Smoke, livre ebook

FINALIST FOR THE CERCADOR PRIZE!

What happens to a country and its people after 35 years of terror? The author of Poso Wells and Family Album explores the aftermath of a dictatorship in this gothic family saga.

"Gabriela Alemán has written a terrible and beautiful story about the delicate borders between what is known and what is invented, and about the places where intimate tragedy and the tragedies of history intersect. Her characters may appear to traverse a kind of voyage back to the origin, but in fact they are seeking their own path to survive in monstrous times."—Yuri Herrera, author of Signs Preceding the End of the World

After 19 years, a woman named Gabriela returns to the Paraguayan capital of Asunción to visit what's left of a family and a home that once provided her with refuge. Andrei, the family patriarch, now deceased, has left her his journal. Gabriela sequesters herself in the library to slowly read through it. The unanswered, and sometimes forbidden questions haunting that home filled with memories are made palpable: What secrets must be kept in order to survive? And for how long?

Alemán situates the present in an eerie, dreamlike atmosphere saturated by a sense of foreboding. In alternating chapters, the past is revealed as an impossible puzzle, riddled with ellipses and gaps. As characters from the past begin to show up in the present, the novel comes to a close as Gabriela learns the family's hidden story, set against the backdrop of the country's troubled history.

While she waits, the woman observes the long, thin leaves reaching over the fence in front of the house. Nothing else braves the rising tide of wind forcing its way into the cracks in the walls, dragging its tongue along the pavement and grasping at the bare branches of three sidewalk trees that stand like tortured skeletons on this side of the fence. There's no one in the street, so empty it seems she's the only one who's dared to defy a curfew. There's just the sky, hanging like the belly of a she-donkey. She's seen one, in the countryside when she was a girl and fought its foal for the udder. She recognizes the exact color, though she's never known it to be painted on the sky of Asunción before. In a silk blouse and linen pants she's unprepared for the weather. Only her hair, styled like she used to wear it twenty years ago, offers any shelter from the wind. She leans on a cane gripped in her right hand. There is a suitcase at her feet. She's been pressing the doorbell next to the gate for several minutes. She tries to make out a silhouette through the windows of the house, but nothing moves except the curtains. While she's searching for shadows, a chipa vendor approaches. Something must catch this peddler's attention —the woman's reddened arms, her bent posture, the fine line of blood dripping toward her lip—because she says the gate doesn't lock, and to go in, climb the stairs and knock on the front door. Before she can react, the who's looking at her like she's some kind of imposter) begins to clap. Not one clap, but several—distinct, heavy, separated sounds made by enormous hands. Though the woman registers this, what's stronger is the memory it conjures. That's what unnerves her, the memory. Never since, in any other part of the world, has she encountered clapping employed as an improvised bell. She's so rattled that she can't manage to thank the chipa seller, who's already setting off. Instead, she opens the gate, leaves her suitcase just inside, and walks up the wide staircase. Ivy still covers the walls of the house, two enormous palm trees continue to preside over the garden, and a variety of creeping yuyos still spread their leafy stems along the ground. The disorder holds sway in her memory. She knocks on the door, but nothing happens. Time passes, sweat soaks through the front of her blouse and her leg cramps up, so she sits down on the steps. She doesn't try to find an open window, but asks herself whether she made her arrival date clear. Leaning her back against a column, she remembers the kitchen door. She struggles to her feet with a shiver, the sweat cold on her chest, her bad legagging until she manages to straighten it, and goes down the stairs. She takes up the suitcase, dragging it through the damp weeds. She climbs the other steps, tries the knob, finds the door locked. When she runs her hand across her face, it comes away spotted with blood. She's got nothing to clean herself up with, nor does she care. Still, she tilts her head so the drops from her nose won't fall on the doorsill, but first catches sight of the hem of her pants caked with mud and remembers that Andrei used to keep a spare key under the mat. It's still there, coated in a thick, dark layer of mold. She pulls a nail file from her purse, cleans out the grooves and inserts the key into the lock. It fits. With an effort, she makes it turn.

