Copyright © 2021, Patricia Ratto
English Translation Copyright © 2021, Andrea G. Labinger
The stories in this collection originally appeared in different form in the following publications:
“Rara Avis,” “Chinese Boy,” “As If The World Were Ending,” “Neko Café,” and “The Guest” originally published in Spanish as “Rara Avis,” “Muchacho Chino,” “Como si se acabara el mundo,” “Neko café,” and “El invitado” in the collection Faunas © 2017 by Adriana Hidalgo Editora, Francisco de Vittoria 2324, Planta Baja, Ciudad De Buenos Aires, Argentina
Submerged originally published in Spanish as Trasfondo © 2012 by Adriana Hidalgo Editora, Francisco de Vittoria 2324, Planta Baja, Ciudad De Buenos Aires, Argentina
“Black Dog” originally published in Spanish as “Perro negro” in the anthology GOLPES, MEMORIAS DE LA DICTADURA © 2016 by Planeta-Seix Barral, Av. Diagonal, 662-664, 08034 Barcelona
“Quintay” was originally published in Spanish in Hispamerica: Journal of Literature at the University of Maryland (Year XLVII, No. 140, 201) and in Summer Supplement 12 of the Argentine newspaper Página 12 (January, 2019)
“Proceed With Caution” was originally published in Spanish in Summer Supplement 12 of the Argentine newspaper Página 12 (January, 2020)
First English Language Edition
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CONTENTS
QUINTAY
BLACK DOG
THE GUEST
CHINESE BOY
RARA AVIS
NEKO CAFÉ
AS IF THE WORLD WERE ENDING
PROCEED WITH CAUTION
SUBMERGED
QUINTAY
THAT DAY WE SAW an ambulance arrive, followed by two new cars. Right away we guessed they were from Santiago. They followed the road that ran alongside the cove and led to the whale processing plant. From the other end of that mouth open to the Pacific, where our houses are, we saw them open the doors and get out of the vehicles. The first thing they did was to lift their hands and cover up their noses and mouths. It’s the inevitable, automatic gesture that all new arrivals make. You did it, too; no one escapes that reaction. There were several men and a few women, almost all of them—except for one who wore a dark suit—in white smocks and carrying briefcases and boxes they pulled along in a little wagon.
They moved along the concrete esplanade, till one of the women in the party stopped short, arched her body forward, and vomited forcefully. The women standing beside her moved away in a reflex action, perhaps out of disgust, perhaps to protect their clothing from stains. Everyone stopped walking, never taking their hands from their faces. One of the men in white came closer and steadied her, placing a hand on the woman’s bent back, and with the other offering her a handkerchief that he had taken from the pocket of his smock so that she could clean herself. We couldn’t see that man’s expression because we were so far away, but we imagined he must have wrinkled his nose when he moved his hand to grab the handkerchief and the smell penetrated all the openings in his face. The woman stood there motionless for a few moments, wiped her face with the handkerchief, which she then balled up and stuck into one of the pockets of her smock. Then she stood up straight and nodded, no doubt to confirm that she was ready to move on. After that we saw them go up the road and along the ramp that leads to the building.
But before I continue, I need to tell you that that stench, which invades everything, isn’t the odor of Quintay itself; it arrived much later, with the people from the processing plant. Because Quintay used to be us fishermen with our nets and boats and brightly colored wooden houses at the edge of the cove. And also the whales’ tails sticking up high in the distance, which the kids greeted with delight and regarded with admiration, up on the black coastal rocks. Not those who came to work in the processing plant, because none of the townspeople accepted it or wanted any part of it: not the smooth, huge, square buildings or the horrible concrete ramp. That’s not Quintay.
Ever since they came, the smell is everywhere, solid, as if the air was congealed grease that you have to dive into and paddle through and climb aboard the boat and go way out to sea, fishing, far from the whaling ships, in search of someplace where you can breathe at last. But, of course, at the end of the day you’ve got to bring food home for the family, plunge once more into that dense, stinking smell in order to get back home. And, later, seated around the table, burn incense in the heaters so the food won’t make you sick to your stomach, because if you don’t, there’s no way to put anything in your mouth without heaving.
It’s just that the smell fouls up everything, and those people are no exception. To tell the truth, they have a worse time of it than we do, because even if they bathe and scrub and perfume themselves, and wash their clothes and hang them out in the sun to dry, when those folks from the processing plant go into town to buy provisions for the month, there’s no way the locals from Valparaíso can help screwing up their faces and moving aside, or even whispering softly among themselves, though not softly enough to keep the others from hearing: There go those stinkpots from Quintay.
