2666: La parte de los crímenes #4

"¿Quiere decir que cree que Kelly está muerta?, le grité. Más o menos, dijo sin perder un ápice de compostura. ¿Cómo que más o menos?, grité. !O se está muerto o no se está muerto, chingados! En México uno puede estar más o menos muerto, me contestó muy seriamente. Lo miré con ganas de abofetearlo. Qué tipo tan frío y reservado era ése. No, le dije casi silabeando, ni en México ni en ninguna otra parte del mundo alguien puede estar más o menos muerto. Deje de hablar como si fuera un guía turístico. O mi amiga está viva, y entonces quiero que la encuentre, o mi amiga está muerta, y entonces quiero a sus asesinos. Loya sonrió. ¿De qué se rié?, le pregunté. Me ha hecho gracia lo del guía turístico, dijo. Estoy harta de los mexicanos que hablan y se comportan como si todo esto fuera Pedro Páramo, dije". (Roberto Bolaño, 2666, 779-780)

"A lo largo de los años, el gobierno mexicano ha protegido a los asesinos y a quienes los patrocinan cuantas veces ha sido necesario. Huesos en el desierto lo demuestra". (Sergio González Rodríguez, Huesos en el desierto, II)

Habiendo dicho que ambos Bolaño y el periodista Sergio González Rodríguez intentaron llamar la atención a las dimensiones humanas de los crímenes contra las mujeres en Santa Teresa/Ciudad Juárez en 2666 y en Huesos en el desierto respectivamente, me gustaría regresar al asunto una vez más para ver otra explanación cómo y por qué el novelista se acercó a la materia en el modo que vemos en esta parte. En otras palabras, ¿por qué están los crímenes relatados de esta manera? Yo pienso que la respuesta probablemente tiene que ver con la indignación de Bolaño frente a los crímenes--que él quiso confrontar a sus lectores, de modo tan provocador que pudiera hacerlo, con los "testigos" de las mujeres y niñas muertas. Aunque esto punto anterior es difícil de comprobar, ya queda claro desde el principio de la parte que o Santa Teresa o la muerte es verdaderamente la "protagonista" de esta seccion. Desigual a las otras partes del libro, esta sección es la única donde un hecho, "los crímenes", toma el lugar de un ser humano nombrado en el título. En cuanto a lo temático, la cólera de Bolaño también explica el retrato de México que se ve en este capítulo. Al pormenorizar los cinco años de asesinatos, él sugiere que los problemas con la polícia (tanto los malos tratos de las prostitutas en la cárcel como el sistema de mordida para no investigar los crímenes) son endémicos. Además de esto, también señala la manera en cuál la indiferencia (el pasaje donde varios policías hacen bromas sobre el número de "conductos" de que se pueden violar una víctima) o el machismo (otro sobre el día de chistes sobre mujeres) como las razones por qué no se pueden solucionar los crímenes. Porque los asesinatos siguen sin parar y son gráficos en extremo grado, es facíl querer evitar algunas de las descripciones "incidentales". No obstante, los problemas de clase y el racismo también son prextextos para disminuir el valor de una vida en Santa Teresa: notáse que las prostitutas del DF creen que las víctimas de los asesinatos al norte son obreras de maquiladoras y que la sociedad de clase media quiere creer que la mayoría de las víctimas son putas; notáse que un forense que enseña gana el apodo del "doctor Mengele de Sonora" para opinar sin fín acerca de qué clase de mujer indígena se ha encontrada muerta en el desierto (626-627). Desgraciadamente, todo esto es sólo un preámbulo a la revelación (de alcance nacional e internacional debido a la posición de Santa Teresa como un centro de "tráfico humano" desde los dos lados de la frontera) que los carteles de narcotraficantes y los políticos sucios hacen una pareja rara en cuanto a la continuación de la violencia. Cuando la política honesta trata de averiguar qué ha pasado a su amiga, los lectores ya sabemos que no hay salida de esta pesadilla infernal a pesar de su poder político. De hecho, es casi absurdo: como dice un personaje, "Ser crimonólogo en este país es como ser criptógrafo en el polo norte" (723). Para mí, esta visión dantesca de un infierno sobre la tierra, pesimista e implacable, ayuda explicar el estilo de Bolaño en esta parte; también me hace más curiosa que nunca para ver como La parte de Archimboldi se encajará con las otras.
*
"'You mean to say that you think Kelly's dead?' I shouted. 'More or less,' he said without losing an ounce of cool. 'What do you mean more or less?' I screamed. 'She's either dead or she's not dead, fuck! 'In Mexico, one can be more or less dead,' he answered very seriously. I looked at him wanting to punch him. How cold and reserved that guy was. 'No,' I told him almost syllable by syllable, 'neither in Mexico nor anywhere else in the world can one be more or less dead. Stop talking as if you were a tour guide. Either my friend is alive, in which case I want you to find her, or she is dead, in which case I want the killers.' Loya smiled. 'What are you laughing at?' I asked him. 'You made me laugh with that part about the tour guide,' he said. 'I'm fed up with Mexicans who talk and carry themselves as if all this were Pedro Páramo,' I said." (Roberto Bolaño, 2666, 779-780 [my translation here and below])

