Cantoras
Page 34
“No,” La Venus said, “You can’t.”
“I blamed myself too, for years,” Paz said. “I was living with her. I tried to reach her. But I don’t think you killed her, Ro, nor me. I think silence killed her.”
“Yes,” Diana said. It was the first time she’d spoken since the subject had arisen, and her voice rang clear. “That is the way of silence.”
“What do you mean?” La Venus said, gently, knowing that there was more beneath the surface. With Diana, there always was.
“That the silence of dictatorship, the silence of the closet, as we call it now—all of that is layered and layered like blankets that muffle you until you cannot breathe. For many people it is too much. In Paraguay we have seen it. And so, here, none of you should carry the blame.”
Flaca wrestled with these words. She had the terrible thought, the new thought, that all these years she’d still clung to blaming Romina, deep down, and that this had been a shield from blaming herself. She, La Pilota, forger of the group, should have saved Malena. She’d been the last one to speak to her and she’d run that phone call through her mind for twenty-six years, seeking the hole through which her friend had slipped away. But to heap that on Romina. Romina her heart. Romina her first love, with whom she’d remapped the world.
“And yet,” Virginia said, “the story doesn’t have to be over. She is on the other side, but she is still with us.”
“I go to the rocks behind the lighthouse sometimes,” Paz said, “and try to talk to her.”
“You do?” said Flaca. “To Malena?”
“Yes. Who knows whether she hears me, but it helps.” It had been Virginia who’d initially suggested this. She spoke to her ancestors all the time, as was normal in her spiritual tradition; Paz had felt silly doing it at first, but it soon became enough of a comfort that she’d kept going without fretting over whether she believed in it or not.
“I haven’t gone down there,” Flaca said, “not since—” And then she couldn’t speak.
La Venus put her arms around Flaca, wiped her tears and snot with her sleeve.
“You know what I think?” Virginia said. “I think we should go to the rocks. Together.”
“What?” said Flaca.
“When?” said La Venus.
“Tonight,” said Virginia. “Right now. To remember her—our own kind of ceremony.”
“But this is Romina and Diana’s night,” Flaca said. “This is supposed to be their honeymoon. It seems wrong.”
Romina felt for Diana’s hand before responding. “Actually, it feels right to me. We have this triumph, but not without losses.”
“Not everyone survives the tunnels,” Virginia said.
“Yes,” Romina said, startled at phrasing she’d never heard before but that required no explanation. “Exactly.”
“So?” said La Venus. “Shall we go?”
Flaca looked around, at La Venus and Paz, who nodded; at Virginia, whom she would always love (three ex-lovers of hers in this room and she loved all of them, they were life, blood, sapphires in the crown of her accumulated years); and then at Romina and finally at Diana. “You’re all right with it?”
Diana smiled. “What is love,” she said, “if it can’t hold all the channels of the spirit?”
* * *
*
It was windy on the rocks, but not cold, and they pulled their jackets tight around them more for comfort than for warmth. There was no one else nearby. They weren’t sure what they were going to do, and stood uncertainly at first. Paz looked out at the ocean and thought of Iemanjá, fruit and flowers, all the offerings they had not brought. She clasped Virginia’s hand. Romina leaned close to Diana, and La Venus had an arm around Flaca, who dug her hands into her jacket pockets and fidgeted with the lint she found there. Rocks. They were just rocks. The same as always. Somewhere here had been the last step, the leap, and yet it was a normal place, just like any other, there had been no phantom waiting for her, they should just go.
And then Paz said Malena’s name. So did La Venus. So did Virginia. So did Romina, Flaca, Diana. The sound of her name became a chant, a meandering melody, unscripted, sung into the wind. Stories arose, retellings, memories, wishes, confessions, praise. They did not rush. They ebbed and flowed. Their voices overlapped, there was no plan, no rule, no such thing as interruption. Together they made a tapestry of sound that had never been heard before and would never be heard again. When it subsided, when they were finally done, they lingered for a while and listened to the ocean, pulsing its own rhythm against the rocks.
On their way back, they took a circuitous path to avoid the village center, where music pounded and laughter flowed because the night was just getting started. The lush strains of a bandoneón rose from Cristi’s restaurant; she must have tango dancers performing, a strategy that never failed to win her customers. She was doing good business with the tourists, that Cristi. On another night, they’d go visit, and she’d surely welcome them with a bark of delight and wine on the house for the brides. For now, though, they all knew, without saying a word, that they wanted to be together, to stay quiet, to lie close to each other in the dark. There was only the barest sliver of moon. The ramshackle beauty of the Prow would not be visible, but it would be with them. It would hold them, they thought, as they took the long way home.
