It’s a book that听听praised, stating “the novel糖心传媒檚 dream logic is as intoxicating as the secluded setting. Readers will eagerly turn the pages of this beguiling literary thriller.” And none other than Mircea C菐rt菐rescu claimed听Of Beasts and Fowls听is “the most haunting [novel] I have read in years.”

To celebrate this release (the first of two Ad贸n books we’re doing), we’re offering a for the rest of the month. (No checkout code required, U.S. purchases only.)

And to entice you further into this witchy, captivating novel, below you’ll find an excerpt from when Coro arrives at Bethany and has her first interaction with it’s inhabitants.

Also: Sign up for the for more insights into how this book came to be, how it’s being reviewed, and other news from Open Letter. (And an easily accessible way to listen to this conversation with Pilar.)

She糖心传媒檇 put a cotton jacket on over her T-shirt, foregoing the summer raincoat she kept in the backseat. If she had to sleep in the car, she would use it as a blanket.

Once she had a handle on the scene糖心传媒攖he black fence and the vegetation that grew up around it, the stone walls bordering the lane糖心传媒攕he zipped up her jacket and switched on the overhead light. From her purse, she took out a handkerchief embroidered with the letter C and her sketchbook. Maybe there was a security camera on the fence, pointing down at her. Her fixed image at the center of a monitor. Wide-eyed. She was going to write that she needed help on a piece of paper and put it on the windshield, in case somebody, somewhere, could read it. And she was going to draw using the dashboard for support. It was the only thing that would calm her right then, while she got used to the idea that this thing was happening to her. She had actually gotten lost. Her fingers were cold, but she opened the sketchbook and leaned on the dashboard. That糖心传媒檚 when she saw that someone was approaching the gate with a flashlight.

糖心传媒淲hat are you doing here?糖心传媒� The stranger addressed her with the formal you.

She found it odd that a stranger would ask her the exactly same thing she糖心传媒檇 been asking herself.

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 wrong? Are you okay?糖心传媒�

She rolled down the window.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 lost,糖心传媒� she said.

糖心传媒淲hat are you looking for? Are you looking for something?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 running out of gas. I need to know if there糖心传媒檚 a gas station somewhere nearby.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淎re you wanting a house? What do you want? To rent or buy?糖心传媒�

She heard.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 lost. Can you help me?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淧eople love coming around here. They糖心传媒檙e attracted to the scenery.糖心传媒�

Coro put the handkerchief in her purse and got out of the car.

The woman was opening the gate.

糖心传媒淚 just need to turn around and get back to the main highway, but I can糖心传媒檛 move with all those planks on the ground. And I糖心传媒檓 not sure if I have enough gas. Do you know if nearby . . .糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 not easy to get here. Where do you live?糖心传媒�

The woman drew closer and pointed the flashlight right at her face. She shut her eyes.

糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 do that. Please.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not from around here.糖心传媒�

She wasn糖心传媒檛 going to repeat that she was lost.

糖心传媒淭here糖心传媒檚 nothing for sale in the area. It糖心传媒檚 even worse the closer you get to the mountain. You have to turn around, go back to the flatlands. There are more houses there. More properties.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e mistaken. I don糖心传媒檛 want to buy anything.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淭hen why are you here?糖心传媒�

Coro looked inside the car, still illuminated by the overhead light. Her purse. Her things.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 running out of gas.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檝e said that already.糖心传媒�

For a second, she thought the best thing would be to be clutching the steering wheel again. To put a piece of gum or candy in her mouth. Her breath probably stank.

糖心传媒淒o you have a car? Maybe we could take some gas from your tank and put it in mine. I糖心传媒檝e seen it done, you suck it through a tube.糖心传媒�

The woman shined the flashlight in her face again.

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 your name? What糖心传媒檚 your surname? I糖心传媒檓 not bringing a stranger to my house.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 just need a little gas.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗ave you come alone?糖心传媒�

The woman inspected the inside of the car, the backseat, and asked again what her name was and if she had come there alone.

糖心传媒淚 better go. I糖心传媒檒l try to turn around.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 think it糖心传媒檚 reasonable to want to know the name of the person who has just plunked herself down on my doorstep at this time of night.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚t wasn糖心传媒檛 intentional. I糖心传媒檓 telling you.糖心传媒�

She got into the car. The flashlight was right back in her eyes again.

糖心传媒淐ome on. Come with me. We糖心传媒檙e going to try this tube thing. We have two cars down below.糖心传媒�

The woman said to follow her.

糖心传媒淚 don糖心传媒檛 want to bother anyone.糖心传媒�

The woman would go on foot and Coro would follow, behind the wheel. That糖心传媒檚 what she proposed.

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 downhill. It糖心传媒檚 fine.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淟isten . . . Why don糖心传媒檛 you bring your car up here?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 telling you, it糖心传媒檚 downhill.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淎nd if we don糖心传媒檛 know how to transfer the fuel between tanks? Then I won糖心传媒檛 be able to get back up.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou want gas, don糖心传媒檛 you?糖心传媒�

She thought for a second.

糖心传媒渊别蝉.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲ell, come on.糖心传媒�

She started the car.

Very slowly, she began to follow the woman, staring at the bright spot of the flashlight leading the way, pointed at the ground. Down a dirt lane toward a house that emerged on the left after several minutes, and which appeared covered in the leaves or branches of several trees. Facing a potholed slope and enveloped in a darkness she wouldn糖心传媒檛 know how to get out of.

The woman motioned for her to go even slower.

糖心传媒淎re you hungry?糖心传媒� she asked, coming over to the window.

糖心传媒淚 just need a little gas. You wouldn糖心传媒檛 have a can, would you?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e going to have to get out of there.糖心传媒�

At that point in the night, she was exhausted. She only just realized she had been breathing through her mouth for some time.

Waving her arms, the woman indicated where she should park, under a tree, where there were two other cars. Coro sighed and tried to calm herself. That woman was going to lend her a hand. She really was going to help her.

糖心传媒淒o you like the house? They say it was built by a single man.糖心传媒�

Just then, the lights came on in the first-floor windows and someone turned on a fluorescent outdoor bulb that completely illuminated the front of the house with an extraordinary white light.

糖心传媒淪ome think all the lights should be left on, to discourage burglars. But I don糖心传媒檛 know. Sometimes I think it糖心传媒檚 better if they don糖心传媒檛 know we糖心传媒檙e here.糖心传媒�

Coro couldn糖心传媒檛 see her face because the woman had positioned herself against the light. She could see, however, that another woman was coming out of the house, headed in their direction, carrying something. Five or six dogs also appeared, circling Coro and sniffing her.

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not afraid of dogs, are you?糖心传媒�

She shook her head.

糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 be scared.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 not scared.糖心传媒�

The vagueness of the sky against the excessive light from the fluorescent bulb acted almost like a cupola. The place looked like a stage surrounded by trees.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檝e just taken it off the fire. Be careful.糖心传媒� The second woman handed Coro a mug, and she accepted it. It was scalding. It scorched her fingers. Her first impulse was to drop it. But she contained herself.

糖心传媒淐补谤别蹿耻濒.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淪hit!糖心传媒� she exclaimed.

The woman who gave her the mug made no expression whatsoever.

糖心传媒淲atch that mouth,糖心传媒� said the other.

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 boiling.糖心传媒�

She looked around for somewhere to set it down. In the company of those two women who watched her.

In an exercise of maximum self-control, after what seemed like hours, she set the mug on the hood of her car, spilling some of the liquid.

糖心传媒淏ring it here. I糖心传媒檒l hold it for you.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 boiling.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 warned you.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淣obody could drink that.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 warned you. We糖心传媒檒l wait until it cools.糖心传媒�

A nozzle hung from the side of the house, lit by the fluorescent bulb, fastened to the wall by a pipe and dripping a few centimeters from the bottom of a stone basin.