"Throughout the years, the Mexican government has protected the killers and those who sponsor them. Huesos en el desierto proves it." (Sergio González Rodríguez, Huesos en el desierto, II)

Having said that both Bolaño and the journalist Sergio González Rodríguez wanted to emphasize the human dimensions of the crimes against women in Santa Teresa/Ciudad Juárez in 2666 and Huesos en el desierto (Bones in the Desert) respectively, I'd like to return to the matter one more time to see another reason why the novelist might have approached this subject matter in the way that he did in this part. In other words, why were the crimes depicted the way they were? I think that the answer probably has to do with Bolaño's indignation over the crimes--that he wanted to confront his readers with the "testimony" of all the dead women and girls in an as in-your-face way as humanly possible. Although the preceding point is difficult to prove, it's clear from the outset that either Santa Teresa or death is really the main "protagonist" of this section. Unlike other parts of the book, this one is the only one where a deed, "the crimes," takes the place of a named human being in the title. Thematically, Bolaño's anger also explains the picture he paints of Mexico in this chapter. In dwelling on the five years of killings in such a minutely detailed way, Bolaño clearly suggests that problems with the police (both those who abuse prostitutes in jail and those who accept bribes not to investigate crimes) are endemic. Beyond that, he also singles out how indifference (the passage where various officials joke about how many orifices can be penetrated in a single woman) and machismo (an altogether different fragment on the day about jokes about women) are other reasons why the crimes may not be taken as seriously as they deserve. Since the killings are overwhelmingly graphic and numerous, it's easy enough to want to tune out some of the more "incidental" descriptions. However, both classism and racism also rear their ugly heads as additional motives for the lack of response to the crimes: the former as we find out that prostitutes aren't troubled by maquiladora workers deaths and working people aren't troubled by the deaths of hookers; the latter when we read that a professor of forensics has been dubbed "the Doctor Mengele of Sonora" for endlessly speculating on what kind of indigenous woman was killed in the desert (626-627). All this is preamble, of course, to the eventual revelation (national and international in scope given Santa Teresa's status as a crossing point for human traffic from both sides of the border) that the narco cartels are in bed with dirty politicians when it comes to perpetuating the violence. When the honest politician in the excerpt above tries to find out what's happened to her missing friend, we readers already know that there's no escaping this nightmare for her despite her relative power. In fact, it's almost absurd: as one character says, "Being a criminologist in this country is like being a cryptographer at the North Pole" (626-627). This Dantesque vision of a hell on earth, bleak and unforgiving, helps explain Bolaño's style in this part for me; it also makes me more curious than ever how The Part About Archimboldi will fit in with all the rest.

2666: La parte de los crímenes #3

"Lo real y lo maravilloso"