A thousand arrived, all of them men, and they have their soccer and movies and electric lights, which we don’t have, no, none of it. That’s why they don’t mind the smell too much. And besides, they earn a lot of dough and can invite their friends out for drinks and dinners, and even give gifts to the young ladies from the city, who all at once stop wrinkling their noses and smile. Although deep down, or maybe not so deep down, they know that they go out and drink themselves into a stupor in order to forget the moment when the blood splatters up toward them, covering them completely, a thick blood that runs down their faces, their hands, their clothing, as they hear the piecing cry of the calf who circles nearby, calling for its mother. They drink and laugh at the Social Club and listen to Antonio Prieto sing, and they rest their heads on the girls’ shoulders, Clock, don’t tick away the hours, between many rounds of pisco, so that dawn will never come, till they fall off their feet, in an attempt to quell the identical, carbon-copy nightmares they all have—you know?—repeated again and again, till they can’t stand it anymore, each and every night.
On their backs they receive the dry blow of harpoon piercing spine; they feel the sharp spurs expand as they plunge into flesh, penetrating deeply; and they feel the container of sulfuric acid open up, allowing the acid to spill out and spread through the entrails, till it makes the grenade on the tip of the damn device explode. And they awaken screaming, soaked in sweat, gasping as if all the air had suddenly escaped from their lungs.
In the daytime, it’s always the same for them: they tie the tail of each whale to the boats and drag them out to the buoys. And, as there’s no keeping up with the number of captured whales, they fill them with air, inflating and inflating with the compressor so that they’ll float, awaiting their turn to be processed the next day, or the day after that. Then the cove fills with floating bodies, illuminated by the moon and rocked by the waves: radiant, luminous death on the surface of the water. Our little ones can’t control their curiosity and, when we’re not watching they secretly spy, b
arely pushing aside the thick curtains our wives have hung on the windows to avoid seeing that view all the time.
Later, at dawn, the poor creatures are tied to a steel cable connected to a winch and dragged up the enormous ramp next to the dock, to the butchering platform. Once there, when the pickaxes are sunk into them to begin the processing, a stream of fetid water spurts out, inundating everything. And, even though no one will admit it, believe me, it’s as if hell has opened up and you can never be safe again.
They walk, and sometimes they run, those people, the ones from the processing plant, in their cleated shoes, over the tamed, slippery flesh. At certain times it seems like a game that even makes some of them laugh, a bitter laughter that allows you to see the dark holes where their teeth are missing. Because that’s what’s started happening to them: their teeth have begun to fall out. With no explanation, no cause, you might say.
First it was one man, then another, and another, and yet another. And then there were many, and finally all of them, no matter what their age, physical condition, or job at the plant: from the workers to the bosses. So they brought a doctor from Valparaíso who examined them and prescribed some vitamins, or at least that’s what they told us. They all took them religiously, waiting for the misfortune to end. But time went by and everything stayed the same: their teeth kept falling out, resistant to all treatment.
Then that group from Santiago came, arriving with doctors and nurses and syringes, to take samples of everyone’s blood. And there was the business of that woman, of course, the one who vomited; I’ve already told you about that. What I didn’t tell you is that the poor thing felt sick all day long, according to what some of them told us later. And suddenly she started shouting things that no one—around there—wanted to hear. There was no way to make her stop, till they got off the ship and went to the cove and climbed into their cars and went away forever.
A few days later the results of the tests and analyses arrived in white, typed envelopes, which the people in charge of the plant read and reread without managing to clear up any of it.
Later they brought in a priest, who came bearing crosses, incense, and holy water. But he didn’t get past the entrance; he just made a few movements, right there, beside the diocesan minivan that had brought him, and after a while he returned, fast as could be, to Valparaíso, as white as a sheet of paper, they said. And it was then that some people began to feel afraid. And the fear began circulating among them, like an unstoppable plague.
And they’re right, I say. They’re absolutely right, don’t you agree? That’s why they don’t talk, you know? They won’t tell you a thing. We, on the other hand, the ones from Quintay, those who always, for generations, have lived in Quintay, we’re not afraid: we’re disgusted and sad. And we’ve got all our teeth. Waiting for the nightmare to end one day and for us to be able to pull down the curtains, open the windows and doors, go outside to watch the sea from the black rocks of the cove. And to smile again, of course, without covering our mouths with our hands, like they do.
BLACK DOG
IT’S DARK NOW: that’s how it is in winter. Before you know it, it’s six o’clock and already nighttime. I hear the noise of an engine and brakes squealing, just as I turn off the light so they won’t see me, and I tiptoe over to the front window. A door slams; luckily I didn’t close the blinds. I just need to pull the curtain aside a little in order to see. There’s a Jeep: it doesn’t belong to any of the locals because around here we all know one another. A girl gets out; you can tell she’s from Buenos Aires by that ankle-length skirt she’s wearing and her long, loose hair, like a hippie. In that outfit, and with the handful of pesos she probably has on her, what could she expect to find but the Fabbianis’ upstairs room, which, since Gina died, is turning into a tenement. The house is empty now because there was a problem with the water pipes, and the downstairs rooms were left a shambles. No doubt they’ll be that way for a long time because Gina’s kids don’t take care of them.
