The Barnes & Noble Review
Internationally acclaimed writer Arturo Pérez-Reverte, author of The Club Dumas, has crafted another intense, dramatic, literary suspense tale. Teresa Mendoza's boyfriend, Güero, might be known as "the king of the short runway" because of his talent for getting drug-laden small planes in and out of incredibly small spaces. But Teresa seemed destined to never to be queen of anything. Life with Güero offered passion, excitement, and a way out of poverty…but it also carried with it the inescapable prospect of danger. Teresa knew Güero relished the risks of his job. He even raised the stakes by skimming extra profits off the drug lords he worked for. That's why he gave Teresa a cell phone that would only ring only if he was dead…a clear signal to Teresa that she was next on the list. When that phone rings, Teresa runs for her life, hoping the world will be big enough to hide her. So begins a journey that will transform this innocent barrio beauty into a woman who is tough and powerful enough to make her own rules -- the woman known as the Queen of the South. Sue Stone
Queen of the South
Narrated by Lina Patel
Arturo Pérez-ReverteUnabridged — 17 hours, 29 minutes
Queen of the South
Narrated by Lina Patel
Arturo Pérez-ReverteUnabridged — 17 hours, 29 minutes
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Overview
A remarkable tale, The Queen of the South spans continents, from the dusty streets of Mexico to the sparkling waters off the coast of Morocco, to Spain and the Strait of Gibraltar. A sweeping story set to the irresistible beat of the drug smugglers' ballads, it encompasses sensuality and cruelty, love and betrayal, as its heroine's story unfolds.
Teresa Mendoza's boyfriend is a drug smuggler who the narcos of Sinaloa, Mexico, call "the king of the short runway," because he can get a plane full of coke off the ground in three hundred yards. But in a ruthless business, life can be short, and Teresa even has a special cell phone that Guero gave her along with a dark warning. If that phone rings, it means he's dead, and she'd better run, because they're coming for her next.
Then the call comes.
In order to survive, she will have to say goodbye to the old Teresa, an innocent girl who once entrusted her life to a pinche narco smuggler. She will have to find inside herself a woman who is tough enough to inhabit a world as ugly and dangerous as that of the narcos-a woman she never before knew existed. Indeed, the woman who emerges will surprise even those who know her legend, that of the Queen of the South.
*
Editorial Reviews
The Queen of the South is complicated, lively and, in its depiction of the drug trade and those who run it, convincing. Pérez-Reverte doesn't wince from tough, nasty business. He's an ace at chase scenes -- the one in which Teresa and Santiago crash at 50 knots into an unforgiving rock is especially vivid -- and the shootout at the novel's climax could be right out of Sam Peckinpah, blood and guts spattered all over the place. Pérez-Reverte knows his stuff, and brings all of it to life.
— The Washington Post
A thriller with an almost meditative tone, the novel's energy comes not only from the action scenes but also from the monologues in which Mendoza struggles with the multiple contradictions in her life... Readers... will be drawn in by the author's remarkable eloquence and ability to plumb the recesses of a character's psyche.
A first-rate novel, magnificent in scope and gracefully written and so remarkably real, so tragically doomed, so mysteriously complex that one will be left wondering where Teresa is today.
Mesmerizing... that rare blessing, a book by a mature writer at the top of his game...You are inexorably drawn into Teresa's world
Recommended Summer Reading: "[An] erudite thriller" from "the acclaimed author of The Club Dumas.
Recommended Summer Reading: "It's John Le Carre meets Gabriel Garcia Marquez...Perez-Reverte has a huge following ... and it's spreading.
Here is a novel with fast paced action, psychological intrigue and philosophical musings... Vividly depicted... it feels real.
Full-speed-ahead narrative, outsized characters, and a degree of intellectual seriousnous not ordinarily associated with bestseller list fiction...he puts his reporters skills to work in the accumulation of intricate detail and the evocation of exotic cities and landscapes. His work is a great deal of fun to read and offers the bonus of substance as well as style... The Queen of the South is complicated, lively and... convincing.... Perez Reverte is an ace at chase scenes...knows his stuff, and brings all of it to life.
