eBookSpanish-language Edition (Spanish-language Edition)
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Roberto Bolaño, Entre paréntesis
Un delirio amoroso. Así define su autor esta novela, en la que la monótona existencia de un librero se ve conmocionada por la irrupción de una consumada ladrona de libros. Como en un sueño obsesivo en el que se difuminan las fronteras entre lo racional y lo irracional, el protagonista se va adentrando en las misteriosas circunstancias que rodean a Severina y en la equívoca relación que mantiene con su mentor, a quien presenta como su abuelo, al tiempo que alimenta la esperanza de que la lista de libros sustraídos la ayudará a entender el enigma de su vida.
Rodrigo Rey Rosa ha creado una novela perturbadora acerca del poder a la vez alienante y liberador del amor, que confirma su lugar de privilegio en la literatura contemporánea.
«Un arte casi elíptico, de brevedades cortantes, embebidas de sombras fugitivas, sensoriales, impresionistas.»
Claude-Michel Cluny, Le Figaro Littéraire
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9788420407692 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ALFAGUARA |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2011 |
| Sold by: | PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE GRUPO EDITORIAL |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 112 |
| File size: | 279 KB |
| Language: | Spanish |
About the Author
Rodrigo Rey Rosa nació en Guatemala en 1958. Después de abandonar la carrera de Medicina en su país, residió en Nueva York (donde estudió Cine) y en Tánger. En 1980, conoció a Paul Bowles, quien tradujo sus tres primeras obras al inglés. En su obra,traducida a varios idiomas, destacan los libros de relatos El cuchillo del mendigo (1985), El agua quieta (1989), Cárcel de árboles (1991), Lo que soñó Sebastián (1994, cuya adaptación cinematográfica se presentó en el Festival Sundance del 2004), Ningún lugar sagrado (1998) y Otro zoo (2005), reunidos, junto a algunos relatos inéditos, en el volumen 1986. Cuentos completos(Alfaguara, 2014); sus novelas El cojo bueno (Alfaguara, 1995), Que me maten si... (1996), Piedras encantadas (2001) y Caballeriza (2006) -reunidas en Imitación de Guatemala. Cuatro novelasbreves (Alfaguara, 2013)-, El material humano (2009, Alfaguara, 2017), Severina (Alfaguara, 2011) y Los sordos (Alfaguara, 2012), además de La orilla africana (1999) y El tren a Travancore (2002), que conforman con la novela corta «Lo que soñó Sebastián» el volumen recopilatorio Tres novelas exóticas (Alfaguara, 2015). Ha traducido a Paul Bowles, Norman Lewis, Paul Léautaud y François Augiéras. Su obra le ha valido el reconocimiento unánime de la crítica internacional y, entre otros, el Premio Nacional de Literatura de Guatemala Miguel Ángel Asturias en el 2004, el Premio Siglo XXI a la mejor novela extranjera del año otorgado a Los sordos por la Asociación China de Literatura Extranjera en el 2013 y el Premio Iberoamericano de las Letras José Donoso en el 2015. También, han visto la luz Fábula asiática (Alfaguara, 2016) y El país de Toó (Alfaguara, 2018). Carta de un ateo guatemalteco al Santo Padre es su última novela.
Rodrigo Rey Rosa nació en Guatemala en 1958. Después de abandonar la carrera de Medicina en su país, residió en Nueva York (donde estudió Cine) y en Tánger. En 1980, conoció a Paul Bowles, quien tradujo sus tres primeras obras al inglés. En su obra,traducida a varios idiomas, destacan los libros de relatos El cuchillo del mendigo (1985), El agua quieta (1989), Cárcel de árboles (1991), Lo que soñó Sebastián (1994, cuya adaptación cinematográfica se presentó en el Festival Sundance del 2004), Ningún lugar sagrado (1998) y Otro zoo (2005), reunidos, junto a algunos relatos inéditos, en el volumen 1986. Cuentos completos(Alfaguara, 2014); sus novelas El cojo bueno (Alfaguara, 1995), Que me maten si... (1996), Piedras encantadas (2001) y Caballeriza (2006) -reunidas en Imitación de Guatemala. Cuatro novelasbreves (Alfaguara, 2013)-, El material humano (2009, Alfaguara, 2017), Severina (Alfaguara, 2011) y Los sordos (Alfaguara, 2012), además de La orilla africana (1999) y El tren a Travancore (2002), que conforman con la novela corta «Lo que soñó Sebastián» el volumen recopilatorio Tres novelas exóticas (Alfaguara, 2015). Ha traducido a Paul Bowles, Norman Lewis, Paul Léautaud y François Augiéras. Su obra le ha valido el reconocimiento unánime de la crítica internacional y, entre otros, el Premio Nacional de Literatura de Guatemala Miguel Ángel Asturias en el 2004, el Premio Siglo XXI a la mejor novela extranjera del año otorgado a Los sordos por la Asociación China de Literatura Extranjera en el 2013 y el Premio Iberoamericano de las Letras José Donoso en el 2015. También, han visto la luz Fábula asiática (Alfaguara, 2016) y El país de Toó (Alfaguara, 2018). Carta de un ateo guatemalteco al Santo Padre es su última novela.
