After the Winter Read online

  First U.S. edition published 2018

  Copyright © 2014 by Guadalupe Nettel

  Translation © 2018 by Rosalind Harvey

  First published in Spanish as Después del invierno by Editorial Anagrama, Barcelona, Spain, in 2014. First published in English by MacLehose Press, Great Britain, in 2018.

  Coffee House Press books are available to the trade through our primary distributor, Consortium Book Sales & Distribution, cbsd.com or (800) 283-3572. For personal orders, catalogs, or other information, write to [email protected].

  Coffee House Press is a nonprofit literary publishing house. Support from private foundations, corporate giving programs, government programs, and generous individuals helps make the publication of our books possible. We gratefully acknowledge their support in detail in the back of this book.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Nettel, Guadalupe, 1973– author. | Harvey, Rosalind, 1982– translator.

  Title: After the winter / Guadalupe Nettel; translated by Rosalind Harvey.

  Other titles: Después del invierno. English

  Description: First U.S. edition. | Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018004536 | ISBN 9781566895330 (eBook)

  Classification: LCC PQ7298.424.E76 D4713 2018 | DDC 863/.7—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018004536

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Lines from the poem “Ed è subito sera” are from Tutte le poesie by Salvatore Quasimodo, © 1942. Published by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, S.p.A.

  Excerpt from Trilce by César Vallejo was translated by Clayton Eshleman, © 1992. Published by Wesleyan University Press. Used by permission.

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  To Ian, in memoriam.

  And to my father, who has fought so hard.

  CONTENTS

  I

  Claudio

  Cecilia

  Ruth

  Paris

  Initiation

  Ménilmontant

  Tribeca

  Neighbors

  Chemistry

  Reading

  Hotel Lutetia

  Rumors

  Uncertainty

  Cecilia’s Version

  Claudio’s Version

  Bars on a Window

  Insomnia

  II

  Reunion

  Robots

  Autumn

  Memory

  “Pink Moon”

  Running

  New Places

  Obsessions

  Vital Organs

  Marathons

  Cemeteries

  Invocation

  Return

  A Day in the Country

  Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,

  Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l’Espoir,

  Vaincu, pleure, et l’Angoisse atroce, despotique,

  Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.

  CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

  When people are about to die, all they want to do is fuck.

  ROBERTO BOLAÑO

  I

  CLAUDIO

  My apartment is on 87th Street on the Upper West Side in New York City. It is a stone corridor very much like a prison cell. I have no plants. All living things inspire in me an inexplicable horror, just as some people feel when they come across a nest of spiders. I find living things threatening; you have to take care of them or they die. In short, they take up time and attention, and I am not prepared to give those away to anyone. Although I do at times manage to enjoy it here, this city, if you let it, can end up being maddening. In order to protect myself from the chaos, I have imposed on my daily life a very strict set of habits and restrictions. Among them is the absolute privacy of my lair. Since I moved in, no feet other than mine have crossed the threshold of this apartment. The very idea that someone else might walk upon this floor can unhinge me. I am not always proud of the way I am. There are days when I yearn for a family, a discreet and silent wife, a child, preferably a mute one. The week I arrived I spoke to the other residents in the building—most of them immigrants—to make the rules clear. I requested, politely, with a hint of a threat, that they abstain from making the slightest noise after 9:00 p.m., the time I usually come home from work. So far, my request has been respected. In the two years I have lived here, no one has ever held a party in the building. But it also means that I am obligated to assume certain responsibilities. I have forced myself, for instance, to develop the habit of listening to music only through headphones, and to whisper into the mouthpiece if I use the telephone (whose ringer I have turned down, as with the answering machine’s). Once a day, at an almost imperceptible volume, I check my messages—very few, as it happens. Most of the time they are from Ruth, even though I have asked her several times never to call and instead to wait until I do so.