It's a rare novelist who can create a literary page-turner. Arturo Perez-Reverte is one of these rarities. His latest novel combines a heart-stopping narrative with fully realized characters, and the result will satisfy the author's fans and newcomers alike.... Perez Reverte is an ace storyteller... he steps out in front of the crowd of coming thrillers with this page-turner with heft.
Perez Reverte's literary thriller explodes with history, heartbreak [and] determination....An epic suspense story of heart and grit... The prose is as rich and dense as a flourless chocolate cake.
Readers of Perez-Reverte's sixth thriller won't be able to turn the pages fast enough: the author of The Club Dumas, The Seville Communion and other literary adventure novels now tackles the gritty world of drug trafficking in Mexico, southern Spain and Morocco, offering a frightening, fascinating look at the international business of transporting cocaine and hashish as well as a portrait of a smart, fast, daring and lucky woman, Teresa Mendoza. As the novel opens, Teresa's phone rings. She doesn't have to answer it: the phone is a special one given to her by her boyfriend, drug runner and expert Cessna pilot Guero Davila. He has warned her that if a call ever came, it meant he was dead, and that she had to run for her own life. On the lam, Teresa leaves Mexico for Morocco, where she keeps a low profile transporting drug shipments with her new lover. But after a terrible accident and a brief stint in prison, Teresa's on her own again. She manages to find her way, but Teresa is no mere survivor: gaining knowledge in every endeavor she becomes involved in and using her own head for numbers and brilliant intuition, she eventually winds up heading one of the biggest drug traffic rings in the Mediterranean. Spanning 12 years and introducing a host of intriguing, scary characters, from Teresa's drug-addicted prison comrade to her former assassin turned bodyguard, the novel tells the gripping tale of "a woman thriving in a world of dangerous men." Agent, Howard Morhaim. (June) Forecast: Like Perez-Reverte's previous novels, this one is an international bestseller. It should hit big here too, released in a 100,000 printing and backed by an author tour. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
This spellbinding thriller describes the cocaine trafficking adventures of Teresa Mendoza from her home in Sinaloa, Mexico, to Cadiz, Spain, and beyond as she passes from being the naive companion of a Mexican cartelero ("drug trafficker") to a merciless gang leader of international repute. Acclaimed author Perez-Reverte became one of Spain's most-translated contemporary writers with such best-selling historical thrillers as La tabla de Flandes (The Flanders Panel, Debolsillo, 2000) and El club Dumas (The Club Dumas, Suma de Letras, 2000). Unlike his previous historical novels, this saga is set in the present and features a female protagonist. As Teresa escapes from the Mexican drug lords and enters the Spanish drug scene, she is raped and imprisoned, has recurrent confrontations with the law, and partners with Russian mafiosi. Readers will sympathize with her ability to overcome abuse and her courage as she manages to enter and control the male-dominated world of drug trafficking. Once again, Perez-Reverte excels in his meticulous research, successfully recreating the language, music, and cultural codes that characterize this illegal business in both Mexico and Spain. The novel is chock-full of references to Mexican narcorrorridos ("Mexican drug ballads"), as well as to crime lore on both sides of the Atlantic. This is also a linguistic experiment, as Perez-Reverte masterfully adopts a Mexican dialect throughout. Already a best seller in Spain, Mexico, and the United States, this novel is highly recommended for all bookstores, and for academic and public libraries. -Ilan Stavans, Amherst College, MA Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Perez-Reverte presents another action-packed thriller that will help solidify his reputation in that genre. In the seamy world of Mexican and Spanish drug dealers, Teresa Mendoza, the novel's eponymous heroine, quickly rises from mere dealer's moll to the peak of her own cartel, surviving the murder of two boyfriends, a stint in prison, and the opposition, both licit and illicit. She is, after all, "a woman thriving in a world of dangerous men" and, it must be said, one whom the reader admires and respects but doesn't really like. Perez-Reverte has obviously researched this subject well and relies on his storytelling wits, throwing out a series of twists, double-crossings, agents provocateurs, and revenge plots. The fast-paced narrative is interrupted occasionally by the commentary of the "narrator," allegedly gathering information for this notorious woman's biography, a metafictional device of which the author fails to take full advantage. First-time readers may wonder what all the fuss is about, since the novel fails to transcend an exciting but basically hollow tale; fans will be surprised that the intellectual ingenuity characteristic of earlier efforts (The Club Dumas) is conspicuously absent in a work one would not expect from a newly elected member of the Royal Spanish Academy. Perez-Reverte's reputation, however, makes this a required addition to public libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 2/15/04.]-Lawrence Olszewski, OCLC Lib., Dublin, OH Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