糖心传媒淐an I get some water?糖心传媒� she asked.

糖心传媒淚t doesn糖心传媒檛 work. Just drips.糖心传媒�

Coro brought her hands to mouth with the sensation that they were on fire. She went to the faucet and tried to turn it, but it was stuck.

糖心传媒淚t doesn糖心传媒檛 turn on or off. We told you.糖心传媒�

She brought her hands to her mouth again. They would be covered in blisters. She let the drops from the faucet wet her skin. She had hurt herself in the attempt to turn the lever and now her fingers shook.

A hoe and a rake were propped against the wall, beside the basin. And a wheelbarrow. The two women approached in silence, and when she turned around, she found them right behind her, fully illuminated by the fluorescent bulb. One had incredibly light brown eyes, almost golden, and the pair looked older now than she糖心传媒檇 first imagined. They were slim and limber. They wore their hair pulled back and the same clothes, with identical boots. The same fabric for a pair of dresses equally threadbare and equally wrinkled. The woman who糖心传媒檇 come from inside had put on a shawl.

Over their heads an immense tree grew. Carob, they told her.

糖心传媒淐an we try for the gas?糖心传媒� she asked.

糖心传媒淲ouldn糖心传媒檛 you prefer to come inside? Sit down and have a drink?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not going to help me?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲e are helping you.糖心传媒�

Coro looked at the dogs still circling her. Coming and going. Peeing on the flowerpots. At the base of the tree hugging the trunk, ringing it, a row of bowls, cups, and tin cans were tied together with string and containing water and scraps.

糖心传媒淔or the cats.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淭hey get on well with the dogs.糖心传媒�

Coro couldn糖心传媒檛 care less whether or not they got on. Whether they ripped each other apart or ate each other up. Whether they tore out their eyes or chewed off hunks of flesh.

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 wrong? You糖心传媒檙e not afraid of us, are you? You糖心传媒檙e the one who turned up at our gate.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou made me drive down here.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚f you糖心传媒檙e looking for property, it糖心传媒檚 better to see it during the day. The land. The lake.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 told you, I糖心传媒檓 lost.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淩ight, but no one gets lost around here.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淒o you think the broth will have cooled by now?糖心传媒� the first woman asked the second.

糖心传媒淣ot broth, milk.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淒o you like milk? Everyone likes milk, don糖心传媒檛 they?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 your name?糖心传媒�

She answered and the women laughed.

糖心传媒淐oro? What kind of name is that? Where are you from?糖心传媒�

They told her the name didn糖心传媒檛 exist and she thought that she should get back in the car. She always had that option. That blessed option. Only then would she be calmer. Getting into the car and locking the doors. Staying inside.

糖心传媒淵ou don糖心传媒檛 want to come in?糖心传媒�

The two women watched her.

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e obviously tired.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗ere. Drink.糖心传媒�

They handed her the mug again. Firmly. Coro brought it indecisively to her lips, but she drank. All of it. Asking herself how she could be there. How had she been able to leave her phone at home. What was happening to her.

It was still hot.

糖心传媒淏etter? You feel better, don糖心传媒檛 you?糖心传媒�

Did she feel better?

糖心传媒淐ome on, relax a bit.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淒o you want to come in?糖心传媒�

听by Pilar Ad贸n & Katie Whittemore is available from (30% off before 12/1/24), , and better bookstores everywhere!

As a special promo for Three Percent Podcast fans, use the code PILAR at check out and get 20% off听.听

The music on this episode is “” by Florence + The Machine.

If you don糖心传媒檛 already subscribe to the Three Percent Podcast you can find us on and other places. And follow and on Twitter/X for more info about upcoming episodes and guests.

Today, we’re going to revisit a wild TMR season in which we featured three books originally written in Spanish, all published right around the start of the pandemic . . . Below, you’ll find info and links to all the episodes on听Cars on Fire听by M贸nica Ram贸n R铆os & Robin Myers, Four by Four听by Sara Mesa & Katie Whittemore, and The Book of Anna听by Carmen Boullosa & Samantha Schnee.

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We started this season off with . Here’s the jacket copy:

糖心传媒淲hen you live in an adopted country, when you糖心传媒檙e an exile in your own body, names are simply lists that dull the reality of death.糖心传媒�

Cars on Fire, M贸nica Ram贸n R铆os糖心传媒檚 electric, uncompromising English-language debut, unfolds through a series of characters糖心传媒攖he writer, the patient, the immigrant, the professor, the student糖心传媒攚hose identities are messy and ever-shifting. A speechwriter is employed writing for would-be dictators, but plays in a rock band as a means of protest. A failed Marxist cuts off her own head as a final poetic act. With incredible formal range, from the linear to the more free-wheeling, the real to the fantastical to the dystopic,听R铆os听offers striking, jarring glimpses into life as a woman and an immigrant. Set in New York City, New Jersey, and Chile糖心传媒檚 La Zona Central, the stories in听Cars on Fire听offer powerful remembrances to those lost to violence, and ultimately make the case for the power of art, love, and feminine desire to subvert the oppressive forces糖心传媒攛enophobia, neoliberalism, social hierarchies within the academic world糖心传媒攖hat shape life in Chile and the United States.

And here are links to each Cars on Fire episode:

Episode 1: Pages 1-63 (, , )

Episode 2: Pages 64-151 (, , )

Episode 3: Pages 152-End (, , )

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Then we moved on to听. Here’s the jacket copy:

Set entirely at Wybrany College糖心传媒攁 school where the wealthy keep their kids safe from the chaos erupting in the cities糖心传媒�Four by Four听is a novel of insinuation and gossip, in which the truth about Wybrany糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒減rogram糖心传媒� is always palpable, but never explicit. The mysteries populating the novel open with the disappearance of one of the 糖心传媒渟pecial,糖心传媒� scholarship students. As the first part unfolds, it becomes clear that all is not well in Wybrany, and that something more sordid lurks beneath the surface.

In the second part糖心传媒攁 self-indulgent, wry diary written by an imposter who has infiltrated the school as a substitute teacher糖心传媒攖he eerie sense of what糖心传媒檚 happening in this space removed from society, becomes more acute and potentially sinister.

An exploration of the relationship between the powerful and powerless糖心传媒攁nd the repetition of these patterns糖心传媒擬esa糖心传媒檚 “sophisticated nightmare” calls to mind great works of gothic literature (think Shirley Jackson) and social thrillers to create a unique, unsettling view of freedom and how a fear of the outside world can create monsters.

And here are links to each Four by Four episode:

Episode 4: Pages 1-86 (, , )

Episode 5: Pages 87-156 (, , )

Episode 6: Pages 156-222 (, , )

Episode 7: Pages 223-End (, , )

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And we wrapped things up with听. Here’s the jacket copy:

IN THIS CONTINUATION OF ANNA KARENINA糖心传媒橲 LEGACY, RUSSIA SIMMERS ON THE BRINK OF CHANGE AND THE STORIES THAT HAVE LONG BEEN KEPT SECRET FINALLY COME TO LIGHT.

Saint Petersburg, 1905. Behind the gates of the Karenin Palace, Sergei, son of Anna Karenina, meets Tolstoy in his dreams and finds reminders of his mother everywhere: the vivid portrait that the tsar intends to acquire and the opium-infused manuscripts Anna wrote just before her death, which open a trapdoor to a wild feminist fairy tale. Across the city, Clementine, an anarchist seamstress, and Father Gapon, the charismatic leader of the proletariat, plan protests that embroil the downstairs members of the Karenin household in their plots and tip the country ever closer to revolution. Boullosa tells a polyphonic and subversive tale of the Russian revolution through the lens of Tolstoy糖心传媒檚 most beloved work.