Once inside, she can't find the light switch, so she moves forward blindly, sliding her hand along the surface of the wall, leaving her suitcase by the door. In the empty room, her cane echoes like Ahab's leg. She makes her way through the kitchen and into the living room before finally locatings a switch. The curtains are closed. When the light comes on, she sees hundreds of dust specks floating in the air. Even after she tugs open the heavy red velvet drapes, light barely filters in. She steps into the open hallway alongside the inner courtyard, which doesn't look at all like what she remembers. It's covered with a thin layer of gray, like a coating of fine mesh. Piled next to the guayacan tree are cans of paint, brushes, and buckets of water. The big clock hanging on the wall is broken, stopped. She keeps going, opening the doors along the inner side of the hallway, one by one. In a small room, a thin girl stands looking out the window. The girl doesn't even turn. The woman continues on, and three doors down she finds a group of men sitting around a table. They look at her as if she's not there. But one of them, tall and heavyset, stands up, takes hold of her arm, and asks what she's doing in the house. His tone is more disinterested than threatening, he gives off a pungent smell. She doesn't tell him much, just says she's looking for Pablo. The man points to a marble staircase, worn from long use, at the end of the hall. Without waiting, he goes back into the room and shuts the door behind him. The woman climbs the stairs, at each step raising first her right leg, then her left, and then her cane. When she reaches the top, she sees more closed doors facing the railing that overlooks the courtyard, all bathed in a pale light that filters through the clouds. She loses heart, but even so, she opens them one by one until she finds him at last.

He doesn't raise his eyes from the table when she comes in.

"Pablo," the woman says.

She takes a few steps, her cane echoing in the closed space. No response. The man is seated on a bench with his shirtsleeves rolled up, visibly concentrating. The woman moves forward until she's standing right behind him. Only when she peers over his shoulder to watch him ply his chisel on a sheet of copper does the man notice her. He isn't startled, just looks at her and pushes his bench backward.

"Gabriela."

His tone offers nothing but a statement of fact. It's a flat voice, like that of the man downstairs. Pablo picks up a rag and wipes his hands. His six-foorame and the biceps that swell like hills under his sleeves are completely at odds with the fragility of his presence.

"Hi," the woman says.

They acknowledge each other clumsily: he reaches out a hand, she brings her cheek toward his. Neither one finishes the gesture. Then comes a hiccup of silence, and then a rat-a-tat on the window that signals the first drops of a rainstorm.

"No baggage?"

"I left my suitcase downstairs, by the kitchen door."

As these words leave her mouth, the man's eyes take in her cane. He doesn't comment.

"I'll get it," he says.

The rain is falling heavily now. The woman goes over to the window and sees how the drops are coming at a slant, sharp as needles. She shifts her attention, turns around and looks at the cords stretched across the room, from which sheets of cardstock hang. She studies one, where a corpse seems to take shape. A cloud of flies surrounds it. Pablo comes back.

"You must be tired."

It's not a question, nor does it suggest any special concern for her wellbeing. It's just the transition to what’s coming next.

"Not so tired," she answers, still distracted by the buzzing of the flies.

The man keeps moving, suitcase in hand, and signals for her to follow.

*

Pablo guides her down the corridor. Her cane precedes her, leading the way along the wood floor. She thinks a shadow crosses the inner patio downstairs, but it's a vague sensation because the rain is so intense. Pablo stops in front of the door at the top of the steps, pulls a key from his pants pocket and inserts it in the lock. She can see two narrow beds with starched sheets, a big window facing the street, and a chest of drawers. He puts her suitcase down on one of the beds. Once he's gone, Gabriela takes off her shoes and goes into the bathroom. While she washes her hands, she looks at herself in the mirror. She can't understand why he didn't say anything. Her nose has stopped bleeding, but she must have smeared her face with blood when she wiped off the sweat. Her hair is full of dust from the street and disheveled from the wind. She rinses her face, drying it with a towel. Back in the bedroom, she opens her suitcase and, without much enthusiasm, transfers the contents into the drawers. She puts on a pair of slippers and looks out the window. The horizon ends in a wall of water. She goes back to the bathroom, turns on the hot water, and closes the door. She waits for the room to fade away behind the steam, then peels off her clothes. It's like she's shedding the entire day.

When she returns to the bedroom, the change in temperature raises goosebumps on her skin as her wet feet leave prints on the wood floor. She sits down on the bed and watches her footprints evaporate, the trace of her presence disappearing on contact with the air. She gets into bed, naked, and is immediately plunged into sleep. The next day she wakes up late, unsure what time it is because she can't remember whether she changed her watch when the plane landed or only thought about that. She sits up in the bed, the sky still overcast, though a phantasmagoric light penetrates the clouds. She gets dressed and steps out into the hall, once more seeing the line of closed doors. She goes downstairs. The sound of her cane again echoes through the house. The kitchen is the same inhospitable place as yesterday, and, like the courtyard, doesn't match her memory. This time she finds the light switch right away. While scrambling herself some eggs, she hears footsteps.

"Do you want some coffee?" That's what Pablo comes up with as a greeting.

"Yes, thank you," Gabriela replies.