The perilous arc of a powerful woman druglord's career, painstakingly traced by the Spanish author of such brainteasing thrillers as The Club Dumas (1998) and The Seville Communion (1999). Perez-Reverte's sixth is a dual narrative in which we observe Mexicana Teresa Mendoza's rise to power after the death of her drug-running pilot boyfriend Guero Davila, and also receive summaries of her progress from an unnamed journalist who's interviewing both her former criminal contacts and law enforcement officers who spent 12 years pursuing her. It all moves much too slowly, because Perez-Reverte's obviously thorough researches betray him into an almost encyclopedic disclosure of exactly how the international drug trade operates-and because Teresa's successive accomplices and lovers are thinly sketched, scarcely characterized at all. This is unfortunate, since there's considerable dramatic potential in such vividly conceived figures as courtly "narco" godfather Epifanio Vargas, freelance drug-runner Santiago Fisterra (who supplants the late Guero in Teresa's bed), Teresa's bisexual prison cellmate and later partner Patricia O'Farrell, and criminous attorney (and Teresa's next lover) Teo Aljarafe. "La Mexicana" (a.k.a. The Queen of the South) herself is fairly opaque, her strength and resolve asserted rather than dramatized. And Perez-Reverte skirts absurdity by charting her development into a passionate reader, beginning with her jail-time immersion in The Count of Monte Cristo ("Edmond Dantes is me"). The action, fairly generic, moves from Mexico to Spain's southern coast, the Strait of Gibraltar, and Morocco, peaking in a dangerous episode in the Black Sea. Still, Perez-Reverte comes through witha smashing climax in which Teresa learns the truth about Guero, faces down the elusive Don Epifanio, and puts her own spin on her deal with USDEA officials ("Cooperation in exchange for immunity"). Too little, too late. Perez-Reverte at his best is a matchless entertainer. But this, his weakest novel, is a major disappointment. First printing of 100,000; author tour
Praise for The Queen of the South
“John Le Carre meets Gabriel Garcia Marquez...Pérez-Reverte has a huge following...and it’s spreading.”—The Wall Street Journal
“A modern-day epic...bearing the unmistakable ring of authenticity and a slam-bang narrative sure to resonate with legions of appreciative readers…All the core elements, after all, are here: love, violence, betrayal and honor.”—Los Angeles Times
“The Da Vinci Code and The Rule of Four...pale in comparison with Pérez-Reverte novels...Pérez-Reverte shines in some white-knuckles action sequences...but his greatest triumph is [his] heroine.”—Time Out New York
“Pérez-Reverte’s literary thriller explodes with history, heartbreak [and] determination...An epic suspense story of heart and grit.”—Entertainment Weekly (Editor’s Choice)
“The hand of a master is apparent even in the novel’s opening line...This sweeping tale of drug-running and intrigue...is an engrossing yet literary tale of an embattled heroine on the run for her life.”—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“A heart-stopping narrative...It’s a rare novelist who can create a literary page-turner. Pérez-Reverte is one of those rarities.”—The Denver Post
Teresa Mendoza is the girlfriend of a Mexican drug smuggler who tells her that if the cell phone rings, she must run for her life--he will already be dead. The story of Teresa’s life is one of transformation from a young and dependent girlfriend to a tough and untrusting woman who survives pursuit, prison, and even becoming a drug-runner. Perez-Reverte’s novel juxtaposes Teresa’s story with that of a reporter writing a book about her life a few years later. Lina Patel copes flawlessly with the characters’ Mexican Spanish. However, her narration is too subtle to effectively render Teresa’s anger and fear. The characters sound so similar to each other that when Perez-Reverte switches from Teresa’s story to that of the reporter, the listener can miss the transition. A.B. © AudioFile 2004, Portland, Maine
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940169207798 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2004 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
The Queen of the South
By Arturo Pérez-Reverte
G. P. Putnam's Suns
Copyright © 2002 Arturo Pérez-ReverteAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-399-15185-0
Chapter One
I fell off the cloud I was ridingI always thought that those narcocorridos about Mexican drug runners were just songs, and that The Count of Monte Cristo was just a novel. I mentioned this to Teresa Mendoza that last day, when (surrounded by bodyguards and police) she agreed to meet me in the house she was staying in at the time, in Colonia Chapultepec, in the town of Culiacan, state of Sinaloa, Mexico. I mentioned Edmond Dantès, asking if she'd read the novel, and she gave me a look so long and so silent that I feared our conversation would end right there. Then she turned toward the rain that was pittering against the windows, and I don't know whether it was something in the gray light from outside or an absentminded smile, but whatever it was, it left a strange, cruel shadow on her lips.