A pesar de la crudeza de su prosa y el realismo de sus temas, La parte de los crímenes también contiene muchos momentos maravillosos en cuanto a la escritura. De hecho, uno de mis pasajes favoritos dentro de la novela entera comienza en la página 535 con la introducción de un personaje llamado Florita Almada. "También por aquellos días apareció en la televisión de Sonora una vidente llamada Florita Almada", escribe Bolaño, "a la que sus seguidores, que no eran muchos, apodaban la Santa". Interesantemente, este principio humilde correrá alrededor de 13 páginas en un sólo párrafo antes de llegar a su fin dramático. Dentro de la escena, la presencia narrativa fluctua entre la tercera persona y la primera persona con una fluidez asombrosa. El resultado es que el lector recibe una vita condensada de la setentona Florita que tiene que ver con sus experiencias como yerbatera tanto con sus experiencias matrimoniales y que se lee como el habla cotidiana en vez de un discurso literario. Como Barry Seaman en La parte de Fate, Florita hace un discurso medio disparatado sobre una cantidad de temas: la lectura, el peligro de ser un ser humano, la comida saludable ("Más claro que el agua, decía Florita Almada. Por mucho que a uno le guste desayunar huevos rancheros o huevos a la mexicana, si sufre hipertensión arterial lo mejor es que deje de comer huevos" [535]). Recita un poema de memoria, y después enumera las conclusiones que se pueden sacar de la obra ("2: que mirar cara a cara al aburrimiento era una acción que requería valor y que Benito Juárez lo había hecho y que ella también lo había hecho y que ambos habían visto en el rostro del aburrimiento cosas horribles que prefería no decir" [542]). Pero hacia el final del fragmento, el tono cambia abruptamente cuando la vidente empieza hablar de su vision más reciente durante una apariencia televisada en el programa Una hora con Reinaldo. "Dijo que había visto mujeres muertas y niñas muertas. Un desierto. Un oasis...Una ciudad" (545). Después, Florita entra en trance, y se pregunta "¿Qué ciudad es ésa?" La respuesta no tarda mucho. "¡Es Santa Teresa! ¡Es Santa Teresa! Lo estoy viendo clarito. Allí matan a las mujeres. Matan a mis hijas. ¡Mis hijas!" Un momento más tarde, en una voz varonil: "Los putos policías no hacen nada, sólo miran, ¿pero qué miran?, ¿qué miran?" Luego, en voz de niña: "Algunas se van en un carro negro, pero las matan en cualquier lugar" (547). Al final la medium se desmaya sobre el piso, agotada. Me sentí igual.

¿Qué pasa por acá? En primer lugar, el episodio ofrece otro ejemplo más del alcance estilístico y el atrevimiento de Bolaño como narrador. Aunque esta parte del libro probablemente se hiciera más famoso entre los críticos debido al estilo "forense" de la escritura sobre los crímenes, la realidad es que el libro alterna descripciones en tercera persona con un sinnúmero de testimonios en primera persona de calidad muy vivaz. En segundo lugar, la aparencia televisiva de Florita tiene paralelos temáticos importantes con el discurso premonitorio de Seaman y con el epígrafe alterado de Baudelaire ("Un oasis de horror en medio de un desierto de aburrimiento"). Las visiones, por supuesto, también nos acuerda de las voces que oyó Amalfitano anteriormente. Además, el pasaje está lleno de una ironía increíblemente provocadora en que el programa de televisión con Florita también incluye un invitado que es ventrilocuista. Dejando por el momento el asunto de si Bolaño se burlaba de si mismo (el autor/ventrilocuista cuyos personajes/muñecos no pueden parar hablando) o si él sólo llamaba la atención a una situación absurda en un sentido cósmico (una anciana que habla en voz de ultratomba en trance compartiendo una silla con un artista que habla con la voz de un muñeco de madera), ¿no es irónico que, de todas las personas posibles, una vidente tiene que ser la santa que funciona como la voz de la razón en enfrentarse con los asesinatos en Santa Teresa? ¿Y no hay otros profetas para dar consejos frente a la ira apocalíptica desencadenada sobre la ciudad?

