city he moves to. Sarmiento contrasted the two as la civilización y la barbarie (civilization and barbarism). But I want to show that such a polarized view is not quite true. The province is in some ways more civilized than city, and the city is often more barbaric than the province. I make this point not only thematically, but also structurally, through the depiction of space. gd: Your second book of short stories, El poeta sangra (The Poet Bleeds, 2004), continues to develop the sense of place and space. These places seem to be the scenario for new characters that depict certain existential dilemmas of the Argentine bourgeoisie. aq: In this book I expand the scope of themes related to human conflicts and relationships. The tone continues to be realistic, but there is always an emphasis on showing the ambiguity of experience. One exception would be the story “La carta de Julia” (Julia’s Letter), which introduces a new element in my writing, an interest in the fantastic. gd: The story included here, “Un poco más allá” (A Little Bit Farther), from your first book, is a good example of how one woman breaks the strictures of gender stereotyping. Would you comment on this story? aq: This story is about female courage, something I feel is not portrayed enough in literature. Certainly there is much written about male courage and desire for adventure. I have often heard, with certain amazement, that women are not interested in expeditions or adventures, that those are male interests. Well, that is simply not true. In this story I portray a policewoman who is unhappy being relegated to o~ce work. She takes it upon herself to go out on an assignment where she faces death and danger and succeeds in proving that she is tough and courageous. She crosses the line and goes beyond what is expected of a woman. gd: And here I am reminded of the young Ana Quiroga, who was deeply disappointed that the men in her family had not taken her on the expedition to see the snow-capped mountains. aq: I have never forgotten how disappointed I felt that day. I still recall hearing my brothers and cousins talking, upon their return, about how memorable the experience had been. I was devastated that they left me behind. gd: “Un poco más allá” shows a woman who wants to be a part of the powerful experience of dealing with life and death. Does the subject of women and power come up frequently in your work?

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aq: This story is unique that way. The female characters that populate my stories have a limited power. They are limited by their circumstances and by social expectations. They work within the roles that society has assigned to them, yet there is an underlying questioning of these roles. gd: How do you view the issue of women and power personally? aq: The word “power” is too broad for me. It represents those who have control. Power is also “possibility” and its opposite, “impotence.” I have often felt that sense of impotence, the feeling that I was not authorized to do or say something. I think women need to find new ways to become authorized rather than settle for the surrogate power found through men or rather than exercise power in a machista way, as some women do. I think the contemporary woman is learning to find new ways of being powerful and feminine both. This is something very di~cult to do in a society that tends to equate power with maleness. gd: Do you consider yourself a feminist? aq: No, I don’t. This is strange, because I am very concerned with women and women’s roles and position in society. Perhaps I do not know enough about feminism to embrace it. I like the di¬erences between men and women. The di¬erences are not only physical but also mental di¬erences between the two, as science is proving daily. Nevertheless, I do believe in equality within the work force and equality of value and opportunity for men and women. I also realize that women do not have the place in society that they should. I often hear men say that feminism is a thing of the past, that we have evolved beyond that and those problems have been solved. But that’s not really true. Not much has been done to improve opportunities for women or to give them a place of equal value in society. gd: Ana, in my definition of feminist, you are one. aq: Interestingly, as I was answering your question I became aware of issues that have been bothering me for quite some time. It bothers me, for instance, that young girls still plan their lives around finding a man and getting married. It seems that we still have a long way to go before we can live our lives as independent persons. This is the way it is here, in Argentina. Most young women have not undergone a change in their expectations of life. Often, they are still willing to take second place to a man. I feel we should begin by changing our expectations and perceptions; that we should be able to be both strong and feminine.

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gd: Fortunately we live in a time when this paradigm change has begun to sprout its seeds. I think that is what your story “Un poco más allá” is about. The policewoman goes a little bit farther not only in distance, but also in everyone’s expectations of her. We now see more women breaking away from traditional passive roles in order to take charge, to take control, to take power. Because power, when well used, can be a force for bettering our lives, rather than harming them.