"I don't read books," she said.
I knew she was lying, as no doubt she'd lied countless times over the last twelve years. But I didn't want to insist, so I changed the subject. I'd tracked her across three continents for the last eight months, and her long journey out and back again was much more interesting to me than the books she'd read.
To say I was disappointed would not be quite accurate-reality often pales in comparison with legends. So in my profession the word "disappointment" is always relative-reality and legend are just the raw materials of my work. The problem is that it's impossible to live for weeks and months obsessed with someone without creating for yourself a definite, and invariably inaccurate, idea of the subject in question-an idea that sets up housekeeping in your head with such strength and verisimilitude that after a while it's hard, maybe even unnecessary, to change its basic outline. We writers are privileged: readers take on our point of view with surprising ease. Which was why that rainy morning in Culiacan, I knew that the woman sitting before me would never be the real Teresa Mendoza, but another woman who was taking her place, and who was, at least in part, created by me. This was a woman whose history I had reconstructed piece by piece, incomplete and contradictory, from people who'd known her, hated her, and loved her.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"I'm still lacking one episode of your life. The most important one."
"Hm. One 'episode.'"
"Right."
She'd picked up a pack of Faros from the table and was holding a plastic lighter, a cheap one, to a cigarette, after first making a gesture to stop the man sitting at the other end of the room, who was lumbering to his feet solicitously, left hand in his jacket pocket. He was an older guy, stout-even fat-with very black hair and a bushy Mexican moustache.
"The most important one?"
She put the cigarettes and the lighter back down on the table, perfectly symmetrically, without offering me one. Which didn't matter to me one way or the other, since I don't smoke. There were several other packs there, too, an ashtray, and a pistol.
"It must be," she added, "if you're here today. Must be really important."
I looked at the pistol. A SIG-Sauer. Swiss. Fifteen 9-millimeter cartridges per clip, in three neat staggered rows. And three full clips. The gold-colored tips of the bullets were as thick as acorns.
"Yes" I answered coolly. "Twelve years ago. Sinaloa."
Again the contemplative silence. She knew about me, because in her world, knowledge could be bought. And besides, three weeks earlier I'd sent her a copy of my unfinished piece. It was the bait. The letter of introduction so I could get what I needed and finish the story off.
"Why should I tell you about that?"
"Because I've gone to a lot of trouble over you."
She was looking at me through the cigarette smoke, her eyes slightly Mongolian, somehow, like the masks at the Templo Mayor. She got up and went over to the bar and came back with a bottle of Herradura Reposado and two small, narrow glasses, the ones the Mexicans call caballitos, "little horses." She was wearing comfortable dark linen pants, a black blouse, and sandals, and I noticed that she was wearing no diamonds, no stones of any kind, no gold chain around her neck, no watch-just a silver semanario on her right wrist, the seven silver bangles I'd learned she always wore. Two years earlier-the press clippings were in my room at the Hotel San Marcos-the Spanish society magazine ¡Hola! had included her among the twenty most elegant women in Spain. At about the same time, El Mundo ran a story about the latest police investigation into her business dealings on the Costa del Sol and her links with drug traffickers. In the photo, published on page one, you could see her in a car with the windows rolled up partway, protected from reporters by several bodyguards in dark glasses. One of them was the heavyset guy with the moustache who was sitting at the other end of the room now, looking at me as though he weren't looking at me.