*

In spite of the rawness of its prose and the realism of its themes, The Part About the Crimes also contains many marvelous moments in regards to the writing. In fact, one of my favorite passages within the entire novel begins on page 535 of the Anagrama edition with the introduction of a character named Florita Almada. "A clairvoyant named Florita Almada also appeared at that time on Sonoran television," Bolaño writes, "to whom her followers, who were few in number, had nicknamed the Saint." Intriguingly, this humble beginning will run close to 13 pages in a single paragraph before arriving at its dramatic conclusion. Within the scene, the narratorial presence changes from the third person to the first person and back again with astonishing fluidity and ease. The result is that the reader receives a condensed C.V. of the 70-year old Florita that has as much to do with her experiences as an herbalist as with her life as a married woman and that's conveyed in a way that sounds very much like real speech rather than literary speech. Like the character Barry Seaman in The Part About Fate, Florita makes a speech that's all over the place on a variety of themes: reading, the dangers of being a human being, the food that's good for you ("It's as clear as can be," Florita was saying. "As much as one might enjoy having huevos rancheros or huevos a la mexicana for breakfast, if you have high blood pressure the best thing to do is to stop eating eggs" [535]). She recites a poem from memory, and then she enumerates all the conclusions that can be drawn from the work ("2: that looking at extreme boredom face to face was an action that required bravery and that Benito Juárez had done it and that she had also done it and that both of them had seen such horrible things in the face of boredom that she would prefer not to talk about it" [542]). But towards the end of the fragment, the tone changes abruptly when the seer begins to speak of her most recent vision during a televised appearance on An Hour with Reinaldo. "She said that she had seen dead women and dead little girls. A desert. An oasis... A city" (545). Afterward, she goes into a trance and asks herself, "What city is that?" The answer's not long in coming. "It's Santa Teresa! It's Santa Teresa! I'm seeing it clearly. They're killing women over there. They're killing my daughters. My daughters!" Next, in a man's voice: "The fucking police don't do anything, they only watch. But what are they watching? What are they watching?" Then, in a little girl's voice: "Some people are leaving in a black car, but they kill them anywhere." At the end, the medium slumps onto the floor, spent (546-547). I felt much the same way.

What's going on here? In the first place, the episode offers yet another example of Bolaño's stylistic reach and daring as a storyteller. Although the "forensic" style of the writing about the crimes is probably what's made this part most famous among the critics, the reality is that the book alternates third-person descriptions with a multitude of extremely vivid first-person testimonials. In the second place, Florita's television appearance has important thematic parallels with Seaman's premonitory speech and with the altered Baudelaire epigraph at the beginning of the novel ("An oasis of horror in the middle of a desert of boredom"). The visions, of course, also remind us of the voices that Amalfitano heard earlier on. In addition, the passage is full of an incredibly provocative irony in that the TV program with Florita also includes a guest who is a ventriloquist. Leaving aside for the moment the question of whether Bolaño was making fun of himself (the author/ventriloquist whose characters/puppets can't stop talking to save their lives) or merely drawing attention to a cosmically absurd situation (an old woman who, in a trance, speaks with a voice from beyond the grave having to share the stage with a performer who speaks through a ventriloquist's wooden dummy), isn't it ironic that a clairvoyant of all people is the saintly one charged with being the voice of reason in confronting the killings in Santa Teresa? And are there no other prophets to help confront the apocalyptic wrath that's been unleashed on the city?

2666: La parte de los crímenes #2

Sergio González Rodríguez

"La siguiente muerta fue encontrada entre la carretera a Casas Negras y una vaguada sin nombre en donde abundaban matorrales y las flores silvestres. Fue la primera muerta encontrada en marzo de 1996, mes funesto en el que se encontrarían cinco cadáveres más. Entre los seis policías que acudierion al lugar de los hechos estaba Lalo Cura. La muerta tenía diez años aproximadamente. Su estatura era de un metro y veintisiete centímetros. Llevaba zapatillas de plástico transparente, atadas con una hebilla de metal. Tenía el pelo castaño, más claro en la parte que le cubría la frente, como si lo llevara teñido. En el cuerpo se apreciaron ocho heridas de cuchillo, tres a la altura del corazón. Uno de los policías se puso a llorar cuando la vio. Los tipos de la ambulancia bajaron a la vaguada y procedierion a atarla en la camilla, porque el ascenso podía ser accidentado y en un traspié dar con su cuerpito en el suelo. Nadie fue a reclamarla. Según declaró oficialmente la policía, no vivía en Santa Teresa. ¿Qué hacía allí? ¿Cómo había llegado allí? Eso no lo dijeron. Sus datos fueron enviados por fax a varias comisarías del país. De la investigación se encargó el judicial Ángel Fernández y el caso pronto se cerró". (Roberto Bolaño, 2666, 627)