  I bought this apartment for a good reason: the price. The first time I viewed it and the woman from the real estate agency uttered the amount, I felt a tingling in my stomach: at last I would be able to own something in Manhattan. My fear of embarrassment—ever vigilant—prevented me from rubbing my hands together, and the joy I felt finally settled in the region of my intestines. I like nothing better than acquiring new things at a low price. Only once the transaction was complete did I realize, with some disappointment, that there was no view of the street. The two windows must have measured all of twelve square inches, and they both looked out onto a wall.

  I find thinking about the apartment disagreeable and yet it happens all the time. The same thing occurs with this girlfriend who insinuated herself into my life without my being able to stop her. Ruth is as careful and as obstinate as a reptile, capable of vanishing whenever my boot is about to squash her into the ground, and also of waiting until I want to see her. As soon as I settle down, she comes slithering back to me, smooth and slippery. To call her intelligent would be an exaggeration. Her skill, in my humble opinion, has more to do with her survival instinct. There are animals that have adapted to live in the desert and she belongs in this category. How else to justify her sticking with me in spite of my character? Ruth is fifteen years older than I am. Her eyes always look as if she were about to cry and this gives them a certain allure. Her silent suffering beatifies her. Her wrinkles, commonly known as crow’s feet, give her an air like that of an Orthodox icon. This martyrdom makes up for her objective absence of beauty. Once a week, usually on Fridays, we go out for dinner or to see a movie. I sleep at her house and we screw until dawn, which allows me to polish my sword and satisfy my weekly needs. I will not deny my girlfriend’s virtues. She is attractive and refined. Walking around with her is almost an ostentation, like walking arm in arm with a store window: Lagerfeld purse, Chanel eyeglasses. In sum, she has money and style. It goes without saying that a woman like this, in the city where I live, is a key that opens every door, an Eleguá who opens all paths. What I do not forgive her for is that she is so very female. Increasing the frequency of our encounters would be impossible. I have explained to her more than once that I would not be able to endure spending any more time with her. Ruth says she understands but nonetheless continues to insist. “That is just what women are like,” I say to myself, essentially resigned to sharing my life with a lesser being.

  Every morning, I open my eyes before the alarm clock set for six goes off and, without knowing exactly when, I am already looking out the window as if I had never done anything else. I can barely make out the gray wall on the other side, since the glass is protected by a kind of grill. I suppose a child used to live here, or a person with suicidal tendencies. I usually sleep in the fetal position on my right side, so that when I wake up, the first thing I see is this window, through which the light enters but no images, save for the cracks in the wall which, by now, I know by heart. On the other side of the glass, the city gives off its incessant murmur. For a moment I imagine this wall does not exist and that from my window I can see people walking quickly by, heading for their offices or business meetings like worms writhing around in a glass tank. Then I am glad that chance placed a barrier between my body and the chaos out there, so that when I wake I feel clean, remote, protected. Few people escape this uniform mass whose clamor reaches my ears, few people are autonomous, sensitive, independent, and really capable of thinking like I am. I have come to know a few of them in the course of my life through the books they have written. There is Theodor Adorno, for instance, with whom I identify a great deal. Ordinary individuals are deficient, and it is not worth establishing any kind of contact with them, except out of convenience. Every morning, as soon as the menacing noise of the world penetrates my window, the perennial questions arise: how to protect myself from contagion? How to avoid blending in, becoming corrupted? I believe that, if I have achieved this so far, it is thanks to a set of habits without which I would not be able to leave my apartment. Every day I execute a routine I established many years ago and on which my existence hinges. “Execute” is one of my favorite verbs. For example: when I get out of bed, I place the soles of both my feet on the floor. This allows me to feel firm and unswerving. I go straight into the shower and wake my body up with a stream of cold water. I dry myself, always taking care to use the rough side of the towel, and rub my skin until it turns red in order to stimulate the circulation of the blood. Sometimes, without meaning to, I glance over at the mirror—a gesture that makes me lose a few precious seconds—and am reminded with horror that my chest, just li
ke my arms and legs, is covered in hair. I am unable to resign myself to the large quantity of animality human beings possess. “Instincts, impulses, physical needs are all worthy of our contempt,” I think to myself as I sit down to defecate in the toilet, strategically placed where it is impossible to see myself reflected anywhere. I never throw toilet paper into the toilet bowl—just the thought that it might become clogged horrifies me. Every morning I press the flusher with my finger and hold it down until I am sure the waste has been lost forever in the antiseptic whirlpool of water, dyed blue from the disinfectant I pour into it.