"A lot of trouble," she repeated pensively, pouring tequila into the glasses.
"Right."
She sipped at it, standing up, never taking her eyes off me. She was shorter than she looked in photos or on television, but her movements were still calm and self-assured-each gesture linked to the next naturally, as though there were no possibility of improvisation or doubt. Maybe she never has any doubts about anything anymore, I suddenly thought. At thirty-five, she was still vaguely attractive. Less, perhaps, than in recent photographs and others I'd seen here and there, kept by people who'd known her on the other side of the Atlantic. That included her profile in black-and-white on an old mugshot in police headquarters in Algeciras. And videotapes, too, jerky images that always ended with big gruff gorillas entering the frame to shove the lens aside. But in all of them she was indisputably Teresa, with the same distinguished appearance she presented now-wearing dark clothes and sunglasses, getting into expensive automobiles, stepping out onto a terrace in Marbella, sunbathing on the deck of a yacht as white as snow, blurred by the telephoto lens: it was the Queen of the South and her legend. The woman who appeared on the society pages the same week she turned up in the newspapers' police blotter.
But there was another photo whose existence I knew nothing about, and before I left that house, two hours later, Teresa Mendoza unexpectedly decided to show it to me: a snapshot wrinkled and falling apart, its pieces held together with tape crisscrossing the back. She laid it on the table with the full ashtray and the bottle of tequila of which she herself had drunk two-thirds and the SIG-Sauer with the three clips lying there like an omen-in fact, a fatalistic acceptance-of what was going to happen that night.
As for that last photo, it really was the oldest of all the photos ever taken of her, and it was just half a photo, because the whole left side was missing. You could see a man's arm in the sleeve of a leather aviator jacket over the shoulders of a thin, dark-skinned young woman with full black hair and big eyes. The young woman was in her early twenties, wearing very tight pants and an ugly denim jacket with a lambskin collar. She was facing the camera with an indecisive look about halfway down the road toward a smile, or maybe on the way back. Despite the vulgar, excessive makeup, the dark eyes had a look of innocence, or a vulnerability that accentuated the youthfulness of the oval face, the eyes slightly upturned into almondlike points, the very precise mouth, the ancient, adulterated drops of indigenous blood manifesting themselves in the nose, the matte texture of the skin, the arrogance of the uplifted chin. The young woman in this picture was not beautiful, but she was striking, I thought. Her beauty was incomplete, or distant, as though it had been growing thinner and thinner, more and more diluted, down through the generations, until finally what was left were isolated traces of an ancient splendor. And then there was that serene-or perhaps simply trusting-fragility. Had I not been familiar with the person, that fragility would have made me feel tender toward her. I suppose.
"I hardly recognize you."
It was the truth, and I told it. She didn't seem to mind the remark; she just looked at the snapshot on the table. And she sat there like that for a long time.
"Me, either," she finally said.
Then she put the photo away again-first in a leather wallet with her initials, then in the purse that was lying on the couch-and gestured toward the door. "I think that's enough," she said.
She looked very tired. The long conversation, the tobacco, the bottle of tequila. She had dark circles under her eyes, which no longer resembled the eyes in the old snapshot. I stood up, buttoned my jacket, put out my hand-she barely brushed it-and glanced again at the pistol. The fat guy from the other end of the room was beside me, indifferent, ready to see me out. I looked down, intrigued, at his splendid iguana-skin boots, the belly that spilled over his handworked belt, the menacing bulge under his denim jacket. When he opened the door, I saw that what I took as fat maybe wasn't, and that he did everything with his left hand. Obviously his right hand was reserved as a tool of his trade.
"I hope it turns out all right," I said.
She followed my gaze to the pistol. She nodded slowly, but not at my words. She was occupied with her own thoughts.
"Sure," she muttered.