Episode 8: Pages 1-73 (, , )

Episode 9: Pages 74-98 (, , )

Episode 10: Pages 99-126 (, , )

Episode 11: Pages 127-161 (, , )

Episode 12: Pages 162-End (, , )

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Enjoy!

And while you’re here, you should get a copy of听 and be ready for Season Twenty of TMR starting on September 6th!

Today’s #WITMonth post is an except from

Here’s the jacket copy:

Subtly in the vein of听Dogville听or Coetzee糖心传媒檚听Disgrace, and invoking the works of Agota Kristof,听Un Amor听probes ideas of language, alienation, and community through the eyes of a woman who, when brought into conflict, finds herself on the potential brink of deeper awareness of herself and her place in the world.

On the heels of a cryptic mistake, Nat arrives in La Escapa, an arid rural village in Spain糖心传媒檚 interior. She settles into a small, shabby house with cheap rent to begin work on her first literary translation, with a skittish and ill-tempered dog糖心传媒攁 gift from the boorish landlord糖心传媒攈er only company.

Burdened with assumptions about country life, Nat will enter into relationships with the handful of local inhabitants糖心传媒攈er negligent landlord, P铆ter the hippie, the dementia-afflicted Roberta, the young city family who comes on weekends, the unsociable man they call 糖心传媒淭he German糖心传媒澨切拇綌from whom she appears to receive a customary welcome.

Mutual misunderstanding and a persistent sense of alienation, however, thrum below the surface. And when conflicts arise over repairs to the house, Nat receives an offer and makes a crucial decision.

In prose as taut and oppressive as the atmosphere in La Escapa,听Un Amor听extends Mesa糖心传媒檚 exploration of language and power, confronting readers with the limits of their own morality as tensions mount and the community糖心传媒檚 most unexpected impulses emerge.

This book糖心传媒攍ike so many of Mesa’s糖心传媒攊s a slow burn, with tension increasing with every event, every turn of the page. The except below is from the first section of the book, setting the scene, introducing a few key characters, and creating the atmosphere of this part of rural Spain. Enjoy!

Un Amor is available for preorder from better bookstores everywhere, our , , or

She糖心传媒檇 be hard pressed to come up with a convincing answer if asked to explain what she was doing there. That糖心传媒檚 why she hedges when the time comes, babbling about a change of scenery.

糖心传媒淧eople must think you糖心传媒檙e crazy, right?糖心传媒�

The cashier smacks gum as she piles Nat糖心传媒檚 shopping on the counter. It糖心传媒檚 the only store in a few-mile radius, an unmarked establishment where foodstuffs and hygiene products accumulate in a jumble. Shopping there is expensive and the pickings are slim, but Nat is reluctant to take the car to Petacas. She rummages in her wallet and counts out the bills she needs.

The girl from the shop is in a chatty mood. Brazen, she asks Nat all about her life, flustering her. The girl wishes she could do what Nat糖心传媒檚 done, but the opposite, she says. Move to C谩rdenas, where stuff actually happens.

糖心传媒淟iving here sucks. There aren糖心传媒檛 even any guys!糖心传媒�

She tells Nat that she used to go to high school in Petacas, but she dropped out. She doesn糖心传媒檛 like studying, she糖心传媒檚 crap at every subject. Now she helps out in the shop. Her mom gets chronic migraines, and her dad also does some farming, so she lends a hand at the store. But as soon as she turns eighteen, she糖心传媒檚 out of there. She could be a cashier in C谩rdenas, or a nanny. She糖心传媒檚 good with kids. The few kids who ever make it to La Escapa, she smiles.

糖心传媒淭his place sucks,糖心传媒� she repeats.

It糖心传媒檚 the girl who tells Nat about the people living in the surrounding houses and farms. She tells her about the gypsy family squatting in a dilapidated farmhouse, right near the ramp for the highway. A bus picks up the kids every morning; they糖心传媒檙e the only kids who live in La Escapa year-round. And there糖心传媒檚 the old couple in the yellow house. The woman is some kind of witch, the girl claims. She can predict the future and read your mind.

糖心传媒淪he糖心传媒檚 a little crazy, so it糖心传媒檚 creepy,糖心传媒� the girl laughs.

She tells Nat about the hippie in the wooden house, and the guy they call 糖心传媒淭he German糖心传媒� even though he isn糖心传媒檛 from Germany, and Gordo糖心传媒檚 bar糖心传媒攖hough to call the storehouse where they serve up bottles of beer a bar is, she admits, a bit of an exaggeration. There are other people who come and go according to the rhythms of the countryside, dayworkers hired for two-week stints or just the day, but also whole families who have inherited houses they can糖心传媒檛 manage to sell and who live somewhere else half the year. But you never see women on their own. Not women Nat糖心传媒檚 age, she specifies.

糖心传媒淥ld ladies don糖心传媒檛 count.糖心传媒�

During the first days, Nat gets confused and mixes up all that information, partly because she糖心传媒檇 listened absently, partly because she糖心传媒檚 in unfamiliar territory. La Escapa糖心传媒檚 borders are blurry, and even though there is a relatively compact cluster of small houses糖心传媒攚here hers is located糖心传媒攐ther buildings are scattered farther off, some inhabited and others not. From the outside, Nat can糖心传媒檛 tell whether they糖心传媒檙e homes or barns, if there are people inside or just livestock. She loses her bearings on the dirt roads and if it weren糖心传媒檛 for the shop糖心传媒攚hich sometimes feels more familiar to her than the house she糖心传媒檚 rented and slept in for a week糖心传媒攁s a point of reference, she糖心传媒檇 feel lost. The area isn糖心传媒檛 even very pretty, although at sunset, when the edges soften and the light turns golden, she finds a kind of beauty she can cling to.

Nat takes her grocery bags and says goodbye to the girl. But before she exits the shop, she turns back and asks about the landlord. Does the girl know him? The girl purses her lips, shakes her head slowly. No, not really, she says. He糖心传媒檚 lived in Petacas for a long time.

糖心传媒淏ut I do remember seeing him around here when I was little. He always had a pack of dogs and a really bad temper. Then he got married, or got together with someone, and left. I guess his wife didn糖心传媒檛 want to live in La Escapa糖心传媒攃an糖心传媒檛 blame her. This place is worse for girls. Even though Petacas is nothing special糖心传媒擨 wouldn糖心传媒檛 want to live there either, no way.糖心传媒�

*

Sara Mesa

She tries to play with the dog, tossing him an old ball she found in the woodpile. But instead of catching it and bringing it back, the dog limps away. When she crouches down next to him, putting herself on his level so he won糖心传媒檛 be afraid, he skulks off with his tail between his legs. The dog is a piece of work, she thinks, a real rotter. Sieso, they糖心传媒檇 call him in the part of Spain she comes from. It seems a good a name as any糖心传媒攁fter all, she has to call him something. It certainly describes his surly nature. But Sieso is as inscrutable as he is unsociable. He hangs around, but it糖心传媒檚 like he wasn糖心传媒檛 there at all. Why should she have to settle for a dog like that? Even the little dog in the shop, an extremely anxious Chihuahua mix, is much nicer. All the dogs she meets on the roads糖心传媒攁nd there are tons of them糖心传媒攔un over when she calls. A lot of them are looking to be fed, of course, but also to be pet; they are nosy and curious, wanting to know who this new girl in the neighborhood is. Sieso doesn糖心传媒檛 even seem interested in eating. If she feeds him, great, and if not, that糖心传媒檚 fine too. The landlord wasn糖心传媒檛 kidding: the animal糖心传媒檚 upkeep is cheap. Sometimes Nat is ashamed of the aversion she feels toward the animal. She asked for a dog and here he is. Now she cannot糖心传媒攎ust not糖心传媒攕ay糖心传媒攐r even think糖心传媒攖hat she doesn糖心传媒檛 want him.