Read an Excerpt
Severina
By RODRIGO REY ROSA, CHRIS ANDREWS
Yale UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 2011 Rodrigo Rey RosaAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-300-19609-2
CHAPTER 1
Severina
What power has love but forgiveness? —William Carlos Williams, "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower," Book 3
I noticed her the first time she came in the store, and right from the start I picked her for a thief, although that day she didn't take anything.
On Monday afternoons there were usually poetry readings at La Entretenida, the bookstore I'd recently opened with a group of friends. We didn't have anything better to do and we were tired of paying through the nose for books chosen by and for others, as "eccentrics" like us are forced to do in provincial cities. (There are far more serious problems here, but I don't want to talk about all that now.) So, to put an end to this annoyance, we decided to start our own store.
I had just split up with the latest love of my life, a Colombian woman. It had been both simple and impossibly complicated, a waste of time or a wonderful adventure, depending on your point of view.
The bookstore wasn't very big, but at the back there was room to set up tables and chairs for the events, which varied from straightforward readings to performances and burlesque.
When I saw her come in that first afternoon, a downpour had flooded the passages in the basement of the little shopping center where we had our premises; the clients had to walk from store to store on planks supported by blocks of cement and recycled bricks. She was wearing tights with high, flat-heeled boots and a white cotton blouse. Her hair was very black. She didn't seem all that young. She left before the end of the reading (of prose poems, which sounded very good to me), but I knew she'd be back.
From one afternoon to the next I kept waiting for her. Why was I so sure that she'd be back? I wondered. I didn't know.
Eventually, one Monday afternoon, she turned up. The reading had already begun. She stood by the curtains that separated the main part of the store from the little space where the readings were held. This time she was wearing a rather loose-fitting dress made from a single piece of blue cotton, which came down to her knees (perfectly rounded knees they were, shaped with evident care), a broad silver-plated belt, and black leather sandals. She was carrying a sequined handbag. She stayed until the end. She went to get a drink at the bar, exchanged glances and greetings, and, before leaving, slipped two little books from the Japanese literature section into her bag. The speed of it was impressive. Then she walked out through the door in no hurry at all. The alarm didn't go off; I wondered how she'd done it. I let her go: again, I was sure she'd be back.
A moment later I went over to the Japanese shelf. I noted down the missing titles in a ledger, along with the date and the time. Then I went to the cubicle that enclosed the cash register and sat there, trying to imagine where she would go with the books.
The next time, two or three weeks later, when I saw her come in, I said good afternoon and asked if she was looking for something in particular.
"Yes, I'm looking for a present," were the first words I heard her say.
"Can I ask who it's for?"
"For my boyfriend," she said. She had an unidentifiable accent.
"Well, you're the best judge. There are some new books in the Japanese literature section."
Her face lit up.
"Ah," she said, "I love Japanese literature."
"It's over there." I pointed to the far side of the store. "As you know."
She didn't react. All she said was: "He's not so keen on it, though. It's too fashionable; that's what he says anyway. Do you have something by ... Chesterton?"
I let out a hollow laugh. "OK, that sort of guy. We must have something. It'll be over there," I pointed to the opposite side of the store, "on the top shelf. Yeah, with the Cs."
I went back to the cash register and started flipping through catalogs, to put her at ease. She wandered back and forth between the shelves. I thought I heard her slipping a book into her bag (a volume of Galland's translation of The Thousand and One Nights, as I was to discover).
A few minutes later she came to the register and said: "No luck. I'll get him some after-shave."
"Come back whenever you like." I stood there watching her. She walked out through the security gate, and once again the alarm remained mute.
I went to the plundered shelf. In the ledger I noted: The Thousand and One Nights, volumes 1, 2, and 3, then added the time and the date. I decided that one day I'd follow her when she left.
A few days later we received a batch of books that included a collection of translations from Russian. They were small, sextodecimo-format volumes with engravings and gilded initials: beautifully crafted, a pleasure to read, perfect as jewels. I put them on a shelf quite close to the cash register, but made sure that some couldn't be seen by the person who was serving. Those volumes were for her.
It was on a Thursday, almost a month later, that I decided to act. We were alone in the store, just the two of us, and she was browsing under my discreet surveillance. I didn't mention the new Russian collection; I had greeted her vaguely when she came in, pretending to be absorbed in some financial documents.