Acknowledgments
For the existence of this book, I owe thanks to many.
Deep gratitude to my formidable and visionary agent, Victoria Sanders, and her extraordinary team, including Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Jessica Spivey, and Allison Leshowitz. Your tenacity, skill, and faith in me are a wonder. I’m also extremely thankful to the team at Knopf, including Carole Baron, editor extraordinaire, who has journeyed with me through five books now, all of them made better by her tireless craft, brilliant eye, and downright good humor; Sonny Mehta, for continuing to believe in and support my work; Genevieve Nierman, for her dedication and incisive contributions; and all the wonderful people who work miracles behind the scenes at Knopf, Vintage, and the international publishers who’ve been kind enough to give my books a home.
In Uruguay, I’m immensely grateful to many people who shared stories, time, thoughts, joy, and hospitality as I gathered the material that inspired this book. I have been listening to stories of Cabo Polonio’s cultural history for eighteen years. It was Gabi Renzi who first took me there, in 2001, when I was a young queer woman from the diaspora seeking my own connection to Uruguay. I have since come to see, over and over, that Gabi is one of the most generous people to walk the earth, and that her insights and knowledge are unparalleled. Leticia Mora Cano and La Figu have also been incredibly giving over the years, of their time, thoughts, stories, homemade milanesas, and remarkable memories. Zara Cañiza shared insights, vision, her home, her time, her transcendent artistry, and her singular perspective. These women are not just sources to me: they are friends, inspirations, my heart. This book would not exist without them, and my gratitude is boundless.
Research for this novel took various forms, from long nights of mate and starlit conversation to poring over stacks of books. I owe a debt to both the Biblioteca Nacional de Uruguay and the UC Berkeley Library for their invaluable collections. Though the works I consulted are too extensive to list here, I do wish to extend particular thanks to Juan Antonio Varese, whose scholarship on the Rocha Coast has been essential; Tomás Olivera Chirimini, fearless preserver of Afro-Uruguayan history and heritage; Silvia Scarlatto, biographer for El Zorro of Cabo Polonio; the many survivors of the Uruguayan dictatorship who have bravely given testimony; and Peter Tatchell, for his crucial role in exposing the crimes of Carl Vaernet, both at Nazi concentration camps and in his later years in Argentina.
Sincere, profound thanks to those who offered key feedback on my manuscript, much-needed encouragement, or other forms of generosity that helped shape the book, including M
arcelo de León, Chip Livingston, Raquel Lubartowski Nogara, Achy Obejas, Aya de León, Reyna Grande, Jacqueline Woodson, and Sarah Demarest. You are each magnificent. And also to San Francisco State University, for the Presidential Award that gave me precious time in which to finish this book, and to all my marvelous colleagues and students on campus, who kindly provide me with a continuous stream of learning and inspiration.
The gratitude I owe my wife, Pamela Harris, has no measure. I won’t try to contain it in a sentence. Our children, Rafael and Luciana, transform what is possible and expand our world; therefore, without them, this book would not be. My family held me through thick and thin as I worked on this novel. I can still hear my mother-in-law, Margo Edwards, sending me out to my writing studio with the cheerful words, “Break a pencil!” Thank you. Also, to my extended family, particularly in Uruguay and Argentina, where the hospitality, love, and patience with my seemingly bizarre lines of inquiry have been immeasurable—thank you.
In telling stories that are largely absent from formal histories or from the great noise of mainstream culture, I never forget that there are thousands if not millions of people whose names we may never learn, whose names are lost in time, who made our contemporary lives possible through acts of extraordinary courage. Their stories have all too often gone unrecorded, but I am here today, and able to speak, because of them. And, finally, to anyone reading this who’s struggled through a chrysalis to become her or his or their authentic self: I see you, I thank you, I’m glad you’re here, this book is yours as well.
A Note About the Author
A writer of Uruguayan origins, Carolina De Robertis is the author of the novels The Gods of Tango, Perla, and the international best seller The Invisible Mountain. Her books have been translated into seventeen languages and have been named Best Books of the Year in venues including the San Francisco Chronicle; O, The Oprah Magazine; BookList; and NBC. She is the recipient of a Stonewall Book Award, Italy’s Rhegium Julii Prize, a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and numerous other honors. She is also an award-winning translator of Latin American and Spanish literature and the editor of the anthology Radical Hope: Letters of Love and Dissent in Dangerous Times. In 2017, the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts named De Robertis to its 100 List of “people, organizations, and movements that are shaping the future of culture.” She teaches at San Francisco State University and lives in Oakland, California, with her wife and two children.
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