When he moves toward the stove to put the coffeepot on a burner, his body brushes hers.

"How was the trip?"

"Long. I'd forgotten how long it was."

That's the first allusion to the time gone by since they last saw each other.

"Excuse me for grabbing the first thing I found in the refrigerator. I didn't know where you were."

"You don't have to ask my permission for anything, Gabriela. Andrei thought of you as part of the family. . ."

He sips till his cup is empty and then takes it to the sink. While the water is running, with his back to her, he finishes his sentence, "but I am asking you not to wander around down here."

As he turns off the faucet, she looks at his spine, which stands out like a centipede under his tight-fitting T-shirt. When he turns around, he has nothing more to say. Gabriela doesn't feel any right to demand explanations. She stays quiet. They look each other in the eyes.

"Come with me?" Pablo asks.

She stands up, grimacing for a moment before she can stretch out her left leg and place it on the floor. Then she follows him.

*

They go down the long hallway through successive bursts of wind from all directions. The woman wraps her arms around her shoulders, dropping the cane in the process. Pablo stops, picks it up, and then continues toward the library. When he opens the door, he leans the cane against the wall. Inside, time seems to have stopped, or so Gabriela thinks. It's the first thing since her arrival that matches her memory: the two enormous floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering the wall, the enormous grandfather clock on the far side of the room, the rosewood desk, the window framing the palm trees in the garden. Only Andrei is missing. The woman is hesitant to enter. The man notices.

"Come in, come in."

That was the permission she needed. Pablo steps to the desk and picks up an envelope. He extends his arm toward her.

"This is what he left for you. Before he died, he asked me to find you and give it to you myself."

Gabriela takes the packet and brings it to her chest. Pablo walks toward the door.

"I'll be in my studio if you need anything."

He doesn't close the door. The woman looks out the window and, although she can now see the street, all she really notices is the void. Someone has knocked down the house across the street, and in the vacant lot are weeds and the foundation of something left unfinished. She shivers, drops the envelope onto the desktop and, once more, hugs herself for warmth. She picks up the cane and goes in search of something to cover herself up. On the way toward her room she hears footsteps and leans out over the railing. All she can see are a pair of old sneakers moving down the first-floor hallway, and then she hears a door open. She continues to her room, where she puts on a second blouse over the one she's wearing and thinks about how she needs to buy something more substantial. She hasn't come prepared for this climate. On her way from the airport, the taxi driver had told her how the daily riverboat to the edge of the Chaco had not sailed because a layer of frost had covered the banks of the Río Paraguay. He said the birds had vanished from the shore the night before and the river had turned brown in the wake of the south wind blowing into the city. When she got to the house, she believed what he said.

Back in the hallway, she decides that mate is what she needs to ward off the cold, so she goes down to the kitchen again. While the water is heating, she finds the leaves and the guampa to brew them in. She’s staring at the top of the kettle when she feels someone's breath on her neck. She jumps aside, holding tight to her cane, and stumbles till she gets her legs under her. It's the man from the day before. He's a head taller, or more, and a web of veins crosses the whites of his eyes. He hasn't shaved and he still smells rancid, but also, now, of musk. He doesn't say a word. Sticking a glass under the faucet, he fills it, drinks, refills it, and drinks it down again. He pays the woman no attention at all. Once he's done, he leaves the empty glass in the sink and goes away. When the kettle whistles, Gabriela turns off the flame.

*

Back in the library, she shuts the door behind her. She's never been alone in this room, has always been with either Andrei or Francisco. Feeling like the floor is opening up beneath her, she limps to the desk. Only then does she realize that she forgot her cane in her hurry to leave the kitchen. Once she's seated, she closes her eyes. When she opens them, she's looking at the ceiling. Humidity stains swim across its surface. She takes the envelope, peels open the flap at the end, and is hit by the smell of cigars, Old Spice, and single-malt Scotch. She shuts her eyes again—otherwise, she'd scream. Andrei's scent is all over the hardcover journal and the inside of the envelope. She hasn't smelled it for seventeen years. She takes a sip of mate and concentrates on her breathing, trying to get rid of the sensation that her head is floating in helium. She tries, but barely succeeds.

When Pablo comes back he finds the woman sitting in darkness. He doesn't say anything but snaps on the light. The woman remains motionless, staring straight ahead. Pablo leaves. At some point, after the streetlamps have come on, she gets up. She holds the journal to her chest, walks with difficulty toward the door, turns out the light, and heads for her room. While making her way, she hears paws scurrying along the floor downstairs. It's a disturbing sound, but she doesn't try to determine its source. All she can think about is the journal.