by Selva Almada
A few years back, she’d been walking by herself along that same dirt track. On the way to Teya’s again, at siesta time, to listen to the radio under the trees, drink mate and gossip. Halfway there, a figure emerged from the crops that grew on each side of the little dirt track: Tatú, a cousin in his forties who’d been ogling her for a long time. Tatú was single and had never been known to have a girlfriend or go to a dance.
What are you doing, you klutz, you scared me, my aunt said, then turned to carry on her way. But he didn’t answer and grabbed hold of her arm, so hard it seemed he might yank it from the socket. My aunt tried to struggle free and he seized her other arm. For a moment he was so close she could smell the wine and cigarettes on his breath, his eyes like two burning coals. He began to drag her with him. He wanted to get her into the cornfield.
I thought once he had me in there, first he’d rape me then he’d kill me, she said in a trembling voice. I’m sure he was going to kill me.
Tatú was a strong man, but he was also drunk and heady with lust. My aunt was a slight girl. She could never explain how she found the strength to shake off those calloused hands clutching her arms. But she managed to wriggle free and even give him a shove that sent him staggering back into the dusty rubble in the ditch. She ran and ran until she thought she might burst, like horses do.
I’ve never been so afraid and I’ve never been so brave as I was then, she said.
Her eyes were shining, but perhaps it was the sun, so strong the landscape shimmered in the distance.
After that, her grandfather gave Tatú a beating and he never went near my aunt again, or, I hope, any other girl.
We carried on walking, pressed closer together now, our arms sticky from the heat.
The north wind made the rough leaves of the corn rub together and the stems sway from side to side, producing a menacing sound that, if you listened closely, could also be the music of a small victory.
Buenos Aires, 30th January 2014
Acknowledgements
To Silvia Promeslavsky, for being my local guide in the indefinite zone.
To the relatives and friends of Andrea, María Luisa and Sarita, who provided their testimony for the book.
To the judges Cristina Calaveyra, Oscar Sudría and Mariano Miño, and the public prosecutor Rodolfo Lineras.
To Mary Amaya and Mónica Fornero from the Real Truth, Justice for All association.
To the journalists María Dora Flores, Gustavo Saldaña and Sergio Vaudagnotto.
To Argentina’s Fondo Nacional de las Artes.
Director & Editor: Carolina Orloff
Director: Samuel McDowell
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First published by Charco Press 2020
Charco Press Ltd., Office 59, 44-46 Morningside Road, Edinburgh, EH10 4BF
Copyright © Selva Almada 2014
Published by arrangement with Agencia Literaria CBQ SL
First published in Spanish as Chicas muertas by
Random House Mondadori (Argentina)
English translation copyright © Annie McDermott 2020
The rights of Selva Almada to be identified as the author of this work and of Annie McDermott to be identified as the translator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
Work published with funding from the ‘Sur’ Translation Support Programme of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Argentina / Obra editada en el marco del Programa ‘Sur’ de Apoyo a las Traducciones del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores y Culto de la República Argentina.
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ISBN: 9781916277847
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