De las docenas de muertas describidas en La parte de los crímenes, ésta se destaca por la edad de la víctima y por la reacción del policía que se puso a llorar. No obstante, el lenguaje mismo es muy típico del estilo de Bolaño en esta parte: una prosa seca y franca que a veces se lee como un informe forense. Aunque el tema del femicidio santeresiano basta para explicar la elección de este acercamiento por parte del autor, es posible que otra razón tiene que ver con la amistad entre Bolaño y el periodista mexicano Sergio González Rodríguez. González Rodríguez hace su entrada en 2666 en la página 470 como personaje ("Por aquellos días el periódico La Razón, del DF, envió a Sergio González a hacer un reportaje sobre el Penitente"), y dentro de poco aprende que hay algo peor en la ciudad que un mero profanador de iglesias ("En Santa Teresa, además del famoso Penitente, se cometían crímenes contra mujeres, la mayoría de los cuales quedaba sin aclarar" [474]). Afuera de las páginas del libro, el periodista de carne y hueso se había convertido en amigo de Bolaño antes de la muerte de éste, compartiendo información sobre los asesinatos de Ciudad Juárez por correo electrónico. En 2002, un año antes de la publicación de 2666, un libro de no ficción de González Rodríguez se publicó bajo el nombre de Huesos en el desierto. Huesos en el desierto es una obra que merece más tiempo que tengo en este momento, pero es un trabajo que alterna crónicas periodistícas sobre los asesinatos con ensayos de índole sociológico (por ejemplo, acerca de cosas como la relación entre el crimen organizado y la política en México). Además de esto, la obra contiene un capítulo particularmente conmovedor dedicado a la memoria de las victímas de Ciudad Juárez; les dejo un extracto del capítulo a continuación para los que quisieran comparar el acercamiento de Bolaño a los asesinatos con el acercamiento del periodista del DF. Para mí, no hay duda que los dos escritores quisieron llamar la atención a las dimensiones humanas de los crímenes no aclaradas. ¿Pero qué piensan ustedes?

"29/03/96, no identificada, joven, Lomas de Poleo, violada y estrangulada, 15 días de muerta. 29/03/96, no identificada, joven, Lomas de Poleo, violada y estrangulada, 30 días de muerta. 28/03/96, Guadalupe Verónica Castro Pando, 16 años, Lomas de Poleo, violada y estrangulada. 23/03/96, no identificada, joven, Lomas de Poleo, violada y estrangulada. 18/03/96, no identificada, joven, Lomas de Poleo, violada y estrangulada. 13/03/96, no identificada, joven, Lomas de Poleo, violada y estrangulada. 09/03/96, no identificada, 9 a 12 años, acuchillada, violada, carretera a Casas Grandes, kilómetro 27". (Sergio González Rodríguez, Huesos en el desierto, 268)

*

"The next dead female was found between the highway to Casas Negras and a riverbed without a name where there were scrub and wildflowers in abundance. It was the first dead female found in March of 1996, an ill-fated month in which five more cadavers would turn up. Lalo Cura was among the six police officers who showed up at the scene of the crime. The dead girl was approximately ten years old. She was about four feet tall. She wore clear plastic slippers fastened with a metal buckle. She had brown hair, lighter brown in the part that covered her face, as if she wore it colored. Eight knife wounds could be observed on the body, three at the level of the heart. One of the police officers began to cry when he saw her. The ambulance attendants went down to the riverbed and proceeded to strap her into the stretcher because the ascent could be tricky and a stumble might throw her little body onto the ground. Nobody went to claim the body. As the police officially declared, she wasn't a resident of Santa Teresa. What was she doing there? How had she arrived? That part they didn't say. Her vital statistics were faxed to various police stations around the country. Ángel Fernández of the Federal Judicial Police took charge of the investigation, and the case was soon closed." (Roberto Bolaño, 2666, 627 [my translations here and below])

Of the dozens of dead women described in The Part About the Crimes, this one stands out both for the age of the victim and for the reaction of the policeman who was moved to cry by the discovery. However, the language itself is very typical of Bolaño's style in this part: a dry, matter of fact prose that sometimes reads like a forensic report. Although the subject matter of the Santa Teresa femicides is enough to explain the choice of approach by the author, it's possible that Bolaño's friendship with Mexican journalist Sergio González Rodríguez is another reason. González Rodríguez makes his entry as a character in 2666 on page 470 of the Spanish edition ("In those days the Mexico City newspaper La Razón sent Sergio González to file a report on the Penitent"), and before long he realizes that there's something worse in the city than a mere desecrator of churches ("In Santa Teresa, in addition to the famous Penitent, they were committing crimes against women, the majority of which remained unsolved" [474]). Outside the pages of the book, the flesh-and-blood journalist had become a friend of Bolaño's before the latter's death, sharing information on the Ciudad Juárez killings by e-mail. In 2002, one year before 2666's release, a nonfiction work by Gónzález Rodríguez was published under the name of Huesos en el desierto [Bones in the Desert]. Huesos en el desierto is a book that deserves more time than I have at this moment, but it's a work that alternates journalistic chronicles on the killings with essays more sociological in nature (on things like the relation between organized crime and politics in Mexico, for example). In addition, the work contains a particularly moving chapter dedicated to the memory of the victims in Ciudad Juárez; an excerpt's available below for those who'd like to compare Bolaño's approach to the killings with the Mexico City journalist's approach. For me, it's abundantly clear that both writers wanted to call attention to the human dimensions of the unsolved crimes. But what do you think?