She didn't hear me. I came up behind her so close I could smell the scent of her hair.
"Where have you hidden them this time?" I asked. She started, spun around, and bumped into me.
"What!" she cried. "You frightened me! What do you want? Are you crazy?" When she saw that I was smiling, she laughed.
"Sorry."
She put her hand on her chest, covering her neckline. "You really scared me."
"I really want to know where you've hidden them."
Now she was cross; a fine line appeared between her thick, dark, shapely eyebrows. She pushed me aside and started walking hurriedly toward the door. I reached out, pressed a button, and although she ran the last few steps the security grille came down just in time to block her exit. She stopped and shoved at it.
"This is outrageous," she said and turned to look at me. She took a cell phone from the pocket of her trousers and dialed a number. "Either you let me out or I'm calling for help."
"Calm down." A spotlight was shining in her eyes; without turning away, I reached out and switched it off. She was very beautiful. Cornered like that, I found her irresistible. I smiled. "Easy now, easy."
"You're sick!" she shouted at me. She looked at her cell phone. "I'm calling right away if you don't let me out."
I let my gaze linger on her breasts, her hips; this time she didn't have a bag. She finished dialing and turned her back on me. It was perfect.
"Hello! I need help!" she said to the device.
"This is a basement, señorita. There's no signal. But you're safe with me. Give me back the books and you can go. I've got a list here of all the others you've stolen, all the books I let you steal, I don't know why."
"Yeah? Why did you? Let me out!" she shouted, but not all that loudly.
"You may not believe this, but there are video cameras here and here and over there," I said, indicating arbitrary points on the ceiling. "I have proof."
"Are you serious?" Now I could discern a slight Argentine or Uruguayan accent, which she had been effectively disguising up till then. "I couldn't see them." She smiled. "I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"
"Forgive you? Come on! You can start by giving me back the books."
She drew one of the little Russian volumes from each of her armpits and another from her trousers. With a slight but jaunty swing to her hips, she walked confidently across to the shelf from which she had taken the books and put them back.
"There," she said brazenly.
"And the others?"
"Shall we forget them?" she hazarded.
"No, let's think of it as an outstanding debt, a personal loan from me to you. I have partners in this business, you know." I pressed the button to raise the grille and let her out.
She almost ran. I just had time to ask her name before she disappeared up the stairs.
"Call me Ana!" she cried.
I told myself that she'd be back. Suddenly I felt very alone among all those books. I wished the cameras had been real.
* * *
Bookshops are infested with ideas. Books are quivering, murmuring creatures. That's what one of my business partners used to say. He was a poet, quite a clever guy (though not as clever as he thought), and likable enough. There's something to it: the three little Russian books stood there on the shelf next to the cash register for several days, murmuring, quivering, preserving her memory, but she didn't return. Those were eventful days, or rather I heard that they'd been eventful (there was a rash of lynchings in the inland villages and a coup in a neighboring country, cocaine became the world's number one illicit substance, stagnant water was discovered on Mars, and Pluto definitively lost its status as a planet), my life having shrunk once more to the ambit of books; I had become another specimen of that sad type, the bookseller with literary aspirations.
* * *
All sorts of people came to visit us every day. Poets, students, lawyers, ladies with or without bodyguards, successful people (economically speaking) and failures (of all kinds). We served them calmly and politely. Sometimes they bought a book or two. Thanks to the new security systems, very few people make a habit of stealing books these days. More than half of them, in my experience, are women or literary types with backpacks or satchels.
I worked at the bookstore on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays; the rest of the week I spent writing (or fantasizing about it) and reading.
* * *
The next time I saw her, it was in the street. She was wearing jeans, a short embroidered blouse, white sneakers, and sunglasses. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. My heart began to thump, and I felt a fluttering in my stomach, as you do when you unexpectedly see someone you are strongly attracted to. I started walking quickly to catch up, and when she stopped to wait for the light on the corner of Trece and Reforma, I went and stood beside her.
"Hi. Found you at last."
She looked at me, smiling.
"Ah, it's you."
"Taking a walk?"
"Uh-huh."
The lights changed. We crossed the street.
"Can I come along for a bit?"
"If you like."
We walked for a while in silence. She set a quick pace.
"Can I ask you something?"
She threw me a wary sidelong glance. "You can ask."
"What do you do with the books?"
"Look," she said, "I'm grateful to you for not getting me into trouble the other day, but that's a question I'd rather not answer. It's personal, OK?"
We walked on in silence.
"OK. But now I'm more curious than ever."
There was no reaction from her.
"Are you going somewhere in particular?"
"No," she said as we turned the corner into Séptima. "I just felt like a walk."
On we went.
It was a cool morning; the asphalt and the grass were still wet from the rain overnight. There seemed to be more grackles in the trees than usual.