One morning at the shop, she meets the hippie, as the girl called him. Now she languidly waits on them both, smoking a cigarette with no sense of urgency. The hippie is a little older than Nat, though he can糖心传媒檛 be more than forty. Tall and strong, his skin is weathered by the sun, his hands broad and cracked, his eyes hard but placid. He wears his hair long in a terrible cut and his beard is on the reddish side. Why the girl calls him 糖心传媒渉ippie糖心传媒� is something Nat can only guess. Maybe it糖心传媒檚 his long hair or because he is someone who, like Nat, comes from the city, a stranger, something incomprehensible for anyone who has lived in La Escapa since childhood and can only think of getting away. The truth is, the hippie has lived there a long time. He is, therefore, nothing novel, not like Nat. She observes him from the corner of her eye, his efficient movements, concise and confident. As she waits her turn, she pats the back of the dog he has brought with him. She糖心传媒檚 a chocolate Labrador, old but undeniably elegant. The dog wags her tail and noses Nat糖心传媒檚 crotch. The three of them laugh.

糖心传媒淲hat a good girl,糖心传媒� Nat says.

The hippie nods and holds out his hand. Then he changes his mind, withdraws it and moves in to kiss her. Just one kiss on the cheek, which causes Nat to remain with her face tilted, waiting for the second kiss that doesn糖心传媒檛 come. He tells her his name: P铆ter. With an i, he specifies: P-铆-t-e-r. At least that糖心传媒檚 how he likes to spell it, except when he糖心传媒檚 forced to write it officially. The less one writes one糖心传媒檚 real name, the better, he jokes. It糖心传媒檚 only good for signing checks at the bank, for those thieves.

糖心传媒淣atalia,糖心传媒� she introduces herself.

Then comes the obligatory question: what is she doing in La Escapa? He糖心传媒檚 seen her out on the trails and also saw her tidying up the area around the house. Is she going to live there? Alone? Nat feels awkward. She would prefer that nobody watch her while she works, especially without her knowledge, which is inevitable because the boundaries of the property are marked only by fine wire mesh, denuded of vegetation. She tells him she糖心传媒檚 only staying a couple of months.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檝e seen the dog, too. You got him here, right?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗ow do you know?糖心传媒�

P铆ter confesses that he knows the animal. One of the landlord糖心传媒檚 many. That dog, in fact, is probably the worst of the lot. Her landlord will pick them up wherever, doesn糖心传媒檛 train them, doesn糖心传媒檛 vaccinate them, doesn糖心传媒檛 care for them in the slightest. He uses, then abandons, them. Did she ask for the dog? She can be sure the landlord has given her the most useless one he had.

Nat considers this and the man suggests she give the dog back. There糖心传媒檚 no reason to settle if he isn糖心传媒檛 what she wanted. The landlord isn糖心传媒檛 a good guy, he says, she糖心传媒檚 better off keeping her distance. He doesn糖心传媒檛 like to speak badly of anyone, he insists, but the landlord is another matter. Always thinking about how to scam people.

糖心传媒淚 can get you a dog if you want.糖心传媒�

The conversation leaves Nat uneasy. Sitting on her doorstep with a lukewarm bottle of beer糖心传媒攖he fridge, too, is on the fritz糖心传媒攕he watches Sieso sleeping beside the fence, stretched out in the sunshine. The flies loiter on his slightly swollen belly, where the marks of old wounds are visible.

The thought of returning him is deeply unsettling.

*

Katie Whittemore

She is surprised by the activity in Petacas. It takes her a while to find parking; the layout of the roads is so chaotic and the signage so contradictory that once you enter the town, an unexpected detour can easily take you right out of it again. The houses are modest, their fa莽ades worse for the wear and mostly plain, but there are brick buildings, too, up to six stories tall, distributed arbitrarily here and there. The businesses are clustered around the main square; the town hall糖心传媒攁n ostentatious building with large eaves and stained-glass windows糖心传媒攊s surrounded by small bars and Chinese-owned bazaars. Nat buys a small fan at one of them. Then she wanders in search of a hardware store, reluctant to ask for directions. She is struck by the neglected appearance of the women, who have left the house with unkempt hair and slip-on sandals. Many of the men糖心传媒攅ven the old ones糖心传媒攁re in sleeveless shirts. The few children she sees are unsupervised, licking popsicles, scampering, rolling on the ground. The people糖心传媒攎en, women, kids糖心传媒攁ll of whom are loud and sloppy, look strangely alike. Inbreeding, Nat thinks. Her landlord is a perfect fit.

She worries about running into him, but it糖心传媒檚 P铆ter, not the landlord, whom she meets in the hardware store. She is happy to see him: someone she knows, someone friendly, someone smiling at her at last, coming over, what are you doing here, he asks. Nat shows him the box with the fan and he scowls. Why didn糖心传媒檛 she ask the landlord? It糖心传媒檚 his responsibility to keep the property in habitable condition. Not air conditioning, obviously, but a fan at least.

糖心传媒淥r you could have asked me. That糖心传媒檚 what neighbors are for.糖心传媒�

Nat looks for an excuse. She糖心传媒檚 happy to buy one, she says. She糖心传媒檒l take it with her when she leaves La Escape. P铆ter looks at her askance, pretending not to believe her.

糖心传媒淎nd what are you buying here? Tools to fix everything he left broken?糖心传媒�

Nat shakes her head.

糖心传媒淣o. Stuff for the garden.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e planting a garden?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲ell, just something basic . . . Peppers and eggplants, they糖心传媒檙e easy, I guess. I want to try, at least.糖心传媒�

P铆ter takes her by the arm, steps closer.

糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 buy anything,糖心传媒� he whispers.

He tells her that he can lend her all the tools she needs. He says, too, that she might as well forget about a garden. Nothing糖心传媒檚 grown on her land in years; the soil is totally depleted; it would take days and days of hard work to get it into shape. If she insists糖心传媒擭at hangs on that word, insists糖心传媒攈e could lend her a hand, but he absolutely advises against it. Although he speaks smoothly, P铆ter糖心传媒檚 voice contains indisputable sureness, an expert糖心传媒檚 confidence. Nat nods, waits for him to finish his shopping. Cables, adaptors, screws, a pair of pliers: all very professional, very specific, nothing at all like the indefiniteness in which she operates.

Outside, P铆ter walks beside her at an athletic pace, straight but flexible. His way of moving is so elegant, so different from the people around them, that Nat is proud to be walking next to him, the sort of pride associated with feeling legitimate. The spell breaks when he points to the windows at the town hall.

糖心传媒淧retty, aren糖心传媒檛 they? I made them.糖心传媒�

Nat thinks the windows clash terribly with the building糖心传媒檚 exposed brick, but she is all praise: they suit it perfectly, she says. P铆ter looks at her appreciatively. Precisely, he says, that糖心传媒檚 what he seeks, for his work to befit its context.

糖心传媒淧etacas isn糖心传媒檛 the nicest place in the world, but糖心传媒攖o the extent possible糖心传媒攐ne should strive to beautify one糖心传媒檚 surroundings, don糖心传媒檛 you think?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淪o, you糖心传媒檙e a . . .糖心传媒� Nat doesn糖心传媒檛 know what you call a person who makes stained-glass windows.

糖心传媒淎 glazier? Yes. Well, more than a glazier. A glass and color artisan, you might say. Like, I don糖心传媒檛 just cover windows.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淥f course.糖心传媒� Nat smiles.