"03/29/96, unidentified, young woman, Lomas de Poleo, raped and strangulated, dead 15 days. 03/29/96, unidentified, young woman, Lomas de Poleo, raped and strangulated, dead 30 days. 03/28/96, Guadalupe Verónica Castro Pando, 16 years old, Lomas de Poleo, raped and strangulated. 03/23/96, unidentified, young woman, Lomas de Poleo, raped and strangulated. 03/18/96, unidentified, young woman, raped and strangulated. 03/13/96, unidentified, young woman, raped and strangulated. 03/09/96, unidentified, 9-12 years old, knifed to death, raped, highway to Casas Grandes at kilometer #27." (Sergio Gónzález Rodríguez, Huesos en el desierto, 268)

2666: La parte de los crímenes #1

Aunque mañana tendré algo más específico para decir, no quiero acostarme esta noche sin compartir mi entusiasmo por la quarta parte de 2666. ¡Qué librazo! Como muchos de ustedes sabrán, La parte de los crímenes tiene que ver con los cientos de muertas que han aparecidos en la ciudad de Santa Teresa (trasunto de Ciudad Juárez en México) desde 1993. Bolaño sólo versa con los años 1993-1997 en el capítulo bajo consideración, pero lo hace de manera que el lector no se puede escapar de los horrores de la violencia. Asesinato tras asesinato se describe con los detalles más horrendos, hasta el punto de que uno casi no se sorprende cuando otro cuerpo se descubre en el desierto. ¿Por qué deben leerlo entonces? En primer lugar, la escritura es espectacular. Voy a darles algunos ejemplos más tarde en la semana, pero este libro--y este capítulo en particular--contiene la escritura más absorbente que he leído este año. En segundo lugar, Bolaño hace hincapié en el problema del Mal acá con gran destreza. "Es sólo una novela", sí, pero los temas tratados son los que merecen su atención como lectores en cualquier género de literatura seria. En cuanto al estilo, esta parte también es de interés por la manera en cuál su materia se enlaza con lo demás de la novela hasta este punto; si pensamos en 2666 como un pentatipico compuesto de cinco tablas, ésta es la primera donde el infierno que es Santa Teresa toma su lugar en primer término. O donde el infierno mismo se convierte en protagonista. Joder.
*
Although I'll have something more specific to say about it tomorrow, I don't want to go to bed tonight without first sharing my enthusiasm for the fourth part of 2666. What a book! As many of you no doubt know, The Part About the Crimes has to do with the hundreds of dead women that have appeared in the city of Santa Teresa (the fictional double of Ciudad Juárez in Mexico) since 1993. Bolaño only deals with the years 1993-1997 in the chapter under consideration, but he does it in such a way that the reader really can't escape from the horrors of the violence. Killing after killing is described in horrific detail to the point where you almost begin to become numb to the scope of the tragedy when another dead body shows up in the desert. So why should you want to read this? To start with, the writing is amazing. I'll give some examples later in the week, but this book--and this chapter, in particular--contains some of the most gripping writing I've read all year. Secondly, Bolaño casts a powerful spotlight on the problem of evil here with great skill. "It's only a novel," true, but the themes he's wrestling with are the sort that deserve your attention in any genre of serious literature. Stylistically, this part's also of interest in the way its subject matter ties in with the rest of the novel up to this point; if you think of 2666 as a pentaptych composed of five related panels, this one's the first where the hell that is Santa Teresa clearly emerges into the foreground. Or where Hell itself becomes a protagonist. Damn.