"Those birds make such a racket," she said.
"It's the season. They're mating."
She looked at me. I think she was impressed by my ornithological knowledge. "Are you interested in birds?"
"I'm interested in most things."
She nodded impatiently.
"Do you live on your own?"
"Yes. Well, no. I live with my father."
I hadn't been expecting that. We took a few more steps in silence.
"How old's your father?"
The smile that spread across her face seemed to be laden with sadness. "He's very, very old."
"Eighty?"
"Are you always so nosy?"
"I'm not, actually. Do you live round here?"
"Stop, will you?"
"Sorry. No more questions." A few moments later, I asked: "Am I bothering you tagging along like this?"
"No, no. Not at all," she said indulgently.
We were on Quinta by this stage. We turned left and then left again.
"Why are you tagging along like this?"
I answered without thinking: "I find you attractive."
"That's what I thought. You're not the first, you know."
We had stopped in front of a blue metal door with a little sign that read: Pensión Carlos.
"This is where I live," she said. She held out her hand, smiling. "Goodbye."
She turned away, and her profile looked so hard I felt a sharp pain in my stomach.
* * *
From then on, my days began to gravitate around the Pensión Carlos. I made a detour past it on the way to and from the bookstore; on my days off, I took breaks from writing and went for walks that always ended up leading me, by a more or less circuitous route, back to that calm and shady street. But I didn't run into her again, until one Monday afternoon she reappeared at the bookstore.
She looked radiant in a canary-yellow dress; her skin was deeply tanned, with a subtle moist sheen from some kind of cream, and her thick black hair hung loose on her broad shoulders. As she came in she took off her sunglasses and greeted me with a smile and a resonant "Hi."
I felt an electric current running through me, quickening my blood, along with the usual fluttering. "Welcome back. I thought I wouldn't see you again."
"How are things?" She walked up to the cash register and stood there in front of me, still smiling. "I came for the reading. Am I very early?"
I looked at the clock on the wall.
"The reading's at six. No, you're not too early."
There was a guy browsing, a guy I detested for no particular reason, apart from the fact that he existed, even though he was one of our best clients and bought three books a month on average. Permanently burdened with jacket, tie, and halitosis, he was an economist and a lawyer, and he wrote a weekly column for one of the local newspapers. I wished he would clear out, and as if under the power of a magic spell, he put the volume he was holding back on the shelf and headed for the door, unhurriedly, reading the titles of some of the new books laid out on the tables. Eventually he left, but not before glancing at me with his little ratty—or foxlike—eyes.
"Is this the program?" she said, pointing to a poster stuck on a column beside the cash register. "Blue-eyed poets, eh?"
"It was their idea."
"OK." She tilted her head; she didn't seem convinced. "Are they good?"
"I'm no expert. They're poets. They have their moments, or their instants, anyway."
She laughed. "All right, I'll stay."
"They won't be long." I shut the book I was holding.
"What are you reading?" she asked me.
"Kenko, aphorisms."
"Can I see?"
I handed her the book. She opened it at random, somewhere in the middle.
She read: "It is best not to change something if changing it will not do any good."
"Well, that seems obvious," she said.
"Aphorisms often do, don't they?"
"How about this one: 'The priest known as the Burglar Bishop lived near Yanagihara. His frequent encounters with burglars gave him the name, I understand.' "
"It doesn't seem like an aphorism."
She went on: "It is unattractive when people mingle in a society which is not their habitual one, whether it is an easterner among people from the capital, a man from the capital who has gone east to make his fortune, or a priest of either an exoteric or esoteric sect who has left his original faith."
She closed the book and handed it back to me. She seemed disappointed. "That's really just a prejudice," she said, and I agreed.
"It was written in the fourteenth century. What can you expect?"
"It's still a prejudice," she said, "the way stupidity is always stupid."
I smiled again. "You're pretty severe."
"I'm one of those people who likes to mingle in a society that is not my habitual one," she replied.
"Then Kenko was wrong, because it's hard to imagine a more attractive person than you."
Her expression changed. Now she looked like a little girl who had just done something extremely clever.
"Thank you," she said, looking into my eyes, her head lowered slightly and her shoulders slightly hunched.
* * *
The blue-eyed poets arrived: seven young people, three of each sex and one of both. They read. Only one of them had any "moments"; the thief and I agreed about that. Otherwise the reading—as a lucid but envious critic later wrote—was as mechanical as a washing machine. The "blue eyes" were ironic; the poets wore colored contact lenses.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Severina by RODRIGO REY ROSA, CHRIS ANDREWS. Copyright © 2011 Rodrigo Rey Rosa. Excerpted by permission of Yale UNIVERSITY PRESS.
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.
Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction by Chris Andrews, ix,Severina, 1,
Acknowledgments, 87,