  I ingest my sustenance quickly, standing up by the other window, which, as I said before, also looks out onto a wall. This window faces a building, and occasionally I see one of my neighbors come out to water the potted plants on their balcony, wearing an idiotic smile. Whenever this happens I choose to hold off on breakfast rather than run the risk of having to respond to some greeting. The slightest contact could be irreversible. If I allow politeness to be interpreted as a friendly gesture, the neighbors might start to introduce themselves with all kinds of excuses or, worse still, ask me for a favor. This is a shame, because politeness is something that is in theory a fine thing. I like it when people I do not know behave nicely toward me. Whenever this happens, I enjoy it very much and would like to be able to reciprocate. Unfortunately, not everyone responds in the same way. Politeness can also serve as a gateway to intimacy and, needless to say, there is no shortage of opportunists in the world.

  CECILIA

  At different periods in my life, graves have protected me. When I was a girl, my mother began a secret relationship with a married man and would leave me at my paternal grandmother’s house so she could be with him. In Oaxaca, or at least in my family, it was not well regarded for children to go to nursery school before starting primary. It was seen as preferable for a mother to leave her four-year-old daughter in the hands of her in-laws, in the morning and the afternoon, if she could not or did not wish to take care of her herself. My grandmother’s house was an old villa with an inner courtyard and a fountain. Some of the rooms were home to my father’s younger brothers, who had not yet married. As well as my grandmother and the servants, my uncles showered me with affection, so I did not feel my mother’s absences too keenly. The images I have from this period are very hazy and yet there are things I recall perfectly. I know, for instance, that the kitchen was large and had a wood-burning stove. I also know that, every morning, my grandmother would send the housemaid to buy fresh unpasteurized milk from the market for me to drink and that, if it boiled over on the stove, she would scold her loudly. In a yard out the back where I was forbidden from going, my grandmother kept chickens. One morning I found that the door leading to it from the kitchen was open, and I slipped out to explore freely. I walked around for a while, indifferent to the shouts of my family as they searched anxiously for me inside the house. I did not want to go back yet, so I hid behind the trunk of a cherry tree from where I could see a small mound of earth with a cross on top. Even at that young age I understood that it was a grave. I had seen them before on the roadside and, from a distance, when we drove past a cemetery in the car. What I never managed to find out, despite my insistence, was to whom these remains belonged. My grandmother never relented when I asked her for an explanation and, as tends to happen when things are banned, eventually the grave became an obsession.