Season of Migration to the North

Season of Migration to the North [Mahsim al-Hijra ila ash-Shamal] (NYRB Classics, 2009)
by Tayeb Salih (translated from the Arabic by Denys Johnson-Davies)
Sudan, 1966

"It was, gentlemen, after a long absence--seven years to be exact, during which time I was studying in Europe--that I returned to my people. I learnt much and much passed me by--but that's another story." (Season of Migration to the North, 3)

Some postcolonial punk recalled this book from me less than a week after I'd checked it out from the library, but he/she might have actually done me a favor by forcing me to read it sooner than I'd intended. Sort of a reverse Heart of Darkness, Season of Migration to the North is a superb short novel that wowed me with its bravura storytelling and its odd, somewhat feverish air. The journey begins when the unnamed narrator returns to his quiet village on the banks of the Nile after spending seven years studying English poetry abroad. One night during a drinking bout, the narrator is astonished when he hears an enigmatic newcomer from Khartoum himself reciting World War I verses in a perfect English accent. How did two British-educated Sudanese intellectuals wind up in the same desolate wadi? And what does the mysterious newcomer have to hide hanging out here in the sticks? The two questions that obsess the narrator begin to take on a haunting quality when Mustafa Sa'eed, the man from Khartoum, confesses to having killed a white woman in Britain and having caused others to commit suicide over him after leaving them abandoned in his romantic wake. Bizarre? Yes. But Salih (1929-2009) is such a master of narrative that both the trajectory of the plot, essentially composed of two equally compelling and intersecting storylines set decades apart in time, and the behavior of the characters practically demand your attention. As befits a work that at least one major critics' group has anointed as the best Arabic novel of the 20th century, Season of Migration to the North of course offers much more than just a gripping plot and an iconic character, Mustafa Sa'eed, who vanishes one day only to linger on as a sort of phantom of memory that torments the narrator with his very presence. The novel is studded with surprising images--the octogenarian grandfather whose unique smell "is a combination of the smell of the large mausoleum in the cemetery and the smell of an infant child" (61), the drought that prompts the narrator to complain that "such land brings forth nothing but prophets" (90). It's also insistently and at times defiantly oral in nature, as when Mustafa Sa'eed repeatedly mumbles "my store of hackneyed phrases is inexhaustible" (30, 34) and "the train carried me to Victoria Station and to the world of Jean Morris" (26, 27, 29) when explaining his techniques for sexual conquest and the mad love affair that would bring him face to face with the British justice system. Salih's poetic qualities notwithstanding, the work is probably most famous for offering its readers a look at the Empire from the point of view of the other side of the table--an "Arab-African" POV (33) in which colonialism is characterized as both a sexual battlefield and an infectious germ that poisons both the oppressor and the oppressed. While I'll leave those rather complicated topics for somebody with more time on their hands to try and suss out, suffice it to say that Season of Migration to the North was as much of a revelation to me as Walser's grand Jakob von Gunten was back in July. Outstanding. (http://www.nyrb.com/)

Tayeb Salih

"Season of Migration to the North isn't the first book in which a writer of color has decided to 'write back' to the empire, of course. Ngugi wa Thiong'o's The River Between (1965), Camara Laye's The Radiance of the King (1954), and Aimé Césaire's A Tempest (1969), for instance, can all be seen as attempts to subvert European colonial discourse. But Season of Migration to the North is unique among these books in that it is written in the author's native language, rather than the colonial one. Indeed, Salih stands out among African writers of his generation for his insistence on continuing to use Arabic in spite of having lived the majority of his life outside the Sudan. ('It's a matter of principle,' he once told an interviewer.)" (Laila Lalami, "Introduction" to Season of Migration to the North, xiv-xv)

The Story of Zahra

The Story of Zahra [Hikayat Zahra] (Quartet Books, 1986)
by Hanan al-Shaykh (translated from the Arabic by Peter Ford "with the author's cooperation")
Lebanon, 1980

"We had grown used to the idea of a cease-fire at the beginning. We did not dare to think or believe that fighting meant war any more than a cease-fire meant peace." (The Story of Zahra, 106)