They have a beer in one of the bars on the square. The beer is ice-cold and goes down easy. P铆ter observes her closely糖心传媒攖oo closely, she thinks糖心传媒攂ut his eyes are sweet and that softens her discomfort. The conversation returns to the landlord糖心传媒攖hat cheeky bastard, he repeats糖心传媒攖he tools and her barren plot. He insists on lending her what she needs. Just a matter of tidying the yard, clearing space for a table and some lawn chairs, then planting a few oleander and yucca, or some succulents suitable for the harsh climate. There糖心传媒檚 a huge nursery near Petacas, very cheap. If she wants, one day they can go together. It seems her plans for a vegetable garden have been scrapped. She doesn糖心传媒檛 mention them again.

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*

Juan opens his eyes in the dark, not waking completely. He stays like that for a time, on the edge of his dream. He糖心传媒檚 on the train, he thinks at first. And then: I糖心传媒檝e fallen off the train, the train has run over my legs, my arms, my head. He is surprised to be alive, if that darkness isn糖心传媒檛 actually death. I糖心传媒檓 dreaming, he thinks. I糖心传媒檓 in Navaja糖心传媒檚 car. I糖心传媒檓 in the Chichimeca desert. On his horse. In the arms of the Little Widow. In the arms of my wife. Then he perceives the faint outline of square window, and on the other side, the red and yellow lights of automobiles speeding past on the highway. Much more slowly, memories return to him, in ambiguous waves. He feels along the wall until he encounters what turns out to be a switch and the light from the lamp blinds him like the flash of a gunshot. Gradually he comes into a heavy, viscous awareness of his surroundings. The lamp. The vase where the same withered flowers languish. The bed, his bed, immune to the train糖心传媒檚 violent jerking and his horse糖心传媒檚 trot. Finally, he remembers, or decides he remembers. Everything is calm. Only the same rhythmic sound persists; not the Beast糖心传媒檚 vibration, but a hand knocking on his door.

He stands to open that door.

He sees a very young woman on the other side. A girl whose childhood. has been diligently erased, with deep red lipstick and dabs of makeup. She has a bottle of tequila in one hand and two small glasses in the other. A certain expression of neglect. Her eyes shine with a light that is at once familiar and remote.

糖心传媒淐an I come in, papa铆to?糖心传媒�

She can. She does so, slowly, hesitant, with her too-short skirt, flesh-colored bra, and swing of her cheap earrings. She sets the bottle and glasses on the night table and then turns to him with something that isn糖心传媒檛 quite determination but aspires to be.

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not going to sit?糖心传媒�

Because she is already sitting on the bed, on the very edge of the bed, as if she would like to occupy as little space as possible. Juan is still standing, his hand on the door handle, looking at the girl糖心传媒檚 bare legs. Her hands, so small, as if created to hold a piece of art. Her white throat. In some ways, she reminds him of the women he saw advertised from the train, depicted on huge signs on both sides of the train track; women who were stunningly beautiful but also a little faded, mistreated by the elements.

糖心传媒淭hey call me the Gu虉erita,糖心传媒� the Gu虉erita says.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 Juan.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 know. They told me you糖心传媒檇 be waiting for me.糖心传媒�

He waits a few moments before closing the door. Then he sits down beside the girl. He opens the bottle and fills both glasses. The girl accepts hers in silence; her hands don糖心传媒檛 meet around the glass. She isn糖心传媒檛 even looking at it. Her eyes have just discovered the book on the night table, open to the Padrote糖心传媒檚 page.

糖心传媒淵ou know him?糖心传媒�

The Gu虉erita is about to reply, but in the end says nothing. Her eyes are fixed on him again, with an intensity that might be confused for fear. Eyes very open but simultaneously afraid, as if they were plumbing the depths of a well. At first, Juan doesn糖心传媒檛 catch the significance of that look.

糖心传媒淎m I so like him?糖心传媒�

She nods slightly. The glass doesn糖心传媒檛 quite make it to her lips.

糖心传媒淣avaja says you糖心传媒檙e brothers.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗补濒蹿-产谤辞迟丑别谤蝉.糖心传媒�

They drink from their glasses at the same time. Between them, a silence has opened, made not only from a few centimeters of mattress, but from minutes or centuries of distance.

糖心传媒淗e was the one who brought you here, right?糖心传媒� Juan asks.

糖心传媒渊别蝉.糖心传媒�

Juan takes another drink, long and full, to decide what he needs to ask.

糖心传媒淒id he force you?糖心传媒�

She shakes her head so vigorously she almost spills. No, no he didn糖心传媒檛 force her. The Padrote, his brother, his half-brother that is, is a good man. If she糖心传媒檚 there, it糖心传媒檚 because it糖心传媒檚 her choice; she wants to make that clear. She entered prostitution with all five senses, nobody forced her. She was looking for an opportunity to earn some pesos and the Padrote gave it to her. How could that be bad?

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e here because you want to be.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒渊别蝉.糖心传媒�

The girl takes another swig of tequila. It糖心传媒檚 a long swig, deliberate, long enough to decide what she is going to say next.

糖心传媒淭he Padrote is a good man,糖心传媒� she repeats.