  At the end of that year, my mother left us to go to a city in the north with her lover. Papá and I moved in with Grandmother for good. I grew up with the stigma of this abandonment. Some people teased me about it; others were overly protective. To shield myself from people’s judgments and pity, I sought refuge in my schoolbooks and at the local cinema, one of the few in the city at that time. As the years went by, I gradually gained access to the forbidden patio and the cherry tree and would spend hours under it, staring at the little mound of earth. Secretly, I decided to consider it my mother’s grave. When I needed to cry or to be alone, I would seek out this place where the chickens strutted about freely. There I would sit, to read, or to write in my diary. I began to notice other graves, the ones in the cemetery or in churchyards. On the Day of the Dead on November 2, I asked my father to take me to the municipal cemetery and gradually we got into the habit of going there together. It is easy to be passionate about graveyards when you are yet to suffer the death of anyone yourself. After Mamá left, I never lost another relative or any of the close friends on whom my equilibrium depended. Death had an impact on other people and, at times, allowed me to see it up close, but did not once meddle with me, at least during my childhood and teenage years. I must have been eight years old the first time I went to a wake. That evening, my neighbors put a black ribbon on the door of their house and, as is the custom in villages and small towns, left the door open for anyone who wished to come and pay their respects. I went into the house and walked around the living room without anyone noticing me. The deceased was an old man—the waning patriarch of the family—and had been ill with Alzheimer’s for several years. It was enough just being there for me to understand that, despite the immense sadness they felt, his passing had brought relief and liberation to the house. The scent of the candles, the resin, and the chrysanthemums arranged on the wreath seeped forever into my memory. Some years later, on their way back from a holiday, two twins who had been in my class in the first year of secondary school died in a car accident. When she announced it, the headmistress asked us to hold a minute’s silence. I remember the shock we all felt for more than a week, a mixture of pity and fear for ourselves: life had become more fragile and the world more menacing than it had seemed up to then. At around this time, the painter Francisco Toledo donated his personal library to the city, creating a reading room inside an ancient monastic building—which nonetheless felt strangely comforting—situated a few blocks away from my house. The place became my refuge. There I discovered the major Latin American writers, but also many more translated from other languages, above all from the French. I devoured Balzac and Chateaubriand, Théophile Gautier, Lautréamont, Huysmans and Guy de Maupassant. I liked fantasy stories and novels, especially if they were set in a cemetery somewhere.

  At around the age of fifteen, I met a group of kids who used to hang around in the Plaza de la Constitución. The clothes they wore distinguished them from the rest of the city’s inhabitants: dark, tatty garments with skull designs, heavy work boots, and black leather jackets. At first glance, I had nothing in common with these people, other than that their favorite place to meet up was the San Miguel cemetery. I seized the first chance I had to show them that I knew all their hangout spots. The penchant these kids had for all things funereal reminded me of my best-loved authors. I began to talk to them about these writers, telling them tales of apparitions and phantoms, and ended up becoming a member of their group. It was they who introduced me to Tim Burton, Philip K. Dick (whose novels I adored right from the beginning), and other authors such as Lobsang Rampa, whom I never quite got into. My father did not look kindly on these friendships. He was worried they would introduce me to certain areas of literature, to drugs and, of course, to sex, which he considered improper if not practiced within an institutional context such as matrimony or prostitution. He seemed not to realize that I was painfully shy, and that my loyalty towards him far exceeded any curiosity or desire to break away. Erotic awakening—common at such ages—took place in my life like a tornado one watches from afar. My attitude could be considered anything but provocative, and by no means sexy. The only things that interested me about this group were the walks among the tombstones in the late afternoon and the swapping of stories that made your hair stand on end. It was in this same period, however, that I gradually began to lose interest in everything, including books and my new friends. If I had spoken little before, now I took refuge in a general muteness and apathy that alarmed my family even more than my eccentric friends did. Instead of waiting until the end of adolescence, my father, consumed with worry, chose instead to consult a psychiatrist. The doctor suggested I take a cocktail of serotonin and lithium for a few months, to stabilize my brain chemistry. And so I began the recommended treatment, but my situation grew considerably worse: not only did I continue to be excessively reserved, but I also started falling asleep all over the place. As the doctor himself said, the pills had a contradictory effect on me, and so he decided to send me for some lab tests that, fortunately for me, my father did not ever take too seriously. We never returned to his consulting room. They left me as I was, au naturel. Oaxaca is full of demented people who wander the streets or pester passersby. One mute young girl, as long as she was chaste and virtuous, could not bring the family into too much disrepute. Unlike many of my classmates’ parents, my father never minded that I chose to study humanities—quite the opposite. It was he himself who signed me up for French literature at the University of Oaxaca, and when I graduated with a top-class degree, he helped me to find a scholarship to study in Paris. Changing environments so abruptly was not easy. Until that point I had lived protected by my family and my teachers. Everything I knew about life I had learned in books, not on the streets, not even with the goths or out in the courtyard of the university.