I'm not sure why exactly, but I'd half expected that I wasn't going to like this work very much. I was wrong. Oft cited as a classic of contemporary Arabic literature and an important work in international women's studies courses, Zahra pursues its troubled, mentally-disturbed title character from a dysfunctional home in southern Lebanon, on to Africa for a failed marriage, and back to Beirut where she suffers through the ravages of the Lebanese Civil War. Multiple narrators close to Zahra recount their interactions with the character, and Zahra herself bookends the accounts with her own pre-war memories of electroshock therapy and a harrowing account of her wartime "romance" with a rooftop sniper. While al-Shaykh does a tremendous job at bringing the horrors of war home with descriptions of the daily bombings in Beirut, she's equally adept at evoking the profound sense of interior trauma suffered by Zahra (note: I loved the fragmentary nature of the narrative--both the multiple points of view and Zahra's own instability as a witness--for reinforcing these feelings of disconnect). Throughout, one senses that the real horrors for the character aren't the war itself but rather the non-war sources of her own feelings of displacement and exile: the undiagnosed mental health issues that plague her, various abuses at the hands of men, her complicated responses to her own sexuality, and her role as an individual suffering within the stifling, patriarchal culture in which she was raised. That being said, for all the things I admired about the work, for all the interesting things it has to say about colonialism, gender relations and the like, the one thing I didn't care for was a rather big one: the ending. In fact, I'd probably have to read it again before deciding whether it was overly simplistic from a thematic standpoint or an unavoidably logical conclusion to everything that came before it. Bummer. (Quartet Books, London)

Hanan al-Shaykh

The Story of Zahra was self-published when it first came out because it was deemed too hot to handle by regional publishers. For a recent newspaper piece from Hanan al-Shaykh on her mother's life,

see "I Am Too Young to Marry" from The Guardian UK here.

This is my fifth book read for this year's Orbis Terrarum Challenge.
Next up: W.G. Sebald's Austerlitz (Germany), Mario Vargas Llosa's La guerra del fin del mundo [The War of the End of the World], or ??? (???).

Another perspective: E.L. Fay (This Book and I Could Be Friends)

Hombre de la Esquina Rosada

"Hombre de la Esquina Rosada"
por Jorge Luis Borges
Argentina, 1935

En el principio: "A mí, tan luego, hablarme del finado Francisco Real".
Temas: El honor, el orgullo, la valentía, la violencia.

A pesar del hecho de que hay otros cuentos de Borges que parecen ser más, ¿cómo se dice?, borgesianos que "Hombre de la Esquina Rosada", ya tengo una debilidad por esta obra suya atípica. Con una hermosa unión de lo oral y lo visual, el joven Borges logró crear un retrato histórico-mítico de la ciudad de Buenos Ayres en los días de los compadritos a principios del siglo XX. A diferencia de otros relatos de Borges, el lenguaje empleado por el narrador está marcado por su tono prostibulario y por su uso del lunfardo: un intento de reflejar el habla de los porteños en el caló de aquel entonces. Además de este proyecto oral, Borges también consigue obtenir algunos efectos que sugiere la pintura por medio de una extensa utilización de colores dentro de la narración. Aunque el argumento tiene que ver con un misterio manchado de sangre (¿Quién mató a Francisco Real?), no se preocupen por la violencia. En lugar de eso, ¡que se diviertan mucho en el color local y lo sabroso de un relato donde Borges se introduce sí mismo como un personaje importante!

Fuente: Historia universal de la infamia. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2008, 89-103.
*
"Man on Pink Corner"
by Jorge Luis Borges
Argentina, 1935

In the beginning: "Imagine you bringing up Francisco Real that way, out of the clear blue sky, him dead and gone and all." (translated by Andrew Hurley)
Themes: Honor, pride, bravery, violence.

In spite of the fact that there are other short stories by Borges that are probably more, dare I say, Borgesian than "Hombre de la Esquina Rosada" ("Man on Pink Corner"), I still have a weakness for this somewhat atypical tale of his. With a beautiful marriage of orality and a keen visual sensibility, the young Borges managed to create a mythical-historical portrait of the city of old Buenos Ayres in the days of the compadritos (neighborhood hoodlums often celebrated in early tango songs) somewhere around the beginning of the 20th century. Unlike other works by Borges, the language employed by the narrator is notable for its brothel-like vocabulary and insistent use of lunfardo (Buenos Aires slang)--an intent to reflect the speech of the porteños in the vernacular of the time. In addition to the work's oral emphasis, Borges also manages to bring about effects reminiscent of painting by means of an extensive use of colors within the narrative. While the plot has to do with a rather bloodstained mystery (Who killed Francisco Real?), don't worry about the violence. Instead, sit back and enjoy the regional color and juiciness of a story in which Borges himself makes a surprise appearance as an important character!

Source: A Universal History of Iniquity (Jorge Luis Borges, translated by Andrew Hurley). New York: Penguin Classics, 2001, 55-64.