*

Juan G贸mez B谩rcena

The girl糖心传媒檚 life encompasses twenty-one years糖心传媒攐r that糖心传媒檚 what the girl says, at least, although she doesn糖心传媒檛 look more than eighteen糖心传媒攁nd takes as long to be recounted as the time she needs to empty three glasses of tequila. She talks about herself this way sometimes, in the third person, as if hers was a story she could better understand from a distance or from greater heights. Maybe this is why it doesn糖心传媒檛 exactly seem to be a person糖心传媒檚 life, but a chronicle of a character who never existed or the obituary of a girl already dead. There are, as in all the stories Juan has heard, certain common elements. The south. A birthplace that was poor or hungry or wretched. To the north, a drain that swallows up everything it touches, first her papa, then her mama; later, her older and younger siblings. One day, the gravitational force of that drain would end up catching her, too. She was eighteen at the time, although it seems to Juan that when the girl says twenty-one she means eighteen and fifteen when she says eighteen. Before setting off, she was told to leave behind anything that could identify her at home, so goodbye passport, library card, bills. Even shopping receipts. She was also told to neutralize her accent, because then there was no way to find out where she came from, and they糖心传媒檇 have nowhere to deport her to. She followed those instructions to a T, and now nobody can guess her nationality. Try if you don糖心传媒檛 believe me, papa.to, she says. Don糖心传媒檛 know? Her clients often try, and they almost always fail. Guatemala, they say. Salvador, Honduras. They糖心传媒檝e even taken her for Argentine. And she says: Nope, nope, nope. But I糖心传媒檓 going to tell you, papa铆to. I糖心传媒檓 Nicaraguan. From Managua. But only to you: to the police, I糖心传媒檓 pure Mexican. Although if she really thinks about it, she says, staring into her glass, what is pure Mexican? What purity is there in anything, if we糖心传媒檙e not talking about pure heroin or purebred dogs, which, by the way, die sooner the purer they are. Well. They told her not to take anything and nothing was what she took. Nothing except a few hundred dollars in her socks, and a suitcase with a change of clothes and a Virgin of Guadalupe prayer card. She packed the prayer card face up, so the Virgen could breathe. And the journey had its setbacks and its small tragedies; not all of those who accompanied her had the same luck, but thanks to God nothing happened to her, the Beast was good to her, maybe it respected her because she prayed a lot to the Virgin or maybe糖心传媒攁nd it scares her to think this糖心传媒攊t was nothing but chance, plain and simple. The fact is she reached the border in ten or twelve days, safe and sound and with most of the dollars still balled up in her left sock. But in the end, it turned out she didn糖心传媒檛 have enough for the crossing; the prices changed year to year, and in the previous eighteen months, the polleros糖心传媒� fees had gone up: supply and demand, sister, they told her, this is America, this is the free market. And so she tried糖心传媒攗nsuccessfully糖心传媒� to climb the border wall, along with two guys who also didn糖心传媒檛 have the money to pay the pollero. And then they tried to swim across the R铆o Bravo糖心传媒攕uccessfully, in a sense, because even though she didn糖心传媒檛 manage to reach the other side, she didn糖心传媒檛 drown either, not like one of the boys did. It was in that moment, soaked to the bone and shaking, when she decided to give up the dream, or a specific part of the dream, and settled down right here. In this city that kisses the border with El Paso and from that kiss, from that species of encounter or chat or intercourse between the two cities, nothing good is born. A city with a gentleman糖心传媒檚 name, but that was better suited to the name of a murdered female, and there are so many to choose from. Of course, back then she didn糖心传媒檛 know anything about this city, nothing about the murdered women, nothing, really, about almost anything. The worst thing about poverty, the girl says, is that it糖心传媒檚 not just your pockets that are empty, but your head, too. It costs money to know certain things. And she had nothing, knew nothing, just what was advertised on TV, that Coca-Cola is life and that it糖心传媒檚 a good time for the great taste of McDonald糖心传媒檚; that Vicente Fox is the change you need and Felipe Calder贸n wants you to catch his passion for M茅xico and you know that Pe帽a Nieto will deliver. Because advertising, the girl says, is free. It might be the only free thing in this world. Anyway. She arrived in this city whose name she doesn糖心传媒檛 want to remember with very little, with a couple hundred dollars and the address of her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend written on the back of a flyer. Her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend took her in as best she knew and could manage. The next day, that woman got her a job at one of the city糖心传媒檚 textile factories. Because sewing was among the few things the girl knew how to do. There, in that sort of stable or hothouse or mammoth cathedral, where all the people were women, bent over their sewing machines, strafing scraps of yellow canvas. It was so bright indoors that outside always looked like night. Very white light, like a highway gasworks. Or a hospital waiting room. Or the front window of a cafeteria open twenty-four hours. In fact, the factory was open twenty-fours a day, and inside you could eat lunch, shower, even work out in a kind of gym. When she earned enough, the girl told herself, she would cross the border. And that, earning enough, might still take a few months, because the pay was, shall we say, somewhere between low and really low, but her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend told her no, they couldn糖心传媒檛 complain, especially considering what was going on. The girl, who knew nothing, nonetheless knew, or intuited, something, or rather she believed something in a blind and irrational way, a way she herself couldn糖心传媒檛 explain. She knew things had always been bad. And that they would continue to be bad. And that the poor would continue to find reasons not to complain. She was poor and糖心传媒攊n accordance with her own theory糖心传媒攕he didn糖心传媒檛 complain. Besides, what was there to complain about, what with the trimestral bonuses for employees and labor conventions, her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend recited, impassioned; there were prizes for attendance and prizes for performance, employee of the month, employee of the week, social security, free uniform laundry service; they took out a life insurance policy for you while you were alive and paid for your funeral if, God forbid, you died. It was enough for the girl because the girl was going to leave. But between leaving and not leaving, while she machine-gunned scraps of yellow canvas in that stable or cathedral or hothouse, while she shared a mattress in a shared room in a shared apartment, while those things were happening, she says, other things were happening that she disregarded, at least in the beginning. There were tiny notices in the papers, between the crime section and the horoscopes. Flyers pasted on bus shelters or streetlights, and on them the faces and names of very young girls. Girls who weren糖心传媒檛 old enough. Old enough for what? What does she know, old enough to be alone, to be lost; to be, basically, all blurry in a black and white photograph, as if their own disappearance had caught them off guard. It糖心传媒檚 true that, in time, all or almost all of them turned up, poor things, mutilated and dirty with dust and blood, abandoned in the empty lots in Lomas de Poleo or the landfills of Santa Elena or the Cerro Bola hillside, under a jumbo inscription written in whitewash that said READ THE BIBLE. Just like that, in the imperative: Read the Bible. They turned up around there, and the newspaper devoted the same tiny space to them again, only now they were a female cadaver, and in the days following the press release someone, merciful or pragmatic, went around taking down the flyers with those photos that looked like they糖心传媒檇 been taken for a First Communion. Other times, other bodies turned up, bodies no one identified or claimed, women for whom nobody had put up posters, and then the press release was even smaller. This is awful, I would say to my sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend, the girl says, although it糖心传媒檚 probably fairer to say that by that time she was not so much the sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend as her own. The girl糖心传媒檚. What糖心传媒檚 awful? the friend would ask. Well, the stuff about those poor little girls. And she, the girl糖心传媒檚 friend, would gesture with whatever she had in her hand, a little scrap of yellow canvas, for example, she would make that gesture and say that it was sad, of course it was sad, but those little girls weren糖心传媒檛 little girls; most of them, in fact, were lost. The girl didn糖心传媒檛 understand: well of course they糖心传媒檙e lost, haven糖心传媒檛 you seen the posters? But her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend, the girl糖心传媒檚 friend, didn糖心传媒檛 mean that. She meant that they worked in prostitution, did she get it? They took drugs or sold them or both. They went out alone at night or in bad company or tempting men in roadside bars. They were girls who paid for the trip north with their bodies, the body糖心传媒檚 ATM, the cuerpom谩tico糖心传媒攁nd on saying this, cuerpom谩tico糖心传媒攖he sister-in- law糖心传媒檚 friend touched her breasts. Oh, the girl says she responded at the time. That was all. And she was left thinking about the pictures she糖心传媒檇 seen on the posters, which looked like they were from a First Communion, or a quince帽era at most. She thought about that for a few days, about their First Communions, about where and how they had celebrated their fifteenth birthdays, and about how their parents must have suffered over the bad lives their daughters were living.