Directly below the mercury lamp, the girl opens the door to the tailgate of the Jeep and takes out a suitcase, which can’t be holding too much because you can tell it’s light. A black bulk stands up at the back of the tailgate: it’s an enormous dog, whose size—my God!—is enough to scare a person, even from far away. The girl motions to him and the beast jumps out and stands next to her. The driver doesn’t bother to get out; as soon as he sees them on the sidewalk he hits the gas and takes off. She looks one way and another, like someone who’s afraid or has something to hide, though who would be afraid with that dog for protection. She goes over to the front door, rests the suitcase on the step, and after rummaging in her woven purse for a while, pulls out a key. So: it seems she has a key. She must’ve stopped by Gina’s kids’ house first; if not, how could she have gotten it. I know that house: old, and lovely in its day, with two stories and the terrace. When Gina used to visit her daughter in Buenos Aires, because poor Gina (may God keep her in His glory) has—or had—two boys here and her girl in Buenos Aires; the daughter went there to study and never came back, as if she had turned her back on the city where she was born … well, the thing is, whenever Gina went to the capital, she’d leave me the key so I could water the plants. She kept the house immaculate, floors shiny, not a speck of dust on the furniture, with those lovely crocheted doilies and those little porcelain figurines. Now everything is dark, a disaster, ever since the business with the pipes, except for the fact that a few days ago Rubén managed to get the lights working on the upstairs level. The girl walks in; she might be one of Gina’s daughter’s friends, I suppose. She walks in with the dog and the suitcase and for a while it’s as if the darkness has swallowed her up. Of course it’ll take her a while to cross the vestibule and the living room, climb the staircase and find the light switch for the upstairs room. She should have brought a flashlight, but, then again, if they don’t tell her, how is she supposed to know. Since it’s cold, while I’m waiting I decide to feel my way into the kitchen to make myself some tea. I don’t want to turn on the light in the living room in case the girl is right there, watching; I wonder if she’ll get the idea to come over and ask for something. Whenever I go over to bring Father Renato something to eat or to arrange the flowers at church, he tells me to be careful, things are happening; I don’t know what things, but just to be on the safe side I listen to him and watch out for myself. I take the big blue cup out of the cupboard, pop in the teabag, two teaspoons of sugar, the water’s boiling, I stir, I leave the spoon on the counter, turn off the kitchen light, and walk through the hallway and the living room, taking care not to trip over anything. I place the cup on the counter beside the statue of the Blessed Virgin, on the piece of furniture next to the window. With the sliver of light coming in from the street I see Her kind, protecting eyes. I open the curtain a little and get a slight shock, because the movement I make coincides exactly with the light that goes on in the room across the street. It’s a bare window, no curtains, blinds, or shutters, so I can see pretty well: the girl is sitting at the foot of a large bed, her suitcase on the floor, the dog beside her. Suddenly she grabs her head and bends over her knees; it looks like she’s crying. The dog rests one paw on her lap. And I take a sip of tea, to shake off this cold that’s gotten into my body and makes me tremble.
You don’t see her much during the day. Sometimes she walks the dog over to Olga’s, around the corner from here, to buy something to eat. Esther told me that Aldo offered her the bones and leftover pieces of meat from the butcher shop. Sure, I say, considering what a slimeball Aldo is, and her a young hippie girl! The other day Aldo showed up and rang my bell; he was carrying a package wrapped in newspaper and he explained to me that he had been there I don’t know how long, banging on the door across the way—because like everyone else, he knows that the bell hasn’t worked since that business with the pipes—but that the girl hadn’t answered. He asked if he could leave the bones for the dog with me, so that I could give them to her when she got home. I
told him I never saw her, that he should leave the package at the door and she’d find it. He stood there staring at me without a word; then he turned around, as if to cross the street, looked at me again, and finally made up his mind to cross. I shut the door and opened the peephole to see what he was doing. He took a piece of string from his pocket, wrapped it around the package a few times and left it tied to the doorknob, no doubt to keep some random mutt from coming along and taking the meat, and I say meat because the package looked soft—and he doesn’t fool me by saying it was only bones, no way!
It’s late when I’m awakened by the engine noise I think I recognize; I put on my slippers and walk to the living room. Hidden behind the curtain, I see through the cracks in the shutters the same Jeep as last time; it barely stops. The light in the front room goes on, someone gets out of the vehicle, it looks like a boy with a bundle over his shoulder, but everything happens quickly and the damn shutters don’t let me see too clearly: the Jeep goes away, Gina’s door swings open, the guy walks in, the door closes. By the time I raise my head, they’re already upstairs hugging and ripping their clothes off; the dog watches them, wagging his tail; then both of them fall into bed. I see everything cut off in slices of light and shadow, but in spite of all that, I’m sure he sticks his tongue in her mouth and runs his hands over her tits. Then the black dog, as if he’s heard or seen something, walks over to the window of the room and looks in my direction. I’m frozen, my eyes glued to the animal’s, and I start to feel dizzy, like short of breath. I hold on to the wall and drag myself as best I can over to the little flowered chair to sit down. A band of mercury light filters in through the opening left by the half-drawn curtain, tracing a sharp, vertical white stripe over the statue of the Virgin that stands on top of the furniture. I see a tear roll down Her cheek. I’m sorry, Blessed Mother, I whisper. I’m sorry.
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