Then I left. The same Federales with their bulletproof vests and assault weapons who had frisked me from head to toe when I came in were standing guard in the entry and the front garden as I walked out. A military jeep and two police Harley-Davidsons were parked next to the circular fountain in the driveway. Five or six journalists and a TV camera were under a canopy outside the high walls, in the street: they were being kept at a distance by soldiers in combat fatigues who were cordoning off the grounds of the big house. I turned to the right and walked through the rain toward the taxi that was waiting for me a block away, on the corner of Calle General Anaya.
Now I knew everything I needed to know, the dark corners had been illuminated, and every piece of the history of Teresa Mendoza, real or imagined, now fit: from that first photograph, or half-photograph, to the woman I'd just talked to, the woman who had an automatic lying out on the table.
The only thing lacking was the ending, but I would have that, too, in a few hours. Like her, all I had to do was sit and wait.
Twelve years had passed since the afternoon in the city of Culiacan when Teresa Mendoza started running. On that day, the beginning of a long round-trip journey, the rational world she thought she had built in the shadow of Güero Davila came crashing down around her, and she suddenly found herself lost and in danger.
She had put down the phone and sat for a few seconds in cold terror. Then she began to pace back and forth across the room, opening drawers at random, blind with panic, knowing she needed a bag to carry the few things she needed for her escape, unable at first to find one. She wanted to weep for her man, or scream until her throat was raw, but the terror that was washing over her, battering her like waves, numbed her emotions and her ability to act. It was as if she had eaten a mushroom from Huautla or smoked a dense, lung-burning joint, and been transported into some distant body she had no control over.
Blindly, numbly, after clumsily but quickly pulling on clothes-some jeans, a T-shirt, and shoes-she stumbled down the stairs, her hair wet, her body still damp under her clothing, carrying a little gym bag with the few things she had managed to gather and stuff inside: more T-shirts, a denim jacket, panties, socks, her purse with two hundred pesos. They would be on their way to the apartment already, Güero had warned her. They'd go to see what they could find. And he did not want them to find her.
Before she stepped outside the gate, she paused and looked out, up and down the street, indecisively, with the instinctive caution of the prey that catches the scent of the hunter and his dogs nearby. Before her lay the complex urban topography of a hostile territory. Colonia las Quintas: broad streets, discreet, comfortable houses with bougainvillea everywhere and good cars parked in front. A long way from the miserable barrio of Las Siete Gotas, she thought. And suddenly, the lady in the drugstore across the street, the old man in the corner grocery where she had shopped for the last two years, the bank guard with his blue uniform and twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun on his shoulder-the very guard who would always smile, or actually, leer, at her when she passed-now looked dangerous to her, ready to pounce. There won't be any more friends anymore, Güero had said offhandedly, with that lazy smile of his that she sometimes loved, and other times hated with all her heart. The day the telephone rings and you take off running, you'll be alone, prietita. And I won't be around to help.
She clutched the gym bag to her body, as though to protect her most intimate parts, and she walled down the street with her head lowered, not looking at anything or anybody, trying at first not to hurry, to keep her steps slow. The sun was beginning to set over the Pacific, twenty-five miles to the west, toward Altata, and the palm, manzanita, and mango trees of the avenue stood out against a sky that would soon turn the orange color typical of Culiacan sunsets. She realized that there was a thumping in her ears-a dull, monotonous throbbing superimposed on the noise of traffic and the clicking of her own footsteps. If someone had called out to her at that moment, she wouldn't have been able to hear her name, or even, perhaps, the sound of the gunshot.
The gunshot. Waiting for it, expecting it with such certainty-her muscles tense, her neck stiff and bowed, her head down-that her back and kidneys ached. This was The Situation. Sitting in bars, among the drinks and cigarette smoke, she'd all too often heard this theory of disaster-discussed apparently only half jokingly-and it was burned into her brain as if with a branding iron. In this business, Güero had said, you've got to know how to recognize The Situation. Somebody can come over and say Buenos días. Maybe you even know him, and he'll smile at you. Easy. Smooth as butter. But you'll notice something strange, a feeling you can't quite put your finger on, like something's just this much out of place-his fingers practically touching. And a second later, you're a dead man-Güero would point his finger at Teresa like a revolver, as their friends laughed-or woman.
Continues...
Excerpted from The Queen of the South by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Copyright © 2002 by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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