*

Word by word, drink by drink, the girl has drained her glass. Now she fills it again. Time for the second tequila has come and with it, the heaviest part of her story. Because the factory where the girl worked might have had labor agreements, and prizes for attendance and prizes for performance, and employee of the month, employee of the week, and social security, free laundry service for their uniforms, but it also had a very strict policy about punctuality. If you got to work late, even just a minute late, you didn糖心传媒檛 get in. Two minutes. That was how late the sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend was, the friend who was, by that time, the girl糖心传媒檚 friend. At least that糖心传媒檚 how the girl would remember her: as her friend. That糖心传媒檚 how she has been fossilized in her memory: the wee hours of one morning in some summer month in such-and-such a year. It was two minutes past midnight: that she can state with certainty. Two minutes late and they wouldn糖心传媒檛 let her in. That was as much as the girl knew and what she would later tell the police, when at eight o糖心传媒檆lock in the morning she got home, never to see her friend again. She didn糖心传媒檛 actually tell the police right at that time, because first she wanted to be patient, wait a couple of hours, and then because the Mexican police have their procedures and protocols. One was required to wait so many hours, entire days, before filing a report. How many hours, how many days? The girl doesn糖心传媒檛 recall. What she does remember is that the commissioner who met with her was very gentlemanly, very polite, he pulled out a chair for her and even asked how she liked her coffee. She asked for it with a splash of milk because she糖心传媒檇 heard that was a classy way to order, with a splash of milk, although she didn糖心传媒檛 even like milk and only sort of liked coffee; but she was weakened by her tears and intended to please the police every way she could. I-don糖心传媒檛-know-what percentage of the muchachitas糖心传媒攖hat糖心传媒檚 what he called them, 糖心传媒渕uchachitas糖心传媒澨切拇綌reappear within seventy-two hours of their own volition. That糖心传媒檚 what the commissioner said. The girl doesn糖心传媒檛 remember the figure: it was a high percentage. And the other percent? she asked, coffee cup trembling in her hand. The commissioner raised his eyebrows. A short time later, they called to tell her that her friend belonged to the small percentage, not the large group. It wasn糖心传媒檛 the norm: at least not according to the statistics. There were inquiries. There were witnesses who said they糖心传媒檇 seen a black car stopped at the factory entrance, and also a white motorcycle, and a car that was a sort of a pistachio yellow. There was a small press release. There were posters with a blurry photograph. Her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend was nineteen and in the only picture the girl had of her, she was smiling and winking at the camera. That was how the neighbors would see her, multiplied and laminated and cyclostyled by the city糖心传媒檚 streetlights and bus shelters. One afternoon, after posting a dozen leaflets around a block far from the apartment, she overheard a conversation between two boys who stopped to look at one of posters. The picture of her winking friend. She didn糖心传媒檛 hear or didn糖心传媒檛 recall hearing what the first kid said. But the second kid replied: One of those girls with the body糖心传媒檚 ATM, he said, grabbing his balls. She started to cry and the boys asked her if she needed help and she answered that she didn糖心传媒檛 need any help thank-you-very-much. But she didn糖心传媒檛 cry, however, when the police called her. Identifying the body wasn糖心传媒檛 as hard as she糖心传媒檇 imagined, either: by then, she糖心传媒檇 had lots of time to read plenty about the girls who got lost in that city. She knew what she could expect. She knew about ritualistic mutilations, nipples bitten off, rampageous rapes, the female cadavers糖心传媒攁s they were called糖心传媒攖hat turned up with stiff arms, as if embracing the air; as if they were still embracing the last man who fucked them. In gynecologic positions, the experts said, which meant that the thing never ended, that, even dead, they looked like they were still getting fucked. As for her friend, the murder or murderers respected her, all things considered. Up to a certain point, at least. The deceased糖心传媒檚 demise was caused by strangulation, and most certainly occurred the same day as the kidnapping. She had been raped, yes, but only vaginally; no matter how thoroughly they explored her rectum, no signs of abrasion, tearing, or dilation were found. That, the absence of anal rape, was of great consternation to the medical examiner. The modus operandi, he said with a sigh, appears to have changed. But she, the girl, wasn糖心传媒檛 interested in the modus operandi. Over the preceding weeks she had read everything she could get her hands on about the wave of femicides, in the papers or online糖心传媒攂ecause her factory, in addition to paying for your funeral if, God forbid, you died, also had a kind of employee internet caf茅 where they could call their relatives or play solitaire or do whatever they liked. She knew as much as could be known about the subject, which wasn糖心传媒檛 a lot. She knew the guilty party was a serial killer who mimicked other serial killers, imitators in theory but just as lethal in practice. She knew blame lay with the patriarchy. She knew blame lay with excess: an excess of women and an excess of desert. Blame lay with the gringos, who crossed the border like they were going on safari, hunters ready to claim their female trophies. Blame lay with the Mexicans, who no longer believed in the Virgin of Guadalupe with the intensity of yesteryear. Blame lay with the government. With the narcos. With the narco-government. Blame lay with the women, who walked alone. Blame lay with the women, who walked in bad company. Blame lay with the women, who were pretty. Blame lay with shamanic rituals and black magic and the Santa Muerte and the Aztecs. Blame lay with living like this, partway between the city and the desert, between Mexico and the United States, between Heaven and Hell, on that irresolute land between something and nothing. Blame lay with values, with a lack of values. Blame lay with poverty. Blame lay with the desert. That糖心传媒檚 what the girl read, and read, and read, like she糖心传媒檇 read ads before, other claims, other highway signs and leaflets and billboards. Fuck it all. The factory, too: fuck it. As the deceased糖心传媒檚 next of kin糖心传媒�her? she was her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend糖心传媒檚 next of kin?糖心传媒攕he was left a bit of money. With that money, she bought what she had come to buy. Prices had gone up again糖心传媒攕upply and demand, sister, free market糖心传媒攂ut still she had enough, she had enough, and when she went to hand over the bill to the pollero, the girl, who, until that moment, had known nothing, nonetheless knew, or intuited, something, or rather believed something blindly, irrationally, in a way she herself could not reasonably explain: that the price of her friend糖心传媒檚 cheap death meant that she糖心传媒檇 have to pay so dearly for the passage.

*

The end of the story lives at the bottom of the third glass of tequila. The girl looks down at it, and looks again before she finishes.

*

Purchase 听from better bookstores everywhere, , , or .

For a year after graduation from Michigan State糖心传媒攚hile I was waiting for my then future wife (aka, No. 1 X-wife?) to complete her degree糖心传媒擨 did nothing but read for the English GRE and explore all the books that I had been dying to get to, but never had time for when I was in school. I devoured every Pynchon book, Coover (The Public Burning in particular), William Gaddis, Wittgenstein, every Kathy Acker book, any and all pop-sci books about quantum mechanics and string theory, and some random academic books since, at the time, I had aspirations of going on to get a PhD. (Foolish Young Chad! Bad at love, bad at career choices!)

One of the academic books I really liked at the time was 听by Susan Strehle. (Two great obsessions糖心传媒攆iction and “quantum”糖心传媒攖hat taste great together?) There’s a chance I’m misremembering this (or applying quantum ideas, there’s a chance that I’m both right and wrong and no one will know the outcome until they observe Strehle “Schr枚edinger’s” Index), but it was there and then that I first came across the name “Ann Quin.”

In a book about Pynchon, Barthelme, Atwood, and the like, a reference to Quin听feels听likely, although I think she was mentioned in a toss-away comment, one of those classic, “another author who mines this vein of theoretical underpinnings is Ann Quin, an experimental British novelist from the 1960s, who isn’t well-known these days” sort of bits. As vague as the reference was糖心传媒攊n Strehle’s book, or whatever actual book I’ve replaced with hers in my memory糖心传媒擨 was INSTANTLY INTRIGUED.

This took place in the way back, pre-Wikipedia, squarely in the dial-up era of the “information superhighway,” but I remember reading听something听about how Ann Quin could be considered a Kathy Acker precursor. Not a one-to-one comparison, but a fellow traveler on the experimental, NON-MALE, mode of storytelling. And that her “wildest” book was听Tripticks, which included Goo-era Sonic Youth illustrations:

(All the illustrations in听Tripticks听are by Quin’s lover, Carol Annand.)

For whatever reason糖心传媒攖hat her books were really only issued in the UK by Marion Boyars Publishers, that online interlibrary loan requests were a few years in the future, that听Amazon.com didn’t yet exist糖心传媒�I couldn’t get ahold of these books to save my life. Every new or used bookstore I entered I would pass by “P” for “Pynchon” and end up at “Q” for “Quindlen.” (I think Quindlen has lead a very successful life as a writer, but to me, she’ll forever be “the Q-named author who听isn’t听Ann Quin.”) This is a specific flavor of Nerd Disappointment some of you relate to. (And the rest of you make money with your actual hands and bodies like smart folk.)

Worth noting though that I did discover Raymond Queneau in this “Q”-related search.

[Side-note: If any QAnon people end up on here because I’m Q-ing it up like a Trump-liever, spread the fucking word! For every one of you nutjobs who contributes to our , we’ll find a Q-nugget in Quin’s books that presage your mysterious figure. Don’t worry: Quin’s poetic prose is dripping听in potential conspiratorial clues. Tune in, weekly糖心传媒攁nd donate $5 a month糖心传媒攁nd we’ll enlighten you.]