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A Little Bit Farther

I asked Rosatto to keep me in mind. For several years the same story kept repeating itself: the best part went to them. The idea of going up to Rosatto and asking him for it just like that occurred to me while returning from one of the trips, upon seeing the faces of the others. I sensed that there was something of an unconfessed fear and I thought that this was my time, that one and only opportunity that I had been waiting for since I was little. Suddenly, it seemed to me that all the fury in the world manifested itself in me in a strength that those guys didn’t have. It made me sick, but I liked it. The neighbors of an apartment in the 800 block of Pichincha had called, the one on the first floor facing the street. I took charge of everything. I opened the file and gave it a name; I investigated the police reports; I circled the house at all hours of the day and night and confirmed, standing in the doorway, that no one came at the sound of the doorbell; I made repeated phone calls; I waited in vain for the court’s reply; I smiled at Rosatto until he himself tired of so much delay, so much negative judicial response, so much paperwork. —Get on it, Cravera, like it’s yours, I won’t even realize what’s going on. It took me awhile to convince Bald Bassoli and Johnny Di Nucci, but they owed me administrative favors. I enjoyed their shock at seeing me fearless and cold. The necessity of getting out of that hole was so great that I believed myself capable of licking a dead body’s face. We arrived at ten in the morning because Johnny Di Nucci’s car broke down. There were already old ladies standing on the sidewalk and the man from the corner came out of the convenience store to watch. Bald Bassoli brought a locksmith so as not to make so much noise, but I would have liked them to knock the door down. They had already warned me about the smell, so I hurried in with the vinegar bottle, tossing it out every which way, in the middle of that darkness that grew thicker as we came closer to the bedrooms. Johnny Di Nucci shut the door and left us at the mercy of the flashlights that did not illuminate well and I don’t know how but the smell got into my guts and I didn’t want to think that I might throw up.

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Bassoli signaled for me to go first and it seemed to me that there was some kind of exchange of knowing looks with Di Nucci. There was still vinegar in the bottle and sometimes I shook the flashlight confusing the motion. The light flashed among the shadows and I still was not able to see the corpse and a fear of stepping on pieces of a dead man crept up my legs. I remembered all that talk about stories of mutilation and remains and that seemed to me a long way away and that this right now was the only truth. The smell was caressing me all over and the noise of Di Nucci’s and Bassoli’s breathing overwhelmed me. I wanted to be the first to discover the corpse and close this story and announce that the file could go to the courts with a complete report, but the body still did not appear and my toes had gotten sti¬ on me. Suddenly in a corner I saw a face and a yell of terror crossed my throat but no sound came out and I saw the old woman against the wall, standing up, hanging from a hook, surrounded by flies and with open eyes drunk with madness. Then the anxiety disappeared and I could shout to them that I had found it, jerks, they had thought that I would be afraid. We unhooked the woman from the wall with more carelessness than was advisable and we laid her down as well as we could on one of the beds. I felt the euphoria of being alive and a slow laugh started to climb up to my mouth. Even I had doubted myself, even I. And there I was seated in the middle of that nauseating smell, waiting for Di Nucci to call Rosatto and for them to congratulate me. I straightened her dress a little so they wouldn’t see the skinniness of her legs and I discovered the curtains that looked like the ones at my house. Translated by Karen Douglas Alexander

publications “El potrillo,” “El regreso,” “El corralón,” and “El hombre.” In Antología Cuentan, ed. Jorge E. Clemente. Buenos Aires: Editorial Metáfora, 1993. Dormir juntos una noche. Buenos Aires: Ciudad de lectores, 2002. “El cobrador.” In Los Cuentos, ed. Dolores Bengolea. Buenos Aires: Editorial Victoria Ocampo, 2003. El poeta sangra. Buenos Aires: Ciudad de lectores, 2004.

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