[[Three Percenters? You, on the other hand, can go fuck right off. I’ve owned Google search results over you before, and I will again. Eat my words, “patriots.”]]

*

Fast-forward a few years, and I was starting out at Dalkey, recommending authors to reissue I had heard听of, like, IDK, Ann Quin, and, lo and behold, John O’Brien pulls from his shelves all four of her novels. And thus a weekend is wasted.

And a few conversations with Catheryn Kilgarriff later, Dalkey had put together a four-book project to reissue this unique author who, despite all her advances in the realm of what literature can do, she糖心传媒攎uch like her compatriot B.S. Johnson (a future TMR subject? I could talk for, conservatively, 7 hours about House Mother Normal听and the statistics describing the current abilities of one’s senses: “Sight: 10%”), died way way too young of suicide in 1973.

RIP Experimental British Writing for a good couple of decades. (Or at least the best chance it had of going “mainstream.”)

*

It’s been twenty-one years since I read Ann Quin.

Since that time, And Other Stories capitalized on Dalkey’s negligence (aka, a monomaniacally-run dictatorship of a press whose empire was slowly crumbling) and started reissuing her糖心传媒攁long with a collection of previously unpublished stories and fragments entilted, The Unmapped Country after her unfinished final novel糖心传媒擝ob Buckeye has written a critical book, , the literary world has caught up to the spirit behind her works, if not the specific structures and twists of language and grammar, and she’s even been featured in the .

*

But what do Ann Quin’s works mean today? Can a contemporary writer draw from her, from her poetic play, her constant urge to expand and explore and truly experiment? How do readers relate to, in , the author who “turned听On the Road听on its head”?

Well, if you listen along, you’re about to find out.

*

Ann Quin糖心传媒攐riginally published in the 1960s and early 1970s, then again in 2001-2003, and now in 2018-2022糖心传媒攊s the subject of the next season of the Two Month Review. We’re going to include听a record-setting听five听books in this season: , , , , . All are available from , , hopefully your local indie, Amazon.com, most libraries, the Dark Web, etc.

Not sold? Here are the opening lines from her novels:

A man called Berg, who changed his name to Greb, came to a seaside town intending to kill his father. . . .

[. . .]

A man fell to his death from a sixth-floor window of Peskett House, an office-block in Sellway Square today.

He was a messenger employed by a soap manufacturing firm.

[. . .]

Not that I’ve dismissed the possibility my brother is dead.

[. . .]

I have many names. Many faces.

So many men dying!!!! How can you听not听want to buy and read all these?

*

Well, if you’re听still听not sold, here’s a bit from Dutton’s听New Yorker听piece specifically about听Tripticks:

Tripticks听chronicles a nameless narrator糖心传媒檚 exploits as he drives across America pursuing his 糖心传媒淣o. 1 X-wife and her schoolboy gigolo糖心传媒澨切拇綌or else the ex and her lover are pursuing him. Let糖心传媒檚 just say that they糖心传媒檙e following each other, perpetually, in Buicks and Chevrolets, back and forth across a dystopian U.S.A. The America that we find in Quin糖心传媒檚 novel is a place of rampant consumerism, religious hypocrisy, gory violence, and New Age self-help bullshit. It糖心传媒檚 also sex-mad, drug-addled, racist, and riddled with the language of advertising clich茅s. When we do glimpse the natural environment out a car or motel window, it is often almost terrifyingly beautiful, a not quite surreal prehistoric vastness of mesas and rock formations, 糖心传媒渟heer walls of symmetrical blue grey basaltic columns糖心传媒� and 糖心传媒渟alt pools with crystals forming on their surfaces糖心传媒� and 糖心传媒渂are broken peaks.糖心传媒� But any romance of the American West is always immediately cut through, chopped down, and pressed up against something else, like 糖心传媒�6 packs of fridged beer糖心传媒� and a 糖心传媒淯-Drive Inn,糖心传媒� or a 糖心传媒渓ead-filled baseball bat糖心传媒� and a 糖心传媒渉anging tree.糖心传媒� Of course, the setting of any novel, no matter how experimental, is made out of nothing but words, but that truism feels somehow truer of 糖心传媒淭ripticks.糖心传媒� Language is the landscape that we糖心传媒檙e traversing in this book, a shifting vista of TV commercials, political rhetoric, sexual fantasy, and sand dunes. Language is what糖心传媒檚 happening听in here.

*

In addition to听Re: Quin, Amongst Those Left: The British Experimental Novel 1940糖心传媒�1980 by Francis Booth, a scholarly book that’s a who’s who of great mid-century writers, includes a significant piece on Quin and all of her works, and, thanks to the efforts of the And Other Stories, there’s a solid number of recent academic pieces and reviews of her books for us to consider throughout the course of the season. Which, I truly believe, is going to be so fun.

As in the past, we’ll be releasing special interviews first on for subscribers (no, this venture isn’t funded, and exists mostly because of my unwillingness to let it die, so please, a couple bucks a month?) and in the podcasts the following Friday. If you want to watch us LIVE AND UNEDITED tune into our on the days below. And follow TMR on Twitter for more specifics and random stuff.

Let’s blow apart the male narrative model together!

Introduction

Berg (pgs. 1-82)

November 9; Berg (pgs. 83-END)

November 16: Three听 (pgs. 1-75)

November 23: Three (pgs. 76-END)

November 30: Passages (pgs. 1-56)

December 7: Passages (pgs. 57-END)

December 14: Tripticks (pgs. 1-103)

December 21: Tripticks (pgs. 104-END)

December 28: Unmapped Country (ALL)

, and get ready! And if you like what we’ve done in the past, please consider supporting us through our .

If you’re a Patreon supporter at the $10 or higher level, you’ll be able to vote on the book for season 18, so sign up today!

This week’s music is “” by Los Campesinos!

You can watch all previous seasons of TMR on our .

Follow听听听and听听for random thoughts and information about upcoming guests.

Be sure to order Brian糖心传媒檚 book,听, which is available at better bookstores everywhere thanks to BOA Editions. And all of Katie糖心传媒檚 translations, especially听听,听and her forthcoming听

The associated with this post is copyrighted by .

This week’s music is “Simulation Swarm” by Big Thief.

If you like what you hear, review, rate, and support us on

You can watch next week’s episode (June 22nd, 9am ET) which will cover through page 136 in Never Did the Fire and page 152 in Catching Fire live on YouTube , and watch all previous seasons on our听.

Follow听听听and听听for random thoughts and information about upcoming guests.

Be sure to order Brian糖心传媒檚 book,听, which is available at better bookstores everywhere thanks to BOA Editions. And all of Katie糖心传媒檚 translations, especially听听,听and her forthcoming听

The associated with this post is copyrighted by .

This week’s music is “Monday” by The Regrettes.

If you like what you hear, review, rate, and support us on

You can watch next week’s episode (June 1st) live on YouTube , and watch all previous seasons on our听.

Follow听听听and听听for random thoughts and information about upcoming guests.

Be sure to order Brian糖心传媒檚 book,听, which is available at better bookstores everywhere thanks to BOA Editions. And all of Katie糖心传媒檚 translations, especially听听,听and her forthcoming听

Katie, Brian, and Chad will be back live on May 25th to cover up to page 68 in听Never Did the Fire听and to page 78 in听Catching Fire.

This week’s music is “No Blade of Grass” from the new(ish) Bodega album.

If you like what you hear, review, rate, and support us on

Follow听听听and听听for random thoughts and information about upcoming guests.

Be sure to order Brian糖心传媒檚 book,听, which is available at better bookstores everywhere thanks to BOA Editions. And all of Katie糖心传媒檚 translations, especially听听,听and her forthcoming听